The Fox

Guess who breezed into my office right before we marched through graduation in the Hart? Yep. The great breezer of all time--Gregory Fox himself. Bearded, handsome, excited to see Kimberly, taller? or did I shrink? Wow. It's good to see old friends. He's rich, thinking about grad school, still grins all the time he talks like he has a big secret he's going to tell you. He's writing, but it sounds like it's for other people--not his "truest blue voice" stuff, and he wants to party with AZ people after Christmas. As I sat in the Hart with the December graduates, wishing I'd talked him into sneaking away for dinner, listening to a speaker encourage students to build the right "study environment" (a little odd for an exit speech), I thought of the many days Greg and I have been through, many hours, thousands of minutes.

When I interviewed him for hire, he looked so dang normal. How'd he do that? I swear his head circled the moon at least three times a day. He's a delight, but hard to explain to people. One time before a party, I threw a mop in his hands and said, "I'm so glad you came early." Ten minutes later, I came downstairs from cleaning the bathroom, and Greg's still standing in the same place, looking at the same mop. Luckily Beau came in the back door, saw the problem, gently took the mop, and talked nonstop to Greg, so Greg wouldn't notice him rinsing and cleaning the floor. It was just too hard to explain "mopping a floor" to Greg when the sun hit the horizen. At one Christmas party, I had forgotten presents for the spouses and was hurriedly wrapping last minute gifts. He and Jaren watched for a minute, then, behind my back, they sneaked around corners, scooping up things from my shelves, kitchen, etc. and wrapped them up as gifts to put under the tree. I opened one up later and said, "Wow. I just bought a straw doll at D.I. just like this." Weird? Ohhhh, "I could tell you stories." I grounded him from taking the Scribblers to the English Department because he stopped and flirted with the secretaries and caused such chaos. One day he whine and whined, so I sent someone with him to babysit. Geez, sure, as if she could control him--"How'd it go? Did he behave?" "Well, ...Sister Morgan, yeah, he did. I mean he didn't stop in the office and flirt, but.... " I was walking away and turned sharply to face her. "Well, nothing, really; he just sort of stopped at every open-door classroom and waved at people."
After the Becca heartache, he'd be so ADD some days that I couldn't stand to have him in seminar. But he wouldn't go away, so I'd give him paper to draw on and make him promise to sit in the corner and shut up. One seminar, while he threw across the room strong insights about the essay we were analyzing, he drew fifty pigs in different stages of dying--one had a dagger through its throat, another had his eyes blown out, blood everywhere, etc. I wished I'd saved it. In case I ever get accused of having sane acquaintances, I can pull it out as proof. Nope. Sorry. Normal? Never heard of it. I hang out with writers.

The semester that he, James Best, and Jaren Watson sat in seminar together was electric. Fun. Seriously brain-ripping brilliant, though I wanted to shoot all three of them before it was over.
I really think old friends are the best.

"There are many prodigal sons ..." And football

Tanner, I posted your picture today, so you won't go into withdrawal after seeing two of your pictures in the BYU-I class schedule. Those are W.C. pics. aren't they? You scene stealer, you.
Hey, I wish you weren't still such a graphic writer. The image of the rage-soaked boy knifing his own mother haunts me, as do some questions about free agency. When you said "There's nothing free about this kid's agency now"(that's such a great line), I thought this boy lost his agency long before he grabbed that knife. But when and why did he lose his agency? And how much did he have in the first place? The same amount as you or I? I'm so intrigued by "when and how," though as in this case, it's often a moot point. I think of this kid's intense anger and rage and wonder . . . because anger is always a secondary emotion, which usually starts with sadness or comes from fear, and fear makes most of us act like animals. I'm not trying to justify what this boy did. I just wonder what happened in his nightmare life to push him past living in reality. Why did he make this decision to plunge a knife into his mother's head? When did he make this choice? Did he just wake up that morning and say, "Hey, good day to kill a mom?"
You say that you believe all emotions and chemistry are rooted in choice, which implies that every act has a choice attached to it, which is when it gets very complicated for me. Something makes my head ache about that idea. I see a six year old in Iraq get his leg blown off, and I think, "Whose agency is working here? His? For being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Pres. Bush's agency? Whose? That’s at the other end of the spectrum, but still, some choices people make seem so limited to me. Or it’s like listening to a candidate who promises massive changes once he/she is in the White House, when I know that all new presidents are very limited in decisions they can make because of the circumstances they inherit with the office, and because of the “time of season, the time of man.”
I remember Elder Holland's talk and Elder Bedner's on the same topic. I thought, "So true, how wise. And who would choose not to forgive? Who on this earth would choose to purposely be offended and stay offended? What a small and closed-down way to live." Then my shirt was soaked with tears because I thought of all the people I know who are filled with such agonizing pain that they can't even spell the word "forgiveness" yet. I thought of the long walk they must take with the Savior before they get past the pain to see what forgiveness really is. I thought of little girls now grown into W.C. assistants who've learned to walk very quietly in the shadows, so as not to call attention to themselves. Some voice deep inside still warns them to walk here--on the very edges of life (long after they’re physically safe) so Dad or Uncle Harry won't hear you and come looking. Or slice your arms to shreds tonight because your body was involved in a horribly wrong act, and that will punish it for you. And they don't even know they still hear this little voice. Is this a choice? Of course. Is it a negative choice? Yes, it keeps them from living fully, but it's a choice born out trying to survive because someone bigger-- someone they trusted and loved-- betrayed them and used them like rubber dolls you buy at stores. Their choice, which governs how they live now, came about as a reaction to someone else's free agency. When families are ripped apart by whomever or whatever, Tanner, how much agency remains in the ruins? Aren't we all just scrambling to get to a safe home again? And when we don’t feel safe, we run, or numb ourselves, or get angry. When I see a snake, I shrink up inside and freeze in utter horror because I’m so afraid of them. I can’t move. I can’t help it. It’s a reaction. So, explain this to me? It all sounds so hopeless and helpless.

I remember when I first started walking with my head down--always looking at the ground-- because so many bombs were falling that I couldn't look up without fear of my head splitting open. The world was agonizingly ugly. Now, the bombs don't fall so much, but I still walk stooped over. Choice? Yes. But isn't there a difference between free agency and choices one makes from an instinct to survive? You are wise, Tanner. I think you understand something I don't see. Yet . . . when you draw causal connections between mercury poisoning and our decision to eat fish, I want to say "Whoa. Hold it." The mercury poisoning that kept me in bed, studying plaster on the ceiling, for two-three years while I was married to your uncle came from having soft teeth (gene pool--didn't choose that one. Or did I?), and my mother taking me to a dentist, when I was nine, who filled my mouth with mercury (an odd practice still around). I can't see a choice I made to get this illness. Once I had the mercury removed (an excruciating experience), I started to heal, but that took another year, and I did not heal before my children had suffered from my absence. They made choices--very young--to fill up holes in themselves from not having a mother around, so where is their free agency. They made decisions out of a need to survive a situation created by me? But, again, where was my agency in this? Did you choose your M.S.? I don't think so. Do you choose how to react to it? Of course. But you have an education, a safe, well-lighted house, lots of family who adore you, and someone warm in your bed every night who probably even laughs at your stupid jokes. So, your agency seems freer to me than some other's, Tanner.
What I'm saying is that for some people, this life has many dark crawly caves where the only choice is "to be or not to be" until they come out in the light again. And if they are strong enough to wait it out and fight an intense heart battle, they usually make it. But many people are not strong, Tanner. Really. And waiting for that light--sometimes it's a long time coming--takes more faith than they ever thought they'd be asked to give, more faith than they have, until they realize they have no faith left, and they have no place to go but to ask God for a gift of faith--or they will die. (And maybe this is a state of grace rather than one of tragedy, Tanner. To see the hand of God moving in your life is no small thing.)

