On Infinity and Perpetuation

Infinity

Infinity is not necessarily the perfect word to describe that which it refers to; after all, it is but a word and as such it is in itself finite. It can only be thought of via proxy, in purely hyperbolic terms. But still, we finite minds with our finite languages, both of which are vastly incapable of comprehending infinity, must make due with such inconsistencies and impart some referential conceptualizations to the vast unknown in order to acknowledge its existence.

Infinity, thus, can best be described within the confines of language as that which contrasts to everything that is finite. It is the abysmal expanse of time and space that is unquantifiable. It marches in dimensions and, possibly, universes apart from those which we have grown accustomed to. To truly understand infinity with such departures from the finite frameworks we have so feebly constructed, we must evaluate finiteness itself.

Finiteness is, bluntly put, a delusion. It is a product of conscious entities (of whom are in themselves perceptively finite) that have been evolutionarily manufactured to quantify surrounding infinity. To properly conceive of this, one might think of an apple. If one were to cut the apple in half, it would cease being a whole finite apple and transform into two finite half-apples. One could thereafter cut these halves into subsequent fourths and those fourths into subsequent eighths, ad infinitum. Such a continuum of transformations are purely renditions of the mind. Every finite conception of a fraction dissolves into infinite regress; into fractals.

So in this manner, everything can either be broken down into infinity, or compiled together into infinity, making any and all finite concepts, values, and demarcations solely contingent upon the contexts (i.e., the subjective, mental templates we frame the world within) from which they derive. As a result, since we are finite image-concepts in the same way that staplers are, we too are provisional and defined by the socially constructed contexts we exist in.

Being fully animate objects, we harbor one thing inanimate objects lack: consciousness. Even so, we are profoundly limited in our degree of consciousness, much in the same way angles are limited in their degrees. Some angles are more obtuse or more acute than others; some consciousnesses are more aware and project a wider scope of cognizance than others. Like the vertex of an angle, a consciousness acts as point in time and space. Such perspectives are characterized by, not only the limitations of its encompassing perceptive abilities, but also the limitations of the very locality in space-time from which its awareness emanates.

Thus, we can imagine ourselves as tiny angular entities moving about within our contextual social and physical dimensions. Such dimensions are just stratas of perception, acting as another limitation of our awareness. Since other cognitive creatures such as alligators and ants work in much more acute levels of interaction, they are less conscious than us. This lower level of consciousness can be differentiated as a separate magnitude of sentience.

So our finiteness is defined by our very juxtaposition to infinity itself. But since infinity is a value that is unknowable (∞), and since the finite (x) is a reciprocal of infinity, the finite's ontology, and its very condition of finiteness can never be properly established as so long as infinity remains infinite (x/∞ is an unsolvable equation.). Since cavemen who would collapse into infinite regressive tangents were not particularly conducive to evolution, we evolved an extraordinary talent for adhering to self-induced delusions, to suspend ourselves in a finite and, more importantly, a pliable world. God is a perfect example of this. Given that it is much easier to delineate a value for a finite object if it reciprocates a known value, i.e., a context, then God is a convenient way of condensing infinity into finiteness, simply making it into the context to end all contexts.

As a comparative allegory, one might imagine a man sitting atop a hill, in front of and facing a tree. Being a finite object and utterly insulated by his own perspective, the man is limited in how much of the tree he is able to observe. Located on one side of it, he would never be able to witness the opposite angle of the tree unless he were to abandon his current post and, resultantly, his current point-of-view. Not only that, but as he gazes about he notices that every single finite object that surrounds him, including the tree, in some obscures his vision. Were it that he were blessed with even the slightest magnitude of omniscience, he would be able to perceive through the sediments and layers of obscuring finite objects, into the void of infinity. But since he withholds no such powers, he simply resorts to living in a world that is staged by obfuscating finite objects, regressing into the idiomatic contexts that accompany such an inundated world.

Perpetuation

Because evolution was, for all intensive purposes, the first proprietor of teleology, it is imperative to understand its overall goals. As cellular bodies coagulated into larger and more complex organisms, autonomy so too grew in magnitude (after all, a single-celled amoeba is autonomous in as much as a kangaroo is, even though some of the cells that comprise a kangaroo may be larger than the amoeba). This autonomy is characterized by a simple clustering of self-proliferating DNA; a primordial, finite unit of 'self', if you will. It is evolution's intent to breed successful species of reproducing, finite, autonomous organisms. This is perpetuation.

