Wealthy man in wheel chair, all but one arm and his head paralyzed (Sponsor): Was driving at a squirrel in the road, sure the squirrel would run out of the way. But as he got closer and closer, the squirrel just stared at him, its piercing little eyes daring him onward, as if it wanted to get crushed beneath the giant wheels of his SUV. Surely, no animal would be that stupid. Surely, it would jump out of the way. But it didn't. The man crushes the squirrel, but was so focused upon it that he neglected a stop sign and drove straight through a fourway stop, getting in a terrible collision as a result.
Wealthy man's servant: Hates universe because he's the wealthy man's servant.
People person (Public relations): Loves people, but all of her boyfriends/crushes, etc invariably end up dead. Very frustrating.
Website manager: Can't kill himself. Tries numerous methods, but something always goes wrong and he ends up fine. Possible relationship with people person/possible misanthrope?
Campaign Manager: Horrible terminal illness that causes no pain, but can cause death at any moment. Results in dementia, paranoia, and a desire to live intensely every single goddamn moment. Possibly dies later in film?
Assistant Campaign Manager:
Friday, August 4
Monday, July 24
MvU: Background Story
On the day of his 14th birthday, Calvin Millers had an idea. It was at once lofty, idealisticly optimistic, and truly inspiring. It was also impossible. Calvin Miller wanted to be elected to take over as The Universe.
Calvin was born to the unlikely union of a card-carrying socialist and a lifelong libertarian [Pictures of ACLU rally and makeout(?)]. This resulted in something of a... diverse childhood. Calvin was taught to love the world, respecting its independence while doing everything he could to help it, but only if he had its express permission (and at least three copies of signed consent forms). [Picture of Mike-esque individual in suit and a hippie, with Calvin in between, smiling]
But, overall, Calvin was instilled with a persistent spirit to never stopping fighting for what he believed in, a value he received from both his parents [picture of parents vehemently fighting with young Calvin holding each of them and smiling].
Because of constant government persecution and an uncanny ability to get ejected from whatever community the family entered, Calvin's childhood was spent meeting all manner of diverse individuals in all sorts of exotic places [pictures of families at various homes with various people, including under bridges and with hoboes].
Unfortunately, tragedy haunted the boy's footsteps. The day before Calvin turned 14 years old, his father choked to death in a crowded restaurant on an oversized pomegranite seed. [Three pictures of father in various stages of choking, as customers eat on nonplussed]. Hours later, still ignorant of her husband's death, his mother died in a series of complications resulting from a paper-cut on her index finger. [Multiple pictures of mother receiving cut, attempting to apply band-aid, and people rushing in to "help", eventually results in attempted defibrillation that, of course, gives her a heart attack].
Then, on the same day at approximately 11:48 PM, Calvin's faithful dog and steadfast companion, Irony, died in his sleep.
Calvin was born to the unlikely union of a card-carrying socialist and a lifelong libertarian [Pictures of ACLU rally and makeout(?)]. This resulted in something of a... diverse childhood. Calvin was taught to love the world, respecting its independence while doing everything he could to help it, but only if he had its express permission (and at least three copies of signed consent forms). [Picture of Mike-esque individual in suit and a hippie, with Calvin in between, smiling]
But, overall, Calvin was instilled with a persistent spirit to never stopping fighting for what he believed in, a value he received from both his parents [picture of parents vehemently fighting with young Calvin holding each of them and smiling].
Because of constant government persecution and an uncanny ability to get ejected from whatever community the family entered, Calvin's childhood was spent meeting all manner of diverse individuals in all sorts of exotic places [pictures of families at various homes with various people, including under bridges and with hoboes].
Unfortunately, tragedy haunted the boy's footsteps. The day before Calvin turned 14 years old, his father choked to death in a crowded restaurant on an oversized pomegranite seed. [Three pictures of father in various stages of choking, as customers eat on nonplussed]. Hours later, still ignorant of her husband's death, his mother died in a series of complications resulting from a paper-cut on her index finger. [Multiple pictures of mother receiving cut, attempting to apply band-aid, and people rushing in to "help", eventually results in attempted defibrillation that, of course, gives her a heart attack].
