There was before. And there was after.
Before was a bright, warm Tuesday morning where, by the grace of God, my eyes opened early to a quiet, comfortable dorm room. Before was a hot shower, and a leisurely preparation for a day of classes and meetings and work. Before was the television on in the background, a quietness before the ringing telephones, chiming instant messages, and the shout and gasp of voices in shock.
I can remember the feeling of my wet hair on the back of my neck as I heard the newscasters making announcements on the television, and I remember stopping to watch the images, frozen where I stood, wrapped in a towel, unable to move forward into a day where everything changed.
After was forcing my feet to move, forcing my mind to choose clothes, forcing myself to prepare for classes and meetings and work. As the ten o'clock hour approached, I walked, in a daze, to the chapel at the center of campus. I know now that I went to Daily Chapel in hopes that someone would have an answer, or information that they weren't telling us on television. That wasn't the case. After were the questions we all had: Why? When would it happen again? What had happened to the safety of our little "bubble on a hill" that was supposed to protect us from all the bad things that happened "out there"?
For many Millenials, the events of 9/11 dragged us into adulthood; we kicked and screamed and fought like hell to hold onto our childhoods. I was halfway through my 19th year and had just begun my sophomore year in college; I would have liked to stay a "kid" a little bit longer. But the terrorist acts that crash-landed in the lives of all Americans forced us to realize that we live in a world where people are capable of terrible, destructive acts of hatred and anger. (So many of us at my Lutheran college grew up in a world where the worst one could experience was passive-aggressiveness, terrorism was as foreign a concept to us as a steam train might be to a caveman.) I was fortunate to be in a place where even though I was away from my parents, I was surrounded by adults who exemplified patience, forgiveness, grace, faith, and community in those dark days.
For most of America, the events of 9/11 are defined by collective memory. We recount to each other the stories of where we were when we heard the news, and of the days and weeks that followed. We listen to each other's shock, pain and confusion of those days. But so many of us did not lose a loved one or friend in those terrorist acts, so all we have are those shared memories. Perhaps friends and family members are woven into our memories; in that way, we have "loomed" together a great tapestry of memory. (In my mind, voices that stand out that day include my mom, my friend Rachel who lived across the hall from me, one of the campus chaplains, and, strangely, my geography professor.) In the creation of this tapestry of shared memory, we can be certain that we will never forget the fear we first felt when we heard the news, but, even more strongly, how our communities came together in the hours and days that followed. We hugged, we cried on each other's shoulders, we held hands in circles of prayer, song, and solidarity, we gave blood and money and supplies, we talked in classrooms, in offices, in dorm rooms, and in the chapel of our anger, our thoughts, our sadness, and of the power of forgiveness.
And on this day, ten years later, we still struggle with the sadness, the anger, and the power of forgiveness. Like the bright blue sky on September 11, 2001, our lives contain occasional clouds. Yet between these clouds, we glimpse the boundless beauty of the sky, and it is in those moments of beauty that we find the grace to carry on.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Movie Review: The Soloist
The Soloist, 2009. Directed by Joe Wright. Starring Robert Downey, Jr., Jamie Foxx, Catherine Keener.
In the "Making of The Soloist" special feature on the DVD, director Joe Wright (Pride & Prejudice, Atonement) remarks on his initial hesitation to direct the film: as a native Brit, he'd only ever filmed movies about England in England. He was unsure he would be successful at directing a film set in Los Angeles dealing with homelessness in that city. Wright needn't have doubted himself one iota.
With The Soloist, Wright cements himself as one of my top five favorite directors. Even when the subject is gritty (such as homelessness in The Soloist), violent (Atonement), or hopelessly romantic (Pride & Prejudice), Wright executes his directorial vision with clear elegance. [I'm omitting here his film Hanna, which I have not yet seen. However, I'm adding it to my NetFlix queue likenow.] I imagine that on set, Wright likes to "let the camera run" on a scene and then edits those little tidbits and moments into the film--moments where we catch an actor sighing, scanning the setting with their eyes, or moving their hands in a way that adds both verisimilitude to the scene and depth to the character.
