Saturday, November 10, 2007

Back on track

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So, in preface to what may be a silly blog, I must first confide that I am currently watching "Waiting for Guffman," my all-time favorite comedy, and a film I haven't watched in a ridiculously long time. So if there is a perceptible air of disjointedness , it's all Christopher Guest's fault. Fie on his comic genius.

So over the last month or so I've been going to an osteopathic doctor. Apparently my cycle is merging with all the females I work with, which is wreaking havoc on my school's plumbing. We still haven't figured out who the alpha female is, and why my levels of estrogen are so high. (Aaaaand a hop skip and a jump back off the first of many ridiculous rabbit trails, back on to the beaten path.) So actually I've had back problems for the last few years which usually culminate in severe stabbing pain in my lower back for a week or so, and after two weeks I'm mostly back to normal. Anyway, I wanted to see what was causing the problem, and after multiple adjustments and x-rays a conclusion has been drawn: I have a short leg. My right leg is between half and three-quarters of an inch shorter than the other. ("Stool boom, from the parlor to the pool room..." ah Guffman) So this short leg has thrown off my alignment, which gets severely aggravated every 6 months or so. The x-rays also said my back has a severe arch, which means I have to change the way I sit and stand and walk and if I found any joy in dancing that would have to change too. So yesterday I got a lift put in my shoe, which feels strange but I can feel things are straighter, so it's all good. But I can't help thinking I should be able to just live with my short leg and hunchback. And now I shall explore those thoughts.

So maybe I should make a living walking along hillsides, making sure my right leg was always the upper leg as I traversed the side of each hill. That would mean that only half of a two-way trip would have to be done in reverse, which isn't that bad. Yes, perhaps hillside dwelling is for me. That, or maybe I should invest in slightly-askew possibly condemned homes just so my right leg can sit in higher ground. And as for my being a hunchback, I should look for large places of worship who have openings for bell-ringers or bell-technicians, as long as their foundations are ever-so-slightly off-kilter. Yes. Quasidayngo shall henceforth be my moniker. So if any of y'all know of any openings for aforementioned job positions, let me know as soon as possible. My life may depend on it. Or at least my back will.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Red White Black & Blue

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So when I went to the Bend Film Festival a few weeks back, I got to see a film called Red White Black & Blue. I also got to meet the director, a really nice guy, and very talented. Anyway, thought I'd let y'all who get PBS on a nearby TV, a shortened version of the film will be playing November 6. It's a great film, and I'm sure that even as a shortened version, it'll still be great. So take a look at it if you remember to. For more info, go to www.alaskainvasion.com Thanks guys.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Thank God for you, awkwardly-unaware man!

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So in recent years I've gotten a lot better at not being judgmental of others. It used to be that I would make snide comments about people I didn't even know to not only myself, but any near-standing half-friend within earshot. With that said, I saw this guy at the gym today who was practically begging me to return to my roots of sarcasm. (I think I saw Roots of Sarcasm open for Whitesnake years ago...)

