I saw Julie and Julia shortly after it came out. My love for Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci coupled with my appreciation for the way that two perfect strangers can become so closely connected through a common factor resulted in a wonderful two hours of laughing over the nonsensical charm of the Great Julia Childs and the girlish vulnerability of the sweet Julie Powell. Somehow through all that laughter, I didn't think to react in so many other ways. I missed the desperation that led Julie to start a blog in the first place. In the year since it came out, I lost sight of the weight having that blog bore on her life. Most incredibly, I forgot that she was a writer.
I call myself a writer. I won't say I deserve the title. I stopped truly earning it around seventh grade and since eighth grade I've been actively pursuing other fields; fields in which I want to have a career and make a name for myself. Still, when I'm in the same room as a person who writes and they ask how many writers are present, I can't help but raise my hand. Poorly disciplined though I am, it's as much a part of me as my voice or my hair, if not a bit less obnoxious. Still, it's there and I can no more deny it than I can stop breathing. Even if I tried for awhile, my body would eventually resume on instinct the shaping and grouping of words that so rarely make it to a page. Likewise, the thing that makes me a writer, whatever you want to call it, dictates that I feel a certain kinship with all other writers, far away as they are, the same way one is happy to meet a distant cousin simply by merit of the few alleles they have in common. Julie Powell is a writer. Julie and I are kindred. And all of a sudden those two hours are so much more than a funny movie.
There is so much of me in Julie that I didn't see before: we're both struggling through the mundane while still hoping to pull ourselves out completely at some point. We both started off with great potential that fizzled out into dealing with real life. We both have a problem finishing things that we've started. I get into this movie now and marvel at finding a kindred spirit; a bosom friend. We both try...and wish that the fact that we tried matters more. But of course as soon as I see myself in her I take a step back and see someone greater. She started her blog with a purpose, determined to accomplish a specific goal. I started my blog at the end of a long day because I was happy and thought that things to write (things that people would care to read) about would suddenly fall into my lap after something in my life changed based on the choices of someone else and the only intention I had when I started was to flex the writing muscle again. She succeeded and built on her success. I, if only because of the nature of my endeavor, will probably never succeed. She reached out to thousands of people describing how she broke down and fell and picked herself up again. It takes me weeks to get my sister to read through an entire post. We're kindred. We're alike enough to bind us together and we're different enough to make us not want to eat each other if we're trapped in a room together. We're far enough away that one of us can be significant to the other who is perfectly free to go on about her life. So it was with Julia Childs. But being the realist that I am, I have to wonder how much of this kinship is real and how much is imaginary. How much of the bond that's formed between me and my new friend Julie is based on our never meeting each other? How much of this admiration I feel is harvested by movie magic? If I tried to speak to my new friend, would I feel as comforted by the struggle of a woman sitting across from me as I do by the story of a woman trapped in a big box? I'm sure she never doubted the reality of her Julia Childs when Powell first started her journey. She didn't worry that the picture in her head might be blurry or the presence in her kitchen may be more fict than fact. She didn't think to worry about those things when she set out. And when it finally occurred to her, it didn't matter. The picture she had was beautiful. The presence she encountered was comforting. When she found herself in the kitchen, at her cubicle, on the computer, her Julia helped her through. When she was floating and found herself accomplishing nothing, this Julia gave her something to accomplish. This perfect stranger saved a woman, a writer, from fading into banality. She fashioned her rescuer out of nothing but an image on a screen and words on a page. Now I have an image of my own and she is beautiful. I can feel wide blue eyes staring through my screen, an audience of one, and they comfort me. I am as grateful for the release I received from watching her as she was for every recipe. My new friend makes me a little bit more eager to savor the delights that life has to offer. Bon apetite.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Answer the damn question
