I want to start by saying that I love Christian Bale as an actor (favorite role: Laurie in Little Women, of course) and I totally understand that his process of method acting. Also, a friend of mine worked on the set of Terminator:Salvation and said that the media blew the whole situation way out of proportion. However, this video is one of the funniest I've seen in a while.
February 26, 2009
February 25, 2009
Something to think about and live by...
Intelligent people talk about ideas.
Mediocre people talk about events.
Dumb people talk about people.
Mediocre people talk about events.
Dumb people talk about people.
Yellow
Yesterday, I had an epiphany. I chose a favorite color: YELLOW! I have never taken a stand and chosen a favorite color in my life. And now, when people ask me (which they do a lot for some reason), I can answer without hesitation. Why did I chose this color? I don't know. Perhaps because it's bright, cheerful, the color of sunlight, the color of my favorite sweater...that will still probably change on a daily basis.
"Yellow" by Coldplay is hands down one of my favorite songs. And I don't really know why. Just like Chris Martin, in a recent interview, did not give a reason why he wrote the song:
"Your very first album…you had a world wide hit, in 'Yellow,'" Kroft noted. "What's it about? F… knows," Martin replied. "I've got no idea. I still think about that every day." "I love playing it. I love the tune. I love the chords. I love the balloons that we use live. But I still can't quite work out what it's about," he said, laughing.
I like that you can love something without reason. I believe that reason removed defines true love.
February 24, 2009
Bus Boy
His name (until I can actually strike up a conversation with him) is Bus Boy. Do you ever just see someone and think, "Hmm, based on my physical attraction to you, you look like the type of person with whom I would want to be?" Well, I had that experience with a young gentleman this morning as I rode the crosstown bus to work. I had seen him before on our daily commute, but only casually considered him. He looks like the long lost brother of Joseph Fiennes, except that he has a dirty blond crew cut. He is tall and slight, always wearing a grey corduroy coat, jeans, and brown shoes. Today, he had on a grey striped scarf. His attire rarely suits the weather conditions as this morning held a brutal chill that threatened to peel the skin off my face. Anyways, what struck me on this starkly cold morning were his large, round blue eyes that stared intently at me as we boarded the bus. He was blocked from my vision by other passengers during the bus ride, which was fine because I probably wouldn't have looked at him anyways since I don't want to be creepy. However, when I exited the bus, we locked eyes again. I can tell there's something different because most times when I make eye contact with guys we both look away, but today, with Bus Boy, our eyes literally locked and I almost tripped down the bus stairs because I wasn't watching my step. It was, in a cliched word, romantic. This moment filled me with sudden sense of hope and warmth. I may never see him again or, if I ever do meet him, he may turn out to be a not-so-nice guy. However, in the here and now, I am happy with the thought that there is a cute boy out there whom I see occasionally and who seems like someone I might want to be with.
P.S. I would like to write about items more serious and cerebral than dating, dresses, and dudes in upcoming posts. However, these things are just so much fun to talk about! Bright spots in these uncertain times.
P.S. I would like to write about items more serious and cerebral than dating, dresses, and dudes in upcoming posts. However, these things are just so much fun to talk about! Bright spots in these uncertain times.
February 23, 2009
A Perfect Dress
This dress by Rodarte is utter perfection! Natalie Portman looked stunning! The color, the form, the detail...tres belle! I want all my clothes to come in this color! Smashing!
He's Just Not That Into You: A Masochist's Dream
So I finally saw this movie. I didn't want to, really. But I kept hearing all these varying opinions from the dating blog I read to my own girlfriends qualifying statements, "Well, I wasn't really a fan, but the Jennifer Aniston/Ben Affleck story line was good." I thought, well, if one part of the movie's good, then maybe I'll like. Worst line of rationale ever. Seriously. If one fifth of a movie is good, then I should only have to pay $1.50, or whatever one-fifth of a movie ticket is. I was pretty excited when I arrived at the theatre because the screen was extra big and spectacular. However, this turned out to be a ginormous palette on which I could have my dating failures essentially rubbed in my face. For most of the movie, I sat there relating what was happening in the movie to my own experiences (it's my M.O.) and finding myself falling into a deep cycle of despair because I had committed a lot of the faux pas mentioned and that must explain why I am single. I know that it is simplistic to make that assumption, but the movie forces itself down the throats of it's viewers in a very pointed way that I found it challenging to separate myself from the storyline at several points. My summation of the movie is this: a big tangle of contradicting dating opinions are forced on you in such a way that you begin to experience feelings of claustrophobia and symptoms of drowning in your own thoughts stimulated by this deluge of dating theories. Here are my main contentions with (Dr. Phil session) movie:
1) The title - This is one of the wordiest title in recent recollection (I was going to say EVER). Also, I felt like I was personally insulting the girl who sold me my ticket at the theatre. "Um, One for He's Just Not That Into You." She has to be told that the men in her life don't really care for every time someone buys a ticket. It's like bells and angel wings. Except, now it's tickets and romantic rejection.
