Laying Down Track

A few days ago I finished This Is A Call, the unauthorized biography of Dave Grohl, written by Paul Brannigan.

It didn't offer much by way of new or enlightening information about Sir Davy Grolton—most of the best bits came from previous interviews and the documentary Back and Forth, filmed during the recording of 2011's Wasting Light—but it did offer a clear musical road map.  It's obvious that Brannigan is a music critic.  One who loves and admires Grohl, but who views Grohl's life through the increasingly analytical lens of the soundtrack.  Childhood is told by dissecting the set lists of Bad Brains and Teen Idle concerts.  Rise to stardom is told in the recording studio.  Emotions are interpreted through chord progressions.

This hyper-observation of Grohl's musical landscape extends to discussion of Foo Fighters albums.  Each album is treated to pages-long reviews of the track list, the critical reception, and most interestingly, the recording process.*  Lined up one right up against the other, it's clear to see the evolution of all Foo Fighters albums, the way that the band, and Grohl, forces change and growth.  Grohl himself stated in an interview with Brannigan, "It seems like every album we've made is a result of the one that came before it, or in response to it."  There's no complacency.

I couldn't help but think about that as I watched the trailer for the new HBO mini-series following the Foos, Sonic Highways.



In This Is A Call, Brannigan intensely spotlights each Foo Fighters album.  One was completely recorded by Grohl himself.  Another was in a major studio, while the next was in Grohl's basement.  This one was acoustic.  That one was laid down on tape.  For the new record, the Foo Fighters visited eight cities and eight studios, recording songs with guest artists to try to capture the beating musical heart of America, filtered through the amplification of a unique Foo Fighters sound.  Which is a beautiful idea, and a beautiful method for a band continuing to push against boundaries.

I find that remarkably admirable.  It's easy to excuse laziness, especially after experiencing success.  With his fame and wealth, it would be simple for Grohl to merely churn out some the same grunge-inspired rock album, mix it by the best producer the studio can buy, and call it good.  But Grohl pushes for more.  He isn't resting on creative laurels, he's using his good fortune to continue to challenge himself.  I don't know if I would do the same in that position.

It reminds me of a favorite quote from writer John McPhee: "Your last piece is never going to write your next one for you."

On the one hand, that can be an exhausting viewpoint.  It could be interpreted that nothing is ever going to be good enough, so why try, life is pain and struggle.

But on the other hand, how inspiring!  That even those at the top of their field are constantly striving to improve.  It means that there's some recourse for the rest of us.  No one is ever perfect, so KEEP TRYING.  Keep working, keep pushing, and keep improving.  There is no capstone.  There is no limit.  And there is nothing to hold you back.

*It's actually pretty telling that discussion of the 2002 album One by One covers over twenty pages, while Grohl's divorce from Jennifer Youngblood is introduced and concluded in one sentence.

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.

Out of the Mouth of Swanson

Ron Swanson.  The ultimate wise man.

Right now, I'm doing a piss-poor job of living by this advice.  I've upped this ante by 100 percent, splitting my time and concentration between four things (well, technically seven if you count each individual class).

I might have made some errors in judgment this semester.

Same As It Ever Was

So, yesterday was fun.  If the looming terror and guilt about this wretched place and my wretched reasons for being here hitting me in one fell swoop can be termed as fun.

The worst of it happened right before church, and I felt so bad for the Primary class I teach.  I wonder if those five-year-old boys noticed their teacher staring out the window in a catatonic state.   I can imagine it now: "Hey, Sister McCarrey, are you going to teach us about not taking the name of the Lord in vain?"  "There is no hope or justice in this world, little ones.  Only darkness and loneliness forever.  So give up now, because nothing good will ever happen to you, and the more you work for something the worse your life will be.  Leave me to my solitude, small creatures."

But in all honesty, I hit a wall yesterday.  I've basically decided where I want to end up, and what I want to be doing, and how to get there.  And now that I see a clearer picture of my future, a picture un-tinged by romanticized filters, I just want it NOW.  Don't care how.  Just now.  Except that's impossible.  The soonest I can get what I want is in a year.  That makes the youngest child in me want to scream and kick my feet (acceptable behavior?  I'm still weighing my options...).

But last night, after the weight of it all had dissolved into exhaustion and a tears-induced headache, I remembered something.  I remembered David Byrne.




I have listened to this song an embarrassing amount of times since last night.

It struck something.  This knot of frustration and anger that had been twisting inside of me just snapped.  TWANG.  Gone.

There's this moment, when Byrne is questioning different things, when he throws his fists in the air, shouting:

"You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 

You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?

