Monday, July 17, 2006
Kaleidoscope 2006
Incredibly awesome--once again. Playwriting really took off this year. Stefond's monologue on bootyology will be remembered by all. Two new young writers arrived this year and were impressive: Anna Fulghum and Leigh Galpine. Natalie, of course, was my right hand. Seems to have grown more comfortable in her skin. Kelsey's writing was marvelous as ever. And Ridge, oh Ridge, how much he has grown as a writer.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Sun Writers Conference 2006
The Sun Writers Conference (Into the Fire: The Alchemy of Personal Writing) was phenomenal this year. It took place at Rowe Conference Center in Western Mass. A place I had never been. There were apple trees blossoming, gold finches darting about and best of all--bears! Sunday afternoon Sy, Angela, Genie and I were sitting in the living room of The Orchard House when I saw something black between the rails of the deck. At first I thought it was a dog, but it was moving fast and I stood up to see what it really was and suddenly I burst out: "Jesus! Is that a bear?" And we all jumped up and crowded at the window--and saw three bears. So then we went a little nuts and followed the bears from window to window till we wound up going out the side door and then we were all laughing in excitement. The bears heard us and looked at us but then ignored us as they started sniffing around this tent in the field. Then, finding nothing of interest, they ambled away.
Of course, the conference entailed a lot more than seeing bears. I wrote something at the end which I'll post if I can find. Suffice to say, the workshops were fabulous. I was truly humbled by the quality of writing I heard. And my fellow presenters were great. Oh, more on all this later. I haven't rested up yet, and we're completing the "bathroom project" from hell here. And Friday is C's birthday. Too much going on.
Of course, the conference entailed a lot more than seeing bears. I wrote something at the end which I'll post if I can find. Suffice to say, the workshops were fabulous. I was truly humbled by the quality of writing I heard. And my fellow presenters were great. Oh, more on all this later. I haven't rested up yet, and we're completing the "bathroom project" from hell here. And Friday is C's birthday. Too much going on.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Breathe, Baby, Breathe--My Interview with Bob & Sheri
Wow. I just got off the Bob & Sheri show. That was kind of nerve wracking. I mean, it's not like I've never been on the radio before. I had my own show on public radio in Tallahassee after all. But you know, it's different when you're talking about YOUR life and your work. And I knew they were going to ask questions about my "bad girl" past. But when Sheri asked how I got from being a bad girl to being a writer with a boring life, I just thought, man where do I begin?? And so after first I was stammering and sounding like a major idiot. A friend had told me that if you stand while you're talking, your voice will have more energy. Unfortunately, I already had enough energy to power up all of the McMansions in Ballantyne. So I wisely sat down after that first question and forgot about all the things I intended to say and just answered the questions. So I think it got lots better, and I even remembered that story about my teenage boyfriend Mike being a litterbug and how at 17 I was so impressed with his rebelliousness. Hadn't thought of that in years. So, I am just glad I was on the show and didn't freeze up or say something incredibly stupid or embarrassing. Sheri is so quick-witted that it's a little intimidating, but both of them were really, really nice. And I thought they asked great questions.
I'm going to be on Charlotte Talks on May 26. That will be a very different experience, I'm sure.
I'm going to be on Charlotte Talks on May 26. That will be a very different experience, I'm sure.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Classics! Oh, the classics
So why, I wonder, is my tenth-grade daughter reading "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and "Things Fall Apart" for her English class? I remember that I loved Chinua Achebe's novel about Africa--IN GRADUATE SCHOOL. What I see happening and have seen for a long time is high school English teachers and middle school teachers, too, ruining literature for young readers. In tenth grade, you ought to be reading Grapes of Wrath. You ought to read The Old Man and The Sea. You ought to read Jane Eyre. I have taught so many college students who never read Tom Sawyer, for pete's sake. And none of them have read Jane Eyre. My friend Chauncey says that The Great Gatsby is too sophisticated for high school students. Maybe. Unless, I suppose, they have a really good teacher.
It seems to me that some English teachers or whoever it is who designs the curriculum decided that the more advanced reading material they forced young readers to read, then the more advanced students they will produce. But how can you be ready to read Huck Finn if you haven't read Tom Sawyer? Save something for college. Spend time with the classics. Instill a love for literature, for story into them, before the theorists in college get their hands on them.
That's my rant for today.
Weeks later: I have to amend this post because now they are reading MAUS by Art Spiegelman (Not sure of spelling). Anyway, I think that's a terrific book for tenth graders to read--or anyone for that matter. So there are good contemporary books out there for that age group. I just wish they had the foundation in the classics.
It seems to me that some English teachers or whoever it is who designs the curriculum decided that the more advanced reading material they forced young readers to read, then the more advanced students they will produce. But how can you be ready to read Huck Finn if you haven't read Tom Sawyer? Save something for college. Spend time with the classics. Instill a love for literature, for story into them, before the theorists in college get their hands on them.
That's my rant for today.
Weeks later: I have to amend this post because now they are reading MAUS by Art Spiegelman (Not sure of spelling). Anyway, I think that's a terrific book for tenth graders to read--or anyone for that matter. So there are good contemporary books out there for that age group. I just wish they had the foundation in the classics.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Book Fest in Virginia
Just got back from the Virginia Festival of the Book. Got there Friday evening, brain addled because I hadn't slept the night before and there was this "soiree" for the mystery writers at a very cool place called the Gravity Lounge. It was like a library, bar, tea house kind of place. Had some great books. One I wanted but didn't get was a book about the seventies from Rolling Stone Mag. I probably really need it too for the Kaleidoscope book. I've decided that's the next book I'm going to write. The crime novel series will just have to wait. Anyway, I didn't know anyone at this soiree and didn't have the inner resources to go around being all friendly, so I slunk down in a chair with a book, ate a few cookies and then disappeared, back onto the highway to Richmond where I spend the night at Nikki Turner's gorgeous new house. That was the respite I needed.
Saturday started off great because I ran into Richard Peabody. He's a gem. Funny, smart and political. Well, I guess we're all political these days as we watch our world being blasted into oblivion by the neocons and their drones. Anyway, the luncheon was fine. I was seated next to a small arms analyst for the military. Yes, that idea is scary but also quite useful if you're a writer and you want to write about things that are really going on in the world. Went to a good panel on getting in the publishing business. Then, oh then, I signed up for a video interview with "Author Views" so there's an interview of me somewhere on the internet. I thought it was good practice for the whole media thing.
My own panel went fairly well. The other panelists were best selling authors and I wasn't sure I was supposed to be there with them, but my so-called academic background, I guess, provided something to talk about. The only thing is that I've been away from academia for quite a while and they don't seem to be clamoring for me to come back. Still I guess if you've once learned to be pedantic, that never leaves you. But some interesting points were raised--especially the whole divided between genres. Karin Slaughter was very funny and pointed about the issue. Anyway, it's something I'll be thinking about for a while.
The trip culminated in my nightmare drive home. Thick wads of fog dotted the highway. It was night, I was tired. I actually thought of that scene in Psycho where Janet Leigh is driving at night and her eyes keep flicking to the rear view mirror and the lights behind her hurt her eyes. And that music was running through my head. I finally realized I would never get home if I had to drive twenty miles an hour through Virginia, so I pulled off in Lexington because there were signs for motels, but OF COURSE it was false advertising. So there I was driving around Lexington in fog thick as cotton--SNOW on the side of the roads--on roads that were crazy with construction. I think when I drove onto the VMI campus I almost cried. Stopped at Hampton Suites which is not what I wanted--and they had only exorbitantly priced smoking rooms.
So I crawled back to the highway, and fought through the fog to the next exit and pulled up to . . . THE BATES MOTEL!!! I swear to God, from the crummy wallpaper to the horrible smell to the window unit heater/air conditioner it was the absolute prototype for Norman Bates' hotel--except that it was much smaller, the room I mean. The room was tiny, the bathroom tiny, the bedspread smelled like b.o. but I couldn't bring myself to leave. The scariest part was sitting on the toilet and seeing the drain in the shower. Fortunately, as I said, I was already on the toilet.
But I did manage to sleep some and in the morning when I woke up and saw an orange blaze over the mountains and the snow on the ground and the wooden fence all rustic looking and picturesque, I didn't mind it. In fact, I felt grateful. We forget how much we have in our lives. I got back on the road. The fog was gone, and I was able to drive through the only piece of winter I had all year. It was transcendent.
