29 August 2010
A Year in the Life
My beautiful niece, Eva Olive (who is as smart, funny, creative, and joyful as she is adorable) turned one last Sunday. Here she is.
28 August 2010
There Is a Girl Inside
One of my students recently wrote an essay about the 'undiscovery' of herself. She wrote about a morning when, looking in the mirror at a face she'd seen hundreds of thousands of times before, she felt as though a stranger was staring back at her. She worried about this at first but then took it to mean she was 'undiscovering' what she believed she had known in order to make room for what she was--hopefully--going to learn in the future, not only about herself, but about the world and how she views it.
Smart cookie, her.
I know that feeling really well, the long stare into my own eyes that leaves me questioning who's really in here. When I was younger, the answer was easy: singer, actress. All through high school, this is who I was. Singer, actress. I was the choir/theatre/forensics kid who liked to read and write but never more than I liked performing. On stage, I didn't have to deal with myself. On stage, I got to be somebody--anybody--else. That's not to say that I had serious self-esteem issues or that I hated the 'real' me, I just never let myself slow down enough to know her. For about four years straight, I was in a production of some kind nonstop, usually with three week windows in between that allowed only for sleeping, recharging, and gearing up for the next role.
I was not and am not a great actress, but I loved it, and passionate commitment goes a long way on stage. I was lucky that people thought I was good enough to keep casting me, never in anything really important, just school and college shows, but they were enough to keep my ever having to learn who I really am at bay. I had ideas, flashes of self, but they were always like the Northern Lights: bright, almost scary in other foreignness, and fleeting.
I got so used to playing parts, that I developed a public self that really doesn't gel with who I've always hoped to be. This public self is opinionated, brassy, and for years was the loudest and last one standing at most parties. I got to where I believed the only way someone could be interested in what I had to say was if I said it in an acid tone, or if I held court from my deluded and half-drunken perch in some dark room.
When you're wrapped in a steel overcoat, not much hurt gets through, but of course, neither does much light.
So, in my efforts to stop deflecting, to stop worrying about being hurt, to know the girl inside and to introduce her to everyone else, I'm writing this little self-indulgent post. If you've managed to hang in this long, thanks--I'm almost done. I just want you to know these few things about who I really am, so the next time we speak, you're clear about who you're talking to.
* I believe every person has something to offer the world, that no one is a waste, and that we all deserve to be happy.
* I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else. In every instance.
* Choosing to be alone so that someone I love could be happy is the hardest thing I've ever done.
* I really want you to know how beautiful I think you are, no matter who you are.
* No matter what story you're telling, if it matters to you, it matters to me.
* I am trying every day to deserve the incredible gifts I have been given.
* There is nothing more important than honesty, love, and passion.
There Is a Girl Inside, Lucille Clifton
there is a girl inside
she is randy as a wolf
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.
she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
she is a green girl
in a used poet.
she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
Smart cookie, her.
I know that feeling really well, the long stare into my own eyes that leaves me questioning who's really in here. When I was younger, the answer was easy: singer, actress. All through high school, this is who I was. Singer, actress. I was the choir/theatre/forensics kid who liked to read and write but never more than I liked performing. On stage, I didn't have to deal with myself. On stage, I got to be somebody--anybody--else. That's not to say that I had serious self-esteem issues or that I hated the 'real' me, I just never let myself slow down enough to know her. For about four years straight, I was in a production of some kind nonstop, usually with three week windows in between that allowed only for sleeping, recharging, and gearing up for the next role.
I was not and am not a great actress, but I loved it, and passionate commitment goes a long way on stage. I was lucky that people thought I was good enough to keep casting me, never in anything really important, just school and college shows, but they were enough to keep my ever having to learn who I really am at bay. I had ideas, flashes of self, but they were always like the Northern Lights: bright, almost scary in other foreignness, and fleeting.
I got so used to playing parts, that I developed a public self that really doesn't gel with who I've always hoped to be. This public self is opinionated, brassy, and for years was the loudest and last one standing at most parties. I got to where I believed the only way someone could be interested in what I had to say was if I said it in an acid tone, or if I held court from my deluded and half-drunken perch in some dark room.
When you're wrapped in a steel overcoat, not much hurt gets through, but of course, neither does much light.
So, in my efforts to stop deflecting, to stop worrying about being hurt, to know the girl inside and to introduce her to everyone else, I'm writing this little self-indulgent post. If you've managed to hang in this long, thanks--I'm almost done. I just want you to know these few things about who I really am, so the next time we speak, you're clear about who you're talking to.
* I believe every person has something to offer the world, that no one is a waste, and that we all deserve to be happy.
