Come Together

Wow.  It's been a month since my last post.  Sorry!  I know I said I'd be better.  And I've been so very good lately.  But the holidays, you know.  I just wanted to make a quick post.  A small reflection on a death.  It's almost timely, it comes around the holiday season when families are coming together.  During a time of racial unrest when humans need to come together.  And here comes yet another death.  Maybe a fairly insignificant one, but one close to a few people's hearts out there.  Sadly, there's one less gravelly voice in the world.  I know that perhaps Joe Cocker isn't considered a great artist, but he did a couple Beatles songs better than the Beatles in my opinion.  And one of those songs seems perfect right about now.   I think you know which one.  In case you don't:

So here's to Joe Cocker.  May we find the time to come together this season, and for all the seasons to come.   Happy holidays!  

Words, Words, Words

I took a "what's your reading personality" quiz the other day.  I've always considered myself a bit of a book fiend, but seem to have trouble actually sitting down and reading lately.  Maybe I'm reading the wrong books.  Anyway, being somewhat addicted to these ridiculous quizzes, I just had to find out what my personality was.  In spite of the rather limited options for answers, my result was fairly accurate.  I got the book "aesthete".  Basically, it doesn't matter what I read, all I care about is how it was written.  It could be a poem or a play, a three volume tome or a short story, a romance or a tragedy, comedy or reality, if it is written well, I will read it.  I love the idea of that.  I've always loved words.  When I was in school, I would cover my notebooks with favorite stanzas from poems, quotes from plays, and paragraphs from books.  I have memorized "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" so T.S. Eliot's words are never far from my heart when I need them.  I want to cover my body with tattoos of words, to become the notebooks I tattooed as a student.

I wanted to set this up because I'm planning on doing a series of posts about book related things.  The posts will be about writing (of course), character development, and the art of fandom on different levels.  But I thought it would be good to let you know where I'm coming from as a reader first, not a writer, I want to be clear about that.  For some reason, I give off this writer vibe.  But I'm not, that's my sister (see the post about shameless sister promotion).

If you'd like to take the quiz yourself, here's the link.  Beware of ads, why Oprah needs ads on her site, I'll never know.  Also, there's an option at the end to click through each personality to see how you ranked.  I enjoyed that.

My Result

A Purist View

After watching Death Comes to Pemberley, I've come to the conclusion that I am a Jane Austen purist, not a Jane Austen enthusiast.  I wanted to throttle the powers that be for what they did to Col. Fitzwilliam's character.  I discussed it with a friend of mine, who did enjoy the show, and then I recalled that she also enjoyed the atrocity known as Lost in Austen.   Hence, my conclusion that I must be a purist.  And she clearly will take any form of Austen, no matter how outlandish, therefore, an enthusiast.

So this is a rant post.  Just a small one though.

The incredible injustice they do to the character of Colonel Fitzwilliam is inexcusable.  When he was the only member of that family to treat Lizzy with the respect she deserved from the first!  The treatment he gets from her in Death Comes to Pemberley makes no sense in comparison to Pride and Prejudice.   And then to see him transformed into an arrogant asshole, it's really beyond the pale.

This is my Colonel!  Don't you even mess with him.

It's That Time of Year

Just a quick note to say, "Happy Halloween!"

Halloween snuck up on me this year, sadly.  Only in this last week have I really been able to paint my nails orange and watch numerous Hammer horror films.  I even forgot to hang up my skeleton lights!  Shame on me.  But all is not lost!  And to celebrate one of my favorite times of the year, some skeletons.

Shameless Friend Promotion

I don't live in the Bay Area.  Or anywhere near it.  If I did, I would totally go to this very funny looking collection of 3 short films about the mysteries of San Francisco's micro climate.  And if you happen to live in the Bay Area, or anywhere near it, you should go for me.   Mark your calendars, November 11th at 7 pm.  Be there to support your local film makers!

TRUE AND REAL STORIES OF SAN FRANCISCO’S ECOLOGICAL ANOMALIES

The Daring Young Man

I just want to take a moment to appreciate how absolutely adorable Dick Grayson is as Batman.  

As a person just recently delving into comic books, I always considered myself more of a Batman "traditionalist", I guess you could say.  And Wayne not being Batman was an absurd thought to me.  But Grayson is still Grayson, no matter what color of tights he wears.  And he is a charmer.   I mean, just look at that smirk...totes adorbs as the kids say.