Then, on the same day at approximately 11:48 PM, Calvin's faithful dog and steadfast companion, Irony, died in his sleep.
Sunday, July 2
Mission Statement
It's hard to write a defining goal for a group of works that should have so much variety and character. But, as I'm going to attempt to spearhead this sordid operation, I'll try and tell you what my underlying motivations are, and in so doing, hopefully help you understand why I do what I do.
If I was to sum up my goal in one phrase I'd say "To make life beautiful." I don't mean beautiful in an "aww, how pretty" kind of way. I mean beautiful in an epic, interesting, powerful way. The sort of beautiful that's accessible to everyone, that infects you, instead of forcing you to be a mere observer. I want to make life interesting, intense, inspiring; everything but mundane. Essentially, make it worth living. I want to die feeling that I've really lived, not in the sense of having accomplished great things or risked my life for thrills, but in the sense that I've felt, created, inspired, and been a forceful "presence." An identity and experience unto myself.
So I want to capture that in my prose and films. I want to come up with ideas that seem epic and monumental in scope, and yet not inaccessible to the point of sheer fantasy. So, when I orchestrate campaigns of two armies with cardboard weapons marching around UT's campus, it's not because they're fighting for anything in particular, it's because it's interesting.
It's the journey and the destination. There's some subtle message behind it, be it the foolishness of hubris, the ridiculous qualities of war, the futility of one man trying to change the world, whatever. It's thoughtprovoking, emotional, hilarious, ridiculous, beautiful, and inherently human, despite its fantastical qualities. That combination is what I'm trying to grasp. I'll probably fail, but, at the very least, we'll all have a great time along the way doing one of the most important things a person can do with their life: fulfilling it.
If I was to sum up my goal in one phrase I'd say "To make life beautiful." I don't mean beautiful in an "aww, how pretty" kind of way. I mean beautiful in an epic, interesting, powerful way. The sort of beautiful that's accessible to everyone, that infects you, instead of forcing you to be a mere observer. I want to make life interesting, intense, inspiring; everything but mundane. Essentially, make it worth living. I want to die feeling that I've really lived, not in the sense of having accomplished great things or risked my life for thrills, but in the sense that I've felt, created, inspired, and been a forceful "presence." An identity and experience unto myself.
So I want to capture that in my prose and films. I want to come up with ideas that seem epic and monumental in scope, and yet not inaccessible to the point of sheer fantasy. So, when I orchestrate campaigns of two armies with cardboard weapons marching around UT's campus, it's not because they're fighting for anything in particular, it's because it's interesting.
It's the journey and the destination. There's some subtle message behind it, be it the foolishness of hubris, the ridiculous qualities of war, the futility of one man trying to change the world, whatever. It's thoughtprovoking, emotional, hilarious, ridiculous, beautiful, and inherently human, despite its fantastical qualities. That combination is what I'm trying to grasp. I'll probably fail, but, at the very least, we'll all have a great time along the way doing one of the most important things a person can do with their life: fulfilling it.
Acting on a Tight Rope
One of the primary challenges in the majority of films, and prose for that matter, that I compose is walking the line between irreverency and sincerity. It's a difficult task, to mock your own creation while not demeaning it. It's not as simple as derogative comments about quality, meant to garner praise. It's not even direct ridicule. It's more of a subtle humor, the ability to not take oneself seriously, while still creating a meaning that goes beyond entertainment-value.
It's an issue I have personally as well as artistically; I often come off as downright flippant, when I'm really quite passionate and sincere about many of my beliefs and ideals. It's a tight rope, maintaining a light flair, a small smile with a gleam in your eye, signifying a joyful sense of humor, but without losing the indication that there's something stronger, something deeper under the surface. It's humor with purpose and intensity, although the humor is more of a smokescreen or even bait, to draw distract and disconcert until the person is lulled into an ease that allows you to slowly grab hold of them and, before they're aware of it, your point hits home. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. Even that choice alone speaks volumes about your personality, values, and outlooks. Or maybe it's just an indicator of "which way the scales tip."
