A deranged person (we'll call him Fred, 'kay?) steps off a 10-story building that's roughly 100 feet (about 30.48 meters) tall. The rate of acceleration due to gravity is 9.81 meters per square second. How long is the free-fall, and what is the final velocity right before impact?
Distance = 30.48 meters
Acceleration = 9.81 meters per square second
Time = ?
Final Velocity = ?
Alright. Time can be determined by finding the square root of twice the distance divided by acceleration. In other words:
Time = squareroot(2*distance/acceleration)
If we plug our known variables into the equation, we find that the length of the free fall is about 2.49 seconds.
Two and a half seconds.
To get a proper feel for how eerily short that amount of time is, count the seconds out loud.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one- SPLAT.
Two and a half seconds before Fred's organs rupture instantly on impact. How utterly disturbing.
But wait, we haven't determined the final velocity yet! Maybe our buddy survived the fall after all...
Final velocity is determined by multiplying the rate of acceleration by time.
Final velocity = acceleration*time
If we plug our current variables into this equation, we discover that Freddy hit concrete at about 24.4 meters per second. Hmm. That doesn't sound too bad. Maybe we'll pick him up a gift on our way over to the hospital...
Oh, wait, I forgot. We Americans are little rebels, aren't we? Those numbers don't mean a thing in real life, because we don't use the metric system. How silly of me. Let me just convert that answer real quick...
Final velocity = 87.9 mph
Ohh... Well then. Come to think of it, this is a wonderful time of year to wear black...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Invisible Monsters Excerpt
Firstly, I'd like to say that I'm not in any way recommending this book. (Note: That was a subtle disclaimer right there. In fact, to spell it out more clearly, I'd strongly suggest not reading it unless you enjoy being thoroughly disturbed. The story's a prime example of the genre "transgressional fiction", whose whole point is mainly to shock the reader. And believe me, it succeeds.)
Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.
But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'
As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."
As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.
Anyway. Enjoy.
Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.
Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.
[...]
It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.
Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.
[...]
Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
[...]
Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor.
Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."
Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"
Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"
Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"
As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"
Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead.
Probably that goes for anybody in the world.
[...]
Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.
[...]
My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.
[...]
The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower.
[...]
This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"
It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.
This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.
Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.
"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"
This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.
[...]
"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."
[...]
So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "
So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.
Give me attention.
Flash.
Give me adoration.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Anyway, I've decided to post some excerpts from the first chapter of Chuck Palahnuik's "Invisible Monsters". Why? No idea, really. Partly, I'm just enthralled by what an epic hook the first chapter is. Normally I'm not a big fan by starting the narration at the climax of the story, but I thought really it worked in this book.
But more than that... I'm fascinated by the raw themes in this scene that also underlie the entire book. Again, I'm not reccomending the book in any way, but it did get me thinking. My initial reaction to the first chapter was, 'Why can't the narrator just say those three simple words? Brandy is dying; there aren't even any possible attached strings the phrase could cause. Please, just say, "I love you", and then Brandy will die in peace, and you can move on with your life. Don't let her die alone.'
As the narrator states towards the end of the story (and her resulting self-discovery): "I'm an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse."
As I read the book, it was numbing to think that anybody could be so cold and utterly selfish... (Terribly naive of me, I know.) Yet, at heart, I think we're all self-centered and depraved like that. Having said that... Transgressional fiction is probably extremely unrealistic in a pessimistic sort of way-- just as much as stories of unicorns are unrealistic in a touchy-feely sort of way. But hey, there's probably a grain of truth in every caricature.
Anyway. Enjoy.
Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who's dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.
Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where. Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking.
[...]
The only other character here is Brandy Alexander, who's laid out, shotgunned, at the bottom of the staircase, bleeding to death.
[...]
[...]
Then Evie starts to sob, standing there halfway up the staircase. Evie, that deadly virus of the moment. This is our cue to all look at poor Evie, poor, sad Evie, hairless and wearing nothing but ashes and circled by the wire cage of her burned-up hoop skirt. Then Evie drops the rifle. With her dirty face in her dirty hands, Evie sits down and starts to boo-hoo, as if crying will solve anything. The rifle, this is a loaded thirty-aught rifle, it clatters down the stairs and skids out into the middle of the foyer floor, spinning on its side, pointing at me, pointing at Brandy, pointing at Evie, crying.
