In the same spirit as the previous post, the weather is something that always inspires me.

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

I once told my father, "Weekends always look so nice. Why are the weekends always so nice looking, dad?"

I was a kid. Maybe seven or eight. I don't remember his exact reaction, his mannerisms. I must have been on the terrace above our garage, both of us hugging the concrete railing and looking out on the street along with the suburbs of San Juan.

I do remember his exact words. He said, "Everyday is beautiful."

I didn't understand. What a silly thing to say. Everyday isn't beautiful because I saw that weekends were always sunny and blue while weekdays always began dew-soaked and gray. I later, many years later and only after my father had passed away, that he was right. My observations were scant and biased. Weekdays meant rising early for school, around the same time that the morning was still recovering from the dawn. Weekdays were the days that soaked your pant legs with dew as you ran through the grass and splattered the streets with the watery effluent from the trash truck because that was any early morning. On weekends, we all awoke just a little bit later or, like myself, watched TV, never noticing the major shifts between early morning and late. Saturday morning cartoons always ended around 12noon, when I would go out to the terrace and see the tropical sun all over unbroken strips of green. A noon sun is the most gorgeous of illumination, the ultimate manifestation of what makes our planet. I only knew the noon sun of weekends, hence my observation.

A sunny day also meant a warm day. I recently experienced one of those deceiving late March days, up here, far away from home. It was gorgeous out; the noon sun is beautiful everywhere. Liquid shimmers of melting ice peppered the sidewalk and the fuzz of budding trees invited people to touch. It was the same kind of sun that I always imagined baked the deep grooves of of the "roble*" tree outside our house. However, it was still chilly out with the wind defiling the radiance. It was a sun-dog spring with everything illuminated and the melting piles of dirty snow exhaling their last chills. From inside, it was still beautiful and a Wednesday too.

When my father said everyday is beautiful he wasn't being saccharine or reflective. He was being practical. Every day is beautiful because everyday has a noon and a high sun. I looked for a metaphysical answer to my father's observation when all I had to do was remember our planet's own rotations and orbits.

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Peace!


*Roble is the Spanish word for oak. When someone in PR says roble they are literally saying "Puerto Rican Oak," which makes no botanical sense. I have no idea what it really is, but certainly not an oak. However, that is what we called it.

Misnomer

I have realized in the past few weeks that more people (i.e. three) read my blog than I thought. This is bitter sweet as I do want people to read the blog, but I know my posts are sporadic and lackluster. I live in a small town and while most people can't say my name, they still make the connection. I use a pseudonym for writing, but in this piece I out myself. Of course, the connections shouldn't be too hard to make, but here you go. I got in trouble for blogging once before. That was stupid of me and I have made every effort to not be as dumb in this blog. I hope it pays off.

A local artist extraordinaire often comes into the coffee shop that I work at. Actually, in Trumansburg, NY, a lot of artists extraordinaire come into the coffee shop. Some are struggling and others are established. Some are hobbyists and others are go-getters. Lots of creativity going around, which is a wonderful thing. But I overheard this local artist extraordinaire once say the smartest thing I ever heard about creativity.

"Style happens."

He was referring to drawing, but it applies to any creative work. I do not know if I will ever become a successful writer, but I can be myself as a writer and work with what inspires me. I sit down at the computer or at a desk, notebook readied, and try to force something. I always found the old writing axiom, "Write about what you know," to be a bit too naive. If we wrote about what we knew then entire genres could disappear! You can't say that Kurt Vonnegut would still be the same writer if he had never even gone to Dresden. However, real life inspires in many ways. We can fictionalize a real-life event by simpling swapping ourselves with a make-believe character. Or we can play on those real world events, building upon them. Chuck Palahniuk never spent the wee hours of the morning beating other men senseless, but the inspiration for Fight Club did come from the aftermath of bar brawl. Great research can help any book, and tell-alls don't always make the best literature.

I prattle about all this to say that some things always inspire me. Or they force me to put pen to paper. One is my name, and names in general actually. So here is something about my name.

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Defense Phonics

By Garik Charneco

It's a reflex. Spelling my name.

