Fri, 28 Mar 2008 17:53:58 GMT

Happy Birthday to nero_nailpolish !!!

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 19:34:48 GMT

A little something I wrote for an athstetecs class a while back. I (not completely) unconciously gave it a Spangel undertone.

Sushi. They were going to get sushi. Liam hadn’t even liked sushi the one time he had had it. He’d been dragged to the “hottest spot in LA” were “everyone who was anyone would be there” by his ex-wife, gallery owner, and still friend Cordelia a couple years ago; he’s paid six-teen bucks for a couple strips of undercooked fish, a bit of flavorless rice, and really bad service; he’d been hesitant to have a recurrence of that one. This time he was going to get sushi with Will, though, and that made all the difference.

Liam and Will had been friends for most of their childhood. Liam and his family had moved from Galway, Ireland to London when Liam was only three; his father had gotten a big promotion within the fabric and textile company he worked for. William had been born in England, and his fathers before him, all the way back to the building of Stonehenge, or the reign of William the Conqueror, or something like that: one of those great events in English history. The two boys had met at Harrow School, where they had become Donorum Dei Dispensatio Fidelis. Liam still wasn’t sure how his parents had been able to afford the tuition; they weren’t wealthy like Will’s family. Liam had played Rugby and Harrow Football; Will had been the captain of the Fencing Team and had sung in the choir. They had become friends in first year when Will had been assigned to be Liam’s Latin tutor. They had only been separated by going to different universities; Liam had been accepted to the art program at UCLA, it was the farthest he could get from his father; Will had gone to Oxford, of course, and had two Masters Degrees from there, in Ancient Studies and Philosophy, and he had now just finished his Doctoral in Ancient Studies.

That was what had brought William to Las Angles; he had been asked to present one of his papers at UCLA. Liam still got the Alumni Newsletter, and had seen his old friend’s name. Liam was the shy type, he always walked with his shoulders hunched to try to make his six-foot-two frame less obtrusive; he didn’t make new friends easily and so had been eager to reconnect with this familiar tie. They had, of course, promised to keep in touch after graduation, but as always seems to happen had gradually fallen out of contact. Liam had managed to dig up Will’s e-mail address, had hoped it was still active, and had invited Will for a burger and catch-up (Liam thought that was funny) if he had the time. Will had responded the next day with an enthusiastic ‘yes,’ and plans had been finalized.

That had been two weeks ago. Apparently, the history board at UCLA had had ulterior motives in inviting Will to California; they were trying to steal him away from negotiations for a professorship with Cambridge. Will had said that he was most impressed with LA’s lack of rain, something that Cambridge couldn’t boast; Liam hoped that meant that UCLA was ahead in the current bidding war, he would really like to have his best friend back.

Liam snapped back out of his reverie as Will parked the car outside of The Golden Pagoda Sushi Bar and Grill, Liam hoped the ‘grill’ part meant he could get a steak.

“Well, we’re here, or at least I’m ninety-seven point five percent sure we’re here; the address and name are correct, but we could always be in an alternate dimension or something.” Will was always saying things like that, “metaphysical speculations” he called them.

“No, I’m pretty sure we’re still in this dimension, Will,” Liam laughed, “but this is LA.”

The Golden Pagoda consisted of a large grill, manned by two Asian men, their knives moving in a quick and methodical fashion, surrounded by an eating bar with tables beyond that. The table clothes and seat covers were china red the chairs were bamboo that had been gold-leafed, there were the expected Asian style watercolors of Japanese mountains and rivers, the whole place smelled of cooking steaks and pickled ginger. A tiny, pretty Asian woman showed them to their seats and gave them menus.

“Hey, I’m really sorry I’m going to have to miss your next presentation--” Liam started, tying to get the conversation flowing again.

“No, no, don’t worry about that, it’s not Grimes Graves or new hieroglyphics or discoveries anywhere, it’s just talking about things that have already been talked about.” Will interrupted, waving his hand as if to dismiss the subject. “I’m much more grieved to miss your gallery opening. It’s very inconvenient that they’ll fall on the same night. Perhaps, we can go to the gallery some other night and you could show me your newest works then?” Will went on without giving Liam the chance to respond, “Cordelia still runs the place, doesn’t she? How’s that: working with your ex-wife, and all? Do you see as much of Conner as you’d like? No, of course, you don’t. You don’t see him everyday and I’m babbling now…”

Liam didn’t want to talk about Cordelia, the divorce, or how he sometimes wondered if he was missing the most important times of their young son’s life; so the conversation lulled as the waitress brought out their drinks and took their orders.

“Tell me about the paper you’re working on now.” Liam asked.

