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I have a new blog!

Hey all!


Its been a great run with ‘Myth & Mist.’ I’ve been posting on here for a long time. Since the beginning of the decade. But as George Harrison once said, ‘all things must pass.’ I’m starting a new blog that will revolve more around daily posts. I’m looking forward to sharing my musings on baseball, music, and movies… along with anything else rattling around my dome! I’d really appreciate it if ya give me a follow at my new site: here it is: Boulevard Variety. Thank you for being the essential element to ‘Myth & Mist.’ A reader! Hope to see you at the new place.

Houdini’s Last Words

From Appleton Street
In Milwaukee
To East 79th
In New York

I was a child flying
From a trapeze
The prince of air

I’m tired of fighting, Dash
I guess this thing is going to get me
You & I always knew
What we had to do to get ourselves free
And every eye could see
Whether astounded bourgeois
Or enchanted children of poverty
There are no odds that overcome mastery
Except this thing
Is going to get me

I met you
When you were sixteen
A Floral Sister
At the Sea Beach Palace
Coney Island

The one & only
Theodore Hardeen
A strongman within
Broken chains
Fed my secrets to his flames
My brother introduced you
To me


But for the absence of magic
In the conditions of fate
This charge
I cannot evade

Seeing The Seventh Seal in Sweatpants at the Film Forum


The neon on the Film Forum marquee’s dark blue and the programming’s stacked on white slates lettered black. There are weathered thin filmic strips between the titles. I am walking down the sidewalk and eying the marquee closely for multiple reasons. The first reason is that I have never been to the Film Forum despite kinda-sorta being a Cinephile. I have mainly been a Lincoln Plaza Cinemas fella, most recently for the underappreciated Loving Vincent. Incidentally the Lincoln Plaza seems to be closing temporarily for repairs with many fearing it’ll be shuttered permanently like the Landmark Sunshine Cinema despite contrary assurances from the property owners. So tonight before I see The Seventh Seal the Film Forum marquee takes on resonance as a symbol of imperiled authenticity.

I take a picture of the marquee with my phone for the purposes of Instagram posterity then turn and cross the narrow street into a bar. I have arrived early for the showing of The Seventh Seal and will need to pass some time. It is Friday night.

I made it early for the screening because I didn’t have much else to do. The fact that it’s a Friday night and my only plans involved seeing The Seventh Seal accompanied by my trusty notebook suddenly feels questionable inside the bar. Because it’s happy hour and my contemporaries are enjoying each other’s company. They seem contentedly absorbed into their personal dramas. The men wear expensive looking suits or sweaters. They do the things that men with friends do in bars: wave a straggler back toward the group in case he’s weighing leaving his whole life behind, smile widely at a stranger and keep nodding because they are inaudible, summarize incredulity over a miscommunication that was totally not his fault. I’m wearing black sweatpants and a black hoodie. The strain of context pushes down on my shoulders. I purchase blonde ale and find a chair nestled in a nook where I can place my notebook on a slab. I open the book and scratch my pen point on the empty page. There’s too much time to kill.

Been a long time since I gave a damn about Friday night. Makes me feel like I’m fifteen. Then again everything goes back to being fifteen. I wanted to be a writer when I was fifteen. I wanted to be different when I was fifteen. I ordered an Ingmar Bergman box set through the mail when I was fifteen. Wish I could recall the company. The name was something nostalgic, conveying a mansion of wisdom scented by mothballs. I didn’t know who Ingmar Bergman was aside from being one of those important names you hear when one white-haired wizard compliments another reverently. On the phone with a girlfriend I gave my interpretation of Hour of the Wolf, slowly realizing that it pertained exactly to our situation. She was an insomniac and it had actually put her to sleep fifteen minutes before my breakthrough. When I hung-up it was 3 AM. The irony was lost on me. Those were days in a life under a hoodie. And I probably only wanted to bring him with me tonight. That boy who watched everything in that set besides The Seventh Seal because it felt like something to save for a perfect occasion.

As the years went by I realized I simply desired the set unfinished. That was the explanation. I didn’t want that time checkmated, where the good parts were about having a mind on fire about creativity.

But considering the question of the incomplete viewing also made me wonder whether I just found Bergman boring. Even though I’d be locked onto his films while I was actually watching. But making that commitment to watch was a struggle. There were many easier things to do in life than watching an Ingmar Bergman movie. Could that be perceived as a problem with his work?

There was nothing typically American about my laziness in this regard. In fact I was pretty new wave for a young-blood who got loaded at Queens junkie bars using a fake ID. Truthfully the issue seems to be addressed by Bergman himself, right in the nihilistic endings of The Seventh Seal and Shame too.