See? I just go round and round about this. Of course, you're right and the brethren are right, but thank God for a Savior who stays with me--He stays--and (for me) that is the highest praise I can give, and He holds onto my children in our darkest places also, healing and speaking soft peace until some of the blood stops filling up our mouths and ears and eyes, until we can turn--and on our own--finally--as we begin to feel like the earth is not going to drop away underneath us again, like we might be safe for just a little while--forgive and forgive completely. I don't know, Tanner, I just don't know. It seems to me that choosing to not forgive or to stay offended is more a choice made out of fear and pain rather than one made out of revenge or anger. Otherwise, who would not choose to do it? This doesn’t make the choice less wrong or make the consequences go away, but I think it’s complicated. I don’t think we can judge. It’s like the beggar in Luke who lies under the rich man’s table to catch his crumbs as dogs lick his sores. If we saw him, we would say, “Get up. Get a job. Geez, this is America. Get an education. Stop whining that you’re hungry. Do something for yourself or you deserve this.” But he didn’t do anything to better his state while he lived, and he was taken directly up to Abraham after this life. So, is it that he couldn't do anything? Maybe he was ill, insane, incapacitated by brain chemicals, but the Lord allows it? Or is he just a symbol to highlight the evilness of the rich guy in purple. As in the beggar wasn’t real?
You said "we anticipate and accept some consequences as fair, and we don't anticipate or accept others. Our foresight doesn't seem to influence the consequence, but our ability to accept, adapt, and advance may shape our next choice," and this sounds so wise. But if we cannot anticipate consequences, how is our agency free? Or if our choices are made under the intense influence of other's agency, how is our agency free? I just don't get it. And I’d welcome any enlightenment because all this just bugs the crap out of me.

However, having said “nothing” in a long-winded down the valley way and . . . speaking of irritation and anger-- Jaren Watson, if you send me one more football score or long e-mail discussion about the injured QB of whatever stupid football team plays this week, I'm goin' bring a football down to your backyard and bury it where the sun don' shine. I DON'T CARE ABOUT FOOTBALL, you stupid Tucson novel writer.

Re-Thinking Education; Still Thinking Tanner

Carver got his registration book for BYU-Idaho the other day. I'm in it twice! That's right, folks. Tanner can leave the Burg, but the Burg can't let go of Tanner. I was so tickled with my self that I signed Carv's book in my own honor.

November 19, 2007

A fourteen year old kid stabbed his mother in the chest and head last night. She didn't die. The kid's life is over. He faces attempted murder charges, and plead 'not guilty' this afternoon behind a straight jacket and a black eye. He couldn't weigh more than 120 pounds in a fat suit, but he raged the steel knife bent on his mother's skull. Granted, innocence is presumed, but the four people who wrangled the knife out of his hands and plugged his mother's body with washcloths will have a ghastly story to tell a jury. Bloody pictures won't phase most film-going sorts - who hasn't seen someone shot or stabbed? - but I imagine that these four will tell quite a story with their eyes.

There is nothing free about this kid's agency now.

On the other hand, James Talyor came to town the other night. He sings songs for a living. He's bald, but he didn't seem to notice. He kicked around with with the Beatles, Jim Croce, and Carol King. His music listens easy, and, though he claimed to have performed it everyday for decades, I know I've heard "Way down here, you need a reason to move" more times than he has sung it. JT knew that we wanted to hear Country Road, Fire and Rain, Something in the Way She Moves, Walking Man, and Mexico; he obliged. He is a musician, but we weren't too interested in his new music.

I suppose we make some choices, and consequence makes the rest.

Nick Drake Pink Moon

We'll create our own fairy tales...

About your utopia in the trees, about all our crazy animals that magically make you happy with their little faces and paws. And their sweet, sweet, trusting spirits. Flying horses... We could even have a pine-tree eating beaver as our villian...

And my childhood? You've loved us through it all. And you gave us a love for books, Mother, so many beautiful books...

Thor vrs Helpless woman waiting for Princes

OK. OK. Yeah. I always get my fairy tales mixed up because they used to scare the crap out of me. Although, I do relate to the dancing around the fire and stamping my foot in a rage. Chan says it's Rip Van Winkle, but I think I'll go with Sleeping Beauty--no, no, never mind. Wasn't she surrounded by briar's and brambles (like my house now) and had to wait for a man to wake her up? And that let's out Snow White too? Wow. No wonder I didn't tell you guys regular fairy tales; Too many sexual innuendos and helpless woman. I remember having nightmares after reading Hansel and Gretel: Then when Mom stuffed our pockets full of treats before a school outing, I was sure the bus was driving us into the darkest forest, that Mom had given us away, and I was so sorry for reading Gone with the Wind by flash light under my covers until she come up and grabbed the light last night. Whew. Even look at Rock a bye baby. It's so gross that people sing a song to little kids with a wind breaking a branch, and a baby goes splat on the ground, cradle and all. I'm glad I told you other, more gentle stories than were in the books we bought you, like Thor sulking, after fighting other gods with lightning bolts and thunder. (Oh, what a childhood you've had.) But I have learned we do have to wake ourselves up, every other minute. It's an constant art that takes practice.
Ahhhhh, but I'm beginning to think that sleeping is an art form also. You know, like those stretched-out, deep down sleeps after long horse rides? Remember the good tired left over from rainy days, the smell of leather and sagebrush? Ummmmm that sounds as good as eating lobster or watching waves wash up on a beach. Let's write our own fairy tales. I like that scene in 6th sense when Bruce Willis is dead, but he's trying to tell the little boy, who sees dead people, a bedtime story about a little prince who drove , and then drove further, until the kid says, "You haven't read many bed times stories, have you? ----Once Upon a Time . . .

You're the bravest woman I know, and by the way...