Saturday started off great because I ran into Richard Peabody. He's a gem. Funny, smart and political. Well, I guess we're all political these days as we watch our world being blasted into oblivion by the neocons and their drones. Anyway, the luncheon was fine. I was seated next to a small arms analyst for the military. Yes, that idea is scary but also quite useful if you're a writer and you want to write about things that are really going on in the world. Went to a good panel on getting in the publishing business. Then, oh then, I signed up for a video interview with "Author Views" so there's an interview of me somewhere on the internet. I thought it was good practice for the whole media thing.
My own panel went fairly well. The other panelists were best selling authors and I wasn't sure I was supposed to be there with them, but my so-called academic background, I guess, provided something to talk about. The only thing is that I've been away from academia for quite a while and they don't seem to be clamoring for me to come back. Still I guess if you've once learned to be pedantic, that never leaves you. But some interesting points were raised--especially the whole divided between genres. Karin Slaughter was very funny and pointed about the issue. Anyway, it's something I'll be thinking about for a while.
The trip culminated in my nightmare drive home. Thick wads of fog dotted the highway. It was night, I was tired. I actually thought of that scene in Psycho where Janet Leigh is driving at night and her eyes keep flicking to the rear view mirror and the lights behind her hurt her eyes. And that music was running through my head. I finally realized I would never get home if I had to drive twenty miles an hour through Virginia, so I pulled off in Lexington because there were signs for motels, but OF COURSE it was false advertising. So there I was driving around Lexington in fog thick as cotton--SNOW on the side of the roads--on roads that were crazy with construction. I think when I drove onto the VMI campus I almost cried. Stopped at Hampton Suites which is not what I wanted--and they had only exorbitantly priced smoking rooms.
So I crawled back to the highway, and fought through the fog to the next exit and pulled up to . . . THE BATES MOTEL!!! I swear to God, from the crummy wallpaper to the horrible smell to the window unit heater/air conditioner it was the absolute prototype for Norman Bates' hotel--except that it was much smaller, the room I mean. The room was tiny, the bathroom tiny, the bedspread smelled like b.o. but I couldn't bring myself to leave. The scariest part was sitting on the toilet and seeing the drain in the shower. Fortunately, as I said, I was already on the toilet.
But I did manage to sleep some and in the morning when I woke up and saw an orange blaze over the mountains and the snow on the ground and the wooden fence all rustic looking and picturesque, I didn't mind it. In fact, I felt grateful. We forget how much we have in our lives. I got back on the road. The fog was gone, and I was able to drive through the only piece of winter I had all year. It was transcendent.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Mysteries by Lehane, Compton and Hall
I just read three mysteries by different authors. Prayers for Rain by Denis Lehane, The 37th Hour by Jodi Compton and Body Language by James W. Hall. Lehane is a phenomenal writer. I wrote down about thirty different lines that I really liked--very funny and brilliant. His descriptions of people are so original. One young woman looks like the type who irons her socks. Here's a description I like: "The green glass captured the sun glinting off the lake and then refracted it into the room in tiny beams so taht the entire cabin glowed the emerald of a tavern on St. Patrick's Day." The plot was nice and tricky with an ending that left the story ultimately unresolved just after you thought everything had been resolved. The bad guy gets away with his bad deeds, but the hero knows it and someday when the time is right he'll take care of it--or so he says.
Compton's book was very good, too. Compelling. And beautifully written. She's more literary than most mystery writers. Anyone who uses the word "sussurus" is working a notch above the rest of us. The ending of her book was also unresolved. I mean, the main mystery was resolved but then the reader is left wondering what will happen to the main character who could very easily get blamed for a murder she didn't commit. It's a great device--leaving you with a lurching thrill in your gut. Horror movies try for this effect, but I think they're mostly unsuccessful.
Hall has always been a writer I've liked. Body Language seems more cut and dry than some of his other work, but two real strengths I've noticed: dialogue and his main character's story. The main character in this book is a woman police photographer. Points for originality. She's also married to a real asshole which provides and interesting complication. And as I said, the dialogue in this book is really strong. It's interesting and different. One of the evildoers is a veritable encyclopedia on insect behavior. The dialogue is also very idiosyncratic.
I also read a few weeks earlier a book by Harlan Coben. He had the best villain in that book--believable and understandable while not being the least bit sympathetic.
I'm off to the library to get more tonight.
Compton's book was very good, too. Compelling. And beautifully written. She's more literary than most mystery writers. Anyone who uses the word "sussurus" is working a notch above the rest of us. The ending of her book was also unresolved. I mean, the main mystery was resolved but then the reader is left wondering what will happen to the main character who could very easily get blamed for a murder she didn't commit. It's a great device--leaving you with a lurching thrill in your gut. Horror movies try for this effect, but I think they're mostly unsuccessful.
Hall has always been a writer I've liked. Body Language seems more cut and dry than some of his other work, but two real strengths I've noticed: dialogue and his main character's story. The main character in this book is a woman police photographer. Points for originality. She's also married to a real asshole which provides and interesting complication. And as I said, the dialogue in this book is really strong. It's interesting and different. One of the evildoers is a veritable encyclopedia on insect behavior. The dialogue is also very idiosyncratic.
I also read a few weeks earlier a book by Harlan Coben. He had the best villain in that book--believable and understandable while not being the least bit sympathetic.
I'm off to the library to get more tonight.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Capote, the Graduate and Mr. Ripley
I have only seen a few movies over the past couple of months. I missed Rent and Walk the Line. I'm hoping they'll be back in the theaters come Oscar time. I did see Brokeback Mountain, I'm happy to say. I would hate not to know what all the fuss was about. I found it a little long and not exactly uplifting. But the acting -- unforgettable. Absolutely riveting performances by both actors. I thought they were just great. I will be surprised if Heath Ledger doesn't win an Academy Award. And the cinematography was also stunning. Just a beautiful film in many ways. The love scenes were so vivid, and the passion oozed off the screen. Of course, it was a little weird to be watching with my teenage daughter but she closed her eyes thru a lot of it. And we had to pretend to the family we had gone to see something else.
The other film I saw over Christmas was Narnia. Great acting by the kids, and Tumnus is just a wonderful character. I did also like the connection with the war which is more understated in the book. Otherwise I thought it was portentous and overblown; Lewis hits you over the head with his goodness triumphing over evil. But that's perfectly in line with the simplistic thinking of today's American public. We are the good guys, scorching the terrorists, nevermind the helpless men, women and children who get burnt in the process. It's so easy not to even know about them.
The best film I've seen recently is Capote. I can hardly stop thinking about it. Phillip Seymour Hoffman was completely mesmerizing. I really felt as if I were in Capote's presence. Everything about him--the humor, the campiness, the vulnerability, the pathos--was completely captivating. And his relationship with Harper Lee, which I had heard about, was so tender and co-dependent at the same time. The story was compelling as well. I remember reading In Cold Blood as a teenager AND seeing the movie. Both were so completely haunting that I'll never forget them. All that came back to me as I watched the story of him pursuing the book that changed 20th Century Literature. It wasn't easy. As it shouldn't be. It wrung everything out of him. That's what I loved most about the movie. That reminder of what it takes to be a writer. The obsession. The complete commitment to the point that you will give your life for a story, for your art. The cruelty as well. And that's what made this such an interesting piece. Capote's heartlessness and manipulation as he clawed the story out of his victims, and yet the devastating pain he felt in the process. Such complexity of character. Brilliant. You must be very brave to be a great writer. I'm afraid that ideal is gone with the new century. But that's a topic for another blog.
The other night we went to the movie store since our friends left town without lending us Their Gilmore Girls DVDs. Couldn't figure out what to pick up. There are so many movies that C should see to round out her movie education but neither of us were in the mood for something heavy. Then I saw it: The Graduate. My heart leapt. One of the greatest movies of all time. It succeeds on every level and, not only succeeds, but transcends the art form with stunning editing. I pointed out the masterful brilliance of the montage sequence which ends with Benjamin leaping onto a raft in the pool which turns out to be Mrs. Robinson in bed. She admired it but, of course, since it was her first time she was too caught up in the story to quite understand what a piece of virtuosity that sequence really is. An actor herself, she was especially impressed with Dustin Hoffman's performance and reminded me of seeing him in Rain Man. I'm glad she can recognize that level of talent. But I had to laugh. She had such different visuals for the song "Mrs. Robinson" in her head before she saw the movie and realized just who Mrs. Robinson was. She hated Mrs. Robinson. I said if she'd had more exposure to alcoholics, she might be more tolerant of them. Another brilliant bit of complexity in that character. Well, as I said there are no flaws in this movie and it is so original--still, after all these years.
