Mighty Mouse and Banana Man were received with a wide grin and an eager ear. Then Labyrinth unfolded before me, King Jareth's commanding, mesmerizing androgyny opening my eyes to what I considered interesting and sexy. Monty Python was taboo for many Catholic reasons, but I snuck it in whenever possible, it's members in my Comedy Hall of Famery-ing forever.
The Beatles blared from our living room speakers, we danced and sang along with genuine, raucous abandon (some of the best memories I have). Oasis and Radiohead appeared on the radar in my teen years (replace dancing with writing angsty/smutty manifestos in my journal), helping me through heartache and awkwardness eloquently. Are You Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, The Young Ones, Little Britain, Coupling, Spaced and my newest favorite, Skins all have a special stronghold in my living lexicon of entertainment and enjoyment (there's a few hundred others, a condensed list for time and sanity). The exuded cheeky class, relaxed off-beat sophistication and rebellious, level-headed aloof, make my heart palpitate. The majority of men on my Top Ten of All Time list are from across the pond (faster still, my heart doth beat). I am instantly intrigued by anything as soon as it's determined to be of English origin.
My name is Lola, and I'm an Anglophile.
Not one to be overly obsessive geek-girl (alright, not as outwardly then), when it comes to ol' Blighty, I'm smitten and all a-slobber. It's a word.
My fondness stems from the comfort of that which I knew daily, concretely in another life, it feels. Perhaps a parallel life to the one I have now. It's comforting to feel part of witty verbal earnestness, to witness reveling in a tradition of intelligence and nothing is sacred-ness (with a dash of everything IS sacred-ness). Even the lowest brow is set pretty high, no pandering or talking-down-to happening. It's all very natural and easy-peasy, yet should a fight or cause to rise against occur, irreverently as a people, they're on it like a bonnet.
There's a tea break/pub stint to shake loose monotony, neither of which is a bad idea, ever. There's far less squeamishness with nudity, controversial issues or personal relating. A chivalry and decency and dignity with all that truly matters, and a "fuck-all!" to everything else. That just ain't part of our heritage so much. America is the teenager of the world, England the knowing older sibling, chuckling and shaking it's head at our rowdy, misguided antics. A refreshing escape, one I take frequently with fervor.
Sadly and wrongly, I've never visited, and my few sordid interludes with actual English imports here were not as awe-inspiring as I had always/often fantasized. I have a theory as to why, one meant analytically. Foreign types who come to the U S of A are usually pursuing the American "way of life", assimilation to that end being the very same issue I have with many fellow Americans. Cut-throat competitiveness, material fixation, shallow wanker-itis, to site a few. Not everyone that comes to our soil is that way nor are everyone that inhabit it, but it makes sense, like attracts like.
Anyway, I'm assuming that's what kept me and the random few Brits from skipping down the road arm in arm, singing God Save the Queen whilst sprinkling scones like parade candy. That must be why.
Like the post I wrote in response to my New York trip and how I feel for California (Bi-Coastal), there's never any lack of respect or love for where I am currently. I love America for what it is, I just have an awakened sense of understanding somewhere else. I feel that with every song, show or syllable I take delight in.
When I voyage to the iconic island itself, I'll fare well with the people there-they're juice from the root, one I've long felt rooted akin to. As life imitates art, my propensity for all things English will translate a connection in many ways. Can't wait to pop 'round and see.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Rectitude
We need to be our own Sassy Gay Friend, that's all there is to it. If you know not of whom I speak, head to thesecondcitynetwork.com/You Tube, check it out, and compile a list of people (outside of the rare and glorious real friends you might have, cherish them) that would be as candid with you in an hour of crucial decision making. Or that hilarious while doing it.
Honesty isn't the best policy anymore, or when it is, it's callously misinterpreted to suit our personal needs, spare us unwanted interaction or help us gain something. I've been beating my brains out lately trying to figure out exactly why we do this to ourselves and others. Laziness? Fear of confrontation? Defense mechanism? Selfishness? I suspect it's all of the above. What the what and why the why, I ask.