* I'd rather be hurt than hurt someone else. In every instance.
* Choosing to be alone so that someone I love could be happy is the hardest thing I've ever done.
* I really want you to know how beautiful I think you are, no matter who you are.
* No matter what story you're telling, if it matters to you, it matters to me.
* I am trying every day to deserve the incredible gifts I have been given.
* There is nothing more important than honesty, love, and passion.
There Is a Girl Inside, Lucille Clifton
there is a girl inside
she is randy as a wolf
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.
she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
she is a green girl
in a used poet.
she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
22 August 2010
Amen
From www.dailyom.com:
Without a Net
Living Life with TrustLiving life without a net can be just what we need to step outside of ourselves and make the choices we need most.
As we create the life of our dreams, we often reach a crossroads where the choices seem to involve the risk of facing the unknown versus the safety and comfort of all that we have come to trust. We may feel like a tightrope walker, carefully teetering along the narrow path to our goals, sometimes feeling that we are doing so without a net. Knowing we have some backup may help us work up the courage to take those first steps, until we are secure in knowing that we have the skills to work without one. But when we live our lives from a place of balance and trust in the universe, we may not see our source of support, but we can know that it is there.
If we refuse to act only if we can see the safety net, we may be allowing the net to become a trap as it creates a barrier between us and the freedom to pursue our goals. Change is inherent in life, so even what we have learned to trust can surprise us at any moment. Remove fear from the equation and then, without even wondering what is going on below, we can devote our full attention to the dream that awaits us.
We attract support into our lives when we are willing to make those first tentative steps, trusting that the universe will provide exactly what we need. In that process we can decide that whatever comes from our actions is only for our highest and best experience of growth. It may come in the form of a soft landing, an unexpected rescue or an eye-opening experience gleaned only from the process of falling. So rather than allowing our lives to be dictated by fear of the unknown, or trying to avoid falling, we can appreciate that sometimes we experience life fully when we are willing to trust and fall. And in doing so, we may just find that we have the wings to fly.
When we believe that there is a reason for everything, we are stepping out with the safety net of the universe, and we know we will make the best from whatever comes our way.
Living Life with Trust
As we create the life of our dreams, we often reach a crossroads where the choices seem to involve the risk of facing the unknown versus the safety and comfort of all that we have come to trust. We may feel like a tightrope walker, carefully teetering along the narrow path to our goals, sometimes feeling that we are doing so without a net. Knowing we have some backup may help us work up the courage to take those first steps, until we are secure in knowing that we have the skills to work without one. But when we live our lives from a place of balance and trust in the universe, we may not see our source of support, but we can know that it is there.
If we refuse to act only if we can see the safety net, we may be allowing the net to become a trap as it creates a barrier between us and the freedom to pursue our goals. Change is inherent in life, so even what we have learned to trust can surprise us at any moment. Remove fear from the equation and then, without even wondering what is going on below, we can devote our full attention to the dream that awaits us.
We attract support into our lives when we are willing to make those first tentative steps, trusting that the universe will provide exactly what we need. In that process we can decide that whatever comes from our actions is only for our highest and best experience of growth. It may come in the form of a soft landing, an unexpected rescue or an eye-opening experience gleaned only from the process of falling. So rather than allowing our lives to be dictated by fear of the unknown, or trying to avoid falling, we can appreciate that sometimes we experience life fully when we are willing to trust and fall. And in doing so, we may just find that we have the wings to fly.
When we believe that there is a reason for everything, we are stepping out with the safety net of the universe, and we know we will make the best from whatever comes our way.
21 August 2010
Amy Lowell
I've been reading Amy Lowell this morning, an imagist/feminist/modernist dream she is. I didn't like her much when we were first introduced--her Garden by Moonlight and Venus Transiens didn't inspire me or show me anything new. Maybe I was just a distracted college kid--well, not kid, exactly--hell bent on proving I had as much right to literature as the others in the room. I felt, in that class in particular, that there was some element of danger that could shift the scales at any moment and reveal us all for the frauds we were, too scared to write our own words, but terribly critical of everyone elses.