So that's the grand balancing act. How do we create something humorous, but still moving? If you get too humorous, you're fluff. People walk away with a smile on their faces, and hardly give you another thought. If you're too serious, people get turned off, feel they're being preached to, see the message coming so they avoiding being hit head on.
As you're acting/improvising/writing/what have you, keep this in mind. Ostensibly, you're a clown. But it's a facade you don't really want to be convincing. You want to be funny. But you want to be human, not a mere caricature.
Love your character. Or love to hate him, depending. Allow her to have flaws, certainly, but try to avoid invoking pity. Embrace your part, no matter what emotions you're supposed to convey, and really let a personality shine, not just a cardboard cutout. You're a person, not a prop. Think of your character the same way.
It's an issue I have personally as well as artistically; I often come off as downright flippant, when I'm really quite passionate and sincere about many of my beliefs and ideals. It's a tight rope, maintaining a light flair, a small smile with a gleam in your eye, signifying a joyful sense of humor, but without losing the indication that there's something stronger, something deeper under the surface. It's humor with purpose and intensity, although the humor is more of a smokescreen or even bait, to draw distract and disconcert until the person is lulled into an ease that allows you to slowly grab hold of them and, before they're aware of it, your point hits home. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. Even that choice alone speaks volumes about your personality, values, and outlooks. Or maybe it's just an indicator of "which way the scales tip."
So that's the grand balancing act. How do we create something humorous, but still moving? If you get too humorous, you're fluff. People walk away with a smile on their faces, and hardly give you another thought. If you're too serious, people get turned off, feel they're being preached to, see the message coming so they avoiding being hit head on.
As you're acting/improvising/writing/what have you, keep this in mind. Ostensibly, you're a clown. But it's a facade you don't really want to be convincing. You want to be funny. But you want to be human, not a mere caricature.
Love your character. Or love to hate him, depending. Allow her to have flaws, certainly, but try to avoid invoking pity. Embrace your part, no matter what emotions you're supposed to convey, and really let a personality shine, not just a cardboard cutout. You're a person, not a prop. Think of your character the same way.
Friday, June 30
Soundtrack: MvU
Dirty Laundry
What if God Was One of Us
Isn't it Ironic?
The Boxer
Ravel's Bolero
Yeah Yeah Yeah
You Never Give Me Money (Or similar)
What if God Was One of Us
Isn't it Ironic?
The Boxer
Ravel's Bolero
Yeah Yeah Yeah
You Never Give Me Money (Or similar)
Sketch
Opening shot: Campaign commercial (sign of things to come/comedy)
Text on solid background (ruffin tumble, title, Stephen Crane poem)
Background
Campaigning (pedestrian walkway "live" experiment)
Trying to woo wealthy eccentrics
Debate con Norris
Polling
Election day
Election defeat
What's next?
Text on solid background (ruffin tumble, title, Stephen Crane poem)
Background
Campaigning (pedestrian walkway "live" experiment)
Trying to woo wealthy eccentrics
Debate con Norris
Polling
Election day
Election defeat
What's next?
Man v. Universe
Purpose:
This is a film about an idealist. But more than that, it's about the men and women who support him, fighting tides of individuals who don't understand what you're working for, why you feel so strongly, and what makes this guy any better than the rest.
The main character wants to take on reality itself. He has people who actually believe in, and he believes himself that he can really make a difference. Ultimately, reality wins, literally and symbolically.
The film is obviously a mocumentary, in the sense that the "actors" act seriously but look ridiculous, and it mocks the election process in general. But there are serious moments, despite their often ridiculous quality. As the religious protesters yell, "You can't play God", their hate is genuine. They reduce the power of man to mere pawn status, and it's that misplaced faith that leads to so many unnecessary hardships and animosity in the world. And, as mentioned above, the supporters believe in this man. They really want him to win, and when he doesn't, it's as crushing as any setback to a cause you believe in can be.