[...]
It only looks like I'm crying when I put a handkerchief up under my veil to breathe through. To filter the air since you can about not breathe for all the smoke, since Evie's big manor house is burning down around us.
Me, kneeling down beside Brandy, I could put my hands anywhere in my gown and find Darvons and Demerols and Darvocet 100s. This is everybody's cue to look at me.
[...]
Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
[...]
Brandy, she opens one of her huge, ring-beaded hands and she touches the hole pouring her blood all over the marble floor.
Brandy, she says, "Shit. There's no way the Bon Marche will take this suit back."
Evie lifts her face, her face a finger-painting mess of soot and snot and tears from her hands and screams, "I hate my life being so boring!"
Evie screams down at Brandy Alexander, "Save me a window table in hell!"
Tears rinse clean lines down Evie's cheeks, and she screams, "Girlfriend! You need to be yelling some back at me!"
As if this isn't already drama, drama, drama, Brandy looks up at me kneeling beside her. Brandy's aubergine eyes dilated out to full flower, she says, "Brandy Alexander is going to die now?"
Evie, Brandy and me, all this is just a power struggle for the spotlight. Just each of us being me, me, me first. The murderer, the victim, the witness, each of us thinks our role is the lead.
Probably that goes for anybody in the world.
Anymore, when I see the picture of a twenty-something in the newspaper who was abducted and sodomized and robbed and then killed and here's a front-page picture of her young and smiling, instead of me dwelling on this being a big, sad crime, my gut reaction is, wow, she'd be really hot if she didn't have such a big honker of a nose. My second reaction is I'd better have some good head and shoulders shots handy in case I get, you know, abducted and sodomized to death. My third reaction is, well, at least that cuts down on the competition.
[...]
My point is I know Brandy is maybe probably going to die, but I just can't get into it.
[...]
The rifle is still spinning on the floor, but slower and slower.
[...]
This is your last chance, honey," Brandy says, and her blood is getting all over the place. She says, "Do you love me?"
It's when folks ask questions like this that you lose the spotlight.
This is how folks trap you into a best-supporting role.
Even bigger than the house being on fire is this huge expectation that I have to say the three most worn-out words you'll find in any script. Just the words make me feel I'm severely fingering myself. They're just words is all. Powerless. Vocabulary. Dialogue.
"Tell me, " Brandy says. "Do you? Do you really love me?"
This is the big hammy way Brandy has played her whole life.
[...]
"Even if you can't love me, then tell me my life," Brandy says. "A girl can't die without her life flashing before her eyes."
[...]
So of course this'll be all about Brandy, hosted by me, with guest appearances by Evelyn Cottrell and the deadly AIDS virus. Brandy, Brandy, Brandy. Poor sad Brandy on her back, Brandy touches the hole pouring her life out onto the marble floor and says, "Please. Tell me my life. Tell me how we got here. "
So me, I'm here eating smoke just to document this Brandy Alexander moment.
Give me attention.
Flash.
Give me adoration.
Flash.
Give me a break.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Hansel & Gretal (According to Me)
This is a random muse that popped into my head today while doing homework, so I apologize if it seems a bit scatter-brained. I just had to jot it down.
Alright. So, first of all, I want to say that I love Grimm fairy tales. Disney waters most of their stories down far too much, while I prefer many of the original tragic endings to the reworked happy endings. To me, Grimm has a way of making magic feel very real... and altogether dangerous. However, even Grimms' stories are sometimes too simple for my taste.
The story of Hansel and Gretal is a good example. Ignoring the fact that the children/parents were gullible enough to try each of their corresponding find-our-way-home/lose-the-kids operations twice, the basic plot is okay-- but it could most definitely be improved upon. Personally, I think adding a demonic contract into the mix would spice things up nicely.
For example: "Anyone who eats of this house is cursed to remain inside the preset magical boundaries of the property. If the accursed ever steps outside the boundary of protection, he (or she) shall have his entrails brutally ripped out and devoured." Fun stuff, right?
