I

For the daily musician we can turn to Eden Atwood, whose sample tracks are lounge and jazzy; Eden, who "has" AIS or is "AIS positive" or whatever, has evidently spoken/written on the topic.

As a followup to a June 17, 2006 diary, I can report that the press is reporting that Nicole Kidman is pregnant; I'm sure those that believe Kidman is actually a man (see also: Jamie Lee Curtis) will want to see the belly first. It quickly become the rabid, nonsensical thinking of conspiracy theorist:

After reading your 2004 posting on this topic, it occurs to me that an actress who has had a child cannot necessarily be taken off the list of possible AIS sufferers. It would not be beyond the ability of a wealthy celebrity to fake a pregnancy and arrange for adoption of a newborn at the appropriate time. One thing that may help maintain such deceptions is the fact that people in close contact with celebrities, such as personal assistants and household workers, often are required to sign ironclad confidentiality agreements.

Not that anyone would ever engage in that sort of "logic" around here.

I only mention this because today my friend D and I went to watch "The Golden Compass," but that comes later.

Probably close to 2a.m. I went to sleep; I crawled into bed nearer to 12:30, but put a DVD in w/ director/writer commentary and watched the first hour-plus. Then, even after I turned it off, I couldn't fall asleep. I thought of topics to write, chores to do. I was tempted to get up and clean. Write. Draw. Cook? Not so much. Read. I don't really have that freedom in my schedule, for there's work, appointments, the need for some semblance of regularity to make other daily activities manageable, and the neighbors downstairs who were, I suspect (I do not know their relationship status, only that they are opposite sex graduate students in the same program), sleeping. At night the floor creeks.

My alarm (iCal combined with iTunes, in a different room) was set for 8a.m., but it was some time before that hour when I awoke—rather comfortable under my several layers (sheet, fuzzy blanket, comforter, and even larger and thicker comforter)—to the sound of pouring rain, wind, and thunder. It was glorious.

A random woman I went on a date with as a rebound of sorts more than a year ago was rather fond of that word: glorious. She punctuated sentences and arguments with it much like others use "fabulous." Only rarely was it an adjective in service to a noun.

But the storm was glorious and welcome. When the rain ceased I began to hear the dripping of water, of melting ice. Almost made it to 50F today. The streets and sidewalks were clear and shiny. Deep wine red leaves soaked with liquid plastered segments of cement and gave it texture and depth; they looked weighty. Snow piles several feet deep remained, but there was geographic diversity again. Then the fog moved back in. The other day—yesterday?—the police closed a segment of I-90 due to a pileup. Visibility was nil; the same happened this morning aroun d 11a.m., but not before I made it to campus, for I planned to work for several hours before leaving work, walking down the hill to my department, and then meeting D for the movie.

I get off at Mills and walk up a couple sets of steps and to a curvy, badly paved stretch of road that winds toward the math department and several physics-oriented buildings. Just past the Class of 1952 plaque I reached a memento from early December, from when the snow first began to coat the area—a pair of purple panties with a white elastic waistband and wrapped haphazardly around a chipped metal rail. I'm sure this pair of underwear has a history, a previous owner who lovingly purchased them at Sears or from a catalog or at Target and then round a reason to discard them one wintry night or morning before peers wrapped heavily in puffy coats and scarves began to traipse up and down the ice-slicked concrete steps. It's hard to imagine them not having a history, or herstory, of sorts, and yet they're enigmatic, much like a undergarment Ötzli suddenly thawed and open to the elements.

Tomorrow I'll return to work and check whether they're there. That campus is currently so unoccupied leads me to believe they'll remain unmolested another day or two.

When I arrived at work I found my office occupied by $ÜBERBOSS; $DEMIURGE was in hers, so I spoke to both and after I was done relating my holiday exploits—hardly exploits, you understand, but poor word-choice, exaggeration, etc., are hallmarks of these missives—$DEMIURGE related going (twice!) to the meat-on-a-stick place (Samba) we discussed earlier in the fall. She related going not just for the food, which was generous and savory, but also for the eye candy that was the male waitstaff. $ÜBERBOSS told tales about the end of the last semester and of TAs who just up and left before the exam (for which they were to be present) or right after but before grading said exams; others disappeared and failed to submit grades. And retribution (as well as more mild sanctions, etc.) is not an option, for the stupid department that hired them failed to specify certain dates and duties in the (usually standard / boilerplate) appointment letters. It's a level of incompetence that makes me glad for how well run my program is. In any case, as my office was unavailable I just confirmed the upcoming lunch date with both bosses (week-plus) and headed to my department, where I picked up my mail (Halloween photos from a colleague now available, and only two credit card offers) and talked the secretaries' ears off. Yeah, I do that.

Finding a way to spend my spare time was tedious and led to excess boredom. At last the time arrived when I was to be picked up. Yay, a car ride.

Days Without:

• Alcohol: 7
• Ice Cream: 7
• (see, I'm consistent here ...)

II

I dedicate the Song of the Day to the Commissioner of Baseball.

Selig

Saelic, saelic sî diu wunne,
saelic sî des wunnebernden meien zît,
saelic sî der vogel singen,
saelic sî diu ouwe, saelic sî der walt!
man siht bluomen manicvalt
durch daz grüene gras ûf dringen,
mêr dann ich erdenken kunne.
tanzen springen suln die jungen widerstrît.

Saelic, saelic sî diu wunne,
saelic sî des wunnebernden meien zît,
saelic sî der vogel singen,
saelic sî diu ouwe, saelic sî der walt!