Chills.  It's as if my entire experience was wrapped up in twenty-one words.  And suddenly, I was not alone.  This experience was not unique. Logically, I knew that.  I mean, it makes sense.  Everyone has difficulties, everyone has doubts. People have done this before.  And so will I.  And I know that.

But it felt good to have Talking Heads remind me of that.  It felt good to listen to David Byrne describing the slip underwater.  Joining the current, not to drown but to enter the constant stream and flow of humanity.  To know that this too will pass.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down 

Letting the days go by, water flowing underground 

Into the blue again, after the money's gone 

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 

Into the blue again, into silent water 

Under the rocks and stones, there is water underground 

Letting the days go by, into silent water 

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground 

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was 

Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 

Time isn't holding us, time doesn't hold you back 

Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us 

Time isn't holding us... 

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime  

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, once in a lifetime

Butterfly Wings

According to chaos theory, even the slightest diversion off a course can spiral, leading to completely unforeseen results.  I'm no mathematician--far from it, with my love of words and fear of numbers--but the theory makes sense.  I've had too many math problems go awry depending on where I put a negative, or whether I inverted such and such fraction.  After that, it becomes a matter of carefully hunting, tracking down the one moment that set it all off.

Too confusing?  Try history.  One of Ben Franklin's maxims states that, "little strokes fell great oaks."  What seems like a small start can blossom into something magnificent.  While it may feel inconsequential at the time, sooner or later that tree will be felled.  The mighty task will be finished.  Those results?  Bigger than thought possible.

Two years ago today, I unknowingly tested those theories.  Like the proverbial butterfly in Brazil, I fluttered my wings.  Thirteen months and six days later, a tornado happened.  In a small white room in Bountiful, that tornado picked me up and transported me to the Oz-like wonderland I now inhabit.

I didn't know that this is where my life would lead.  If I had known, I probably wouldn't have made that phone call, watched that movie, or let my heart move on.  How was I to know that the vastness of the world was so comfortable?  How was I to know that I would be safe and warm, as long as he was there?

But now.  Now I know.

Shut it Down!

30 Rock is not the show it once was.  In fact, it hasn't even been a ghost of the show it was.  Season six was downright cringe-worthy, and while season seven has been slightly better, it's still only provided a few weak smiles instead of the belly laughs of old.

But I have to admit.  That finale.  It blew me out of the water, sucking me into the Rock hilarity of olden days.  

For the first time in a while, it didn't feel forced.  The show didn't feel like they were trying to betray characters, or build up to something, or change focus.  It felt honest.  They touched on all the greats--the crazy catch phrases, the dynamic in the writer's room (something I have sorely missed over the past couple of seasons), Jenna's insecurity and Tracy's insanity, the sudden reappearance of Pete (PETE!  How I've missed thee), and a return to NBC power dynamics, this time with Kenneth in a new role.  30 Rock was always at it's finest when it was grounded in reality, and somehow, inconceivably, it regained that dynamic in this last episode.  Whether it was dealing with the difficulties in negotiating with networks or the struggles in producing a workable show, Fey was at her best when the madcap moments had a logical jumping off point.  But that same madcappery took over the show as of late, making it almost a chore to watch.

And I felt that way through most of this last, fateful season.  I could not have cared less about Jenna's unwindulaxing, or if Jack was going to tank NBC.  There was no reality in it, so there was no investment.  And of all the insane plot devices, nothing was more irksome than Liz's relationship with Criss.  As played by James Marsden, Criss came off as a completely false character.  It was difficult to believe that his relationship with Liz even happened, and not only because Tina Fey and Marsden had absolutely no chemistry.

And then they got married.  And for the first 75% of the episode, I was a seething ball of rage.  This made no sense!  What a lazy way to get a point across!  What betrayal, to take the depth that was once Liz Lemon and make her into this harp-tastic poster model for the worst kind of feminist, the kind who kicked against all typical gender roles in an attempt to make the playing field more even.  And as I rolled my own eyes at her sweatshirt wedding, with it's overly-conscientious rebuttal against tradition, something unexpected happened. 

Liz softened, bending to the fairy tale, but wishing to make it uniquely hers.  She realized that she wanted something that spoke to her, that didn't celebrate her as a bride, but her as a wonderful beautiful person that was making a significant change in her life.  She looked at Criss with questioning in her eyes, until he said, “Liz, it’s okay to be a human woman!”  I cheered.  I might have teared up a little bit.  I definitely was won back over to the 30 Rock side of life.  Finally, after too long in the world of the bizarre, it was back with some truth.  Some plain, unforced truth that made me fall in love with Tina Fey all over again.