Now then. The witch, while being the one who summoned the demons in the first place, ought to also be subject to the contract. Meaning that part of the contract's terms is that in exchange for their "loyalty" and protection, she's not allowed to leave either-- which is why she has to lure children to her in the first place. As soon as they so much as lick the charmed peppermint, they are trapped by the terms of the magical contract. If they try to leave, the demons will get them, and if they stay, the witch will hunt them down and eat their still-beating hearts to keep herself young.
Also, as an extra safe-guard, I think her house ought to contain slow-working poison that will kill the trespassor all by itself in about, oh, three days' time. That adds an additional sense of urgency to the classic fairytale.
Oh, and part of the demons' job should be to prevent adults from entering the witch's property, because 1) Their hearts aren't at all useful to the witch and 2) They're more likely to figure out how to break the contract, which would result in the demons' taking revenge on their master before returning to the etherworld.
Hmm. Yes. I like this version of the story much better. In the meantime, though, I suppose I'll have to make do with re-reading Jonathan Stroud's "Heroes of the Valley" (which I still consider to be a tale of 'boy who cried wolf' gone bad.)
For that matter, I could just watch Blair Witch Project again... Dear little stick people. I bet each one represents a different human she killed...
Alright. So, first of all, I want to say that I love Grimm fairy tales. Disney waters most of their stories down far too much, while I prefer many of the original tragic endings to the reworked happy endings. To me, Grimm has a way of making magic feel very real... and altogether dangerous. However, even Grimms' stories are sometimes too simple for my taste.
The story of Hansel and Gretal is a good example. Ignoring the fact that the children/parents were gullible enough to try each of their corresponding find-our-way-home/lose-the-kids operations twice, the basic plot is okay-- but it could most definitely be improved upon. Personally, I think adding a demonic contract into the mix would spice things up nicely.
For example: "Anyone who eats of this house is cursed to remain inside the preset magical boundaries of the property. If the accursed ever steps outside the boundary of protection, he (or she) shall have his entrails brutally ripped out and devoured." Fun stuff, right?
Now then. The witch, while being the one who summoned the demons in the first place, ought to also be subject to the contract. Meaning that part of the contract's terms is that in exchange for their "loyalty" and protection, she's not allowed to leave either-- which is why she has to lure children to her in the first place. As soon as they so much as lick the charmed peppermint, they are trapped by the terms of the magical contract. If they try to leave, the demons will get them, and if they stay, the witch will hunt them down and eat their still-beating hearts to keep herself young.
Also, as an extra safe-guard, I think her house ought to contain slow-working poison that will kill the trespassor all by itself in about, oh, three days' time. That adds an additional sense of urgency to the classic fairytale.
Oh, and part of the demons' job should be to prevent adults from entering the witch's property, because 1) Their hearts aren't at all useful to the witch and 2) They're more likely to figure out how to break the contract, which would result in the demons' taking revenge on their master before returning to the etherworld.
Hmm. Yes. I like this version of the story much better. In the meantime, though, I suppose I'll have to make do with re-reading Jonathan Stroud's "Heroes of the Valley" (which I still consider to be a tale of 'boy who cried wolf' gone bad.)
For that matter, I could just watch Blair Witch Project again... Dear little stick people. I bet each one represents a different human she killed...
Friday, July 15, 2011
Acknowledging Flaws
"The first step to solving any problem is to accurately define the problem."
My dad told me those words of wisdom several years ago when explaining the correct way to troubleshoot a computer bug. I think I was eight at the time.
"You wouldn't believe how many people call our office, only to say 'well, my computer isn't working'. That's not helpful. There are countless ways a computer can 'stop working', and often it's actually an error on the user's behalf. Half of the time, the client simply forgot to click the OK button. Unless the client tells us exactly what the problem is: "clicked/typed such and such, expected certain response, but computer responded in such and such a manner that was undesirable", it is nearly impossible for us to tell them how to fix their 'bug'."
Those words have stuck with me through the years, and since then, technical difficulties have been considerably less frustrating. However, I don't think this wisdom applies only to the realm of computers.