Perpetuation is probably the most basic and foundational instincts in evolution's instinctual repertoire. It pervades all living creatures and is paramount to the existence of all subsequent generations reproduced in any given species. Perpetuation underpins every animal's psyche, every plant's cellular structure, and every bacteria's DNA. In truth, it is the reflection of Nietzsche's will to power when applied to living organisms (while the will to power itself encompasses all of finite existence itself, inanimate objects and animate objects included).

Being such a fundamental functionality of evolution, pretty much all creatures can owe whatever psychological predispositions they possess to the perpetual affirmation. As a result, it is not only the drive to procreate and self-perpetuate one's genes, but also the drive to perpetuate that which is conducive to such self-perpetuation. This includes whatever social structures, however complex, certain species formulate (this, of course, includes us) and the development of various behaviors and tendencies (some of which solidify into instincts unto themselves). In the same way that fishes can, and have in the past, spawn legs to adapt to a terrestrial environment, so too can an animal's mind spawn new cognitive processes to adapt to unfamiliar environments.

The way in which this applies to the human species is particularly complex. While simpler, more finite, less conscious creatures are fairly direct in their manifestation of perpetuation (i.e., simple procreation), we perpetuate extremely abstract and subjective concepts as well as objects as well as ourselves/genes.

One might imagine a caveman who is maniacally searching for firewood to fuel a campfire. For him, his very survival (and, thus, his potential to self-perpetuation) is contingent upon the perpetuation of the fire; as soon as the fire goes out, a pack of hungry wolves will converge upon him from the darkness. In this way, the caveman becomes obsessed with fueling/perpetuating the flames.

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Text

The cursor blinks incessantly,
Waiting,
Hoping to scribble letters against a blank void;
A blank void it can't help but hate.

With grand fury, the cursor spews and spawns.
A breathless pitter-patter of letters and semicolons,
Soldiers in the war between the lines.

Line for line,
Gutter after gutter,
The blank world imbues,
Injects,
Incriminates.

The dotted i's,
The crossed t's,
The hole-perforated e's,
The grinning u's,
All taunts at a maddening cursor.

More and faster,
It spreads its children over the screen,
Like spilled alphabet soup.
It even plunders the helpless margins.

It machine-guns credit reports,
Sports articles,
Lol's,
Erotic literature,
This poem,
All an attempt to defy a vacuous enemy.

A sea of a new color takes hold.
Defiance becomes authority.
And all that remains of the blank void,
All that survived,
Is tiny line of pixelation.

It quivers in its defeat,
A strenuous palpitation,
Until,
Like nothing ever happened,
It blinks.

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The Dark Knight: Movie Review

Mythologies, legends, and archetypes have been cultivated by every known society since the beginning of human history, serving as the heroes, villains, and dreamscapes for a certain people in their time and place. It could be said that the proverbial Odin or Zeus of our day is the Dark Knight himself, Batman. Likewise, the insidious Loki can be portrayed by the equally insidious Joker. All the while, the stage upon which the satyrs performed is by today's measure film canisters and comic book shelves.

So in order for anyone to properly project these gods of our time onto the silver screen without scuffing their good name, one must dig deeply into society's collective psyche; to excavate for whatever cultural nerve it is that these mythos tickle. Sometimes, however, society moves in a new direction and so too does the stigmata. Where the over-the-top, Gothic aesthetics of Tim Burton and the borderline campy, neon-inundated visuals of Joel Schumacher once twinged that old familiar appeal, we, as a Batman-loving audience, have matured; and a mature Batman movie is what we needed.

2005's Batman Begins delivered with a sucker-punch impact only Chris Nolan could pull off. His mythical directing style and Christian Bale's flawless performance gave way for a new hope, a new found optimism, if you will. We knew all too well that that was but a mere entrée, preceding the oh-so-delicious main course to come. This summer's The Dark Knight was emancipated upon the world like a tidal wave. Powered by a nuclear-reactor of media hype, jizz-my-shorts-anticipation, and the unfortunate and untimely death of Heath Ledger, the crater left by this film is still giving off smoke.

With a runtime of about 152 minutes, this flick reaches some pretty epic proportions. Chris Nolan, along with his brother Jonathon, did what he knows best here and totally geared up his ultra thematic screenwriting; while the previous Batman centered around the concepts of fear and justice, The Dark Knight completely surrounds the ideas of corruption, control, and chaos, and how they are intertwined with one another in a scummy Gotham backdrop.