2) Ginnifer Goodwin is an amazing actress and in this movie reduces her to a weak, crumbling bundle of nerves and paranoia that rose to such heights that I felt she would be better off with a measure of Valium in lieu of Vodka.
3) While the Ben Affleck/Jennifer Aniston story was one of the sweeter, more realistic stories, the two actors had absolutely no chemistry. I found it weird that they should be in the same room, let alone in a relationship.
4) I think Jennifer Aniston was miscast in this role because she came off as just pathetic and hard in a way that does not bring out her best qualities. She's America's Sweetheart and therefore, does best in roles that accentuate her brilliant smile and bubbly nature.
5) Bradley Cooper played one of the worst d-bags I've seen on screen in a while. I really like Bradley Cooper as an actor (especially when he was on Alias), but he's going to run the risk of being typecast as a perennial jerkface extraordinaire. He was so horrible in the movie because he didn't really become prostrate in contrition for his transgressions. He played himself more as being a "good guy" who was caught up in some bad behavior but since he wasn't getting caught or being directly reprimanded, he wouldn't change his behavior. He is a variation on Mr. Second Anonymous, with whom I had a comment fight on a blog I read, 20-nothings.
6) This has been said by The Times' Manohla Dagis, but the men in this movie do not equal the women in terms of intellect, emotion, and physical attraction (with the possible exception of Ben Affleck). I am not sure if that was on purpose, as a sort of subversive commentary on the emotional and introspective superiority of women and that these men will never live up to our expectations (spare me the talk about how our expectations are too high). Kevin Connolly, while funny, is a little runt whose better served as the girl crazy sidekick (see him as Finn in The Notebook). Justin Long is a lame, quirky dude who should stick to eccentric roles like when he was on NBC's Ed (he also seemed really bored in this role).
1) The title - This is one of the wordiest title in recent recollection (I was going to say EVER). Also, I felt like I was personally insulting the girl who sold me my ticket at the theatre. "Um, One for He's Just Not That Into You." She has to be told that the men in her life don't really care for every time someone buys a ticket. It's like bells and angel wings. Except, now it's tickets and romantic rejection.
2) Ginnifer Goodwin is an amazing actress and in this movie reduces her to a weak, crumbling bundle of nerves and paranoia that rose to such heights that I felt she would be better off with a measure of Valium in lieu of Vodka.
3) While the Ben Affleck/Jennifer Aniston story was one of the sweeter, more realistic stories, the two actors had absolutely no chemistry. I found it weird that they should be in the same room, let alone in a relationship.
4) I think Jennifer Aniston was miscast in this role because she came off as just pathetic and hard in a way that does not bring out her best qualities. She's America's Sweetheart and therefore, does best in roles that accentuate her brilliant smile and bubbly nature.
5) Bradley Cooper played one of the worst d-bags I've seen on screen in a while. I really like Bradley Cooper as an actor (especially when he was on Alias), but he's going to run the risk of being typecast as a perennial jerkface extraordinaire. He was so horrible in the movie because he didn't really become prostrate in contrition for his transgressions. He played himself more as being a "good guy" who was caught up in some bad behavior but since he wasn't getting caught or being directly reprimanded, he wouldn't change his behavior. He is a variation on Mr. Second Anonymous, with whom I had a comment fight on a blog I read, 20-nothings.
6) This has been said by The Times' Manohla Dagis, but the men in this movie do not equal the women in terms of intellect, emotion, and physical attraction (with the possible exception of Ben Affleck). I am not sure if that was on purpose, as a sort of subversive commentary on the emotional and introspective superiority of women and that these men will never live up to our expectations (spare me the talk about how our expectations are too high). Kevin Connolly, while funny, is a little runt whose better served as the girl crazy sidekick (see him as Finn in The Notebook). Justin Long is a lame, quirky dude who should stick to eccentric roles like when he was on NBC's Ed (he also seemed really bored in this role).
