If you like happy endings -- or at least endings that are resolved, crisp and finished, make no plans to go see the new movie by Jim Jarmusch, "Broken Flowers"(http://www.brokenflowersmovie.com/home.html) starring Bill Murray.
On the other hand, if you enjoy watching a movie that requires thought and attention to detail, then don't walk, run to see this.
Not a movie for the MTV generation. Not a lot of action or skin or even a lot of dialogue. Ain't it cool?
In fact, most of those in the crowd in which I was viewing this movie with - we were down in the lower part of the theater with "Dukes of Hazzard" still queing up lines and lines and lines of those 25 years and under--- stomped out of the movie quizzically. Some were even angry. One guy even commented, "8 bucks for that?"
Maybe we're too focused on seeing movies that figure it all out for us and leave us with a finished ending. But Bill Murray's last two films, including "Lost in Translation" have a lot to tell us about the unfinished business of mid-life and aging. That is, there is a lot left to be discovered.
For me personally, I loved the layering of dialogue, visuals and cinematography that create the story for me to unwrap and delight in. I loved that Bill Murray's character doesn't act as much as he reacts to life and all that it has given him. I loved mostly that I left the theater trying to figure out all the clues and if I got them all or not.
What I figured out (what I think!) is that the 5 women in the movie represent the 5 decades of a man's life (50 years, which I imagine is what the age of the character placed by Murray). Sexual conquest, intellectual pursuit, partying and rocking, drugs and love, and of course, death, which conquers us all. Don Johnston/Don Juan/Don Jonson -- itself a comment on a man's life -- illustrates a man's life lived for all the things that create a sense of completeness, but at the end it is his shell of a life that creates the chaotic pain in which we see Murray's character. I'm not much of a philosopher but that's my report, Sherlock. (see the movie to understand this line.)
There are some amazing one-liners delivered by Murray that are gems. Unfortunately, most of them are given away in the Trailer so that when you see them in the film they lack the punch they could have had.
Still, I'd recommend "Broken Flowers" to my artsy friends. For all the others, there's always Dukes of Hazzard. Sadly, there seems to be few in-between choices.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Trading Spaces
I drove past my old house the other day.
I drove past really slow to see if I could see the landscaping that I had done with the kids when we lived there. I slowed down almost to a stop and even considered peering into the kitchen to see if the same color that I had painted (red) was still there or not.
Sometimes, I think about old places that I've lived and I wonder about them. Is there still pieces of me left there, strewn all about, waiting for me to come back and retrieve them?
Moving is a big job. Not so much the physical aspect but the emotional as well. For awhile you don't live anyplace. You have parts of a life in one place and parts of a life someplace else. For a while you live fluidly, unconnected, strewn apart.
It's sometimes nice to consider where I lived and why and what I was doing when I lived there. How old were the kids? What did we do for dinner? Where was the furniture placed? Where we live molds our lives as much as anything. Molds our thoughts, too.
Not one time have I ever considered moving back to where I have come. Not one time have I ever thought, "wow, I'd really like to move back there". Not once. Even though the memories and the times shared were good ones, I'm most glad to be here, now, wherever this place "is".
I think that transitions teach us that we move forward into the unknown with a certain amount of gratitude that we're at least moving towards something, away from something that we once were.
But sometimes, there are situations and people that want us to stay in our old 'houses'. They might even want to drive us to the door and say, "get out and live here NOW!" I've had that sense at times with relationships and others...that their version of the past was so important that they wouldn't allow themselves -- or anybody else -- to move on.
To those situations and people, I am learning to say, "I don't live here anymore. You can stay here and we might can revisit these times, but I don't live here anymore. I'm moving onward."
I'm learning there is great freedom in that ability...to simply say, "No, I don't know the future as well as the past but I know that I don't live there anymore." Sometimes it allows others to move forward. Sometimes it makes them put down roots even more strongly.
It doesn't matter. What is important is that the journey forward begins and continues.
That was then, this is now. And I don't live there anymore.
I drove past really slow to see if I could see the landscaping that I had done with the kids when we lived there. I slowed down almost to a stop and even considered peering into the kitchen to see if the same color that I had painted (red) was still there or not.
Sometimes, I think about old places that I've lived and I wonder about them. Is there still pieces of me left there, strewn all about, waiting for me to come back and retrieve them?
Moving is a big job. Not so much the physical aspect but the emotional as well. For awhile you don't live anyplace. You have parts of a life in one place and parts of a life someplace else. For a while you live fluidly, unconnected, strewn apart.
It's sometimes nice to consider where I lived and why and what I was doing when I lived there. How old were the kids? What did we do for dinner? Where was the furniture placed? Where we live molds our lives as much as anything. Molds our thoughts, too.
