when properly aligned

thoughts.
surise gets me every time.
something about a new day.
another chance at everything.
it's only when we live in yesterday that we lose this oppourtunity.

so i choose today.
but we are products of yesterday.
we don't have to be.

not anymore.

The End of Irony pt 2

2/27/07: NEW VERSION. I ditched the orange plant. I added part 6, the conclusion, a major tone change, I want to know how it works. I want to know if it is clear that the subject has changed each paragraph, even when the pronoun remains the same. If you have a second, read the first part, too, to get a sense of the overall piece and let me know if you see any cohesion or arc here. I'm really insecure about using this as a conclusion, and I think I might very well change it completely. Also, you are in it, how's that? I know you're busy, though.

[I did a bit more writing on the piece below. I don't care whether you read the previous bit first or not. The last few paragraphs are too disconnected from each other; hopefully more writing will bring them together. I'll update this post with new versions as they are created. I'm in the middle of my process, just when I most crave your thoughts.]

4.

"in their Deserts of moss¹, quiet,
They² prepare precious panels³
Where the city4
Will paint false skies."
--Rimbaud, Une Saison en Enfer

4The becoming collective that I must do: the becoming one that we must do, the becoming god that our holy writs prevent, the becoming citizen that allows us to live outside a prison, the process makes us lust after pixels, this is why we bare our souls and breasts to hyperspace; in the end, if we cannot be human inside our skin, then we will be outside, in the empty data points flung into rivers of light, the internet, into which I spill'd my seed once and again, so that I may become you, all of you. Will this collective always remain the elite, always dreaming delusions of universality? Our greedy fingers have reached past the mirror, seeking flesh to caress or contests to win, and my hand is stuck, behind the mirror.

² “They” were the carpenters, the cablerunners, streetpavers, I.T. nerds. The age of the union has given way to the collective dream, the great promise of syndicalism behind us. When all pleasure lies at the end of my fingertips, why do I still need to eat? ³Raw information needs a material to be projected upon, that material is still manufactured, somewhere. Taiwan, I presume.

¹It is a desert, the real, inhabited by screens, where each stares across their own projected world, thinking only of the self. Networks formed at a glance, friendships declared so loosely, and flesh will never be violated. No blood; semen the only liquid spilled to stain this earthly portal, and the screen wipes itself with the delete key.

5.
The dark glance of paranoia has fallen across my computer screen. I have always used my real name on the internet, because I like my name. But can we show our name to the demons of society, in an age when the most vulnerable asset is your identity? The only answer to this, is do not try to stem the tide of idenitity theft (no computercriminal is going to enjoy prison), but rather to renounce our identities. At first, an easy step, a username change. Soon, we will have no choice, because our names have melded with eachother in hyperspace; soon, we will each assume many virtual names; any may usurp the original. The death of the subject is upon us! Break the mirrors that formed us! Perhaps it will be a painful step for the mallgoers to feel the death of their ego, and prophets and profits will be made in the process. Or perhaps it will be easy. I was always partial to revolution, so I imagine it.

Of all that I have held in my palms, lithe humanity is the most fleeting. Or, at least, so it ought to be. Skin unknown to foreign touch, colonized instantly, brought into unceasing labor for a glance off dark flesh. At once, my skin knows its duty, and its allegiance lies not with me; I, who gave it life, nurtured it through its sensitive years with hot water and dermatological punishment, its duty lies not with me. It was not made for itself, it was made to plug itself into a vast network of flesh, for reasons far beyond simple reproduction.

It is only an envelope to contain a reservoir of fluid, entrails. Which at the slightest puncture will reveal itself, all over the floor. Which at the slightest pleasure, will manufacture itself all over the sheets. I am wet, soaked through and inbetween. But electrons must stay dry to remain in my control; lightning must be dried to be used.

6.
The first email he had ever sent, he sent to me, to ask for a friend on the outside. Just someone to have a beer with. He left prison after thirty years, stuck in Pink Floyd days. He left prison with a manuscript; five hundred pages, completely unpublishable-I never had the heart to tell him that. The vastness must have swallowed him; I’ve heard nothing.

Bengal’s state government is selling peasant land to multinational corporations, under the guise of a “special economic zone.” They are one of the last governments to do so; they have been communist for thirty years, and have valued peasant rights above all else. The peasants have no choice but to reassert themselves, this time as guerrillas.