While at the movie store we also picked up The Talented Mr. Ripley. C was out, so I invited my husband to come watch it with me. He had earlier mentioned that his friend's wife had dragged him to see Brokeback Mountain and his friend was traumatized. I said it was a wonderful movie but I would never dream of asking him to see it. I know better than that. He is way too homophobic. Not only that he only likes movies that are strictly entertaining. Which is what I had rather hoped Ripley would be. My husband wondered if it was about the believe it or not guy. I said, no. So what do you know? We're about a quarter of the way into the movie when Matt Damon's character--Tom Ripley--wants to crawl into the bathtub with another man. So that was when my husband exited the room. I tried to watch the rest of the movie, but it was so plodding and Damon's character was so pathetic and cloying that it made me squirm to watch him. He's an actor I generally like but I guess I was expecting a more conniving, more charismatic character. So I double-sped thru a lot of it. I just wasn't caught up in it at all. The only thing that made it good for me was . . . the appearance of Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Freddy. Wow. He is so good. So chilling. I wonder if he's the best guy out there right now. He has so much depth. I think I could watch him in just about anything.
The other film I saw over Christmas was Narnia. Great acting by the kids, and Tumnus is just a wonderful character. I did also like the connection with the war which is more understated in the book. Otherwise I thought it was portentous and overblown; Lewis hits you over the head with his goodness triumphing over evil. But that's perfectly in line with the simplistic thinking of today's American public. We are the good guys, scorching the terrorists, nevermind the helpless men, women and children who get burnt in the process. It's so easy not to even know about them.
The best film I've seen recently is Capote. I can hardly stop thinking about it. Phillip Seymour Hoffman was completely mesmerizing. I really felt as if I were in Capote's presence. Everything about him--the humor, the campiness, the vulnerability, the pathos--was completely captivating. And his relationship with Harper Lee, which I had heard about, was so tender and co-dependent at the same time. The story was compelling as well. I remember reading In Cold Blood as a teenager AND seeing the movie. Both were so completely haunting that I'll never forget them. All that came back to me as I watched the story of him pursuing the book that changed 20th Century Literature. It wasn't easy. As it shouldn't be. It wrung everything out of him. That's what I loved most about the movie. That reminder of what it takes to be a writer. The obsession. The complete commitment to the point that you will give your life for a story, for your art. The cruelty as well. And that's what made this such an interesting piece. Capote's heartlessness and manipulation as he clawed the story out of his victims, and yet the devastating pain he felt in the process. Such complexity of character. Brilliant. You must be very brave to be a great writer. I'm afraid that ideal is gone with the new century. But that's a topic for another blog.
The other night we went to the movie store since our friends left town without lending us Their Gilmore Girls DVDs. Couldn't figure out what to pick up. There are so many movies that C should see to round out her movie education but neither of us were in the mood for something heavy. Then I saw it: The Graduate. My heart leapt. One of the greatest movies of all time. It succeeds on every level and, not only succeeds, but transcends the art form with stunning editing. I pointed out the masterful brilliance of the montage sequence which ends with Benjamin leaping onto a raft in the pool which turns out to be Mrs. Robinson in bed. She admired it but, of course, since it was her first time she was too caught up in the story to quite understand what a piece of virtuosity that sequence really is. An actor herself, she was especially impressed with Dustin Hoffman's performance and reminded me of seeing him in Rain Man. I'm glad she can recognize that level of talent. But I had to laugh. She had such different visuals for the song "Mrs. Robinson" in her head before she saw the movie and realized just who Mrs. Robinson was. She hated Mrs. Robinson. I said if she'd had more exposure to alcoholics, she might be more tolerant of them. Another brilliant bit of complexity in that character. Well, as I said there are no flaws in this movie and it is so original--still, after all these years.
While at the movie store we also picked up The Talented Mr. Ripley. C was out, so I invited my husband to come watch it with me. He had earlier mentioned that his friend's wife had dragged him to see Brokeback Mountain and his friend was traumatized. I said it was a wonderful movie but I would never dream of asking him to see it. I know better than that. He is way too homophobic. Not only that he only likes movies that are strictly entertaining. Which is what I had rather hoped Ripley would be. My husband wondered if it was about the believe it or not guy. I said, no. So what do you know? We're about a quarter of the way into the movie when Matt Damon's character--Tom Ripley--wants to crawl into the bathtub with another man. So that was when my husband exited the room. I tried to watch the rest of the movie, but it was so plodding and Damon's character was so pathetic and cloying that it made me squirm to watch him. He's an actor I generally like but I guess I was expecting a more conniving, more charismatic character. So I double-sped thru a lot of it. I just wasn't caught up in it at all. The only thing that made it good for me was . . . the appearance of Phillip Seymour Hoffman as Freddy. Wow. He is so good. So chilling. I wonder if he's the best guy out there right now. He has so much depth. I think I could watch him in just about anything.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
So I got the copies of my book Time to Say Goodbye yesterday. They came in these gigantic white bags marked "Swiss Post." My daughter dragged the bags upstairs and asked me if they contained dead bodies or what? (They weren't that heavy--just big.) Then we opened the bags and inside were big envelopes stuffed with books. Thanks to Marc, I got 20 copies which will be gone just like that, I'm sure. I'm going to send some to my brother tomorrow and he's going to give some to the people who made his movie happen.
The struggle--the challenge--is to keep writing the mysteries. When I read other mystery writers (Just finished a book by Harlan Coben--good piece of work, great writing and what a great villain. I don't know if I could write such a convincing and thoroughly evil --and yet still human-- character!) and notice how much research they've been able to do. So I've got to create a different sort of situation in my life where I'm not scrambling all the time for a buck and have the time to do more research. Oh, Number Two, Make it so.
The struggle--the challenge--is to keep writing the mysteries. When I read other mystery writers (Just finished a book by Harlan Coben--good piece of work, great writing and what a great villain. I don't know if I could write such a convincing and thoroughly evil --and yet still human-- character!) and notice how much research they've been able to do. So I've got to create a different sort of situation in my life where I'm not scrambling all the time for a buck and have the time to do more research. Oh, Number Two, Make it so.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Television Addictions
Last night I intended to go to church for the monthly community potluck (it was tacky taco party night) but I managed to completely forget about doing that. I watched television instead while my husband grumbled in the living room as he installed a digital editing program on La Kid's computer. What got me hooked was the second half of the Panther-Bears football game. What a terrific game. Of course, I was glad the Panthers won, but my allegiance was pulled in the other direction, too. I couldn't help rooting for Rex Grossman, the former GATOR, and he did have a pretty good game till the end there. Television is an insidious force. I just read an article in an old Harper's which mentioned that up until the the 1950s it was the evening habit of townspeople to go "visiting" in the evening. That racheted up the nostalgia in my bloodstream. How cool would that be? If at night, you bundled up and walked over to a neighbor's house to sit and chat for awhile or if people you liked dropped by your house and you sat out on the front porch and laughed and gossipped. I wonder if there was less spousal and child abuse in such situations? You'd think there would have to be because people wouldn't be so isolated. Of course, if there was violence in the house there wasn't much to be done about it back then. Digressing. I'm no historian though I do like a good history book.
Back to television. So after the game, 24 comes on. I could feel the hook sliding into me. I was completely addicted to this show a couple years ago. The way they got me hooked was by showing it without any commercial interruptions one time on TV. It's an egregious show in some ways--sanctifying and justifying violence with cardboard cut-out bad guys and hopelessly attractive victims (Michelle who is smart and good and pretty and someone you'd love to hang out at the coffee shop with--dead!) and then there's Jack Bauer (Jake Delhomme with a gun); we almost scream, "Go! Jack! Go!" The show is on FOX network. And the news show that is on all the time is FOX News. (Let's give the Nazi propagandists a run for their money, okay?) Being an American, I have suckled at the tit of Mother Culture enough to love the taste of violence. It occurred to me this morning as I was thinking about writing this that it would be so simple for people to just stop killing each other. Killing is not fun, not profitable in the long run and it can't be easy. And yet we do it. Humans, I mean. In wars. In fights. In anger. In greed. Not all of us, but enough of us so that it makes life on the planet a ridiculously unfair proposition. Oh, stop digressing. If I had anything original to offer on the matter, I would.
So I'm hooked once again. However, the commercial breaks that completely prevent any real emotional connection with the story may sabotage their attempts to keep me hooked. They're so stupid that way. But I guess enough people can put up with it that it doesn't matter. I was thinking of TV shows I've been addicted to over the years. When I was five years old, I laid an enormous guilt trip on one of my brothers by crying inconsolably when he caused me to miss Lassie. I rarely missed an episode of that show, and at the end when Lassie held up her paw I would try to shake it, running my small cupped hand up and down the television screen. I also had the Saturday morning cartoon line-up memorized. From Roadrunner to Johnny Quest, I was enamored. Later I watched The Wild, Wild West with steadfast devotion. I loved Artemis Gordon and all the ridiculous, elaborate inventions they had. And I think the masochistic element in me was guiltily attracted to the misogynistic tendencies of our hero. Remember the woman who gets smacked in the jaw to the jaunty tune in the animated opening credits? Then Star Trek. Star Trek has so many metaphysical lessons in it that I believe it may have actually advanced our culture the tiniest bit. I watched all of the incarnations except for Deep Space Nine and the last one (Enterprise?) religiously, fanatically, loyally. You couldn't call me during Star Trek.