The short and sweet description of this guy: imagine a slightly older Kip from Napoleon Dynamite sauntering his heart out on an elliptical trainer. A more detailed description to follow. So here is a man in his early to mid forties, probably some sort of businessman because he is doing what seems to be non-recreational reading, and has a full manila envelope resting on the control face of the elliptical trainer. Perhaps his cluelessness is evidenced in his complete focus on his reading. He is wearing a simple white tee shirt, nothing unusual there. It's everything else he's wearing, or not wearing that makes things interesting. (Not to worry, the "not wearing" comment only holds a small weight in upcoming statements. I simply threw it in there because it makes for a titillating read.) The rest of the ensemble, from the top down, begins with the slightly yellowed, formerly white sweatband which is grasping desperately to a slightly-balding, poorly-shorn head of straw-like hair. Skipping down past the unusually usual white shirt, we can see he is wearing black spandex shorts, which only seems appropriate for a man who is moving at an astronomically intense two miles per hour on a low-impact exercise device. Not only are the shorts spandex, but they're that old sort of spandex, late-eighties or early-nineties, the slightly shiny stuff that people who don't normally exercise wear to appear like they regularly take trips to the local gymnasium. Before going on to the last item of clothing, I have to describe the piece of flesh connecting the shiny shorts with its podiatric counterpart. The legs are veiny, but not the kind where you can see the blue of the veins. These veins seem to be lumpily holding together his two generally neglected collections of half-muscle, which still seem to struggle despite the fact that the poor guy's torso couldn't have weighed more than fifty pounds. Not to be outdone, the feet are of particular magnificence. Firstly (and here's where the titillation comes to a disappointing end) they are sporting only white tube socks, which, as tube socks tend to do when not held in place by footware, have begun to floppily-increase in length. There are no shoes whatsoever. And, as if this caricature of a man could not get any more precious, he had over-large round glasses and a thin wiry mustache, no doubt to catch the eye of those gym-skanks whose outfits continually shrink to ever decreasing levels of modesty. Oh, I almost forgot the very best part. He is sporting (sporting, mind you, not just wearing) a black leather fanny-pack over the white tee shirt, just above the shiny spandex shorts. Now imagine this sight one row in front of you as you try not to laugh aloud not only at its pure unaware genius, but its comically-slow traipsing along on the elliptical trainer. Honestly I think he could have simply walked around the halls in the adjacent mall-space and gotten a better workout. But then I couldn't have basked in his splendor. Thank God for you, awkwardly unaware man. You bring a smile to the faces of people all over the internet and yet still maintain both your anonymity and dignity because I did not have my camera with me.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Film Festival hilight

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So last weekend I went to the Bend Film Festival. I remember missing it the year before, and wishing I had gone. My parents live in Bend, so I have a place to stay, making a weekend visit both feasible and affordable. The last, and only other film festival I've attended was the Anchorage International Film Festival in 2005. Jannell Brisson, as an early birthday present, bought me a pass for any and all showings at the AIFF. It was one of the best weeks I ever had to that date, so I figured I could at least get a small slice of that at the Bend festival. So I looked over all the films playing over the two days I could be there, and made myself an itinerary of 6 full-length films, and a smattering of short films, all in the span of 2 days. They also offered free Q&A kind of sessions with film-makers, organized by topic. I attended one on documentary filmmaking and one on how to promote your film once you've already finished it. They both seemed appropriate to my particular situation. Anyway, I went to the film festival to see some cool independent films, and try my hardest not to let my brain ooze out my ears from sitting for so long. But what I came away with was far more than just a couple amazing films, though there were some really amazing films.

So though the films were great, my favorite parts were the little Q&A sessions, particularly the one featuring a panel of documentarians. They talked about their craft, their inspirations, their current projects, and while nothing they said really blew my mind, I was just happy to get to listen to people who vocationally so what I want to do. Two of the filmmakers were particularly interesting to me. Tom Putnam recently made a film called "Red, White, Black and Blue" which is about Attu Island on the tip of the Aleutians. The film follows two WWII vets as they revisit the island 60 years after the 17-day battle to win it back from the Japanese. Attu is the only American soil occupied by a foreign force since 1812. Anyway, it's a great film, and for those of you who are interested, it'll be on PBS on November 6, I believe. The other filmmaker I was interested in is named Adrian Belic. He and his brother were nominated for an Oscar for a documentary they finished in 1999 called "Genghis Blues." If you're a fan of Tuvan throat-singing, (and who isn't in this crazy post-9/11 world) you'll love "Genghis Blues." Adrian's newest film is called "Beyond the Call," and was my favorite documentary of the festival. It chronicles the journeys of three post-middle-aged men as they display the most incredible humanitarian effort three independently-funded men can display. Seriously, these guys are pretty bad-ass and love helping people who can't help themselves. So, coming back to the story, Tom Putnam and Adrian Belic were pretty cool and knowledgeable guys in the business. So I decided to meet them.