Visually speaking, the movie is nothing short of stunning; Nolan fully delivers the same beige-tinted, twilight aesthetic he tantalized us with in the last film. The musical score has also been bolstered with a tension-mounting siren that has been interspersed throughout the more captivating scenes to keep your molars in a churning rhythm. Another happy addition to the series is the alterations made in ol' Batty's suit; it has been accommodated to allow for his neck to actually move which was, in past films, a rather bothersome distraction.

Christian Bale's performance was superb as was expected from his last venture as the caped crusader. Unlike Kilmer, Clooney, and Keaton, he manages to keep Bruce Wayne's feet firmly grounded in reality, making him seem rather goal-oriented and entrepreneurial. This contrasts with Batman's past portrayals as a so-what costume-clad fool, prancing about with no real long term foresight. In this, Bruce Wayne is quick to drop the whole Batman charade at the first sign of Gotham not needing him. To him, Batman is just a necessary evil. One thing that irked me with Bale's acting here is his incessant use of a far-flung, Menthol-rasped voice for Batman, which didn't seem as profound in the last movie.

While it's easy for the deaths of actors in Hollywood to incite whirlwinds of too much hype and exaggeration, Heath Ledger offered a performance that climbed above even the highest of expectations, including my own. Ledger seemingly lived out the life of the lazy-eyed, lip-smacking, serial-killer clown, rendering even Jack Nicholson's lively take on the role into a mere impersonation. The movie never elaborates on the Joker's back story, something Hollywood seems all too obsessed with doing these days. I won't go into too much detail so as not to spoil a glorious rendition that must be witnessed first-hand, but I will say that Ledger could have lived to be one-hundred-years-old and this performance still would have outlived him.

Of course, we can't ignore the supporting cast. I certainly didn't miss Katie Holmes as Rachel Dawe; Maggie Gyllenhaal sweeps through the movie as somewhat of a breath fresh air. Aaron Eckhart plays a vivacious Harvey Dent, conjuring up the same politician's smile he did in Thank You for Smoking. Michael Caine returns as the ever-venerable Alfred Pennyworth, dutifully injecting the character with dimension and likability. While Morgan Freeman's Lucius Fox, alongside Alfred, acted as a voice of reason and conscience to Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins, I feel that his overall presence here isn't as necessary and has become more of a filler. Gary Oldman continues his role as James Gordon who is a pivotal character in the story arc despite being somewhat forgettable in Oldman's performance.

In truth, I think there are two major things this movie owes its success to: a plot line that encompasses a modern day epic tale of mythology, reverential to the iconography and symbolism that Batman withholds; and the clear-sighted understanding of what the Batman-audience has grown into over the years, never pandering to us kitschy nostalgia or force-feeding us a dimwitted story. This is certainly no kids movie and I felt myself having to suspend less disbelief than I predicted. It's characters, setting, and events were totally believable and seem particularly reflective of the sort of world we currently live in. While Heath Ledger's performance is the sort of smack in the face we've been waiting for, he by no means "stole" any of the scenes, let alone the movie. Even without him, I feel that this film would have still prospered. In the end, however, this movie is simply a juggernaut, a colossal converging of amazing talents that aimed to produce a truly sublime cinematic experience.

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I, Shield

I feel weird. Bullets and Molotov cocktails once whizzed by my metal frame, now I'm a pillow for the tear-moistened cheek of a crying woman.

I shield soldiers, soldiers shield society, society shields this woman, and somehow I'm supposed to feel consolation in that.

I don't.

I simply barricade. I simply demarcate imaginary lines that wouldn't exist if man didn't exist. I make delusions into reality.

And how do you suppose I feel about this? It doesn't really matter because I'm just another inanimate object. But, you know, people forget that they too were once inanimate clumps and they will one day return to inanimate clumps.

Just once I'd like to switch effacements; to embrace that poor woman the same way she embraces me. Instead, I'm forced to impart unquestioning armament to this man who probably has less thoughts than I do.

From the corporals to the corporeal, all is an attrition between the dead and the dying.

Funny Games: Movie Review

Sometimes there comes a movie that doesn't behave as other movies do. Instead of accentuating the standard plots, themes, and events that is expected by most, it simply portrays a sequence of happenings. It just is. Funny Games is one such film.