"Can I have your name, sir?" I get that, as probably you do, from tellers, shop keeps, clerks, cops, and officials. I also get the funny stare and the rustle of fingers struggling to find a pen and paper. I always have to spell my name.

"Andres. A-n-d-r-e-s." More blank stares.

I don't like the fact that I have to spell my name. It feel like I have to explain myself all the time, like I am on trial for having an obtuse name. My spelling reflex isn't practical, it's necessary. The Katie in your office is just a quickened Katherine. The Bill at school is a hasty little William. JC, JT, BJ, and all other initials are fast little things. The shortened names are practical. It takes a whole extra second to say Christopher instead of Chris! Screw that! Your office or school is a practical place, in the real world where time matters. Even negating the shortened names is practical. It's never nice to assume so don't assume I like my James to become your Jim.

However, my name, and all the other names that force their bearers to beat-box out the alphabet, are demanding names. They demand explanation and constant demonstration, like a toy dog that a super-model carries around under her arm.

Some people try, and I applaud the for being so brave. People reading my name off a list often do this. But they hardly ever get it right. They will try to salvage something of their initial syllables. I mean, look at my name....

An "a" followed by a "n" then a "d," "r," "e," and "s?" It's those ugly consonants in the middle. They don't seem to connect the other letters, but instead force the apart. People are then left to try and scrape up some sounds from this hodge-podge. They will cop off the "s," thinking that that just makes no sense there. It had to be an error in the data entry department. They will drop the "s" and then call me "andre" and make a mental note to check with the temps in the data entry department. In college, our dorm coordinator made signs for all the doors. There is Shamus and Nick's room. And over there is Ryan and Jamie's room! And this room, room 313? Well it is Chris and Andr's room!

Or they will insert extra letters, grammatical crutches designed to make it more palatable. Another "a," but this one behind the "e" instead. "Andreas?" Or an extra "r" or even a "w," turning my name into the anglicized version of it. A much more palatable version of it, mind you me. The "w" seems to bring a sense of closure to the "andre" combination.

Andrew? Why that is a perfectly understandable name!

Andres? What? Are there two of you or something?

My name just sounds unnatural, even in the mother romance tongue. Even with a guttural rolling "r" noise and the emphasis on the "e," my name still sounds phony when a Spanish speaker utters it. It's that combination of letters again.

My name is supposed to mean brave and masculine. I don't consider myself particularly brave or masculine. I consider myself annoyed and embarrassed. That is the big reason why I don't like my name. It makes me cranky and whiny. Did you read all this? See!?

Some people like my name, especially when I compare it to my fake name. I never went to many parties in college, but at the few I did, I played the name game. At that point most people knew me by my fake name.

A girl that is actually talking to me!: Garik? That is a strange name. No offense.

Me: Oh, don't worry, none taken. It is actually a nickname. My real name is Andres. A-n-d-r-e-s.

A girl that is still actually talking to me!: Wow, sexy name. I'd hit that, but not a Garik. *turns away*

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Peace!

Eat it Joe Quesada!

SPIDER-RABBIT! SPIDER-RABBIT!

Does anything that a spider-rabbit can! And since such a thing really doesn't exist, that means that I can give it any powers I wish! OH YEAH! SPIDER-RABBIT FRIGGIN' YEAH!


Hops really high, shoots some webs, has carrot shaped shurikens, and his x-ray vision can even see through lead! Super-strength he has is spades and you better believe that he is litter trained! Breathes some fire and reactive evolution! OH YEAH! SPIDER-RABBIT FRIGGIN YEAH!

My comics budget remains pretty tight. It is good that I am keeping one of my new year's resolutions, at least. I try to stick to only six comics a month which at the usual $2.99 retail price means that I can get by on $20 dollars a month for comics. Most of the comics I buy are a core group I read every month no matter what: Daredevil, Green Lantern, Green Lantern Corps, The New Avengers and The Immortal Iron Fist. With both Civil War and Ion all done with, I can find a new comic for the rotation slot! Hence, the Spider Rabbit post as I picked up Ultimate Spiderman #106.