For some of you, it may come as no surprise that I'm a bit of a social phobic. Well, close to phobia. Meeting new people is quite a chore for me, especially people who happen to be attractive or important. These two guys are actually eking out a living as documentary filmmakers, which is quite a feat, so I was a little intimidated. Fortunately I didn't find them attractive. That would've really been a chore. Anyway, the two of them, Tom and Adrian, were having a conversation or networking session, so I waited nearby for them to be done. I was going to talk to Tom because he seemed a little more conversational. Well, when they finished my conversation and asked if I needed to talk to either of them, I managed to rope them both in. Because Tom's film is based in Alaska, I used that as a common point, mentioning that I'm from Alaska, and that it was nice to see a film made about Alaska. We talked a bit about Alaskans and their starvation to see themselves larger than life, about how his showing of his latest film sold out its first showing, forcing a second one. I don't remember how it came about, but I got to tell them I just finished a film set in Alaska. Adrian congratulated me and shook my hand at that, and they wanted to know more about it. I told them that "Bible Camp" is a documentary about a Bible camp in Alaska's interior, a camp my grandfather started 43 years ago. I had this unusual energy as I was telling them about it, and managed to keep their attention throughout my little Bible Camp exposition. So I had the complete undivided attention of two actual career filmmakers, and got to share about the film I made about a camp I love. Wow.

After talking up Kokrine Hills a little longer, I asked them about self-promotion, ad how one gets better at it. Probably my least favorite part of this process has been the fact that I have to sell myself to everyone, and never think I do a great job. they stopped me right there and said that not only do all filmmakers have a hard time with self-promotion, but that I had in fact done a great job selling the film to them. They commended my use of knowing my audience (Alaska as a commonality) and said that I had both their attentions throughout. That was pretty much the most encouraging thing anyone could have ever said to me. Two guys who know how it works told me one of my greatest weaknesses wasn't nearly as bad as I thought. Tom even offered to view my film and let me know what he thought. They both told me I needed to submit my film to the Anchorage film festival, and that I needed to drop both their names to the guy in charge in Anchorage. Turns out the deadline for entrance into the Anchorage festival was the beginning of September, so I lost my chance, but I tried anyway. Tom and Adrian both gave me great advice on selling myself and networking, both of which are paramount to the filmmaker existence. I needed business cards and post cards with my film's info on them, didn't have either, and was chastised by the two guys for my lack of connectibles. But I suppose I hadn't ever come with the intention of even mentioning "Bible Camp" anyway, so no big deal this time. All in all, it was an incredible 15 minute interaction.

I came to a festival to watch movies, and ended up with connections to real filmmakers, something I've not had until this point. AND, I really feel "Bible Camp" got a whole new lease on life. I emailed Tom and he gave me his address so I can send him the DVD, and now I'm back on the trail to setting up showings and selling as many DVDs as I possibly can. What had become an elephant on my back, largely a film people showed little interest in, has now become a revitalized passion for me to get out into the world. Man. It's just so amazing how God will orchestrate situations to give us exactly what we need right when we need it. Woo hoo.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Woo hoo!!!!!

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So apparently there are all these beautiful single people out there! I know they're out there because myspace and facebook tell me they're there. And all these beautiful people are just so desperate to meet possible romance, they all have congregated on these internet dating sites! And apparently the same people who were single six months ago are still single! I can tell by their pictures, or those really insightful little videos that appear on my web page. So logic tells me that most single people out there are terribly beautiful, and that in order to find these people I will need to join the club. Or clubs. This is the greatest discovery since the world's first discovery was made! What a strange and beautiful place we live in! So says the internet...

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

I need a Compass

Sometimes I think it's a real shame I don't know any rich people. Of course, those times are when I need things or want things, and often when I've forgotten that God works out some pretty crazy things on a regular basis.

So I have several dilemmas, the lions-share of which could be solved with large amounts of cash, or at least decent sized little hillocks of money.

First dilemma: Daylan (sister and bestest friend extraordinaire) wants me to come to Kenya again for Christmas this year. I would LOVE to come. The issue of whether I'll come, however, is not even closely dependent upon how much I want to come. It's a spendy little journey. Today I was looking, yet again, to see how much it would cost me to get to Nairobi. I actually figured out a way to get as far as Amsterdam for $775, round trip. THAT is quite reasonable. Not bad at all. However, Amsterdam's a little less than halfway there. The second half of the journey, I've discovered, runs no less than $3100, round trip. Ah. A slight increase. I realize holiday travel anywhere warm will run high, but seriously folks. Maybe someone who can afford those sorts of tickets can buy one for me too. I make a delightful traveling companion, don't complain about ridiculously small spaces for long legs, and exude the fresh scent of pine wherever I go. I'll even bring my guitar and serenade you, the rich European reading this silly American's blog, for the entire nine hour flight. I will. Believe that. Anyway, unless Daylan can meet me halfway (which wouldn't be a bad idea anyway, wink, wink... Paris, London, Amsterdam, Rome, wherever is realistic for both parties), and barring the support of the independently wealthy (though those of you who are dependently wealthy should not consider yourselves completely out of the game), there will probably be no Daylan present in my Christmas plans.