She still hallucinates every day, despicably. They are not of her. But the medication helps her not care. She will continue to create.

I cannot suppress my rage against myself. I cannot fill my void. I spend hours looking online for the direction, which fuels only my paranoia. I long for my feet underneath my body, carrying me on.

While we wage a global war against opiates, burning entire crops, hospitals are running out of morphine.

She spends every minute trying to integrate herself into an economy that can never understand her. She leaves a void in my bed, she slowly fades into abstraction.

We must give aid to Ethiopia; Africa’s second most populous and poor country cannot feed itself. But the government routinely imprisons and tortures dissenters, mostly teachers. How can we support this, with our dollars? But when Islamists in Somolia threaten the entire continent with the very extremism our America is pitted against, who else can we rely on to suppress them?

He used to be a painter, but rehab cured him of that. Colorful messes that covered the earth. Now he is back to survival, because life is too long to be lived in simple moments of ecstasy punctuated with self-loathing. His absence is still palpable, two years later.

A Thesis of the Public

Just wrote this for a class. Reading it without indents and separate quotes is a little difficult, but it'll have to do. I also will not bother with the footnotes. Jed, you might look for the fascism I am both expressing and covering over here; I think Deleuze and Badiou were weighing heavy on me when I wrote this.

The public is one, and the public is many − it is, perhaps, a too platitudinous formulation, reminding us only of what we quite readily understand: that the whole is both itself and its parts. Verily, we might say with Nietzsche, “‘public’ is a mere word. In no sense is it a homogenous and constant quality.” The term is ambiguous. It does not refer to anyone in particular; we might even speak of multiple publics (a political public, a television public, a national public, a cosmopolitan public). But let us prod the formula just a bit. What is this business of a ‘one’ and a ‘many’? Ought we to understand ‘public’ as a relation of whole to parts, as ‘One’ to its innumerable representations? Finally: if the ‘public’ is One, what, if any manner of singularity remains among the ‘many’?

Our aim will not be to answer questions like these, but rather to point towards a thinking which has already engaged them. Here, we take ‘thinking’ in a universal, non-localized sense. The discussion could start anywhere that a concept of a public is already in play. The method is loosely dialectical: we start with a thesis about ‘publicness,’ and then proceed to treat potential antitheses and syntheses. As we shall ultimately see, our preliminary questions are not wholly spurious. The ‘One’ may or may not be precisely the remainder left over after any investigation of publicness.

*

In Being and Time, Martin Heidegger provides his complex and infinitely multifaceted ontology. This ontology involves an idea of a public [öffentlichkeit]: “Distantiality, averageness, and leveling down, as ways of Being for the “they”, constitute what we know as ‘publicness.’” Without delving too deeply into the Heideggerian nexus of neologisms, we can grasp the philosopher’s meaning in brief. Publicness describes the character of everyday human existence (we can do without the term Dasein here), and it takes the form of a game of catch-up with one’s peers [distantiality]. Caught in (‘fallen’ into) this manner of social existence, we are suspicious of anything or anyone exceptional [averageness], and consequently, we seek to place everything on a common standing [leveling down]. Such paraphrasing is tenuous, as is any effort to de-ontologize Heidegger, but from this short delineation we get at a workable thesis of ‘public,’ one which is marked by what we might call a problem of public truth. “By publicness,” Heidegger writes, “everything gets obscured, and what has thus been covered up gets passed off as something familiar and accessible to everyone.”

This is a controversial thesis, and the ‘what’ or ‘whom’ of Heidegger’s ‘public’ must remain elusive to us (declining the opportunity to debate the ontological status of the “they” [das Man]). Heidegger has been translated for us, and it is thus intrinsically problematic that we treat a sentence, such as the one just cited, as if Heidegger had been using the English term ‘public’ in his original text. Yet, this fact only reaffirms that we must treat with our concept elastically, allowing its connotative significance to flourish, however vague it may be. Our thesis, then, comes from the last quoted sentence. ‘By publicness, everything gets obscured.’ This axiom, as I hinted above, points us towards the question of ‘public truth’: granted that the public acts as Heidegger theorizes (‘distancing’ us, endearing us to ‘averageness,’ ‘leveling down’ the exceptional), what precisely is getting obscured? Further, if something is obscured, ought we not to seek to uncover it? The question becomes acutely personal: if what Heidegger says is true, and we are all alike submitted to a public which ‘covers up’ and ‘obscures’ − if one accepts this thesis, in all its levity and scope, what does one do next?