EVERYONE does it, we're all a link in the spiral of shame. I accepted a dinner invitation from a random dude at the park the other day. He didn't trip my trigger physically, nor personality wise, and the verbal exchange was weak to say the least. He didn't even introduce himself before getting digits (ones that I could have fudged as an easy out but never do out of habit I guess, psssh). He then proceeded to imply by tone of voice what would be happening in exchange for sushi. Yuck and double yuck. Needless to say I declined later, and scoffed at the subsequent blatant booty text the next night. "I'm not interested, but thanks. Approaching me took guts though, good job." That's how that could have gone, but it's a park frequented often, and no doubt I'll run into him again, therefor I felt obligated to spare the potential rejection awkwardness of it all. So I pretended, kicking myself ever since.
According to the general study of humans I informally conduct, when you do let the truth fly, it's detrimental somewhere down the line, and that's the deciding factor above all else. The collective stigma isn't on being honest so much as having to deal with that person in the future, in light of your real feelings or thoughts. By telling them what you think, you open your thought process and opinions to them, and in effect that friend/person will know where you stand, and either shy away or rebel against you accordingly. So it's easier to just say what they want to hear or skirt the issue and not have to sort out the messy, draining details.
Every time you let a good friend out of the house wearing an unflattering get-up despite any dubious queries for your input or omit pertinent facts to receive money/a service/material gain from someone the truth bending isn't for them, it's for you. Selfish and jaded much? Yeah, somehow we are.
Couple that with the human need for acceptance by everyone and their teacup poodle, its obvious how this all came down, even as we ignore indefinitely. I decided to challenge myself to fix it from my end. If we can all band together to "go green" we can all "go real", too.
Those individuals-you know who they are/if you are one-that ring loudest and clearest when relating do so by tactfully revealing thoughts and constructively evaluating situations without fear or delusional misgivings clouding their head. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. If we pass that down to even the simplest interactions, and trust in our perspective in that moment, we can dig a tunnel to truth and be set free. If what you say is meant to help, any momentary offense will be forgotten when they come out the other side, better for it.
In other words, "Probity ain't just fun on a Saturday night, it's a way of life." You know, something sassy like that.
Honesty isn't the best policy anymore, or when it is, it's callously misinterpreted to suit our personal needs, spare us unwanted interaction or help us gain something. I've been beating my brains out lately trying to figure out exactly why we do this to ourselves and others. Laziness? Fear of confrontation? Defense mechanism? Selfishness? I suspect it's all of the above. What the what and why the why, I ask.
EVERYONE does it, we're all a link in the spiral of shame. I accepted a dinner invitation from a random dude at the park the other day. He didn't trip my trigger physically, nor personality wise, and the verbal exchange was weak to say the least. He didn't even introduce himself before getting digits (ones that I could have fudged as an easy out but never do out of habit I guess, psssh). He then proceeded to imply by tone of voice what would be happening in exchange for sushi. Yuck and double yuck. Needless to say I declined later, and scoffed at the subsequent blatant booty text the next night. "I'm not interested, but thanks. Approaching me took guts though, good job." That's how that could have gone, but it's a park frequented often, and no doubt I'll run into him again, therefor I felt obligated to spare the potential rejection awkwardness of it all. So I pretended, kicking myself ever since.
According to the general study of humans I informally conduct, when you do let the truth fly, it's detrimental somewhere down the line, and that's the deciding factor above all else. The collective stigma isn't on being honest so much as having to deal with that person in the future, in light of your real feelings or thoughts. By telling them what you think, you open your thought process and opinions to them, and in effect that friend/person will know where you stand, and either shy away or rebel against you accordingly. So it's easier to just say what they want to hear or skirt the issue and not have to sort out the messy, draining details.
Every time you let a good friend out of the house wearing an unflattering get-up despite any dubious queries for your input or omit pertinent facts to receive money/a service/material gain from someone the truth bending isn't for them, it's for you. Selfish and jaded much? Yeah, somehow we are.
Couple that with the human need for acceptance by everyone and their teacup poodle, its obvious how this all came down, even as we ignore indefinitely. I decided to challenge myself to fix it from my end. If we can all band together to "go green" we can all "go real", too.