In order to solve any problem in life, it's important that you first define exactly what the problem is, and (if possible) how the problem arose.
This is why in therapy groups, each of the members introduce themselves along with their problem. "Hi, my name is [insert here], and I've been an alcoholic/drug abuser/mentally ill/etc. for the past [insert time frame here]."
The simple act of acknowledging a problem is an essential part of the recovery process. However, as with many things in life, that's easier said than done. For some people (ahem: me), self-imposed ignorance is a critical coping mechanism. Whether this is out of an unhealthy desire for perfection, or fear that there is no solution, or simply sheer pride, I'm not sure.
The fact of the matter is that this kind of thinking is terribly skewed. For one thing, the idea of perfection in humans (at least, while on earth) is laughable. We all fall miserably short. However, there is hope for some improvement... if we know what we're dealing with. Acknowledging our flaws enables us to adress them, counterbalance them-- or at the very least, strips them of some of their power by naming a nameless beast. Even if there isn't anything that can be done about it (and there almost always is), having an identified problem is often much less overwhelming than dealing with generalized failure. Too often we equate 'sometimes failing' to 'being failures'.
As for pride... Well, that's a whole topic in itself.
In short: It's not necessarily wrong to have problems, but it's what we do with them that counts.
My dad told me those words of wisdom several years ago when explaining the correct way to troubleshoot a computer bug. I think I was eight at the time.
"You wouldn't believe how many people call our office, only to say 'well, my computer isn't working'. That's not helpful. There are countless ways a computer can 'stop working', and often it's actually an error on the user's behalf. Half of the time, the client simply forgot to click the OK button. Unless the client tells us exactly what the problem is: "clicked/typed such and such, expected certain response, but computer responded in such and such a manner that was undesirable", it is nearly impossible for us to tell them how to fix their 'bug'."
Those words have stuck with me through the years, and since then, technical difficulties have been considerably less frustrating. However, I don't think this wisdom applies only to the realm of computers.
In order to solve any problem in life, it's important that you first define exactly what the problem is, and (if possible) how the problem arose.
This is why in therapy groups, each of the members introduce themselves along with their problem. "Hi, my name is [insert here], and I've been an alcoholic/drug abuser/mentally ill/etc. for the past [insert time frame here]."
The simple act of acknowledging a problem is an essential part of the recovery process. However, as with many things in life, that's easier said than done. For some people (ahem: me), self-imposed ignorance is a critical coping mechanism. Whether this is out of an unhealthy desire for perfection, or fear that there is no solution, or simply sheer pride, I'm not sure.
The fact of the matter is that this kind of thinking is terribly skewed. For one thing, the idea of perfection in humans (at least, while on earth) is laughable. We all fall miserably short. However, there is hope for some improvement... if we know what we're dealing with. Acknowledging our flaws enables us to adress them, counterbalance them-- or at the very least, strips them of some of their power by naming a nameless beast. Even if there isn't anything that can be done about it (and there almost always is), having an identified problem is often much less overwhelming than dealing with generalized failure. Too often we equate 'sometimes failing' to 'being failures'.
As for pride... Well, that's a whole topic in itself.
In short: It's not necessarily wrong to have problems, but it's what we do with them that counts.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Death Note Philosophy
So. I've always been a huge fan of anime (i.e Japanese animation), but I've never gotten around to watching a show from beginning to end-- until recently, that is. Over the course of the past few months, my lousy Internet has allowed me to sneak Death Note episodes in here and there. I must say (though this might partly be due to the sheer amount of time I devoted to watching, not to mention forever loading and re-loading, the episodes):
I'm rather impressed with it.
Don't let the animation fool you into thinking this is a kids' show. In Japan, cartoons are for adults as well. Many anime shows contain dark themes, and Death Note is certainly not an exception.
Although the show is 37 episodes long and does an excellent job of keeping the viewer's attention with multiple plot twists (not to mention the intensity of the underlying battle of Good vs. Evil), the premise is fairly simple. One day, in the midst of disgust at the sheer brokenness of the world, a student named Light Yagami stumbles upon a blank notebook. On the inside cover, a few odd but straightforward rules are found. There is a single underlying rule that all the others serve to detail:
The person whose name is written in this book shall die.