To distill the thesis and explore the consequences of such a thinking of publicness, we move now from the Heideggerian exegesis to an investigation of Buddhist literature. It is here that we find luculent images of the public− “the people of today who add branches and vines on top of branches and vines, all the time going far astray from the Truth.” Heidegger’s thought is rich with subtle characterizations of everyday life, and Being and Time effectively spells out how one can remain ‘authentic’ by holding fast to certain ‘moments of vision’. Yet, what Heidegger’s text lacks is any concise formulation of an imperative. His ontology gives us the ‘is’ of publicness, but no ‘ought’; never are we told that we should want to be authentic. Our thinking must turn to a path different from Heidegger’s now, a path with more certain aims.

As a framework for a Buddhist interpretation of publicness, consider the following two passages, written by the first and sixth patriarchs of Ch’an Buddhism:

You might think you can find a buddha or enlightenment somewhere beyond the mind, but such a place does not exist.

Learned Audience, our essence of mind, which is the seed or kernel of enlightenment, is pure by nature, and by making use of this mind alone we can reach buddhahood directly.

I place these quotations at the outset of the study to bring the question of public truth immediately to the fore. It would seem, from an extrapolary reading, that the patriarchs advocate a path leading to absolute privation: only in one’s own, individuated mind can one find enlightenment, only in the mind is there purity (as opposed to obscurity). Yet anyone at all familiar with Buddhism will know that such would be to grossly misconstrue the religion. Meditation practice does put you at a remove from your public existence, it is meant to set down all of the attributes of everyday existence which Heidegger describes, but it can nowise be said that privation is the aim. Consider two passages written by modern commentators on Zen poetry:

Man is fulfilled only when unseparated from his surroundings, however hostile they may appear.

…remaining indefinitely under the Bodhi tree will not do; to muse without emerging is to be unfulfilled.

Arresting here is the idea of ‘fulfillment’, and the Heideggerian will be reminded of ‘authenticity’, which, in Heidegger’s understanding, is never possible ‘outside’ of public, ‘fallen’ existence, but only from within it.

We have just set up a synthetic binary the destruction of which will be the purpose of the remaining pages. The opposition is between eremitism on the one hand, and what we will call ‘bodhissatvaism’ on the other. By eremitism, I indicate the aforementioned tendency towards privation; the second term refers to the bodhissatva, the Buddhist practitioner who has vowed to save all sentient creatures, thus sacrificing his or her personal liberation from the cycle of rebirth to help others gain their own enlightenment. The binary is merely synthetic, artificial, because its poles are only representative of certain ‘moods.’ The following is a poem in the ‘eremitic mood’:

Why bother with the world?
Let others go gray, bustling east, west.
In this mountain temple, lying half-in
Half-out, I’m removed from joy and sorrow.

Starting with the bluntness of the question in the first line, the motif here would seem to be a celebration of privation. The poet, Ryushu, has achieved awakening away from the ‘general public,’ removed to the mountain temple. Yet, we must notice that even Ryushu, who has gained enlightenment and is ready to ‘let others go gray’ is still ‘lying half-in, half-out’, unable or unwilling to remove fully into sequestered existence.

In our present discourse, Ryushu represents the individual who has overcome the obscurities of publicness, renounced all connection to the everyday world, and who, for all that has been gained, still does not leave that world entirely behind. His poem dips far towards the pole of eremitism, but it does not expel the will of the bodhissatva. This will, taking the form of an imperative to spread the message and fruit of Buddhist practice, is vital to our understanding of Buddhism’s reconfiguration of public truth. It is manifest in the literature, as well as in the history of the tradition− for instance, in Dogen’s decision to curtail the elitism of Zen poetry, leading to a transition to an indigenous Japanese verse form. Buddhism is not characterized by missionary zeal in the traditional sense, but it places great stake in how its teachings are disseminated, and this brings us to an entirely new level of consideration in interrogating the idea of the ‘public’: even in the religion which first and foremost seeks liberation from an obscured (illusive) everyday, a renewed materialization of the public is inevitable.