The correct spelling of your fairytale dwarf is Rumpelstiltskin or in it's German origin Rumpelstilzchen. I think you're mistaken in wishing to be him (though if he had slept for one hundred years I'd idolize him also) However... the story of Rumpelstiltskin begins with a poor miller who lied to a king and told him his daughter could spin straw into gold, so the king locked her in a room for three days and demanded that she produce the gold and if she could not he was going to execute her. So Rumpelstiltskin appears to her in the night and in trade for his magic to make the gold, she traded him her necklace the first night, her ring the second, and on the third night having nothing left to give, the evil imp made her promise her firstborn child to him. So she marries the prince and when her first child was born the dwarf appears demanding the child, but she makes another deal with him that if she can guess his real name (he refused to tell her his name before) than she can keep the baby. She gets three days. So one night she hears him dancing around his fire deep in the forest singing his name and she guesses it the next day. And the stories say that Rumpelstiltskin got so mad that "in his rage he drove his foot so far into the ground that it sank in up to his waist; then in a passion he seized his left foot with both hands and tore himself in two." How's that for silly? I think we relate to his frustration...
Crazy little guy, huh? But yeah, I just thought I'd educate you on one of my favorite fairytales. People always relate him with sleeping for 100 years, but where in the stories does it say that? Can't find it. Beau and I used to watch the old movie of Rumpelstiltskin all the time when we were kids. It kind of used to freak me out, but Beau sure loved it.

You and this story got me thinking about who Beau really is and how much I miss him. How I used to know he was always someone I could count on, how he walked me to school most days even though I know he hated to. Helped me with my math, let me stay in his apartment in Salt Lake. He used to get so angry at the way I lived my life.
One day this will all be light again, Mother. One day, I know. I believe this, if we do not choose to believe we will live our lives small and afraid and alone, with no faith in a God that has the power to lift us high above this tiny piece of eternity we're wandering in.
I believe, Mom. Do you know that I relate my testimony to you? The example of your love for Christ in my life was my beacon. You weren't exactly the ordinary mother who was Relief Society whatever, but you were the one handpicked for me. The only one who could have stood beside me and helped carry me in my storm. Who else besides you?
I love you with all my heart. Beau will be okay. Whether in this life or the next, he'll become Beau again. I love the scripture in Morman Chapter 9 that says "When has God ceased to be a God of miracles?" Never.

I love you, I love you, I love you clear to china and back. And I can't wait to see you next weekend and walk among your trees with you...

My Silly Daughter, I do Believe . . .

that was not laughter; I call that hysterics. But how interesting that we both revert to giggling and uncontrolled rolling-on-the-floor laughing when faced with feelings of total helplessness (though I'm sorry I called your cat, husband and boss "stupid," when in reality only your husband and boss are stupid. Joke. I'm just still mad at Ben for taking you away from Idaho). I also think it's interesting both of us feel we've walked through most of the garbage trials life can offer--not with much grace (on my part anyway), but we've faced these trials and are still breathing and even still in love with living. I mean after brushing up against deaths, suicides, drug addictions, prison, divorce, prolonged illness, abuse--whew, never mind; I'm depressing myself; you know the rest--we actually thought ho, ha, famine, earthquake, terrorist attacks? Big deal. We'll be fine when those types of trials come. But, how could we have known that we'd smash up against another experience so far over our heads that we're craning and straining our necks looking into the heavens for understanding. I do not understand Beau.
I know hell. And I know you know what it feels like, looks like, etc also. We've visited there and know for sure we never want to go back. But Beau's particular kind of hell is one that's beyond me. His problems are surreal. I can't grasp them; they float in between neurotransmitters, deep in his hypothalamus, around dopamine levels, which reach out to circle the moon. But, I've got to believe that somewhere, somehow God's provided answers or that He will provide a way to ease some of his pain--even though, right now, it's a path that's invisible to me. This is more than simply changing, simply repenting. When he's driven by biology and mental illness, how much free agency does he have left? You are reading my words now, and my words are real to you; to Beau the voices he hears are just as real, only he has no reference point in his life to handle them. Can you imagine that kind of madness? His whole life, he's been brilliant, and now he's trapped in the very mind that was his greatest asset. And his thinking has betrayed him. On some level does his feel this? He must. Yet, when I talk to him, he justifies and slips between ideas so quickly--back and forth, up and down--that I feel like I'm listening to a thousand philosophers (every writer he's ever read) talk all at one time. I want to open his head with a knife and while it's open, quickly slide in this idea: "You are ill, Beau; You need medical help before you get worse. And you've got to help us because we don't know what to do." He jumps on a plane because the only thing he knows how to do anymore is travel, but he's lost track of where he's going and even where he's coming from. Has he told you yet he's in San Francisco? (I still can't figure out how you lost him when he lives right next to you; it's not like you're busy or anything. Another joke.) But I don't think he's going to Las Vegas. He's so slippery. Though I know this: things have to be very bad for him to call me for money, and last night when he called me to wire him $15.00 (Megan, even the amount shows his humiliation), I just sat there. I know he could sense my feelings through the satellites. "Never mind, Mom. the voices are just really loud today, and I wanted to get back to the airport." And I still had to say, "Beau, . . . I can't. I know you'll drink to get numb, to stop the noise in your head, and I don't blame you, but I'm more afraid of the alcohol.?" "No, Mom. It's OK. I can just run to Corey's; he's working, but he gets off soon." Then he just clicked off in humiliation. I felt so sick. You know the feeling: your throat tightens up, your head gets thick and heavy, you know you're going to throw up, then you want to rip the phone out of the wall, or scream and scream and scream, or jump in the car and drive all night to California to pluck him up off the streets yourself before some other person as crazy as he is finds him, before something irreversible happens, but you know it won't do any good because he'll just sneak away again to England or NYC, because nothing we do can help him, Megan. Nothing.
Later he texted me: Sorry. Phone needed charged. I texted him back: I will pray to God that He will send someone to help you get through this night because u r too far away to feel how much we love you. Then, I can't sleep again, Megan. I'm so stinking tired. I haven't slept in months, years. Somewhere, sometime, I'm going to find the softest cloud and sleep for a couple hundred years--like RumpleStilzSkin (msp)
In my life, Beau's always been this bird flying somewhere above my head. He's like a constellation I can't grasp. He was born thirty years old, much wiser than I, always sensitive to my every feeling. At Christmas or Thanksgiving, with a room full of people, he always knew exactly what I was thinking. I've never met anyone as sensitive, as beautiful, or as bright (except you, of course of course). To walk with him through an art museum, through China town, along a beach, to talk with him about Herman Hesse, Zen meditations, or any book (he's as widely read as you are), to hear him talk about India, Europe, Egypt, or Israel was to have a total involvement in a total experience. I don't know how else to say that. He lived so intensely. And now he works just as intensely to numb his pain. When he talked of swimming in the Thailand sea late at night, or running madly with Katy through the Himalayan mountains to shake off leeches, being attacked by the monkeys that guard temples in Cambodia, I was there with him. He's been a great gift to us. And now we want to give back to him in the worst way. We love him. But, like I said last night, this one is way beyond me, Sweetheart, way beyond the dark hall you just walked of also. This one we have to leave in God's hands now. Yet, more than anything else, we have to live so that if God whispers some idea to us, we hear Him. And we will not hear Him through worry. Worrying about Beau is too loud for us to hear God.
I'm so glad I have you. And, again, yelling about your stupid cat and your stupid husband and your stupid boss was me yelling at the whole stupid universe. In fact, "stupid" is my favorite word right now. In fact, if Beau comes back alive this time, if he isn't killed on the dark streets of San Francisco, when he gets back, I think I'm going to kill him myself. (Never mind. I can't find the keys to my locked down gun.)

My friend...