Bergman creates challenging work, work that requires contemplative movements of the mind while in progress. Such a state could be deemed similar to meditation or trance. Tapping into a less reactionary, reptilian region of the brain. One does not alienate themselves from Bergman characters. One feels guilty for thinking about being alienated from them. Like poor Raval… he may have been evil but he was afraid to die just like you or me!

But Bergman acknowledges that our lives will always be dictated by the chaotic outcomes of culture, even if we do attempt thinking critically and empathizing with the people around us. Bergman is so obsessed by the question of why that one may naturally wonder why they should watch his film. Of course when one does make the decision to watch, they will be rewarded by exquisite filmmaking. But the pull of not watching has always felt particularly strong to me when thinking about his work. Not watching a Bergman film feels like a concrete decision in a way that other films could never imitate. One looks at the Bergman box set in their DVD library and turns away, in that moment understanding himself as the person who will not be watching, opposed to the other who is. Because usually it is not the day or time to be in Ingmar Bergman’s world, in the quiet of midnight, alone in a room, preferring an escape. Life just has to be easy and not some of the time but a lot of the time to be bearable, a comic book with ever-familiar colors.

Indeed, one decides not to watch Star Wars because the Yankees game started on the other channel. One decides not to watch Shame because they still want to believe in humanity. In this twisted sense, Bergman’s films work so well that if someone were to tell me I could no longer watch them, it wouldn’t be a tremendous bother. I don’t feel that way about other directors I love. It’s as if Bergman’s strength is his weakness, and he’s aware, communicating with that fact in the work. Such as the beginning of Hour of the Wolf, which immediately announces itself as a movie with sounds from an active set. In case we were considering the mistake of losing ourselves.

The Seventh Seal is an excellent film because a Crusader named Block plays chess with Death. Along the way Block befriends carnies and they manage a hillside picnic despite the collapse of civilization. It’s a movie that taps into the psyche.

Every aspiring screenwriter fancies writing a film that taps into the psyche, a wish holiest at an early juncture when phrases like tap into the psyche seem to actually mean something. Such gallantry must be unmasked. Ultimately, for those who stick with the questionable endeavor, writing something that simply works becomes an attainable goal. Note the phrase working as fashionable in describing good fiction these days, as if one were describing an air conditioner.

We’re better than ever at putting people and ideas into boxes. To be an intellectual these days is to be an efficient categorizer. It is also crucially about having an awareness of your own box. Getting comfortable inside. Instead of tearing through the cardboard we furnish ourselves a little flap of a desk, maybe even with a lamp. That depends on our individual skill at interior decorating. Maybe finish the space off with a miniature TV and beverage holder. Be completely boxed-in by culture and by preference.

Filmmakers don’t put forward big ideas anymore. Not enough. They don’t ask the questions that’ll be on our minds if we have time to consider our own deaths. That’s the kind of death proceeding in an orderly, businesslike fashion. Opposed to the kind of death I once read about in a newspaper when I was twelve years old: a plastic surgeon in his corvette on the freeway and a loose hubcap bouncing on the road, going airborne…

But if one has the luxury of questions: What was the point of all this? What did I know as love? What did I fear? What was it that happened that time I became someone else? These are questions impossible to address through categorization. Solving an existential crisis is an existential crisis. People don’t want crisis emerging from crisis. In a more confusing world than ever, people want to feel like they know who they are.

It’s a lonely, confusing time for many people. But paradoxically, artists are more influenced by culture than ever, especially as novices. Consider a novice existentialist fiction writer in a workshop. Let’s put ourselves right in his or her Skechers. We’re taking the train afterward, pulling the stack of papers from our bag several stops from home. Because why wait to cry in private, as is proper procedure? Then we see the notes upon our pages, “this is exposition masquerading as dialogue,” or, “too long,” or, “what does this have to do with what your story is about,” or, “interesting but why,” and on and on. So someone with a similar sensibility to Ingmar Bergman, just as a young fiction writer, will never again try the extended monologue that the former uses effectively time and again in his films. As much as workshops have been invaluable to my development through the years, the tendency for people to assess someone else’s momentarily unsuccessful risk as an unsalvageable failure is quite high. Its just natural that when people see someone fail at something they would never try, they will advise that astronaut to abandon the mission altogether. Bob Dylan describes the tendency quite well in his song Farewell Angelina.
The camouflaged parrot
He flutters from fear
When something he doesn’t know about
Suddenly appears
What cannot be imitated
Perfect must die
Farewell Angelina
The sky’s flooding over
And I must go where it is dry