This is the public of practitioners, about whom the masters of the religion must always ask themselves ‘How shall we communicate with the community? How shall we make them want liberation, and how show them the way?’ An entirely new public presents itself− the sangha− which presents its own range of concerns and sources of ‘distantiality’ to its members. Buddhism reveals the depth of its circumspection here, as it has thought through this matter on its own. The main question of the three just posed, one which we asked ourselves at the end of the study of Heidegger, is the question of how one comes to desire liberation. Confronted with a public existence which ‘obscures everything’, what does one come to desire? What does one do? What ought one to do?

The Buddhist tradition is filled with figures whose very vocation in life was an answer to this question. I am speaking of the recluse poets. I turn briefly now to one such poet, a recluse of sorts: twentieth-century writer, Ozaki Hosai. Hosai’s haiku are characterized by a playful rediscovery both of language and of the contemporanaity of natural events. With regard to our present inquiry into the question of publicness and public truth, Ozaki holds a special insight. It comes in the tiny phrase, ‘I throw out aloneness.’ This declaration provides a momentous turning point for our discourse, but in a rather subtle, even minimalist way. In one sense, there is here the sovereignty of the ego, the underlying, radical capacity of the ‘I’ to quell its despairing moods. This is not the sense we ultimately want to give to Ozaki here, but we need to look elsewhere to understand why.

We will return to Ozaki by building back through the stories of the patriarchs. The enlightenment story of the Sixth Patriarch, Hui-neng, is one of the most cherished of such stories in the tradition. Happening to overhear a reading of a sentence from the Diamond Sutra, Hui-neng spontaneously awakened to the essence of the mind, removing the obscurity (illusion) which had previously covered it over. What is the sentence that causes this enlightenment? “One should use one’s mind in such a way that it will be free from any attachment.” The line is by no means remarkable in itself; it is a basic teaching of Buddhism. Yet, a moment ago, I asked the question of the ‘ought’− what ought one to do having learned what ‘publicness’ is?− and here that question is answered. Hui-neng is enlightened precisely by an ‘ought.’ It is not an imperative directly involving our Heideggerian thesis of the public, but it is an ‘ought’ all the same.

The significance of this story for us lies in the public nature of Hui-neng’s awakening. He hears another speak; this other, a member of some public, if only one as ‘innocent’ as the sangha, reads from a sutra; and the line which enlightens Hui-neng is the one which tells him how he must use his mind. Here, we find just how conclusively we can break down the earlier-formulated opposition between eremitism and bodhissatvaism: the injunction to Hui-neng is privative (it appeals to his mind, his use of his mind), but it comes from a certain type of public, and ultimately, by leading him to become the Sixth Patriarch, it brings him to the fore of that same public realm.

When Hui-neng was enlightened, he realized “that all things in the universe are the essence of mind itself.” This understanding of the world eliminates any possible distinction between private and public realms. This is Buddhism’s recant of the ‘problem of public truth.’ One is always already in a public station: one acts publicly, one responds publicly, one is even enlightened publicly. Thus, when Ryushu attains enlightenment and writes his poem in spite of the external world, it is only one step in the cycle; this is why he must remain half-in, half-out. Privation and public being are only moods within a single practice. Bodhidharma writes,

"Responding, perceiving, arching your brows, blinking your eyes, moving your hands and feet, it’s all your miraculously aware nature. And this nature is the mind. And the mind is the buddha. And the buddha is the path. And the path is zen. But the word zen is one that remains a puzzle to both mortals and sages. Seeing your nature is zen. Unless you see your nature, it’s not zen."

*
We reach a point in our investigation when every single aspect of the question of publicness seems to slide into a single, connected progression. Bodhidharma takes us to our mundane activities, and astounds us by telling us that these are part of our ‘miraculously aware nature.’ ‘This nature is the mind’: there is in fact nothing privative here, because mind is also buddha, and buddha the path, and the path zen. Zen− the mystery, the puzzle to all men−, is to see one’s nature. And one’s nature is nothing else than the mundane activities of responding, perceiving, and arching one’s brows.