But the film ends with a message of hope. There's always the next race. No one's giving up. The tears may be faked, but the message is real: Idealists can't beat reality. But with enough persistence and hope, they can give it a run for its money.
This is a film about an idealist. But more than that, it's about the men and women who support him, fighting tides of individuals who don't understand what you're working for, why you feel so strongly, and what makes this guy any better than the rest.
The main character wants to take on reality itself. He has people who actually believe in, and he believes himself that he can really make a difference. Ultimately, reality wins, literally and symbolically.
The film is obviously a mocumentary, in the sense that the "actors" act seriously but look ridiculous, and it mocks the election process in general. But there are serious moments, despite their often ridiculous quality. As the religious protesters yell, "You can't play God", their hate is genuine. They reduce the power of man to mere pawn status, and it's that misplaced faith that leads to so many unnecessary hardships and animosity in the world. And, as mentioned above, the supporters believe in this man. They really want him to win, and when he doesn't, it's as crushing as any setback to a cause you believe in can be.
But the film ends with a message of hope. There's always the next race. No one's giving up. The tears may be faked, but the message is real: Idealists can't beat reality. But with enough persistence and hope, they can give it a run for its money.
Friday, December 23
FYI
For those who don't know, I've discontinued using this blogsite. I've switched to Livejournal, however I'll still be using www.sansreality.blogspot.com for my fiction and poetry.
Saturday, November 19
The Dores of HELL
Hark ye faithful and be forewarned! The End Times are upon us! The Commodores of the House that Vanderbilt haft risen victorious as the Mighty Vauls take Mighty Falls. Their ship haft sailed upon an Orange sea, and the natives haft despaired. The Apocalypse is nigh! Nigh I Say!!!
((Actually, I was rather glad Vandy won, they deserved it, especially after the disappointment of their collapse early on. It's a shame neither team will go to a bowl game. One would think that this would teach Tennessee that lots of money doesn't equal lots of success, but I know even if they did fire Fulmer they'd just pay the next guy more. Ah well.
I did try to get down to shake my fist vigorously at Sugue, but the police wouldn't let me get close enough to find him in the band. So I'll have to do it here. Damn you Sugue! Next year! Next Year!!!))
((Actually, I was rather glad Vandy won, they deserved it, especially after the disappointment of their collapse early on. It's a shame neither team will go to a bowl game. One would think that this would teach Tennessee that lots of money doesn't equal lots of success, but I know even if they did fire Fulmer they'd just pay the next guy more. Ah well.
I did try to get down to shake my fist vigorously at Sugue, but the police wouldn't let me get close enough to find him in the band. So I'll have to do it here. Damn you Sugue! Next year! Next Year!!!))
Thursday, November 17
Vege-Scarian
So, apparently, I need to become a vegetarian in protest of the horrid treatment of animals on factory farms. I don't have a problem with raising animals to be killed for food, as long as the raising process isn't painful. However, it would seem that process is quite painful, so, I guess, no more meat for me! Except fish. I think. *sigh* Hooray for me?
Tuesday, November 15
Friends and Associates, I present to you a new policy I hope will ensure there are less discrepancies that might impose a level of serious discourse that, frankly, is just not the type of intelligent, thoughtful dialogue we want to propigate around these parts. Thus, I bring you, Metaphysics Smezamysics:
I, Dylan Meggs, will try my darndest not to discuss metaphysics again. It's all a bunch of craziness. Morality, yeah, go for it. But the universe is how it is and there ain't nothing anybody can do to change it. At least, I don't think there's anything anyone can do, and if there is I don't want to know about it! So... Bibble Bobble Shim Sham Shazam!
I, Dylan Meggs, will try my darndest not to discuss metaphysics again. It's all a bunch of craziness. Morality, yeah, go for it. But the universe is how it is and there ain't nothing anybody can do to change it. At least, I don't think there's anything anyone can do, and if there is I don't want to know about it! So... Bibble Bobble Shim Sham Shazam!
