Phobos and Deimos

It's the most wonderful time of the year. The leaves are gorgeous, the weather is just cold enough, and it smells SO DAMN GOOD. Somebody should make an air freshener or a body spray that smells like leaves and campfires. Or a detergent, then your clothes would smell amazing. All the time. And, as Strongbad would say, the ladies would be all up on. But I am not here (Yes, here, in your living room. Turn around.) to tell you about things that smell good, even though I could go on for many ages of man about things that smell good. I am here to tell you about how much I adore Halloween.

I really love Halloween, and while a lot of it has to do with pumpkins and obscure religious holidays, a good bit of it has to do with how much fun it is to be scared. I don't mean a man in a mask jumping out from behind a corner, I mean edge of your seat blood-chilling horror. In celebration of fear and terror, I offer you a list of truly frightening movies for you to enjoy this wonderful holiday season. And for the rest of the year too. Let the fear and panic never end!

Here they are, in no particular order:

1. A Nightmare On Elm Street - Perfect for the paranoid insomniac in all of us.

2. Silent Hill - ...::shudder::

3. Rear Window - Yes, your neighbors are watching you.

4. Psycho - Who needs showers anyway, right?

5. Repo! The Genetic Opera - Who knew plastic surgery could be so horrifying? Oh, wait.

6. The Birds - Everyone is a little ornithihobic really.

7. Hellraiser - Okay, maybe it is just gross. But still.

8. Pan's Labyrinth - That eyeball monster with the shoes gives any sane person nightmares.

9. Titanic - Oh, come on, I cannot be the only one who thinks it is scary.



Before I leave you to watch, and be horrified by these movies, I want to share with you my (mis)adventure for the evening, my internet darlings. My night was spent at the Brooke Hill haunted house, just across the boarder of West Virgina. Before I go on, I must tell you that I have a thing about being touched. Namely, I don't like it. And by don't like, I mean loathe. And by that, I mean that I get incredibly upset and tend to freak out when somebody I do not know/trust makes physical contact with me. That being said, let me tell you that, while in most states it is illegal for the staff in places such as haunted houses to touch you, in WV, it is legal, and, I suspect, encouraged. I did not know this. I had been in the house for perhaps ten minutes when a couple of ghouls decided that it would be a good idea to grab me. And let me add that they were none too gentle. I politely asked them to let go of me, explaining that I did not particularly like being touched. They refused to let go, and mocked me. I asked again. They started to pull at my clothing. I told them that I might hurt them if they did not let go. They started pushing me. I struggled. They informed me that I was "out of there!" To which I responded "Then LET GO OF ME." I was shoved towards and exit while people shouted something about a girl with violent tendencies.

After I got over the whole being touched thing, I laughed.

Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton's Cafeteria

Last week, my room mate and I stumbled into a screening for Screaming Queens. I say stumbled, because we had no idea what we were getting into. All I knew was that there was some documentary about transgender women for GLBTQ film month at the library... I had no idea what to expect, but it sounded interesting.
What we watched was a documentary about transgender women living in San Francisco during the late 1960's. These are women who were born male, but lived their lives from a very young age as women.
Before I continue; let me clarify a few things. In this context, gender and sex are not synonymous. Gender, as defined in these terms, has to do with social and behavioral norms that are associated with a specific sex. However, sex is defined as the actual biological anatomy of a person's reproductive organs. People who have a gender identity that differs from their biological sex often use pronouns that correlate with their gender identity (Although not always) (This person would be considered transgender. A person who has undergone operations and procedures to change their biological sex is considered a transsexual.).
These individuals were often shunned from their families and had an impossible time finding respectable work. Many, if not most, of them ended up forced into a life of prostitution or homelessness. Everything about their lives was difficult. Even finding housing during this era was difficult as no one would rent to them. For security, large groups of them often lived together. Often times, they would try to live as men- but could not pass because they were too feminine. When they tried living as women- they were rejected for being transgender. As if all of this was not bad enough; they were also often the subject of harassment, and far too often were directly assaulted. Anyone who is being attacked or harassed should be able to call the police, however, a trans woman fifty years ago did not have that option. This is not because the police were simply absent. Tragically, the police were often the ones initiating or enabling the harassment.
The film highlights The Compton riot, an event that spearheaded significant legal and social progress for trans individuals to hold jobs. The actual riot was not terribly remarkable. The aftermath, however, was. Sergeant Elliot Blackstone, a police chief at the time, was compelled by what caused the riot; which led him to discover the suffrage of this people group. He took it upon himself to initiate the process of creating a peer-run support and advocacy organization that supported trans individuals with medical, psychological and social services. It became easier for trans persons in San Francisco to find jobs, receive proper medical care and be legally more protected from harassment.
The political and social changes that took place the following decade for sexual minorities were also discussed in the film.