Wright, however, juxtaposes the toughness of life on the street and the feeling of hopelessness often associated with mental illness with the grace of music and art, and the human capacity for friendship that transforms lives. Elements such as Seamus McGarvey's thoughtful cinematography, Susannah Grant's screenplay (based on real-life newspaper columnist Steve Lopez's book The Soloist), and Sarah Greenwood's fitting art direction all enhance the overall feeling of the film. (Greenwood and Wright are frequent co-collaborators and have produced some amazingly lasting images in the past ten years of film; I think no better example of this the movie Atonement, especially the first two "parts".)
Foxx provides another carefully crafted, excellent performance as a musician in this film (see also: Ray, obviously). His innate sense of musicality as an actual musician provides for a freedom in acting as a man who plays multiple instruments in the film, including violin and cello. Foxx plays Nathaniel Ayers, a Julliard-trained cellist who loses everything when schizophrenia takes over his life. There is a great risk in playing someone with a mental illness, especially one as unpredictable as schizophrenia, yet Foxx accomplishes this with a sense of quiet power that almost makes the viewer forget that Ayers does suffer from a mental illness over which he has no control. In that sense, it's easy to see why Ayers embraces the beauty of the music he makes--because he can control it, and because he's creating something everyone loves.
Downey, Jr. acts as Foxx's foil as Los Angeles Times writer Steve Lopez. Lopez is one of those guys who's all business, constantly searching for his next great story; he doesn't have time for "human interest" even though that's what he writes about. To be honest, I think Downey didn't have to act much as Lopez; I think he often found a great deal of similarity between his own personality and Lopez's. Still, the strides Lopez makes throughout the film are not insignificant, especially when it seems like all the hard work he's put into helping Ayers might be for naught. The scenes where Downey and Foxx are acting together--and against each other--are the most energetic and interesting of the film.
At times, I found the plot a bit slow, but the film is punctuated with such moments of beauty--in the music, the cinematography, and in the acting--that it's easy to forgive a languid moment in passing.
My review: 8/10
In the "Making of The Soloist" special feature on the DVD, director Joe Wright (Pride & Prejudice, Atonement) remarks on his initial hesitation to direct the film: as a native Brit, he'd only ever filmed movies about England in England. He was unsure he would be successful at directing a film set in Los Angeles dealing with homelessness in that city. Wright needn't have doubted himself one iota.
With The Soloist, Wright cements himself as one of my top five favorite directors. Even when the subject is gritty (such as homelessness in The Soloist), violent (Atonement), or hopelessly romantic (Pride & Prejudice), Wright executes his directorial vision with clear elegance. [I'm omitting here his film Hanna, which I have not yet seen. However, I'm adding it to my NetFlix queue likenow.] I imagine that on set, Wright likes to "let the camera run" on a scene and then edits those little tidbits and moments into the film--moments where we catch an actor sighing, scanning the setting with their eyes, or moving their hands in a way that adds both verisimilitude to the scene and depth to the character.
Wright, however, juxtaposes the toughness of life on the street and the feeling of hopelessness often associated with mental illness with the grace of music and art, and the human capacity for friendship that transforms lives. Elements such as Seamus McGarvey's thoughtful cinematography, Susannah Grant's screenplay (based on real-life newspaper columnist Steve Lopez's book The Soloist), and Sarah Greenwood's fitting art direction all enhance the overall feeling of the film. (Greenwood and Wright are frequent co-collaborators and have produced some amazingly lasting images in the past ten years of film; I think no better example of this the movie Atonement, especially the first two "parts".)
Foxx provides another carefully crafted, excellent performance as a musician in this film (see also: Ray, obviously). His innate sense of musicality as an actual musician provides for a freedom in acting as a man who plays multiple instruments in the film, including violin and cello. Foxx plays Nathaniel Ayers, a Julliard-trained cellist who loses everything when schizophrenia takes over his life. There is a great risk in playing someone with a mental illness, especially one as unpredictable as schizophrenia, yet Foxx accomplishes this with a sense of quiet power that almost makes the viewer forget that Ayers does suffer from a mental illness over which he has no control. In that sense, it's easy to see why Ayers embraces the beauty of the music he makes--because he can control it, and because he's creating something everyone loves.
