February 6, 2010

A glorious Saturday from the inside, rather bitter out in the air. Good day to have no schedule.

Italy approaches, and I’m starting to narrow in on what I want to do: Day 1, St. Peter’s. I managed to get tickets to the necropolis under the basilica, and have decided to suck up the claustrophobia to the degree it’s possible. After that, we’ll head to the Janiculum Hill, walk down through Trastevere, and probably aim to eat dinner around Campo di Fiori or Piazza Navona. Day 2, Villa Borghese, EUR. I just found out that there’s an incredible cool sounding museum at EUR, sounds like the Bethnal Green in London which was a huge highlight of my trip there. DAy 3 is ruins day; all the museums are closed.  As for Venice, I want to see the Accademia, wander around our neighborhood a lot (we’re near the Ghetto) and get to the cemetery. Of course St. Mark’s Square. Really, really excited.

Began Abel Gance’s La Roue last night. I saw Napoleon years ago and remember trying hard to stay awake. I look at movies a lot differently now, and I’m pretty gone on Gance, and if ever there were a Clever Photo Caption, that would be It. Griffith is a master, though I don’t feel any need to genuflect around him, but Gance is a magician. Watching this movie, I have a whole new appreciation for Renoir. The editing takes Griffith’s mastery to a new level, not just the action scenes that move like lightning, but in the quiet moments. A sequence that cuts between a brother and sister sitting near a window in tranquility and their father confessing his despair to a man at another window is utterly breathtaking. The compositions are haunting, the screen is flooded with light, and the storytelling is riveting.

Meanwhile, just got unstuck from where to go next in the adaptation I’m working on. I LOVE writing adaptations. I have always found writing to be pure unmitigated torture, but writing for movies is crazy exhilarating.

Began reading Lorrie Moore’s A Gate at the Stairs and it is wonderful.  I love her sense of humor. People are always telling me how much I must love Anne LaMott, who I actually can’t stand. Lorrie Moore rocks.

May see Up in the Air with the Youngest today. I’m happy to see that I don’t have a heavy mileage trek this year to cover all the Oscar nominees as I’ve seen most of them, and that’s with the idiotic but probably commercially sound idea of nominating 10. Though dragging myself to the Blind Side is going to take some doing. Ugh. May be a good thing to take the kid to. Sandra Bullock will probably win the damn Oscar. Saints preserve us. Otherwise I only need to rent District 9 and Up. Avatar will probably win, which would be sad, the saddest thing of all being the act of sitting through what is sure to be an even more insufferable acceptance speech than “I’m King of the World!” My nomination for the line that Cameron will quote from Avatar: “Who’s Bad?” Self-aggrandizement and a tribute to the King of Pop all in two easy words.

But that’s the only sour note in what I think will otherwise be a lovely weekend. I shall now proceed to enjoy it. Later, gators.

1-23-10

If there are things better than waking up on Saturday morning next to your warm and loving spouse, knowing you have nothing to do all day but get a facial and usher for a dance concert, well, I’m up for them.

Reading Barbara Grizutti Harrison’s Italian Days as prep for the trip. I’ve long loved BGH. She had a column in Mademoiselle that I read in my 20s, long before I ever thought I’d write anything at all, and I fell in love. Spouse has provided the two books of hers that I have in my collection, her autobio and a novel called Falling Bodies, I think. I need to reread both. Italian Days is lovely, of course. Take a subject like Italy and throw a thoughtful, descriptive, and curious writer at it, and I think it’s probably hard to go wrong. Unless of course the writer’s not so good. BGH doesn’t go into the precious territory of all those Under the Tuscan Sun/Eat Pray Love books. Hell, she just ate lunch with a guy trying to start a creepy neo-Fascist movement back by Socialist Party money. Go figure.  Anyway, lovely book.

Also have probably a dozen guidebooks to Rome and Venice piled around the house. I read guidebooks anyway. I’m always planning a trip in my head. Now that I’m actually going someplace….whee. Giddy = a good word. I’m loving the Blue Guides a lot; less dry and earnest than Michelin, but more exhaustive than just about anything else. Funny that with all the stuff available online, good guidebooks are still irreplaceable, at least I think so.