Following the screening; director Susan Stryker, spoke about the film creation process and answered questions relating to the topics covered in the documentary. Stryker is a historian, professor, published author, filmmaker and artist who focuses on issues relating to the queer community, gender and sexuality. It was absolutely fascinating hearing her speak.

Sabriel by Garth Nix

One of my favorite books of all time, I first discovered Sabriel in book-on-tape form sitting on the shelf of the Beaver library. My sister and I were really big on audio books so I picked it up, examined the girl in her fancy surcoat with her shiny bells and long black hair and decided it was something I wanted to hear. I took it home alone with its two sequels, Lirael and Abhorsen, and spent the next few nights listening to the sound of Tim Curry’s voice reading me a story of adventure and necromancy.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it over the years. I even bought the book during my first trip to Barns and Noble’s. It’s a fantastic story filled with adventure, horror, passion and of course, magic. And it’s exactly the type of book I’ve always wanted to write.

Sabriel takes place in a 1920’s esc world. We don’t know much about the planet; just that it’s like earth, mostly. We are focused on two countries; Ancelstierre, which is a world of science and technology much like ours, and The Old Kingdom, a land full of magic that seems to be stuck in the dark ages. They are separated by The Wall which is as old as the Charter itself. What’s the Charter, you might ask? That’s a very good question. There are two kinds of magic, Free Magic, which is extremely wild, dangerous, and often corrupt, and Charter Magic, which is pure and controllable, using Charter marks for spell casting and so on. It’s a sort of light v. dark thing, I guess. All magic started as Free Magic until the Nine Bright Shiners formed the Charter. You don’t see them until the second book though, so pay them no mind. The only thing you need to know is that they made the Charter, built the Wall and formed the Three Blood Lines: The Crown, The Abhorsen and The Clayr.

Our hero, Sabriel is a sixth form school girl in Ancelstierre who is getting ready to graduate. While she may appear to be a normal girl, she’s a powerful Charter mage and her father is a necromancer, but not of the usual sort. He’s known only as Abhorsen and where others raise the dead, e only thing I wish I could do he puts them back to rest. But you don’t thwart the powers of darkness without making a lot of enemies and when a very powerful free magic spirit known as one of the Greater Dead traps him in death, he has no choice but to pass his name, sword and bells down to Sabriel without an explanation.

Naturally, Sabriel is determined to find her father. This means leaving her nice home in Ancelstierre where things are nice, clean and simple, and venturing forth into the rather wild, unsettled country of The Old Kingdom, which is filled with free magic, dead things and anarchy. To help her in her adventures she is stuck with Mogget, a cat shaped Free Magic creature bound to the Abhorsen, and Touchstone, a mopey Royal Guard who was imprisoned as a figure head for two hundred years. Both are fantastic characters. Sabriel, having been raised in Ancelstierre, knows very little about The Old Kingdom and would be lost without these two.

One of my favorite aspects by far is the bells. There are seven bells used for necromancy, named for seven of the Nine Bright Shiners, the seven who made the Charter. Each bell has a different size, sound and power. I used to be able to list all of them and what they did, but unfortunately my memory fails me and I must use Wikipedia to tell me their names.

Ranna – Sleeper

Mosrael – Waker

Kibeth – Walker

Dyrim – Speaker

Belgaer – Thinker

Saraneth – Binder

Astarael – Weeper

All are pretty straight forward except for Astarael, the Sorrowful. Astarael casts all who hear it into death. Ranna is the smallest and Astarael is the largest. The bells are used to bind the dead to the will of the necromancer, but each has a personality of its own and can easily turn on the ringer if not rung properly. Normally they use Free Magic but the Abhorsen’s bells are engraved with Charter marks that guide the magic to bind the dead.