Those individuals-you know who they are/if you are one-that ring loudest and clearest when relating do so by tactfully revealing thoughts and constructively evaluating situations without fear or delusional misgivings clouding their head. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. If we pass that down to even the simplest interactions, and trust in our perspective in that moment, we can dig a tunnel to truth and be set free. If what you say is meant to help, any momentary offense will be forgotten when they come out the other side, better for it.
In other words, "Probity ain't just fun on a Saturday night, it's a way of life." You know, something sassy like that.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The SMD: In The Wings
At the most severe height, it's the tormented woman that drowned her kids in Texas a few years back. The next step down would be Munchausen by proxy and all the disturbing psychosis that goes with it. A few rungs down the ladder resides the slightly crazed, cutthroat parents who push their young ens to perform/dazzle/win (to appease their own whatever), proclaiming "it's his/her dream and I'm just helping to achieve it!!!"so as not to come off as misplaced aggressive as they fear they are. A few rungs below that are the parents that blindly interject their gifted kids/all attributes and accomplishments regardless of relevance to the conversation, broadcasting how great they are at passing on genes and being humble. No matter where you fall on the societal shame ladder, one thing unites all: you are no longer in the shining star in the spotlight, but the seasoned roadie shuffling around backstage.
It's your own damn fault, too. You procreated, you chose to teach them to be agreeable and well mannered and to be themselves. So get out of the way while the rest of us delight in the precociousness, or something like that.
Weather it's the residual cuteness swag, or the on-sight smiles and giggles, at emotionally drained low points (submerged in Single Mama Drama, I can have a few low points a week), it starts stinging when you aren't automatically included. It can be implied, but never related in the same giddy gushy-ness, so might as well be not at all. No one rushes to give me a hug and hand me a balloon like they do Logan, when I'm the one that could use it half the time. I realize how immature and asshole this all sounds. It's a very base level truth though, even if it gets ignored or suppressed for the sake of sanity and or healthy development. It's still there, if your honest.
The little darling sweeps in, destroying your daily life as you knew it in every way, only to increasingly encroach on your identity, too. Something you've tried to maintain in spite of and because of them, equally. Big, lonely, insult-to-injury ouch. Even if I'm not standing on any particular rung of the shame ladder, I can see how it could escalate to such.
I'm honorably the alpha and omega of Logan's frequently glamorous pint-sized world, and it's a worthy consolation every time I/anyone else remembers that. Despite all the firm disciplining and soft nurturing used to sculpt a stand-out kid, it truly is fifty-fifty. She deserves all the oohs and aahs any interesting person with a zeal for life does. So fuck it. Quit being a needy wuss about it, eh? Be proud, not beat down. Fight the important battles, not the neurotic self-imposed ones. Hopefully she'll glean that lesson along the way, too.
When she's eighteen and gets the hell out, I can revert to the ol' one lady show. A passion project to rival the last revival, if you catch my drift.
It's your own damn fault, too. You procreated, you chose to teach them to be agreeable and well mannered and to be themselves. So get out of the way while the rest of us delight in the precociousness, or something like that.
Weather it's the residual cuteness swag, or the on-sight smiles and giggles, at emotionally drained low points (submerged in Single Mama Drama, I can have a few low points a week), it starts stinging when you aren't automatically included. It can be implied, but never related in the same giddy gushy-ness, so might as well be not at all. No one rushes to give me a hug and hand me a balloon like they do Logan, when I'm the one that could use it half the time. I realize how immature and asshole this all sounds. It's a very base level truth though, even if it gets ignored or suppressed for the sake of sanity and or healthy development. It's still there, if your honest.
The little darling sweeps in, destroying your daily life as you knew it in every way, only to increasingly encroach on your identity, too. Something you've tried to maintain in spite of and because of them, equally. Big, lonely, insult-to-injury ouch. Even if I'm not standing on any particular rung of the shame ladder, I can see how it could escalate to such.