At any rate, this morning, I ran across something of Amy's that I have read before, last year in fact I remember coming across it and being stunned. Where much of her other work feels pulled back, hesitant, an observer on one side of the glass longing for the life on the opposite, this one feels to me like she is in it, participating in the moment she so perfectly describes. Maybe it's my mood today, the wet grass and oppressive air, maybe it's all this damn gray that won't seem to go, but today, I am living here:
At any rate, this morning, I ran across something of Amy's that I have read before, last year in fact I remember coming across it and being stunned. Where much of her other work feels pulled back, hesitant, an observer on one side of the glass longing for the life on the opposite, this one feels to me like she is in it, participating in the moment she so perfectly describes. Maybe it's my mood today, the wet grass and oppressive air, maybe it's all this damn gray that won't seem to go, but today, I am living here:
The Taxi, Amy LOWELL
When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
18 August 2010
Sorry, Leonard...I'm Busy
From his clearly deep and moving 1978 collection of poetry, Come Be with Me--the title of this post bears my response to his command--I give you an unparalleled gem...by Leonard Nimoy.
It is true that roses on a birthday ARE exciting--I don't begrudge him this statement--but they pale in comparison to rocket ships. Rocket ships can go into freaking space and you can look up close at stars and planets and the moon and stuff. Roses smell great, prick your fingers, and then die. They may transport you in an olfactory sense, but--and I'll say it again--rocket ships can go into FREAKING SPACE.
He makes a few other valid points, though. Logic, in fact, will never replace love. It can't: one is reasonable and the other uncontrollable, chemical, mystical, magical...I should probably stop myself before I start quoting Beatles lyrics.
The real problem I have with the poem--and I use that word with so much trepidation--is that the leaf print to the left has NO tie to the poem at all, and the last three words are an oxymoron; how can one be "an old-fashioned Spaceman," when spacemen are clearly from the future?
Jeesh. This guy.
It is true that roses on a birthday ARE exciting--I don't begrudge him this statement--but they pale in comparison to rocket ships. Rocket ships can go into freaking space and you can look up close at stars and planets and the moon and stuff. Roses smell great, prick your fingers, and then die. They may transport you in an olfactory sense, but--and I'll say it again--rocket ships can go into FREAKING SPACE.
He makes a few other valid points, though. Logic, in fact, will never replace love. It can't: one is reasonable and the other uncontrollable, chemical, mystical, magical...I should probably stop myself before I start quoting Beatles lyrics.
The real problem I have with the poem--and I use that word with so much trepidation--is that the leaf print to the left has NO tie to the poem at all, and the last three words are an oxymoron; how can one be "an old-fashioned Spaceman," when spacemen are clearly from the future?
Jeesh. This guy.
17 August 2010
As in Senegal
This week I have been trying to impress upon my students the importance of stories and how the ones we are told as we grow, the ones we believe, the ones that stay with us influence the people we become. This lesson has been central to the oral tradition of Native American literature--particularly as it relates to origin myths--and to the God fearing Puritans who were, in the words of Alfred Kazin, "certain of the next world but never sure of man in this one."
When discussing the ethnocentric view of the white settlers and their need to identify the Natives they encountered as savage or barbarian, I explained to my students that the settlers needed the narrative they created--their story--to make sense of a culture they weren't equipped to understand. Having been born and bred in a culture controlled by biblical and royal law, the whites didn't recognize the intricate and beautiful system of tribal codes and law that existed in this country long before they arrived.
This long preamble is here to set up what happened when I asked each class if any of them had ever experienced that feeling of complete lack of control that comes from being in a completely foreign situation. Many had, but this story stuck with me, and led me to develop the theory I'm going to get to in a minute (I swear I will--hang with me). One student said he had traveled to Senegal and, while there, rode in a car with a native driver. The thing that made him so uncomfortable was that Senegal has no traffic laws (since hearing this story, I've done some research and it appears there are laws, but they aren't strictly enforced or followed). The student said riding in a car there made him feel completely out of control and anxious because nothing that was happening--excessively exceeding speed limits and driving on sidewalks--made sense to him. Once he trusted his driver, though, every subsequent trip was easier to handle (though never totally peaceful).
The conclusion I've come to is that, in the U.S., we expect one another to adhere to a certain set of cultural laws and codes--as well as legal ones, like traffic laws--and those expectations lead us to make all sorts of dangerous assumptions. If I come to a stop sign, I believe the person approaching the intersection on the other side is going to follow the same rules I know to follow, so I don't actually have to pay them a great deal of attention. I can cruise to the stop sign and then cross the intersection without really looking up at all, as long as I believe the other driver will do what I expect her to. Whereas, in Senegal, the drivers are attuned to each other, watching for the other drivers' actions and responding in kind, being more aware of one another as opposed tuning into themselves so much that they don't really notice what's happening around them.
Which brings me to my point: wouldn't we all be better off if we stopped expecting one another to follow some obscure and in a lot of cases highly personal set of codes and laws and, instead, starting watching each other to see when we could pull ahead, when we needed to slow down, and when we need to stop altogether to allow someone else to move forward? It seems, lately, that many of my friends are caught in places of stasis because they feel so compelled to live according to someone else's expectations and not one of them, if I asked them to be really honest with me, would say they're happy about it.
