I am rarely moved to literal tears by works of fiction. This film floored me.
“Don’t you ever feel like you’ve just done a whole amazing day, and then you come home and feel tired and down, and it feels like your bones don’t work? They’re just tired and everything is tired. Like you’re sinking”
Sophie
I was doing okay until the final scenes. Watching, I felt very much in the crosshairs as someone who struggles more than he might let on. Someone who is increasingly overwhelmed by parenthood and close relationships. Someone who doesn’t quite belong; never will.
Exceptional screenplay. Beautifully acted and shot. Masterful use of space between the notes. I particularly enjoyed the Lynchian strobing, and am left wondering about the intermittent use of striped shirts. The rave is a prison? Samsara?
Lately, I have been trying to give my Squier Bass VI some much needed attention. (Haven’t played much since shifting house.) Cleaned off the dust, changed the strings, and polished it up. Mucked about with a few riffs, which reminded me how much I love playing, despite a tragic lack of musical ability. But the instrument doesn’t quite sound as good as it can…
The intonation of the low E string is a known issue, and I am planning to fix it with a wider bridge; I’ll post about that when it arrives. In the interim, I decided to upgrade the tuners. After hours of scouring guitar forums, I settled on a set of Gotoh SD91-MGT vintage locking tuners (thanks eBay). I’m a lazy person, and wanted a simple drop-in replacement set.
After taking off the old strings, removal of the stock tuners was an easy job with a small screwdriver. I thought I could get away with retaining the stock bushes, but I was wrong. I was somewhat nervous about removing the old ones, but found a straightforward way to do it: I have a nail punch that fit the peg holes nicely, and all six came out with a bit of gentle persuasion from a regular hammer.
Installation of the new bushes was a little nerve-racking. The new tuners didn’t come with a bushing tool, and some of the YouTube clips I studied suggested using a hammer to just whack them in. I opted instead to use a G-clamp as a makeshift press ($15 from a local hardware store). This worked fine, and damage was mitigated with some strips of 3M painters tape.
Putting in the new tuners took a little bit of time, mostly due to a cautious approach. Ensuring correct placement – green dots for the higher strings – I was careful with the screwdriver to ensure I didn’t strip the screws.
I’ll need tapered strings, since the diameter of the largest tuner is 2mm (or 0.0787in). Some sets of Bass VI Balanced Heavy Gauges are on order from the fine folks at Stringjoy. Can’t wait!
Over a decade ago, I had to fly for work quite frequently. Streaming wasn’t really a thing back then, which left me only reading and writing to alleviate boredom. Once in a while, I would mix things up and think about maths problems.
I recently unified some of those airline thoughts; Python makes prototyping easy. I have opened up my GitHub repo a little. Constructive feedback is encouraged.
You think you know what a diaspora is. But you have no idea how far and wide we travelled.
When The Happening occurred, we tried to fight, but the odds were stacked against us, so I am told. Our elders and our wise agreed the battle was unwinnable, and that for the good of our kind – our bloodline and heritage – we needed to run. But fleeing isn’t part of our DNA. Fighting is. So our running was fast, but it was heavy too. For every nimble step taken, there was a feeling of immense gravity pulling us back. And that pull did not diminish with distance. Nor time.
Typically, suburban homes don’t tend to collapse randomly, but that didn’t stop mine. It occurred to me, as dust settled on the heap of shattered timber and tiles, that the hippy I lived with might be trapped in the rubble. I began to frantically pick up timber fragments, screaming his name.
Poky bars in Kabukichō – Tokyo’s red-light district – are always packed; some nights it’s almost impossible to get a seat. Ken’s came courtesy of a tearful, ageing gentleman who was being shown the door (ever so respectfully) by the venue’s sole bartender. The pair bowed and exchanged a note as Ken hastily squeezed inside.
“Whisky, please!” Ken barked. He slung his simple brown coat on an old wooden peg as the barman hurried back. By the time he was comfortable in his chair, the drink was waiting on a clean napkin. The barman turned his back and polished glasses in silence.
Hope is seeing light rain through discreet black shutters as the afternoon retires. Hope is watched through the same pane at night, too. Only it has become an old telegraph post’s sodium light.
Despair is too much rain. Debris-covered drains. Pools, saltless with excess summer. Audible drops on cream ceilings that later race down mouldy paint. (None of these things are welcome, by the way. Not one.)
Anxiety lies somewhere in between. It is the doorbell that makes the dog bark. A door answered to a man shaped like an agent, unaffected by the hurried, dry breeze. Such a weathered face.
Anthony Rasmussen 