Will took the hint. “It’s not Ancient Studies, or history at all, I’m taking a step back into philosophy.” Liam knew he would have nothing to add to this conversation. “For now, it’s just a rehashing of the 1995 George Dickie and W. Kent Wilson piece, The Intentional Fallacy: Defending Beardsley. I agree and disagree with them at different points, and some time, when it’s fully fleshed out, I’d like to bring out an original thesis on my own about intention’s place in art.” Maybe Liam would have something to say, he knew about art. Hell, it was his life. “Though, my paper will be better, because Dickie and Wilson do a better job at discrediting Hirsch, than defending Beardsley and Wimsatt.”

“There is a question about the place of intention in art?” Liam asked. Will double blinked at him. That was never good, it was Will’s ‘you’ve just said something stupid’ tell. “I mean…” The food arrived and gave Liam a moment to gather some semi-plausible thoughts together. “The intention of something is whatever the artist says it is, right? If someone says it’s something else, they’re just wrong, yea? Their interpretation is off. How can someone argue with me about what I paint? It’s mine, it came out of me. Is that what you mean?” Maybe Will would think that first statement was a joke.

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean. That is the whole premise of intentionalism.” Will smiled, and Liam felt himself smile back. “Both parts of that statement, really. I’m as Intentionalist, just so you know, but not a hard-core one. What you paint does come from inside you, no one should be able to argue about your meaning, it’s your meaning. I also believe that just because someone’s interpretation is different or incorrect doesn’t necessarily make that view wrong.”

“’Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’”

“’Of taste, there is no disputing.’ What a work says to me may not be what it says to you, or what you meant it to say to anyone, but that doesn’t change what it says to me. But, there is also the first part of you statement to consider: sometimes people don’t say what they mean, or they do, but what they have said takes on a new meaning over time or in a new context, so that what they meant at the time isn’t what they really meant at all.”

“Like media sound bites of politicians?”

“Yes, so what is more important: what the politician said or what he meant by the statement?”

“What he meant, defiantly.”

“I think so, too. Some people disagree, though, like Monroe Beardsley. Hardcore Anti-intentionalist, he was. He and his partner, William Wimsatt, claimed three things in their early articles: one, in judging a work, inferences should be made about the artists intentions (they’re assuming that the artist is not standing at their elbow to tell them about his intentions) from outside sources, meaning Beardsley believed that works have to be autobiographical.”

“No, they don’t, I paint things that aren’t from my life, like commissions or something. And you… do you still write poetry?”

Will laughed and nodded. “All still very ill. Occasionally, I write, but I do so therapeutically, so if I was the only case subject, then we would have to agree with Beardsley. If you were the only subject, we could reject Beardsley; but in either case, we would need some percentage of people to say that the theory was even inconclusive. The second thing Wimsatt and Beardsley questioned was whether the artist’s intention was even relevant to the judging or interpretation of a work.”

“How could the artist’s intention not be relevant to the interpretation of his work?” Liam asked.

“Well, they really mean more towards the judging part: if the intention of a work is not self-evident, does that make the work a bad one?”

“Oh, I’d have to say ‘no’ to that; just look at some of this Modern Art, Abstractionists, Expressionists, there’re a thousand more. The Expressionists try to look untrained, so you can’t even judge from a technical angle.” The artist in Liam was showing his head, and it made Will smile.

“I’d have to agree, but they mean all art, literary, too, not just visual art.”

“I don’t understand most of the metaphors in your poems, I still like them.”

“That would be the classical allusions you didn’t understand, but I’d bet if you read them now, you’d understand more. You’ve attended uni., you must have become better read. Anyway, the third part of the Beardsley-Wimsatt argument is if the fulfillment of the artist’s intention is relevant for the evaluation of the work. If the artist doesn’t succeed in illustrating his intended meaning, even to himself, is the work a bad one?”

“Yes, if the work doesn’t come out right, you scrap it, paint it over, or write it over, whatever.” Liam was very firm in his view.

“But, what if the artist decides for reasons of his own to show the work, should his inability to communicate his intention through the work have a standing in the overall evaluation of the work, if the technical part of it is good?”

“No, I still say he should have scraped it.”

“Okay, you can hold that view, I won’t argue—“

“Imposable.”

“Well, anyway,” Will huffed in mock agitation. “In their 1946 article, Beardsley and Wimsatt make a clear delineation between “the meaning of the work [in of] itself” and “the meaning that the author intended to express in the work.” They put a lot of weight in that the meaning of work should be found within the work itself, in its words and what those words actually mean, regardless of the artist’s intention. Personally, I believe that this part of the argument is easily wiped away in that: one, it makes no room for metaphor, for plays on words that so many of the very best writers are famous for; two, it doesn’t seem to take into account the fact that words’ meanings change over time. The hardcore Intentionalists deny the delineation altogether.”

“I don’t understand the delineation thing.” Liam admits. “How can there be a difference between what the artist says and what he means?”