Not one time have I ever considered moving back to where I have come. Not one time have I ever thought, "wow, I'd really like to move back there". Not once. Even though the memories and the times shared were good ones, I'm most glad to be here, now, wherever this place "is".
I think that transitions teach us that we move forward into the unknown with a certain amount of gratitude that we're at least moving towards something, away from something that we once were.
But sometimes, there are situations and people that want us to stay in our old 'houses'. They might even want to drive us to the door and say, "get out and live here NOW!" I've had that sense at times with relationships and others...that their version of the past was so important that they wouldn't allow themselves -- or anybody else -- to move on.
To those situations and people, I am learning to say, "I don't live here anymore. You can stay here and we might can revisit these times, but I don't live here anymore. I'm moving onward."
I'm learning there is great freedom in that ability...to simply say, "No, I don't know the future as well as the past but I know that I don't live there anymore." Sometimes it allows others to move forward. Sometimes it makes them put down roots even more strongly.
It doesn't matter. What is important is that the journey forward begins and continues.
That was then, this is now. And I don't live there anymore.
Comedy Night (repeat)
I spent Friday Night doing what I love -- working in my yard and watching great comedy. Only, Comedy Central saw fit to rerun one of my favorites and then spend the rest of Holy Time (the time on Friday that is usually reserved for great stand up at Comedy Central) by filling time with South Park. I don't get those little stupid cartoons. I guess I'm not evolved enough or something but they can never, ever, take the place of great creative stand up.
So I got to watch one of my all-time favorites Adam Ferrara (www.adamferrara.com) do his bit. I've seen it probably 20 times but I love it..he always makes me laugh. I love it that he can make me laugh about potpourri ("it's a bucket of mulch, lady!) and hanging pictures. Anyboy can go for shock value...Adam uses everyday things and makes me look at them in new ways which is what I love about great comedy...if it can make you laugh at your life, and mostly at yourself, then it's done its job.
As for Comedy Central, here's a tip -- if I don't get my stand up back on Friday's, things could get really ugly. Some of us comedy-addicts need our weekly fix of funny people like others might need drugs or liquor. So I'm warning you, take off the dorky kids and let the deranged humor of real people rule.
So I got to watch one of my all-time favorites Adam Ferrara (www.adamferrara.com) do his bit. I've seen it probably 20 times but I love it..he always makes me laugh. I love it that he can make me laugh about potpourri ("it's a bucket of mulch, lady!) and hanging pictures. Anyboy can go for shock value...Adam uses everyday things and makes me look at them in new ways which is what I love about great comedy...if it can make you laugh at your life, and mostly at yourself, then it's done its job.
As for Comedy Central, here's a tip -- if I don't get my stand up back on Friday's, things could get really ugly. Some of us comedy-addicts need our weekly fix of funny people like others might need drugs or liquor. So I'm warning you, take off the dorky kids and let the deranged humor of real people rule.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Take a picture
I want to hurry and write this down before I forget. I want to remember these moments before they slip through my fingers.
I want to remember that it is 7:05 and the sun is still warm. I want to remember the steamy mist off the bermuda from rains that came (finally!). I want to remember the cat lolling on the driveway, rolling, then turning. And the dog, Princess, anxiously walking from Ellen and then to Nathan and back again. Princess always can tell when something is up.
I will remember Ellen, her long hair pulled back, new chocker necklace displayed, striped shirt, so pretty. I will remember Nathan, strumming his guitar for a brief minutes, singing in that voice of his, the one that he has used since he was just a small boy. Now its deeper, huskier, a teenager's wistfulness coming through.
I will remember Eggo waffles, with syrup and peanut butter and white, cold milk. I will remember the too-sugary smell that threatens my already jumpy stomach.
I'll remember the faces of my children, excited but pensive, wondering what this new day -- this new year -- will bring them. One more chapter in their short lives already being written, already being etched into their memory.
There are moments as a parent that you have to wonder, "can I do this? Can I nurture another human being through the ups and downs of keyboards and braces, first days of school, breakups with girlfriends? Can I hold their hands when the fever spikes and the friends don't call? Can I celebrate the 3-point shot along with the goal that was great, but just a little too late?
Being a parent is allowing another human to take up residence in your life, forever altering your view of the world and showing them yours, knowing full well that they may take your view of life and keep it, discard it but in all liklihood change it. Its making yourself open and vulnerable to your own faulty ideas about love and life. Its having your own life rewritten each day by the questions and thoughts of another, while you struggle with answers that you thought you had figured out.
Parenting is, most of all, a path that you take to give life to another while redefining your own. It is all at once giving everything you thought you had, only to discover that in the giving you've grown more, lived more, loved more than you ever thought possible.
