Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

 The fire pit hisses in the scattered rain. Dark drops crash against uprooted spruce, As I take respite in the fire away from the frantic talk. An Afghan Whigs album on the turntable struggles  To rise above the bustle and hiss. The river beckons. I must hover.

Yasujuru Ozu's A Story of Floating Weeds (1934) and its remake Floating Weeds (1959) are masterworks in drama. Each tells the story of a traveling kabuki theatre troupe visiting cities on the Seto Inland Sea. The films' primary conflict revolves around the owner's excursions to visit his former mistress and their grownup son, who believes that the actor is his uncle. The lead actress becomes jealous when she finds out. She pays a younger actress to seduce the son, an act that complicates everything. Meanwhile the troupe's fortunes take a downturn as audiences are more interested in newer styles.  Both films include an amazing scene where the kabuki master and his mistress shout across a rainy street while walking back and forth, which reinforces their alienation and disconnection. Like many of Ozu's pillow and low-angle shots, he deftly builds characterization and setting through placement. Perhaps, the character studies and relationships in each are at their must s...

Reading Palookaville. Arkansas past midyear. I'm waiting for fall to begin. Far away from winter snows, Metaphorically and literally. In the enduring humidity, I turn away. I'd give anything for a cold rain or a sad autumn day. I think I just wrote lyrics to an emo song, circa 1996. Don't hold that against me. 2020 needs to end.

The side streets are slick and worn as I walk daily to the college working on frustrations as old as time in holey shoes and slighted ambition My twisted ankle, my mucked up transmission tiny travesties leading to submission of mind, of thought, of body rot in flooded back alleys and musty university towns I walk past solemn green and dirty brick a facade thrown across the earth darkened windows hide secrets in the midst of wind-bent trees The fragile ecosystem of roadwork and wax shelters my way through the days past Sycamores and White Oaks unlit houses and the cries of feral cats

The trees lean in the hazardous downpour, soaking up life-giving water like a thirsty woman gulping the last breath of tainted air. The rain is heavy on my back; the air is electric with the dampening light of midmorning, misting until the dampened t-shirt is a boon companion. "Here we go," I mutter to myself, soaking in my surroundings. I'm going in, not coming out. The morning hike is medicinal, cleansing. This is a rehabilitation, a divining, a benediction. Here I go deeper into the forest. I won't return until night.