Cracking the Shield

I knew motherhood would change me.

I fully anticipated a complete upheaval of my status quo. As I've said before, I steeled myself against screaming and sleepless nights and general grumpiness. And wouldn't you know, those haven't been my issues. Instead, I'm faced with a shocking wave of emotion. Not just having emotion—which is fairly new, but has been in the works for about five years—but having a specific, softening of emotions.

In other words, I'm now an utter marshmallow.

This softness blindsided me. I wasn't fully in the can for children yet, I didn't consider myself warm or inviting, and out of the two of us I was always a little more standoffish than Taylor. But as soon as they laid that squirming kid on my chest, it was over. I was hers.

And now I'm a crier. Pop culture that didn't penetrate my hard shell now annihilates me. Any children in peril, or separation from parents? Done. I'm done. After Alex was born, I tried watching Six Feet Under, but found it hard to continue after episode 11, where the mortuary prepares a baby who died of SIDS. I just finished Robin Roe's novel A List Of Cages. I started it in January, but had to put it down for a while after the descriptions of child abuse got too oppressive.

Essentially, I was a giant bleeding heart, which belied my carefully carved and crafted outer shell.

That brings us to Wonder Woman. The recent batch of DC movies holds little to no interest for me. This might be traced to my complete Zack Snyder disdain, or my recent weariness with superhero flicks as a whole. That being said, I did enjoy the teasing of Wonder Woman in BvS, she seemed to actually have a musical theme (saints be priased!), and oh yeah, women are important. Even if it sucked, I knew I would see this movie in theatres. It was my duty.

What I didn't expect was how watching it would fully crack my protective shield. It was a super hero movie! About I character I'd never connected with, even as a child, interpreting her as cheesy and a little bit exploitative! How could I have expected a film about her would rip out my heart and show to the world?

It began. I was fine. I saw a little girl running down the street. I was still fine. That little girl stopped to watch a bunch of muscled, fast, strong women training on a field. As they trained, she stood on the sidelines and copied them, little fists punching the air and feet kicking. And as for me? Oh yeah, I LOST IT.

via GIPHY

The sobbing was involuntary. My body trembled, my seat becoming it's own little earthquake as I tried to suppress the weirdly uncontrollable tears. I kept thinking, why? Why am I crying? This is amazing! It's also just another action movie, right? Wrong. I mean, yeah, sure, it was. It was pretty conventionally shot, not even too skillfully.* But the ability to see women performing actions that I'd only seen in the realm of men—actions that were pure and destructive and powerful, and without an overly-sexualized lens? That was incredible. It was overpowering.

And it happened over, and over, and over again.

Every time I watched Diana fight, I cried. I believed in the fact that representation matters, but I thought it mattered more for other people. I figured that I could watch my Batman and Indiana Jones and those men and just model myself after that. Easy. Except it wasn't, and I felt that in my soul while watching Wonder Woman. There was power in seeing women be strong, independent of a man. The Amazons were created to elevate humanity, to protect not just through emotion (which they had and valued), but through strength. Women had fought onscreen before, but it had been in tight leather with moves choreographed to accentuate every curve. It was, you guessed it, created for the male gaze. There is leather in the movie, and amazing curves, but it only serves to reinforce the idea that women are strong, women are capable, and women act for themselves.

Thinking about showing this to my daughter was exhilarating. That's actually one of the most exciting parts of parenthood right now—the thought of sharing the culture I love. Her first month, I loved playing Alex the Beatles and Bowie and Nirvana, reveling in the fact that there is the perfect, beautiful being who hadn't heard these things before.

Someday, she'll awake to those bands. And now I have more to awake her to. I've got actual models to point at and say, look darling. That can be you. Pure, unfettered, and minus any mental gymnastics. She can see that, and believe.

*I'm still sorting through my feelings on the slow motion. I didn't love it while watching the movie, and found it a bit distracting, but the more I think about it the more I do appreciate the display of a woman's body in full strength mode, so there's that.

Black Days

I was raised a sheltered kid. I listened to a capella jamz (ugh) and showtunes. In high school I "rebelled" against that upbringing by listening to classic rock and only classic rock. If the band had a hit in the past twenty years, I wasn't interested. In college, I became immersed in the local band scene, and naturally grew into an indie rock chick, black-framed glasses and cardigans and all.