So, my challenge is this: live your life as though you were a Senegalese driver, knowing your own progress only occurs if you are willing not to follow others rules, but to follow your own instincts, always watching for the break in the traffic that lets you move, even if only a few feet at a time, ever, only, always, forward.
When discussing the ethnocentric view of the white settlers and their need to identify the Natives they encountered as savage or barbarian, I explained to my students that the settlers needed the narrative they created--their story--to make sense of a culture they weren't equipped to understand. Having been born and bred in a culture controlled by biblical and royal law, the whites didn't recognize the intricate and beautiful system of tribal codes and law that existed in this country long before they arrived.
This long preamble is here to set up what happened when I asked each class if any of them had ever experienced that feeling of complete lack of control that comes from being in a completely foreign situation. Many had, but this story stuck with me, and led me to develop the theory I'm going to get to in a minute (I swear I will--hang with me). One student said he had traveled to Senegal and, while there, rode in a car with a native driver. The thing that made him so uncomfortable was that Senegal has no traffic laws (since hearing this story, I've done some research and it appears there are laws, but they aren't strictly enforced or followed). The student said riding in a car there made him feel completely out of control and anxious because nothing that was happening--excessively exceeding speed limits and driving on sidewalks--made sense to him. Once he trusted his driver, though, every subsequent trip was easier to handle (though never totally peaceful).
The conclusion I've come to is that, in the U.S., we expect one another to adhere to a certain set of cultural laws and codes--as well as legal ones, like traffic laws--and those expectations lead us to make all sorts of dangerous assumptions. If I come to a stop sign, I believe the person approaching the intersection on the other side is going to follow the same rules I know to follow, so I don't actually have to pay them a great deal of attention. I can cruise to the stop sign and then cross the intersection without really looking up at all, as long as I believe the other driver will do what I expect her to. Whereas, in Senegal, the drivers are attuned to each other, watching for the other drivers' actions and responding in kind, being more aware of one another as opposed tuning into themselves so much that they don't really notice what's happening around them.
Which brings me to my point: wouldn't we all be better off if we stopped expecting one another to follow some obscure and in a lot of cases highly personal set of codes and laws and, instead, starting watching each other to see when we could pull ahead, when we needed to slow down, and when we need to stop altogether to allow someone else to move forward? It seems, lately, that many of my friends are caught in places of stasis because they feel so compelled to live according to someone else's expectations and not one of them, if I asked them to be really honest with me, would say they're happy about it.
So, my challenge is this: live your life as though you were a Senegalese driver, knowing your own progress only occurs if you are willing not to follow others rules, but to follow your own instincts, always watching for the break in the traffic that lets you move, even if only a few feet at a time, ever, only, always, forward.
14 August 2010
Consciousness
Anne Lamott writes: "Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. When you're conscious and writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the lights on for your reader."
In the last year and a half, I have become that writer, the one I always said I would be one day. I take notes on receipts, try to carry a notebook with me wherever I go, jot ideas or images down on my hand in a pinch, and I have a good friend who reads every word, supports me, and offers feedback that helps me get better and stronger.
The piece missing from this puzzle, though, is that the light that is thrown on for your reader may also be thrown on for you, the writer, once you become this conscious and (hopefully) insightful human being with a penchant for finding words to express the beauty and agony of the world around you. I have always had a real caring about the truth, that's the element that wasn't new for me, but becoming conscious of the truths in my own life was a longer haul and a harder road than I could have ever imagined.
When you wake up, become conscious, look around at the grass and sky and people who make up the landscape of your life, you will see things that are beautiful--blindingly so--but you will also begin to notice the things that will never shine for you no matter how hard and how desperately you keep polishing them. It is dangerous to believe that effort and hope are enough to bring something back from the dead--a dying tree, a broken lamp, a relationship that is past repair. Of course, it is always easier to surrender, to turn the blind eye to the truth, to say, "As for me and my house, we will ignore the truth." The hardest thing to do is to take action born of that consciousness that you have so recently and so surprisingly acquired. But, if ever I hope to be the writer, the woman, the human being I have dreamed of being all my life, then I can't be satisfied with, as Lamott says, simply 'throwing on the lights.' I have to be willing to walk into the dark room without knowing where the switch is, believing I will find it and that what I see when all is illuminated will be worth every second of fear that came before.