After that, it was easier to say goodbye.  There was no longer bitterness about the show that had once been, but only fond memories of what it was and how it ended.  Perfectly, drifting on a boat to find itself, but back again in those last few moments.  Wrapped up neatly, but with loving nods to what came before.  Just like Fey herself, the finale carved out it's own niche while retaining a respect for the medium, but all while acknowledging the things that made it great--both in the greater TV sphere (snow globe, anyone?) and in it's own unique mythology (Rural Juror!).  Well done, 30 Rock.  I'll slow clap that ending out.

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.

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.

“Why Being Really Lonely is Sometimes Super Awesome”

Ah, Scrubs. Will you ever cease speaking to my innermost soul? Correct answer: NO, never. Well, maybe. But at the very least, you've given me several new mantras. Who could forget "EEEEAAGLE!!!" and "Chocolate Bear"? All I gots to do is get a token black friend, and that last one will be in use all the time. Just you wait and see.

It's funny (as in, interesting) that when life takes a turn for the tumultuous you have two options: wallow, or learn. The other day I was walking around UVU's campus (which is, admittedly, pretty. Whatever. No big deal), and I had an epiphany. Suddenly, Wolfmother's "Vagabond" started running through my head, and I felt at peace. Maybe I'm subconsciously influenced by how it's used in 500 Days of Summer, but I felt... I don't know, hopeful? Empowered? Able to finally regain my true self? Whatever it was, it was a feeling I haven't had for the past while, and it was wonderful. "Cause I'll tell you everything about living free." Sing it, Andrew my man. Tell me about that free-time living.

I've noticed my bloggering has been kind of different lately. Short. Pithy. Filled with an awkward amount of life summary. Because I am all about audience participation, here are some topics I've been thinking about for this little page o' mine. Think of it as a choose-your-own-adventure book. Except without options that take you to different pages. And also I'm telling you upfront that there is only about a 73% chance I'll write what you choose.

1. A quick look at the many generational stages of Chris Cooper as an evil character in movies.
2. My top "relationship"-y albums.
3. An introspective autobiographical piece comparing mailboxes to my lost childhood.
4. Describing the magnanimously fantastic and non-productive day that was Wednesday, May 19.
5. A declaration of my undying love for pie and/or the TV show Community.
   

No Words

"I would say that music is the easiest means in which to express, but since words are my talent, I must try to express clumsily in words what the pure music would have done better."

-William Faulkner

Dichotomy

"People are never really emblematic of anything. Alive or dead, they constantly contradict themselves and turn out to contain unexpected elements."

Jonathan Rosen, The Talmud and the Internet

I've recently developed the skill of observance. It's quite new to me-- I was always self-involved, with a belief in personal privacy. But now I find people fascinating. Their actions, their words. The question of what drives behavior constantly haunts me.

And so I lust after stories, seeking childhood memories and inner reflections. Adversely, I find myself constantly waiting to share, an inner typhoon of reminiscences longing to be set free. Images of sneaking through fences and climbing on roofs, summers on the trampoline and autumn walks through the cemetery fill my lungs and struggle up the esophagus, yearning to slip past the lips but halted by self-consciousness.

Instead of discussing myself, I press others. What was elementary like? Who was your favorite teacher? What is the worst trouble you have ever gotten in? Where are you in your family? Do you think that has effected your outlook in life?

I am still painfully awkward at questioning people. Years of stifling my innate curiosity has left me blunt and unskilled. But the only way to get better is through practice, and I am filled with this need to know. Why do we act the way we do? What shapes us, what makes personalities? These are the answers I seek.

Despite the roughness of my approach, I feel I've gotten slightly better at reading the unspoken cues, understanding the subtle hints in language and demeanor. And I've been able to glean more out of casual conversation, learning more about others than they would probably like.

There are still many miles to go in my quest, but even in the short time I've become interested in discovering people, I've unearthed some useful facts. Namely, everyone is searching for definition, but their journey is in vain.

The world cannot be placed in a nice tight philosophy, and neither can a person. Situations change, opinions change, and there are no set rules, no matter how appreciated such things may be. The surest way to solidify an event is to firmly decide the opposite is true. So it is with people. We can think that we are THIS, but even as we settle on it, our cozy thought pattern begins to disintegrate, taking our firmly decided THAT with it. So we must embrace flexibility, accept the belief that nothing is concrete.

This isn't to say there aren't Universal Truths. There most certainly are, and they are the only anchor in the chaos that is existence. But to try and add other anchors, spread across distances among the sea of life, that is to invite frustration and hypocrisy. The only way to survive is to move with the current and stop trying to pin things down in a neat explanation. Some things don't work, and the factors are so unique that to try to apply similar reactions to different situations is a recipe for failure.