Saw Michael Keaton’s directorial debut this week, The Merry Gentleman. Keaton also stars. He’s good. As spouse has remarked, funny guys simply dial back hugely when they try to play it straight. Keaton doesn’t do that. He gets the power of silence and of a long take. The movie’s not perfect, but it’s good, in large part because Kelly MacDonald is just wonderful, and gets to use her natural Scottish accent. Girl has a hell of an ear. She’s the wife in No Country for Old Men. You’d never know she wasn’t a Yank.

Plan on reading a little bit of The Week with the Youngest. The kid is sharply perceptive about the world around him, and has his old man’s fascination for the flaws in systems. We’re currently loving the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and he’s completely into the satire, especially the fact that the President of the Galaxy wields zero power, and only exists to distract the masses from the real machinations.

Also have Abel Gance’s La Roue, the Wheel. I was dreading this 4.5 hour silent epic, but reading the jacket copy piqued my interest. Gance said that cinema introduced a new kind of sound, a music of light; people listened with their eyes. Paraphrasing possibly, but struck by the beauty of that statement.

See ya.

Back from Forever

It’s been a long time since I posted anything, and a lot has happened. I just haven’t really wanted to write about it. But in the course of the hiatus, I figured some stuff out.

For one, I’ve long been somewhat puzzled on the purpose of this here blog thing.  My model, and favorite blogger, has been the spouse. I like his essay approach to blogging and just sort of naturally followed suit. But unlike him, I’m not a natural essayist.  The spouse over the years has become downright crack at the art, cranking out 3-4 of the damn things a week, every week.  He writes absolutely every day, without fail. That’s not something I can do. Additionally, he is much more open about  his demons than I am. I don’t think he’ll be mad if I say that I’m pretty sure  he has more. Perrin fights his way through life, barely noticing his own bruises and scratches and ready to give as good and often much better than he gets. (Lest someone misinterpret this, he is a very sweet guy under all the thrashing.) Meanwhile, though capable of a fair amount of high drama myself, I am at heart peace-loving. I’m definitely better at observing people and telling stories than at wrestling with weighty ideas.  I’m probably dumber. Both of us are survivors, but eternal optimism is key to my overcoming the odds; his approach has more of an “I’ll show you, you bastards!” air.

In any event, thanks to a great deal of encouragement, I think after close to half a century I’ve finally figured out my true calling. Perhaps at some point I’ll go into that here. It’s a different kind of authorship, and I feel enormously thrilled and energized and at peace as I move in that direction.

But because updates are important to friends and families, and because preserving a few things about my days means something to me, nanarama will be, as of now, a bi-weekly assemblage of random thoughts and quite pedestrian recording of what I’m up to. Once in a while, I may drop in the lengthy piece more typical of the past. But I’ve stopped putting pressure on myself to only blog when I have something essay-length to say.

See you all around (all two or three of you who may still be tuned in).

Here, Mom

Belated birthday gift. I limited the views on this one, because it’s for Mom.

Nan Can Cook, premiere installment

Here’s a video I made for a contest that the Criterion Collection is doing in honor of its release of Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles. The movie itself is a strange, 3 hour formal exercise in recording pretty much every move that a woman makes. Yes, it’s an actress, but the point of it is that small, mundane details tell a story as much if not more than big, interesting ones. As my friend Peter said, the whole thing becomes weirdly suspenseful; will Jeanne alter her routine? Who can know. Watch and find out (if, that is, this is your cup of tea).

Anyway, it seemed like a no-brainer to just copy the film as closely as possible, but once I saw someone do that, I realized how dull it was. The movie is fascinating because you’re sucked into the world, just as watching someone you know well do any small task reveals links to their character. When simply copied, there’s not much to do. I mean, you might as well paint a wall and watch that dry.

Now I can see how an accumulation of people repeating meatloaf and potato cooking could be interesting as a mosaic, but these are long ass videos that take several minutes to watch and, well, it’s just not my thing. So I flipped it, as does Leon on Curb Your Enthusiasm, and the result is either going to annoy people to death because they don’t like my screen persona (I feel I am the Steven Wright of cooking) or amuse them particularly if they do know me because it’s very me, or teach them how to make really good smashed potatoes. It’s all good, I guess.

Note that the reference at the end is to the fact that Jeanne turns tricks that are just as dreary as her cooking in order to make the rent each month. In hindsight, I realize that anyone who watched the original movie will probably have clicked off long before the final joke in annoyance at my tactics, so it will be lost to all but you, dear nanarama devoted.

