“Q: What made you decide to start composing your own film scores? Was it out of financial necessity, or because you felt you could capture the atmosphere of your films better than someone else?
JC: I composed the score for my first film Dark Star because I was cheap and fast. I talked to a couple of other composers but they all seemed weird. One guy had glitter all over him. Not that wearing glitter is a bad thing… it just didn’t inspire confidence.”—
My respect for John Carpenter soared after reading this interview, mostly due to quotes like this:
Your scores have been cited by a lot of modern synth/ noise/ underground bands as a huge influence. Are you aware of this? What do you think of the resurgence in interest in your scores, as well as those of Goblin or Vangelis? Is it a case of people catching on belatedly to the innovations you spear-headed?
JC: I’m flattered by this. But there are also tribute bands to the scores from Sonic the Hedgehog and Mega Man video games so I try to keep this stuff in perspective.
“Romance languages eluded me both generally and specifically; nothing was as cryptic and ripe for misunderstanding as the physical language of a boy’s love. What was an involuntary grimace I took to be rapture. What was a simple natural masculine compulsion to be in, to tunnel and thrust, I saw as a tender desire to be sweetly engulfed and at least momentarily overpowered by another’s devoted attentions. What was an urgent, automatic, back-and-forth of the body I thought of as the eternal romantic return of the lover. Kissing was not animal appetite but the heart flying up to the lips and speaking its unique attraction and deep eternal fondnesses in the only way it could. The juddering of climax, as involuntary as a death rattle, I took to be a statement of hopeless attachment. Why, I don’t know.”—
Lorrie Moore, A Gate at the Stairs
Well hi there, the entirety of my 20’s. So nice of you to come and slap me in the face. Don’t let the door bang your ass on the way out. Oy.
—Jhal Arn, Emperor of the Mid-Galactic Empire 200,000 years in the future, to John Gordon, twentieth-century time traveler, in Edmond Hamilton’s Return to the Stars
In my time we shook hands. We shook—in fear; in the sweet depleting tremor following sex. In my time we shook hands, stabbed backs, held heads high, girded loins, and gritted teeth, we never dreamed this bodyspeech would ever change, but that was our presumption: nobody dances the quadrille any longer, and few of us play mumbletypeg. Spittoons are scarce, and serious genuflection. Who are we, to claim a version of eternity for the high-five? In my time, we “gave the finger”: [ ]. This was the “cuckold sign”: [ ]. And this here, making a little pare-the-apple motion in the air alongside your temple: [ ]: “he’s crazy.” In my time we were crazy; how about yours? We really thought the oxygen and the oil and the waters had renewal-magic written in their molecular code, but we were wrong. Some of us wore helmets shaped of tinfoil, to repel the brain-invasion rays from Mars; and some of us believed the second marriage would be effortless, we’d learned so much from the uselessly steaming engine of the first. We wept—presumably you weep? You hold your head in your hands as if you’re considering bowling it down the alley of broken hopes? Or have you somehow evolved past bowling and sorrow? What do you do for laughter? Do you “hold your ribs”? Or “slap your knees”? In my time there was laughter, still. Its eye-rhyme “slaughter” was plentiful, but we laughed in the painfully godforsaken crannies. We made “the sign of the cross,” we thought “outside of the box,” and we kissed asses. In my time there was rhyme. I made a few of those myself. We hugged. We gave the “rump bump” and the “knuckle bump” and the “booty shake.” That latter of course was not indulged in by everybody. In my time there were numerous times, which passed in the hospital respirator ward in ways unthought-of in the honeymoon suite with its balcony doors agape to let the nearby moon illumine the love being made in a wash of sterling silver. Maybe there were as many times as there was us. In “my” time in my time, as I said, I dabbled away at “poetry,” I took my time. I brought a book of many words to an emptiness in my heart, and I shook them out in there, to fill it. In my time I wrote this very thing. In your time you read it.
“Many voices ask for our attention. There is a voice that says, ‘Prove that you are a good person.’ Another voice says, ‘You’d better be ashamed of yourself.’ There also is a voice that says, ‘Nobody really cares about you,’ and one that says, ‘Be sure to become successful, popular, and powerful.’ But underneath all these often very noisy voices is a still, small voice that says, ‘You are my Beloved, my favor rests on you.’ That’s the voice we need most of all to hear. To hear that voice, however, requires special effort; it requires solitude, silence, and a strong determination to listen. That’s what prayer is. It is listening to the voice that calls us ‘my Beloved.’”—Henri Nouwen (via recycledsoul)