Curse: A Working Title

Part I

If one was to glance casually southward down Broadway Blvd. at approximately five o’clock one warm Friday evening, two facts would have settled deeply into the subconscious of the observer. Now facts have a tendency to settle differently according to a complex and varied set of rules most of which are dependant on how significant and shocking the observed fact is at the time. Significant but normal facts settle like an elderly gentleman lowering himself into an evening chair, and our first fact would have made the elderly gentleman’s chair creak only slightly.

Simply put, the first significant but not shocking fact noticed when gazing down Broadway was this: Broadway St. had far to many billboards, electric lights, and store signs. The combine energy output required to light Broadway could have powered a small island. Britain, perhaps. As a very large cities main commercial and cultural drag, Broadway Blvd enjoyed celebrity status which, for streets, typically means being mentioned constantly in traffic reports. At all hours, and especially at five on a warm Friday night when couples dined at sidewalk café’s, when hipsters began to wait for their concerts nine o’clock opening, when taxi’s lined the street waiting, honking, and generally scrambling to find the next fare, Broadway was crammed with people of all kinds.

Another kind of fact comes as shocking but insignificant and can be described as small children: loud, self-centered, sometimes adorable, sometimes not, but ultimately leaving one wondering when they will grow up and contribute to society. The second fact could be classified as loud, self-centered and probably not adorable nor hideous. But that small child apparently grew to be a Nobel prize winner. It’s resounding shock could have fried entire colonies of chickens and supplied KFC and Popeye’s Fried Chicken for years.

On this beautiful Friday evening, only one person walked down Broadway Blvd. One, single, solitary, lonesome figure. The figure was cursed, so it makes sense that if one took more than a cursory glance down Broadway Blvd and watched this man make his weary way north up the street, a third fact made itself evident. Get of the street. Everyone else did. So can you.

The man wore a light jacket colored black, faded jeans, and white shoes. He was young, thin, pale, and his wispy black hair hung just above his eyes as if swept by the wind. Had the hipsters been out he would have fit right in. His appearance was vaguely attractive. Perfectly normal. And cursed.

Evidently, his curse transcended the modern conceptions of curses. Current wisdom, informed by science, defines curses as socially unacceptable words and therefore finds curses a nebulous, unfixed concept. Or at least as nebulous and undefined as societies are. This man wasn’t cursed because someone swore at him, which if we hold to conservative standards had probably happened at some point. No, this man’s curse was on par with whatever happened to the Cubs baseball team, the Titanic, and the United States efforts to depose Fidel Castro from his dictatorship and his life.

He couldn’t remember how he became cursed. If witches had brewed some devilish potion or chanted incantations over him then it hadn’t been very exciting, because he apparently sleep through it. What he does remember was one morning waking up in his bedroom, shuffling sleepily downstairs, and finding his house devoid of all life. It had not been a good morning.

And now he walked deserted streets. Survival was not a problem. Nobody came close enough to stop him from taking what he needed from stores and he only had to find a home with a door unlocked to get a bed. Heck, if every door was lock he just broke a window. No one ever tried to stop him. They were to far away.

So by the time the man with pale skin and black hair walked up the brightly colored and cluttered street of Broadway Blvd, he was conditioned to a cursed silence. As he walked, he paused to look in shops, lingered over pictures of people especially young ladies, and generally wore a resigned, sad expression. He came to the corner of Broadway and 5^th, where our hypothetical observer of facts had long deserted their post, and walked calmly across the street through the Don’t Walk sign. He stopped on the north west side of the intersection in front of a corner tea shop called Olde Towne Tea and took a folded note from his jeans pockets. He stood with note in hand for ten minutes, fidgeting with the edges of the letter. Finally he bent and placed it under the door. When he stood, his back seem more hunched, and his gait quickened as walked purposefully west on 5^th St towards a setting sun.

In fifteen minutes, people began to return to Broadway, oblivious to why they had suddenly gotten up and left. Residue of terror oozed on the boarder of nearly everyone’s consciousness. Further south, the owners of The Bitter Palace, evening home of hipsters and audiophiles alike, struggled to reassure a band who had just arrived that, yes, this was the right street and, yes, there would be a crowd. Don’t judge the band to harshly. When they had arrived the street had been nearly empty.

Movies Times Four

My parents left for the week, as well as my sister, leaving me home alone. Of course, solitude at home means one thing, movies. I have watched four this weekend, and these four movies have somehow divided themselves into three groups.

The first category is "entertaining but crap" and it contains our first selection: Aliens V. Predator. I expected almost nothing out of this movie and quite happily got what I was looking for. There is action, but it is lumbering and clumsy where it should be smooth and deadly. A human survives, which would never happen, and I am truly sorry if I spoiled the movie for anyone by revealing that detail. However, I was entertained because, well, I find the Aliens, whom I root for unceasingly, entertaining to the highest degree. And I didn't expect much, which I have already mentioned is a good thing when approaching such movies.

The second category is "entertaining but not as mindblowing as the T.V. Show." Cowboy Bebop: The Movie champions this category. The story was subpar when compared to the T.V. show, but Spike's action scenes make up for any lack of plot substance. Once again, here I looked only for quality animation, excellent well known characters, and superb fighting scenes. The movie contained all three aspects I require, and I was satisfied. Not blown away, but satisfied.

Two movies reside in category three entitled "Freaking awesome foreign films" The first movie I viewed in this category is titled The Twilight Samurai. Now when I think of samurai movies, images of disembodied heads and limbs with a touch of humor parade before my eyes. Zatoichi, another samurai movie, actually there are several but I have only seen the most modern film, fits the cliche generalization perfectly, but not Twilight Samurai. It is first and foremost a drama about a petty samurai's struggles with love, work, politics, and his children. There are only two fight scenes, which were well done, but they are only a subpoint of this movie. The actors are excellent, the plot and character intriguing, and the movie is beautiful. It has a warm, nostalgic, and weary feel to its shots that fits perfectly with the plot and characters. Superb movie, and I recommend it.

The second movie in the "Freaking Awesome Foreign Films" category is titled "Noi." The film centers around a boy from northern Iceland. The cinematographer washed the colors out, and, being in Iceland, the colors are therefore mostly white, grey, and blue. The film is funny and terribly sad at the same time. It is also slower than I expected, but not to the point of boredom. The main character of the movie has distinct features and is one of the more interestingly conceived characters I've ever watched on screen. This movie is also highly recommended.

It's One A.M. and I Feel Like Writing

But no matter how much one feels like doing anything, sometimes circumstances block the doing to force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place wait. A place to rest. A place to sit and not do.

Some things are done sitting, and one's seat, for some, morphs into a prison, and, for others, transforms into a hall of old, happy dreams. But, just sometimes, circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. And a seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit, and not do.

Some seats are soft, comfortable and a joy, and the seat becomes a holiday, a blessed vacation. Other seats are brittle and hard with high ridges and too low valleys. And somethimes circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit and not do.

On some seats, passengers wait for planes, rest in buses, and students sleep in classes. On other seats, prisoners wait for parol, potatoes enervate on couches, and parents wait anxiously for sons and daughters. For sometimes circumstances block the doing and force a sitting. A seat is a seat, a place to wait. A place to rest. A place to sit, and not do.

And sometimes, just sometimes, a seat is the only place circumstances require.