I understand the importance of diplomacy and tact and all that, but for the life of me I don't understand why, when faced with a simple question, anyone would choose not to actually answer. And somehow, I'm considered rude if I try, after not finding what I'm looking for through a cloud of gobbledy gook, to actually get the answer to my question. I have classes starting at the beginning of next week and don't know yet how I'm going to get back to school. I asked someone who I know is headed down there this weekend for a ride and instead of a yes or no, or even a maybe, followed by a series of questions that would determine whether my riding with him would make sense/be agreeable to both parties, he first asked me a question that didn't actually make sense, then told me that he wasn't going straight there. Now what am I supposed to do? I refuse to repeat the question which he obviously registered clearly enough to ask questions about and yet it seems my asking brought me no closer to an answer. Why do people do that? Particularly, why do people do it to me? Do they think that I asked for the sake of discussion; that I didn't actually want to find and answer or arrive at any sort of conclusion? Is anyone satisfied by this type of uncertainty? I hate treadmills. I hate tracks. I hate anything in which I don't feel like I'm going somewhere or accomplishing something. WHAT is the point of asking questions, if not to find answers, or at least come closer to finding the answer? The thing that irks me the most is that, for all appearances, I'm the only one who cares about finding the answer. Once again, I'm alone. While so many others are content to meander about, I'm on my own in seeking a destination and it doesn't matter enough to anyone to join me. My journey isn't worth their energy. Interesting, no, that this problem should present itselt in a situation where I am literally trying to reach a destination. He says he's stopping in Jacksonville along the way, as if this place along the way makes the destination somehow less desirable; less attainable. I shan't be fooled by Miley Cyrus; it is the peak that interests me, the view from the top that holds my fancy and, discouraging as it is, I'm not wont to be deterred by a few stumbles along the way. I remember asking my friend if I could call her mother for my job and instead of saying either way, she said "good luck with that". I don't know what's more insulting: having an answer and refusing to convey it or not bothering to answer at all. Both intimate a certain apathy that makes me question bothering to ask at all. And still I want an answer. I still wish that I had gotten to where I set out to be. Or at least had known before setting off that I wouldn't get there.
2010 FTW
The year 2010 is rapidly coming to a close and the time has come once again, to make those raely kept New Years resolutions. As always, I have an arsenal of them up my sleeve and, being the conservationist that I am, I've even been consciencious enough to recycle several. Here are just a few of my old faithfuls:
Get in shape. This includes building up a stamina so that I can sing the opening number of Thoroughly Modern Millie while dancing and not have to stagger breathe and incresing my extension, including turnout AND having the core strength to be a stipper. This (the core strength) is my ultimate goal.
Learn the piano. I swear that instrument hates me and it doesn't help that I have absolutely no guidance aside from a few books and the occasional assistance from my sister when she worries that I'm gonig to bang her piano irreparably out of tune. I assume that being good at the piano would in turn make me good at theory for some reason as well.
Be able to have a conversation in a language that isn't English. I took Spanish for two years and was pretty good at it so if this ever happens, this'll probably be the one.
Write. I used to say specifically "write so much of a book" or "write a play", but it doesn't really matter now what I write, so long as I do it. That's a place to start at least.
Improve vocal range and repertoire. I have accumulated entirely too much sheet music to have retained so few songs.
Get a job. This, incredibly, is probably the one on which I'm closest to actually making good.
Okay that's six things; six understandable, reasonably attainable goals for a year and yet, they have not been enough of the latter for me to achieve them since...since at least my thirteenth year. How is it that success in these resolutions continues to evade me year after year? And how do I know that this year will be any different? Let us explore the matter further, shall we?
In my semantic pickiness, I know there is a slight but significant difference between a goal and a resolution. Look at the word resolution. The term goes beyond the meaning of a simple "solution" and makes it so clear and concrete that is it to be "re"iterated with an extra two letters. A resolution is an absolute fact, a truth realized as soon as it is decided. A goal, on the other hand, is a far off destination which is constantly attainable despite being as yet unattained. If I say I want to get in shape this year, it's okay if for the first few weeks I can't run very far, it hurts to touch my toes and my version of a pull-up just involves standing on the bals of my feet and squeezing the bar really tightly. But if I say "this year I'm going to get in shape!" there's suddenly this intense pressure bearing down on me with every labored breath I make while trying to get through a regimen that's too hard for me and I'm eventually too ashamed of my own inadequacy to even face it with the intent of correcting it. It's humiliating to sit in a practice room banging out notes with my nails that are too long and my fingers that are too short when at any moment a real pianist may come and play something worth hearing. It's frustrating to pick through broken sentences attempting to both remember old words and acquire new ones when its probable that neither the flent nor the amateur will understand me in the end anyway. And it's heartbreaking to sit alone, pen in hand, and let the silence overtake me to the point that there's nothing but all these words in my head and on my heart and they somehow refuse to come out. I don't like failure. I've never been good at facing it and with these dangblasted revolutions in my face it's all the more painful. The one way I've found to avoid these failures is to avoid the attempts. Whatever psychobabble elementary school teachers like to push on us, you can't really fail if you never try. It's just not possible. So, when I get sick of failing, I get sick of trying. And I am quite sick of trying.