Wol dir, wol dir, wîbes güete!
wol dir, daz du saelic iemer müezest sîn!
wol dir, dû kanst trûren swachen,
swâ diu Minne ein sendez herze hât verwunt.
dîn vil rôsevarwer munt,
sô der lieplîch wolde lachen, sam der rôse in touwen blütee
fröide machen kan dîn spilnder ougen schîn.

Saelic, saelic sî diu wunne,
saelic sî des wunnebernden meien zît,
saelic sî der vogel singen,
saelic sî diu ouwe, saelic sî der walt!

Frouwe frouwe, saelic frouwe,
herzen trût, ir sît mir liep für elliu wîp:
des ich selten hân genozzen:
dâ von ich niht mêre fürbaz singen wil.
ez dûht iuch vil gar ein spil.
iuch hât dicke mîn verdrozzen:
des ich mich vil trûric schouwe.
von beslozzen ist mir fröide und iuwer lîp.

Saelic, saelic sî diu wunne,
saelic sî des wunnebernden meien zît,
saelic sî der vogel singen,
saelic sî diu ouwe, saelic sî der walt!

Wâfen, wâfen über die Minne!
wâfen wil ich über si schrîen iemer mê.
ich was ir dâ her gebunden:
nû lât sie mich trûreclîche von ir gân.
sie hât übel an mir getân.
sie muoz einem andern wunden
herze muot und al die sinne.
wol befunden hân ich daz si tuot sô wê.

—Helium Vola

A friend from the LUG introduced me to Helium Vola years ago. I haven't been to the LUG for ages. It just ended up next on my list of music to listen to tonight; it was followed by a dozen Herbert Groenemeyer songs. I'm now three songs from Joachim Witt.

III

I'll leave my discussion of trailers and credits for a later time.

The cinema was sparsely populated; the bored young woman behind the ticket counter was far from loquacious. So we just paid our money, got our stumps, and inhaled the aroma of butter and popcorn. A trailer for the next Chronicles of Narnia played (the siblings' transition/transport to Narnia seems to have been altered rather substantially in the adaptation, but perhaps I'll have to reread the book ... nah), followed by the one for WALL-E that I watched last week. A poster advertised the upcoming Indiana Jones movies, but the image of Harrison is clearly based on mid-80s Ford, not the geriatric one available to us without digital enhancement. The poster was kept company by the Rambo ad next to it.

"The Golden Compass" was poorly attended (half dozen to ten of us total? Not bad, really a month after its release) so we got perfect seats. There were few good trailers, which is the problem with watching a movie categorized as for children or young adults. Evidently they're adapting Inkheart (Cornelia Funke) into a movie with Brendan Fraser; I'm intrigued. It also has Paul Bettany, Helen Mirren, Andy Serkis, and Jim Broadbent.

The movie itself was enjoyable yet flawed. In attempting to condense an idea- and character-rich narrative to two hours the director/screenwriter failed to truly find a satisfying story arc. The introductory exposition was unnecessary, for every f*cking bit of it was expressed at some point later in the movie rather clearly and in a situation organic to the story itself. In terms of narrative fidelity and skill at picking and choosing relevant points I'd deem it as successful as the better Harry Potter films, perhaps even the third. It is committed to its "world" and style(s). It seems to care about characters. And while some neutering of the book's views was inevitable, that is not such an issue as the rather hamfisted way in which elements of that thematic (particularly religious) material was maintained. That having been said, it was still ad admirable adaptation.

Chris Weitz is perhaps not the most gifted of editors or of directors at least when it comes to overall vision (and what the f*ck was he thinking with the music on the Gyptian boat as John Faa attempts to give a rousing speech?); his work with actors was fine, I felt. The action and set pieces were of high quality. But I almost wish he'd called in an "old time" director or someone like Robert Rodriguez, that is, someone who knows about meaningful transitions. This movie consisted of too many "meanwhile" cuts—Meanwhile, so-and-so was doing XYZ—, abrupt jumps in setting and character that seem unmotivated except for a need to keep in touch with unrelated events. But this is not a criticism leveled particularly at Weitz; it's the type of thing you see too often in films by commercial and music-video directors turned film directors, an inability to direct or compose beyond the scene at hand. And I rather enjoyed the movie.

And the cast. Oh, the cast:

Nicole Kidman, Daniel Craig, Ian McKellen, Ian McShane (Al Swearengen in Deadwood), Sam Elliott, Eva Green, Kathy Bates, Kristin Scott Thomas, Christopher Lee and Sir Derek Jacobi. The ones you're sure to know, at least. And then there was Dakota Blue Richards (hello, parents, what's up with "Dakota" as a name?, it's bad enough with the Virginias, Carolinas, Georgias, Montanas, and "We named the dog Indiana"s out there), who nailed the part and carried her scenes.

Reviews:

• Ebert: "As a visual experience, it is superb. As an escapist fantasy, it is challenging."
• Stephanie Zacharek hated it, but gets in the quip, "[Kidman] swans about like a drag queen in training."
• Keith Phipps (C+): "There's a lot to like about Weitz's adaptation [...] As if it's afraid to stop for a single moment of reflection, the film rushes from one lushly realized setting to the next, letting characters talk about plot developments between the occasional action setpiece. It's more Phantom Menace than Return Of The King."
• Manohla Dargis: "Among other things, I would have liked to spend some quality time with Lyra’s friend and protector the warrior bear Iorek Byrnison (voiced by Mr. McKellen), a gorgeous creature whose ferocity is, alas, tempered by his resemblance to some familiar cuddly polar bears. It is, I discovered, hard to keep your mind off the concession stand when you are waiting for Iorek to offer Lyra a Coke."

I would like to see sequels. Now I want to go reread the books.