Monthly Archive for November, 2005

if you want to send a message, go to western union

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 8 November 2005
in Academia and Film
. 10 Comments

Lynch was hilarious.  I thoroughly enjoyed him in spite of (or perhaps because of) the complete cunts who asked the most ridiculous questions possibly of all time.  The best Qs and As were of the sort where an earnest young film enthusiast asked for Lynch’s opinion on their interpretation of one of his films (i.e., did Lynch think that Mulholland Drive was a symbolic representation of a vagina–this is barely an exaggeration).  Lynch unfalteringly replied along the lines of "Absolutely not, you self-important moron" (again, barely an exaggeration), "as they say, if you want to send a message, go to Western Union."

Some of his most quotable moments included confirming that he would never release his films with a director’s commentary track as "talking while the film is running is just sacrilege."  Later, when asked if his perspective on any of his films had changed over time, he said he hadn’t seen many of them lately, so over all his perspective had not changed, "with, of course, the exception of Dune…," at which point audience laughter drowned him out. [N.B.  I had tried shouting out "Duuuuune" as per Hungbunny's request, but was, I suspect, not heard at the front of the room.  Sad.]

A lot of the talk dealt with transcendental meditation, which he was there to promote.  I’m sure Arlington will be interested to know that Lynch describes the negativity that is supposedly lifted during meditation as a "suffocating rubber clown suit," and coming from him, that’s fucking creepy. The bliss one then experiences he calls "the whole enchilada." Weirdly, Lynch manages to talk about the completely twat-like topic of meditation without sounding like a complete twat.  In a town like this one (and I think this goes without saying, but I’ll say it), a talk on "TM" (cringe!) brings out hippies of the highest order.  One obvious stoner in one of those knitted Guatemalan hats asked Lynch, to thunderous laughter, if he "like, sees anything" while meditating, "you know, like, visually." 

Other good moments: "What do you think has unfolded from the Pabst Blue Ribbon subculture?"  "Darkness and confusion,"  and "In Mulholland Drive, when we see the box and the key, I mean, what the hell are the box and the key? Are they…I mean, I have been wondering this since 2001.  What are they?"  "I don’t have a clue what they are."

zemblan ruler of the day: alfin the vague (1873-1918)

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 7 November 2005
in Books and Meta-Blogular
. 12 Comments

I am done with my Pale Fire frenzy, officially. I had intended to post this last little smidgen over the weekend, but the location of my book (locked in my office, next to my keys) precluded it. Read on below the fold and you will see the how deliciously apropos that is of the subject matter.

Alfin the Vague (1873-1918; regnal dates 1900-1918, but 1900-1919 in most biographical dictionaries, a fumble due to the coincident calendar change from Old Style to New) was given his cognomen by Amphitheatricus, a not unkindly writer of fugitive poetry in the liberal gazettes. King Alfin’s absent-mindedness knew no bounds. He was a wretched linguist having at his disposal only a few phrases of French and Danish, but every time he had to make a speech to his subjects — to a group of gaping Zemblan locals in some remote valley where he had crash landed — some uncontrollable switch went into action in his mind, and he reverted to those phrases, flavoring them for topical sense with a little Latin. Most of the anecdotes relating to his naïve fits of abstraction are too silly and indecent to sully these pages, but one of them that I do not think especially funny induced such guffaws from Shade (and returned to me, via the Common Room, with such obscene accretions) that I feel inclined to give here as a sample (and as a corrective). One summer before the first world war, when the emperor of a great foreign realm, (I realize how few there are to choose from) was paying an extremely unusual and flattering visit to our little hard country, my father took him and a young Zemblan interpreter (whose sex I leave open) in a newly purchased custom-built car on a jaunt in the countryside. As usual, King Alfin traveled without a vestige of escort, and this, and his brisk driving, seemed to trouble his guest. On their way back, some twenty miles from Onhava, King Alfin decided to stop for repairs. While he tinkered with the motor, the emperor and the interpreter sought the shade of some pines by the highway, and only when King Alfin was back in Onhava, did he gradually realize from a reiteration of rather frantic questions that he had left somebody behind (”What emperor?” has remained his only memorable mot). Generally speaking, in respect to any of my contributions (or what I thought to be contributions) I repeatedly enjoined my poet to record them in writing, by all means, but not to spread them in idle speech; even poets, however, are human.

–C. Kinbote, 1959

“shut up, shithead. where’s my bourbon?”

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on 4 November 2005
in Film and Vintage Imports
. Closed

I got my ticket to see David Lynch lecture on campus next week.  Unfortunately, I could only get a seat in the overflow simulcast room.  Don’t fret, though: I plan on sneaking into the real lecture room.  I will bribe an usher or do something creepy if I have to.  Anyone have a spare oxygen tank and a recording of “In Dreams”?