I'm going to take a rack at all of these again along with a bunch more, but my resolution for 2011 is to fail. Fail and moe on. Fail and not allow it to keep me from being able to succeed. Maybe there's something to it.
Get in shape. This includes building up a stamina so that I can sing the opening number of Thoroughly Modern Millie while dancing and not have to stagger breathe and incresing my extension, including turnout AND having the core strength to be a stipper. This (the core strength) is my ultimate goal.
Learn the piano. I swear that instrument hates me and it doesn't help that I have absolutely no guidance aside from a few books and the occasional assistance from my sister when she worries that I'm gonig to bang her piano irreparably out of tune. I assume that being good at the piano would in turn make me good at theory for some reason as well.
Be able to have a conversation in a language that isn't English. I took Spanish for two years and was pretty good at it so if this ever happens, this'll probably be the one.
Write. I used to say specifically "write so much of a book" or "write a play", but it doesn't really matter now what I write, so long as I do it. That's a place to start at least.
Improve vocal range and repertoire. I have accumulated entirely too much sheet music to have retained so few songs.
Get a job. This, incredibly, is probably the one on which I'm closest to actually making good.
Okay that's six things; six understandable, reasonably attainable goals for a year and yet, they have not been enough of the latter for me to achieve them since...since at least my thirteenth year. How is it that success in these resolutions continues to evade me year after year? And how do I know that this year will be any different? Let us explore the matter further, shall we?
In my semantic pickiness, I know there is a slight but significant difference between a goal and a resolution. Look at the word resolution. The term goes beyond the meaning of a simple "solution" and makes it so clear and concrete that is it to be "re"iterated with an extra two letters. A resolution is an absolute fact, a truth realized as soon as it is decided. A goal, on the other hand, is a far off destination which is constantly attainable despite being as yet unattained. If I say I want to get in shape this year, it's okay if for the first few weeks I can't run very far, it hurts to touch my toes and my version of a pull-up just involves standing on the bals of my feet and squeezing the bar really tightly. But if I say "this year I'm going to get in shape!" there's suddenly this intense pressure bearing down on me with every labored breath I make while trying to get through a regimen that's too hard for me and I'm eventually too ashamed of my own inadequacy to even face it with the intent of correcting it. It's humiliating to sit in a practice room banging out notes with my nails that are too long and my fingers that are too short when at any moment a real pianist may come and play something worth hearing. It's frustrating to pick through broken sentences attempting to both remember old words and acquire new ones when its probable that neither the flent nor the amateur will understand me in the end anyway. And it's heartbreaking to sit alone, pen in hand, and let the silence overtake me to the point that there's nothing but all these words in my head and on my heart and they somehow refuse to come out. I don't like failure. I've never been good at facing it and with these dangblasted revolutions in my face it's all the more painful. The one way I've found to avoid these failures is to avoid the attempts. Whatever psychobabble elementary school teachers like to push on us, you can't really fail if you never try. It's just not possible. So, when I get sick of failing, I get sick of trying. And I am quite sick of trying.
I'm going to take a rack at all of these again along with a bunch more, but my resolution for 2011 is to fail. Fail and moe on. Fail and not allow it to keep me from being able to succeed. Maybe there's something to it.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
All I Want for Christmas
It occurred to me today, having been stranded in my house ever since my sister brought me here from Tallahassee, that I have not been Christmas shopping. In all honesty, I haven't a clue what I would get for the people who usually make my list as contenders for my lack of money. There are, however, a few things I would really love to have for myself and I'm in a wishing mood. I doubt these things will show up under my tree, but these are things I sincerely, legitimately want.
1) AN ACCOMPANIST. Seriously, I would be ten times happier and a hundred times less stressed and so...secure. One voice singing a capella is unguided and lonely and sad and just to know that someone is with me and I'm not alone and I'm really a part of something and the things I'm doing aren't totally without foundation and...yeah. Big deal. BIG deal.
2) A MUSICAL THEATRE BUDDY IN TALLAHASSEE. I've never truly had a bosom buddy when it comes to musical theatre who was my equal and my compliment all at once and having these thoughts in y mind and these feelings on my heart and no one to hear them or care about them or understand them...it's gotten rather lonely.
3)TRANSPORTATION. If it has to be a car that I drive...eh. But
. It would be so nice to go somewhere without the lingering fear that I won't have the strength to get back. And I want to go farther.