At first Light dismisses the book as an immature prank, yet he is unable to completely forget about it. Insatiable knowledge of the book skirts the edges of his consciousness, until his curiosity eventually wins the better of him. He writes in the death note, using the name of a local criminal. Sure enough, the man dies of a heart attack as predicted.
Light immediately decides that it was a mere coincidence. Yet his curiosity is stronger now, and a few days later he finds himself experimenting with it again on another local criminal. The second man also dies. This time, the death is caused by a freak automobile accident-- exactly as specified in the note.
Horrified, Light is now convinced that the note is real. Which means he has just killed two men, murdered them in cold blood just as surely as if he had held a gun to their faces. And yet, as soon as these thoughts enter his mind, more come to replace them. After all, he reasons, isn't this what he's always wanted? The ability to cleanse the world of all that is evil and ugly, to make wrongdoers suffer for their crimes, and to protect the innocence of the helpless? The death note is a blessing in his hands, not a curse. Thus begins his spiralling descent into the grip of absolute power.
Am I a little obsessed with the show's concept? Most definitely.
Regardless, the questions the protagonist wrestles with throughout the entire series are deep ones: Do some people deserve to die; and if so, who gets to make that judgement call?
Yes, I'm sure you're remembering certain lessons from Sunday School when you were a kid. Good. Now I want you to really think about it. If you were given the ability to punish criminals for their wrongdoings, would you? More importantly, if you alone decided what was worthy of death-- if moral wickedness and innocence was defined solely by you-- would your judgements be righteous? Or would you be no better than those very criminals deemed 'unfit for life'?
In the case of Light Yagami, the god-like power of the death note slowly corrodes each of his ideals one by one, until it ultimately destroys him.
"Anything obtained by killing people can never bring true happiness." -Mr. Yagami (Light's dad)
"This isn't divine judgement. It's the work of some childish killer who's playing at divine retribution. That's all." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"No matter how gifted you are, you alone can't change the world." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"Humans are so... interesting!" -Ryuk
((If anyone wants to see a condensed version of Light's transformation from idealistic schoolboy to complete psychopath, this is an excellent amv. Flobot's "Handlebars" is most definitely a fitting song choice...))
I'm rather impressed with it.
Don't let the animation fool you into thinking this is a kids' show. In Japan, cartoons are for adults as well. Many anime shows contain dark themes, and Death Note is certainly not an exception.
Although the show is 37 episodes long and does an excellent job of keeping the viewer's attention with multiple plot twists (not to mention the intensity of the underlying battle of Good vs. Evil), the premise is fairly simple. One day, in the midst of disgust at the sheer brokenness of the world, a student named Light Yagami stumbles upon a blank notebook. On the inside cover, a few odd but straightforward rules are found. There is a single underlying rule that all the others serve to detail:
The person whose name is written in this book shall die.
At first Light dismisses the book as an immature prank, yet he is unable to completely forget about it. Insatiable knowledge of the book skirts the edges of his consciousness, until his curiosity eventually wins the better of him. He writes in the death note, using the name of a local criminal. Sure enough, the man dies of a heart attack as predicted.
Light immediately decides that it was a mere coincidence. Yet his curiosity is stronger now, and a few days later he finds himself experimenting with it again on another local criminal. The second man also dies. This time, the death is caused by a freak automobile accident-- exactly as specified in the note.
Horrified, Light is now convinced that the note is real. Which means he has just killed two men, murdered them in cold blood just as surely as if he had held a gun to their faces. And yet, as soon as these thoughts enter his mind, more come to replace them. After all, he reasons, isn't this what he's always wanted? The ability to cleanse the world of all that is evil and ugly, to make wrongdoers suffer for their crimes, and to protect the innocence of the helpless? The death note is a blessing in his hands, not a curse. Thus begins his spiralling descent into the grip of absolute power.
Am I a little obsessed with the show's concept? Most definitely.
Regardless, the questions the protagonist wrestles with throughout the entire series are deep ones: Do some people deserve to die; and if so, who gets to make that judgement call?