There is no Ultimate Daredevil series. This fills me with a mixture of sadness and relief. Sadness because I would like to see young Matt Murdock going to NYU and beating on bad guys while still dressed in sweats. Relief because I would buy the damn thing like a sucker. They could kill Foggy Nelson ten times over and I would still come back for more!

Anyway, DD is limited to cameos in the Marvel Ultimate universe and in this Spidey issue he comes off as a premiere, and quite cocky, superhero. Spiderman's youth has always played a predominant role in any of his series. It makes sense for the adult attorney Matt Murdock/DD, to treat the kid as a hot shot rookie. However, I can now understand why people got so mad about Iron Man in Civil War.

In this issue, DD plans to get together a group of NYC heroes to kill the Kingpin of crime. Yes, kill. DD doesn't kill! He beats the crap out of people like no other, yes. He has frequent breakdowns that make him go into a sort of mini-berserker mode. But he doesn't kill! Well I guess Ultimate DD does. I think in the Ultimate universe you are either a silly little newbie or an edgy veteran. Don't get me wrong, Ultimate Spidey #106 is nice and so is the whole Ultimate Universe, but my limited exposure to it has convinced me of the aforementioned duality.

The arc is building up to something big and I will end it after this whole DD crossover is complete. Not much actual action here, but plenty of the "wiz bang" sheer delight factor I hear so much about this series. It is nice to have a handle on Spiderman without having to refer to 500 plus back issues.

I couldn't help but post about the final splash page. It's right out a sitcom. Peter Parker doesn't know how to break up with his ex-girlfriend Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat in the X-Men) and then she gets transferred to his school! HILARITY ENSUES! Or at least, that is what we hope for in the next issue.

Kitty Pryde is notable for a lot of reasons. Joss Whedon cites her as an influence for the character of Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And my understanding was that she was uber-popular when she was first introduced in the X-Men. She's in Weezer's "In the Garage" song! She is also notable for being a Jewish superhero. It's nice to have some diversity and nice that Kitty is proud of her heritage, but look at that last page! Do you see the size of that Star of David pendant!?

Click on the picture to Goliath-size it!
It is Fuccillo sized HUGE!

Is her Jewish heritage really critical to the Ultimate Shadowcat character? I haven't played in the Ultimate sandbox too much, but some of the Ultimate X-Men I have fails to play off that quality.

Until then I remain amazed at the HUGENESS!

PEACE!

Spring Time

Today marks the official first day of spring, and I do hope that we end all this weird winter weather in CNY. I don't care too much for spring. Seeing all the snow melt is always a treat, but I feel my overall "meh" for spring comes from growing up where it is "summer" and "not so summery." The buds of colt's foot flowers popping from chocolate colored loam and the buds on forsythia bushes are all pretty, but I just want the entire place to get to summer already. I enjoy a good July, with sticky heat that shucks your clothes onto your skin.

Below, is a little snippet that combines some images of spring and summer. It has a rabbit in it. I have a things for rabbits. I actually have a very big thing for rabbits.

I FRIGGIN' ADORE THEM!

I think this is another "where I grew up thing," but I can't get enough rabbits. Real rabbits I mean. None of this kitschy bunny slippers stuff. I mean Eastern Cottontails nibbling on ground ivy, jackrabbits outrunning tumbleweeds, and Swamp Rabbits that attack Jimmy Carter! I have my pet rabbit Carson and while he is infinitely incorrigible, I do search for those wild traits still left in him.

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After the Storm

by Garik Charneco

It sounds like a final breath. The gulping noise the water makes when it fills a pocket in the beach house's interior. The tide brings in the water to the cubby holes along the rear of wall of the living room and the space below the refrigerator. Then the tides sucks the back water back out, leaving the soft shucking noise and a rime of silt as the only evidence.

Hurricane Danny just skirted the coast of the bay, but still knocked the beach house off the stilts that kept it ten feet into and two feet above the water. After the storm, the call went out and Sadie was the first on the scene.