Which is all to say—I didn't know the music of my youth. I'm pretty sure grunge was banned in Davis County. Apparently a few counties over accidentally booked Rage Against the Machine once, and that is still the terrifying stuff of local legend.

Chris Cornell first consciously entered my brain when I was 20. I sat on a couch in Provo with two boys that I loved, loved at different times and the same time.* We watched skate videos and "Like a Stone."



I was not a rocker at that time—the hardest music I listened to was The White Stripes—but I was immediately drawn in by Cornell's voice. I'd later learn to appreciate Morello's guitar skills, but the sheer melancholy of Cornell's singing floored me. I watched that video and saw and heard true despair. I didn't know a voice could rock while carrying that level of sincere emotion.

A few months later, I made a new friend. The first time we hung out we had a massive music swap, where I foisted Andrew Bird and Rilo Kiley on his iTunes. In turn, he filled a USB with all the 90s music I missed. He gave me entire catalogs of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog and Soundgarden. He told me to listen to Superunknown, that it was an album everybody should experience.** When I got home that night I turned it on. My bud Ashley came in and said, and I quote, "This is not Cat music."

No. It wasn't. But even I couldn't resist blasting "4th of July" at full capacity, because that song was magic.



That new friend who gave me Soundgarden? His name was Taylor McCarrey. I soon saw the beauty in his childhood music, fully embracing those 90s guitars. When we were still dating, we moved to Seattle. He was depressed. I was frustrated. We both experienced some extreme growing pains that summer. We visited Volunteer Park, and I felt a kinship with the "Black Hole Sun."



I'd never put Chris Cornell or any of his projects in my top lists when it comes to music, but I can't deny that he has had an indelible effect on my life. My sorrow at his passing blindsided me. His voice was there during the most pivotal times. Its raw emotion still haunts me. There's something warm and unnerving about the edge, that soft blanket lined with sandpaper. I can't shake it, and I wouldn't want to.



*It was as dramatic and painful and beautiful as it sounds.

**He also said the same about Stone Temple Pilot's Purple and Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. What can I say, my husband is a wise man.

2015: On the Screen

This year's movie scene started out promising. I averaged around two movies a week, helped in part by a lack of steady employment and by a volunteering gig at Scarecrow Video. Honestly, it was a creative haven for me. I was watching movies outside my comfort zone, studying directors, becoming more of an auteur completist. Taylor and I barreled through 70s war movie and Kurosawa phases, dipped our toes into classic works we'd never seen. For my sadly short-lived Most Worlds blog (short-lived due completely to my own personal failings), I immersed myself in glam and vampire films, forced myself through horror flicks. With so many opportunities for new and great films, it was a golden age for the expansion of world views and massive explosions of personal creativity.

And then in July, I embarked upon the Grand X-Files Rewatch of 2015.

Watching one episode a day of any TV show is unexpectedly taxing. It's a lot of screen time, especially when you fall behind and have to catch up on six hours over the weekend. Compound that with rejoining the teaching force and my treasured film time seriously deteriorated. I was lucky to get one a week, if that. It left a surprising hole in my heart. To those who argue movies are a waste of time and brain, I say PHOOEY. It's a necessary boost for my mental acuity. Without movies, my brain is sludge. With movies, my brain ticks and whirs. Go figure.

So, without further ado, my 2015 movie round-up:

Total Movies Watched: 112. A serious dip from last year (133). Again, I blame the X-Files rewatch.

Movies I Saw By Myself in Theatres: The Imitation Game. Selma. Cuidad Delirio. Amy. Ricki and the Flash. Crimson Peak. Steve Jobs. The Big Short.

Movies I FINALLY Watched, Under Much Duress: The Hunt for Red October. It was not as boring as I thought it would be. However, it was also not as great as I'd been led to believe. It was a solid "a'ight."

Movies I Watched for Halloween: Monster Squad. Shaun of the Dead. MST3K: Manos. Corpse Bride. The Worst Witch. The Witches. Young Frankenstein. Something Wicked This Way Comes. 28 Days Later.