In the last year and a half, I have become that writer, the one I always said I would be one day. I take notes on receipts, try to carry a notebook with me wherever I go, jot ideas or images down on my hand in a pinch, and I have a good friend who reads every word, supports me, and offers feedback that helps me get better and stronger.
The piece missing from this puzzle, though, is that the light that is thrown on for your reader may also be thrown on for you, the writer, once you become this conscious and (hopefully) insightful human being with a penchant for finding words to express the beauty and agony of the world around you. I have always had a real caring about the truth, that's the element that wasn't new for me, but becoming conscious of the truths in my own life was a longer haul and a harder road than I could have ever imagined.
When you wake up, become conscious, look around at the grass and sky and people who make up the landscape of your life, you will see things that are beautiful--blindingly so--but you will also begin to notice the things that will never shine for you no matter how hard and how desperately you keep polishing them. It is dangerous to believe that effort and hope are enough to bring something back from the dead--a dying tree, a broken lamp, a relationship that is past repair. Of course, it is always easier to surrender, to turn the blind eye to the truth, to say, "As for me and my house, we will ignore the truth." The hardest thing to do is to take action born of that consciousness that you have so recently and so surprisingly acquired. But, if ever I hope to be the writer, the woman, the human being I have dreamed of being all my life, then I can't be satisfied with, as Lamott says, simply 'throwing on the lights.' I have to be willing to walk into the dark room without knowing where the switch is, believing I will find it and that what I see when all is illuminated will be worth every second of fear that came before.
10 August 2010
A Cover to End All Covers
I love Old Crow Medicine Show's song 'Wagon Wheel' a little too much. It's been on every cd I've made in the last three months, it's in constant rotation on my ipod, and it can put me in a good mood no matter how low I've been. I really didn't think the song could get better.
And then a friend sent me a link to Mumford & Sons covering the aforementioned song.
It blew my mind.
Judge for yourself.
And then a friend sent me a link to Mumford & Sons covering the aforementioned song.
It blew my mind.
Judge for yourself.
03 August 2010
Anne Lamott Defines My Life
Yesterday I started reading Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith." I've had it for awhile but didn't pick it up until I was headed off to sit pool side with friends and soak up the sun on my last few days of freedom before the school year begins.
This afternoon, after posting about Mumford this morning, I was in the sun again. On a lawn chair in my backyard, a sky empty of clouds above me, the same shade of blue as the rooftops in Santorini, I stumbled across a passage so perfect, I had to set the book down and remind myself to breathe. It is incredible the way--when we most need it--the right book, the right person, the right anything come along at the exact perfect time and reminds us that we aren't nearly as alone as we thought ourselves to be.
The passage I read: "...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."
My father is a musician, my brother is a musician, my mother has a lovely singing voice but never cared to perform and I, once, called myself a singer. The last few months, at church, I have rediscovered my voice and--over the last year thanks to good music from a dear friend--I have been reminded of how song unites both the singer and the listener. An intimate concert at a local venue, singing alone in the shower, finding the melody in the way an old woman speaks to her husband as they shuffle down the grocery store aisle, arms entwined, loving even these small mundane moments because it is in them that they are reminded all over again of how good it is to share a life with the person you love--their is music to be heard everywhere if we only open ourselves to the song.
Henry Miller wrote, "To sing, you must first open your mouth." I believe in this as much as I believe in a universe created to fill me with an awe that stops my breath, as much as I believe in a god that wants me to be happy, as much as I believe in the power of love to revive even the most closed and broken heart. And, because I believe Miller's words, I have been trying to open my mouth as often as I can, to speak for those who cannot, to praise those who feel unworthy, to love those who have forgotten how easy love should be.
In keeping with Lamott's words, with Miller's, and with my own commitment to making this life as beautiful for the people I love as possible--and yes, for the record I do include myself in that group--here is the song of the day.
This afternoon, after posting about Mumford this morning, I was in the sun again. On a lawn chair in my backyard, a sky empty of clouds above me, the same shade of blue as the rooftops in Santorini, I stumbled across a passage so perfect, I had to set the book down and remind myself to breathe. It is incredible the way--when we most need it--the right book, the right person, the right anything come along at the exact perfect time and reminds us that we aren't nearly as alone as we thought ourselves to be.
The passage I read: "...music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."
My father is a musician, my brother is a musician, my mother has a lovely singing voice but never cared to perform and I, once, called myself a singer. The last few months, at church, I have rediscovered my voice and--over the last year thanks to good music from a dear friend--I have been reminded of how song unites both the singer and the listener. An intimate concert at a local venue, singing alone in the shower, finding the melody in the way an old woman speaks to her husband as they shuffle down the grocery store aisle, arms entwined, loving even these small mundane moments because it is in them that they are reminded all over again of how good it is to share a life with the person you love--their is music to be heard everywhere if we only open ourselves to the song.