Second dilemma: I need to upgrade my computer equipment. Up to this point, I've only mentioned how ludicrous (Thank Bill Gates for spell-check. I just spelled ludicrous like the misspelled name of the rap artist of homophonic nomenclature. Oh, and according to a previous phrase, one might make the mistake of equating Bill Gates with God, as in the phrase, "Thank God for..." but very few things could be further from the truth... though I'm now quite tempted to think of those things which would be further from the truth. Suggestions?) are the thousands of dollars required to get to Kenya around Christmas. What I haven't mentioned is how little actual cash money I have. I believe I have around a couple hundred dollars to my name, and it should stay around that until the end of November, according to my calculations. A far cry from the pre-Bible Camp documentary days. Did I used to be fabulously wealthy? Maybe just pleasantly wealthy, or financially secure. But after buying a ton of video equipment and producing a DVD which has not only proven unpopular (strictly from a sales perspective, I assure you), but whose proceeds are largely going to a camp and not to cost recovery. Not that I'm whining, but those of you who know me well know I am a whiner by nature. Anyway, he said after a typically long-winded though eloquent rabbit trail, I ain't got no money, and need a new computer. I'm trying to join Pioneers, a mission organization that has recently assembled a media division I want to be a part of. This will require me to be portable, which currently I am not, unless I can buy a donkey to haul all my junk around all the time. I would name him Compass, not because of his directional skills, but because his job would be hauling my hefty COMPuter around. Anyway, the computer I am looking at getting is a spendy little bugger, and, in my current work situation, I have no way of affording it anytime soon, if ever. On top of that, I want to upgrade my video camera and one of my microphones if possible, though that's more of a want than a need at this point.

Basically I need a miracle to pull off any of this. So, if you're so inclined, give a shout out for me as you pray. Not only could I use the miracle for practical purposes, but it would also be a pretty compelling reason to believe even more strongly in the sovereign power of the Almighty.

I'll let y'all know if anything develops. Peace, brethren.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Question

So I have a question for both of you who read my blogs. As you know, my blogs tend to be quite long. The last one was three pages when I typed it in Word. So my question is this: are they too long? Or, if you prefer, would shorter blogs be more enjoyable or interesting? One reason I want to know is that a long blog takes around two hours to write, which is a lot of time to spend on a regular basis, which is why my blogs only come every couple weeks or months or so. I'd love to write more regularly, but it's quite an investment for me. Anyway, let me know. Thanks.

Dayn

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Imitation, or Something Like It

To take a phrase completely and shamelessly out of context, “there is nothing new under the sun.” This lunchmeat of a phrase, even without its textual bread to rein in its meaning, is certainly food for thought. (I know a terrible pun when I see it, but am not preoccupied in the least about its poor reflection on my sense of humor, or lack thereof, and therefore, with reckless abandon, pull the pin and throw it in, along with a ridiculous parenthetical run-on sentence, for good measure.) But seriously, that there is nothing new under the sun may not be wholeheartedly true, but it’s awfully close. Disgustingly close.

Right now I work in the Portland School district, the first moderately urban environment in which I’ve worked. I mention my job’s urbanity because I believe it’s directly tied to the thoughts I’ve recently been harboring. The school I am at is now a K-8 school, not counting the preschool which also operates within its walls. So I get the opportunity to observe an eleven-year age span, and the contrasts (or similarities) within. One other factor relates to a major change that has recently taken place in the school. In an effort to consolidate neighboring buildings, the Portland school district combined my previous school with a neighboring middle school, a move which has been in process for the last couple years. Eventually the school will be home to students all the way from Kindergarten through eighth grade, meaning no schools will feed into the middle school like most other middle schools. However, as this is the first year the schools have been combined, there is a disproportionately large eighth grade class which is bussed in from a much larger area than its eventual goal area. The area which will eventually be served by this school will consists of a large group of upper-middleclass kids, and a smaller group of lower-class students, kids in a much harsher home environment. This year, however, as we move the last large class of eighth graders out, the amount of lower-class students remains quite high. There is also a classroom in our school which is specifically for kids with behavioral problems, which also adds to the aura of the school.