Yes, I'm sure you're remembering certain lessons from Sunday School when you were a kid. Good. Now I want you to really think about it. If you were given the ability to punish criminals for their wrongdoings, would you? More importantly, if you alone decided what was worthy of death-- if moral wickedness and innocence was defined solely by you-- would your judgements be righteous? Or would you be no better than those very criminals deemed 'unfit for life'?
In the case of Light Yagami, the god-like power of the death note slowly corrodes each of his ideals one by one, until it ultimately destroys him.
"Anything obtained by killing people can never bring true happiness." -Mr. Yagami (Light's dad)
"This isn't divine judgement. It's the work of some childish killer who's playing at divine retribution. That's all." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"No matter how gifted you are, you alone can't change the world." -Ryuuzaki (L)
"Humans are so... interesting!" -Ryuk
((If anyone wants to see a condensed version of Light's transformation from idealistic schoolboy to complete psychopath, this is an excellent amv. Flobot's "Handlebars" is most definitely a fitting song choice...))
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Imperfections
Another song. Yeah, I know, it's starting to get old. I'm planning to post several non-lyrical topics within the next couple of weeks, don't worry. In the meantime...
This one is from the quirky British artist, Tom Milsom. If you can overcome the forced rhymes, peculiar choice of instruments, and somewhat childish themes, his songs are really quite endearing and I whole-heartedly thank the friends who introduced me to his music.
"Imperfections" is one of Milsom's more serious songs. For some unknown reason, it's been stuck in my head all afternoon. (I blame the rain. Melancholy is difficult to avoid in such weather, I've found.) The simple piano chords in the background set the mood nicely. Sure, the song's far from perfect... but that's what I love most about it. <3
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
The world moves on, but you stand still.
You say there's always time to kill
When there's a thousand pretty things to see.
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only you could be.
I love you more than words could say,
But you keep pushing me away
For someone who loves you less than me.
His imperfections make him beautiful (to you).
Each sorrow puts him deeper in your heart.
And every time he almost dies,
I die a little more inside
As you and I drift slowly more apart.
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
And it turns out that my biggest imperfection
Was dreaming all the time of you and me...
This one is from the quirky British artist, Tom Milsom. If you can overcome the forced rhymes, peculiar choice of instruments, and somewhat childish themes, his songs are really quite endearing and I whole-heartedly thank the friends who introduced me to his music.
"Imperfections" is one of Milsom's more serious songs. For some unknown reason, it's been stuck in my head all afternoon. (I blame the rain. Melancholy is difficult to avoid in such weather, I've found.) The simple piano chords in the background set the mood nicely. Sure, the song's far from perfect... but that's what I love most about it. <3
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
The world moves on, but you stand still.
You say there's always time to kill
When there's a thousand pretty things to see.
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only you could be.
I love you more than words could say,
But you keep pushing me away
For someone who loves you less than me.
His imperfections make him beautiful (to you).
Each sorrow puts him deeper in your heart.
And every time he almost dies,
I die a little more inside
As you and I drift slowly more apart.
Your imperfections make you beautiful
In ways that only I can see.
And it turns out that my biggest imperfection
Was dreaming all the time of you and me...
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Pessimism of Ryan Ross
In his song, "Build God, Then We'll Talk", songwriter Ryan Ross truly outdid himself with satirical brilliance. Shortly before the album was written, he had discovered that his girlfriend was cheating on him, and as such, much of the album's content is a sort of emotional retaliation. Out of all the songs, however, "Build God" is by far the most elegant.
The song itself is quite tragic. The only character with any sort of decency is the narrator, who bitterly laments the darkness of humanity- yet is unable to change anything. The rest of the cast includes an ex-Catholic woman, an unscrupulous lawyer, the wife who feigns ignorance, the constable who discovers the affair, and the resulting child who is given no choice in the matter of existence.