So good to laugh with you last night...

Will ya still love me will ya still need me if I always misspell words?

Calling all Emily Littles. Hellloooooo.
The renowned and famous Emily Little told her brother that she'll post here if I ever explain my user name. See Anne's explanation below, Girl. Now blog your heart away. Favorite New York detail? Least favorite? C'mon. Haven't heard from you for billions of seconds, and you know how I hate talking on the phone.

Did you know that my health would be 76% less at risk if I would take care of my stress and emotional health more appropriately? I took a test yesterday and that's what it said. Ha. That would be nice if it was that simple, huh? www.webmdhealth.com/utah. The only good thing about this depressing website is that I get 40$ off my insurance premium every month now. Cool, huh?

the mysterious "Sky Scatcher"

I have been wondering about the mysterious name "Sky Scatcher". It sort of sounds like a Canadian province, or a song from Fiddler on the Roof. "Sky Scat" (like scatological) could refer to the large loads of crap that the universe seems to dump on you on a fairly regular basis. My favorite guess has kind of a Native American flavor, "Skies-Catch-Her." I imagine you trying to hurl yourself off this sorry planet into outer space, but caught by gentle clouds and bounced back to earth to keep trying till you finally get it all figured out. Or grinding along full of worry or sadness, when suddenly you are caught up in an amazing sunset or the radiance of the huge harvest moon.

(Actually, I really know that you just accidentally left out the "r").

http://quotation-marks@blogspot.com (I am enclosing this link because I just used so many quotation marks and am feeling aware of my non-English-majorness, so wish to deflect your attention to this "funny" website).

I read your writing, the Spanish poem and heart of darkness. They are beautiful. Moving.

I like the red for this picture, too. One of my new favorites. I played with pictures of you and Beau yesterday (not on the computer, of course, not that talented, unfortunately). I tried different formations on three different walls, in different frames that I bought recently. Finally satisfied late last night. I love pictures, especially of people that I love.

And I agree about the whole Conan-Crowman-Peanut Butter thing. He creeps me out, too. I think there's something really wrong with him.

Conan the Crowman & Peanut Butter

I still can't stand him. He's disgusting, irritating, and ego incarnate. Almost always when I'm trying hard to go to bed at a decent time, guaranteed to grant me instant health, I turn on TV to catch news or music or an ancient Carey Grant film, and guess who pops up on the screen--skin and bones with a suit hung on him in the dressing room, probably by people paid minimum wage who cringe when he pulls at his collar, a constant habit that, I'm certain, he does in his sleep, in the shower, and at his grandmother's funeral. His face barely has enough skin stretched across the sharp angles and pointed nose and chin. Like Chucky--he's my worst nightmare.
My friends say, "Stay with him; he's brilliant in interviews, smart, funny." I usually trust my friend's judgement, so, I try to get past his floppy hair--I make it--then he moves into shaking his arms like he's got a bee stinging his elbow--I'm there--he starts his chicken dance from the '70's--and I'm fading fast. He starts pointing at the audience. Why? Why does he point at the audience?
"Nooooo, stay, give him a chance, you'll love his interviews, we promise," my ghost friends dance up and down on the couch, forcing me away from the channel changer, even grabbing it to throw across the room. Then, it comes.-- The jump.
What is that? Why does he do this thing? It's not even a real jump. He squats down, then winds up, brings his arms higher, looks to the left then to the right, and waits as if he's saying "and now, here it comes . . . ready?. . . everybody watching? . . . and I have to turn away because he reminds me of every little geek in high school that I felt sorry for and wanted to befriend because they didn't know--they never knew they were loud, tasteless, in-your-face, creepy geeky. . . . Then Conon springs, bringing his feet straight up to his suit coat. When his feet hit the ground, his bony face with the indescribable smirk jerks backward . . . I AM PRINCE HAMLET. LOOK! LOOK AT ME! I AM ODYSSEUS RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE, and you poor smucks are so lucky to see me, have me, hold me close to your chests, and love, love, please love me. He points again at the audience: "Ahhhh, yeah, I know you; you glad; you glad and you and you, so glad to see me. Then, barely able to contain my gulping nausea, I watch this insecure, gawky excuse for an entertainer smooth his red hair one more time and that's it-- I'm scrambling for the remote--beating off my ghostly friends with whips and sabers, hoping I can flip the channel before I shoot the screen out with my new 22 pistol.
Conan O'brian embarrasses me. I hide my head under a pillow. He doesn't even know his stupid, hair-flipping prancing makes him look like a complete idiot. Sorry. I just can't do it. I can never make it past his flagrant love affair with himself to listen to his "brilliant interviews." It feels like eating Peanut Butter. I want to eat Peanut Butter; I want to like it because, I've been told, it's a good source of protein; all my friends like it; my family loves it; but it smells like rotten peanuts and sticks to the top of my mouth and . . . I HATE PEANUT BUTTER.

I love you, Mom. I'm so excited for your next book to come pouring out of you.

River runs through Idaho Autumn

I wish I had a true camera to capture the true colors. Josh you need to come home and visit your mom. Can you see the ducks? Em, you desert rat, eat your heart out. You should have hitchhiked from Utah. We could have put on early Santana and built a night fort out of leaves.

I'm the new guy all over again

Writing Assistants are still wearing those vests, at least they are in the pictures on the web page. Why didn't we go with camo coats again? Better, why didn't we decide to wear pink hair nets? The vests are easy to lose in a crowd, but a pink hair net - especially when two peeps are leaning over a some thematic prose - truly distinguishes an assistant from an assanythingelse.

My name is Tanner. I don't have a cool handle, and I don't know which handle corresponds to which of my friends. This is just like the first meeting I attended in the basement of the Smith building, only I can no longer hide behind the false confidence of a returned missionary at Rick's College. Erin - handle Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom - is understandably wondering how I got posting privileges on the blog without an application or interview. (I apologize, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom, if I didn't spell her name correctly. We both know that she is still on the all-time cute baby list.)

I'm new to this whole blogging deal. I thought it was just a brain burp forum for disturbed sorts. I was wrong. There is some fine writing on this cyber-slate. I don't even pretend to know how to write anymore. I no longer write to communicate; I now write to argue. Law school, legal research, and legal writing put the kibosh on creativity. But, recognition is the first step in repentance - returned missionary at Rick's College card.

I loved the Writing Center in the summer. The whole campus seemed drowsy in the summer, and the Writing Center was the perfect vantage for observation. Jen - handle Coyote - didn't swear as much in the summer, Dylan-with-no-z-or-x-in-name's Mom only got crabby when I skipped meetings to golf, and Jill - handle Satellite - could be seen smiling occasionally.

This needs proof-read, but I'm afraid to re-read and re-do the whole thing. I know that the boss has administrative permissions to block me from future postings, but I pray for mercy.