Martial Arts Movies: Police Story 3: Supercop. Armour of God 2: Operation Condor. Legend of Drunken Master 2. Fist of Legend. Rifftrax: Miami Connection.*

*I'm counting it. I mean, martial arts IS the co-main focus of the movie (next to neutered 80's pop songs).

Classic Movies I'd Never Seen: Heat. Zodiac. His Girl Friday. Ran. A Streetcar Named Desire. THe Shining. The Deer Hunter. Fight Club. The Silence of the Lambs. Jaws. The Seven Samurai.**

**Flawless Film

Movies Whose Awfulness Angered Me: The Hobbit: the Battle of Five Armies. Avengers: Age of Ultron.***

***Sweet mercy, I hated this movie. I'll be the first to admit I suffer from superhero film fatigue, and the whole building-smash-quick-cut style in this film didn't help. And then there's what they did to Hawkeye. Clint is not a family man. It does not make sense. And the love story was dumb, and they barely gave Quicksilver any lines so WHO CARES. You can tell that Whedon was exhausted with the film, because every frame resonates with a lack of caring. OK, do an explosion, fine. That's your delivery, Ruffalo? Cool, whatever. "Let's just finish the thing and go home" must have been Whedon's mantra as a director, and it was definitely my perspective as a viewer.

Movies That Filled Me With Righteous Anger: The Big Short.

Favorite Movies Released in 2015: The Big Short. Ex Machina. Star Wars VII. Crimson Peak. **** Straight Outta Compton. What We Do in the Shadows.

****Pure Gothic giddiness throughout. A typical del Toro visual feast, but with enough story to keep me interested.

Clint Eastwood Movies: Gran Torino. A Fistful of Dollars.

THE COMPLETE LIST:

• Almost Famous
• The Return of the King
• Pee Wee's Big Adventure
• Election
• Jimi Hendrix: Hear My Train A Comin'
• Heat
• Velvet Goldmine
• Mud
• Punk-Drunk Love
• The Fifth Element
• Wayne's World 2
• Zodiac
• The Imitation Game
• Moulin Rouge
• Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion
• Snowpiercer
• The Hobbit: the Battle of Five Armies
• Can't Hardly Wait
• Patton Oswalt: Tragedy Plus Comedy...
• Donald Glover: Weirdo
• Police Story 3: Supercop
• Gran Torino
• A Fistful of Dollars
• John Wick
• Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
• American Sniper
• Selma
• His Girl Friday
• The Amazing Spiderman 2
• Remember the Titans
• Fantasia
• Fantasia 2000
• Armour of God 2: Operation Condor
• Gremlins
• Trading Places
• What We Do in the Shadows
• 20 Feet From Stardom
• Horns
• The Big Lebowski
• She's All That
• The Crow
• Legend of Drunken Master 2
• Spirited Away
• Ran
• A Streetcar Named Desire
• Life Itself
• Cuidad Delirio
• The Shining
• The Deer Hunter
• Mad Max: Fury Road
• West of Redemption
• Fist of Legend
• The Spy Who Loved
• Fight Club
• Hot Fuzz
• The Man with the Golden Gun
• Inside Out
• The Lost Boys
• We Are the Best!
• Ray
• Django Unchained
• Inglourious Basterds
• Rifftrax: Independence Day
• Pulp Fiction
• Jurassic World 
• Attack the Block
• The Silence of the Lambs
• Sharknado 3
• True Grit
• Mr. Holmes
• Amy
• Ricki and the Flash
• Bridget Jones's Diary
• Shakespeare in Love
• From Dusk Till Dawn
• Benny and Joon
• The Hunt for Red October
• Straight Outta Compton
• Throne of Blood
• Jaws
• The Seven Samurai
• Monster Squad
• Casino
• Hercules (2014)
• MST3K: Manos
• Rifftrax: Miami Connection
• Black Mass
• Shaun of the Dead
• Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves
• Corpse Bride
• The Worst Witch
• The Witches
• Young Frankenstein
• Something Wicked This Way Comes
• 28 Days Later
• The X-Files (Fight the Future)
• Crimson Peak
• The World's End
• Spectre
• Steve Jobs
• Coco Before Chanel
• The Godfather
• Laggies
• Kill Bill vol. 1
• Kill Bill vol. 2
• Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens
• Sisters
• The Dark Knight Returns
• Ex Machina
• Avengers: Age of Ultron
• The Big Short
• Leon: The Professional

A Tale of Bags and Artistic Ownership

This is my bag.

