Radio Silence

Just to say: I'm taking a break for a bit and trying to clear my head. I'll be back soon, perhaps. In the mean, you know how to reach me.

Once more, with feeling

PER·SEV·ER·ATE (pər sev'ə rât'), V.I., –at·ed, –at·ing. 1. to repeat a word, gesture, or act insistently or redundantly 2. to obsess over a particular word or phrase, often in an attempt to come to terms with it; see "cervix" and "heart" 3. again, obsessing, this time in an attempt to convince yourself that things will be okay 4. and, finally, obsessing because you realize they probably won't and talking about it doesn't seem to help —per·sev'er·tion, N.

Going Home Again

For the past few weeks, I've been thinking about a quote from Giovanni's Room. Paraphrased here: perhaps home isn't a place, but an irrevocable condition.

Fine.

The problem is, this seems to be the only thing about the book that I remember. This is particularly frustrating for me as I generally pride myself on my recall of literature.

Out of context, it's just, well, out of context. A reread is clearly in order.

At any rate, I think that it's safe to say that these words have been on my mind simply because of my recent trip back home.

Home.

What does that even mean? To be back in a place that's at once as familiar as it is foreign.

A few years ago, my parents were getting frustrated with the house and its cluttered rooms, and I suggested they move. Now, as I pad through the halls, I'm glad they decided against it. Each time I'm back, I remember something different—perhaps I'm getting sentimental as I age. This time, cleaning out the smaller closet in my childhood bedroom, with its raised floor and sloping walls, I'm suddenly transported to the age of 7, hiding in there with a flashlight and a Roald Dahl book, quietly reading, savoring the fact that I had my own private place. I was just that kind of kid, I guess.

I still love the idea of those private spaces. But, I also love having those spaces where you're known. This occurs to me as we're out to dinner for my father's birthday. We're at a place that we've gone for years, where R., the owner knows my family quite well, even gave my sister a job at once point. Nothing's fancy, just perfectly familiar. We'll order the same things, R. will come over, say hello and make a fuss over my parents.

And, he does. It's good for them—it's been awhile since they've been here. Anywhere, for that matter, as they were trying to process the current state of things.

Right. The current state of things. Soon enough the conversation turns in that direction. They're a well-oiled machine. Clearly, they've done this before.

I watch intently, as she looks on, lets him spin his tale. How he thrives in some ways on the telling. How the telling helps him make sense of it all.

After R. leaves, there's a silence, we're all deep in our own thoughts—it's natural, I suppose—there's also a lot of the meal left to get through. So, I do what I always do. Namely, attempt to use self-deprecation as a way to get the conversation going.

The discussion before turned to their friends' children. One's getting married; one's trying to buy a house; another, still finding himself. I ask them now what they say about me when these conversations happen with their friends. There's the start of a laugh in the back of my throat, forced, but then again I'm trying to bring back a sense of levity. This is a birthday dinner, after all.

My father laughs a little, jokes. Exactly the response for which I had hoped. Then, the conversation turns serious. You're the success story. The fiercely independent one. I find myself wishing that we were back to joking about how I was going to go through the hassle of getting a hotel room for a friend's wedding just so that I could have some drinks. Anything but this.

Partially, I think, it's because I see myself as anything but a success; I'm scared most of the time—that my stubborness has prevented me from doing things that I could've loved, that the choices I've made have all been wrong, you name it. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this. I'm also sure that I could write volumes on it, if I was willing to delve deeper into this particular neurosis of mine.

There's also this: I think we see ourselves reflected in others. He tells me I'm a success because if that's the case, I'll be okay, no matter what and, by extension, he will. That if the worst happens, I'm a capable woman, able to take care of myself. Able to manage because of what he's taught me.

Mostly, I think, that I believe him.

Mostly.

Diminishing Returns

My sister and I, when we talk, talk in the language of loss, of things that haven't happened, choices that should have been made.

We don't mean to, really. It just kind of happens.

I suppose it's who we are.

Admittedly, we were raised better than this. Raised to know our intrinsic worth. Somehow that's fallen by the wayside these days. Then again, these days have been tough to say the least.

Tonight, she's talking careers. The gist is this: there was a contract, not signed for good reasons. Or, at least for good reasons when it was in the offing. You work with all of the information that you have at the time. What else can you do?