And then there was Miami Vice. So stylistic. I love South Beach. Don Johnson was so hot. The acting was campy. I couldn't leave the house on Friday nights until I had gotten my fix.
Oh, and Perry Mason. Before my husband and I were married, when we lived together in our little house in Dania, we would watch Perry Mason reruns almost every day. Perry was so extremely cool and sexy in an understated way. (Okay, the gay thing.) And Della Street. The quintessential secretary. Brilliant. Not to forget Paul, the blond rake. And always the murderer would confess on the witness stand, pissing off the usually smug prosecutor time and time again. Would he never learn? You can't beat Perry.
My family and I went through a long "JAG" phase. JAG was perfect because it was something we could all watch. The violence was minimal. It was more about legal sleuthing and personality issues. And the Mac-Harm relationship was endlessly fascinating and infuriating. I'm glad it finally ended, though. How much longer could they possibly drag it out? Now my daughter and I are hooked on Gilmore Girls. For New Year's Eve, her best buds from next door came over and brought the DVD sets they had gotten for Christmas. We ate popcorn and pastries from the party down the street and watched show after show after show--commercial free. It was the best New Year's Eve I can remember. Enough is enough. I've got to get to work.
Back to television. So after the game, 24 comes on. I could feel the hook sliding into me. I was completely addicted to this show a couple years ago. The way they got me hooked was by showing it without any commercial interruptions one time on TV. It's an egregious show in some ways--sanctifying and justifying violence with cardboard cut-out bad guys and hopelessly attractive victims (Michelle who is smart and good and pretty and someone you'd love to hang out at the coffee shop with--dead!) and then there's Jack Bauer (Jake Delhomme with a gun); we almost scream, "Go! Jack! Go!" The show is on FOX network. And the news show that is on all the time is FOX News. (Let's give the Nazi propagandists a run for their money, okay?) Being an American, I have suckled at the tit of Mother Culture enough to love the taste of violence. It occurred to me this morning as I was thinking about writing this that it would be so simple for people to just stop killing each other. Killing is not fun, not profitable in the long run and it can't be easy. And yet we do it. Humans, I mean. In wars. In fights. In anger. In greed. Not all of us, but enough of us so that it makes life on the planet a ridiculously unfair proposition. Oh, stop digressing. If I had anything original to offer on the matter, I would.
So I'm hooked once again. However, the commercial breaks that completely prevent any real emotional connection with the story may sabotage their attempts to keep me hooked. They're so stupid that way. But I guess enough people can put up with it that it doesn't matter. I was thinking of TV shows I've been addicted to over the years. When I was five years old, I laid an enormous guilt trip on one of my brothers by crying inconsolably when he caused me to miss Lassie. I rarely missed an episode of that show, and at the end when Lassie held up her paw I would try to shake it, running my small cupped hand up and down the television screen. I also had the Saturday morning cartoon line-up memorized. From Roadrunner to Johnny Quest, I was enamored. Later I watched The Wild, Wild West with steadfast devotion. I loved Artemis Gordon and all the ridiculous, elaborate inventions they had. And I think the masochistic element in me was guiltily attracted to the misogynistic tendencies of our hero. Remember the woman who gets smacked in the jaw to the jaunty tune in the animated opening credits? Then Star Trek. Star Trek has so many metaphysical lessons in it that I believe it may have actually advanced our culture the tiniest bit. I watched all of the incarnations except for Deep Space Nine and the last one (Enterprise?) religiously, fanatically, loyally. You couldn't call me during Star Trek.
And then there was Miami Vice. So stylistic. I love South Beach. Don Johnson was so hot. The acting was campy. I couldn't leave the house on Friday nights until I had gotten my fix.
Oh, and Perry Mason. Before my husband and I were married, when we lived together in our little house in Dania, we would watch Perry Mason reruns almost every day. Perry was so extremely cool and sexy in an understated way. (Okay, the gay thing.) And Della Street. The quintessential secretary. Brilliant. Not to forget Paul, the blond rake. And always the murderer would confess on the witness stand, pissing off the usually smug prosecutor time and time again. Would he never learn? You can't beat Perry.
My family and I went through a long "JAG" phase. JAG was perfect because it was something we could all watch. The violence was minimal. It was more about legal sleuthing and personality issues. And the Mac-Harm relationship was endlessly fascinating and infuriating. I'm glad it finally ended, though. How much longer could they possibly drag it out? Now my daughter and I are hooked on Gilmore Girls. For New Year's Eve, her best buds from next door came over and brought the DVD sets they had gotten for Christmas. We ate popcorn and pastries from the party down the street and watched show after show after show--commercial free. It was the best New Year's Eve I can remember. Enough is enough. I've got to get to work.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Rain
Oh man, it's been a while since I wrote anything here. I think of things to put down all the time, but usually don't bother to write them. Anyway, this is just some crazy free write from one of my classes. The prompt I gave was, what does rain remind you of?
I love rain. I remember sitting in my bedroom in the house on Park Street listening to my records. Richie Haves singing, "Listen to the pouring rain, listen to it pour. And with every drop of rain, you know I love you more. . ." and the Florida rain was warm and it fell for hours but I never wanted it to stop and it ws warm inside and the music held me and opened up worlds in my mind--of the dark mysteries of love that I would never know in this reality. I sensed I was riding a wave of passion that could never be actualized, that disappointment would meet me time and again, till I wanted to throw myself off the precipice of life. But I didn't. Instead I dulled my edges, extinguished that flame, closed in my lips. Held it tightly, crushed it into something smaller and smaller until it was the size of a nickel in the palm of my hand, and I stared at it for a long time until one day I fell inside and found it was as vast as the solar system and in its quiet way it held me as the rain fell warm outside.
I love rain. I remember sitting in my bedroom in the house on Park Street listening to my records. Richie Haves singing, "Listen to the pouring rain, listen to it pour. And with every drop of rain, you know I love you more. . ." and the Florida rain was warm and it fell for hours but I never wanted it to stop and it ws warm inside and the music held me and opened up worlds in my mind--of the dark mysteries of love that I would never know in this reality. I sensed I was riding a wave of passion that could never be actualized, that disappointment would meet me time and again, till I wanted to throw myself off the precipice of life. But I didn't. Instead I dulled my edges, extinguished that flame, closed in my lips. Held it tightly, crushed it into something smaller and smaller until it was the size of a nickel in the palm of my hand, and I stared at it for a long time until one day I fell inside and found it was as vast as the solar system and in its quiet way it held me as the rain fell warm outside.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
My Uncle Dave
I found these two pages I had written back during Kaleidoscope and I wondered what day that was, then I remembered. It was the day I found out my Uncle Dave had died.
The pages:
This morning as usual I woke up around six something. I pushed off my purple silk comforter and stuck one leg out from under the sheet. I thought about the dreams I'd had. First the one where my mother was driving and clearly senility was setting in. I placed my hands on her face, trying to get her to see. Then in another dream my daughter was a little girl again in pink slippers going into a store. Later in the dream I saw an old boyfriend and I tried to avoid him but he recognized me after all these years.
Waking up I thought about him and wondered what had ever happened to him. Then I pushed the thought away because I would never know. Odd, how many people disappear forever from your life. I began to pray, to thank the Divine for a good day, to affirm that I would be kind and gentle in my interactions today. That it would be a smooth and satisfying day. I spoke my desires to that light that sometimes occupies my head.
Outside my room I could hear the noise of my husband building something. I pushed the sheets off and stood up. The first thing I needed to do was send an invoice to the magazine I sometimes write for. I did so. Always a gratifying moment when a bill is sent out for services rendered. To me, making a living as a writer is the very best thing I could imagine. The cat sat on my lap purring madly and the dog came in to get his scroungy head scratched. Time for blackberry picking and breakfast. Then the phone rang. And it wasn't even yet 7:15, and I knew it might not be good news.
The pages:
This morning as usual I woke up around six something. I pushed off my purple silk comforter and stuck one leg out from under the sheet. I thought about the dreams I'd had. First the one where my mother was driving and clearly senility was setting in. I placed my hands on her face, trying to get her to see. Then in another dream my daughter was a little girl again in pink slippers going into a store. Later in the dream I saw an old boyfriend and I tried to avoid him but he recognized me after all these years.