“Alright, take a poem for example; Beardsley and Wimsatt would say that the meaning of the poem should come from the internal speaker and not the author.”

“The internal speaker being the fictional voice the author created within the poem?”

“Yes.”

“That is the stupidest line of reasoning I’ve ever heard. The author wrote it, the meaning came from him, just like the meaning in my paintings come from me, no matter what Beardsley or his fictional voices say.” Liam had made Will laugh again, he liked being able to do that.

“The delineation is a narrow one. It’s between a sentence and what someone means by saying that particular sentence.”

“That is very narrow. It all seems too literal to me, like they’re arguing about two different things, or on both sides of the same thing, or something. It’s getting confusing.”

“Well, later, Beardsley narrows the gap still with his Identity Thesis, arguing that the artist’s meaning does not have to be the same as the meaning of the work that he wrote.”

“It’s the author’s art, what he meant the work to say is what it says, unless it’s a complete failure. I mean that in an overall way, with the individual sentences… I guess that would go back to what you said about words meanings changing over time and in different circumstances.”

“Well, Beardsley can back up his claim with arguments, like what about a computer that would randomly put sentences together to form a poem? If there is no author, how can there be intent?”

“There can’t be intent. No author, no intent, no meaning, you can read into something all you like, but that doesn’t mean it means anything.”

“Because something is able to be interpreted, doesn’t mean the interpretation is correct. I agree. What about when words change meaning in situations or over time?”

“You already covered that, works have to be taken in the context of their times and… well, contexts.”

“So I did. And if a work had a meaning the artist did not envision, he didn’t mean it to be there?”

“If the artist didn’t mean it to be there, then it isn’t there, people are reading too deeply.”

“Unless the meaning was unconsciously but there, but that is a completely different line of reasoning. Liam, you did very well fielding my questions just then.”

“Don’t think I didn’t catch that, either, you’ve done that to me before. Set me up with information and then make me argue for you.”

“It’s true. I’m a very bad man. Well, I’m finished with my dinner. Do you want to catch a movie or something?”

“As long as it isn’t Black Christmas, there is something about a horror Christmas movie that is just wrong.”

Sat, 14 Jul 2007 19:41:10 GMT

I know, I've been a lazy, good for nothing up-dater. In my defense, I've been jet lagged for, like, a week. Ok, I'll be honest, that excuse ran out two weeks ago.

I saw the new Harry Potter yesterday. It was good, as a general rule, books are better, though. Except Jurassic Park, that was a better movie; something about actually seeing the dinosaurs, I guess... (Continues on tangent for awhile before remembering the point.)

I can't wait for the seventh book! It had better be good. I hope Harry doesn't end up sacrificing himself to kill Voldamort, that would be a let down. He had to survive to be the permanent DADA teacher. And Dombledore can't really be dead, he and Snape faked the whole thing as a cover. I've got to find the Half-blood Prince and give it another good read to refresh my memory, before Deathly Hallows is released next week.

I was supposed to go to see Order of the Phoenix with my family today, but they seem to be blowing me off. That sucks. They do this all of the time, I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore. Well, more time to read and write Spangel.

Mindless rant

Mon, 11 Jun 2007 18:22:11 GMT

    Ok, my flat mate is the most high-strung, neurotic, probably alcoholic, pyhcopath that I have ever met, let alone lived with!
She's a vegetarian, which I have no problem with; I have several ~~other~~ friends that are, too, but she's a mean veggie, one that tries to force her way of life on all the people around her and complains when anyone else eats or cooks or thinks about mean when she is around, like everyone else should cater to her demands. She drives me as freaking crazy as she is!
    So, today, she's got her computer hooked up in the kitchen writing a paper (which she has been stressing (i.e. complaining) about for a week) and I go in to make myself lunch, a fillet of chicken and fried potato, and she says:
    "Oh my God, you aren't going to fry that in here are you?" In the kitchen!!! "Can't you like turn on the vent or something?"
    And I snapped at her, I slammed open the vent and the window, just for good measure.
    So she says, "Oh, you're going to be like that now? You have to get all violent about it?"
    In my head, I stabbed her in the eye with a fork.
    "Ok, don't get mad, you know I have issues..."
    I cut her off right there: "Oh, I know you have issues!"
    Now, I'm not an unreasonable person, if she had asked nicely, ya know: "Hey, do you think you could turn on the vent?" I would have been like: "Sure, no problem." It wasn't the request, it was how she said it.
    Has she driven me crazy, or was I in the right here?

Welcome!

Fri, 08 Jun 2007 12:04:08 GMT

Probably not a good time to start a new journal, as I will be gone for a while, but i'll try to update as i can. I'll eventually house some original fanfiction here, as soon as I wright something worthy of posting.

Dreams of Spangel...

Mindless rant

Welcome!