Movies, music and fiction are different beasts of course. And maybe our writer on the train is actually a hack incapable of being helped by any advice or even encouragement. That all comes down to the individual, and the individual can never truly be hypothesized. But consider also the mixed reaction to Kathryn Bigelow’s most recent film Detroit, which, among other things, asked the philosophical question of whether material success could erase one musician’s intense feelings of persecution and humiliation as a result of the events portrayed in the film. The answer was no. And it felt earned. But most critics did not bother writing about Larry’s character arc. It seemed more important to frame the movie in a moral context from a viewing standpoint. That seems a relatively new development: judging the quality of a film not based on its intentions and execution, but instead its moral rectitude. Such developments could be perceived in a positive fashion. But if we reach a point of canceling the basic attempt to tell a story based on the artist failing to meet socially agreed upon qualifications, what will be lost? And will that limit risk as a basic tenant of creativity?
This is not to say every critic had similar feelings about Detroit. It is to say the reception to the movie was not enthusiastic. And it’s more likely to be obscure years from now opposed to cultural signifier. And that may also have to do with the culture it is signifying. There was a time when that message meant far more than the ethnic background of the director. And maybe that was too convenient. Either way the world has changed. And it’s not just the taste of the popcorn.

Ultimately I find it challenging to consider that the culture from which I emerge on a daily basis like a sarcopterygian fish crawling from the sea and returning to his desktop can produce the type of fiercely intellectual filmmaking that defines Bergman and The Seventh Seal particularly.

Nobody’s a metaphor in the movie, a totem through which the viewer may be welcomed to try understanding or idealizing themselves. Even Death! Death is just Death. It feels like sometimes he wants to check his watch because it’s been a long day at the office during “busy season.” To top it off, the flick is actually funny too, which makes no sense whatsoever. Like when Death chops down a tree to kill a guy who had just pretended to be dead. Skat thought he pulled a fast one climbing up that tree after the party left him lying. But there came Death from down below with a hacksaw. And the best part: maybe that wasn’t even supposed to be funny.

After The Seventh Seal concludes I walk out of the Forum take the subway and sit alone in a different bar trying to make sense of the notes I’d been taking throughout the evening. Which of these could be catalytic?

I had written down,

“homeless man with sign outside Penn. Sign says Jesus is the Answer.”

I think about the sequence where the festival was interrupted by the flagellant procession. How despite the ways in which we can personalize drama for a better understanding of our condition art remains interpretative while fundamentalist religion simply tells people what they should be feeling and doing. Bergman seems to suggest that art’s overpowered when these two forces are placed in the same space. To the majority of people Skat and Lisa’s frolic can simply never have the instructive meaning of a ritualistic flagellation. Because joy – instead of being celebrated as a vital component to our experience – is perceived more as a luxury compared to the reality of suffering.

I also wrote down,

“while crossing Greenwich Avenue on way back uptown pretty girl passes by wearing headphones singing to herself in low register and we pass each other closely because sidewalk’s crowded her voice hits me like a thin warm wind these are the kinds of nice things that can happen in the city.”

And that has me musing over Bergman’s ability to make his films prosaic primarily through extended monologue, perhaps most memorably done with Alma’s monologue recalling random, satisfying sex on a secluded beach in Persona. Or he’ll even present a scene, like Shame’s intensely uncomfortable rendezvous between Colonel Jacobi, Eva, and Jan at their dining-room table, in a single shot as if one were suddenly watching a play. Bergman pushes the limits of the cinematic form by mirroring other forms, whether through aesthetics or emotional impact.

Similarly The Seventh Seal has these moments, though the film feels more surrealistic and mythical than postmodern. And instead of exploring an individual’s psyche, like through the personalized horror of memory in Hour of the Wolf, or delving into a specific relationship, like Shame, The Seventh Seal seems more concerned with existential torture as a communal experience.

I was particularly struck by how the shots in the castle, where Death pays a visit to our party, often featured most (if not all) all the characters in the frame. Like Bergman is saying we experience Death together, not just as individuals. And that includes the whole ride: from the mystery to the terror to the acceptance. And there is comfort in that sentiment even if it’s not necessarily reassuring.

Despite the resonance Block’s one-on-one chess duel with Death, communal expressions of primal emotion flashed just as prominently to my mind: whether it was Raval encouraging a mob frenzy against Jof and forcing the artist to dance for his survival, or it was Jons and Block’s utter powerlessness to save the condemned heretic, only offering herbs, or that discomforting final image of Death’s dance party. Bergman, as he also did in Shame, seems to be connecting the individual to the universal. Block playing chess with Death is also us – we are individuals — but we are also individuals bound together by the same rules. Dancing the same dance.