3:10 to Yuma--Don't read 'till you see film

3:10 to Yuma--Very violent, felt like I was watching re-runs of CSI as vet pries bullet out of Pinkerton's stomach. Dark, harsh, and cold. And I hated that R.Crowe didn't take riding lessons to transfer from English to Western riding because it breaks up the otherwise strong authenticity. But, . . . I keep thinking about this film. Christian Bale is great--only momentarily did his role in Prestige come to mind. (I never thought I could watch him in another film without envisioning his twin-ness in Prestige.) What sticks with me is that neither good nor bad wins, or rather, neither loses in this film. Black-hat, smooth-talking killer Crowe forms a strong respectful bond with Bale and,in the end, when his gang shoots at Bale, trying to save their boss from boarding the prison train, Crowe screams, then turns and coldly kills his own men. He, then, salutes Bale's young son and climbs the train steps to prison. The boy, who has despised his father--thought him a coward--runs to Bale and says, "You did it, Pa." He's proud and jubilant. But, how ironic that Crowe is bonded to Bale by Bale's lack of heroics. Bale's ambivalence then eventual manipulations for money from the Pinkertons and later his admission to Crowe that "I'm not a hero" keeps Crowe from killing Bale and actually wins his reluctant friendship. (By the way, it's only in this part of the film that Crowe kicks in and acts, though he has flashes of brilliance here and there.) But, has Bale saved the world from a killer? No. The movie ends with the good guy (Bale)dead and Crowe whistling for his horse as he sits on the train to Yuma. The end shot is of black horse running after train to pick up Crowe (who couldn't jump to the back of a running horse if his clothes were on fire--big flaw, I never once believed this outlaw was any other than Russell Crowe; he especially pales in relationship to Glen Ford's much earlier performance--except in end scenes).
But, I liked the film and will return to see it. First, because I'm a sucker for Western genre and second because black and white are really many colors of gray. My daughter (who was not bothered by Crowe's lazy acting) felt amazed that she wanted the bad guy to win. The film really is well-written--especially for "when" it was written. I remember in its earlier version, I was always on Glen Ford's side (black hat)also and felt the wimp who was taking him in deserved to die. Even when I saw Ford (and later Crowe) kill in cold-blooded violence, I was thinking, "Ooooh, not true; he didn't really kill that guy." It's similar to my first reaction to O'Conner's "A Good Man is Hard to Find." When the Misfit turns and shoots the grandmother "three times through the chest," I thought, no, not really, hey, this is a comic story, not a tragedy.
What's with our inability to call evil "evil"? Is this a willful blindness to reality? Or simple naivety. (In my case, it can't be.)Does this desire to believe most men/women are really good at heart explain the Germans who were not involved in the war inability to acknowledge the Holocaust even while it took place within short distances from their homes? (My son, who served a mission in Germany, always responds with, "No, Mom, the prison camps were hidden." Yeah? Well, who brought in food? Who passed out blind folds when prisoners were on death marches through the countrysides?)
Or, as in this movie, is it a question of relativity? Some of my druggie, but good hearted, friends shine in my eyes when I compare them to high priests who I expect to be righteous, but who live their religion when it's convenient. Yet, we're talking "wrong" in both cases. My own perspective puzzles me.
3:10 to Yuma is a study in relativity. Kudos to Bale that he pulls out the poor rancher role to match--play by play--bad guy's role. Crowe's character is charming; he even wins over Bale's son (an added character not there in earlier film), yet he really is a snake who kills without blinking. But the screen-writer plays him off worse characters, like a sheriff who tortures Crowe with electric prods and a posse member who has burnt down Bale's barn at the beginning of film, so, the audience moves to champion Crowe, actually gets annoyed when Crowe shows his cold vicious side. When Crowe kills a gray haired Pinkerton, whom we like because he's such a tough gritty man, the audience murmurs in protest. (I did not recognize Peter Fonda--good for him.)Crowe knocks him over a cliff because of a remark Fonda makes about his mother, which is ironic since Crowe tells Bale that Crowe's mother told him to wait at train tracks and read the bible. He read the bible all the way through (quotes from it often in movie), but his mother never returns. Yet he kills Fonda's character because he slurs his mother's name. Is this humor? Or more complexity in Crowe's character? The movie comes down to Crowe choosing to help Bale become a hero, but we know this is a momentary lapse in his evil nature. The audience knows that he will go on to murder many people, even though the screen writer (or director)has fooled the audience into losing perspective of what is good and evil by posing lesser degrees of evil against evil several times through the movie. Get it?(Hmmm If I had time, I'd rewrite--especially that last sentence, so this doesn't sound so confusing.)I found this fascinating and blatantly true. Bale hasn't made a dent in Crowe's career of killing. But, a killer's just-by-chance crossing of paths with one poor rancher turns the rancher into a hero, and we know his son will go home safely, save the farm, and generations will speak the Bale character's name with respect and honor. The whole family has moved into a safer, respected realm. So, did good win out? Yet, it couldn't have turned good without the bad helping it along. Anyway, I'd like to hear others' opinion. The film's not making it to my A list; for me, it's about a B or B-, but it's intriguing.

Alert--Serious Error

Geez, we forgot Hud and Cat on a hot tin Roof.

All Apologies

Greg, I take back everything I said two posts down. I can see now that you really are a busy man. With all the work you've been doing it's no wonder you've scarcely any time for paltry things like semi-annually keeping in touch.
For the rest, you can follow Greg's hectic life here.

When I grow up I want to be a Cowboy

Yes, yes. Cool Hand Luke. I don't know of a film that Paul Newman's been in that I didn't like except Message in a Bottle (puke). And I forgot this Western--last line: "The old man was right, only the farmers won. We lost. We'll always lose." Magnificent Seven; I have to confess to being a Hitchcock fan. Cary Grant is...no words to describe.And I just thought of a few more that made my head spin.



Midnight Cowboy
To Kill a Mocking Bird
African Queen
Passage to India
Annie Hall
Easy Rider (of course)
One Flew over the Cuckoo Nest (wow)