The ratty glory!

I've had this purse since I turned sixteen.  It's been festooned with buttons for the past, oh, six years or so.*  The buttons have changed due to lost members of the fleet--a Watchman smiley face, several Andrew Bird pins, and most recently a gorgeously minimal B.P.R.D. button have been among the casualties.

One addition was from a month ago.  My dearest Mary had gone to see Yale Stewart, the creator of webcomic JL8, at a Brooklyn bookstore.  She picked up a couple button packs, and generously gave me a Batman one.  After all, it only makes sense.  I am the Batman girl.  I was delighted, and it immediately joined the clattering crew on my bag.  A couple weeks later, I ran into Yale at Boston Comic-Con and had a brief, awkward exchange about Superman. Life went on.

This morning, I read about Yale Stewart sending unsolicited "explicit photos" to female fans and women in the comics industry.**  It was disheartening, particularly hearing yet another story where comic fandom (that vast, faceless mass of apparently rampant testosterone) turned on the victims, doubting the already wounded.

Doubly so because of how much I enjoy JL8.  As much as I love Batman, I can't come out as a total DC fangirl.  For the most part I find the rest of the Justice League so painfully boring.  Ah, The Flash!  You run so fast!  How exciting!  Ah yes, Superman!  Such blue, so boy scout!  Ah, Wonder Woman!  The token chick!  Way to have those legs!  What wasted potential!

Image from here.

But JL8 handled that differently.  By showing these characters as children, all that purity and optimism made sense.  It resonated.  Superman became an admirable bastion of goodness, standing up for the bullied and protecting all classmates out of a sense of altruism, not obligation born of superior race.  Wonder Woman wasn't an empty figure head.  She became a feisty girl who could hold her own against her peers, and who knew it.  Suddenly, Diana became the girl every mother should want their daughter to be, imbued with confidence and assurance.  It was incredible what a slight change in setting and time did. The Justice League became an inspirational gang.

And then came this morning's news.  After reading several articles on the topic, including two apologies from Yale's own tumblr, I'm still not sure what to think.  Ii's a bit strange that this comes out right after artist Ulises Farinas issued some severe criticism about Yale's charity work.  But on the other hand, this behavior is reportedly common knowledge to those on the inside.  I'll leave it to the wiser, more connected people to comment on it.  For right now, I have to say that the dual apologies on his tumblr and the donation to RAINN, are about the best response you could hope for.  I mean, it would be better to not send the pictures in the first place, but at least the apology wasn't making him the wronged party.  It's the appropriate method of fessing up to wrongdoing and laying low.  Definitely the classiest way of dealing with a misdemeanor.

But I do condemn his actions, whether they are a misunderstandings like he claims, or if these behaviors are more widespread than the two women he acknowledges.  ~BARELY COHERENT RANT AHEAD~ OK, I understand that sexting or nude pics or whatever happens.  It's one of those things where I'm against it morally****, but not everyone abides by my own moral code, and I respect that.  There are those who feel powerful with exhibiting nudity, and who feel comfortable enough and have such ownership of their body that it isn't a big deal, and I respect the hell out of that.  But sending a picture in a sexting situation involves at least two people, and let's face it, the possible audience can be larger.  In my mind, it's something you have to be totally agreed upon.  There needs to be a level of trust between the two people, and I think that level is more difficult, nigh impossible, to reach in the courting stages of a relationship.  I think if there's any, and I mean any doubt as to how it will be received the photo shouldn't be sent.  Full stop.  No misunderstanding necessary.  ~RANT OVER~

While I was reading up on this scandal, I would periodically turn to Taylor and update him on the situation.  After reading through the apologies and sitting with it, Taylor had an interesting reaction.  He told me he felt a little guilty.  He felt guilty for hearing those apologies, and yet still strongly believing that this dude was a scumbag.  Taylor's read a bit of JL8.  He didn't love it like I did.  But he was so offended by the allegations that he immediately assumed that Yale was in the wrong.  Which shook Taylor up, because he felt like it was too quick for him to be so condemning of the harassment, and yet he was wholeheartedly anti-Yale.