A year or so later, she's second guessing herself: What has she lost in the meantime? Was it worth it? Is it better to do without? To hope for the ideal situation, the one that may never come? Or, when it does, turn out to be a disappointment like all the rest?

Maybe the best thing is to take what you can get and work within those parameters. To compromise.

I see myself doing that very thing.

I'm making minor adjustments, but they still add up.

Perhaps it's an issue of too much change all at once. For now, I'm content to see how it all plays out.

Passive, yes. But, an option all the same.

words, words, words

Here's how it works:

You add up the words, string together some phrases. All in an attempt to create some coherence, a form of narrative, a why this has happened. The beginning and ending are firmly in place. But, it's the getting from one point to another that matters. We exist in our stories.

After particularly harrowing experiences, my mother used to tell me, "but, think of how you'll tell it."

Good advice, indeed.

I spoke to an editor with whom I work yesterday. She's editing a project that started out online but is now becoming a printed book. Apparently, one of the people featured within its pages decided to opt out of the latter version. The idea of appearing in print was too frightening for him, felt too permanent.

It was refreshing to realize that these things do matter, that there is still some power in the written word.

I say I do it for myself, but, really, this is why I write.

When I do so, that is.

I'm still working on the writing itself. It's something that comes with time and practice. A little like learning to drive, I suppose.

And, I remember those days all too well, perhaps because they went on far longer than was necessary (or not nearly long enough, depending on who you ask). Just me and my father in the empty parking lots of Long Island, all of them covered with a thin dust of snow. His mounting frustration as I drove through the spots, taking short cuts. The constant refrain being, "do you know how many parked cars you would've just hit?"

Yes, but there were none there.

It's hard to argue against emptiness.

So, I'd wait, still in the driver's seat, staring into the warning on the side view mirror —objects are closer than they appear —until he told me to switch seats so that he could drive back home, the car's tires making strange patterns in the powder, tracing our path back.

Also, the movies. . .

Right, the movies.


You weren't thinking I forgot about this aspect of the blog, were you?


To be clear, I have seen plenty in the past two years.


I've also been told by countless friends that I'm a bad film geek. Much as I'd like to, I can't say they're wrong. After all, I'm still making my way-slowly, really slowly-through the works of Robert Altman. I haven't yet explored Douglas Sirk, though I want to. I think Bette Davis may have expressive eyes, but, to be quite honest, I really just think that she should've perhaps gotten some medical attention. And, I think that [gasp here] Casablanca is hugely overrated. Yes, I have seen it on a big screen. Mostly, I just don't buy into the story. Get over it already.


Don't get me wrong, I still love the idea of film criticism. The picking apart scene by scene, seeing the film as a text, delving into the themes, etc. To me, it's no different than the critique of literature. And, you all know how much I enjoy that.


Mostly, though, what I love about going to the movies is the sheer sense of decadence of it all. In fact, since I joined the ranks of the working class, one of my favorite activities has to be the midday, midweek movie. There's something to be said about emerging from the theatre when it's still light out and you should be at your desk. In all cases, the film is almost irrelevant. It's the two or so hours where nothing else matters. It's just me in a dark room, surrendering to the story, forgetting myself in the process.


And, on that note, I leave you with this courtesy of the lovely Frank O'Hara. Read it. Live it. Love it.

A disclaimer, if you will

Actually, let's make that several.

It seems that I'm no good at this game. I've got the best intentions, though, but just not as much time as I would like. And, I've been trying to work out how best to write about movies without spoiling the endings.

The thing is, I've always believed that if learning the ending to a movie (or book) ruined the experience then it wasn't very good to begin with. If you saw The Sixth Sense knowing the twist ending, you'll know what I mean. It may have been a revelation at the time, but too soon after it's become a punchline. So, with that in mind, expect plot spoilers. Mostly because I don't see how it's possible to properly analyze something without addressing multiple aspects. Consider this yet another warning.

Or, in the words of Lauren Hynde (who, incidentally, was much better in on the page than in celluloid although that's another post entirely. And, at this rate, I'll get to it in August 2007): Wow. Deal with it, Sean. It's over. Rock and Roll.

Ten points for you if you know the source.

Please note: I will be writing about a real live movie soon. Really.