By the way, to make these potatoes, cook up a couple of pounds of well-scrubbed unpeeled potatoes (I use small ones here, but any potatoes will do), drain them; I mention that I save cooking water in the video, but you’ll see I don’t use it. Throw in sour cream (I use no-fat), butter (I use whipped for less calories), and 2 wedges of Laughing Cow Light Garlic Cheese. How much? A good amount, that’s how much. (Sorry, I hate to measure.) Smash the stuff into the potatoes with abandon. Stir in chopped herbs; here I use parsley and scallion tops, but ideally I would use chives instead as they have a more delicate flavor.

By the way too, I had an absolutely blast doing this, so will be doing more and posting here. Watch this space.

Real Is Better

There’s a scene in Julie and Julia that pretty much encapsulates everything that’s wrong with the movie (Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci being much that is right with it, though of course you can also throw in Paris in the 50s and a lot of food porn). Amy Adams and her unthreatening cute boyfriend sit on a couch and watch Dan Ackroyd’s wonderful Julia Child impression. The camera focuses on the TV with Dan in drag, then cuts to Amy and u.c.b. laughing, then cuts back to Dan, then back to them – what would be ad nauseum if the Ackroyd scene weren’t so short.

I mean….really? Watching cute people laughing at a video clip is…somehow furthering the story? Help me out here.

That a book and a movie based on someone following a how-to manual – albeit one of the greatest how-to manuals of all time – could be not only sold but bought by large numbers of people should give one serious pause. I mean, are we that low on ideas, that tolerant of other people’s narcissism that this is … it?

Perhaps the oddest thing about the movie is that the Julia Child/Meryl Streep sections are a delight, well-written, nicely plotted, superbly acted and production designed with loving, fanatical detail. Furthermore, there’s a real story there. You start to realize what Julia Child accomplished, the doors that she kicked down, and that there was, a long time ago, a place for a great writer to sing her own song without constantly fine-tuning it so it would have Maximum Marketability. Child had a clear mission – teach Americans French cooking – and cared about it enough to spend 8 years getting her cookbook perfect. She did it for love, not money or attention, but she was also a helluva writer. Persistence, dedication, and spouse support made it possible.

By juxtaposing this titanic talent with Amy Adams’ character, the Julie of the title, the movie does a pretty extraordinary job of showing 21st century pop culture for the fingernail-deep reflecting pool that it is. It’s so depressing. At one’s most generous, one can call Julie’s talent modest; quotes read directly from her blog (the way the script explains this Wacky New Internet Phenomenon is particularly annoying) show her writing to be about as thrilling as your average Woman’s Day editorial, or one of those annoying students who follow all the rules in order to assure a comfortable A with an occasional “nice metaphor!” notated in red in the margins. I could barely suppress a groan every time the director cut back to this story line, knowing Julie would make some charming utterance about butter being delicious, or how marvelous it is that cooking turns out nicely when your day at the office is crappy, or how yummy her first egg is. Ugh. It’s like when one of those completely self-absorbed women who are pregnant for the first time go on and on about the Novelty of It All. (At least one knows to avoid this woman at all costs once she actually gives birth.)

Had the casting director had the sense to get someone with a little bit of fire to play Julie, it might be less gooey, but to choose Amy Adams, who, like Meg Ryan before her, easily crosses the line from cute as a button to please can I swallow some acid to cut the sugar way too often, is some sort of sadistic genius at work. Christopher Plummer said that working with Julie Andrews was like being hit over the head with a valentine. Watching Amy Adams make yet another toast to her wonderful husband and Julia is more like being smothered with one. At least the hit on the head can be somewhat bracing.

It is only right that we find out that Julia Child did not have a high opinion of Julie Powell’s blog. It’s sort of marvelous, in fact, and at least the movie leaves this little tidbit in, though of course it’s coated in a smarmy “the Julia in your mind is what matters” speech. And it’s that glorious reality that got me to watch All That Jazz last night.

I admit, I am a fan of So You Think You Can Dance. The judges are rather horrifying, except for one bizarre yet wonderful night when Ellen deGeneres appeared as a guest. The solos are variously twirly, leapy, and vapid. But at least once per show there’s a beautifully danced routine that showcases some great young talent. Naturally, the equally regular mini-train wreck is even more fun.