4) MORE MUSIC. For some reason, I never have enough. I want more. More I tell you!
5) DANCE CLASS. Legit, consistent dance training with real one-on-one time at a level that's not beyond my ability but still challenges me. I will fail at musical theatre if I don't learn to use my body more and better. And my feet suck.
6) NICE HAIR. People compliment my hair, but the truth is, it's disgusting and every time I ask someone to trim it, they don't cut enough. I need a hair stylist and some Jam, pronto.
7) MY OWN PLACE. I am so sick of roommates I'm ready to kill one and it's only been two years. Even if I had chosen them I would feel less...imposed upon than I do having these three strangers with as much right to occupy this space as I have. I wouldn't feel the need to build so many walls of my own if I had a few built in that came with doors.
8) AN OCCUPATION FOR THIS SUMMER. Idlesness is the devil's workshop. If I have to spend two months in this house thinking about how much I suck I might not make it to September.
9)KNOWLEDGE. Ambiguous and nondescript though it is, I want to know more. I'm in constant shame of my ignorance.
1) AN ACCOMPANIST. Seriously, I would be ten times happier and a hundred times less stressed and so...secure. One voice singing a capella is unguided and lonely and sad and just to know that someone is with me and I'm not alone and I'm really a part of something and the things I'm doing aren't totally without foundation and...yeah. Big deal. BIG deal.
2) A MUSICAL THEATRE BUDDY IN TALLAHASSEE. I've never truly had a bosom buddy when it comes to musical theatre who was my equal and my compliment all at once and having these thoughts in y mind and these feelings on my heart and no one to hear them or care about them or understand them...it's gotten rather lonely.
3)TRANSPORTATION. If it has to be a car that I drive...eh. But
. It would be so nice to go somewhere without the lingering fear that I won't have the strength to get back. And I want to go farther.
4) MORE MUSIC. For some reason, I never have enough. I want more. More I tell you!
5) DANCE CLASS. Legit, consistent dance training with real one-on-one time at a level that's not beyond my ability but still challenges me. I will fail at musical theatre if I don't learn to use my body more and better. And my feet suck.
6) NICE HAIR. People compliment my hair, but the truth is, it's disgusting and every time I ask someone to trim it, they don't cut enough. I need a hair stylist and some Jam, pronto.
7) MY OWN PLACE. I am so sick of roommates I'm ready to kill one and it's only been two years. Even if I had chosen them I would feel less...imposed upon than I do having these three strangers with as much right to occupy this space as I have. I wouldn't feel the need to build so many walls of my own if I had a few built in that came with doors.
8) AN OCCUPATION FOR THIS SUMMER. Idlesness is the devil's workshop. If I have to spend two months in this house thinking about how much I suck I might not make it to September.
9)KNOWLEDGE. Ambiguous and nondescript though it is, I want to know more. I'm in constant shame of my ignorance.
Getting Past FTC
So, as a child becoming a grown-up during the convenient buffer called college, I was extremely hurt and disappointed and devastated and...lots of other negative things...when I encountered the major failure that going to FTC turned out to be; so much so that I couldn't bring myself to share my failure with more than four people. I decided to write about my experience, which was significant and important to acknowledge, but every time I started I got caught up in little details and figuring out just what it was I wanted to share and which facts were relevant and two months later, the only progress I can speak of is in having another annoyingly long post that isn't finished and has served n purpose. For some reason, I felt like I shouldn't talk about anything else until after I'd gotten the whole conference fiasco off my chest. After all, it needed to be shared and wouldn't it be impolitic to go back and write about it after getting past it? So I've tried; I've tried so hard to get past the height of my hopes and he depth of my disappointment but in this effort to move beyond it I placed myself in a huge rut. As soon as I resolved to put that debacle behind me I created a shadow for myself that I can't escape; that I can't catch up to. I let so many moments of inspiration slip away because I didn't have the closure I needed to write about a new topic without relating it to this...
I didn't write about it and I didn't talk about it and I don't feel good about it and even though it's technically behind me, it still has the power to cast a shadow and follow me. I have resigned to no longer try to escape it.
...this would probably make a lot more sense if I put up a post about FTC.
I didn't write about it and I didn't talk about it and I don't feel good about it and even though it's technically behind me, it still has the power to cast a shadow and follow me. I have resigned to no longer try to escape it.
...this would probably make a lot more sense if I put up a post about FTC.
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