Another unique aspect of The Old Kingdom world is death itself. I’m not sure if Garth Nix took this from some culture or what culture if he did, but death is shown as a river with nine gates. Death is not a safe place either. It’s full of free magic creatures and twisted dead spirits who have fought against the river for far too long, trying to claw their way back to Life. You’re not really gone until you pass the Ninth Gate. Most of the gates are either waterfalls or whirlpools but the Ninth Gate is a starry sky under which the water is finally calm. Again, you don’t see that until the third book. Half of Sabriel’s adventure takes place in Death, as is the way with necromancers.

I didn’t mean to go on this long, I really didn’t. As is my way, I start on one track and keep thinking of new things to go off on until I’ve lost my point completely. At any rate, the point is, I love this book. I love the plot and the characters and the world and I’m extremely jealous that I can’t write like that. I also may be slightly in love with Tim Curry’s voice. It’s so fancy and fitting. I hear it even when I read it by myself. Sabriel is my favorite, but Lirael and Abhorsen are also fantastic. They’re more closely related to each other, however, and have a much different feel, though really they’re about the same thing. I highly recommend all three.

appreciating despair

So by now you’ve already noticed that I have an erratic schedule.  Well, that might be institutionalizing it too much . . . I just tend to be bad at following patterns.  I picked up and went home to western Pennsylvania last weekend, much to the chagrin of the pile of homework that awaited me here in Virginia.  I was driving through lovely Appalachia all last Monday, tuning in to every brand of country ever created by the people of God and local news that included such fascinating tidbits as the destruction of a local farmer’s fence.  Yes, I finished my trip feeling much more enlightened.

I could start small, build up with a little fluff and cream, like maybe Charlotte Bronte or Betty Smith or something, but I like to haul out the big guns almost right away.  Now I understand he might not be that popular in certain circles, being a male chauvinist, an alcoholic, a brutal realist, and – worst of all worsts – famous.  He wrote a book about an old guy sitting in a boat talking to a fish that most of us had to drag our heels through in high school.  His name has the perchance to stir up negative emotions.

But Ernest Hemingway is a devastating genius, and I’ll tell you why.  He is unflinching and unadorned and he looks at the world without blinking.  His idea of courage being “grace under pressure” might be an unattainable ideal, but it is refreshingly simplistic.  Almost existentialist, in his own way . . . He doesn’t seek to cure the world or even to make it a better place, but simply to bear it.  While this might not be the most hopeful of all epistemologies (he did end up shooting himself in the head), it is so honest it breaks the heart.

A Farewell to Arms and For Whom the Bell Tolls are monumental works, the likes of which had never quite been seen before.  But my absolute favorites are the short stories, where we get to know Hemingway in the brutally straightforward way he so valued.  The best collection, in my opinion, is The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories.  Granted, my copy probably saw the launch of man into outerspace . . . it’s pretty beaten up and old, but I’ve read it more than almost any other book I have.  And in this narrow volume is the best short story I’ve ever read, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.

It’s short, less than 1500 words.  Violent, rapid-fire dialogue and no adornments.  Read it here: http://www.mrbauld.com/hemclean.html

“What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.”

It is difficult to convey what this short paragraph means to me.  There are some of us who will always sense this struggle for dignity in a world without it, and some of us who won’t.  I’m not even sure which one I am.  I only recognize the division itself.  Who is the better off?  “The worst condition of despair is this,” Soren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher, once wrote.  “It is unaware of being despair.” 

We see these two waiters discussing the old man, one unable to understand, one a fellow traveler of the old man who goes and sits in cafes himself after his own closes.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

There is a gulf here which cannot be bridged, a fundamental disconnect between one who has everything and one who understands how that is no different than nothing, how the only object you can truly claim as your own is dignity.  The old man is careful, he does not spill his drink no matter how drunk he is.  Likewise, the waiter knows the importance of a clean, well-lighted café to face the darkness of night and the possibility of never waking up. 

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the café.”

We struggle for a third option between ignorance and despair.  Is there one?  Hemingway didn’t seem to think so.  Love him or hate him, he sat unflinchingly under the glare of this revelation.  Do I agree with him?  Partially, but that’s not what appreciating literature is about.  We cultivate different worldviews to make our own minds a little more open, to help us understand the people around us and away from us, and I think this is more important than any formal education could ever be.  We judge it on our own, but we’ve been inside someone else’s head, and their imprint never completely leaves us.  It gives us more space to work with when we encounter the world.  Understanding, after all, is the only way things really change.

“Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada.”

Art is Life

This is late....I am sorry! This Human was not thinking so much and is late coming on this blog for Sunday.

I tend to be rather practical. My appreciation of art usually is along the lines of what message it is sending. Last night I had the great opportunity to attend a Michael Franti concert with my sweetie. One  song I really enjoyed is rather simple, but speaks to the desire to be accepted for who we are. There has been a lot of news about teen suicides lately, and I wonder if this simple message is what has been lost in our culture. We need to not only tolerate one another, but accept each other. There is a big jump from tolerance to acceptance and this song illustrates how important it is to accept each other right where we are. Being accepted is akin to being hugged, not just put up with.

Here's Shake It with Michael Franti and Spearhead:

I have one word for you.

Babies.

I mean, who doesn't like babies? (Anybody who does not like babies can line up to the left, the firing squad will be arriving shortly.) They are cute (generally), they are soft, and the development of their brains is absolutely fascinating. I mean, the neuro-anatomy alone is amazing. For example, the clump of blood vessels that attach the brain to the skull are so delicate that that even a sudden movement can cause hemorrhaging, yet somehow everything still stays together. The release of serotonin that occurs every time the baby hears or sees their mother, the fact that the same minuscule processes are going on inside the brain of this infant as in the brain of his mother, is beautiful.

Sorry, I guess you can tell I am a neuroscience major.

Anyway, back to my original point: babies. More specifically, Babies.

Babies is a documentary that follows the lives and development of four children in different cities around the world. You are privileged with this unfiltered look into the lives of four families in San Fransisco, Opuwo, Tokyo, and Bayanchandmani, from birth up until their first steps. We see how they are all cared for and loved unconditionally, even while they grow and develop in environments that could not be more different. Except Mari and Hattie both have cats. Look at the kittieeeesss!













I like Mari's cat better. It looks like my Bowsik. Except Boz is black and white. But still FLUFFY AND GORGEOUS. Sorry. I am really off-topic today. Learn to embrace the tangent.

Anyway. Babies is an amazing film, and even if you don't like babies (the firing squad is almost here, stay to the left) you can appreciate the anthropological elements of the film. It is a stunning and unfiltered look at the lives of normal people around the world.

I Bring You Tidings Of Great Lateness

I so forgot today was my day, I hope you forgive me in my tardiness? My creative mind has been turned to mush recently by the absence of a lot of awesome in my life. Although I did head to my city's museum and an open mic the other day. Long Beach has an amazing art scene which I really feel doesn't get enough credit. The talent here is underrated by the LA hipsters and UCLA artist savants. Our culture is underground and amazing if you know where to look. There is much to be discovered and if you're ever my way, ring me up and I will show you exactly where to go.
I think the same can be said for most small towns. Most people refuse to find the awesome communities in small town because the population isn't of the "superior caliber" of a big city. Which is a huge shame. People don't see what they're missing out on in efforts to fit in with the masses. Undoubtedly I could if I wanted, yet my heart lies with the eclectic and eccentric. I live for the queer and obscure. I am amazed by what is unconventional and borderline peculiar, hence the photo from my last post. I was at a music and art showcase a couple of months ago where my kind kind of people were abundant. And I felt so at home I never wanted to leave. There was a band from little ole Lincoln, Nebraska called Once A Pawn, which if you haven't heard of them, get on it. I dig their style and talked with them and got my CD's signed. I kind of acted like a little kid excited about Christmas. Somehow or another we were conversing about music and they mentioned a band called Lost In The Trees, another band I'm a huge fan of.
As far as I know, they are still pretty unknown; totally my favorite kinds of bands. They hail from Chapel Hill and definitely have a unique take on the growing genre of symphonic rock. They are my kind of peculiar, experimental music. I can't say enough good things, so I'll stop right here. Check them out, enjoy them. I'll be back here next week, on time, scout's honor

Across the Universe, a musical.

Across the Universe is a creative musical based on The Beatles songbook. The film features six young adults who transplant themselves to New York City during the politically pivotal time of the early 1960’s. The two key characters are Jude, an artistic illegal immigrant, and Lucy, an upper-class college student.