However, I was hoping, not very sensibly, that the show’s take on the brilliant “Bye Bye Life” number at the end of All That Jazz would be something to remember. It was dreadful. Like the horrible Youtube video of Gwen Verdon doing a piece called Mexican Breakfast with a hip hop song overdubbed, this version completely missed Fosse’s musicality, which was extraordinary. His tight, hyper-contracted movements coupled with super-sinuous limb twisting always existed as one piece with the soundtrack. Bye Bye Life uses a cheesy electric piano and flute in a way indelibly connected with late 70s/early 80s movie music (watch Tootsie sometime), but in context of the Fosse movie, it has all the sinister edge of its first release, dating not a hair – until it gets butchered for the So You Think You Can Dance routine. In the hands of Tyce D’Orio, the routine goes from a jagged and unforgettable goodbye to nonsensical galumphing around a stage; the only thing saving it is the talent of the two young dancers going at it for all they’re worth.

I can only hope that they get exposed to genuine Fosse at some point. But they’ll have to go to Fosse movies for that. The show Fosse that ran on Broadway barely taps the man’s genius, and tries to make him almost cuddly. Instead, watch any of his four, practically perfect movies, including the non-dancing ones Star 80 and Lenny, with Cabaret rounding it out. Cut to the dances in Sweet Charity, which is otherwise a big pile of awful. Get your hands on the Pippin revival. It’s not a great show, and features one particularly bad number strikingly like the Airotica ballet, a dumb but necessary part of All That Jazz that encapsulates the worst of Fosse’s pretensions about the intersection of sex and dance. But throughout Pippin are extraordinary set pieces that are sharp, precise, witty, and beautiful.

There will, unfortunately, be a zillion more exercises like Julie/Julia and D’Orio/Fosse. Hopefully, the second half of the equations will continually shine even brighter from the comparisons.

Emotional Stew

This week has had a million excuses to drink (not that I ever used to need more than one lame one).

1. Friday was the 20th anniversary of Karl’s death.
2. Friday night, I drove the eldest up to Detroit, where she met with her father to spend the summer in Philly.
3. Thursday, the hostile communication mentioned in the last post was resolved in a goodbye.
4. Today, I spoke to someone for the first time in almost 10 years. It was lovely.
5. Throughout all, the spouse has been creatively fired up to 11.
6. Friday afternoon, a friendship that had been disconnected was reconnected.
7. I have to write a lot of stuff at work and am feeling increasingly burned out.
8. I’m on my own creative streak but scared I won’t be able to do anything with it.
9. Wednesday, I had a filling replaced and I’m still sore.

Processing all of this is pretty confusing, kind of like eating about 5 different cuisines in one meal (which is kind of what I just did). I’ve had too much, and even though a lot of it has been good, it’s still just a lot.

Without a big bottle of wine to fall into, my instinct is to retreat from all this into a frenzy of activity. I’m trying not to do that, trying to be lazy and just do one thing at a time, but that doesn’t come naturally. July is always a lousy month for me, mainly because of the anniversary. It is at least a beautiful day. Hell, I really have nothing to complain about.

The Eldest’s departure is unquestionably the biggest fish to fry. I am elated that she’s getting away from this town and a bunch of relationships that, while not necessarily harmful, aren’t doing all that much for her. She’s at a point where she needs to be out of the house, and my major apprehension is that she may come back too soon, before her independence can really kick in; it’s clearly something she’s unable to achieve with me around. I get that she basically has to reject home in order to cut the cord; I don’t think all kids are this way, but she’s one who is.

My expectations are probably way too high, and so are my fears. I have to just be still and shut up. Peace is in focus, not distraction. It’s there for the asking. I just have to want it enough to shut off all the noise.

“A Scarily High Tolerance for Abuse”

That is something my therapist said to me at a session shortly before the new year. Fortunatly, she was referring to the fact that I seemed to be losing it.

In one of those perfect storms that happen so frequently in life, 3 unrelated incidents have converged and brought the observation to mind.