Henry Miller wrote, "To sing, you must first open your mouth." I believe in this as much as I believe in a universe created to fill me with an awe that stops my breath, as much as I believe in a god that wants me to be happy, as much as I believe in the power of love to revive even the most closed and broken heart. And, because I believe Miller's words, I have been trying to open my mouth as often as I can, to speak for those who cannot, to praise those who feel unworthy, to love those who have forgotten how easy love should be.
In keeping with Lamott's words, with Miller's, and with my own commitment to making this life as beautiful for the people I love as possible--and yes, for the record I do include myself in that group--here is the song of the day.
WBP
It's been a long time since I've discovered a group that had this great an impact on me. While I hope they find success as a band, I'd rather they never become the kind of group you hear on the radio. Knowing they belong to the few of us lucky enough to love them makes me feel a bit like I have the key to a room no one else knows exsits...a room filled as much with heartbreak as it is with hope, as much with beauty as it is with sweet ache of breaking down.
Recent events--too common and too sad to detail here--have made it nearly impossible for me to stop listening to them and to this song in particular. If my life had a soundtrack right now, this would be the band scoring the highs and lows.
Recent events--too common and too sad to detail here--have made it nearly impossible for me to stop listening to them and to this song in particular. If my life had a soundtrack right now, this would be the band scoring the highs and lows.
26 July 2010
Beautiful Girls
Watching a movie I haven't seen in years, Beautiful Girls. Reasons you should see it:
Michael Rapaport's monologue: A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay. The supermodels, Willy? That's all they are. Bottled promise. Scenes from a brand new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels.
The soundtrack: Afghan Whigs, Chris Isaak, Ween, Neil Diamond, Pete Droge, King Floyd, Howling Maggie, Satchel, etc.
The cast: Rapaport, Uma Thurman, Timothy Hutton, Matt Dillon, Mira Sorvino, Natalie Portman, Annabeth Gish.
Allusions: Van Morrison, Christopher Robin, Nabokov, Jerry Lee Lewis.
And, you should see it because I love it, and when I decide to love something, you can bet it's pretty great.
21 July 2010
Safety Net: Cinema is My Babysitter
For the last week or so, I've been watching movies like someone has declared film illegal. I'm consuming them. Katherine Hepburn black and whites, independent weirdies with casts I've never heard of, new releases about twisted young girls in rock bands, romantic comedies designed to make any viewer believe in the transformative power of love.
I have always loved movies. They provide an escape from whatever tragic thing is happening in my life, or a picture of a better world, or they help you believe that people can be better than you'd ever imagined. Sitting in a room seeing someone else's vision of love, tragedy, history, experiencing the world as it could be, as we hope it never will be again...there's a real reassurance in knowing that no matter where I am in my life, I can count on the movies.
Tonight, a movie I hesitated renting because I dislike the actress in it, had a moment in it that snapped me right out of my escape. In it, after a particularly ridiculous chain of events that makes the female lead want to flee a restaurant, the male lead asks her where she would feel most safe. Where they go and what happens in the rest of the movie--while heartwarming and lovely--don't really matter. What matters is that, when he asked that question, I realized I don't exactly have an answer to that question right now.
I used to think that wherever the people I loved and trusted could be found, I was safe, but circumstances change, people change. Love and trust can only take you so far and when the road runs out, so does any illusion of safety.
I'm not sure where my safe place is, and I'm not sure I'm ready to look for one right now. I think I'll just let cinema be my babysitter until I'm strong enough to not need one anymore. Film can be my safety net. I'll live in other peoples' dreams until I start believing in my own again.
I have always loved movies. They provide an escape from whatever tragic thing is happening in my life, or a picture of a better world, or they help you believe that people can be better than you'd ever imagined. Sitting in a room seeing someone else's vision of love, tragedy, history, experiencing the world as it could be, as we hope it never will be again...there's a real reassurance in knowing that no matter where I am in my life, I can count on the movies.
Tonight, a movie I hesitated renting because I dislike the actress in it, had a moment in it that snapped me right out of my escape. In it, after a particularly ridiculous chain of events that makes the female lead want to flee a restaurant, the male lead asks her where she would feel most safe. Where they go and what happens in the rest of the movie--while heartwarming and lovely--don't really matter. What matters is that, when he asked that question, I realized I don't exactly have an answer to that question right now.
I used to think that wherever the people I loved and trusted could be found, I was safe, but circumstances change, people change. Love and trust can only take you so far and when the road runs out, so does any illusion of safety.