Their stories are told in an abstract, highly theatrical, risqué and well-choreographed presentation. Subtle Beatle’s references are scattered throughout the film; ranging from song-lyric inspired lines to the concluding song, All You Need is Love, which takes place on a rooftop.
Endorsed and consulted by Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr and Yoko Ono; the musical stays very true to the original artistic intentions.
Themes such as the tense political climate of the time, The Vietnam War, the struggle for free speech and civil rights, anti-war protests, drug experimentation and the sexual revolution define the world in which the story takes place.
Narrowly escaping an R-rating, some might find the themes to be a bit controversial.

My take on provocative art is this; let it stir you. Think about why it disconcerts you, consider why you feel that way; and your work is done. You are free to hate it, love it, mildly disagree... It could even change your opinion. I don’t think that art necessarily has to be a trippy-hippie paradigm of accepting everything (Unless if that is your prerogative). I feel that giving a controversial subject thought and sharpening or changing an opinion is an empowering, underrated experience.

Sorry. I went off on a tangent again.

Across the Universe.
It's great.
Go watch it.

We're All Mad Here

One of my favorite things of all time is the Cheshire Cat. I absolutely adore him in nearly all the forms he takes. He’s such a fun character. He’s completely neutral and serves only to point Alice in a random direction so the story can continue. Since I have such a history with this story and it plays a key role in some of my fondest memories, I thought I would tell you all about it.

We all know the story. A little girl from Victorian England fallows a rabbit down a rabbit hole and somehow ends up in the crazy messed up world of Wonderland. We follow her as she makes her way around the world, encountering strange people and creatures and eating food that makes you grow and drinking drinks that make you shrink. The Alice story was originally written by Lewis Carroll who was kind of a pervert. I once wrote a paper on him, for a History fair I believe. He liked little girls, but not little boys, and pretty much no one else. He actually based Alice on a girl named Alice Little who he used to play with. Yeah, he was a creep. At any rate, it’s a good story, though he was probably high while writing it. It’s become a classic, as has its sequel Through the Looking Glass.

There have been a lot of adaptations of the story in both film and play. The most well know, obviously is the Disney version of Alice in Wonderland, the animated version. The version we grew up with. I will admit that I didn’t like the movie when I was young, and really, I’m still not a huge fan. It scared me as a child and I hated seeing Alice crying in the dark because it made me feel sad. When I got older and actually read the books it bothered me for another reason. It’s dumb, but it bothers me that they smashed the books together and just called it Alice in Wonderland. I realize that they do that in like every version, but still, it drove me nuts. At any rate, that was that. The new movie pleases me much more. Again, they took elements from both books, but this time I can forgive them because it wasn’t Wonderland either. It was Underland that she called Wonderland, there for it’s an entirely different matter and since it’s all in her head anyway, they can be smooshed together. I really loved the movie though. I’m a huge Johnny Depp fan so that helped. His mad hatter was brilliant~ I’m a fool for a Scottish accent. The whole idea of taking the story we know and love, twisting the characters a bit, and putting a nineteen-year-old Alice into the middle of the whole thing was a lot of fun. Adults react differently than children do and even though Alice is more sensible now, she still holds enough childishness inside her to get by in this crazy messed up world. As the opening suggests, I’m also incredibly fond of the Cheshire Cat. He’s so much fun to watch and read and act. He can do pretty much anything that he wants but doesn’t because he simply doesn’t feel like it. He’s awesome!~

So I guess you’re wondering why this has special meaning to me? I did say it contributed to some of my fondest memories. Well, aside from watching it with one of my best friends in the whole world, it gave me my favorite and first leading role in a play. I was in eighth grade and in the senior drama class in my homeschooler’s group. We needed something for the History Fair and somehow we picked Alice in Wonderland for our script. Admittedly it was kind of by default that I got the part. We were all in the Co-op play and the other two girls had bigger roles than my little part as the villain’s girlfriend. So since I had the least amount to memorize for that, I got the biggest part in this; Alice. Still, a lead is a lead and I was pleased to have it. It was so much fun, too. The script was pretty much word for word from the book and I got to memorize all of it for my part. Not because I had to, just because that’s how I am. I can still spout out pieces from the Cheshire Cat. We found pictures of it while getting ready for my grad party and it pleased me so much to remember it. It’s one memory I would love to relive over and over again.