February 18, 2009
Hating On The Bachelor
I spent a good part of last night trying to figure out why I was so upset with The Bachelor. I never watch this show. Last night, I threw a fit. In my mind. My anger stems from the fact that Jason sent home Jillian, the one woman who could, in my opinion, been the most stable and mature wife and mother, which both he and Ty desperately need. Jillian was the most age-appropriate for him. She is the most grounded, accomplished, interesting, and also, the most classically beautiful. The other girls are way to0 young and just a little trashy (I'm thinking specifically of Melissa). I finished the episode steaming because in my mind, Jillian and her family held the most grounded, down-to-earth potential for Jason and his son. Jason's libido marginalizes his son's welfare more and more in this series. His sexual desire blinds Jason to the reality that he needs to provide a good, stable mother who can help take care of his son and be a good role model in terms of embodying a strong woman who can have a career and a family.
I think the font of my anger comes from the fact that Jason's physical connection trumped his emotional and spiritual connection. Don't get me wrong, physical connection is very important. But his choice does not bode well for the smart, independent females of the world. In a small way, I like to think of myself as one of those women, who offers more in terms of her intellect and humor than her physical appearance. Inevitably, I took Jason's rejection of Jillian quite personally. I can't help but feel like it's another sign that while men may say they admire strong, smart women, they really want a pretty chick with green eyes (if he says one more thing about Molly's green eyes, I swear...) who will stay at home and take care of their children. While I want to be a mother and take care of my children, the thought of being reduced a mere physical object makes my stomach turn. I need my independence. This is why I liked Jillian the best because she is independent and vulnerable: the epitome of a genuine woman. Apparently, she is too much of woman for Jason to handle.
Note: I should also mention this post was stimulated by a black cloud hanging over my head today. I think my unusual anger at a trivial reality show is just a byproduct of today's crabby, hormonal moodfest.
I think the font of my anger comes from the fact that Jason's physical connection trumped his emotional and spiritual connection. Don't get me wrong, physical connection is very important. But his choice does not bode well for the smart, independent females of the world. In a small way, I like to think of myself as one of those women, who offers more in terms of her intellect and humor than her physical appearance. Inevitably, I took Jason's rejection of Jillian quite personally. I can't help but feel like it's another sign that while men may say they admire strong, smart women, they really want a pretty chick with green eyes (if he says one more thing about Molly's green eyes, I swear...) who will stay at home and take care of their children. While I want to be a mother and take care of my children, the thought of being reduced a mere physical object makes my stomach turn. I need my independence. This is why I liked Jillian the best because she is independent and vulnerable: the epitome of a genuine woman. Apparently, she is too much of woman for Jason to handle.
Note: I should also mention this post was stimulated by a black cloud hanging over my head today. I think my unusual anger at a trivial reality show is just a byproduct of today's crabby, hormonal moodfest.
February 11, 2009
My Version of Cute Overload
It's no secret that I am in love with John Krasinski, or perhaps, just the idea that there is a man like him that exists in this world: cute, funny, kind, sincere, and oh so intelligent. And when I see this video below I tear up and say extra prayers to the Dating Goddess every night that she will bless me with such a man.
The Marriage of Poetry and Film
My favorite sonnet is Shakespeare's sonnet #116: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love where it alternation finds. Oh no, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken..." I love the intensity, the drama, the utter imperative nature that comes from this poetry. It is, for all the good this does me in my love life, the ultimate expression of the love I hope to one day have. Pair this with my favorite movie, Sense and Sensibility, and you get this moment in the film with the incomparable actress, Kate Winslet as Marianne Dashwood.
February 8, 2009
A Strong Woman
What defines a strong woman? I ask myself this question every day, trying to become a "strong" woman. But what does strong mean? I asked my mom how she reconciles this issue. She said that it comes down to the difference between militancy and a more balanced strength. She likened Sarah Palin and Hilary Clinton to militant women. They both emit this desperate energy to conquer all who would try to weaken them. The result is there appearance as fearsome and hard women who compare themselves to bulldogs and tough candidates.
I don't think that a woman should have to liken herself to a tough canine in order to be strong. She must commit a balancing act by holding onto to her beliefs and character in the face of adversity, but also acknowledging that she doesn't always have to be right. My mother gave examples of Maya Angelou and Mother Theresa, citadels in terms of their life achievements but also incredibly gentle and soft spoken women. There is poetry in their work and words of wisdom. They are not there to show themselves as being something more than others, but there to give themselves to others. Perhaps that is the secret of a strong woman: one who gives herself to the world and in return, finds her true character and inner strength.
I don't think that a woman should have to liken herself to a tough canine in order to be strong. She must commit a balancing act by holding onto to her beliefs and character in the face of adversity, but also acknowledging that she doesn't always have to be right. My mother gave examples of Maya Angelou and Mother Theresa, citadels in terms of their life achievements but also incredibly gentle and soft spoken women. There is poetry in their work and words of wisdom. They are not there to show themselves as being something more than others, but there to give themselves to others. Perhaps that is the secret of a strong woman: one who gives herself to the world and in return, finds her true character and inner strength.