Part of my job involves going outside to recess during the eighth-grade lunch and recess. At other schools in which I’ve worked, recess has been one of my favorite parts of the day. Kids tend to be more relaxed, and I sometimes get the chance to play with them, which is not only a good way to bond with them, but can be a treat for me in the middle of the day. This is not the case for me this school year. I don’t really enjoy recess in this chaotic, seething mass of prepubesence. The overwhelming majority of students I am in contact with have serious attitude issues, even more so than I usually think of with middle school aged kids. Last week as I broke up an F-bomb-laden fight between a guy and a girl, the guy decided to have the last shove, resulting in a confrontation with me. He thought I was challenging him, and began readying himself for a fist-fight with me, something I was neither excited about, nor sure I could properly defend myself. Fortunately his friends began trying to calm him down, and as it blew over I pretended not to hear him and his F-ing language directed toward me. There weren’t any more problems with that crowd for the rest of that recess, thank the maker, but I kept an eye on them for the rest of the time they were out there. I was a little worried about how I would handle this sort of confrontation in the future, but was also a bit fascinated that a kid would ever think that was an acceptable way to behave. Call me old fashioned, call me stingy, call me Daynty, but I don’t really see where that sort of behavior has a place in society. However, it did give rise to much thought about behavior as it relates to environment, and as it relates to imitation.

We all learn by imitation, though some of us think we’re some sort of original creative genius, an intellectual being of great proportions. (Or maybe it’s just me that quietly, secretly, modestly wishes people would see my incredible intellect and wit.) As babies, we experience life in its purest form, untainted, if only for a fraction of a second. Soon thereafter we begin to lose our originality, imitating behaviors, expressions, tones, language. Soon we are the sum of the parts around us, though not always greater than the parts themselves. Early in life we are already posers, differences in behaviors greatly influenced by our environment. Now, I do think there are certain parts of our personalities which we have carried since our introduction to this world, but the way that personality takes its form can be adjusted or altered by the things around us we unintentionally imitate. So to me, it’s not imitation that bothers me, it’s what is being imitated that gnaws at the back of my brain, occasionally breaking down the dam which holds back my reserve of intense sadness. I look at a lot of the kids at school and am just so sad to see the things they imitate, and how mindlessly they do it.

One of the worst things I see imitated relates directly to racial stereotypes, which may be one of the saddest things I see on a daily basis. So much has been done in this country to try to make people equal, from desegregation to the feminist movement. The historical figures who have spent so much of their lives fighting inequality, fighting bigotry, fighting for freedom, have fought such incredible battles, not only against their persecutors, but also against their own people, the ones who fall so neatly within racial stereotypes. Granted, without knowing people’s personalities, I have no right to judge their insides based on their outsides. But, (and it’s certainly a big but) based on observations at my own school, certain groups of kids just seem so perfectly stereotypical. From the elitist white kids, to the gangsters and hiphop-posers (I’m a little skittish about mentioning any other races than white for fear of sounding judgmental, so I’ll let the reader fill in their own blanks), it’s intensely sad for me to see that all the hard work public figures have done in an effort to promote equality, quickly undone daily by the up and coming generation. The propitiation of stereotype is especially evident when I observe the kids I directly work with.

Because I work with kids who are a bit slower mentally, it can often be very similar to working with very small children. In both groups, imitation is a necessary way to learn. In an educational environment, it is absolutely paramount to not only teach things like behavior, but everything must also be modeled. At school this seems to work to our advantage, at home this can often work to their detriment. In a non-structured environment, so often the only choice for a lot of these lower-class kids, they learn to imitate SO many things I’d call negative. Especially since so many of these kids hav unrestricted access to television and the internet. Those of you who know me know that when it comes to film and music, I’m a total snob. I love intellectually stimulating art. I’m constantly reminded that the majority of people don’t share that love, or maybe it just takes a different shape for other people. Now, my artistic prejudices often extend to genres of music like rap and hip-hop, not because I don’t think there’s any artistic integrity, but because there’s just very little creativity. It is often very basic, rhythmic, and often maintains very primal subject matter: sex and violence. Granted, sex and violence are commonplace in our world, but there’s something very disturbing about its animalistic nature. (Actually, for anyone really interested in an interesting perspective on music as it relates to the human soul, real the first chapter of Tolkien’s “The Silmarillion,” the section about Eru’s creation of the world and the accompanying songs of angels and demons. A fascinating take on creation. And yes, it’s uber-nerdy.)