So, if you haven’t read it, read it. If you haven’t watched it, watch it. It’s a fantastic and greatly amusing story that I’m rather in love with.

October 15, A Remembrance

I love it when different parts of my life align themselves like teacups on a shelf. I didn't put them there. They arranged themselves. Please forgive me if today's entry is too personal, but I can't pass up this chance to write about the significance of this date (October 15). First of all, it's my nephew Alex's birthday....so Happy B'day, Big Al! (And, I am not even sure he'll read this!)

But back to the personal significance of why I am writing about October 15. I am a mother. I have borne 6 children, all of whom are the most amazing people in my life. As they have grown to adulthood, they have become my closest friends. And, yes, I am blessed to have six, when so many women cannot have even one. But, along the way there have been losses. When I was in the early weeks of my sixth pregnancy, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. My youngest was three at the time. I felt overwhelmed, but still over all hopeful that we would adjust. One morning after exercising, I experienced some light bleeding...in no time at all I was losing larger amounts of blood....in a panic I drove to the doctor office. (Note to self: next time call 911, I almost fainted in the car.) Without going into the details, I'll just tell you that I miscarried that day. I experienced a molar pregnancy, a rare condition where the placenta over multiplies and absorbs the fetal tissue. I had to be monitored for 6 months to make sure it didn't become cancerous. My heart was grieved like I have never experienced before. I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest. It was a difficult time, and had it not been for my kids, and close friends I don't know how I would have recovered. I hugged my kids, wrote a poem, planted a yellow rose bush, journaled, cried and tried to move on. That was on May 5. The baby would have been due on October 15.

Fast forward 13 years. My older daughter sent me a fb invite for a day to remember babies who died before they had a chance to be born. The date? October 15.

And then, on my writing desk for work, I have an assignment to write a pregnancy article about pregnancy loss, specifically the type I experienced. The due date? October 15.

And today, October 15, I am marveling at the fact that I can tell you all of that, and sit here and write.....and I am not in a puddle of tears on the floor. I am ok now. In fact, today I am going with my sweet man to Lancaster, where he gets to meet my son, Matt and his fiance' Larissa. Instead of being at an ending, I am experiencing a beginning. A new chapter in my life has begun.

The poem I wrote in October of 1997 reflects the hope that someday I would move on. Here is a snippet of that verse:

The lonely tree stands tall against a stormy sky.

Empty branches reach like aching arms to the grey sky above.

Leaves drop like silent teardrops to the stony ground below.

The wind whispers lonely midnight lullabies.

But the roots reach with hope to nourishing waters below.

In the darkest night, it felt the slightest promise of spring, a tiny

bud of promise for tomorrow.

Today, it is tomorrow.

Me and Bethany in 2008.



Festen

Hello my lovelies, I regret to inform you that the film I am sharing with you, Festen, is one that reduces me to tears. (Once during my freshmen film class. Oh, the judging that ensued.) If you are like me, and prone to very, erm, passionate, emotions, you might want to avoid watching this film.

Festen (translated as The Celebration) is a Danish film by Thomas Vinterberg in 1998 as part of the Dogme 95 movement. For those of my devoted readers who are unfamiliar with Dogme 95, it was a set of rules created as a sort of game for filmmakers, the result of which caused the films to be very raw in appearance. Transitions between scenes are very abrupt because of the absence of sound-bridges, and the dialog is frequently hard to understand, because all sound is recorded simultaneous to the video. I love it.

The Celebration (as I am going to now refer to it for my English-speaking audience), is about a family gathering to celebrate their father, Helge's, sixtieth birthday. In the course of their celebration, family secrets are exposed, including why exactly Christian, the eldest son, hates his father, and why Christian's twin sister Linda committed suicide. Michael's unfaithfulness to his wife, the elder's racism towards Gbatokai, middle-sister Helene's new American, and black, boyfriend are made painfully apparent, and the resulting film is equal parts funny and utterly heart-crushing.

Before you watch The Celebration, there are a few things that you should know.
Firstly, the film is allegorical. Helge and Michael are a representation of Denmark's corrupted, patriarchal government, while Helge's wife, Else, and Helene are symbolic of women's apathy in Denmark's government.

Second, racism is illegal in Denmark. Gbatokai and the way he is received by the general family, goes to show that, while racism may be illegal, it does not lessen its frequency and intensity.