February 5, 2009
Vignette: Pen Toss
Picture an early evening in late September. The warm, aged air of summer mixes with a sudden chill that hints of the coming autumn. Spots of brown, fading leaves, speckle the green maple trees lining the walk to the library. A girl, fresh-faced and beginning her fourth year at college, moves down this pathway to the entrance. She heaves open the brown oak door to the library. Standing in the foyer, she sighs. A play of her academic stresses runs through her mind as she walks to the northeast corner of the first floor. She sits down at her favorite carrel, a deep pocket of worn wood and censor-worthy scribbles. It is just past six o'clock in the evening. The room is fairly empty. Most students are eating dinner or playing Frisbee on the lawn outside their dorms.
Before opening her theology book (purposefully ignoring all things related to her thesis), she braids her thick, tumbling hair and removes her sweater, a cotton lime green shrug. The late September light, a warm yellow, turns a deep grey-blue. The girl stares out the nearest window, watching the fast changes of light move across the library courtyard. Eventually, her own reflection appears more distinct than anything else.
The library holds a heavy silence. Here and there, it is interrupted by the low rumble of the air conditioner, the rustle of papers, the zipping of a backpack, and the occasional ringing of a cell phone that someone forgot to silence (ring tone: Barry White, "Let's Get It On). The girl switches to working on her thesis assignment but suddenly feels the encroachment of others on her study space, huffing softly to herself. At the desk diagonally behind her, someone throws down a heavy backpack and sniffs loudly.
She tilts her head back and stares up at the ceiling, hoping to find a brilliantly-written inspiration for the first chapter of her thesis. No luck. She glances at her thesis books piled in the corner of the desk. She picks one up to read a story from an early work with then intention of then reading a story from a later collection, hoping to draw all the obvious and ideally not-so-obvious conclusions into the greater argument of her project. She hears a faint noise like a small object hitting the floor every so often. She chocks it up to the quirks of the old building. Her intent lies solely in crafting a feasible submission for her 8 o’clock adviser meeting the following morning.
Forty-five minutes later, she has a page and half of something resembling coherent analysis and, as a reward, decides to pack up her things and head back to her dorm room. She puts her books and papers into her bag, staring into the distance and bouncing around an idea for how she ought to organize her thesis. She zips up her bag slowly, and then hears a “Psst,” coming from behind her. She turns to see one of the boys who lived in the suite down the hall staring at her from the carrel diagonally behind her, a quizzical smile on his face. "You have all my pens," he whispers.
"What?"
"My pens. They're all in your bag." His dark eyes twinkle and his mouth spreads to a toothy grin.
"Excuse me?" She laughs, quietly, confused.
He stands up and walks over to lean against the side of her carrel. "I've been throwing pens at you for the past half hour and you haven't budged an inch. Then, you picked up all the pens and put them in your bag with your books."
She forgets where she is for a moment and throws her head back to let out a loud laugh. Heads lift from several desks, and one female voice hisses a "Shhhhhh!" She shrugs in a giggle and then looks squarely into his eyes for the first time.
She looks down quickly, suddenly nervous, and fishes the pens out of her bag and pours them into his hands. “Hah, well, um, I guess my mind was somewhere else,” she says, moving further down the aisle away from him.
“No worries,” he chuckles, one hand holding the pens and the other stuffed into his jeans' pocket.” It’s good to see a familiar face here. I was beginning to think that I was the only senior dumb enough to still care about work."
“No, that’s definitely not the case with this girl,” she points at herself, awkwardly. “If the frequency of studying correlates to a person’s lack of intelligence than I am certainly the dumbest person at this school."
They both laugh, and then she gestures goodbye and walks down the aisle to the exit. He sits down at his carrel, but then says, to no one in particular, “Pens? Really? You’ve got to have something better than that.”
To which he receives a chorus of “Shhhhhhhs” from around the room.
Before opening her theology book (purposefully ignoring all things related to her thesis), she braids her thick, tumbling hair and removes her sweater, a cotton lime green shrug. The late September light, a warm yellow, turns a deep grey-blue. The girl stares out the nearest window, watching the fast changes of light move across the library courtyard. Eventually, her own reflection appears more distinct than anything else.
The library holds a heavy silence. Here and there, it is interrupted by the low rumble of the air conditioner, the rustle of papers, the zipping of a backpack, and the occasional ringing of a cell phone that someone forgot to silence (ring tone: Barry White, "Let's Get It On). The girl switches to working on her thesis assignment but suddenly feels the encroachment of others on her study space, huffing softly to herself. At the desk diagonally behind her, someone throws down a heavy backpack and sniffs loudly.