Waking up I thought about him and wondered what had ever happened to him. Then I pushed the thought away because I would never know. Odd, how many people disappear forever from your life. I began to pray, to thank the Divine for a good day, to affirm that I would be kind and gentle in my interactions today. That it would be a smooth and satisfying day. I spoke my desires to that light that sometimes occupies my head.
Outside my room I could hear the noise of my husband building something. I pushed the sheets off and stood up. The first thing I needed to do was send an invoice to the magazine I sometimes write for. I did so. Always a gratifying moment when a bill is sent out for services rendered. To me, making a living as a writer is the very best thing I could imagine. The cat sat on my lap purring madly and the dog came in to get his scroungy head scratched. Time for blackberry picking and breakfast. Then the phone rang. And it wasn't even yet 7:15, and I knew it might not be good news.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The New Buffalo Slaughterers
You know, someday people are going to look back at our particular era and wonder just what the heck were we thinking. I take my daughter to school in the mornings and I'm surrounded by gigantic Tyrannosaurus Rex Vehicles. I pull into the school drive and am nearly run down by a blond woman in a Hummer. A Hummer! We're sucking up oil from the planet and spewing out filth that eats at the ozone layer, but hey, someone told us we were cool in our Hummers so who cares about the planet? It's just like those white guys on the trains in the old west. Why shoot just one buffalo when you can shoot one thousand? Or the fashionable women in the early 20th century sporting the feathers of birds that were made extinct by their vanity.
I guess the writer of Ecclesiastes was right--all is vanity and we are doomed.
I suppose if I were a good environmentalist I wouldn't drive a car at all. That's not a bad plan. I think I'll eventually figure out how to do that. In the meatime I'll just be out there waiting for the day people realize that a Hummer is one of the ugliest cars on the face of the earth.
I guess the writer of Ecclesiastes was right--all is vanity and we are doomed.
I suppose if I were a good environmentalist I wouldn't drive a car at all. That's not a bad plan. I think I'll eventually figure out how to do that. In the meatime I'll just be out there waiting for the day people realize that a Hummer is one of the ugliest cars on the face of the earth.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
My Father's Death
On Tuesday morning Sept. 6 my father died of heart failure. He was 88 years old and had had dementia for several years. We were not close. When I was a child, he did not visit me or remember my birthday or call me. He did not do these things when I was an adult either, though I visited him occasionally over the years. During my teens, there were a few sporadic attempts to establish a relationship and I can't say they were completely unsuccessful. In spite of all this, I believe that he loved me. And I loved him, too. I cried when my brother called to say that he was dead. I had lost my daddy, and it broke my heart.
Three years ago I saw him was at the beach condo where he lived with his beloved wife. They had been together for around 30 years. I was with my daughter and he had to be reminded a couple of times who we were. A clock that said the time in a woman's voice seemed to comfort him. He was still great at spelling! As we were leaving, he said, "Love you." Surprised, I said, "We love you, too."
That was the last time I saw him and I'm glad that's my last memory of him.
Three years ago I saw him was at the beach condo where he lived with his beloved wife. They had been together for around 30 years. I was with my daughter and he had to be reminded a couple of times who we were. A clock that said the time in a woman's voice seemed to comfort him. He was still great at spelling! As we were leaving, he said, "Love you." Surprised, I said, "We love you, too."
That was the last time I saw him and I'm glad that's my last memory of him.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Disturbances & Dr. Zhivago
There are some people who go thru life at about forty to fifty miles an hour. I don't. I have two speeds--80 and zero. On my zero days I don't want to be bothered. Generally, I won't answer the phone. I especially don't like to be called after say about five o'clock at night. But I have a friend who likes to just call and talk. So I'll say, "I gotta go." But does that stop the conversation--Never. Even on non-zero days I don't like to talk much on the phone except on rare occasions or if it's work related.
You know, I'm finally getting to the point in my life where I just give myself permission to have these days--zero days. My husband, who is usually NOT a particularly helpful person, is pretty good about getting into the driver's seat on those days. Because I'm not leaving the house. My mom asks, "do you need to go to a doctor?" and offers me money. My voice goes all mean and hard, no I am just tired and I don't need to have an excuse or offer explanations. See, some of us--that's the only way we're going to recharge, go all the way down. I don't understand what's so baffling about someone needing one day every week or so to just not do anything. You don't have to be sick. I don't have to be. It's not like it's great fun, but it's necessary. I have accepted that, but my mother doesn't. Then I'm mad and feeling guilty for being so nasty.
I didn't even get out of my PJs today. Instead I watched Dr. Z except when dealing with the two phone calls I got. My daughter and her chum from next door are on an old-movie kick and I almost rented Dr. Zhivago for them last night, but I knew it was long so I got Vertigo and His Girl Friday. They didn't get His Girl Friday, which is kind of a good thing. But Dr. Z was in the back of my mind because I had gone to see that movie Must Love Dogs, which was cute and had some very snappy dialogue. Anyway, in that movie the guy obsessively watched Dr. Zhivago, and so I wanted to see it again. There was so much I didn't remember. I remembered the music, the snow and the battle scene when we register what is going on by the reaction on Omar Sharif's face. How brilliant that was. Now, they'd have to show you every bone crushed and every piece of flesh gouged and they would do it in slow mo and they would linger on the shot of the child being pummelled to death by horse's hooves. But here we just saw the shocked staccato moves of Zhivago's face and it was enough. Enough.
Dr. Zhivago is what we wish all doctors were like, what we secretly believe it means to be a doctor--someone who has such a strong calling to heal that that is what he does no matter who it is who comes to him. We'd like them all to be like that, people with an innate sense of justice, people who are poets at heart--not golf-playing Lexus-driving HMO drones. I read about a doctor like this. He lived in Chechnya and wrote a book called The Oath. A mesmerizing book. Unforgettable really. And my friend T is married to a doctor out of that mold. He angrily related to her the story of a homeless man who was released from the hospital with an open wound on his foot that would have become gangrenous. The doctor went and found him and brought him back to the hospital and kept him there while the wound healed. How much easier to fix the wound than to later amputate his foot.
There was a program here for homeless people set up by a resident, and every week doctors volunteered time to help out. It wasn't an onerous task. The way it fell was that each doctor had to volunteer about twice a year. This year the program was halted because the doctors couldn't give up that time anymore.
The movie represented some interesting parallels to me. But this is supposed to be a zero day so I'll wait till some other time to go into them.
You know, I'm finally getting to the point in my life where I just give myself permission to have these days--zero days. My husband, who is usually NOT a particularly helpful person, is pretty good about getting into the driver's seat on those days. Because I'm not leaving the house. My mom asks, "do you need to go to a doctor?" and offers me money. My voice goes all mean and hard, no I am just tired and I don't need to have an excuse or offer explanations. See, some of us--that's the only way we're going to recharge, go all the way down. I don't understand what's so baffling about someone needing one day every week or so to just not do anything. You don't have to be sick. I don't have to be. It's not like it's great fun, but it's necessary. I have accepted that, but my mother doesn't. Then I'm mad and feeling guilty for being so nasty.
I didn't even get out of my PJs today. Instead I watched Dr. Z except when dealing with the two phone calls I got. My daughter and her chum from next door are on an old-movie kick and I almost rented Dr. Zhivago for them last night, but I knew it was long so I got Vertigo and His Girl Friday. They didn't get His Girl Friday, which is kind of a good thing. But Dr. Z was in the back of my mind because I had gone to see that movie Must Love Dogs, which was cute and had some very snappy dialogue. Anyway, in that movie the guy obsessively watched Dr. Zhivago, and so I wanted to see it again. There was so much I didn't remember. I remembered the music, the snow and the battle scene when we register what is going on by the reaction on Omar Sharif's face. How brilliant that was. Now, they'd have to show you every bone crushed and every piece of flesh gouged and they would do it in slow mo and they would linger on the shot of the child being pummelled to death by horse's hooves. But here we just saw the shocked staccato moves of Zhivago's face and it was enough. Enough.
Dr. Zhivago is what we wish all doctors were like, what we secretly believe it means to be a doctor--someone who has such a strong calling to heal that that is what he does no matter who it is who comes to him. We'd like them all to be like that, people with an innate sense of justice, people who are poets at heart--not golf-playing Lexus-driving HMO drones. I read about a doctor like this. He lived in Chechnya and wrote a book called The Oath. A mesmerizing book. Unforgettable really. And my friend T is married to a doctor out of that mold. He angrily related to her the story of a homeless man who was released from the hospital with an open wound on his foot that would have become gangrenous. The doctor went and found him and brought him back to the hospital and kept him there while the wound healed. How much easier to fix the wound than to later amputate his foot.