I'm not sure where my safe place is, and I'm not sure I'm ready to look for one right now. I think I'll just let cinema be my babysitter until I'm strong enough to not need one anymore. Film can be my safety net. I'll live in other peoples' dreams until I start believing in my own again.
18 July 2010
Broken English & Chaos Theory
It's horrifyingly hot today so, after church, Z and I rented some movies and became complete couch potatoes for the afternoon.
The first movie, Broken English, is a Parker Posey film about a woman who feels like she "must be doing something horribly wrong" when it comes to love, but she just can't figure out what it is. Eventually, she ends up in Paris where an older man says to her: Most people are together just so they are not alone. But some people want magic. I think you are one of those people. She asks if there is anything wrong with wanting magic and he tells her no, but it just doesn't happen all the time.
I loved this movie because that same man, who is barely on screen at all, tells her she needs to love herself before anyone else can love her. I'd urge the screenwriter to add that, until the person you love loves him or herself, they're never going to be available to you the way you need them to be.
The second film, Chaos Theory, may be one of the best movies I've seen in the last year. The soundtrack is mostly a guy named Alex Dezen and The Damnwells, names I assure you I'll be looking up on itunes very soon, and it's shot in the Pacific Northwest which allows for some simply stunning shots. The heart of the story revolves around a man--played by Ryan Reynolds--who has devoted his life to making lists, being efficient, and planning for all conceivable outcomes only to experience a small disruption to his routine that has large repercussions.
I may watch it again before returning it to the video store--yes, I still go to one of those. I have a Netflix account, I get HBO, and I've been known to frequent those RedBox stands, but there is something so lovely about yards and yards of films waiting to be plucked off the shelf and discovered or revisited. I like knowing that, seemingly by chance, I may stumble across exactly what I need at any given moment just by choosing the right box from the shelf, bringing it home, and giving it my full attention. There's probably a metaphor for love in there somewhere, but I can't begin to even think about those rows of shelves, so for now let's stick to movies.
Chaos Theory featured a speech that I loved with a line in it that I wish everyone could live by. For now, I'm going to try to.
...it turns out that are few things more chaotic than the beat of a human heart. It's beating up, slowing down. Pretty face, flirty stares. It's always changing on what's happening to ourselves out there. It's an erratic son of a bitch. But underneath all of that bump-da-bump mess, there is in fact a pattern, the truth, and it's love. Most important thing about love is that we choose to give it, and we choose to receive it. Making it the least random act in the entire universe. It transcends blood, it transcends betrayal and all the dirt and makes us human.
The first movie, Broken English, is a Parker Posey film about a woman who feels like she "must be doing something horribly wrong" when it comes to love, but she just can't figure out what it is. Eventually, she ends up in Paris where an older man says to her: Most people are together just so they are not alone. But some people want magic. I think you are one of those people. She asks if there is anything wrong with wanting magic and he tells her no, but it just doesn't happen all the time.
I loved this movie because that same man, who is barely on screen at all, tells her she needs to love herself before anyone else can love her. I'd urge the screenwriter to add that, until the person you love loves him or herself, they're never going to be available to you the way you need them to be.
The second film, Chaos Theory, may be one of the best movies I've seen in the last year. The soundtrack is mostly a guy named Alex Dezen and The Damnwells, names I assure you I'll be looking up on itunes very soon, and it's shot in the Pacific Northwest which allows for some simply stunning shots. The heart of the story revolves around a man--played by Ryan Reynolds--who has devoted his life to making lists, being efficient, and planning for all conceivable outcomes only to experience a small disruption to his routine that has large repercussions.
I may watch it again before returning it to the video store--yes, I still go to one of those. I have a Netflix account, I get HBO, and I've been known to frequent those RedBox stands, but there is something so lovely about yards and yards of films waiting to be plucked off the shelf and discovered or revisited. I like knowing that, seemingly by chance, I may stumble across exactly what I need at any given moment just by choosing the right box from the shelf, bringing it home, and giving it my full attention. There's probably a metaphor for love in there somewhere, but I can't begin to even think about those rows of shelves, so for now let's stick to movies.
Chaos Theory featured a speech that I loved with a line in it that I wish everyone could live by. For now, I'm going to try to.
...it turns out that are few things more chaotic than the beat of a human heart. It's beating up, slowing down. Pretty face, flirty stares. It's always changing on what's happening to ourselves out there. It's an erratic son of a bitch. But underneath all of that bump-da-bump mess, there is in fact a pattern, the truth, and it's love. Most important thing about love is that we choose to give it, and we choose to receive it. Making it the least random act in the entire universe. It transcends blood, it transcends betrayal and all the dirt and makes us human.