I'm honorably the alpha and omega of Logan's frequently glamorous pint-sized world, and it's a worthy consolation every time I/anyone else remembers that. Despite all the firm disciplining and soft nurturing used to sculpt a stand-out kid, it truly is fifty-fifty. She deserves all the oohs and aahs any interesting person with a zeal for life does. So fuck it. Quit being a needy wuss about it, eh? Be proud, not beat down. Fight the important battles, not the neurotic self-imposed ones. Hopefully she'll glean that lesson along the way, too.
When she's eighteen and gets the hell out, I can revert to the ol' one lady show. A passion project to rival the last revival, if you catch my drift.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Showstopped
The Muse is a sordid, lovely mistress. I hear her whispering, even when I lack the capacity to extol her blessings forth, she still haunts and nurtures equally. From all accounts, as soon as the fair lady wins out and you reach artistic fruition with fans clamoring in your wake, it's tormenting and validating, joyous and depressing. You either want more or less of what you have (fame, accolades, chances, pressure), and the battle claims a life. Some of the greatest artists the world has known have lost the battle and moved on to entertain on another plane of existence, what/wherever that may be.
I've been watching a slew of dramatic/tragic movies lately, ones that I meant to watch closer to their respective cultural relevance, but that rarely works out with my budget/time constraints these days. It falls under the "they happen when they need to" theory I have about movies, especially intense dramatic ones. They will pull a revelation out of you in a timely way.
La Vie En Rose, is the stand out so far. I know it came out three years ago and much has transpired since then. Critical acclaim, Oscar dresses, much deserved awards, all that jazzola. What struck me as I watched wasn't all the hype of a bygone year though. Marion Cotillard was able to breathe retrospective life into a real life person, she had her mannerisms and her feisty spirit nailed down, yes indeed. She most importantly captured the anguish pursuing a dream can be, how even when you feel so unworthy to even do so, the thing you were born to do finds a way to keep you in the game. Every creative person knows that feeling. Every person in general, knows that feeling, if you let it in.
I was a blubbering mess by the end of it (accordingly from the first 30 minutes on, who am I kidding) but it shook things loose. Afterward, I sat gazing over my balcony at the palm treed horizon and was utterly thankful. Thankful for that which I have (love present and past, a good head on my shoulders, a wonderful family, my health to name a few) and for that which I don't (debilitating ailments, too much too soon, a lack of backbone or empathy or understanding). After I said my thanks to the night sky, I thought about how tortured people make the quickest and brightest stars, and why that is. Those destined for greatness are also destined for such great pain, it seems.
What could possibly be worth all the noise and fury, why do those with true art to share with the world even bother? Then The Muse whispered in my ear again and I smiled and thanked her too. As long as you do it for yourself, all pain and strife are worth it. If you connect with others and help them feel better in their own skin, all the more worth it, even when that inspiration tosses you to and fro. Each choice made, each tear shed, each resolution to keep going and do what you gotta do will help cleanse or help deteriorate. Maybe those who check out early or in shocking ways want nothing more from life. They've already had a chance to shine their story to the darkness, but it wasn't enough to seek the light for longer. And that's their business, not ours. At least we have them in our hearts still. Even in death, we glean inspiration from their work, how precious it is that they fought to share.
The words non, je ne regrette rien come to mind.
I've been watching a slew of dramatic/tragic movies lately, ones that I meant to watch closer to their respective cultural relevance, but that rarely works out with my budget/time constraints these days. It falls under the "they happen when they need to" theory I have about movies, especially intense dramatic ones. They will pull a revelation out of you in a timely way.
La Vie En Rose, is the stand out so far. I know it came out three years ago and much has transpired since then. Critical acclaim, Oscar dresses, much deserved awards, all that jazzola. What struck me as I watched wasn't all the hype of a bygone year though. Marion Cotillard was able to breathe retrospective life into a real life person, she had her mannerisms and her feisty spirit nailed down, yes indeed. She most importantly captured the anguish pursuing a dream can be, how even when you feel so unworthy to even do so, the thing you were born to do finds a way to keep you in the game. Every creative person knows that feeling. Every person in general, knows that feeling, if you let it in.
