February 14, 2025

Three and a half years ago, I pinched a small leaf from a night blooming cereus in a local Thai restaurant, sprouted roots on it, and planted it in a pot. Today, it has produced this gloriously gangly green thing.

 

January 26, 2025

Yesterday's foodie misadventure chez Stas: a Brooklyn blackout cake. It looked good on paper: stupid-chocolatey cake with chocolate pudding in between the layers and quintuple chocolate icing (8 oz. of semisweet chocolate). When it came time to assemble it, though, the directions raised both my eyebrows. I was told to cut each of the two layers in half, pile three of the halves on top of each other, and crumble the fourth over the rest after frosting them. Two of the layers broke into pieces before I could get them on the plate, so the pudding layers just slobbered over and into them, and after perching the third half precariously on top of the other two, I decided f*** it and put the fourth half on top of the third. Miraculously, it didn't topple over even after I poured the remaining frosting over it. (I left the frosting in the fridge for more than the recommended time, but it still hadn't thickened much.) The good news is that while this cake looks like an elephant turd, it is really tasty.

 

January 22, 2025

After escaping into Conan Doyle in the waning days of the Biden administration, I've turned to the brutal clarity of James Baldwin's essays for the commencement of the Trump regime. A brief passage from "Take Me to the Water" is resonating with particular force right now:

If the Christians do not believe in their Saviour (who has certainly, furthermore, failed to save them) why, then, wonder the unredeemed, should I abandon my gods for yours? For I know my gods a real: they have enabled me to withstand you.

January 17, 2024

During the winter of 2021, when the COVID pandemic was at its height, I started reading through A. Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. I'd had an edition that reproduced the stories as they appeared in the British periodical The Strand, with illustrations, for many years, but hadn't opened it before then. I returned to the book the following winter, and read the second volume of stories. It then sat in my bookcase until early this month after I returned from a difficult few weeks in Maine helping my mom move out of her house. The memories of those weeks c/w the looming malevolent chaos of the incoming Trump regime made the prospect of losing myself in the relatively orderly late Victorian/early Edwardian world of Holmes appealing again. So I've picked up where I left off and am zipping through The Hound of the Baskervilles, which I'm finding a very amiable companion for these winter nights and occasional mornings with coffee.

January 12, 2025

I saw the new reboot of Nosferatu with a friend yesterday afternoon, and thought it was a good but not a great film. Visually, it's stunning, and its handling of the vampire myth is provocative, if not unproblematic. The film follows earlier versions of the story, notably F.W. Murnau's 1922 silent expressionist masterpiece and Werner Herzog's 1979 take, in many respects, notably in its handling of the Count's destruction and in its portrayal of him as a ghoulish figure instead of the dashing if menacing aristocrat of 19th century British appropriations of the myth, Bram Stoker's chief among them. Where it differs from those earlier versions (if memory serves) is in its foregrounding of some of the subtexts of the myth. The film more explicitly blurs the lines between reason and unreason, conscious and unconscious, by portraying the Count as a shadow in many scenes, and (until its climax) suggesting that his interactions with Ellen, the main female character/victim, occur in dreams. The clear implication of these scenes is that the vampire is a product of repressed female desires. The Count all but acknowledges this in a later dream-exchange with Ellen when he declares, "I am appetite," and the film's graphic portrayal of his feeding -- the amplified sounds of his jaws piercing the flesh of his victims, and of his gulping down their blood -- emphasizes the physical, and minimally displaced sexual nature of his predation. The rational male world is of course powerless to combat the contagion that this repression produces, and the female characters, in particular Ellen, are given a more prominent role in the film's unfolding, and more agency in its outcome.

What I found problematic about all this was the film's evident unwillingness to interrogate more forcefully the fiercely gendered worldview that undergirds treatments of the vampire myth from the past two centuries. The cozy equation of rational/masculine || irrational/feminine has of course been deconstructed extensively in politics, art, and scholarship over the past half century. Klaus Kinski's portrayal of the vampire in Herzog's film as a weak victim of his own appetites -- a sort of blood junkie -- was a striking departure from the older gendering of the myth. Swedish actor Bill Skarsgård's vampire, arguably the the strongest presence in the film, is very much a traditionally masculine figure; and Ellen and the other female characters in the film, if featured more prominently in the storyline, are nonetheless conventionally feminine. Director Robert Eggers seems to have privileged recreating the mid-19th century Europe in which the film is set over engaging with the current political and cultural climate in which it is being consumed. This is a balance that any period piece has to grapple with; and while conscientious politics often don't go together with great art, art that sidesteps the hot button issues its subject matter engages with, it seems to me, will always in some measure be lacking.

January 10, 2025

😑

(Restroom visit before my mammogram this morning.)

 

January 8, 2025

Battleship, duck edition.