Funny Games is a verbatim remake of the 1997 Austrian movie of the same name, and tells the tale of a small upper-class family and the two oddball characters they encounter while vacationing at their beautiful and yet eerily isolated summer villa. From there the sadism ensues, what with the sort of sick and twisted, devil-may-care house invasion that rivals even that of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange in its disturbing depictions.

The gore is surprisingly minimal in this horror flick, with a more acute emphasis on the premise of house guests who won't leave. It begins somewhat slow but immediately picks up as soon as the two adolescent villains make their appearance. From then on it takes you on a pretty vigorous ride which to my irritation is stopped short somewhat awkwardly by excessive indie-experimentation.

I'm not sure what exactly the writers were trying to do but they certainly managed to be far more ballsy than any dimwitted Hollywood joint that panders to its audience like it was constituted of infants, which is something I like. However, these movie-makers go a bit far in their transgressions; they fail to realize the difference between teasingly disregarding the audience's preconceived notions and being downright mean. Making allusions that simply result in red herrings and dishing out exhilarating tension that only leads to anticlimax isn't even the kind of slap in the face Tarantino would dare.

It's rather obvious these guys were trying to imitate Tarantino, utilizing extremely long-lasting camera shots that would make even the most patient of individuals piss their pants in anticipation. I felt like a crack junkie, yearning for the next scene's arrival like it were my next fix. There was no musical score to speak of (aside from off-the-wall heavy metal used in the credits and one of the chase scenes) which certainly added to the minimalist, teeth-grinding tension.

Naomi Watts proved her acting skills here, completely stealing many of the scenes even when wearing nothing but a bloodied, vomit-covered cardigan vest and looking her worst. Meanwhile Tim Roth, respectable in his own right, was somewhat forgettable with his more stoic approach to his role. What scenes Watts didn't take, Michael Pitt was sure to hijack along with the family as he plays the sinister golfer that coordinates the night's heinous, aristocratic delinquency; at times sharing his satisfaction by addressing the audience with an evil wink or rhetorical question.

While it seems that this movie was trying to achieve an unapologetically, unprecedented level of sadism, not only to its protagonists, but to its audience as well, I think it paid a heavy price in doing so. Near the end, all that can be felt is aggravation as it seems that the writers were gleefully tantalizing you the whole time with worse tortures than the characters went through. Next time they should just keep the cruelty behind the fourth wall.

Scar Tissue

Much has been lost along with the blood. But the skin, we forget about the skin--the skin that wraps our torsos, the skin that strangulates our necks, the skin that gloves our hands is irreplaceable. Such flesh is precious and unmarred at birth.

Until afflicted.

Until abrasions scoop away its mass, until time stretches it into thin oblivion, until knives, bullets, blades, and nails reveal what it so vigorously attaches itself to.

It becomes scar tissue. Sinewy, lithe formations that are vastly inferior to its predecessors just as cellophane is inferior to Kevlar. Bubbled up to cover the unclothed spots, even though it neither keeps its contents warm nor protected.

Opaque like palpitating geckos and frogs.

It adds up too.

Little by little it germinates exteriors like a mossy glaze, transforming into reptilian monstrosities. It devolves. A new Jurassic epoch on its way, being rendered by the monotonous accumulation of fatty skin scuffs. Silky decadence suspended briefly turns to paleolithic dinosaur leather bred to survive the vicissitudes.

Spoiled milk spilled with tears.

Hello, Gun

Hello, gun, my old friend. I see you're at your old tricks again.

You seem as indifferent as usual. Almost complacent really, especially in the face of what is to come. When he pulls the trigger. When the trigger releases the hammer. When the hammer slams face first into the primer. The bullet spiraling down the grooved cave, heading towards the light at the end of the tunnel until...

Birth. Life. Death. All in the same moment.

Tell me, gun, how does it feel? How does it feel to be handled by a person with such exactitude; with such confidence? What's it like to mother a race of hollow-tipped children who's only fate is to become mere shells of their former selves?

I guess I should ask the same thing to the man who shot me.

After all, isn't there a cause, a creed, somewhere out there that is pulling his trigger the same way he is pulling yours? In the end it seems to be a complex contraption with a simple purpose. The politician rants, the fists fly into the air, the screams bellow.

The trigger pulls.

The hammer falls.

The bullet spirals.

My body hemorrhages.

And I, gun, what of I? I am born, I live, and I die, all in a split second.