I was a blubbering mess by the end of it (accordingly from the first 30 minutes on, who am I kidding) but it shook things loose. Afterward, I sat gazing over my balcony at the palm treed horizon and was utterly thankful. Thankful for that which I have (love present and past, a good head on my shoulders, a wonderful family, my health to name a few) and for that which I don't (debilitating ailments, too much too soon, a lack of backbone or empathy or understanding). After I said my thanks to the night sky, I thought about how tortured people make the quickest and brightest stars, and why that is. Those destined for greatness are also destined for such great pain, it seems.
What could possibly be worth all the noise and fury, why do those with true art to share with the world even bother? Then The Muse whispered in my ear again and I smiled and thanked her too. As long as you do it for yourself, all pain and strife are worth it. If you connect with others and help them feel better in their own skin, all the more worth it, even when that inspiration tosses you to and fro. Each choice made, each tear shed, each resolution to keep going and do what you gotta do will help cleanse or help deteriorate. Maybe those who check out early or in shocking ways want nothing more from life. They've already had a chance to shine their story to the darkness, but it wasn't enough to seek the light for longer. And that's their business, not ours. At least we have them in our hearts still. Even in death, we glean inspiration from their work, how precious it is that they fought to share.
The words non, je ne regrette rien come to mind.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Hot Town
My favorite time of year is crouched in attack position...waiting for the last pastel remnants of spring to evaporate, upon which it shall pounce, exploding adventure and all its' glittery possibilities in every direction with frivolous abandon. It ain't the temperature so much as the fun, carefree vibe festively threaded throughout that makes it such an event. Everything about summer is salacious, sexy and savory, if one does it well.
Those friends you mysteriously only associate with during these months come out of the woodwork, offering familiar escapades/opportunities you've shared joyously every year (not unlike the Vegas slogan, what happens during the summer is left during the summer in the best sense), it's comforting and exciting. Motivation to find what you want-be it the perfect bikini, vacation package or restoration project-kick starts you through any lingering cold weather yucks. Barbecue grills, pools and all manner of water craft are being lovingly refurbished for another good time go-round. Kids ravenously counting down to school free months of tree-climbing, bike-riding, ice-cream truck chasing and hopefully, horizon broadening.
It's a big fluffy pile of calendar dessert. Indulging too much yields some consequences, but you'll always relent to decadent, sensual delight even the tiniest bit. I might be firmly in broken record territory with the positive-not-negative undertone I convey to you here, but I mean it with all my large pounding heart, and I stand by it. Along with all the above reasons that stand alone in their own right, this is the time of year when everyone is a little more aligned with that beloved notion of mine for whatever their reason, and I eat it up. With chopsticks.
Personally, this years tentative agenda will be: seasonal visit to Wyoming (I save my kidneys up all year for the volume of drunken reunions had there), getting some quality writing done (blog and novel wise), reading a good book on the beach whilst getting a nice golden brown going (if the spring chill/wind would take a hint, for the love of all that is holy) and most importantly, striking up new friendships/flings that will make Summer '10 enjoyable, and all the more distinct.
My season never lets me down, even when the odd bout of chilly rain or overly enthusiastic night-out involving police, threatens to do just that. I anticipate bright shiny days and warm velvety nights filled with surprises, intrigue and some R and R. Many giant Slurpees, many crisp cocktails, many light-hearted, marvelous make-outs and many laughs. Who's with me?
Those friends you mysteriously only associate with during these months come out of the woodwork, offering familiar escapades/opportunities you've shared joyously every year (not unlike the Vegas slogan, what happens during the summer is left during the summer in the best sense), it's comforting and exciting. Motivation to find what you want-be it the perfect bikini, vacation package or restoration project-kick starts you through any lingering cold weather yucks. Barbecue grills, pools and all manner of water craft are being lovingly refurbished for another good time go-round. Kids ravenously counting down to school free months of tree-climbing, bike-riding, ice-cream truck chasing and hopefully, horizon broadening.