Sadie pulls on the straps of her windbreaker, bringing in the nylon hood around her hair, which frizzes up in the humidity. The rental car she drove here is at the far end of the crushed gravel path from the main road. She notices the iridescent crushed oyster shells and buffed sea glass in the driveway. She wants to ask if those were always there, if they were a part of the gravel driveway or something washed up from the sea. She steps over the exposed pipes of the outdoor sink where her dad scaled the fish he caught from the porch. She remembers how tiny the fish where and how scaling them just seemed like something to impress all the kids; all the cousins, sisters, brothers, and friends that spent summers here. The spigot to the sink lies in the fronds of a cabbage palm, a little glint amongst all the fallen green.

The driveway leads to a wooden gate that never closed during the summers. Feral cats walked through it and batted at the little minnows just below the porch. Sadie's mom always called them Hemingway Cats, visitors from the Keys. Sadie pulls on the gate, but the entire piece comes off the hinges, which were held on by only one rusty screw. The storm water permeates each knot in the wood and it feels heavy in her hands. The corner of the gate butts into the gravel and leaves an exposed gash. Sadie props the entire thing against the broken urn her father always claimed he dredged from the Mediterranean. She now sees the grey breadth of a concrete lawn ornament.

The porch held up during the storm and only the emerald fronds of sea grass litter the wooden floors. Sadie turns the corner and expects the familiar folding table littered with dominoes and the skiff tied up to the railings. She sees more sea grass and hears the noise again, the sound of the sea coming in and out. The door to the actual house is open, forced open by a sea swell.

Avocado colored bowls pepper the living room and the ear-wax yellow refrigerator lies on its side. It is filled with brown seawater, that Sadie churns with broom handle. She pulls out more sea grass and the quivering body of jellyfish. She flings that back out into the bay. She keeps away from the area the jellyfish touched while sweeping everything up into a little pile. Silverware, plates, headless dolls, and a mound of Q-tips. She brings all this to the center of the room where she knows her mother would prefer the mess. "Easier to get into the bags, dear," Sadie mutters to herself. The sound of the sea beneath her becomes more rhythmic, a soundtrack to the salvage.

The living room attaches to the rest of the house by a aluminum door. The bottom of it is mottled with rust and screeches against the wood. The large bedroom is divided by a curtain that is still tied to it's hook on the wall. Every bed is a bunk bed and Sadie sits on the edge of the soaked mattress looking for the messages she left in magic marker. She traces the line of a heart, but strains to remember the letters in it. "S and I?" Enunciating every letter and scrawl fails to take her back, instead it feels like she should just get back to cleaning.

Another noise breaks the sound of tidal push and pull. It sounds like a soft oinking, a strong nasal noise followed by a pitter-patter. Sadie feels a swish against her feet, a sees a ball of cotton dive under the bed. She shoots up from the edge of the mattress and slams her head against the top bunk. She winces a curse and then sees the rabbit running around her feet.

It is a sandy brown with a few bands of white intermingling with the rest of the fur. Its ears drag against the floor, their bell shaped bottoms soaked like paint brushes. Sadie squats down and scoops in half circle. The rabbit trashes, kicking its back feet like someone kicking off a pair of flip flops. The rabbit quivers and the wet fur leaves a trail against Sadie's coat. In the corner of the room she notices a cage. Black wires and a green plastic cover. She doesn't remember a rabbit at the house or rabbits by the sea. The cage bottom is lined with wood shavings that clump together around wet spots left from the condensation against the top bars.

The rabbit stops trashing and tucks its legs into the fold of Sadie's elbow. "Did you float over here?" She asks this into one of it's ears. The rabbit continues to coo.

The rear window of the room is gone and the storm left a bare rectangle in the wooden side. The cage is below the exposed window and in the mangrove trees behind the house, Sadie sees more of the wood shavings coalescing around the roots. Sadie puts the rabbit down on the mattress where it stands on its back feet and nuzzles her forearm. The rabbit looks drowned, it's hair wet and slick to its body like an otter. It shivers while standing up, but whether from the strain or the cold, Sadie can't tell. She strips her jacket off and places it on the bottom of the cage. The rabbit allows itself to be picked up and digs its way into the folds of her coat. Sadie brings her arms to her shoulders and tried to warm itself. A sort of fog fills the room and through the window she sees another gutted beach house and imagines the line of properties further down the bay.

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Well, not every wacky combination can be chocolate and peanut butter. Peace!