She tilts her head back and stares up at the ceiling, hoping to find a brilliantly-written inspiration for the first chapter of her thesis. No luck. She glances at her thesis books piled in the corner of the desk. She picks one up to read a story from an early work with then intention of then reading a story from a later collection, hoping to draw all the obvious and ideally not-so-obvious conclusions into the greater argument of her project. She hears a faint noise like a small object hitting the floor every so often. She chocks it up to the quirks of the old building. Her intent lies solely in crafting a feasible submission for her 8 o’clock adviser meeting the following morning.
Forty-five minutes later, she has a page and half of something resembling coherent analysis and, as a reward, decides to pack up her things and head back to her dorm room. She puts her books and papers into her bag, staring into the distance and bouncing around an idea for how she ought to organize her thesis. She zips up her bag slowly, and then hears a “Psst,” coming from behind her. She turns to see one of the boys who lived in the suite down the hall staring at her from the carrel diagonally behind her, a quizzical smile on his face. "You have all my pens," he whispers.
"What?"
"My pens. They're all in your bag." His dark eyes twinkle and his mouth spreads to a toothy grin.
"Excuse me?" She laughs, quietly, confused.
He stands up and walks over to lean against the side of her carrel. "I've been throwing pens at you for the past half hour and you haven't budged an inch. Then, you picked up all the pens and put them in your bag with your books."
She forgets where she is for a moment and throws her head back to let out a loud laugh. Heads lift from several desks, and one female voice hisses a "Shhhhhh!" She shrugs in a giggle and then looks squarely into his eyes for the first time.
She looks down quickly, suddenly nervous, and fishes the pens out of her bag and pours them into his hands. “Hah, well, um, I guess my mind was somewhere else,” she says, moving further down the aisle away from him.
“No worries,” he chuckles, one hand holding the pens and the other stuffed into his jeans' pocket.” It’s good to see a familiar face here. I was beginning to think that I was the only senior dumb enough to still care about work."
“No, that’s definitely not the case with this girl,” she points at herself, awkwardly. “If the frequency of studying correlates to a person’s lack of intelligence than I am certainly the dumbest person at this school."
They both laugh, and then she gestures goodbye and walks down the aisle to the exit. He sits down at his carrel, but then says, to no one in particular, “Pens? Really? You’ve got to have something better than that.”
To which he receives a chorus of “Shhhhhhhs” from around the room.
Things I Am Jazzed About!
1. That I have rid myself of credit card debt(for now).
2. That I see some of my favorite people in less than a week in city not located in the frigid barrens of New England.
3. That I am reading two excellent books: one on the history of immigration in America and Easter Parade by Richard Yates (of Revolutionary Road fame).
4. My new cookbook, Nigella Express, quick recipes by the fun and innovative chef, Nigella Lawson.
5. Not living in Syracuse, NY, surrounded by the sad, mean people who are my extended family.
6. The temptation of buying this lip scrub.
7. That it will be warmer next week with the slight possibility that I may be able to run outside again!
8. That God and Jon Stewart gave us Gitmo.
9. That my stomach is no longer taking a Stalin-like approach to digestion.
10. That I am tall and my arms are long enough to reach the high bar on the T. Shortness combined with my solid lack of balance would be a public transportation disaster.
2. That I see some of my favorite people in less than a week in city not located in the frigid barrens of New England.
3. That I am reading two excellent books: one on the history of immigration in America and Easter Parade by Richard Yates (of Revolutionary Road fame).
4. My new cookbook, Nigella Express, quick recipes by the fun and innovative chef, Nigella Lawson.
5. Not living in Syracuse, NY, surrounded by the sad, mean people who are my extended family.
6. The temptation of buying this lip scrub.
7. That it will be warmer next week with the slight possibility that I may be able to run outside again!
8. That God and Jon Stewart gave us Gitmo.
9. That my stomach is no longer taking a Stalin-like approach to digestion.
10. That I am tall and my arms are long enough to reach the high bar on the T. Shortness combined with my solid lack of balance would be a public transportation disaster.
February 3, 2009
My 25 (somewhat under wraps)
Finally, a chain letter-like phenomenon has hit Facebook. I've been tagged to several notes written by various Facebook friends. These notes contain 25 random things about the authors that is supposed to help their friends get to know them better. Aww, Facebook is trying to inject a little Hallmark moment into it's culturally-sanctioned stalking engine. Or, is this stalking on steroids? Allowing people to know 25 things that they would never know unless they hired a private investigator or broke into your house and raided your scrapbooks? Ok, maybe I'm tending toward the dramatic. Anyways, there's no way I would ever write my 25 and post it in a note on Facebook, but the idea intrigued me enough to write them anyways. See my 25 below (written in the "privacy" of my own blog):
25. I've never broken any bones except for the fracturing the tip of my middle finger in second grade. I had to wear a cast that held my finger in the upright position (I didn't understand why some of kids laughed at me).