I recently bought a new TV, allowing me to now watch all sorts of high-definition programming, which I find quite enjoyable as I simultaneously scratch my protruding Neanderthal brow and my backside, and gaze in stupor at the shiny thing I now own. Oregon Public Broadcasting, as a part of their eternal fund-raisers, played a half-dozen episodes of a show called “Travels to the Edge with Art Wolfe” wherein photographer Art Wolfe goes to remote or exotic places around the globe to photograph the people or animals of that region. It really is an incredible show, as fascinating as it is beautiful. One of the shows that was stuck in my mind was about a trip to South Georgia Island, deep in the South Atlantic. On this island live many types of animals, including a ferocious type of seal which came very close to attacking the photographer for getting within thirty feet of it. Without warning, they would attack each other in a way that tells you there is no way these things will ever be domesticated. As I watched the seals posture and jockey for position, I was saddened to realize the similarities between these wild animals and a handful of the kids at my school. It proved to be a very powerful example of animal nature, and stuck in my brain as I watched the kids at my school interact. Animal nature is in part due to the need for survival being greater than a need for almost anything else. So it’s only fitting that sex, keeping the species alive, and violence, protecting oneself from death, are extremely basic parts of the animal kingdom. Which is why I get so miffed at hip-hop and rap artists whose content is restricted to simple animal nature, showing very little evidence of higher thought or intellect. And, being the posers they are, kids DO INDEED imitate the stuff.

Most of the kids in my class love this kind of music, and whether they mean to or not, they imitate these people. They cop attitudes whether they fully understand what they’re doing. They dress like these people. They act like these people. They know little beyond basic animal nature, survival, and as unintentional imitators, they are a product of their environment. Like little puppets on a dilapidated stage. But what they don’t realize is that the guys they’re imitating are themselves imitators. Within genres, there is very little innovation. It’s all imitation, and often it’s shoddy imitation. We live in a ridiculous vacuum of imitation. Honestly I can’t see anything different between Soulja Boy, T-Pain, and all those other ridiculously misspelled or abbreviated names. (Good grief, it’s no wonder kids these days can’t spell.) The only way we see creativity is when someone’s scope of imitation of so broad, they actually appear to be an original. But ideas have to start somewhere, I suppose.

Imitation. We all do it. It’s necessary, but to what extent? Is there anything new under the sun, or is everything out there simply imitation? Is there hope for those in a restricted scope of imitation? Can stereotypes be defeated with a larger scope of imitation? Or am I simply a self-righteous SOB. It’s hard to say, I suppose. Food for thought, though. Sandwich anyone?

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Parallels to Tony

There is some sort of restlessness upon me. The sort of restlessness I get when I see a commercial airliner high overhead, traveling seemingly-straight-up in grand slow-motion, chased by clingy contrails, acting as veritable Hansel and Gretel cookie-crumbs of the sky. The sort of restlessness I feel accompanies by either complete complete unfamiliarity or totally lethargic complacency. I have no idea whether it is because I'm sitting outside a Portland coffee shop in the sun of an eighty-five degree mid-September afternoon, a total fantasy to my Alaska-bred sensibilities. It could be that I'm suffering in the slight blue haze of the cigarette behind me, whose master is not so much enjoying it as he is needing it. Cigarette smoke often gives me strange sensations: possibly mild discomfort, possibly pure curiosity about smoking's origins. Perhaps my restlessness is simply internal, a constant pillow-fight in my head as I continue gently beating myself, in the hopes of figuring out who I am. A soft but constant presence in an already crowded cranium. Perhaps it's due to the discovery that not only am I a creature of habit and in desperate need of structure, but that there is nothing inherently weak or wrong about either of those things. Maybe I'm restless because I want things I'm not ready for, or maybe it's due to a constant and ever-changing search for meaning. Maybe I'm restless because where I live doesn't feel like home, but neither does my old home. Some sort of quasi-permanent vagabondage. Maybe I'm too concerned with other people's agendas, and not enough with myself. Maybe it's because this life of second-guesstimation has finally caught up with me and fried my nerves. Again. Maybe it's my constant comparisons between who I was and who I am now. Maybe I live in the past and the future, but never in the present.