Greg, please forgive me for answering you on this blog. I just had time to read your e-mail all the way through today when BYU-I flipped off the server until Monday. And I want to write you now. No one ever reads the front page anyway except me. They read comments.
What's in Didion's Collection that we haven't already read? And what else for Ron Carlson? (I'm buying books this weekend.)
I empathize with you, my friend. I agree wholeheartedly with your decisions. I know also of this empty place where there are no words. Your landscape is probably different, but the grayness is the same, though I have such meager advice to give from my own visits to this cave. And you are only "visiting"; I promise. I've only found a couple ways to keep breathing when the air burns my lungs: I have to say prayers for insight (and courage), then I turn around and dive into the pit and look around. I force myself to name exactly what I see. Once I do that (never a fun time),I realize what I see is not going to kill me. But until I actually look carefully at the whole mess, it FEELS like it's going to kill me. I carry the grayness everywhere I go. I've also learned not to mess with the cave's reality. And, really, I don't know of another way to cut it out and leave it behind except to dive--plus, I force myself back there as often as it takes until I see light again. And I write about it....I write about exactly where I am, and I don't care if it brings people down; I don't consider audience in the least degree. I write about nothing, or I write stuff about the cave exactly as I see it at this minute--not next week when it'll be easier to walk, not next year when it'll be easier to smile--but NOW. I don't try to hide behind characters or form. At that point, I'm not writing to share, to give, to impress--I'm writing to save my own life. And sometimes I laugh at what I see has made me afraid, and sometimes, it's so horrible that I don't know if I can ever laugh again. I don't know, but I think this process will go on, every now and then, until I feel "safe"--damn.
Often, I have dreamed of someday meeting someone whom I could truly trust, who would help me feel "safe." (Jim did that for awhile, and whatever we went through may have been worth feeling even that false kind of "safety"--or, it may have made my life worse?) This is what I know about my empty, wordless places: I understand that when I was supposed to feel safe (as a child,as a twin, as a new wife, as a mother married to a high priest), I didn't. The ground beneath my feet has always felt like it will shift or give way at any moment. I don't even know what "safe" would look like, feel like, but I imagine it as a warm glowing place(with no snakes),where I can let go and be precisely who I am, without expecting blood and bruises. I have realized also that this "trust" won't ever be a gift from another person; it will grow within me (so sorry for how cliched this sounds), as I decide to feed it and stuff it full of faith, because the bombs never stop falling. But, you know? I want to meet the enemy head on, in the bright daylight. I don't want any more night time sweats when I'm looking back at something I can't see, something I can't finish or tie up in a neat little package. And (dare I go here?) . . . at times finding the faith to fill the holes has taken even greater faith because I saw God as the most loathsome creature who ever crawled through the universe. I knew of his Power; I'd seen it, and to know that He didn't step in when I couldn't get up, when my children were screaming as they drown in front of my face made me cringe from any sunlight.
Then I saw that He couldn't step in (I can never decide which is the worst idea out of those two) because of others' "free agency," and worse still that we had agreed to this contract. I have to admit to relating with the end of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, when Kurtz is dying and says, "Oh, the horror; the horror." And, I wonder, how did we--you and I--have the confidence we needed then, at the very beginning, to step down into this gray abyss? How were we ever that strong? But we were. And, Greg,I have looked around and seen green and ducks, and rushing rivers, Patch, my three sons, my beautiful Megan--and Beau, and I love them.
And I realize that if I can love--even the smallest leaf--God must be good; plus, where we're going must be great, or He would not--could not allow this. I want His vision in the worst way. I want to walk toward this grand place. And I can't--until I cut out any cancer that holds me back.
This probably doesn't make any sense and probably paints such a gray picture that you'll see how dumb it was to ever ask my advice. I wish I could give you more, but you need to go to wiser people, to happy people, and ask. All I can say is write about "now" or about spider webs and mailing bills. Use this blog. It's a sweet place full of good people. Write this: "I loved the Writing Center because . . . Do not say no.
And I love you, my good friend, my little brother. S.

Hello Friends (and Jaren). I guess I've got a lot of explaining to do after my long absence, but explaining is difficult because I haven't really done anything with my life over the past few months. FranklinCovey is doing its best to eat me alive. I'm currently roaming accross small town america writing activity guides for teens. There aren't many perks to the job other than the snack closet and being able to expense issues of 18 and other such girlie magazines to capture the "voice" of whatever generation I'm supposed to be writing to. In short, I want to quit. I wish one of you had a guest house I could live in for free.

So since my life is boring, I will say goodnight for now. Applebees is closing soon (that's all Alabama has to offer right now and It's all I've eaten during the past week, maybe two weeks) and I want to take advantage of the complimentary hotel room delivery. I hope all is well at the writing center. I will stop by soon, crash a seminar, and stop any emotional fiascos that might be occuring.

Sincerely,

Kevin Federline (K-Fed)

P.S. I am in the process of purchasing a bulldog and I would like everyone to vote on a name in the comments section, please.

1. Lazer Fangs
2. Futureman
3. Nipples
4. Mr. Bo Jangles
5. Rumpelstiltskin
6. General Lee

Jaren. I loved your post on the class critique. (I'd write this on your blog, but I'm too lazy to look it up again after being rudely interrupted while reading it--by my job.) Well written post, though I don't know about the story because "said" author didn't post "said" story, so the "said" story may not even exist for all we know. Also, really loved support you received from JG and Jimmy. You've got good friends, my young brother, who know you well. That's got to be worth a whole class full of talking lips.

3:10 to Yuma

Mark the Date

I just signed up for the AWP Conference which will be held in New York January 30-February 2.
Featured writers include John Irving, E.L. Doctorow, James Tate, Galway Kinnell, Robert Pinsky, Joyce Carol Oates, Billy Collins, among others. James Best and Joshua Foster are going to be there as far as I know.
We should all attend. For more information here's the URL. http://www.awpwriter.org/conference/2008awpconf.php

"If Tomorrow wasn't such a long time."

As long as we're doing vintage--1992. And guess what? I'm not eating frogs. (Man, I've raised a lot of chillin')
Just got back from a week of fishing and camping. Blessedly alone.
I think I restored enough sanity to face fall semester. Ugga. And I did not eat beetles, ants, spiders of any kind, suck water from a cactus, nor even see a live frog. I did roast marshmallows, throw together dutch oven for when it got too hot to fish, and ate salted almonds while I devoured four whole books without neighbors or bills or cell phones interrupting. Thank heaven for rivers, pine trees, and full starry skies. Weird though how lots of memories came crowding in. I restored the peace I needed inside by throwing a rock at a bald headed, wall street jet skier. (Well, . . . Charity, he was out too early and scaring fish clear to China, and of course I missed him.) It felt good. I have to say. It felt real good to know that I almost knocked a loud jet skier into the Island Park Reservoir. Then I left for higher places.

Some memories make me feel all wrapped up, warm and safe. Some are like bee stings on the inside of my throat. I think living hurts, but, also, it sure has some ecstasy. And then there's Mr. Bob Dylan always riding over the plains on a bright white horse to keep things real and save me from crusting over into layers of safe, role-playing masks. Remember this one?

If today was not an endless highway,
If tonight was not a crooked trail,
If tomorrow wasn't such a long time,

Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all.

Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin',

Yes, and if I could hear [his] heart a-softly poundin',

Only if he was lyin' by me,

Then I'd lie in my bed once again.

I can't see my reflection in the waters,

I can't speak the sounds that show no pain,

I can't hear the echo of my footsteps,

Or can't remember the sound of my own name.

Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin',

Yes, and if . . .

There's beauty in the silver, singin' river,

There's beauty in the sunrise in the sky,

But none of these and nothing else can touch the beauty

That I remember in my true Love's eyes.

For the Record, Pt. III: an excerpt from Marvin Austead's "Oral Fixation and Our Friends of Class Amphibia"

Fig. 1: Joseph Griffin, December 2000, Pelotas, Brazil, demonstrating the 'Boca Ruse' approach to amphibian sampling

(pg 326) "...in the Boca Ruse manner of sampling Order Salientia, the sampler elevates a captive true frog in the air, and with a visage of wild-eyed voracity, feigns a gesture of consumption directed at said amphibian. The benefits of this manner of amphibian sampling are numerous:

1. Amphibian does not contact the mouth of the sampler, thereby avoiding the possible transfer of any virulent bacteria via the amphibian's osmotic skin.
2. The sampler's mouth does not pass on any foreign body to the delicate amphibian, via the amphibian's osmotic skin.
3. Awkward (and possibly ostracizing) social situations are averted.
4. Young, impressionable children are taught to avoid the ills of direct oral contact with creatures that regularly swim in their own evacuation."