It's a big fluffy pile of calendar dessert. Indulging too much yields some consequences, but you'll always relent to decadent, sensual delight even the tiniest bit. I might be firmly in broken record territory with the positive-not-negative undertone I convey to you here, but I mean it with all my large pounding heart, and I stand by it. Along with all the above reasons that stand alone in their own right, this is the time of year when everyone is a little more aligned with that beloved notion of mine for whatever their reason, and I eat it up. With chopsticks.
Personally, this years tentative agenda will be: seasonal visit to Wyoming (I save my kidneys up all year for the volume of drunken reunions had there), getting some quality writing done (blog and novel wise), reading a good book on the beach whilst getting a nice golden brown going (if the spring chill/wind would take a hint, for the love of all that is holy) and most importantly, striking up new friendships/flings that will make Summer '10 enjoyable, and all the more distinct.
My season never lets me down, even when the odd bout of chilly rain or overly enthusiastic night-out involving police, threatens to do just that. I anticipate bright shiny days and warm velvety nights filled with surprises, intrigue and some R and R. Many giant Slurpees, many crisp cocktails, many light-hearted, marvelous make-outs and many laughs. Who's with me?
Monday, May 24, 2010
The SMD: Bump in the Night Right Back
How steadfastly enamored she is, of that which scares the bejeezus out of her. It's almost like Logan has to push her imagination in a terrifying direction so she's thankful for the commonplace conflict she most frequently is up against (me). At the tender age of five, she insists upon the adrenaline rush most clamor to avoid.
We bought Coraline the other day, at her insistence she really wanted it/had to have it, it was her one treat of the outing. We'd watched it together before, she was slightly worse for the ware, but her whole kick is to rise against the challenge, so I indulged her. If I could handle James and the Giant Peach and Nightmare Before Christmas, then she's cool too, I figure. Side note: What exactly happened to Tim Burton in his formative years that has inspired such creepy-creepshow ramifications? He and Stephen King should get together and create an original work of biblical proportions and put the torture porn horror genre of today out of its misery. Pun intended.
Anyways, dread time (or bedtime to the layperson) becomes literal for her after the creepy movie du jour (which is true of most people). A tenth drink of water, another installment of Wubbzy, a categorical list of what's in the bathroom cupboards. Anything to keep her from the lights going out, and the shadows befalling. Still, she HAS to see it. Like, mad-at-me-for-days-if-I-deny-her, has to. Jumanji is the only other movie that twisted her up as bad (the notion that animals are out to destroy you is disquieting for anyone, let alone a kid that normally sees nothing but cuddly happy versions), but I'll be damned if she will stop the show and find something less frightening.
Fear is a powerful motivator, an equally powerful entertainer due to that fact. Hardwired to be "afraid" for survival reasons, and I suspect also, that if we ourselves are capable of so much-for lack of a better term-evil, then we can only expect it from elsewhere. Especially the dark.
No matter the rationale behind it, it's bizarre to watch her want to watch them. At first signs of anxious and wide-eyed, as a mom I want to protect and distract, but she's hell bent on seeing it through. A crucial part of growth is to face what you fear head-on and know you can overcome, and many of the "scary" movies geared toward kids do send that message, at least. Coraline doesn't take the malicious misfortune lying down, she rallies and rails against the Other Mother and her spindly manipulation. Perhaps Logan knows that she'd do the same, and a vivid demonstration is comforting. That's why I'll always press play.
It's supposedly easier to manage our fears as the grown-ups, they tend to get more social/interpersonal. You don't fret about a giant spider woman stalking you down (which might be an oversight that's scary shit) half as much as you do about getting rejected in front of your peers, dying sad and alone, or losing your job. Does that make us less or more enlightened than the youngens?
If nothing else, I've instilled that it's only a movie and it can't hurt her. Just pretends. The light switch is a few feet away, the strength shown to antagonistic characters always helps to shove them back into their respective caves/castles/swamps etc. If only us grown-ups could talk ourselves down as easily, what a safe world it really would be.
We bought Coraline the other day, at her insistence she really wanted it/had to have it, it was her one treat of the outing. We'd watched it together before, she was slightly worse for the ware, but her whole kick is to rise against the challenge, so I indulged her. If I could handle James and the Giant Peach and Nightmare Before Christmas, then she's cool too, I figure. Side note: What exactly happened to Tim Burton in his formative years that has inspired such creepy-creepshow ramifications? He and Stephen King should get together and create an original work of biblical proportions and put the torture porn horror genre of today out of its misery. Pun intended.