24. When I was eight, my mom and I moved to Maine by ourselves (my dad stayed behind in upstate New York to finish out his job). We lived in an old house in a tiny fishing village on the coast. This wonderful and scary experience brought us even closer than we already were, and continues to every time recollect that year.
23. When I was a toddler, I thought everyone's name ended with "Cora Bowen" like me.
22. I'm not very good at being taught or told what to do. When I was nine years old, I went with my mother to her spinning lessons (as in spinning yarn on a wheel). When the teacher asked me if I wanted to learn, I informed her that I already knew how (I almost broke her spinning wheel trying to show her).
21. I learn things the hard way.
20. I danced and drank many martinis in the Reading Room of the Boston Public Library with Boston's upper crust.
19. If I ever end up going to hell, or at least visiting, I have a great red dress to wear.
18. One day while I was walking down the street in Oxford, England, I ran into Mr. Bean (aka Rowan Atkinson), who bespectacled and sporting a perfectly grey and black argyle sweater, nodded to me in a most Bean-like manner and continued down the street, leaving me in a fit of giggles.
17. I lived in an eighteenth century flat in Bath, England, for a year, and felt every inch a Jane Austen heroine, especially when I hiked the city's surrounding slopes, carpeted in the greenest grass and the yellowest dandelions. There is nothing on this earth like an English spring.
16. I stayed on an island in Maine by myself for three days and two nights with only a sleeping bag, a jug of water, and a handful of trail mix.
15. I can sing opera (preferred: selections from Puccini).
14. I love original motion picture soundtracks (John Williams, James Horner, Thomas Newman) because their music acts as a perfect soundtrack for moments in my own life.
13. I ran the Boston Marathon in 4.5 hours (only stopping to walk twice, and I ran up Heartbreak Hill without a break).
12. I have the kindest, most loving mother in the world.
11. There are some people that I find hard to forgive. I try every day.
10. In this age of gender equality, I find it hard to strike the balance between being a strong, yet vulnerable woman.
9. Sometimes I live more in my mind than I do through my action.
8. I want to be a writer, but I don't write enough (see #9). I have to turn this want into action.
7. My dream is to someday live in an old house in the country with a man (preferably my husband), a couple of kids (ideally, my own and some adopted), a few dogs, cats, chickens, and a kayak. There must be a kayak (and hopefully, a lake or bit of ocean nearby to put it in).
6. The best place on earth is the north shore of Prince Edward Island at sunset. My soul thrills when the sun hits the ruby red earth of the cliffs, setting the whole scene ablaze.
5. I have a severe phobia about throwing up.
4. I can run 15 meters in 5 seconds.
3. I didn't drink alcohol until I was a sophomore in college because I didn't like how people acted when they were under the influence. I'm still not crazy about it or how I act when I drink.
2. I don't like when people interrupt me. Let me finish!
1. Someone once told me that I am like "every kid" they knew. I like to think that I'm never one person, never wholly definable. I hope that never changes.
0. I like question marks?
25. I've never broken any bones except for the fracturing the tip of my middle finger in second grade. I had to wear a cast that held my finger in the upright position (I didn't understand why some of kids laughed at me).
24. When I was eight, my mom and I moved to Maine by ourselves (my dad stayed behind in upstate New York to finish out his job). We lived in an old house in a tiny fishing village on the coast. This wonderful and scary experience brought us even closer than we already were, and continues to every time recollect that year.
23. When I was a toddler, I thought everyone's name ended with "Cora Bowen" like me.
22. I'm not very good at being taught or told what to do. When I was nine years old, I went with my mother to her spinning lessons (as in spinning yarn on a wheel). When the teacher asked me if I wanted to learn, I informed her that I already knew how (I almost broke her spinning wheel trying to show her).
21. I learn things the hard way.
20. I danced and drank many martinis in the Reading Room of the Boston Public Library with Boston's upper crust.
19. If I ever end up going to hell, or at least visiting, I have a great red dress to wear.
18. One day while I was walking down the street in Oxford, England, I ran into Mr. Bean (aka Rowan Atkinson), who bespectacled and sporting a perfectly grey and black argyle sweater, nodded to me in a most Bean-like manner and continued down the street, leaving me in a fit of giggles.