It's these substandard motels on the corner of 4th and Freemont Street
Appealing, only 'cause they're just that un-appealing
Any practiced Catholic would cross themselves upon entering
The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde
And the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes
Along with the people inside
What a wonderful caracature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caracature of intimacy
Tonight's tenants range from: a lawyer and a virgin
Accessorizing with a rosary tucked inside her lingerie
She's getting a job at the firm come Monday
The Mrs. will stay with the cheating attorney
Moonlighting aside, she really needs his money
Oh, wonderful caricature of intimacy
And not to mention the constable, and his proposition for that "virgin"
Yes, the one the lawyer met with on "strictly business"
As he said to the Mrs: Well only hours before,
After he had left, as she was fixing her face in a compact
There was a terrible crash (there was a terrible crash)
Between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag
And held the "purse" of a different kind-
The one with the people inside
What a wonderful caricature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy
There are no...
Raindrops on roses and girls in white dresses
It's sleeping with roaches and taking best guesses
The shade of the sheets and before all the stains
And a few more of your least favorite things
As it's fairly obvious what the song is about, I won't bother going into much detail with interpretation. Because of certain lines in the lyrics, it's likely the young woman needed money to support her drug addiction (most notable in this line: "between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag"), but the point is debatable. The best part of the song is, of course, the climax, which beautifully sums up the fall of innocence- by (mis)quoting The Sound of Music, no less.
Yet underlying the story is a tragic theme of defeatism: "It doesn't matter what you do in the end, because you're screwed either way." This is all very well in the name of Art, but is end-all pessimism a thing we should encourage? Are we sure that Art is enough removed from Reality (and vice versa) that it will not taint our opinions of the world?
As a chronic pessimist, I feel partially at blame by encouraging (even admiring!) this type of artistic negativity. However, some hope may be taken in quotes such as this:
"Art does not give real things or imitations of real things. The thing that art gives is strained first through the artist's selections and judgments, and then through the specific techniques with he used to present them. If you are to enjoy an art, you must first accept its terms." -Thomas Hart Benton
The song itself is quite tragic. The only character with any sort of decency is the narrator, who bitterly laments the darkness of humanity- yet is unable to change anything. The rest of the cast includes an ex-Catholic woman, an unscrupulous lawyer, the wife who feigns ignorance, the constable who discovers the affair, and the resulting child who is given no choice in the matter of existence.
It's these substandard motels on the corner of 4th and Freemont Street
Appealing, only 'cause they're just that un-appealing
Any practiced Catholic would cross themselves upon entering
The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde
And the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes
Along with the people inside
What a wonderful caracature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caracature of intimacy
Tonight's tenants range from: a lawyer and a virgin
Accessorizing with a rosary tucked inside her lingerie
She's getting a job at the firm come Monday
The Mrs. will stay with the cheating attorney
Moonlighting aside, she really needs his money
Oh, wonderful caricature of intimacy
And not to mention the constable, and his proposition for that "virgin"
Yes, the one the lawyer met with on "strictly business"
As he said to the Mrs: Well only hours before,
After he had left, as she was fixing her face in a compact
There was a terrible crash (there was a terrible crash)
Between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag
And held the "purse" of a different kind-
The one with the people inside
What a wonderful caricature of intimacy
Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy
There are no...
Raindrops on roses and girls in white dresses
It's sleeping with roaches and taking best guesses
The shade of the sheets and before all the stains
And a few more of your least favorite things
As it's fairly obvious what the song is about, I won't bother going into much detail with interpretation. Because of certain lines in the lyrics, it's likely the young woman needed money to support her drug addiction (most notable in this line: "between her and the badge, she spilled her purse and her bag"), but the point is debatable. The best part of the song is, of course, the climax, which beautifully sums up the fall of innocence- by (mis)quoting The Sound of Music, no less.
Yet underlying the story is a tragic theme of defeatism: "It doesn't matter what you do in the end, because you're screwed either way." This is all very well in the name of Art, but is end-all pessimism a thing we should encourage? Are we sure that Art is enough removed from Reality (and vice versa) that it will not taint our opinions of the world?
As a chronic pessimist, I feel partially at blame by encouraging (even admiring!) this type of artistic negativity. However, some hope may be taken in quotes such as this:
"Art does not give real things or imitations of real things. The thing that art gives is strained first through the artist's selections and judgments, and then through the specific techniques with he used to present them. If you are to enjoy an art, you must first accept its terms." -Thomas Hart Benton
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