I didn’t think I’d be writing this so soon.
I figured this would mostly be my emergency channel, for things like discovering a really good Reuben sandwich.
I’m unaccustomed to attention. You know, like, I think I’m fascinating, but I always figured that was because I have boring taste. I mean, one of my favorite composers is Tobias Hume, whose biography on Wikipedia is about the most forgiving piece of writing I’ve ever seen. Basically, it consists of several paragraphs of talking about everything except for his musical career, as if to distract you from it, then when they finally do explain about his music the tone is one of, “He’s not really very good at playing cello, and his stuff wasn’t very popular. But it really was interesting. Honestly. Also — oh! He was a Navy captain. So there is that too.”
Not very encouraging.
I mean, not to belabor a boring point, but there’s this movie that I absolutely love. Well, love is a strong term. Well, term is a misleading word. I watched it, once, in half hour chunks, over the relaxing period of several weeks. It’s called Valhalla Rising, and it stars Mads Mikkelson as a one-eyed viking type person who’s been enslaved to fight in gladiator style mud-wrestling matches in order to settle territory disputes between tribal chieftains in Norway, and it’s strongly implied that Mads Mikkelson’s character is Odin. Kind of. I mean, it’s as much about all that as it is about the self-invention that occurs during early puberty.
Anyway, while being all of that — or not that, as the case may be — Valhalla Rising may or may not also be what they call an art film.
Which I’m trying not to say. Because you know how we feel about art films.
Okay, fine. Valhalla Rising is an art film. It’s directed by a dude called Nicolas Winding Refn. I don’t know the school or the politics of Mr. Refn, but I can tell you with almost legitimate authority that Valhalla Rising is an example of film making that uses desolation and silence as artistic devices.
Which is the point when I ought to avoid the instinct to defend how much I like it by saying, “It’s beautiful, though. No, really. It is.”
To be fair, I have described the movie, on more than one occasion, as an incredible example of artistic boredom . At another time, I’ve said it’s a lot like a satisfying nap.
That is the kind of thing I like. That’s the kind of thing that fascinates me.
And so, you know, sometimes I look at myself and think, “That corpulent blunderer is a forgivable use of space. He might be a little too fascinated by watching bread starter grow — he makes that observation about Dr. Pepper and the prunes often enough to stretch the boundaries of good taste — he might be just a little too obvious about how satisfying it is when pudding jiggles to be entirely sane. But, you know what? He’s okay by me.”
So I like myself okay. But I also find oatmeal with melted butter on top fascinating, so, you know, that’s all about me.
I was going to write letters from Endnotes to you folks according to some special occasions. Things like announcing important progress on the writer’s adventure I’m on, and when there was a particularly relevant astronomical event, or just when I was having a particularly good hair day.
About a month ago, I also decided to start writing youse guys at particular arbitrary milestones of community growth. The arbitrary nature of the milestones is talk for another day.
Thing is, though, about a month ago, the arbitrary milestone that prompted the idea was getting a hundred followers of Endnotes. I thought a hundred seemed like a pretty hefty achievement, to be honest, since everything in Endnotes is by me. For boringness quotient see above oatmeal image. And I figured it’d be months — years — eons, probably — before I hit another arbitrary milestone of community growth.
So, you know, life is weird, because in a month, the community has grown from a hundred to five hundred.
Which is cool. Because you are cool.
So that’s cool.
I guess it’s a good moment for an update then on my adventure.
I’ve been writing a lot. That’s the main update.
How’s your adventure?