17. I lived in an eighteenth century flat in Bath, England, for a year, and felt every inch a Jane Austen heroine, especially when I hiked the city's surrounding slopes, carpeted in the greenest grass and the yellowest dandelions. There is nothing on this earth like an English spring.
16. I stayed on an island in Maine by myself for three days and two nights with only a sleeping bag, a jug of water, and a handful of trail mix.
15. I can sing opera (preferred: selections from Puccini).
14. I love original motion picture soundtracks (John Williams, James Horner, Thomas Newman) because their music acts as a perfect soundtrack for moments in my own life.
13. I ran the Boston Marathon in 4.5 hours (only stopping to walk twice, and I ran up Heartbreak Hill without a break).
12. I have the kindest, most loving mother in the world.
11. There are some people that I find hard to forgive. I try every day.
10. In this age of gender equality, I find it hard to strike the balance between being a strong, yet vulnerable woman.
9. Sometimes I live more in my mind than I do through my action.
8. I want to be a writer, but I don't write enough (see #9). I have to turn this want into action.
7. My dream is to someday live in an old house in the country with a man (preferably my husband), a couple of kids (ideally, my own and some adopted), a few dogs, cats, chickens, and a kayak. There must be a kayak (and hopefully, a lake or bit of ocean nearby to put it in).
6. The best place on earth is the north shore of Prince Edward Island at sunset. My soul thrills when the sun hits the ruby red earth of the cliffs, setting the whole scene ablaze.
5. I have a severe phobia about throwing up.
4. I can run 15 meters in 5 seconds.
3. I didn't drink alcohol until I was a sophomore in college because I didn't like how people acted when they were under the influence. I'm still not crazy about it or how I act when I drink.
2. I don't like when people interrupt me. Let me finish!
1. Someone once told me that I am like "every kid" they knew. I like to think that I'm never one person, never wholly definable. I hope that never changes.
0. I like question marks?
February 2, 2009
Disorientation in the Afternoon
There is something so special and at the same time, so disorienting about going to the movies in the afternoon. Especially during a work day, when you should sending emails and editing other people's work. I just spent two hours in an extremely dark and incredibly cold theatre watching Revolutionary Road, starring Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio. I, along with three other co-workers, had received a gift certificate to the local independent movie theatre from our boss for fine work in the previous quarter. I hate that our time, our lives, are divided into quarters, precise increments of three months. But that is perhaps for another blog post. Our manager had given us the gift cards with the explicit instructions to "take an afternoon off and go to the movies." The three of us, young women in our early twenties, planned one day, than had to cancel because we were two busy and one of us forgot her card that day.
This Monday, however, we were actually able to make it. The movie was at 1:40 PM. We all three at our lunch at our desks to minimize our non-working time on the company clock. Then at 1:18 PM, I grabbed my coat and purse and headed out to the bathroom. Then another girl grabbed her coat and bag, doing the same. The third came a bit later. We had decided that a trickle effect would be a more subtle approach to an activity that might be misunderstood by the coworkers who had not received the same recognition.
The afternoon was unseasonably warm and sunny. It was a ten-minute walk to the theatre, where we quickly purchased our tickets and walked into the theater, darkened despite the large screen, glowing with the previews.
Eventually, the movie began. The sparse, cold, clean feeling I had gleaned from the novel filled the room. The singualar, slightly dissonant tones of Thomas Newman's composition slide into their places, uneasy. And there was the face of Kate Winslet, her Stratevarius (as called by NYT's A.O. Scott). Her face, full of pain and longing, yet sparse in physical construct. In fact, she looked comparably gaunt next to her faces of Marianne Dashwood and Rose DeWitt Bukater. Somewhat ironically, Leonardo DiCaprio's visage had gained a certain fullness and weight as compared to the visage of Romeo and Jack Dawson. DiCaprio, while feverish in his role, felt more like an afterthought in the movie as compared with Winslet's austere, sometimes sopranic, demeanor. She held the movie all on her own.
I find ironic justice in this fact as Richard Yates' novel was meant to glorify Frank Wheeler. There's the line in both the book and movie where April calls Frank something like "the most beautiful thing in the world: A man." Yet, it is a woman that carries the movie. She holds this film on her face, in her hands, and finally, in her blood, as it drips on the perfectly beige carpet in the Wheeler's living room.
I found myself more invested in the movie through April Wheeler's experience, unlike the character in the novel. Her desperation and sorrow over her life's course hit me in the square in the chest and I could not move from her moment. Perhaps this is because I am a young woman who is dealing with the same choices between the monotonous comfort of domestic life and a life of feeling and adventure. This begs the question: is it possible to live and feel in a life in the same pattern lived by so many others?