To be honest, I was proud of Taylor.  My husband is the best feminist.  Thanks be for a career that forces acknowledgement and concern for the victims!  Taylor rocks.

My gut reaction was more muddled.  This might be shallow (my gut is telling me that it is, but my gut also wants cake, so whatever), but my first response was: "Can I still wear this guy's button on my bag?  How can I basically advertise the work of someone who doesn't respect women?"

Earlier this week, I was discussing Kanye with my pal Ricky.  To quote white girls everywhere, I truly cannot with Kanye.  Ricky thinks the man is a genius.  He's totally wrong, but that's not the point right now.  In defending Yeezy, he said "I don't expect my pop figures to be likable. I just want the art I love."

It was an interesting idea.  I often struggle with untangling the persona of the artist with the art produced.  Kanye's terrible image leaves me with too much distaste to ever objectively judge his music.  Same with a whole slew of musicians.  Taylor Swift, Bono.  My personal dislike keeps me from enjoying their output.

But on the other hand, I know that I would loathe Ernest Hemingway if I ever met him, and yet I find his novels and short stories among the more beautiful writings on this earth.  Most authors of weight require a severe disconnect between personal life and creative works.  If personal life required my approval, I could hardly read anything, and what a sad existence that would be.

But this isn't a dead author.  It's a man who is still present and active in the comics community.*****  And the role of women is already so tenuous and fraught in that world, that it's harder to permit any slight.

Which is all to say, tonight I'm left with a button and with a quandary.

*As a teenager, I was very ... clean cut is the word for it, I suppose.  I didn't put posters on the wall because I was nervous that they wouldn't look orderly enough, or that attempts at manufactured chaos would be a few inches away from true visual appeal.  I didn't color on my binders, and while I loved other people doodling on my arm, I wouldn't do it myself.  I had a difficult time ruining pristine things, and little confidence in my own artistic eye, so I refrained from any typical method of teenage expression.  This also reflected in my wardrobe, which until my senior year of high school comprised solely of flared jeans, pastel button-up shirts (to conceal the fat), and brown leather shoes.  And I wonder why I was an unhappy teen.

**Yes, this story is a couple days old, but I'm behind, OK?  You don't want to know how many old tabs are open on my computer and phone.  I mean, I heard something about a Batman vs. Superman movie?***  What up with that? 

***Note: joke.  Of course I know about and am already majorly conflicted, pitting my love of Batman against my hatred of Zack Snyder.  Who will triumph?

****The whole chaste, not-outside-of-marriage thing.  Within a marriage, I say knock yourself out!  But still not my bag.

*****Announced hiatus of JL8 aside.

My Kind of Valentine

Behold, the fruits of my morning's labors:

To you, dear blog world, with all the sincere love I can muster.

It's Okay

"I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn't change the fact that they were upset.  And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn't really change the fact that you have what you have.  Good and bad.  Just like what my sister said when I had been in the hospital for a while.  She said that she was really worried about going to college, and considering what I was going through, she felt really dumb about it.  But I don't know why she would feel dumb.  I'd be worried, too.  And really, I don't think I have it any better or worse than she does.  I don't know.  It's just different.  Maybe it's good to put things in perspective, but sometimes, I think that the only perspective is to really be there.  Like Sam said.  Because it's okay to feel things.  And be who you are about them."

-Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, pg. 211-212

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog

More Weight

I can never again make fun of Taylor for crying at the end of Apollo 13.  Not after I just spent the past two hours sobbing at this movie:

Man alive.  It was roughly two years ago that I finally decided I was allowed to have emotions, and I knew that it would be a strange, difficult road, but I never expected this.  I never thought that I would become the type of person who cries during movies.  And I don't even have any hormonal excuses!  Just pure, unadulterated connection with a beautiful work of art.