Getting Ready for the FLEFF

The Finger Lakes Environmental Film Festival (FLEFF) is almost here and I am pretty damn excited! I have enjoyed seeing the FLEFF evolve throughout my six something years in CNY. I remember back in freshmen year of college, it was called the Cornell Environmental Film Festival and had showings all over the place. Funny to note that as the name of the festival has gotten broader, that the actual showing locations have gotten smaller. What is now the Finger Lakes Environmental Film Festival only has showings at Ithaca College and Ithaca's local art house theaters Cinemapolis* and Fall Creek. I really don't mind too much. Every year I grab the nice glossy flier with all the movies and begin to meticulously plan out which ones I can see. I always plan to see about twenty of them, but usually make due with just three or four.

I appreciate the FLEFF because it uses a very broad use of the word environment. I understand this meaning is often lost on some. Last year, while I was still at IC, Amanda and I had an unfortunate encounter with one of Ithaca's renowned local activists. She was irate that the film festival "wasn't" environmental enough with films about globalization and the war on Iraq lining the schedule. She apparently took us as the festival planners and freaked out before storming away. **

I understand the word "environmental" conjures up images of trees and nature. However, the environment is the entire living system and even something as abstract (abstract in that you can't touch it) as globalization is environmental. Everything we do relates back to the land. And while some might feel overwhelmed that something like the fresh flowers on their desk could mean human exploitation and environmental degradation (most 1-800 flowers are grown in Venezuela, Ecuador, etc by poor workers with no protection from the pesticides applied), I find it empowering. No, I am not a freak. Well, not that kind of freak. I don't feel exhilarated at people having their fingers ripped by rose thorns. What I mean is that it is empowering to know the effects everyday decisions have on the world at large and what one can do about it! It is cheesy to say, but knowledge is power. Just being cognizant of these issues is the first step towards small contributions.

I appreciate how the festival organizers bring up discussions about natural ecology and human sustainability without covering the celluloid in streak of green. Don't get me wrong; I think next year they should spool all episodes of Captain Planet together and show them for 24 hours non-stop as a piece on early environmental thought in young Generation Y'ers. Nothing wrong with an outwardly environmental film, but those don't necessarily have to be nature documentaries.

I am particularly excited for films like Black Gold, Blowing Up Paradise, The Disappearing of Tuvalus: Trouble in Paradise, The Fittest Survive, The Language of Wine, Liberia: A Fragile Piece, and Jonestown: The Life and Death of the People's Temple. I'll be lucky to even see maybe two of those, but maybe you can check out some too!? Here is the schedule.

Peace!






* Can anyone pronounce this for me? Cinemapolis? I understand it should be fairly simple, but it throws me for a loop every time.
"Hey, Garik, where did you see that movie you can't stop talking about?"
"Oh, you know, that place downtown. Cine..aa..ma..lis...*head explodes*"

** If you live in Ithaca then you should now who I am talking about. Yeah, don't think too hard because it is the first person that comes to mind. In her defense, I do have one grievance with the FLEFF. I understand you can't show all the films in the Park Auditorium or Ford Hall (you know, the place where people actually see performances), but do you really need to schedule a film in Williams 224 during the 9:25 TR session of "Academic Writing 1?" Seriously, some of the classrooms at IC are glamorized broom closets. I saw one movie last year in a tiny and slanted room deep in the bowels of the absolute labyrinth that is Smiddy Hall! I think HR Giger and MC Escher designed that building. And CNS 115? Man, everyone's been in there!

Water Works

It's officially spring here in Central New York since we just has the first really nice day followed by the first really crappy day! Just two days ago, it was almost 70 degrees and sunny. And today the weather turned to a mix of puffy rain-snow. Below is a picture of Trumansburg creek which runs by the coffee shop I work at. The melting snows have turned the creek into a swollen mess and the picture does little justice to how much water was in there. Local and actually read blogger Jonathan Cook makes it a habit to blog about the status of Trumansburg Creek from time to time. Those are nice, but nice isn't what you come to this blog for anyway, eh!? Yes, that's right. You come for lengthy exposition and the ocassional Daredevil and/or Green Lantern love post. Even farther below is a little snippet I wrote while at work and staring at the creek below. Enclosed water (lakes, streams, rivers, ponds, etc.) always hypnotizes me. Back home all we had was the ocean and this immensity of that seemed understandable. The ocean just was, but freshwater seemed to have to define itself within the limits of the land around it.