Anyways, dread time (or bedtime to the layperson) becomes literal for her after the creepy movie du jour (which is true of most people). A tenth drink of water, another installment of Wubbzy, a categorical list of what's in the bathroom cupboards. Anything to keep her from the lights going out, and the shadows befalling. Still, she HAS to see it. Like, mad-at-me-for-days-if-I-deny-her, has to. Jumanji is the only other movie that twisted her up as bad (the notion that animals are out to destroy you is disquieting for anyone, let alone a kid that normally sees nothing but cuddly happy versions), but I'll be damned if she will stop the show and find something less frightening.
Fear is a powerful motivator, an equally powerful entertainer due to that fact. Hardwired to be "afraid" for survival reasons, and I suspect also, that if we ourselves are capable of so much-for lack of a better term-evil, then we can only expect it from elsewhere. Especially the dark.
No matter the rationale behind it, it's bizarre to watch her want to watch them. At first signs of anxious and wide-eyed, as a mom I want to protect and distract, but she's hell bent on seeing it through. A crucial part of growth is to face what you fear head-on and know you can overcome, and many of the "scary" movies geared toward kids do send that message, at least. Coraline doesn't take the malicious misfortune lying down, she rallies and rails against the Other Mother and her spindly manipulation. Perhaps Logan knows that she'd do the same, and a vivid demonstration is comforting. That's why I'll always press play.
It's supposedly easier to manage our fears as the grown-ups, they tend to get more social/interpersonal. You don't fret about a giant spider woman stalking you down (which might be an oversight that's scary shit) half as much as you do about getting rejected in front of your peers, dying sad and alone, or losing your job. Does that make us less or more enlightened than the youngens?
If nothing else, I've instilled that it's only a movie and it can't hurt her. Just pretends. The light switch is a few feet away, the strength shown to antagonistic characters always helps to shove them back into their respective caves/castles/swamps etc. If only us grown-ups could talk ourselves down as easily, what a safe world it really would be.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Bi-Coastal
I had my initial bite into that Big chaotic Apple I've so vividly fantasized about, and I am still reveling in what I tasted. It feels like cheating on my beloved California, that's how much I dig it. The comparisons between the two don't jive though. NYC is a crisp, fresh, bittersweet, larger- than-life apple, and California is a thick, laid back, grandiose, cantaloupe. Both are uniquely juicy. Duality was seamlessly sliced this past week.
I'm primarily melon (both in breast size and overall texture of life if you catch my breeze which is why I live where I do), so I was surprisingly surprised that from the first glimpse of dusky skyline (bringing tears to my eyes even through the tiny vantage of an airplane window), my East Coast inclination inklings were confirmed. I stepped onto the filthy sidewalk, hailed my first cab and strapped in for an amazing joyous experience. I'm still knackered and sated from it all.
New York feels like a constant, daily parade. People briskly bobbing along from place to place-decadent, determined, deranged or usually all three-secure in the knowledge that no matter how outlandish, common place or middle of the road they come across, others around them are themselves busy being them, and could care less, really. An informal celebration of ambitious, sophisticated diversity with no bullshit in between. No time for it.
Having said that, it's a constant flow of sensory delight, impossible to be ignored. The smell of street vendors/restaurants presenting their wares, humid air and people as they pin ball against one another, the occasional sewer/bodily fluid smell slapping vengefully, inspiring gratitude that you're obligated to walk so swiftly onward. The sounds of taxis and the other brave souls sharing their road, honking in an adamant unintelligible language. The sight of famous, glamorous landmarks stretching to life in historic graceful grime, the bright blue or maudlin gray sky setting tone to each days drama. The notion that it could all go horribly wrong but rarely does, is exhilarating.
What a clusterfuck of humanity insanity, tending to make perfect sense if you choose to notice.