There was a program here for homeless people set up by a resident, and every week doctors volunteered time to help out. It wasn't an onerous task. The way it fell was that each doctor had to volunteer about twice a year. This year the program was halted because the doctors couldn't give up that time anymore.
The movie represented some interesting parallels to me. But this is supposed to be a zero day so I'll wait till some other time to go into them.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Mopping
This is from an exercise on smell:
I smell lemon-scented cleaner, and I am mopping my floor, which may seem like an onerous task but I don't find it to be so. I have a string mop I keep out on the deck so that it doesn't get stinky. I turn on the hot water and pour in some cleanser. Then I soak the mop in it. Then I transfer the mop to the second sink and wring out the mop, so it's not overly wet and then I mop my white linoleum floor and the smell is clean and lemony and the spaghetti sauce stains and the splotches of mustard, the black and brown blobs of I don't know what fade and finally disappear. I am always alone when I mop, and perhaps that's another reason I enjoy it. When I am rinsing out the mop in the sink, I look out the window above the sink at our big greep tulip tree or the dogwood and the blackberry brambles and the woods. It is such a domestic moment for me. I guess I feel like the archetypal housewife--a woman with a kitchen floor to care for and a family who create a mess.
I smell lemon-scented cleaner, and I am mopping my floor, which may seem like an onerous task but I don't find it to be so. I have a string mop I keep out on the deck so that it doesn't get stinky. I turn on the hot water and pour in some cleanser. Then I soak the mop in it. Then I transfer the mop to the second sink and wring out the mop, so it's not overly wet and then I mop my white linoleum floor and the smell is clean and lemony and the spaghetti sauce stains and the splotches of mustard, the black and brown blobs of I don't know what fade and finally disappear. I am always alone when I mop, and perhaps that's another reason I enjoy it. When I am rinsing out the mop in the sink, I look out the window above the sink at our big greep tulip tree or the dogwood and the blackberry brambles and the woods. It is such a domestic moment for me. I guess I feel like the archetypal housewife--a woman with a kitchen floor to care for and a family who create a mess.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Kaleidoscope
I teach creative writing at an arts camp called Kaleidoscope. I missed that movie that came out last year about an arts camp, but I can see why someone thought it would make a great premise. There's so much drama, so many little coming of age stories, and so much life. Our camp takes place at Winthrop University which I think adds a kind of Hogwarts dimension to the whole experience. It's really my favorite two weeks out of the year. For a teacher it's incredibly gratifying to go in a classroom and sit with people who share your passion and who happily do whatever you suggest and yet who have the independence of mind to be able to take assignments and make them their own. Each kid leaves his or her mark on you. And it's fun to see how they change from year to year. Of course, each year has its conflicts and dramas. This year a couple of girls snuck down into the boys' dorm. They were caught, of course, and I think it was fairly traumatizing and humiliating. A couple of years earlier there was a big stink about foul language and some of us almost staged a revolution, but it eventually calmed down. And of course there are always little personality conflicts and romances that ignite and burn out.
Every year I get the same classroom, second floor of the red brick conservatory building. The room has four large windows overlooking a courtyard. The walls are a dull gray with two white boards on either side. There are four rectangular heavy wooden tables and probably twenty rolling chairs in the room. We always push the tables together to make one big one. I throw a ream of paper and my collection of colored markers in the middle. Books on poetry and fiction writing go in the middle, too, and the literary magazines from past years.
They come strolling into the room, five to ten young writers, some of them brimming with talent bigger than their bodies can hold, others who are just wondering if by any chance this could be their claim to fame. I try to sit at different spots around the table each day and listen to their words. We laugh a lot. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes I open a window and music pours in. Other times the music inside is plenty.
For me, personally, the camp is incredibly inspiring. There's a novel that I've been working on forever--a coming of age novel about a girl in the early 1970s. I read a chapter each year and the kids have come to expect it and look forward to it. This year I didn't have a chapter ready so I wrote one in two days. The response was wonderful. Maybe I'll get inspired enuff to actually finish it.
I highly recommend this camp to any teenager who is interested in the arts and has an open mind. We get a little wild, but it's a great place to learn what it's like to live in that world.
Every year I get the same classroom, second floor of the red brick conservatory building. The room has four large windows overlooking a courtyard. The walls are a dull gray with two white boards on either side. There are four rectangular heavy wooden tables and probably twenty rolling chairs in the room. We always push the tables together to make one big one. I throw a ream of paper and my collection of colored markers in the middle. Books on poetry and fiction writing go in the middle, too, and the literary magazines from past years.
They come strolling into the room, five to ten young writers, some of them brimming with talent bigger than their bodies can hold, others who are just wondering if by any chance this could be their claim to fame. I try to sit at different spots around the table each day and listen to their words. We laugh a lot. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes I open a window and music pours in. Other times the music inside is plenty.
For me, personally, the camp is incredibly inspiring. There's a novel that I've been working on forever--a coming of age novel about a girl in the early 1970s. I read a chapter each year and the kids have come to expect it and look forward to it. This year I didn't have a chapter ready so I wrote one in two days. The response was wonderful. Maybe I'll get inspired enuff to actually finish it.
I highly recommend this camp to any teenager who is interested in the arts and has an open mind. We get a little wild, but it's a great place to learn what it's like to live in that world.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Gilmore Moms
For years on television the Moms were pretty ditzy and useless. Even on a show I really liked way back when called "My So-Called Life," the mom was this neurotic narcissist (yikes, is that how you spell it?) and her very cool daughter, played by Claire Danes, didn't like her much. Daughters always like the dads better. The dads are level headed and sane and interested in the daughter's lives--except when they're not. Moms are supposed to be grown up. They're supposed to be a little bit distant but loving. Or else they're idiots.
Then came the Gilmore Girls. Loralie and Rorie (again, my spelling may be way off here) are a perfect match, bantering with each other rapid fire with a familiarity that no other mother-daughter pair on television has ever had. They are friends, above all, friends who love each other, respect each other and would die for each other. And yet this friendship takes nothing away from their mother-daughter relationship. Okay, sometimes Rorie has to play the mom role--when Loralie simply can't cope with her own mom or one of her odd boyfriends, but when Rorie needs a mom, Loralie is there for her, offering love and whatever wisdom she can muster. I remember reading some child "expert" saying, "Your child doesn't need a friend. She needs a parent." I think you can be both.
My daughter and I love to watch the Gilmore Girls. We smile in recognition as the two of them try to hash out their lives together. There's a scene where Rorie graduates from her prestigious school, and Loralie wants her to scrawl her name somewhere. And my daughter and I laugh because on her birthday we passed a house that just had new sidewalk poured in front of it, and I slammed the car to a stop so she could go out and write her name in the wet cement. Unfortunately, the cement had hardened. But it's the sort of opportunity we can't pass up even if her prep-school friends are in the back, wide eyed and open-mouthed.
We are a certain type--Gilmore Moms. The most important person in our lives is our child with whom we share most everything. We understand that she will have secrets, she will have parts of her life she doesn't share, and we will, too. But the private areas are smaller than the parts we share with each other. We like the same music and same TV shows. We watch movies together, go to concerts together. We tell each other how we're feeling. We forgive each other. We laugh together a lot.
Last week my daughter and I drove to Florida. I showed her the church in Jacksonville where I had spent great portions of my childhood. It's like a castle and she was fascinated. I showed her where I had scrawled my name in the choir room in 1967. I took her to stay with my godfather and explained to her he was the closest thing I'd ever have to a father. We drove to Fort Lauderdale and then took a trip to South Beach where we slipped into stores to laugh at the $250 jeans and $150 shirts. We ate on the roof at Ernie's where I used to eat with her father. I showed her the apartment where I lived as a single woman a half block from Biscayne Bay. And the house where her father and I lived before she was born. We had such a good time together. I'm glad I'm a Gilmore Mom. I have someone in my life who knows me better than anyone else ever could. And still loves me--that's the mystery of it.
Then came the Gilmore Girls. Loralie and Rorie (again, my spelling may be way off here) are a perfect match, bantering with each other rapid fire with a familiarity that no other mother-daughter pair on television has ever had. They are friends, above all, friends who love each other, respect each other and would die for each other. And yet this friendship takes nothing away from their mother-daughter relationship. Okay, sometimes Rorie has to play the mom role--when Loralie simply can't cope with her own mom or one of her odd boyfriends, but when Rorie needs a mom, Loralie is there for her, offering love and whatever wisdom she can muster. I remember reading some child "expert" saying, "Your child doesn't need a friend. She needs a parent." I think you can be both.