Downey, Jr. acts as Foxx's foil as Los Angeles Times writer Steve Lopez. Lopez is one of those guys who's all business, constantly searching for his next great story; he doesn't have time for "human interest" even though that's what he writes about. To be honest, I think Downey didn't have to act much as Lopez; I think he often found a great deal of similarity between his own personality and Lopez's. Still, the strides Lopez makes throughout the film are not insignificant, especially when it seems like all the hard work he's put into helping Ayers might be for naught. The scenes where Downey and Foxx are acting together--and against each other--are the most energetic and interesting of the film.
At times, I found the plot a bit slow, but the film is punctuated with such moments of beauty--in the music, the cinematography, and in the acting--that it's easy to forgive a languid moment in passing.
My review: 8/10
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Friends
Hello, faithful readers. Apologies for the long pause in between posts. My August has been somewhat busy (but not so busy that I wouldn't have been able to sit down and post something, so that's on me...my bad).
This August has been the August of friends. Earlier this month, I visited St. Paul, Minnesota and my best friend, Peter. We met our sophomore year in college as Religion majors and we have been giving each other a hard time ever since. Peter's job as a chaplain is perfect for him, because he is an incredibly thoughtful person and an amazing listener (which is good for me because I'm a talker!). I can tell him all my secrets and I know it won't change anything about our friendship. When I win my Oscar, he'll be the first person I thank after God and my family.
This August has been the August of friends. Earlier this month, I visited St. Paul, Minnesota and my best friend, Peter. We met our sophomore year in college as Religion majors and we have been giving each other a hard time ever since. Peter's job as a chaplain is perfect for him, because he is an incredibly thoughtful person and an amazing listener (which is good for me because I'm a talker!). I can tell him all my secrets and I know it won't change anything about our friendship. When I win my Oscar, he'll be the first person I thank after God and my family.
(Me and Peter in Minneapolis over St. Anthony Falls at the Mississippi River)
After I got back from St. Paul, I got a new foster kitteh! Her name is Tasha. She is basically the complete opposite of Buckley! She is very small (I can pick her up with one hand!) and she is very outgoing, friendly, chatty, silly, sweet, and loves to be the center of attention. Here is a picture of her:
(She is a girly-girl just like me--she likes shoes too!)
Last week, my friend Chase came to Chicago. He lives in St. Louis but he came to Chicago for a few days for work. He is a "new" friend because I have only known him for a few years. Still, it was really fun getting to hang out with him a little and we have a lot in common and it feels like we have known each other for a long time. We joke around a lot and he is a pretty funny guy, which means he is smart. (Guys, funny = smart in my book. If you can make me laugh, you are a smart guy.) (I don't have a photo of Chase, but you can check out his website here. He writes about music and sports and interesting stuff. He kind of looks like this guy Jake who I used to work with, but since none of you knew Jake, that's not very helpful.)
And then last weekend my sister came down to Chicago for a "Seastar Sleepover". We went out to dinner at a restaurant that had an outdoor patio and it was a beautiful night. Then we went to a party and I met a lot of awesome new people. I love my sister! She always makes me laugh and we have a lot in common and we talk about everything. She is my oldest, bestest friend.
(Here is a photo of my sister and I in Key West in March. We have matching Seastar tattoos!)
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Reading Rilke
"...there is an expanse opening about you. And when your nearness becomes distant, then you have already expanded far: to being among the stars. Your horizon has widened greatly. Rejoice in your growth. No one can join you in that."
"Believe, however, in a love that will be safely kept for you as a legacy and a trust, and trust that in it there is a power and a blessing."
(from Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke)
So, I'm current reading Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. Or, I'm trying not to read it. I'm trying to savor the experience and draw it out as long as I can. The letters (there are ten) are brief, but their language and imagery are eloquent, succinct, and as delicious to me as a fine meal would be to a gourmand.
I bought my first collection of Rilke's poetry in the spring and enjoyed so much of it. There's a lot going on there but knowing the context of the poetry only serves to enrich the words themselves.