OK, I agree. Reunion would be good. But would it ever be the same? I propose a definite big meeting in Millennium. If we do it before then, I'd have you stay in tents at my house, and we could take the many children to Yellowstone, Jackson, etc., using my house as a base. But I'm not doing the cooking. And, yes, Jen, you're the only one of us who could plan and carry out this thing. Why don't we meet in Florence, Italy . . . say four or five years. Let's rent a villa. Tanner Stellmen, are you out there somewhere?

WC Class of 2003

While was lying awake the other night, I decided that I think that we should have a Writing Center reunion. There are a few stipulations on this reunion though. Stipulation 1: the reunion will have to until I am once again living in the West. I am done with the East, especially since today is sinfully hot and humid, but I am stuck here for about 2 and 1/2 years, so the reunion will have to wait until after then, because I am pretty sure that if this really does happen, I will be the one to organize it and we don't have money for airfare to do it any sooner. Give me a break, we're still students. Stipulation 2: although the WC is actually in the library, I think the most appropriate place to hold the reunion would be at Sharon's. This means that you cannot sell until after the reunion OR you must find buyers who will let us camp out at the house for a weekend or so.

My reasons for wanting a reunion? Other than my roommates, most of my really good friends from BYU-I came out of the WC and I think unless we (I) put together a reunion, we will never be at the same place at the same time again. Sharon and Em...imagine hanging out with Tanner, Jill, Tobias, Josh, Millie, Erin Grant, Shalese, Serena, Trevor, Tony the Tiger and yes, even Jared (but only if he brought Pam). Sharon, we could even invite Jenny Oscanyon and Tatum and even, if we got brave, Catherine Mann (oh boy, I haven't thought about her in FOREVER). Let me know what you think. I'm not trying to be overly nostalgic or anything, but I would really like to see some of old friends again, even if the meeting is a few years away.

Backyard Moose (Nice pic of Depp, Em)

Shot pictures of this baby moose in my backyard this morning. This baby is as big as a normal size horse. Beautiful brownish black, quietly eating from my trees, wading around in the river; I named him "Sunny B."

Emily, you know I never answer phones. Just text. And no I won't be at school for two more weeks, thank heaven. Come when you can. I'll leave pillows on the couch. Rodeo is Sat. at 6:15.

Last night I sat in a soft steady rain next to my dad, watching the number two rated in the world bull rider compete for a $10,000 ride. This was probably one of Dad's last rodeos. He still stopped to chat with all the old cowboys along the fence, but we had to help him into the grandstand. He won't stand for that again. We ate fried waffles with blackberries and whip cream and jotted down each score until the program got too wet and ripped, and I picked out the $50,000 barrel buckskin horse that I'm going to search heaven for when we get up there. He moved like silk from India.

After all this heat, we felt in heaven. A little Native American five-yr-old won the mutton busting (riding sheep until a whistle blows). After they gave her a trophy a foot taller than she was, the announcer asked her what she'd do for a brand new BB gun from . . . (some sponsor). She said, "Nothing. I don't want one." He lost words but recovered quickly, "Well, can we give it to your parents then?" "Nope. They don't want it either." "Do you have a brother? I bet he'd like this new BB gun." "No, he wouldn't." I loved the whole night.

Welcome home, Jaren and Charity. I'm going to post a Keith Urban tape to welcome you back to the West (via Australia). In a full count, just how many snakes have you seen so far? This is important information for me if I'm to consider a PhD at Tucson.

Oi, Sharon:

You aren't answering my phone calls. And I would send you an email, but I enjoy this new public way of speaking at you and for some reason I feel like you might check this page more than your email anyway. And I wanted to post this picture of Johnny Depp. So, I'm coming up tomorrow, Friday, August 2, 2007. I'm going to wear denim cutoffs, sneakers, actually, jeans...not cutoffs...maybe...I'll bring both, and a shirt that will hopefully look inconspicuous at a rodeo. I'm excited to have my computer charger back because my little brother is blaming me for all his problems with our downstairs computer. And I have episodes from the third season of The Office on my dead laptop that I want to watch. Oh, and I'd really like to see you. Does it matter what time I show up? Are you on campus at all tomorrow?

Sharon--Barrel Racing in Rodeo--1963

1963 Rodeo. This is NOT how it's done. Horse is not looking at barrels. I'm twisting his head off to pull him around. But, . . . oh, the adrenaline high! Very fun. Em, I'll talk to the producer and see if they have a pony for you to try? Never mind. You'd be so hooked, you'd move right in to bull riding; then, we'd carry your bones out in a red wagon.

Backtalk to Gillz's Declaration

I just wrote you the most wonderful post about why I think Kingsolver wrote a Mormon culture novel without God at its center. And I lost it. I brilliantly and profoundly showed how she's painted our guilt and zealous judging habits so perfectly (Whew. Lots of worthless adjectives in that sentence). And in the end, she makes her audience realize that we can't walk around in our own black pools of guilt or manufacture our own pain, because real honest pain is going to back hand us anyway. And if we carry our shame and our nation's shame around our necks like albatross, we'll drown before the real stuff even gets to us. I had great examples, but since they were both from "R" rated movies, I'm sure I subconsciously deleted it to save your innocence. Dang.

And, yes, major faux pas about Jude Law. It's a good thing you're my most tolerant side kick. Nick Drake is nice because he reminds me of Keats, and Eric Clapton, because he makes me feel safe--An annoying need I have.

Speaking of faux pas, one never asks what to wear to a rodeo, but if one were to ask, then "denim or denim" would be appropriate. I, myself, am wearing black hat (via Bob Dylan), sequined jacket, and red/gold boots.

The last time I sat with non-rodeo people was the night Brian and Emily Pew came along to the Blackfoot fair rodeo. Emily had a fit when the first guy got bucked off his horse before the 8 second buzzer and received "no score," and the next guy pulled a 75. "How fair is that?" she yells, using that wide gesture thing she does with her arm. I looked around to see if any of my father's old cowboy compadres were sitting close as I hung onto her leg to keep her from stomping down to rail on the judges. (I miss that girl. Maybe you should watch the movie 8 Seconds before you come up.) It turned out a fun night, because they really weren't faking their ignorance . . . nor their curiosity--then they left me alone to keep scores as Brian consumed several Tiger Paws with honey butter, cheese covered chips, and swigged gallons of Diet Coke. But, later when they wanted to see the Tiniest Woman in the World, I stood firm "I'm not going in," I said. "No one else is even in there, so you'll be standing right in front of her, and what will you say? 'Geez, lady, you sure got a bum deal in life, but you're at least making money on it?'" When they came out, they did say she looked very sad and wanted to rename it: The Saddest Woman in the World. Fun night though. Good memory.

If you come on Monday, and if we're lucky, some guitar players may group on the street and play some songs. In the mountains, all I want is to sit on a rock by the Snake River, watch the hawks, and let the pines and river spray clean my head out.