Frank, as the man in this 1950s period drama, is the breadwinner and the story shows his daily communte on the train, walking to his city office through the masses of communters, and sitting at his desk, mostly doing nothing and then, mistakenly, having a stroke of brilliance that is defined by the elation by "some folks" in Toledo and his boss, whose happiness is only derived by the praise given by his boss. It's a chain of praise and false pride that fills Frank, with, well, something. It was here that I related most to Frank and his lot in life, this being 2009, and me being the breadwinner of my own existence. Seeing the similarities between Frank's job and my own turned my stomach sour. What am I doing in this job? Market research? Who the hell cares about selling advertising online? I certainly do not and never have. Yet, as my parents point out, there are loans and bills to pay. I must begin saving for my future. Having this job is the responsible thing to do. I should be lucky in this current economic climate to have any kind of a job, etc.
Then how come I feel so empty? How come I feel like the hollow shell of a woman as Frank describes April? What is the price of my happiness? Having meaning and passion for my work? I'm not entirely sure how to answer these questions. Neither was April. She couldn't leave. She couldn't stay. So where was she go? Her inevitable choice is something I could never render. But the feeling she had. The question. The feeling and question left with Frank. I know these in my own way, and every day, I wake up and try to absolve them.
This Monday, however, we were actually able to make it. The movie was at 1:40 PM. We all three at our lunch at our desks to minimize our non-working time on the company clock. Then at 1:18 PM, I grabbed my coat and purse and headed out to the bathroom. Then another girl grabbed her coat and bag, doing the same. The third came a bit later. We had decided that a trickle effect would be a more subtle approach to an activity that might be misunderstood by the coworkers who had not received the same recognition.
The afternoon was unseasonably warm and sunny. It was a ten-minute walk to the theatre, where we quickly purchased our tickets and walked into the theater, darkened despite the large screen, glowing with the previews.
Eventually, the movie began. The sparse, cold, clean feeling I had gleaned from the novel filled the room. The singualar, slightly dissonant tones of Thomas Newman's composition slide into their places, uneasy. And there was the face of Kate Winslet, her Stratevarius (as called by NYT's A.O. Scott). Her face, full of pain and longing, yet sparse in physical construct. In fact, she looked comparably gaunt next to her faces of Marianne Dashwood and Rose DeWitt Bukater. Somewhat ironically, Leonardo DiCaprio's visage had gained a certain fullness and weight as compared to the visage of Romeo and Jack Dawson. DiCaprio, while feverish in his role, felt more like an afterthought in the movie as compared with Winslet's austere, sometimes sopranic, demeanor. She held the movie all on her own.
I find ironic justice in this fact as Richard Yates' novel was meant to glorify Frank Wheeler. There's the line in both the book and movie where April calls Frank something like "the most beautiful thing in the world: A man." Yet, it is a woman that carries the movie. She holds this film on her face, in her hands, and finally, in her blood, as it drips on the perfectly beige carpet in the Wheeler's living room.
I found myself more invested in the movie through April Wheeler's experience, unlike the character in the novel. Her desperation and sorrow over her life's course hit me in the square in the chest and I could not move from her moment. Perhaps this is because I am a young woman who is dealing with the same choices between the monotonous comfort of domestic life and a life of feeling and adventure. This begs the question: is it possible to live and feel in a life in the same pattern lived by so many others?
Frank, as the man in this 1950s period drama, is the breadwinner and the story shows his daily communte on the train, walking to his city office through the masses of communters, and sitting at his desk, mostly doing nothing and then, mistakenly, having a stroke of brilliance that is defined by the elation by "some folks" in Toledo and his boss, whose happiness is only derived by the praise given by his boss. It's a chain of praise and false pride that fills Frank, with, well, something. It was here that I related most to Frank and his lot in life, this being 2009, and me being the breadwinner of my own existence. Seeing the similarities between Frank's job and my own turned my stomach sour. What am I doing in this job? Market research? Who the hell cares about selling advertising online? I certainly do not and never have. Yet, as my parents point out, there are loans and bills to pay. I must begin saving for my future. Having this job is the responsible thing to do. I should be lucky in this current economic climate to have any kind of a job, etc.
Then how come I feel so empty? How come I feel like the hollow shell of a woman as Frank describes April? What is the price of my happiness? Having meaning and passion for my work? I'm not entirely sure how to answer these questions. Neither was April. She couldn't leave. She couldn't stay. So where was she go? Her inevitable choice is something I could never render. But the feeling she had. The question. The feeling and question left with Frank. I know these in my own way, and every day, I wake up and try to absolve them.
