Super 8

I watched it the other day.  Was looking forward to it because I enjoyed Cloverfield, also done by J.J. Abrams.  Super 8 is like The Goonies on steroids, and remember steroids aren’t good for you.  The pacing and storytelling start off on a really good rhythm.  The kid characters are pretty endearing.  A lot of the visuals and shot angles reminded me of E.T. (I guess that’s because Steven Spielberg produced this one), and there’s a crazy cool train wreck scene, but by the time it was over, I felt let down and unfulfilled.  It just seemed a little too convenient, especially when kids start wandering through warzones unscathed.  And the ending, oh the ending!  It left me saying, “That’s it?!”

commemorating Martin Luther King Jr.

Some friends and I gathered on Monday near this sculpture in Houston  to celebrate MLK day.

This art piece supposedly represents MLK.  How I'm not quite sure.  The only thing my friends and I could come up with was that maybe the pyramid represents empires, and this case the American Empire, and maybe the broken pillar atop it is an upside down Washington Monument - where MLK delivered his "I have a Dream" speech.  And maybe it all signifies MLK's efforts to break the system of segregation and racism.

Afteward, we armed ourselves with street chalk, walked over to a sidewalk, and continued the celebration.

friend Dave's MLK inscription

friend Phoebe's MLK quote of choice:
Darkness cannot drive out darkness,
only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate,
only love can do that.

After reading a few MLK speeches, the word AGAPE echoed in my head, so I was compelled to write it big.

friend Judy's work

We spent much of the day contemplating the love of mankind, but I didn't want to leave out our animal brothers.

Grandmother by Sherman Alexie

old crow of a woman in bonnet, sifting through the dump

salvaging those parts of the world

neither useless nor useful

she would be hours in the sweatlodge

come out naked and brilliant in the sun

steam rising off her body in winter

like a slow explosion of horses

she braided my sisters’ hair with hands that smelled deep

roots buried in the earth

she told me the old stories

how time never mattered

when she died

they gave me her clock 

Bartleby, the Scrivener

Should I write a lengthy review extolling the immeasurable greatness of the Bartleby story?

I would prefer not to.

Should I expound upon the genius and intellect of the author, Herman Melville?

I prefer not to.

Should I rank the story along with Poe’s Cask of Amontillado and all the other great short stories ever written?

At present I prefer to give no answer.

Should I analyze the literary techniques, devices, themes, and motifs used to tell the story?

At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable.

Should I describe the bitter feelings of melancholic gloom that overwhelmed me upon reading the end?

I would prefer not to.