Or maybe I've just had too much coffee.

But the fact remains that I'm restless. And, surprisingly enough, I'm a little excited about it. Restlessness is an agent of change, an indicator of energy, even if it's potential energy and not kinetic. Something big is on the horizon. Any day now. Any day.

Or as Stephen Sondheim put it in West Side Story...

Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day;
I will know right away,
Soon as it shows.
It may come cannonballing down through the sky,
Gleam in its eye,
Bright as a rose!

Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Under a tree.
I got a feeling there's a miracle due,
Gonna come true,
Coming to me!

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something's coming, something good,
If I can wait!
Something's coming, I don't know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

With a click, with a shock,
Phone'll jingle, door'll knock,
Open the latch!
Something's coming, don't know when, but it's soon;
Catch the moon,
One-handed catch!

Around the corner,
Or whistling down the river,
Come on, deliver
To me!
Will it be? Yes, it will.
Maybe just by holding still,
It'll be there!

Come on, something, come on in, don't be shy,
Meet a guy,
Pull up a chair!
The air is humming,
And something great is coming!
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Maybe tonight . . .

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Steinbeck and Copland

It's not often that I'm terribly excited to be American. Not that I don't love the freedoms afforded people of this nation, but we've been given a reputation as a bunch of loud-mouthed idiots who give the bird to the rest of the world as we do whatever the heck we want. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not a big fan of that label. Going overseas at the end of last year, I didn't know how things were going to pan out for me as an American because we're just not popular to anyone other than ourselves. And actually, I've never even cared for American history, never cared all that much about America's industrial revolution, the incredible changes we've made in the last hundred years.

A year ago I bought a copy of The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, right around the time I had freshly relocated to Oregon. Sometimes I get in this mood where I feel like my education is leaving me, and that I need to immerse myself in something, anything stimulating. So I decided to tackle a piece of classic American literature. It was AMAZING! Never have I read something that was so subtle in its characterization and so enjoyably American. The plight of the common man. Wow. The Grapes of Wrath made me better appreciate being American. Before I left for Alaska in June I went to Powell's Bookstore with Daylan and she told me if I wanted another Steinbeck novel, I should go for East of Eden. The beauty of these books is that I've heard the titles many many times but had no idea what they were about. I finished that one by early August, and again I appreciated not only the characters in this masterpiece, but the distinctly American setting. America didn't seem so stuck up and high and mighty for five or six-hundred pages of literature.

Many of you know I'm a bit of a technology freak, especially when it comes to film and audio quality. Several years ago I bought a DVD player that would play special super-high-quality CDs. Actually one of the formats is called Super Audio Compact Disc. Basically these recordings sound much closer to the way they were played. Maybe it's the kind of thing only a guy like me can appreciate, and if that's the case, I'm okay with that. I LOVE these recordings. They're harder to find, and mostly jazz and classical recordings, but when listened to on nice speakers or good headphones, it's just incredible. Anyway, last night I found my SACDs and popped in one I hadn't heard in a while, a recording of some of Aaron Copland's classical works. It was pretty amazing that as soon as I heard this music, so distinctly American, I instantly thought of the two Steinbeck novels I've read. American in its truest and best sense. So all this to say, I want all of you to go out and buy two things: a recording of the works of Aaron Copland (look for Fanfare for the Common Man or Lincoln Portrait or An American in Paris or Appalachian Spring or Rodeo - they tend to come with several pieces altogether) and a copy of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. And if you don't rekindle your love for America, or at least breathe a breath of fresh air on the dying embers of your American patriotism, then perhaps you should consider living somewhere else. Steinbeck and Copland, and, to add another artist to the mix, put up a bunch of posters of Norman Rockwell paintings. It just might work. Let me know if it does.