I have said that if I were granted three wishes, one of my wishes would be to become synaesthetic--to have senses mingled together, enhanced by music, art, feeling, or emotion. I envy those artists, musicians, and others who are blessed with such an enrichment of creation. However, when I read good poetry, I think that's the closest I come to feeling like a synesthete. I can feel the texture of the words, the weight of phrases, the roll and gravity of syllables, the shape of the emotions elicited by the poet. I have a sense of immersion, and it's extremely fulfilling.
What are some of your favorite poets or poems?
"Believe, however, in a love that will be safely kept for you as a legacy and a trust, and trust that in it there is a power and a blessing."
(from Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke)
So, I'm current reading Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. Or, I'm trying not to read it. I'm trying to savor the experience and draw it out as long as I can. The letters (there are ten) are brief, but their language and imagery are eloquent, succinct, and as delicious to me as a fine meal would be to a gourmand.
I bought my first collection of Rilke's poetry in the spring and enjoyed so much of it. There's a lot going on there but knowing the context of the poetry only serves to enrich the words themselves.
I have said that if I were granted three wishes, one of my wishes would be to become synaesthetic--to have senses mingled together, enhanced by music, art, feeling, or emotion. I envy those artists, musicians, and others who are blessed with such an enrichment of creation. However, when I read good poetry, I think that's the closest I come to feeling like a synesthete. I can feel the texture of the words, the weight of phrases, the roll and gravity of syllables, the shape of the emotions elicited by the poet. I have a sense of immersion, and it's extremely fulfilling.
What are some of your favorite poets or poems?
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Quick photo post
Last weekend for my mom's birthday, my family went to see Cirque du Soleil's Ovo and then we went to Ditka's for dinner. Here's a picture of my sister, my dad and me about to enjoy some amazing dessert:
(I didn't put up a photo of my mom because I think she would not like that. But the three of us look pretty good in this picture so I think it's a good substitute.)
And then yesterday my fostercat Buckley went to his forever home. Mostly I feel relieved and happy. I am a little anxious to hear if his transition to his new home is going well, but I am glad he found such a nice home. Here's a picture of Buckley from a while ago playing in his paper bag rocketship:
And then yesterday my fostercat Buckley went to his forever home. Mostly I feel relieved and happy. I am a little anxious to hear if his transition to his new home is going well, but I am glad he found such a nice home. Here's a picture of Buckley from a while ago playing in his paper bag rocketship:
("To infinity, and beyond! Also, I like food.")
I hope you all are having a good week!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
"Forget What Did", Philip Larkin
Stopping the diary
Was a stun to memory,
Was a blank starting,
One no longer cicatrized
By such words, such actions
As bleakened waking.
l wanted them over.
Hurried to burial
And looked back on
Like the wars and winters
Missing behind the Windows
of an opaque childhood.
And the empty pages?
Should they ever be filled
Let it be with observed
Celestial recurrences,
The day the flowers come.
And when the birds go.
-"Forget What Did", Philip Larkin
Towards the end of my time in college, I took a class in Modern Poetry. (As a Religion major, I didn't have as many required courses for my major as a lot of other majors did, so I had a lot of elective space in my schedule. Taking an English course was usually my "fun" course for the term.) One of the requirements for this class beyond the regular readings and papers and class participation was to memorize a poem from our Norton Anthology and recite it in front of the class. I could have picked a poem by any number of poets familiar to me then, or even a poem that I knew fairly well, but instead I chose a poet and a poem I'd never heard of before. I think I did this so that I could approach the assignment with a "blank slate"--no preconceptions about the poet or the poem, no previous feelings or emotions of my own associated with the words.
Forget What Did is not a long poem, just 18 short lines in free verse. It wasn't a difficult assignment for me to memorize, having previously had the task of memorizing lines (even Shakespeare!) for theatre in high school. And as I worked on the memorization and inflection of the words, of course they began to become a part of me, and I associated certain words or phrases with feelings and emotions I've experienced.