I read The Crucible as a junior in high school.  I had loved books before, but nothing had struck me to the core like Arthur Miller's words.  They kept me awake at night, pondering over implication.  The Salem Witch Trials, a topic I thought I had pretty well covered with my extensive Ann Rinaldi readings as a child, suddenly became a new experience, rife with the meaning of dignity and justice.  That started me on my love of American writers, led me to reading more postmodern works.  The Crucible defined my adult reading palate.   It sharpened my sense of talented writing.  And watching the movie again tonight, for the first time since high school, I was struck again.

Words are powerful.  They carry weight.  And the way we use them shapes us.

I know.  Super deep.  But let's face it, I abandoned all pride the moment I started choking up while watching justice die as girls screamed about Goody Good with the Devil.  Ah well.  At least I'm not crying at chick flicks.  There's mercy yet.

Blood and Rice

Two current inspirations:

1) American Vampire, written by Scott Snyder, Rafael Albuquerque, and Stephen King.*

I think Skinner Sweet was modeled after Sawyer from Lost.  I am totally OK with that.

I read this today while holed up in the local Barnes and Noble.  WOW.  I was completely giddy for hours afterward.  I mean, come on.  A comic with epic, murderous vampires and a dual Western/1920's Hollywood setting?  Cowboys, flappers, mysterious Eurocracy and gruesome monster violence?  It's like they downloaded a list of things I love.  Reading Amvamp was the kind of comic book experience you dream of--the experience of feeling completely connected to the story, eagerly flipping ahead, breathless to see the next panels because you just can't wait to find out what in the world will happen next.  Scott Snyder has been a hero of mine since Batman: The Black Mirror made me want to write comic books, and this definitely kept up that tradition.  Sometimes my favorite art pieces are the ones that set me on fire, that make me want to go out and write and create.  After finishing this, I just wanted to sit and write for hours.  What a sensation.

2) Jiro Dreams of Sushi

I watched this while eating my delicious homemade mac n' cheese.  As if I could feel worse about the amount of dairy I was ingesting.  Thanks for rubbing it in, Jiro.

Jiro is 85 and is works every day in his 3-star Michelin-rated restaurant.  I can't even imagine being alive at 85, let alone still working.  But Jiro's not content to just work, he is continuously pushing himself to raise the quality of his sushi.  This documentary follows him around his restaurant and interviews his sons, local food critics, and Jiro himself to get at the heart of his incredible talent.  It's a gorgeous film to watch. Slow-paced, sustained and smooth, Jiro complements the simplicity of the food it's discussing.  I personally loved the classical music used in the film, the concertos and etudes and Philip Glass works that highlight the ancient art of food preparation.  

But what really struck me was the work ethic.  Jiro has worked with sushi for the past 75 years.  Seventy-five. Yeah. I haven't even been working as a teacher for one full year, and I'm already looking to expand my career repertoire with more new and exciting job options.  Why?  Why can't I just sit, breath, and focus on honing a craft?  It's said if you do anything for 10,000 hours you become a master at it.  I'm sure seventy-five years would do the same.  Is it possible to have that dedication?  I get so frustrated with the easily distracted nature of our society.  Admittedly, I am the worst offender on that point.  I have this sick need to be constantly entertained.  But what good does that do for me?  Do I really need to 'multi-task' so badly?  No.  There is dignity, respect in working hard and concentrating on a task.  And I'm ready to commit to slowing down, breathing, and focusing.  To working on that constant growth.

*This is a very, very mature comic.  Not for teens or the faint of heart.

Quote Dumps and Philosophies

A while back, I read Travels With Charley, by John Steinbeck.  I really, truly loved that book.  You know the feeling when you read a book, and you can tell that it's changing you?  Where you read it, and every page tingles because you're connecting with the text in a lasting, meaningful way?  That's what happened.  Reading it was an experience in personal philosophy making.  A tangible, recognizable extension of personal canon.  Within the first ten pages, I knew that I had found a favorite book, one that immediately joined such elite tomes as Dracula, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and Fugitive Pieces in my All Time Favorite Books Ever List.

