One December Morning

Yesterday the rapture happened.
Is that how you’d say it? The rapture “happened”?
The rapture “came,” or the rapture “descended,” perhaps?
I guess it doesn’t matter,
least of all now.
The rapture happened yesterday.
You wouldn’t have guessed it in the morning.
As far as you could tell,
it was just Wednesday.
But as people left for lunch,
nobody came back.
I sat at my desk, plugging along,
waiting for everyone.
I didn’t notice the secretary had gone.

Or maybe I was in bed,
snoring the morning away.
I think I didn’t wake up until the afternoon,
and it was quiet.
No one was inside my building,
nor was anyone outside.
The lack of hustle and the conspicuous absence of bustle
made my ears ring.
Christ, I thought,
Did I sleep through the rapture?
As I climbed back into bed
I thought, At least I won’t have to
do any Christmas shopping.

A Clusterfuck of Cliché

They say
when you’ve nothing left to write about,
write about love.

For love is the purest of all our human abstracts.
Love is the golden ticket, the river of chocolate,
and the everlasting fucking gobstopper all rolled into one.
Love is what makes artists paint and write and play and dance.
It is the deep and uncorrupted reason for why we get out of bed in the morning every god damned day.

Right?

Love is not easy.
Love is not waiting for you.
Love is not inside a jewelry box.
Love is not absolute.

Touch their skin and get goosebumps yourself.
Be certain your palms have never been sweatier than when in their hands.
No matter the reality, convince yourself their breath always smells like cinnamon.
Catch yourself wondering what they see in your eyes and if their view is as good as yours.
Hear every innocent compliment that passes their lips, and have it grow your lonely heart.

Is that love?

I hope so.

Welcome to This Cold World.

Winter’s upon us, and I am happy.

This is what I call the “magical” period, the time of year when I’m filled with warmth and sentimentality before, y’know… seasonal depression sets in.

So while you head out the door into the cold, looking at the white ground the way a writer stares at a blank page nestled in his typewriter,  I’ve been making a mix for you.

This mix is made for sitting idly by a window, or taking a slow stroll, or riding a bus- what you’re doing doesn’t matter. The only thing that has to be happening is the snow has to be coming down. Watch the snow fall, listen to these songs, and all will seem right in the universe. For an hour or so, anyway.

Happy winter, everybody.

What’s the Most You Ever Lost on a Coin Toss?

There’s no music in “No Country for Old Men.”

No original score, no Merle Haggard or Tammy Wynet twanging away on any pickup trucks’ radios; Okay, there’s a scene with a mariachi band, but that’s more of a gag, and… y’know what, fine: there’s “very little” music in “No Country for Old Men,” and that’s one of the first things I noticed about it.

The whole point, I assume, is so that there’s nothing to distract you from the tension that permeates almost every frame of film; you’re right there in the moment, no hooks, melodies, or familiar lyrics to soften the suspense.

And suspense this film has in spades. The Coen brothers present you with Llewelyn Moss, an average-joe Texan who, while out hunting game in the desert stumbles upon the remains of a drug deal gone very, very wrong. Bodies and guns lay strewn about among a ring of cars, and the opportunistic Moss confiscates a case of about $2 million. Unfortunately, the money’s tagged with a tracking device, and soon enough he’s being pursued by Mexican drug runners, as well as an extremely unsavory character.

With a lack of music and enough gunplay to keep a Texan happy, the film can go from quiet to loud pretty quickly, but in between firefights, something’s got to fill up the screen time, and for one of the first times this year, what does it are the characters. And I don’t just mean the fictional people being portrayed by actors, I mean their character. The cast of this film jump out of the screen, even when nothing’s being said, and give some of the most stark, austere, and downright real performances I’ve seen in a long time. Josh Brolin in the role of Moss affects an unpretentious frankness and simplicity, but at no time do you take him for any kind of dim-witted hick. Tommy Lee Jones is once again the aging law-man trying to discern between right and wrong, this time seeming to add a retiree’s mounting disappointment that the two were never as clearly defined as they should have been. One of the most memorable roles was that of Javier Bardem as Anton Chigurh, the psychopath hunting Moss and the money he’s obtained. Bardem is truly terrifying as this unpredictable killer who will manufacture prey if none are immediately presented to him and follows a psychotic code of behavior because, well, it seems like he just wouldn’t be able to function without it.

The film doesn’t rush itself, but it is constantly moving forward with calculated intent and because of this, one doesn’t really have the opportunity to wonder what is going on here beyond what is going on, if you take my meaning. In fact, the plot seems so straightforward that it’s actually hard to tell what the deeper meaning here is, though it’s impossible not to sense the presence of one.

This, I think, is what I truly love most about “No Country for Old Men:” The film virtually demands to be talked about, discussed, argued over, and most importantly, though about. This is certainly not a movie that can just be watched, quoted, and moved on from, and it’s just what we need more of in the movies: Plots that are thought-provoking, and endings that aren’t easy to figure out.

“No Country For Old Men” is easily the best picture of the year. And if anyone has anything different to say, they might just find me on their tail with a cattlegun at their backs.