In the same way California sprang to life before my eyes and sank deep into my soul many years ago, New York triggered forth elements of quality I didn't realize were lacking. My family (nine of us total) covered a lot of ground. What we saw was awesome, (AWESOME!) and I won't forget how I changed as I saw it. I could regurgitate it all, but go see for yourself, then we'll trade notes.
NYU grad, fantastic brother and reason for the season was at the helm. Being local he gave insider terminology, insight and definition to it all. His friends/acquaintances/comrades all share a similar genuine intrigue and intelligence, and he fits like a glove among them. Perhaps that's what made it so comfortable, so visceral.
Perhaps it is the fact that thriving there is thriving with a capital T and we felt a part of it. Every day you wake up, set forth to accomplish and actually do, it's sheer self-empowerment. On foot, on your own. Living fast, free and expensively. Living for yourself, although ironically, New Yorkers are the least selfish I've encountered if you are in need. They know what it's like to walk the paces. That is one of the true similarities both coasts share, actually. New York is just quicker to the punch by necessity.
I amassed a hundred anecdotes/inside jokes, a few hundred pictures and a few thousand subtle souvenirs, most of which are spiritual. The most profound is that I have a new mecca of connectedness. I can't say I plan to leave Cali or that New York has replaced it, rather, it slid in tightly astride as so much of the city itself.
Like the yin and yang, both coasts will reside inside. Can't have one without the other.
I'm primarily melon (both in breast size and overall texture of life if you catch my breeze which is why I live where I do), so I was surprisingly surprised that from the first glimpse of dusky skyline (bringing tears to my eyes even through the tiny vantage of an airplane window), my East Coast inclination inklings were confirmed. I stepped onto the filthy sidewalk, hailed my first cab and strapped in for an amazing joyous experience. I'm still knackered and sated from it all.
New York feels like a constant, daily parade. People briskly bobbing along from place to place-decadent, determined, deranged or usually all three-secure in the knowledge that no matter how outlandish, common place or middle of the road they come across, others around them are themselves busy being them, and could care less, really. An informal celebration of ambitious, sophisticated diversity with no bullshit in between. No time for it.
Having said that, it's a constant flow of sensory delight, impossible to be ignored. The smell of street vendors/restaurants presenting their wares, humid air and people as they pin ball against one another, the occasional sewer/bodily fluid smell slapping vengefully, inspiring gratitude that you're obligated to walk so swiftly onward. The sounds of taxis and the other brave souls sharing their road, honking in an adamant unintelligible language. The sight of famous, glamorous landmarks stretching to life in historic graceful grime, the bright blue or maudlin gray sky setting tone to each days drama. The notion that it could all go horribly wrong but rarely does, is exhilarating.
What a clusterfuck of humanity insanity, tending to make perfect sense if you choose to notice.
In the same way California sprang to life before my eyes and sank deep into my soul many years ago, New York triggered forth elements of quality I didn't realize were lacking. My family (nine of us total) covered a lot of ground. What we saw was awesome, (AWESOME!) and I won't forget how I changed as I saw it. I could regurgitate it all, but go see for yourself, then we'll trade notes.
NYU grad, fantastic brother and reason for the season was at the helm. Being local he gave insider terminology, insight and definition to it all. His friends/acquaintances/comrades all share a similar genuine intrigue and intelligence, and he fits like a glove among them. Perhaps that's what made it so comfortable, so visceral.
Perhaps it is the fact that thriving there is thriving with a capital T and we felt a part of it. Every day you wake up, set forth to accomplish and actually do, it's sheer self-empowerment. On foot, on your own. Living fast, free and expensively. Living for yourself, although ironically, New Yorkers are the least selfish I've encountered if you are in need. They know what it's like to walk the paces. That is one of the true similarities both coasts share, actually. New York is just quicker to the punch by necessity.
I amassed a hundred anecdotes/inside jokes, a few hundred pictures and a few thousand subtle souvenirs, most of which are spiritual. The most profound is that I have a new mecca of connectedness. I can't say I plan to leave Cali or that New York has replaced it, rather, it slid in tightly astride as so much of the city itself.
Like the yin and yang, both coasts will reside inside. Can't have one without the other.
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