When I read it, I was borrowing a friend's copy, and it drove me crazy that I couldn't underline my favorite passages.  Yes, I am one of those people who "desecrates" their books.  Here's how I see it: in Judaism, the Rabbinical studies of the Torah are considered so sacred and beautiful that they take on new life as part of the Talmud, a book that is studied and revered on the same level of scripture by certain sects.  Now, I'm not saying that my comments and interactions with the written word are that enlightened.  But I like the idea that books take on new layers and dimensions as they accumulate discussion.*  Reading a used copy of a book, one that has previous markings, always makes me pay attention to lines I might have skimmed over.  Even if the only interaction is a long-forgotten inscription in the front cover, the fact that this was an ancient gift colors my reading, makes me look at it in a way where I try to see the value that made that book so important to someone that they would share it with another.  So yes, I write in my books.  It helps me remember why they are important to me, and lets me make similar connections with others.

Sorry.  Tangent over.  Anyway, I couldn't mark up that copy, so I was left to frantically type the quotes I loved in my phone (naturally, it was the only thing I could count to always have on hand, as I sometimes didn't have a notebook near me when I was reading).  I didn't want to lose those quotes when I finally bought the book, so I'm putting them here as a method of safe-keeping.  And so that perhaps someone else will read this under-rated treasure, and it will spread to the masses!  Revolution!  Or, at least, I'll have someone else to geek out with me.

So, without further ado, some of my favorite Steinbeck moments:

"I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found."

"How myth wipes out fact. ... I am happy to report that in the war between reality and romance, reality is not the stronger."

"A man with nothing to say has no words.  Can it's reverse be true-- a man who has no one to say anything to has no words as he has no need for words?"

"The American tendency in travel.  One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward."

"What I found was closely intermeshed with how I felt at the moment."

"But to get to be people they must fight those who aren't satisfied to be people."

"This used to be a nation of giants.  Where have they gone?  You can't defend a nation with a board of directors.  That takes men."

"In those days there was no world beyond the mountains."

"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike."

*If you want to learn more about these theories, I highly recommend The Talmud and the Internet by Jonathan Rosen.  It completely changed my relationship with text, and strengthened my respect for Judaism.

Dying to be Noticed

If you haven't read anything by John Green, you are a bad person.

Really. You should probably fix that right now. RIGHT. NOW. Stop reading my blog (which should hint at the seriousness of this situation. I love my blog, and actively want more readers). Turn off your stupid computer. And drive to the nearest library, or even better, bookstore and grab some of his books. My very favorite is Paper Towns, closely followed by An Abundance of Katherines. So check him out, if you please.

Sorry about the extreme fangirlness. It was prompted because I just finished his newest book, The Fault in Our Stars. And it was beautiful, and inspiring, and hilarious and sad, all without being too cloying or obvious. That's one of the things I love about John Green. He writes grand romances, interesting literary observations, and coming-of-age stories, but you don't realize that until after you finish the book. Because it doesn't scream "X TYPE OF BOOK" in your face. When you read, you're just completely immersed.

Take Stars, for instance. I suppose it's a cancer book. But, as it correctly identifies in the story, it's not a cancer book. Cancer just happens to be one of the problems that the characters are faced with. But it's not a Problem with a capital P. It's just a problem. It's just life. It might even be Life. Considering I finished the book fifteen minutes ago, I don't think I'm qualified to assign capital letters quite yet.

And I don't have to. Contrary to what you might think, this blog post is not a review. I'm not going to analyze Stars, or dissect the characters, or discuss how well-placed the literary allusions (Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, TS Eliot, William Carlos Williams, Ginsberg, and more!) were. Instead, I'm going to make this post about me.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. Once again, the fact I'm blogging is a testament to my self-absorbedness.

There was one question/quote in the book I particularly liked. For those who will read (all of you, please?), you might not want to read the quote. Unless you are OK with me ruining that moment of the book for you. Also, there is a swear. I refuse to edit it. Be warned.

As noted by Hazel, the protagonist: "I thought of my dad telling me that the universe wants to be noticed. But what we want is to be noticed by the universe, to have the universe give a shit what happens to us--not the collective idea of sentient life but each of us, as individuals."

Sigh. I love that. I love that even more within the grand scheme of the book.

When I was little, I wanted to be famous. As far as I knew, this was an absurd and unnatural desire. On several occasions, when I talked about that Great American Novel I wanted to write, or the Oscar I would win, my mother would look at me with bewilderment. She'd shake her head softly and say: 'You're the only one of my children who has wanted to be famous. That's so strange.' Or something to that effect.