Thirdly, the percentage of children who are sexually abused in Denmark is the same as in the United States, roughly 25%. Because of its blatantly honest themes regarding abuse, The Celebration was actually banned for many years.

I will be honest, this film, while it never shows any graphic flashbacks (Dogme films always being set in the present, and with a strictly chronological time-line), it does bring up a lot of heavy and incredibly sad material. It is definitely intense, and really not a movie to watch "just for fun." But it is still one of my favorites. The characters are ugly and raw and honest and beautiful. All at once, Vinterberg throws real life and allegory at you, creating a picture that is both chaotic and painfully clear. There is no way that anybody could watch this film and not have a reaction. Whether it hurts you, disgusts you, you love it, you hate it, you only like it as a friend, you think it is obnoxious, loud, gorgeous, or just sad, there is no way you can feel indifferent towards it. Let me know if you agree.

I'll leave. I should have done it much earlier. I know I will fill your life with darkness, Christian. I tried to call you... But I know you're busy. I don't want you to feel sad. I think it's light and beautiful on the other side. I'm looking forward to it. Although I'm a bit scared too. I'm scared to go without you. I'll love you eternally.
-Linda

I love falling in love with the idea of ambiguity, which is odd for the fact I like to see things clearly. But the abstract in life is what makes it so damn interesting. It's kind of like trying to contour occam's razor into average human life. Many enjoy it, but how many really understand it? For instance, this photo I love, and I have no idea why. The message, personally is quite unclear to me. But I have a quirk about what I don't understand, what I don't "get." I'm more interested the less I know. I mean, I've been a fan of Monet since I was a youngin' and stared at the 'Les Peupliers' painting. I'll never know why it caught my eye at such a young age, but it did. And it has remained with me all these years. There's a certain dichotomy within me that enjoys sweet mixed with a little rough around the edges. Even in the soft spots of impressionism I find a toughness you won't get in a run of the mill oil canvas structure, though I may just be bias. With all that being said, the point I guess is this. Taking a gander at what cannot be concisely explained is what we all love about art. Openness to interpretation allows for loving debate over style and meaning and purpose. The main thing to remember is to enjoy it, whatever your "it" may be.

Cheers all, hasta semana

I think... I need to sleep

Or maybe not, who knows? I've only been awake over 24 hours. Why you ask, I haven't the slightest idea to be honest
Tis I Alex again if you have forgotten me from 7 days ago. The past couple nights I've been awake watching movies with a girl I've been seeing. But a second ago she was tucked under my arm resting peacefully. Now a night owl I am for sure, but it's border lining on commuter alarm clock time right now. And especially considering the West Coast sun will be shining in my face in about an hour and a half, you'd think I'd be trying to figure a way to get those counting sheep to sing a lullaby or something. Alas I did not, therefore I am not sleeping
So since today is my day, all day, I want to talk about films. AND I LOVE EM! I love old films, new films, B/W films, indie films, documentaries, and I'm pretty sure silent films if I'd ever seen one. I have had a ridiculous amount of time to bring down and restock my current Netflix queue given my recent unemployment. Crazy amount of movies + my free time = happy me. There was one in particular I saw recently that I've been meaning to see forever: Aurora Borealis, mostly because of Juliette Lewis (Whip It anyone? And have you seen her perform, dude). And because I'm almost positive when I wake up sometime in the afternoon that I'll be posting again, I'll keep this short and just leave you with a trailer for you to check out should your artistic soul move you so

Bicycling: Recreation, Transportation, Meditation

 My first experiences with bicycling were limited to the alley outside of my grandparents’ house extending laterally two blocks to the parking lot of St. Michael’s Catholic Church in one direction and the lot of the Morgan Building [now burned down] in the other. I could go a slightly farther distance down the hill to Father Marinaro Park, but I seldom chose that option due to the fact that the return trip was up a steep hill. In fact, the hill was so steep, that riding down it with cheap pedal brakes was quite a harrowing experience as well. When I did venture down Brown Avenue, I would stand on the pedals, applying as much might as I could until, the bottom rapidly approaching, I’d invariably resort to a Flinstone-like foot drag complete with pedals gouging the backs of my calves at alternating intervals. I was sure that one day I would end up unable to stop and be flattened by a car in the middle of Center Avenue, or worse yet crash headlong through the plate glass window of the penny candy store that sat right at the juncture of Brown and Center.