He  floats through the air, with the greatest of ease...

Woman Cannot Live on Tea Alone

Apparently, this is what bachelorette life looks like for me.  I consume nothing but tea.  And other things eaten with spoons.

With a Vengeance

A challenge has been set before me.  A challenge to write a blog, at least once a week.  It doesn't matter how mundane the blog, e.g. the atrocity of airport sandwiches, Jason Isaacs visiting my dream world (thank you, subconscious!), etc.,  just get one posted once a week.  I have accepted this challenge and with the help of quitting one of my two jobs, may be able to accomplish it.

This first post is merely a declaration of my intentions (how many times have I done this?  I have quite the fickle relationship with this blog).  And since I can't seem to get through any sort of reading nowadays without pictures:

This is my sole place of employment at the moment.  I might be selling my belongings to pay rent, but better that then another holiday season in retail.  

Cinescape

Well it's feast or famine with me apparently.  I did pretty well in March as far as posting is concerned, but April was a big blank.  There is a logical explanation for it, some of you will know this already.  I got a second job at the end of March working as a year round employee of the Seattle International Film Fest.  Now don't get excited, I'm just hocking popcorn at the moment.  But I'm hopeful that it will turn in to something more.
That being said, last night was the opening night for the Festival itself.  And it was quite the experience.  Red carpet and all.  I was so overwhelmed by the whole thing, I didn't document it as well as I could have.  But I got a few pictures.

The blurry person is writer/director John Ridley

The opening night film was All is By My Side, a Jimi Hendrix biopic, written and directed by John Ridley (who recently won an Oscar for his adaptation of 12 Years a Slave).  Ridley and actress Hayley Atwell (Captain America) were in attendance.  




















After the film screening, the Opening Night Gala was across the way.  And I was way out of my element.  I mean look at this place:

An introvert's nightmare

But there were free snacks, of which I grabbed two and only documented one.  And I'm pretty sure I paid for a drink I didn't have to, but whatever!  Live and learn.

Snoqualmie Ice Cream Snickerdoodle sandwich

Other then that, the night was pretty much a game of how many Anthropologie items I could pick out in the crowd.  If this was a game of bingo, I would've won.  I was not an exception to this, however.  The majority of my clothes being from Anthro for obvious reason.  And I certainly was the belle of that one corner where I held up the wall for the majority of the 30 minutes I lasted at the party.

Anthro dress #15 at the Gala

It was an experience I've never had in my life, but I will hopefully have more of.  Preferably with someone to drag along with me, who will help me hold up that dang wall.

Soul Food

Ah, if music be the food of love, etc.  I'm not the biggest fan of that ideology really.  I get downright sick of all the stupid love songs that fill the world.  I really think that's why I'm such a big fan of Tom Waits, for who else sings about murders and midgets, circus freaks and small change, the land of the blind and horse-face Ethel.  But that's besides the point.

Music is food for the soul, though.  There are pieces in particular that, like a big cup of tea, act as a balm for me.  This one in particular.  Barber's Adagio for Strings.  No other piece elicits quite the same visceral reaction from me.  Every time I listen to it, not just hear it but listen, I get the usual suspects.  Goosebumps, shivers up my spine.  But in addition to this, it will literally bring tears to my eyes.  Every damn time.  I think one day, it won't affect me anymore, but that hasn't come yet.  And it's the steps building up to the climax that brings the tears, not the mountaintop itself.  It's the journey that brings the emotion, and as the strings near the climax, anticipation takes over and I lose sight of the climb as I wait to see if the strings will make it to the top.

They always do.  I needn't worry.

Some Inferno

Ever get so angry that all you can think is "they may want me to go to hell, but I will drag those bitches with me" only to realize that the only people who are allowed to drag anyone anywhere are those bitches?

This is what unions are for.

In Continuation

While I'm on the topic of shameless friend promotion, here's a music video created by a friend from way back in the Davis days of my history.  Watch it, like it.  There's even a spiffy little review that calls it "dope", which is, dope.

Portland's Wild Ones Pull Out Lightsabers for Their New Visual 

Wild Ones // Paia from Seven Summits on Vimeo.