Saturday, November 12
A Defecation Gone Horribly Wrong
Horribly wrong. As a child, you're taught to clean up your messes. However, these messes generally encompass legos and the occasional decapitated disrobed barbie doll. As time progresses, you clean up more and more until you become almost completely responsible for all the filth you spew in your putrid wake. This gradual assertion of responsibility for your surroundings and personal hygiene (or lack thereof) is not really much of a burden until you're put into a situation in which you really have no idea what to do.
That situation? An uppity toilet that spits material that would make even Howard Stern pause momentarily before he defiled yet another stripper midget with his oh so curly hair.
So, in a slight panic, I go to the front desk, hoping against hope that at least a few soldiers of the massive maintenance/cleaning army for the University of Tennessee remain. To my chagrin, the response was to give me a mop, a bucket, a plunger, and some slightly mocking, slightly pitying words of encouragement. It was the equivalent of handing me a sword, pointing at the massing Mongol hordes, and saying "Well, here ya go. We're going to hide in this castle here. You're the one who called them fat, you go placate them." The door shuts behind you and you sit and stare, denial still trying to figure out some way to avoid the inevitable, oh so messy resolution to your predicament.
And to battle I went. The first order of business was to mop as the murky waters gradually subsided. It wasn't so much difficult or disgusting (I can't smell, for the most part, and it is a sense I am glad to be deprived of), but it was more of a "Really, does this actually do any good?" Apparently it sort of does. So I'd stick the mop on the floor, capture the "water", and squeeze it into the bucket. This went as well as such an activity can go until I got the bright idea to switch mopping positions. The bucket disagreed with this tactic and spilled its contents back on the floor. My reaction was less than dignified.
So it was that I fought back and forth for an hour, to no avail. Each flush only produced more to clean up. I went for reinforcements. Now, I have not spoken much of my friends at college, but they are indeed a ragtag bunch. Diverse individuals who make life, for lack of a better term, interesting. I put on the saddest puppy-dog face I could muster and practically sobbed in my efforts to discern if they knew anything about plumbing. Now, I know a bit about toilets, but nothing about the art of plunging. My grandfather is a seasoned professional of the trade, but I'm afraid none of his art rubbed off on me. At any rate, John Kelly came to my assistance.
He surveyed the scene of desolation, as I observed in a half-expectant, half-despairing way. I handed him the plunger. He sallied forth.
A flush.
The water rose, as the plunger furiously fought to keep it down in its place.
Futility.
Up, up, up, faster than I thought possible!
"ABORT! Get out of there John, it's not worth it man!"
But John fought on, and with some desperate last thrusts the foul brew sunk into the pipes as the Lord meant it.
I do believe that is the happiest I have ever been to hear a toilet flush.
Truth.
So it was left to me to clean up the remainder, but my primary foe vanquished, the rest was just culling the roving bands of defectors who refused to surrender. It's an experience I shudder to repeat.
And with the conclusion of my adventure, I feel as if I've accomplished something. Someday you, too, may have the privilege of this experience. Things to look forward to, eh?
That situation? An uppity toilet that spits material that would make even Howard Stern pause momentarily before he defiled yet another stripper midget with his oh so curly hair.
So, in a slight panic, I go to the front desk, hoping against hope that at least a few soldiers of the massive maintenance/cleaning army for the University of Tennessee remain. To my chagrin, the response was to give me a mop, a bucket, a plunger, and some slightly mocking, slightly pitying words of encouragement. It was the equivalent of handing me a sword, pointing at the massing Mongol hordes, and saying "Well, here ya go. We're going to hide in this castle here. You're the one who called them fat, you go placate them." The door shuts behind you and you sit and stare, denial still trying to figure out some way to avoid the inevitable, oh so messy resolution to your predicament.