A mention of a woman in what would seem to be a physically comfortable but mentally unbearable relationship reminded me of my bad boyfriend history. I’ve been in two really lousy relationships, one abusive on every level, the other born of staggering incompatibility glossed over by intense physical attraction. In both situations, my self-image, historically a bit shaky (“I rock! I’m worthless! I’m worthless because I rock!”), was at a slip-it-under-the-door level. Blame it on genetics – from what I’ve learned, sub-threshold bipolar lurks in the DNA, though full-blown bi-polar seems to be an overcommitment for all but a brave few – or on any number of things. Who cares? When you believe that you have to humbly take that shit, you unfortunately might as well put a giant sign on yourself that says, “Abuse me! Really! I won’t hardly fight back.” It’s unfathomable to people looking at certain situations why anyone in that position wouldn’t just pack up and leave, but … they don’t.

Solid support got me out both times, but damn, it must have been frustrating to watch. In both cases, I wouldn’t listen, believing that I loved the controller. What I really felt was a bizarre tangle of emotions that would give some analyst a very large and lengthy headache should she be foolish enough to try to decode it. But I did break free, both times, painfully but (cliche alert) ultimately stronger. The fact that the first relationship could have left me actually dead is not lost on me. I’m grateful to be alive.

And while the experience has given me an empathy with people in the same situation, it has also given me some despair. Nothing I or anyone else can say or do will get anyone out of a bad relationship except for the person who’s in it. She has to just say, fuck you, enough, and she has to believe it enough, if only for the few minutes it takes to walk out the door.

But that realization – that it’s not my problem – is the second part of storm, and it’s probably the most revelatory. Things around the house and the office that at one time would have driven me nuts and kept me awake…just…don’t any more. I still will lose sleep over what I consider a direct attack, but I used to perceive those, as well as indirect ones, around every corner. Geez, I took almost everything personally.

One of my favorite poems is this one by Stephen Crane:

A man said to the universe:
“Sir I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

But I didn’t really believe it, clearly, at least not as it applied to me. Now I do. Suddenly, I am able to live (at least more than half the time) my mother’s dictum, “We wouldn’t worry so much about what other people think about us if we realized how little they do.” I always sagely nodded when she said it, but somehow, in the last month, it got into my bones.

Which is why the last storm element – an angry communication so nicely written that I had to let it sink in before I realized how angry it was – is inspiring in me a healthy dose of anger in return. Time was, oh say about a month or so ago, that I would have immediately felt an obligation to fix things. I don’t now. Basically, what seems to be the main point of contention is simply untrue. In the past, I wouldn’t have rested until I straightened things out and made sure my perception was known. Somehow, I understand this time that, if the person didn’t get that perception until now, nothing I say will make any difference. If people want to insist on believing things about me that aren’t true…it’s their loss. I’m a great friend, but if you don’t agree, that’s your decision. I have nothing to do with it.

After all, my rush to mend, my willingness to always say I was wrong, my instinct to smooth things over, was really a kind of arrogance, to make myself the center of attention, to get points for being so tolerant, so humble, so forgiving. Screw that. There is so much I neither can nor should fix. There are things that are intolerable, and to tolerate them is to be a jerk. And forgiveness is great unless it’s really just a way to take more abuse, which I think mine has often been. I’m working on that part.

I like this me. It’s so much easier to live with. It’s at once lighter and more grounded.

Here’s hoping it sticks.

So….what have you been up to?

well….

I’ve been inspired, then lost the traction, and keep trying to get it back. And will, at some point. Maybe this weekend.
I read a bunch of books, at the cost of writing a bunch of posts.
I got really close to somebody really terrific. Good friends are rare and, well, good.
I realized what I don’t want to do with my life.
I started to realize that gravity is what it is. Neither more nor less.
I decided I really wanted my back back.
I cracked a filling.
I laughed a lot because I was happy.
I cried a little because I was scared.
I found out how much I loved someone.
The kids had birthdays. We did the same thing for both. It worked great once.
When toxic things came my way, I felt mad and not guilty.
I prayed more and believed I’d get results.
I got results.
I felt, and continue to feel, really really grateful for all the stuff in my life. Even the bad stuff.

Of course, I’ve been up to a lot more. Those aren’t really highlights. You can’t hardly cover those, especially if you don’t capture them as they come. But that’s ok.
Tomorrow is a sweet word.

remember me

There. I wrote something.

I will be back soon. Terribly blocked/tired/conflicted/etc. but things are going to be better now. See you soon.