Looking back at that urge now, I can identify what is was--a need to validate my existence. We all want to be loved, to be adored, to be lauded as intelligent and kind and wonderful. As a kid, I thought the only way to get that was through universal fame. Luckily, that fame didn't happen.

Which is almost so much better. Because now, with the wisdom that comes through such extreme age (sarcasm there), I recognize the kind of fame I wanted is more curse than blessing. I can, and DO, have that love and acceptance through simpler measures.

I can feel the small ways that the universe has acknowledged my existence. I receive love, often undeservedly, from my family, my darling man friend I'm engaged to, my friends, even near strangers. I have a warm corner of the world to call my own. I have acceptance, from others and, more importantly, from myself.

The beautiful thing about that little turn of events is that it's a two-way street. You can't curry favors from the universe without desperately noticing the wonders it holds. In pondering the many ways I've been individually recognized, I stand in awe. Along with having wonderful people around me, I'm also surrounded by that universal beauty. I live in a gorgeous city, one that constantly surprises me with a new glory every day. I know, and actively miss, such intelligent and interesting people back home in Utah. Luckily, I'm meeting and interacting with some pretty entertaining and talented folks here as well.

And then you start thinking on a grander scheme. This world holds SO MUCH. This is a world that has Andrew Bird, the Coen Brothers, Cormac McCarthy, Shakespeare and Coleridge and Beardsley and Emerson and the Beatles and the ancient Greeks and van Gogh and Beethoven and Thai food and Ella Fitzgerald and the X-Files and all things bright and beautiful. And sometimes it seems like they were all created solely for me. I suppose there is an argument out there that could say they were. Something discussing reality and consciousness.

But that's not the point. The point is that this universe is pretty amazing. As are the moments when that truth hits you, straight in the face, and your heart swells and bursts with the miracle of it all.

Eat My Shorts!

I would just like to announce that I completely and utterly OWNED my final tour for my docent class.

Yeah, that's right! TAKE THAT MOA!
And now I am done. No more putting up with overly pretentious art history majors. No more enduring the soporific tones of their tour voices, putting up with the desperate pleas at intellectualism and artistic insights, or trying to fight sleep and discomfort as they prattle on about how that slash of a line symbolizes rising hope and plummeting fortunes (confession: I have done that last one).


No more! After whining to friends and ditching class, I finished on the best note ever. My tour left them speechless. I took them through Mirror Mirror and turned them on their heads with my piercing analysis.


And now I'm done with that class! Did I mention that?

So just a few words, dear MOA.

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?!?!
bam.

A Change We Can Believe In

2008. Election year. The excitement in the air is palpable. A victory for Obama is the hope in everyone's heart. Well, every sane person's. And here I sit, watching CNN (a first for me), listening to Obama's dulcet tones and believing in change, when I realize how much life really does change. Ready? Here comes the philosophical retrospective.

I was raised to love art, more than most people do (should?). But when I was little, I couldn't STAND modern art. It was trash. Filth. Rubbish. I could draw that stuff, and trust me, that's saying something. I thought art had to have a sense of realism to be considered classic. Grace. Beauty. What can I say, I was a romantic. Don't get me wrong. I still dig that stuff. It's great. But then I discovered the Wonder that is Andy Warhol.

Here he is. In all his disheveled, crazy, genius glory.


Warhol used to be the lowest of the low for me. But then, one day, it just clicked. Maybe I became more cynical. Maybe I became more crazy, and was thus able to understand his art. I think I just grew up. Warhol offers such wry observances on the state of America. It's very disillusioned. I connect with that, but just had to wait until I had experiences that made the art clear. Warhol's stuff is FULL of social commentary, the kind you only get in late twentieth century America. And you know what? It rocks. Now Dada-ism is the scum of the earth to me. Don't know about Dada? Look up Duchamp's Fountain. You'll get what I am saying.
So basically, things change. You know, there is always a chance that in twelve years I won't like Warhol (may that day never come). Or that Obama won't be president (I'll move. Run away to Mexico or something). But like the saying goes, it's the journey, right?