Basic rundown: people are unpredictable, but are a constant source of inspiration. Looking at others and acknowledging the lessons they offer is an important gift in life, but don't become too obsessed with trying to relate it to yourself. We are unique. This is the most wonderful thing about humanity. Observe others merely as a scholarly and artistic pursuit, but any answers about the self will be found as the years pass, and will unfold in their own manner. Once we stop trying to figure it out, it will all be much easier and vastly more enjoyable.

"Who wants flowers when you're dead?"

J.D. Salinger died today. He was 91 years old. He wrote stories. He was notorious for being a hermit, hiding away from the world after he almost single-handedly revamped the written word. Some credit him with the invention of the young adult genre. Some call him a menace. Some blame his magnum opus, The Catcher in the Rye, for the degradation of society. Most don't even know who he is.

In the movie Finding Forrester, Sean Connery's character is loosely based on Salinger.

Actress Zooey Deschanel is named after Franny & Zooey, one of Salinger's collections of short stories.

It took me until college before I finally read The Catcher in the Rye. One day I was walking to the store, passed a yard sale, and picked it up for the low, low price of fifty cents. I read it on a plane, an overnight flight, and it was stunning. It floored me in every way. I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to embrace this work of fiction.

After my first time reading it, I wrote this about it:

A great tale of crisis, the insanity that plagues us all, and how cynicism effects the world, as seen through an adolescents eyes. Holden is mesmerizing. I love how you can identify with him so easily, but some of his musings can be unnerving, leaving you to wonder about your own sanity in this mad world.

My opinion is pretty much the same. I do love Holden. He completely captured me when I was reading. Yes, sometimes his thoughts seemed to contradict each other, but how often does that happen in real life? Aren't we all tormented to some degree, driven mad with trying to figure out what this world, this life, this entire existence is about? All of us are merely passing through, observing humanity and trying to cling to some basic truths. And sometimes it's hard. And sometimes you don't understand. And sometimes you think you have everything figured out, only to have that change moments later.

See the whole sanity issue? I'm guessing you do.

At work I was in mourning, and told my co-workers about Salinger's death. They asked who that was. I told them it was the guy who wrote The Catcher in the Rye. They had never read it, and had no idea what it was about. When I gave a brief plot summary, one girl raised her eyebrows. "So, you enjoy reading a book that's just the inner ramblings of a teenage boy?"

Yes. Yes I do. Most books about teenagers at this time were horrible, one-note, craptastic moralistic serials about boys and cars, or a girl detective, or about how Timmy played football and loved it and won the big game. Salinger gave his characters emotions. He let them be confused. He said it was OK to think about deeper issues, to come up with theories and figure out who you really were and what you believed in.


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry."

Thank you, J.D. Salinger. Thank you for contributing to the records. Thank you for your creations. Thank you for your poetry.

I have no response to that.

Joe vs. the Volcano: A Timeless Classic, Which, Much Like Transformers, Has More Than Meets the Eye

I watched this amazing Hanks-Ryan vehicle last week, and it blows me away every time. If you haven't seen it ... go now. Fast. Run to watch this highly underrated cinematic masterpiece. Yes I went there. Masterpiece.

Here's the thing. Not only is it wickedly funny, (Tom Hanks playing a depressed hypochondriac on a fatal mission. Meg Ryan playing three equally hilarious and diverse roles. Can you get any better? Come on.) but it really is thought-provoking.

A main theme of this work is the state of the soul, and in conjunction, the course your life takes due to the well-being of your soul. Wow, that sounded intelligent. Go me. But moving on.

The references to the soul start from the beginning, veiled as they might be. Joe, miserable and stuck in a dead end job, breaks his shoe walking in the oppressive building that houses his cave-like workspace. When asked what happened, he replies "I'm losing my sole". Sole!! Soul!! Get it? Genius. Later on, in a rant to his boss, he is "too afraid to live my life, so I sold it to you for THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS A WEEK!". Meg Ryan's third character, Patricia, has been bought out by her father and is soul sick. The chief of Waponi-Wu (Little Island with Big Volcano), carries around what is not a teddy bear, but his soul, and Joe tells him he "better not lose it".

That should give you just a taste of the deeper meaning one can find in this movie. I could go on, but then I'd get all preachy and make lists and give away the plot and no one wants any of those things to happen, am I right? But it just made me think about what I am doing with my life and what condition my soul is in. I love movies like that. Things that entertain and enrich at the same time. That kind of stuff is golden, baby. Pure gold.