My daughter and I love to watch the Gilmore Girls. We smile in recognition as the two of them try to hash out their lives together. There's a scene where Rorie graduates from her prestigious school, and Loralie wants her to scrawl her name somewhere. And my daughter and I laugh because on her birthday we passed a house that just had new sidewalk poured in front of it, and I slammed the car to a stop so she could go out and write her name in the wet cement. Unfortunately, the cement had hardened. But it's the sort of opportunity we can't pass up even if her prep-school friends are in the back, wide eyed and open-mouthed.
We are a certain type--Gilmore Moms. The most important person in our lives is our child with whom we share most everything. We understand that she will have secrets, she will have parts of her life she doesn't share, and we will, too. But the private areas are smaller than the parts we share with each other. We like the same music and same TV shows. We watch movies together, go to concerts together. We tell each other how we're feeling. We forgive each other. We laugh together a lot.
Last week my daughter and I drove to Florida. I showed her the church in Jacksonville where I had spent great portions of my childhood. It's like a castle and she was fascinated. I showed her where I had scrawled my name in the choir room in 1967. I took her to stay with my godfather and explained to her he was the closest thing I'd ever have to a father. We drove to Fort Lauderdale and then took a trip to South Beach where we slipped into stores to laugh at the $250 jeans and $150 shirts. We ate on the roof at Ernie's where I used to eat with her father. I showed her the apartment where I lived as a single woman a half block from Biscayne Bay. And the house where her father and I lived before she was born. We had such a good time together. I'm glad I'm a Gilmore Mom. I have someone in my life who knows me better than anyone else ever could. And still loves me--that's the mystery of it.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Rain Man
Last night my kid and I watched Rain Man. I hadn't seen it in ... a really long time. But somewhere she had picked up the "definitely . . . definitely" rain man thing, and so I decided it was time for a little film enrichment. (Last weekend we watched Some Like it Hot because she wasn't exactly sure who Marilyn Monroe really was. Lord, what a funny film. I love the way they felt free to play with realism back then.)
And so this weekend we watched Rain Man. She thought Dustin Hoffman was fantastic--"Or is he really like that?" she asked.
"No," I said. "In another year or so, we'll watch The Graduate."
I thought Tom Cruise was good, too. Overall it was just a funny, touching, very watchable movie. I loved the way the writers used the big old car and the two brothers' in-depth knowledge of the car and its family value as a plot device. Of course, that opening shot with the Lamborghini (sp?) flying across the top of the screen is classic. It makes you realize how important location is in capturing the viewer's interest.
I have heard over the years some people complain about "the defective character" instant shoo-in for awards syndrome. As if there were something manipulative and false about the way "the differently abled" are portrayed. But I disagree with this view. You go into a movie knowing that you are not watching a documentary or a PBS special. It's a story, a narrative and hence it will not portray anyone or anything accurately. That doesn't lessen the truth that may be found in such stories. The point of Rain Man is not that the system is stupid and that Raymond should be able to live with Charlie. The point is that Charlie has been changed for the good--become more human and more humane--through his interaction with his autistic brother. This is the theme: when we are taken out of our selfish little worlds by having to care for another, our hearts open in ways to beautiful to express in words.
I'm sure I didn't get this the first time I saw the movie fifteen years ago or however long it was. But for the past year I have been caring for my elderly mother. She moved to a retirement community nearby and needs a lot of attention, which isn't all that easy for me to do considering neither of my siblings is nearby and I'm raising a teenager, trying to take care of a house, a man, and two pets, and editing and writing fulltime. It's frustrating at times and physically exhausting and full of worries (like how many more teeth are going to break apart and how much is it going to cost??). It's also been one of the most gratifying experiences of my life.
My daughter sometimes resents all of the attention that has been diverted from her. But I'm hoping she'll take away something from that movie we watched, even if it's only the nagging suspicion that there's more to this "duty" of mine than meets the eye. Taking care of another person who needs you is more than duty; it's a sacred privilege. It's as if the God inside you said, "Here, this will soften your heart. You can't get into heaven with a hard heart." And whoever that person is who needs your help is giving you this gift. Nothing you can do will ever be enough to pay them back for the spiritual growth you've gained in the process. So you don't worry about it. Someday, you may be giving that same gift to another person.
And so this weekend we watched Rain Man. She thought Dustin Hoffman was fantastic--"Or is he really like that?" she asked.
"No," I said. "In another year or so, we'll watch The Graduate."
I thought Tom Cruise was good, too. Overall it was just a funny, touching, very watchable movie. I loved the way the writers used the big old car and the two brothers' in-depth knowledge of the car and its family value as a plot device. Of course, that opening shot with the Lamborghini (sp?) flying across the top of the screen is classic. It makes you realize how important location is in capturing the viewer's interest.
I have heard over the years some people complain about "the defective character" instant shoo-in for awards syndrome. As if there were something manipulative and false about the way "the differently abled" are portrayed. But I disagree with this view. You go into a movie knowing that you are not watching a documentary or a PBS special. It's a story, a narrative and hence it will not portray anyone or anything accurately. That doesn't lessen the truth that may be found in such stories. The point of Rain Man is not that the system is stupid and that Raymond should be able to live with Charlie. The point is that Charlie has been changed for the good--become more human and more humane--through his interaction with his autistic brother. This is the theme: when we are taken out of our selfish little worlds by having to care for another, our hearts open in ways to beautiful to express in words.
I'm sure I didn't get this the first time I saw the movie fifteen years ago or however long it was. But for the past year I have been caring for my elderly mother. She moved to a retirement community nearby and needs a lot of attention, which isn't all that easy for me to do considering neither of my siblings is nearby and I'm raising a teenager, trying to take care of a house, a man, and two pets, and editing and writing fulltime. It's frustrating at times and physically exhausting and full of worries (like how many more teeth are going to break apart and how much is it going to cost??). It's also been one of the most gratifying experiences of my life.
My daughter sometimes resents all of the attention that has been diverted from her. But I'm hoping she'll take away something from that movie we watched, even if it's only the nagging suspicion that there's more to this "duty" of mine than meets the eye. Taking care of another person who needs you is more than duty; it's a sacred privilege. It's as if the God inside you said, "Here, this will soften your heart. You can't get into heaven with a hard heart." And whoever that person is who needs your help is giving you this gift. Nothing you can do will ever be enough to pay them back for the spiritual growth you've gained in the process. So you don't worry about it. Someday, you may be giving that same gift to another person.
Friday, May 20, 2005
The Neighborhood Perv?
Two nights ago I get a call from my next door neighbor. She says, "Have you heard what's going on in the neighborhood?" I recently got a little notice from the neighborhood association so I ask "About the fields?" I can tell by the tone of her voice that the news she's talking about has nothing to do with the two fields full of wildflowers at the top of neighborhood that developers are salivating over.
"No."
"Umm, somebody's building a fence or a wall?" There was something about that in the notice, too, but I can tell that's still too innocuous an item and her voice is full of foreboding. So, finally I shut up and let her tell me.
"You know that family that lives next door to the Smiths? They have the two kids that you never see. The older one has gone to college I think."
"Oh, yeah." I'd completely forgotten about these people.
"Well, the husband moved out a while back and now he's back and guess what? He's a registered sex offender."
"Oh, crap. Are you sure this isn't some rumor?"
"No, it's on the web and everything. With a picture of him. I'll send you the email."
Well, it turns out our neighborhood sentries are up in arms about this guy. They would like to convince the family to move, but I don't see how that's possible. I mean, you can't shun people who don't socialize with you in the first place. The gossip is that he may have molested family members, and no one is quite sure why the wife has let him move back in with her. My general inclination is to give people the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I have a daughter who has roamed free with her pals in this neighborhood for six years. We lived in this little bubble of 1950s bliss, our girls camping at whichever house had something good to eat. From what I know or have read about sexual offenders, they don't get cured. Your standard run-of-the-mill criminal (a variety I once knew well) generally outgrows his or her stupidity or dies young. But sexual predators? Well, just look at how old some of those Catholic priests were. Or what about the "dirty old men" we all knew about when we were kids. I remember my friend Paula complaining when we were about eleven that her grandfather tried to French kiss her. She hated him.
My husband watches FOX News all the time. (I'm not going to get into that here.) They are always swept up in some frenzy of "thoughtful and insightful" analysis into the latest murdered/disappeared child-girlfriend-pregnant wife.
So . . . now when we drive out of the neighborhood, my husband says the perv is probably hiding in the bushes right now. And I tell him not to worry because our kid is now fifteen which is probably over the hill for a true perv. But still we're paying a little closer attention these days.