Emily's Declaration to Sharon

I'm coming up Monday night to experience culture with you and then I'm running into the mountains with you on Tuesday and going with you to the rodeo on the 2nd and hanging around until I have to move out of my office in Logan at the end of the week. Possibly not until the next Monday. I'll let you know. And no, I don't have malaria, but I rather felt like I did because I hit the peak of my fever just as I reached the peak of Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible and that about set me off on a whole new range of nightmares...... That book was worlds better than Bean Trees. And I loved Bean Trees. Are you finished with it yet, Jen? I want to hear what you think about where all the characters ended up.
Also, can we add Hugh Grant to the list? Here is the following reason why I think Hugh Grant should join the list before Sting
Jen, back me up.

"God is great, Sabu; He plays with us." Out of Africa

Chan, Chan, my man, it’s about time you stepped in here. Redford stays for sure; besides I never notice if men are short or tall--is that a guy thing? JP used to measure all our boys with marks on the wall as if it were some obscene contest. I kid you not. He never measured Meg or granddaughter Jordyn. Is tall more . . . what? I don’t get it. It seemed like JP felt whoever was taller had more intelligence, would marry a princess, and die rich. Plus, Redford's politics are very close to mine, and he’s a mountain person who trains his own horses (OK, I lied about the training part, but he does ride well.). Really, what more is there? And skin? Posh and phew. In the resurrection, no such thing matters. But Pacino is playing a close second--very cute in Author, Author. And in Dog Day Afternoon (is that the film I’m thinking of JG, with “Attica. Attica”), he plays a bank robber who is so confused and helpless that I wanted to take him home and feed him chicken soup. But he had to have his day in the sun and then he dies. (I liked him lots in Bobby Deerfield). He's short also, I think. .. .I’m tired of the man game, anyway. I have great male friends (on this blog even) and that’s enough. I’m going to list my favorite women now.
Hey, Warnick brothers, have you seen the HP movie that sent our friend Jen into Ga Ga land? Crush for sure, Charity. She’s probably knitting Potter a pink sweater to keep him warm as we blog. First, Sweet Jen (SJ), I can't sympathize because I can't stand that age group, who spend half their time loud and obnoxious, and the other half as painfully shy, hiding behind each other—shoving and pushing—and in between all that, they have 1000 toilet jokes and sounds . Second, the whole "waving wand" thing was a little much? No. Sorry. Forgive me. (It’s hard being the only member of this blog who was bored into sleep by HP.) Let me repent. In fact, I was inspired by the tiny cute wands--made me want to hack down a willow branch and carve me a little stick to kill people with also. (I can see SJ from here, stamping her foot and shooting off fire sparks of anger that may seriously injure the baby if she doesn't’t calm down. Ha ha,)
And, Charity, I’m horrified that you have not watched Out of Africa—an art film with color, texture, and African scenery that stopped my breathing—based around Isak Dinesin’s life, and directed & produced by Sydney Pollack. Visual treat; picked up every set and cinematography award that year. Redford and Streepe have been on safari, shooting lions and such, and he is washing her hair and quoting Kipling. It’s pure eroticism. Rent it. I think you’ll like it. Em . . . how’s shooting Alligators in Florida going. Joe found us a cheaper place in Paris that’s still close in. . . . Oh crap. The morning birds are singing again. I need an operation to cut this insomnia out of me. CSI style.

Whew. Hard Choice.

OK, first, . . . I HATE GRADES. It's a dark-age, perverted form of wrong think left over from Behaviorism. We should have shot all of Pavlov's dogs. So, whom to-choose-for-the-celestial-kingdom is a game I'm playing to avoid pushing the grade send" button to registrar's office. Celestial Kingdom, you say? Yes. I'm never swearing again, so I'll, of course, get to the kingdom first, since I'm in JG's perfected- beyond- belief category. (OK, now I feel like I'm bordering on "light mindedness," because none of this is funny. In fact, life isn't very funny, except in a snicker cynical way, which I don't want to fall in to. Yep. It's clearly a non-funny day.) But, here's the deal--Urban's married presently to Nicole Kidman, but I don't expect that to last beyond his next visit to Rehab. Cusack is mysteriously private, which for now gets my vote. But, Redford's scene washing Streepe's hair in Out of Africa was a sensual A+. Yet Al Pacino in Serpico and J.Depp in . . .Gilbert Grape seem like real human beings. I think it might just be a polygamous affair.

And, I know I haven't seen the other Potter movies, but Harry was a wimp as he hid behind the wall and let his teacher (the guy with the rubber band around his beard?) almost die. Why did he not step in? Why? And I agree that a "dark against light, with Light winning" movie is fare for our children, but . . . .Though I loved the scene in the fortune telling warehouse where all the balls are crashing and breaking--think of the symbolism behind that? Whew. Enough to take my head right off my shoulders. . . .Was one of those fortunes breaking apart mine?Does that mean that my life just fell off a shelf and stopped . . . ? That's what it feels like sometimes.

I saw the worst movie I've ever seen in my entire life last night--It's called the Island, but it had some good actors in it. How could they have agreed to such a stinky plot-driven, car-wrecking, mucus-sucking, sack-ripping horror of a film. I watched it with Meg and her new husband, wishing I was hacking through a trail of knee high cactus, or climbing Mt Everest barefooted and hatless--anywhere but sitting in front of that screen. I swear this movie has six places where I had tingles of sweet gratitude that it was finally ending. But it didn't ever end--a real Chucky movie in disguise. It's the film I'll recommend to anyone I don't like. And I never want to rent a movie again until I die.

Payback

I seem to have lost my first born child's first set of professional pictures. I have searched my house high and low and I cannot find them. However, as I was going through boxes in my basement, I came across these little gems. The top picture is of the costume party where Em got the awful picture of me (thanks for attempting to rectify that picture Sharon). Joe is the one in the wig and glasses and as I said before, Em is the cheerleader. If I remember correctly she gladly volunteered to take this part when we were divying out assignments, but when the time came for her to present herself in public as a cheerleader, it took quite a lot of coaxing, but she finally sulked out of her room for the party.

This bottom picture is from one of our trips to Vegas. Em always has been a party girl and I will leave it at that.

Moans and Melts into Puddle

Oh, how I loved the end line "Slinks off shamefacedly," because I ducked my head low, waiting for the barrage after "Oh, where do I begin," JG. Great post. You made me laugh as you slammed out of your usual laconic self.
Em. he's right about Blood Diamond. I could not sit through that one again. I felt shame and disgust over being a part of it also-- It's a gruesome experience, and my "Wow" was in admiration for those who dared make such a film--because I have no doubt it's true--without giving in to fear for their lives.
And Harry Potter? (She moans and melts into a puddle of disdain here.) But, hey, I want you to soften out there toward Keith U., in case I do change my mind. I just can't believe the lack of empathy for someone--such as moi--who is destined to sleep alone for the next thirty years, unless I get lucky and fall in front of a train. I want a chorus of pity and sighs for empty beds, followed by admiration ooooohs and ahhhhs for my discipline and strength. What a day. What a day.

The Future

the pictures some of you didn't get before:

Okay, let me know if these show up or not.....