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

Enclosed water. Trapped potential. Jarred wonder. I think we can appreciate all this trapped water because something inherently malleable becomes stable. The lake's geography is just a way of containing those last bits of water too stubborn to follow their kind to the ocean. These streams, creeks, and ponds are the moisture that remains at the bottom of your cup. They remain, no matter how hard one tries to shake them free.

Growing up on an island, I never had much to see in terms of enclosed water. Any lake on the island, I just learned, is artificial, created when engineers dammed rivers. Oceans are too big. They leave giant blank spaces on the map, which my anal nature finds untidy. I realize that I am questioning random geographic formation, but I appreciate when something is defined by what influences it and not the other way around. That seems natural, like evolution applied to understanding.

Trapped water always has some land telling it where to go. An oxbow to the south. An inlet towards the fields. A marshland to blanket. It doesn't have to be freshwater per se. I spent a few summers with cousins in the Puerto Rican Riviera--La Parguera. There are no beaches there, however, instead a necklace of mangrove atolls just off the coast. My older cousins would boat us out there, to swim in the shallows created by these islands.

The gnarled roots of the mangrove trees clamber over each other. They poke into the sand below and mingle with each other. As they grow, they trap bits of sand and flotsam, creating an island. The waves sometimes lap at the weaker ends and create tiny jetties in the arching trunks. People eventually come and bore through these jetties, creating canals in the middle of the ocean.

I explored these canals during those summer breaks. I snorkeled them always aware of the three dimensions around me. I was terrified of the sea urchins that peppered the root balls. My older cousins would pick them up by their thin black needles and hold them above the water's surface. The urchins twitch and the bottom needles undulate trying to find a new grip on the roots.

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Yeah, I don't know what I meant either. Peace!

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Below is a picture of Amanda and I's new pet! Yes, we got another animal. Another animal that eats a lot, poops a lot, and friggin' hates us! Meet Dante the Guinea Pig!

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Oh, but he is quite cute. I do love him, even though he bites me! Peace!

Musings and day dreams

This is the kind of silly things I write when stuck at work. The problem with these pieces is that they make so much more sense in my head. What do you think?

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Untitled

By Garik Charneco

Laney turns his head right. He turns his head left. He sees nothing, realizing that the bus schedule is out of date. He slides down the bench, feeling each of the wooden segments nudge his back. He teeters on the sloped edge and his feet almost reach the granite curb of the sidewalk. He closes his eyes and imagines music. He imagines this scene as the opening image of a movie. The music gets louder, but it doesn't overpower. It is soft folk music with a woman singing the lyrics in a liquid twang. Someone begins to thump wash bin for percussion. Laney imagines the camera slowly begin moving towards him. The right of the screen engulfs the mortar-and-pestle logo for Pubb's Pharmacy. Laney's head gets blocked out, just for a second, by the flash of the CSA credit. A few more names flash on the screen. A producer. A music composer. A cinematographer. However, Laney keeps these away from his face. The music begins to get softer and the camera has Laney right at it's center. His head dominates the shot and he goes for that longing he imagines the director wants. At the top of the hill that divides Main Street in two, the hydraulic hiss of the bus announces its approach. The movie ends before it begins, but only Laney is disappointed.

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Peace!

Ack!

I just realized that I haven't blogged in about three weeks. I suck.

However, what a time to blog with the big news that CAPTAIN AMERICA IS DEAD!!!

Wow. I guess this is my big, first comics "death." I wonder how I will feel when they bring him back. Or will Steve Rogers just stay dead and have someone else take up the Captain America mantle.? I don't know, but I was pretty shocked.

I have kept this post a bit restrained to spare those non-geeks out there, but, I could not help resist putting up this video.



Yes, I know I suck even more for posting YouTube videos as real content, but a real post will come soon! I might even get published in a real live paper soon! I'll keep ya posted!

Peace!