My thought is that we need to turn this to our advantage. We need to let the developers who want to put their cookie-cutter houses up on the beautiful fields where we let our dogs play that we have a registered sex offender in the neighborhood and that we plan to let any prospective home buyers know it. Ha, so they'll never be able to sell the houses and maybe they won't build them in the first place.
"No."
"Umm, somebody's building a fence or a wall?" There was something about that in the notice, too, but I can tell that's still too innocuous an item and her voice is full of foreboding. So, finally I shut up and let her tell me.
"You know that family that lives next door to the Smiths? They have the two kids that you never see. The older one has gone to college I think."
"Oh, yeah." I'd completely forgotten about these people.
"Well, the husband moved out a while back and now he's back and guess what? He's a registered sex offender."
"Oh, crap. Are you sure this isn't some rumor?"
"No, it's on the web and everything. With a picture of him. I'll send you the email."
Well, it turns out our neighborhood sentries are up in arms about this guy. They would like to convince the family to move, but I don't see how that's possible. I mean, you can't shun people who don't socialize with you in the first place. The gossip is that he may have molested family members, and no one is quite sure why the wife has let him move back in with her. My general inclination is to give people the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I have a daughter who has roamed free with her pals in this neighborhood for six years. We lived in this little bubble of 1950s bliss, our girls camping at whichever house had something good to eat. From what I know or have read about sexual offenders, they don't get cured. Your standard run-of-the-mill criminal (a variety I once knew well) generally outgrows his or her stupidity or dies young. But sexual predators? Well, just look at how old some of those Catholic priests were. Or what about the "dirty old men" we all knew about when we were kids. I remember my friend Paula complaining when we were about eleven that her grandfather tried to French kiss her. She hated him.
My husband watches FOX News all the time. (I'm not going to get into that here.) They are always swept up in some frenzy of "thoughtful and insightful" analysis into the latest murdered/disappeared child-girlfriend-pregnant wife.
So . . . now when we drive out of the neighborhood, my husband says the perv is probably hiding in the bushes right now. And I tell him not to worry because our kid is now fifteen which is probably over the hill for a true perv. But still we're paying a little closer attention these days.
My thought is that we need to turn this to our advantage. We need to let the developers who want to put their cookie-cutter houses up on the beautiful fields where we let our dogs play that we have a registered sex offender in the neighborhood and that we plan to let any prospective home buyers know it. Ha, so they'll never be able to sell the houses and maybe they won't build them in the first place.
Monday, May 16, 2005
My First Blog (On television drama)
So here I am. This is my first blog. Woo-hoo. I should be working on my next novel, but this seems like fun. When I went to school in Tallahassee, I used to write a column for the now deceased Florida Flambeau (ah, the good old days before the frat boys killed it because Mary Jane Ryals made fun of their stupid beauty pagent). My column was called Lifestyles for the Poor and Unknown (I've been trying to overcome that stigma ever since) and I wrote about whatever weird thing I had done lately. I don't have nearly such an adventurous life these days but I still have this desire -- like so many of us I guess -- to publish the things I happen to be thinking about at the time. It might also be a good outlet for those little pieces of writing that I know I'll never send out. I'm not sure whether anyone else will read this. I don't profess to have some inside scoop on what the White House is up to. FOX News will never quote me. Thank you, God. But here it is. My first blog.
This morning my friend Patti called me. She has stopped watching "The Medium" because of a recent show that had to do with doctors who were possessed by an evil spirit cutting open fourteen-year-old girls just for fun. She says she loved the show at first but now it seems they're jumping on the CSI bloodthirsty bandwagon. I watched that particular episode of The Medium. (I hadn't seen the show before.) It was nowhere near CSI. If the CSI writers had been in charge, you would have seen the distraught parents walk in to find their daughter a mangled corpse. You would have gotten to truly experience the horror of inexplicable evil. And if you were a regular CSI viewer, you would have said it was entertaining. I hardly ever watch CSI, but sometimes when I'm tired and mindlessly channel surfing it'll snare me. The visual work is stunning, the actors are all easy on the eyes and the dialogue makes you think that something interesting is going on. Then I always get sucker punched. Some vicious example of human behavior so twisted as to make Hitler and his minions look almost kind by comparison pops up on my television screen and scars me for my life. I can't get to the remote fast enough to turn the TV off. Who could possibly like this shit, I wonder? (Okay, nothing would make the Holocaust look kind. I'm just trying to make a point here.)
So The Medium wasn't nearly as bad. The problem I think is with the whole format of the one-hour drama. Leonard Hill, in an essay called "The Hijacking of Hollywood," explains why one-hour dramas are so empty and so unsatisfying: "Only twenty years ago the typical one-hour dramatic series episode had a running time of approximately 48 minutes. Today the typical episode contains roughly 42 minutes of content."* You wouldn't think that six minutes would make that much difference, but it does, and I think it's a major difference. It's nearly impossible to get emotionally or intellectually involved in these shows. And major plot points are NEVER explained. You simply have to accept the fact that the problem was somehow solved. The "how" of the solution is not delineated. One show that I really like is "Numbers" --which is stylish and intriguing (well, Ridley and Tony Scott created it, I think), but it suffers from the same syndrome; there's not enough time to delve into the cool mathematic calculations that form the basis of the show. I wish it were on HBO or one of the other commercial-free stations.
Patti says she's spoken to several other people who have stopped watching "The Medium" for the same reason she has. They liked it at first but find that recent episodes have been too disturbing in a way that seems not narrative-driven but disturbing merely for the shock value. Hmmm, shouldn't "shock value" be an oxymoron? I guess it isn't. It's unfortunate that the producers/writers feel they have to pander to the prurient mindset that seems standard in our culture rightnow. It would be nice for there to be television for the non-sociopathic minority.
* I read Hill's essay in a book called News Incorporated: Corporate Media Ownershop and its Threat to Democracy. This is a must-read book for anyone who cares about what is going on, politically and culturally in the United States.
This morning my friend Patti called me. She has stopped watching "The Medium" because of a recent show that had to do with doctors who were possessed by an evil spirit cutting open fourteen-year-old girls just for fun. She says she loved the show at first but now it seems they're jumping on the CSI bloodthirsty bandwagon. I watched that particular episode of The Medium. (I hadn't seen the show before.) It was nowhere near CSI. If the CSI writers had been in charge, you would have seen the distraught parents walk in to find their daughter a mangled corpse. You would have gotten to truly experience the horror of inexplicable evil. And if you were a regular CSI viewer, you would have said it was entertaining. I hardly ever watch CSI, but sometimes when I'm tired and mindlessly channel surfing it'll snare me. The visual work is stunning, the actors are all easy on the eyes and the dialogue makes you think that something interesting is going on. Then I always get sucker punched. Some vicious example of human behavior so twisted as to make Hitler and his minions look almost kind by comparison pops up on my television screen and scars me for my life. I can't get to the remote fast enough to turn the TV off. Who could possibly like this shit, I wonder? (Okay, nothing would make the Holocaust look kind. I'm just trying to make a point here.)
So The Medium wasn't nearly as bad. The problem I think is with the whole format of the one-hour drama. Leonard Hill, in an essay called "The Hijacking of Hollywood," explains why one-hour dramas are so empty and so unsatisfying: "Only twenty years ago the typical one-hour dramatic series episode had a running time of approximately 48 minutes. Today the typical episode contains roughly 42 minutes of content."* You wouldn't think that six minutes would make that much difference, but it does, and I think it's a major difference. It's nearly impossible to get emotionally or intellectually involved in these shows. And major plot points are NEVER explained. You simply have to accept the fact that the problem was somehow solved. The "how" of the solution is not delineated. One show that I really like is "Numbers" --which is stylish and intriguing (well, Ridley and Tony Scott created it, I think), but it suffers from the same syndrome; there's not enough time to delve into the cool mathematic calculations that form the basis of the show. I wish it were on HBO or one of the other commercial-free stations.
Patti says she's spoken to several other people who have stopped watching "The Medium" for the same reason she has. They liked it at first but find that recent episodes have been too disturbing in a way that seems not narrative-driven but disturbing merely for the shock value. Hmmm, shouldn't "shock value" be an oxymoron? I guess it isn't. It's unfortunate that the producers/writers feel they have to pander to the prurient mindset that seems standard in our culture rightnow. It would be nice for there to be television for the non-sociopathic minority.
* I read Hill's essay in a book called News Incorporated: Corporate Media Ownershop and its Threat to Democracy. This is a must-read book for anyone who cares about what is going on, politically and culturally in the United States.
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