17 July 2010
34
Today I am 34. This has been my most difficult birthday, not because I'm getting older but because of recent changes that had to happen so the people involved can find out what they need and who they are. But, while they are necessary changes, they have also been incredibly painful.Someone asked recently whether I have regrets and if I would change anything. Despite the agony of the last few months--and the particular hell of the last few days--I wouldn't. The idea of regret has always suggested, to me, that the person who has them doesn't want to be exactly who she is. So, if changing something from my past changes who I am today, I'll pass.
I am not perfect, no one is, but I usually like myself. I have doubts like everyone else, but I know who I am because of what I have been through, and I am proud of that. This picture was taken today before friends took me out to dinner and the woman in it knows who she is. I wouldn't trade that for anything.
It would be easier to live head down, mouth shut, pretending everything is okay. But I can't do that. I believe in telling the truth, even when it means letting people I love go, hoping they find happiness, even if that happiness may have nothing to do with me.
T.S. Eliot wrote "What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."
My prayer for this year is that I am strong enough to believe more in the beginning than the end.
07 July 2010
Coronado Heights
Coronado Heights is a place I went to a lot as a kid. Picnics with relatives from far away, weekend jaunts with parents, parties in high school, drives up by myself. It's always been kind of magical, the way you can look in any direction and see for miles and miles and miles. From up there, the world is more peaceful than almost any other place I've ever been.
The entrance
The drive up
The buildings--main on left, fire pit on right
This road leads away from the entrance.
Picnic table
Inside the castle
WPA sign on turret
View from the top
Me and mom
29 June 2010
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
It's been several years since I first read Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. I am a devoted Tom Robbins fan and have decided, this summer, to reread all of his novels. I just finished this one, his 1976 masterpiece about a woman with oversized thumbs, a Countess who owns a ranch named after a brand of women's hygiene products, and whooping cranes among a host of other subjects. I have always liked the circular way Robbins writes, weaving social, religious, political, and cultural commentary into the usually complex and hilarious narrative of his stories. This time through Cowgirls, I found myself more enamored than the first time I read it. Perhaps it is my age--the heroine turns thirty in the novel and I, soon, will be on the other side of that marker. The last time I read the book, I was way south of that line. But, this time, I see several of the passages that--before--had lacked meaning, now resonate with me in the most internal and personal ways.
These are a few of my favorites. If you haven't read it, it's my recommendation of the month.
“Poetry is nothing more than an intensification or illumination of common objects and everyday events until they shine with their singular nature, until we can experience their power, until we can follow their steps in the dance, until we can discern what parts they play in the Great Order of Love. How is this done? By fucking around with syntax.”
“A book no more contains reality than a clock contains time. A book may measure so-called reality as a clock measures so-called time; a book may create an illusion of reality as a clock creates an illusion of time; a book may be real, just as a clock is real (both more real, perhaps, than those ideas to which they allude); but let’s not kid ourselves—all a clock contains is wheels and springs and all a book contains is sentences.”
"Love easily confuses us because it is always in flux between illusion and substance, between memory and wish, between contentment and need. Perhaps there are times when the contradictions of love are so intermingled that the only way to see the truth of love is to pit it against the irreducible reality of lust. Of course, love can never be stripped bare of illusion, but simply to arrive at an awareness of illusion is to hold hands with the truth -- and sometimes the hard light of lust affords just such an awareness."
"A woman without her opposite, or a man without his, can exist but cannot live. Existence may be beautiful, but it's never whole."
"Kissing is man's greatest invention. All animals copulate, but only humans kiss. Kissing is the supreme achievement of the Western world. Orientals, including those who tended the North American continent before the ravagement, rubbed noses, and thousands still do. Yet despite the golden fruit of their millennia -- they gave us yoga and gun powder, Buddha and corn on the cob -- they, their multitudes, their saints and sages, never produced a kiss. The greatest discovery of civilized man is kissing."
28 June 2010
Hope
"We judge man's wisdom by his hope."--Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am trying to sow seeds of hope in an effort be as wise as I can. Here's the effort from today.
I am trying to sow seeds of hope in an effort be as wise as I can. Here's the effort from today.
Backyard: lavender Bougainvillea, blue Plumbago, gold Hibiscus
Side of the house: tall Daisies
Purple butterfly bush and orange...I can't remember what. Front fence by gate.
Pink butterfly bush, NW corner--I wish I could flip the image.
Native grass on the north side of the house.
Light pink baby knock out roses next to the front door.
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