Best of Times, Worst of Times

So everyone seems to do a throw back Thursday, except for me, apparently.   But today, is different.  Today, I'm feeling nostalgic.  And homesick for my friends I knew back behind the Redwood Curtain.  I was feeling this way last night as well when I decided to peruse a friend's podcast blog, The Futile Podcast.  Ian's podcast is mostly him chatting with various friends about a certain movie or television show, so I get to hear a lot of familiar voices and even participated in a few myself.   I know a big draw for me to these podcasts is mainly sentimental.  I miss Ian.  I miss the people he talks with, the ones I know.  I miss hanging out around a bon fire at his place with my former classmates and working over movies we've seen and shows we watch.

That last memory is one of my favorites, perhaps because Ian's guard was down for once.  Twice he told me, "just move back, dear."  And I was ready to say "OK", drop everything, and move back.  But life gets in the way.  My guy broke up with me, so for the first time since moving, I let myself be in Seattle fully.  And now the thought of uprooting myself again is hard, no matter how much I miss everyone I left behind.  And so, my eternal (and very selfish) quest to convince everyone I love to move closer to me continues, if in vain.

  

All in all, I know these things we talked about weren't deep, heartfelt discussions about the meaning of life.  And maybe they aren't the stuff that "real" relationships are made of, but I miss it all the same.  And I miss the people even more.  So here's to you, Ian.  Thanks for bringing everyone together over a little microphone.
And I say to you, just move up, dear.

A Futile group circa 2010 (Ian's the handsomely stoic one in the chair)

With that, here's a podcast Ian did with me about my one week adventure with Hannah in Egypt three years ago.  It's a longer one, almost 45 minutes.  But if you have some cleaning to do, it could make for something fun to listen to in the background.  Pretend you're listening to Terry Gross interview someone more interesting then myself.

Futile Bonus: Mychal's Egypt Trip

Bergman Days

I just watched Ingmar Bergman's "the Hour of the Wolf".  So help me, sometimes after a Bergman film, all I can think of is this spoof.

"We can pretend to understand it and then read a book about it later."

A Little Analysis

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like. Analyze your writing!

This is an interesting little test.  I have never read him, but I hope this means I'm not too bad.  

Shameless Sister Promotion

Since half of the people who actually read this blog are my family members, it should come as no shock that I have a sister.  My sister writes.  And she writes well.  I would like to think I have an unbiased opinion in this, but she is my sister, after all.  A few months ago, she shuttled off to another state to get her second masters, an MFA in Poetry.
I really don't know how to say this in a elegant way, but I'm proud of her.   I'm an introvert, who grew up in an introverted family, and my sister is an introvert to match all introverts.   I feel like maybe I've written this before.  If I haven't, it means I should have long ago.  If I have, it needs repeating.   She's halfway across the country, in a strange midwestern state.  She teaches a couple of freshman english classes.  Stands, in front of pimply 18 year olds, and teaches.  She needs to publish 3 poems while she's there as well.  And she is an introvert.  An unmedicated introvert.  I don't really know how she does it.  And I know it's hard for her.  This is a girl who doesn't like to call and make appointments or order pizza.  But she's there, far from home, teaching and writing, putting herself out there, pursuing her dream.  And I'm here.  Close to home, in a city I love, medicated to the max on my zoloft, and I don't even know what my dream is.  I'm jealous of her.  I'm jealous for her.  And maybe one day, I can be as brave as she is.

One of her poems is available on this website:
http://www.asenseofplacewa.com/pages/Anthology/anthology.html

"Naches Peak Loop: 5900 Feet"
by Seanse Ducken

I have stopped using my voice in poems
because I lose my focus.  But I think of trails
and what to say about mountains and how I'd
like to say it myself.

Here at the top of Chinook Pass I can pause,
take my breath firmly in hand and measure
the seconds in terms of wildflowers and stalks
of hardy alpine trees.

I yelled at my friends once for leaving the trail
and going off into the meadows.  Mostly because the sign
at my feet said "fragile," and I shouted about short growing
seasons and ecosystems, but truly I was jealous.

As if they dove into the magnetic pull of the Pacific
without me, and I was left on the beach pondering
the undertow.  The meadows must feel like swimming,
smooth and cold.

When I am done here, fine, silt-like dust covers
my boots, and I think, it is enough, to leave
the lupine the bear grass the trillium untouched, exotic
creatures in the deep deep kingdom of migratory peace.