Slumdog Millionaire. Go see it.
Beautiful conversation about Slumdog Millionaire......kind of....
Son - So, what did you and B do today?
Me (after picking my son up from his father's house) - We saw a movie, Slumdog Millionaire. I think you could even see it. It was wonderful. This year I want to see all the movies that are up for the Academy Awards"
Son - Is Mall Cop up for an award?
Me - Ummm. No.
Son - Man, that's a great movie. I can't believe it's not up for an award. It was the #1 rated movie for at least three weeks in a row.
Me - Oh. Maybe Slumdog wouldn't work for you.
Son - Yeah, the guy who played the mall cop was awesome. Man, I loved that movie. I can't believe it's not up for movie of the year.
Me - That good huh?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Beauty beauty beauty
After only two days of searching out beauty, I cannot stand the actual word "beauty." It's a word that, after you say it a hundred times (okay two times) it starts to sound stupid. So, I'm getting rid of the word but not the concept. It may be the exquisiteness of the day, or the superbitude, or just the loveliness. Forget superbitude, it sounds like Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Although, it's not always a bad thing to sound like Jeff Spicoli. There are definitely days I wish I was Jeff Spicoli. I won't go into that now.
So, the beauty of the day (hahahaha) is that my taxes are done. Sweet.
Oh, and then there was also this poem by Mary Oliver that I read. Yes. Beautiful.
Flare
1.
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.
2.
You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.
3.
Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.
I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.
4.
Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
Not in this world.
5.
My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!
I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.
6.
I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.
It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.
I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.
But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.
7.
Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?
Did you know that?
8.
The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.
But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.
It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.
9.
The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.
10.
Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?
11.
Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.
No uncle no table no kitchen.
Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.
12.
When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,
like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.
Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.
Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.
A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.
Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
Live with the beetle, and the wind.
This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.
So, the beauty of the day (hahahaha) is that my taxes are done. Sweet.
Oh, and then there was also this poem by Mary Oliver that I read. Yes. Beautiful.
Flare
1.
Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.
2.
You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.
3.
Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.
I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.
4.
Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
Not in this world.
5.
My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!
I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.
6.
I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.
It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.
I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.
But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.
7.
Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?
Did you know that?
8.
The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.
But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.
It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.
9.
The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.
10.
Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?
11.
Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.
No uncle no table no kitchen.
Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.
12.
When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,
like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.
Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.
Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.
A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.
Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.
Live with the beetle, and the wind.
This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The beauty of the first hug
and I don't mean the first hug in an adult relationship, which also has a shiverallthroughyourcosmos beauty. I'm talking the first hug from someone not related to you when you're in fifth grade and you've never been hugged by someone like that in your whole life kind of hug. And my boy told me about it today, smiling, fiddling with his fedora (yeah, really, a fedora), kind of shy but wanting to tell me. A girl likes him. And he likes her too. "Well, you know, mom, like a friend."
That smile was NOT a like-a-friend kind of smile. It was sweet and slightly embarrassed. When he told me, he was about an hour past that hug but I could see he was still held by it. Enveloped in that innocent, heart filling beauty.
Don't worry, the "beauty" posts won't all be sappy. I find all kinds of weird, bizarre things to be perfectly beautiful too and I'm sure I'll share them with you.
That smile was NOT a like-a-friend kind of smile. It was sweet and slightly embarrassed. When he told me, he was about an hour past that hug but I could see he was still held by it. Enveloped in that innocent, heart filling beauty.
Don't worry, the "beauty" posts won't all be sappy. I find all kinds of weird, bizarre things to be perfectly beautiful too and I'm sure I'll share them with you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
P.S.
Just in case I don't know what to look for (see post below).
Beauty....... adorableness, advantage, allure, artistry, attraction, bloom, blessing, charm, class, comeliness, delicacy, divine, elegance, exquisiteness, fairness, fascination, glamor, good looks, good thing, grace, handsomeness, loveliness, polish, pulchritude, refinement, shapeliness, strength, style, symmetry, virtue, winsomeness
Beauty....... adorableness, advantage, allure, artistry, attraction, bloom, blessing, charm, class, comeliness, delicacy, divine, elegance, exquisiteness, fairness, fascination, glamor, good looks, good thing, grace, handsomeness, loveliness, polish, pulchritude, refinement, shapeliness, strength, style, symmetry, virtue, winsomeness
Thirty days of something
I do not really notice beauty anymore. This is, thankfully, a temporary condition. I realized it tonight, after a Northern Arizona Bookfest meeting, as I walked to my car. I was in a parking lot, wet pavement from melting snow, scattered pedestrians walking about, noise from cars and people. I looked up, and there, above me, was a beautiful sky. Very light teal on the horizon, seeping up into a darker, cerulean, and then getting all rich and cobalt at the top of the sky. The moon, just a sliver (as a child I always called it a fingernail moon) lay cupped like a rocking horse rocker and above it was a planet (which I decided was Venus because I think any planet I see in the sky is Venus). Man, it was just absolutely beautiful. And that's when I thought, I never see this beauty. I'm beauty immune at the moment. I will not, at this time, bemoan how busy I am. I will not fill you in on my days, which consist largely of work, work, computer, class prep, and my child's homework, with some laundry and dishwashing thrown in. Back when I started this blog, I was beginning my one year of opus and I found beauty EVERYWHERE. I searched it out, I found it under rocks and pieces of wood, I created it damnit. I, at least, thought about it. Now, it seemed like some odd shock to my system to even glimpse a great sky.
Also, I've been really remiss about the frequency of my blog writing. I liked the 30 day goal I set myself up for a couple months ago. Here's what I think. I think I'm someone who needs to have goals and purpose. I write more and better with a deadline. If I set parameters and make rules, I usually do a much better job. Not only that, I enjoy it. So, here I go again....thirty days of something beautiful. Each day. My opinion. One beautiful thing. And I'm going to blog it. The old, twobirdswithonestone idea. Consistent blogs/search for beauty.