These activities, likewise, are the ways of one’s Being-with. They belong to the realm of publicness, and thereby to public distantiality, averageness, and leveling down. All of this is characteristic of the mind. “All things are the manifestation of the essence of the mind.” Ozaki’s statement ‘I throw out aloneness’ does not in fact reaffirm the ‘I.’ It could, in one sense, be understood as an imperative. “I, throw out aloneness.” The privative ego renounces its voluntary privation. The statement is more revealing still taken in the context of the patriarchs’ comments. If the mind is synonymous with ‘nature’ and ‘buddha’− if everything external is the manifestation of the very essence of mind, then surely, it is impossible to be alone. By the same token, there is nothing left that can be called ‘I.’ With neither the ‘I’ nor ‘aloneness,’ there is nothing to be thrown out. Ozaki’s haiku reveals the auto-nihilation of privation.

We are thus left with vastly reconfigured conceptions of the public, publicness, and public truth. Beginning with Heidegger’s thesis of publicness as something which obscures and covers over, we were led to the question of an ought. The ought takes the form of an awakening to the singular nature of mind and things, an uncovering of what the public has covered over. Obscurity: this is nothing other than what Buddhism calls Illusion. It is the public in which we immerse ourselves, and it is the public which covers over −− everything. And what is everything if not One? The mind, the many: all One? And is the ‘public’ a part of this One, covering also itself over? What is this strange, Eleatic prism that seems to be generating its own light?

found this stuffed in the pocket of a coat i hadn't worn in ages. it was scribbled (almost illegibly) on a napkin from my favorite buffet-style chinese restaurant. i suppose i wrote it there.

if you listen with intent
you can hear the truth in lies
the pain in words that hide them.
if you watch with focused mind
you can see the worth in actions
see the secrets words can cover.
we soon forget and air escapes
it returns when we remember

then leaves again at the same thoughts.

so meander on exactly as we will
tomorrow brings another chance
again.

kerouac's typewriter

Ambulatory revelations of the quixotic

"ten thousand sons of god" -lotus sutra, author unknown; holy text-

"we are seeking only the precise meaning that our consciousness gives to this word 'exist,' and we find that, for a conscious being, to exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly" -creative evolution, henri bergson; early twentieth century philosopher, outshined by the phenomenological movement, during world war I was sent by the french and british to implore woodrow wilson to enter the war on the side of the allies, a favor they would repay in turn by supporting the founding of the league of nations-

"modern democracy does not abolish sacred life but rather shatters it and disseminates it into every individual body, making it into what is at stake in political conflict. And the root of modern democracy's secret biopolitical calling lies here..." -homo sacer, giorgio agamben; contemporary theory-

"the human soul is contained in the nerves of the body; about their physical nature I, as a layman, cannot say more than that they are extraordinarily delicate structures-- comparable to the finest filaments-- and that the total mental life of a human being rests on their excitability by external impressions." -memoirs of my nervous illness, daniel paul schreber; late nineteenth century schizophrenic-

"cook me in your breakfast and put me on your plate, you know I taste great, yeah you know I taste great" -at the hop (nino rojo), devendra banhart; singer, model, hobo, and bard---

The End of Irony

[this is a work in progress, and I beg your feedback, or back-feeding]
1.
true violence is ahistorical, it happens every day, and it leaves an unsightly stain upon the carpet. Not a rupture in time, but a continuity. Houses shield thousands of battered and bruised families, molested and beaten, from public view. Prisons have drains on the floor to absorb the blood.

“One good thing could come from this horror: It could spell the end of the age of irony. For some 30 years--roughly as long as the Twin Towers were upright--the good folks in charge of America's intellectual life have insisted that nothing was to be believed in or taken seriously.”—Roger Rosenblatt in Time after September 11

Nothing will ever be the same. The millennium has begun with fire raining from the sky. Was that what they were saying in Africa that day, too?

These people want me to rely on extreme violence to segment my reality. This, presumably, being said now, at least relative. He said that before September 11, nobody believed in death. I, for one, am glad that irony is dead.

“For once, let's have no fatuous rhetoric about ‘healing.’ Healing is inappropriate now, and dangerous…What's needed is a unified, unifying, purple American fury--a ruthless indignation that doesn't leak away in a week or two, wandering off into Prozac-induced forgetfulness or into the next media sensation (O.J.... Elian... Chandra...) or into a corruptly thoughtful relativism”—Lance Marrow, the same edition of Time.

I have seen the face of fascism, drawn in by its angular lasciviousness, stoked rage with rage and licked black leather boots. I have been engorged in fear, have let the television shepherd me through this age of strife, beset on all sides by the inequities of men sedated by relativism. But I climax easily, and in my postcoital malaise I return to the tenderness of the permissive amoral America that the liberal media has built for me. Did the terrorists use irony to kill irony? Am I a terrorist?