As a girl, I occasionally kept a diary. I would receive a lovely blank diary as a gift, or buy one from the book fair, and rededicate myself to the task of entrusting my thoughts and feelings to its pages. I was never terribly diligent about this and as a result, when I left for college, my bookshelf had a half-dozen diaries half-filled with spelling mistakes, bad handwriting, and the usual teenage angst. I found them largely embarrassing but couldn't bring myself to throw them away.
In the Jewish tradition, when a Torah scroll (Sefer Torah) is aged or damaged beyond use, it is buried rather than thrown away or burned. This is because the Sefer Torah is considered part of God and must be treated with the utmost respect for its holiness. Sacred or profane, words have weight. Once uttered or written, words become a permanent part of history, whether they are ever heard or written by anyone else. Words, like memories, can be buried, but they will never cease to exist once they have been created.
The words in the poem stay with me always, even when I am not thinking about them. Still, sometimes a phrase will float up in my mind the way a bubble floats up from the muck at the bottom of a still pond. And I am reminded of the permanence of the words we put into our minds and onto the page, even if no one reads them.
Was a stun to memory,
Was a blank starting,
One no longer cicatrized
By such words, such actions
As bleakened waking.
l wanted them over.
Hurried to burial
And looked back on
Like the wars and winters
Missing behind the Windows
of an opaque childhood.
And the empty pages?
Should they ever be filled
Let it be with observed
Celestial recurrences,
The day the flowers come.
And when the birds go.
-"Forget What Did", Philip Larkin
Towards the end of my time in college, I took a class in Modern Poetry. (As a Religion major, I didn't have as many required courses for my major as a lot of other majors did, so I had a lot of elective space in my schedule. Taking an English course was usually my "fun" course for the term.) One of the requirements for this class beyond the regular readings and papers and class participation was to memorize a poem from our Norton Anthology and recite it in front of the class. I could have picked a poem by any number of poets familiar to me then, or even a poem that I knew fairly well, but instead I chose a poet and a poem I'd never heard of before. I think I did this so that I could approach the assignment with a "blank slate"--no preconceptions about the poet or the poem, no previous feelings or emotions of my own associated with the words.
Forget What Did is not a long poem, just 18 short lines in free verse. It wasn't a difficult assignment for me to memorize, having previously had the task of memorizing lines (even Shakespeare!) for theatre in high school. And as I worked on the memorization and inflection of the words, of course they began to become a part of me, and I associated certain words or phrases with feelings and emotions I've experienced.
As a girl, I occasionally kept a diary. I would receive a lovely blank diary as a gift, or buy one from the book fair, and rededicate myself to the task of entrusting my thoughts and feelings to its pages. I was never terribly diligent about this and as a result, when I left for college, my bookshelf had a half-dozen diaries half-filled with spelling mistakes, bad handwriting, and the usual teenage angst. I found them largely embarrassing but couldn't bring myself to throw them away.
In the Jewish tradition, when a Torah scroll (Sefer Torah) is aged or damaged beyond use, it is buried rather than thrown away or burned. This is because the Sefer Torah is considered part of God and must be treated with the utmost respect for its holiness. Sacred or profane, words have weight. Once uttered or written, words become a permanent part of history, whether they are ever heard or written by anyone else. Words, like memories, can be buried, but they will never cease to exist once they have been created.
The words in the poem stay with me always, even when I am not thinking about them. Still, sometimes a phrase will float up in my mind the way a bubble floats up from the muck at the bottom of a still pond. And I am reminded of the permanence of the words we put into our minds and onto the page, even if no one reads them.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The One Where Buckley Gets Adopted
Well, friends, the day has come. My awesome, adorable, funny fostercat Buckley is finally getting adopted!
Buckley was my first fostercat through Hyde Park Cats. I got him on October 31, 2010, and fostered him from a scared, skinny friendly feral to a sweet, funny, fat, lovable cuddler. He will be going to his forever home the first week in August, and although I am very happy that he's found a wonderful forever home, it will be a little bittersweet for me. However, soon after he goes to his forever home, I'm sure I'll have a new fostercat to take care of (maybe even a kitten!).
(Apparently he has a pose he really likes to use, and it is "Kittehloaf".)
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