I will remember my kids today as they drove away, resolute and happy as they embraced a new year of their lives. I stood at the top of the driveway a little too long, tears forming as I knew they would -- as they no doubt knew and even counted on. I will remember Nathan saying, "Hey Mom, it's the first day of my SENIOR YEAR!" and his smile when he saw the tears coming. Isn't it every kid's longing to simply matter to their parents? To know they'll be missed terribly while at the same time knowing their parents will probably catch a few more minutes of sleep, go on with their day, be OK, even relieved a bit?
These are the moments, the pauses in the symphony of life lived with others, that we know that the rhythms of our lives are in sync and in step. That despite the colic, the worry, the questions and the concern, the harmony of lives lived together hits that resonant chord..."this is how it is suppose to be."
I will remember this moment, along with all the others, and cherish it forever.
I want to remember that it is 7:05 and the sun is still warm. I want to remember the steamy mist off the bermuda from rains that came (finally!). I want to remember the cat lolling on the driveway, rolling, then turning. And the dog, Princess, anxiously walking from Ellen and then to Nathan and back again. Princess always can tell when something is up.
I will remember Ellen, her long hair pulled back, new chocker necklace displayed, striped shirt, so pretty. I will remember Nathan, strumming his guitar for a brief minutes, singing in that voice of his, the one that he has used since he was just a small boy. Now its deeper, huskier, a teenager's wistfulness coming through.
I will remember Eggo waffles, with syrup and peanut butter and white, cold milk. I will remember the too-sugary smell that threatens my already jumpy stomach.
I'll remember the faces of my children, excited but pensive, wondering what this new day -- this new year -- will bring them. One more chapter in their short lives already being written, already being etched into their memory.
There are moments as a parent that you have to wonder, "can I do this? Can I nurture another human being through the ups and downs of keyboards and braces, first days of school, breakups with girlfriends? Can I hold their hands when the fever spikes and the friends don't call? Can I celebrate the 3-point shot along with the goal that was great, but just a little too late?
Being a parent is allowing another human to take up residence in your life, forever altering your view of the world and showing them yours, knowing full well that they may take your view of life and keep it, discard it but in all liklihood change it. Its making yourself open and vulnerable to your own faulty ideas about love and life. Its having your own life rewritten each day by the questions and thoughts of another, while you struggle with answers that you thought you had figured out.
Parenting is, most of all, a path that you take to give life to another while redefining your own. It is all at once giving everything you thought you had, only to discover that in the giving you've grown more, lived more, loved more than you ever thought possible.
I will remember my kids today as they drove away, resolute and happy as they embraced a new year of their lives. I stood at the top of the driveway a little too long, tears forming as I knew they would -- as they no doubt knew and even counted on. I will remember Nathan saying, "Hey Mom, it's the first day of my SENIOR YEAR!" and his smile when he saw the tears coming. Isn't it every kid's longing to simply matter to their parents? To know they'll be missed terribly while at the same time knowing their parents will probably catch a few more minutes of sleep, go on with their day, be OK, even relieved a bit?
These are the moments, the pauses in the symphony of life lived with others, that we know that the rhythms of our lives are in sync and in step. That despite the colic, the worry, the questions and the concern, the harmony of lives lived together hits that resonant chord..."this is how it is suppose to be."
I will remember this moment, along with all the others, and cherish it forever.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Writing is a lot like life -- most of it is bad copy
http://www.courant.com/features/lifestyle/hc-gina0815.artaug15,0,4793580.column?&track=rss
This article is so good and so reassuring to people like me who are trying to find their way in the writing "world". What resonates with me in this article is how much writing is like so many other things. For example, if I were asked the same questions about why I do what I do for my "day job" I'd give very similar answers. Writing is a discipline, an art, something that has to be crafted every day.
This article is so good and so reassuring to people like me who are trying to find their way in the writing "world". What resonates with me in this article is how much writing is like so many other things. For example, if I were asked the same questions about why I do what I do for my "day job" I'd give very similar answers. Writing is a discipline, an art, something that has to be crafted every day.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Great quote on the Art Life
“As Stanley Kunitz once commented, “The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.” And it’s true, most artists don’t daydream about making great art—they daydream about having made great art. What artist has not experienced the feverish euphoria of composing the perfect thumbnail sketch, first draft, negative or melody, only to run headlong into a stone wall trying to convert that tantalizing hint into the finished mural, novel, photograph, sonata? The artist’s life is frustrating not because the passage is slow, but because he imagines it to be fast.”
By David Bayles & Ted Orland
From "Art and Fear".
By David Bayles & Ted Orland
From "Art and Fear".
Monday, August 15, 2005
Great new life mantra
This came from some discussions at our new church -- I really like it:
God is Good
People are Wierd
Love with Abandon
.
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