Perhaps my words seethe because I have healed, and so I am inappropriate, and dangerous. I sit in silence, letting my mind vibrate with the oldest syllables. My kitchen provides me the purest sustenance, I am nearly free from the tyranny of instant food.

2.
Daily violence left a stain on the cement, also, thousands of times, both before and after this Age of Terror. Perhaps the police got to the scene first and forced the bodies to lie there, on the pavement where they had landed, for hours and hours while they analyzed. stroked the soft skin with chemicals to recapture the past. Or maybe they don’t care enough. And then, who cleans up the mess? I’ve never seen that picture before, the man with a mop, with bleach, rubber gloves, scrubbing away the stain. Or perhaps the rain does it.

They said he was trying to escape. They said he was killed in a fight, in the yard. Two bullets landed in his back. The world is constantly on fire, eaten into by decay, by desire.

The sewers know this, creeks of fire run under our streets burble into themselves, leave smelly streaks on the inside of our houses, out of sight, bleached sterile by overuse of Drano.

To stain earth would be easier to clean; scuffle around for a few days, let the dust return to dust. But asphalt relies only on storm drains, which subsume themselves, and cigarette butts too. and all that is immortal in food consumed. And I would like to see where those tubes of rot meet the sea, and to see if there is any filter, any condom, there.

I have good taste for all forms of consumption; purity enters my eyes and ears from the magnificent producers of my culture, you who have produced me. You, who may judge this text, fruit of my leisurely labor, must know this.

Perhaps the police stained the asphalt, stained the asphalt with real black blood, I saw it one night, I saw him, hog-tied face down in the middle of the intersection. Shame. I turned my back. I saw his head held down, his tongue lick the wet asphalt. I turned my back. I consented on behalf of all of us who remain, for the time being, unhandcuffed. Shame. That I could not face my shame; I turned my back.

3.
Those words were brought here by a machine. That same one that makes unreality on the screen, it made me here, completely without special effects. That which manufactured me; nurtured me, caressed my young ears. In the iron belly of that war machine lurked irony, and now it has burned away as men in suits leaped to their death. Unimagined, each step always-already unimagined. born on the top, the unshakeable beneficiary of every false revolution ever fought. I had no agency, I am a subject, routinely stripped of subjectivity by the screen. I will become a producer as they were, a producer of control and resistance, I will find fuel to replace the irony that burned away, to replace the fossil fuels that are irreplaceable.

“Video games are the first stage in a plan for machines to help the human race, the only plan that offers a future for intelligence.”—Sans Soliel

In Old German, Gamen meant joy. Before that, when the Goths said Gaman, they meant communion. The pre-Germanic root of the prefix ga- is a collective, and the suffix –mann is a person. The collective person. Video is very simple; it comes from the Latin for “I see.” So, somewhere, deep in our cultural consciousness, Videogame means “I see through the collective person.” It’s all right there in the dictionary.

Are we to embrace collective joy? What's in it for me?

All this wretched scentslessness

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed a fart away
Now it seems as if they rear to stay
Oh I believed in yesterday

Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be
There's a shadow hanging over me
Foggy day came suddenly

Why I let it go I don't know, it wouldn't stay
It stank something strong now I long for yesterday

Avon screening tonight (Thurs) at 7 pm! (come early!)

The avon has a special screening tonight at 7:00 pm. It is a 1927 German animated (silent) film called Prince Achmed, inspired by the Arabian Nights, and done in Turkish shadow puppet style. It will be accompanied by live music from the Silk Road Ensemble, which is a pet-project of Yo Yo Ma, and combines styles from the entire silk road stretching from Europe to China. They are amazing - summmer of 2005 I edited a video about their visit to RISD which had taken place in the fall, during which they put on some live performances that included an improvised video "conductor" system - it was pretty cool, and the link to that video and explanation is here:


Media Conductor

So now they are back visiting RISD for the time being, and this is one of their public performances. Promises to be GREAT. Please come (I hope we can put off the meeting until later - sorry Alex), its a once in a great while opportunity to see silent film with live music, especially this kind of music. I get out of class today at 6:20, and will head directly to the Avon, because I bet the line will be long already by that time.

Avon's Now Playing