I never even bothered taking my bike anywhere further up the hill from where we lived. Needless to say, this was a very small radius in which to enjoy riding. The ability to ride a bike was a hard-won prize, with many instances of gravel-encrusted road rash punctuating the journey to proficiency. But it was just recreation for me; something fun to do with friends to pass the time and get me out of my grandmother’s hair. It was not until I was a young adult fresh out of high school that I moved to Philadelphia and gained a whole new perspective on bicycling.

Although I was eighteen years old, I had not yet acquired my driver’s license. Once in Philly, it seemed unnecessary and actually like almost more of a hindrance to own and operate a vehicle. The people I knew who did drive had constant complaints of traffic, lack of parking, high insurance, gas and repair costs, and smashing of their windows and theft of their radios. Between the buses, trolleys, trains and subways, I figured I could access just about anywhere I wanted to go at a reasonable price. The only drawback to public transportation was that I often had to walk several blocks to get to it, possibly transfer to another line, and then walk several more blocks to my final destination. The whole process could eat up a significant amount of my day, and if not careful cause me to be chronically late. A friend suggested I use some leftover funds from my student loan to purchase a bicycle.

I bought a brand new Trek and was now able to traverse the relatively flat city in many cases more quickly than my counterparts in cars. I could leave directly from my door and arrive as close to my destination as the nearest tree, sign, parking meter, or bike rack. Luckily, since I was often headed for the Temple University campus, finding a bike rack was pretty easy. When I worked my shift as a waitress at the Down Home Diner in Reading Terminal Market, the management allowed me to bring my bike inside for safer storage. I now owned a quick and reliable mode of transportation that was also economical [initial cost was about $300 and upkeep was minimal]. On most days of the year, an observer in the daily commute could spot me looking turtle-like in my backpack stuffed to the maximum, wearing some kind of hat [never a helmet] and in colder weather trailing a long colorful scarf behind me, riding along the edge of the road, dodging the suddenly opened doors of parked cars, right turns by impatient motorists and distracted pedestrians. Aside from the risks of accidents, there were very few “downsides” to cycling; if I needed to go a great distance or the weather was too bad, I could still catch public transportation on occasion. Riding every day had the added benefit of keeping me in excellent physical condition.

Even though I rode each day on the fast-paced and traffic filled streets of Philadelphia in order to get from point “A” to point “B”, I also would ride for enjoyment. Previously, I had never ridden a bike with shifters and hand brakes and it took some getting used to, but I learned to love the way the “hyperglide” feature would smoothly move the chain from sprocket to sprocket at just the merest flick of my thumb. I began to physically tune in to my bike and could tell when it was time to shift up or down, even though I could not have translated these actions into words by naming the actual gear I was in. I rode in the rain. I rode in the snow. I rode through the Richard B Allen Housing Projects where the children would sometimes gather on the corner and throw small pebbles [and on one especially hot occasion coffee cans full of water] at me as I rode past. I biked on the streets and in Fairmount Park, on the trails along Kelly Drive and at Penn’s Landing. I traveled by bicycle from South Street to Spring Garden, from Chinatown to the Museum and everywhere in between. At some point these excursions became more than a means of travel, but were also my time for meditation and contemplation.

While riding, my senses were heightened and engaged to the fullest, I moved in harmony with the machine I sat astride, the sound of my breath, my heartbeat and the swoosh of the wind traveling past my ears was my mantra. Somehow my consciousness would shift and even though I maintained this vigilant state, I also would get impressions from deeper in my psyche. I would think of creative projects or have spiritual and philosophical insights or work on healing the deep wounds of childhood. One night, while in this trance-like state, my friend and I rode out onto the newly constructed and not yet opened Vine Street Extension. The graded pavement slid silkily past my tires and as I crested the small rise in the road, I was met by the most beautiful full moon hanging like an earring from the steel girder ear of Liberty One. I stopped a moment to gaze in awe at the sublimity of nature juxtaposed with the creative prowess of human kind and felt grateful that I was able to be present for this gift. At that moment, it occurred to me that my relationship with my bicycle shared a similar synthesis of the organic with the mechanistic and I knew that I would be a life-long lover of cycling.