1/28 - 2/28
Tonight, the sky. Immense, blue, silent on it's own and holding tight to all the noise in the parking lot. Cold, breathable, mysterious. Beautiful.
Also, I've been really remiss about the frequency of my blog writing. I liked the 30 day goal I set myself up for a couple months ago. Here's what I think. I think I'm someone who needs to have goals and purpose. I write more and better with a deadline. If I set parameters and make rules, I usually do a much better job. Not only that, I enjoy it. So, here I go again....thirty days of something beautiful. Each day. My opinion. One beautiful thing. And I'm going to blog it. The old, twobirdswithonestone idea. Consistent blogs/search for beauty.
1/28 - 2/28
Tonight, the sky. Immense, blue, silent on it's own and holding tight to all the noise in the parking lot. Cold, breathable, mysterious. Beautiful.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
2008 Summation (not)
I'll sum up 2008 next year. It definitely had its highs and lows. Right now I have more important things to write....
My wonderful friend Kate sent this to me today.
Watch this
Sometimes life gets so hectic or overwhelming that we forget the importance of friends. This video made me remember. And it's not just a girl thing. B talked to several of his friends today and I could feel how good it was for him to do that. Feeling connected is such a relief. It's a comfort. It's a hoot. Sometimes it's a good cry.
Also, I started teaching school again and I always hand out a student information survey. I had my favorite response to question #2 yesterday. The question is "What are your educational and employment goals?" and I had a girl in my poetry class write, "I don't really want to get a job. I want to live in a flying house"
She is so getting an A.
My wonderful friend Kate sent this to me today.
Watch this
Sometimes life gets so hectic or overwhelming that we forget the importance of friends. This video made me remember. And it's not just a girl thing. B talked to several of his friends today and I could feel how good it was for him to do that. Feeling connected is such a relief. It's a comfort. It's a hoot. Sometimes it's a good cry.
Also, I started teaching school again and I always hand out a student information survey. I had my favorite response to question #2 yesterday. The question is "What are your educational and employment goals?" and I had a girl in my poetry class write, "I don't really want to get a job. I want to live in a flying house"
She is so getting an A.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hollywood
I'm watching the Golden Globes. I'm having a glass of champagne and I'm folding laundry while I watch. There was a time when I was going to be up there. I was going to accept an award, and thank people. I would thank my parents, and everyone associated with the film/sitcom/drama and I would probably get teary and be slightly funny and I would most likely trip on the steps up to the podium. I went to acting school for a year, even borrowed the money to pay for it, when I was 22. I headed out to L.A. with my homegirl (niece) Suzy when I was 24 and we got an apartment off Lankershim Blvd. and started learning the business. We worked as waitresses and had headshots taken and went shopping on Melrose Avenue. We danced at Whiskey-a-go-go and drove all over L.A. and stayed up until 4:00 am. Man, did I become a great waitress. We also saw a million concerts and went to the beach and had parties at our tiny apartment. I recommend this for everyone. It was fun. But I did not become a star. I was in a golf video with Jan Stephenson, Suzy and I were in a rock video with The Stray Cats, and we were each on a game show (me - concentration with Alex Trebeck, and Suzy - 10,000 Pyramid) where we each failed miserably. We did a little extra work here and there, but we never made it big. I never got to give my acceptance speech (damn) and we never got to party with the cast of Friends (damn). But it was a great time. I'm glad I tried. I have funny stories about auditions and casting directors and standing next to Farrah Fawcett at The Gap on Santa Monica. I'd rather fail at something than, years later, have wild remorse because I didn't give it a try.
I moved to Northern California after four years of L.A.. The brown sky worried me, and I was tired of waitressing. And honestly, I wasn't a very good actress. Not then. I was shy and unsure and had no voice of my own. I think I'd be kind of okay at it now, but now I have a small but wondrous home, a beautiful child who goes to a school I love, and sweet friends and a great family and a good man and a job at Starbucks. And I love to watch these award shows. I like to see what they wear and who they're with and what those girls are doing with their hair. I have my favorites. And I love to sit in a dark movie theater and watch the stars that do not wait tables anymore. I LOVE movies. I've seen a few good ones lately; The Wrestler, The Mysterious Case of Benjamin Button, Gran Torino, and two more that I can't think of right now because I've had two glasses of champagne. But I know I liked them when I saw them. I just love how movies can make you feel so much, and give you a real glimpse into other lives. Oh, and I just remembered that one of those other movies was Into The Wild. Dang, what was that other one... (okay, okay, I'll wrap it up). Anyway, thank you so much. Goodnight.
I moved to Northern California after four years of L.A.. The brown sky worried me, and I was tired of waitressing. And honestly, I wasn't a very good actress. Not then. I was shy and unsure and had no voice of my own. I think I'd be kind of okay at it now, but now I have a small but wondrous home, a beautiful child who goes to a school I love, and sweet friends and a great family and a good man and a job at Starbucks. And I love to watch these award shows. I like to see what they wear and who they're with and what those girls are doing with their hair. I have my favorites. And I love to sit in a dark movie theater and watch the stars that do not wait tables anymore. I LOVE movies. I've seen a few good ones lately; The Wrestler, The Mysterious Case of Benjamin Button, Gran Torino, and two more that I can't think of right now because I've had two glasses of champagne. But I know I liked them when I saw them. I just love how movies can make you feel so much, and give you a real glimpse into other lives. Oh, and I just remembered that one of those other movies was Into The Wild. Dang, what was that other one... (okay, okay, I'll wrap it up). Anyway, thank you so much. Goodnight.
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