And to battle I went. The first order of business was to mop as the murky waters gradually subsided. It wasn't so much difficult or disgusting (I can't smell, for the most part, and it is a sense I am glad to be deprived of), but it was more of a "Really, does this actually do any good?" Apparently it sort of does. So I'd stick the mop on the floor, capture the "water", and squeeze it into the bucket. This went as well as such an activity can go until I got the bright idea to switch mopping positions. The bucket disagreed with this tactic and spilled its contents back on the floor. My reaction was less than dignified.
So it was that I fought back and forth for an hour, to no avail. Each flush only produced more to clean up. I went for reinforcements. Now, I have not spoken much of my friends at college, but they are indeed a ragtag bunch. Diverse individuals who make life, for lack of a better term, interesting. I put on the saddest puppy-dog face I could muster and practically sobbed in my efforts to discern if they knew anything about plumbing. Now, I know a bit about toilets, but nothing about the art of plunging. My grandfather is a seasoned professional of the trade, but I'm afraid none of his art rubbed off on me. At any rate, John Kelly came to my assistance.
He surveyed the scene of desolation, as I observed in a half-expectant, half-despairing way. I handed him the plunger. He sallied forth.
A flush.
The water rose, as the plunger furiously fought to keep it down in its place.
Futility.
Up, up, up, faster than I thought possible!
"ABORT! Get out of there John, it's not worth it man!"
But John fought on, and with some desperate last thrusts the foul brew sunk into the pipes as the Lord meant it.
I do believe that is the happiest I have ever been to hear a toilet flush.
Truth.
So it was left to me to clean up the remainder, but my primary foe vanquished, the rest was just culling the roving bands of defectors who refused to surrender. It's an experience I shudder to repeat.
And with the conclusion of my adventure, I feel as if I've accomplished something. Someday you, too, may have the privilege of this experience. Things to look forward to, eh?
Sunday, November 6
It runs in the family
CarrieMMMeggs: and people say cocaine highs aren't as awesome as they're cracked up to be
CarrieMMMeggs: i made a pun onaccident
IndubitablyDyl: Oh Carrie
IndubitablyDyl: That was bad
CarrieMMMeggs: :-)
IndubitablyDyl: You must really be my sister
CarrieMMMeggs: i made a pun onaccident
IndubitablyDyl: Oh Carrie
IndubitablyDyl: That was bad
CarrieMMMeggs: :-)
IndubitablyDyl: You must really be my sister
Saturday, November 5
Who needs to make out?
[00:10] I2OIENTO: here we are at midnight debating pastrys
[00:11] IndubitablyDyl: We are truly the intellectual elite.
[00:11] IndubitablyDyl: We are truly the intellectual elite.
Friday, November 4
Tuesday, November 1
Sunday, October 30
I'd like to take this time to acknowledge a grave wrong I have committed and hopefully my apology can render remove some of the intense guilt and night-terrors I've received as a result of this grievous wrong.
In the past, I have frequently slandered the name of Gustav Mahler. I have balked at the idea of listening to his music, telling everyone how horrendous it is and that it should best be avoided by good, honest, pure-hearted people.
Well, dear readers, I was wrong. I'm not proud of my comments, but I feel it is my duty to make amends. I have listened to a number of Mahler's symphonies (5 to this point, I believe), and I must say they are quite enjoyable. Not Dvorak, or even Ralph Vaughn Williams enjoyable, but still quality pieces of music.
Hence, I retract my previous comments about Mahler and encourage all of you to at least take him into consideration. Thank you for your time.
In the past, I have frequently slandered the name of Gustav Mahler. I have balked at the idea of listening to his music, telling everyone how horrendous it is and that it should best be avoided by good, honest, pure-hearted people.
Well, dear readers, I was wrong. I'm not proud of my comments, but I feel it is my duty to make amends. I have listened to a number of Mahler's symphonies (5 to this point, I believe), and I must say they are quite enjoyable. Not Dvorak, or even Ralph Vaughn Williams enjoyable, but still quality pieces of music.
Hence, I retract my previous comments about Mahler and encourage all of you to at least take him into consideration. Thank you for your time.