I wrote other notes, like one speculating that Terrence Malick took a cue from Raval’s death scene for a moment in The Thin Red Line where the sun breaks through cloud cover after two men are ordered to their demise. That could be a coincidence. It felt like more of a coincidence when I made the connection.

Bergman does have that gift. He makes art feel connected, and life too. He’s not about style, though he has plenty: his work is about a love for thinking and communicating, even when those things cannot hold the center. His films will make you feel included, not excluded. While me and all my selves walked back uptown I felt lucky to have spent a Friday night looking into The Seventh Seal and continuing to live my odd little life, remaining outside the box for another solitary evening in the city.

Live @ The Bowery Electric: 3/24/18

Songs & Lyrics

1. Floyd Patterson

Ready to brawl
Took a standing eight count
You can’t knock me out
I won’t allow it

I know I’m wrong
To seek sweet vengeance
But its just business
My endowment

The contender today
Can be champ tomorrow
And the champ yesterday
Hits the canvas harder

On my own
After getting knocked out
You left no doubt
We’re a split decision

Posing as unknown
Fake beard and sunglasses
I’m badly beaten
But I’m not finished

Well I’ve been fighting
And I’ve been winning
And I am aiming
To be champ for the third time
I’m not your villain
Just a gentleman
You better repent
If you think something’s wrong
With me getting mine

They don’t exist
When my opponent and I
Are fitted with gloves
Baby it broke my heart
When you spoke of revolution
As if it were bigger than
Our love

Wish I knew
The right words
But fighting’s what I do
Though I had to fight
For everything I got
I never wanted to
Fight you

The contender today
Can be champ tomorrow
And the champ yesterday
Hits the canvas harder

2. Intimate Secrecy

It’s a casting call
For the bourgeois
The motivation’s alienation
Expressed demographically

Assigned a file
Investigating destiny
A subject in denial
Like we’re meant to be

Well I want to find
The right leather gloves for me
I’m going to blindfold you
So I can finally see

Concrete never sleeps
Took a loan out on my dreams
Does it turn you on?
It turns me on
Our intimate secrecy

In the meeting
The boss said we’re a team
I’m a sense-maker
On a cheap salary

I’m lucky to be here
We talk about TV
Before we burrow underground
To go to our next place to be

Well I’m in a bind
Too many promises to keep
I’m going to gag your mouth
So I can finally speak
Does it turn you on?
It turns me on
Our intimate secrecy

The price we pay
For pleasure’s
A step too steep
Does it turn me on?
It turns me on
Our secret intimacy

3. The Composer

On my winter beach
The sand turns to ash
And the permanent sea
Whispers to me
The difference between
Fate and destiny

My violent tides inside
Led me onto the 7 train line
And your silhouette against a neon sign
Advertising an unsolved crime
Investigated by time
You will be mine

Amie, can’t you see?
I’m scoring the new
Spider-Man movie
We’ll have silver sown in our backs
Gold encrusted spines
We’ll wander down Broadway
You can play my (bride)

The pop porno was loud
So I started reading your lips
We shared a margarita kiss
To prove we exist
With our mariachi hips
Dancing over the abyss

My tide was high
Before I lost my mind
After the recession
The pyramid procession
Coercing his confession
Without learning our lesson

We ran and hid
In Rockaway
You got clean
And wanted to stay
But I said you were a slave
Quit the game
I’d understand too late
Loneliness is the sister of shame

Red Carpets
Clean money
You called me
Your honey
I wanted it to work
Wanted to keep it together
I really thought that money
Had me
Feeling better

Amie, can’t you see?
I’m scoring the new
Spider-Man movie
We’ll have silver sown in our backs
Gold encrusted spines
We’ll wander down Broadway
You can play my bride

4. Emily & Bobby Lee

Well Emily
Draws a family
On the sidewalk
With chalk

She writes apologies
To her bloody knees
And wishes you knew how
To talk

Her friends had decided
On a world divided
And held close the dust
Death does stalk

Her life was evidence
Understood as common sense
Fear haunting her
Lonely school-walk

Growing, fifteen
With friends and alone
In need of love
And a stranger at home

They say

Leave it
To the
Leave it
To the

Well, Bobby Lee
Prays to a father in the army
He’s a hero they say
And deserves appreciation

They remind the son
Dad’s work is never done
Heroes have obligations
In this nation

Yeah the war was properly planned
A child couldn’t understand
Men fight to uphold
Our democratic creation

One generation protects another
Like the older protects the younger
We have rules and laws
Our declaration

Yeah this country can protect
Our young and defenseless
That was always the point
The implied message

So do you realize why
Father is away?
So you can be free
In the land of the brave

Do you see now?
You will be safe
You will be safe
Go to school, child
You’ll be safe

Just leave it
To the
Leave it
To the

5. Coney Island Moonlight

Coney Island moonlight
Steel fingertips shining bright

They face the sky from an open palm
At midnight when the boardwalk’s calm

Took the Q to Cortelyou
And you said we had to be through

Wither true & untrue
On Ocean Avenue
Our empty rendezvous
You’re someone & no one too
Upon any hour through
In a day they call new
For the survivors few
And I’m the card you drew

Lonesome and wanting to sob
Waiting on a word from God

I’m so anonymously yours
Eying you while the crowd roars

While you perform your burlesque
You & I know we’ll never have their respect


6. Usually

This machine
Keeps talking
And your killer
Is stalking
Through the fields
Of our American dreams

My education’s
Performance art
My reflection’s
On the boulevard
In ghost initials
Etched in their margins

And when we met on the street
Your face
It snapped into tight focus

And when we danced at discreet
Our pace
Was simultaneous slow-motion

And I
Usually run x2

But not from you

So the demagogue’s
Gone wireless
And the resistance is tireless
While I feel empty
For being simply disgusted

But you’re double
At the liquor store
Keeps the landlord
From our jammed front-door
While we wait on your twenty in-progress

And when we feel our defeat
Our trace
Is like bait in the ocean

They swarm our retreat
Our space
Is their abstract notion

And I
Usually run x2

But not without you
But not without you

The bells, the bells
They’re ringing
The bells
They’re ringing
For our love
And the bells, the bells
Are ringing
The cardinals are
For our love

#22: American Affection

This is the ending of ‘Alias Intact.’ Thank you so much for listening & reading. Happy writing to you.


4 AM in Colonial town
Nazi’s hit the memorial fountain
I consider my American affection
Early nineties neon
Family ice cream at Magic Mountain

Of the bibliographic constellations
In our gray illumination
Our common prayer
A repeated incantation
Our pledge of allegiance
A monotone statement

And when is our final paper due?
Deconstructing a
Three word
English term
I love you

1. I want a one-beer buzz
To feel less severe
Life was so much softer
With your whisper
In my ear

2. I want to feel young
Before this pitiful reveal
When your body
And my body
Came alive
Through feel

Its winter now
And will be next year too
Like all the lies
They sold us
Will never be true

The euphoria’s fleeting
When uploaded into a machine
We had a heartfelt investment
To teach our machine
More beautiful dreams


#21: Under the red, white & blue

I made the decision
To love you
In a hellfire of jet fuel
Amid the dust of two towers
Protected by military rule

I made the decision
To love you
During the battle of Antietam
In formation with a bachelor orphan
Asking me to grieve him

I made the decision
To love you
During the first desert storm
When we screwed in our gas masks
Atop the clothes our bodies


And so we wander together
Beyond the moon’s gaze
Beneath the tree line
Between the lamp-light
Through the park’s maze
And so with my boy hands
I gently caress your face
It’s really been decades
Since the bottom
Of that spiral staircase
And you remind me
I’m dreaming
That I will soon
Be awake
We’ve been over
Whether it was right or
A mistake
It doesn’t matter

I made the decision
To love you
In the shadow of Plymouth Rock
While secretly practicing witchcraft
Which we will never stop

I made the decision
To love you
Sipping Sangaree in Yorktown
Perfect drunk and delirious
Waving my round hat around

I made the decision
To love you
After the republic was gone
Because there can never be another you
And there will always be another Babylon


I made the decision
To love you (x2)
I made the decision (x3)
To love you (x3)
To love you (x3)
Love you love you (x3)

#20: Intimate Secrecy

It’s a casting call
For the bourgeois
My motivation’s alienation
Expressed demographically

Assigned a file
On destiny
A subject in denial
Like we’re meant to be

Well I want to find
The right leather gloves for me
I’m going to blindfold you
So I can finally see

Concrete never sleeps
Does it turn you on?
It turns me on
Our intimate secrecy

In the meeting
The boss said we’re a team
I’m a sense-maker
On a cheap salary

I’m just lucky to be here
We talk about TV
Before we burrow underground
For our next place to be

Well I’m in a bind
Too many promises to keep
Gonna gag your mouth
So I can finally speak
Does it turn you on?
It turns me on
Our intimate secrecy

The price we pay
For pleasure’s
A step too steep
Does it turn me on?
It turns me on
Our secret intimacy

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