This is worth revisiting...

For those of us who had the pleasure of watching this on Oscar night, here it is again. For those that didn't, enjoy.

Stolen Moment

May 21, 2009

Hiking by myself today was like a stolen moment. It was something that I’ve always been told not to do—and my better judgment tells me not to do it either. But I did it anyway.  The reward I got for my pains was worth it. There was no one, no one, on the trail. I had the beautiful u-shaped valley bathed in partly-cloudy light all the myself. The ravages of last winter's snowfalls and avalanches have left the slender branches of trees all straining in one direction: down. Boulders and logs litter the ground. Everything is young, delicate green. The wind is warm, with an occasional wisp of alpine, glacial air blowing of the still-melting snow farther up. 

Timpanogas rises before me, like a god. A snake or two slides out of view. I see a dark patch in the trees on the trail below me. Is it a moose? I hope not.
The roar of the waterfall is oddly deafening after so much quiet.

A solitary figure has preceded me to the top. He stands at the top of the waterfall, about 100 yards away. He raises his arm in greeting. I raise my arm back. I sit on a rock to let my racing heart cool down. On the trail back down, the trail is surrounded by growth. Green spills over the edges of the trail like a river bursting its banks. Greening trees arch over the top, like a tunnel. Every green thing is wrapping over and under me, in a kind of open-air coziness, like a giant, green mossy comforter.

Uncleverness

Today I went to go deliver something to a friend whose apartment complex I'd never been to. When I got there, I could see that the complex was, if not giant, at least kind of big and sprawly. I wondered whether I should just pick a stairwell and check every third floor until I found apartment 303 or...huzzah! I could ask this nice young man who clearly lived there if he could kindly direct me to the right place. "Excuse me," I say. "Could you tell me where 303 is? Is it in this stairwell?" He looks at me with that smirk I so despise (the smirk that says, "I have something so clever to say that only I will think it's funny") and says, "Well, I guess it's on the third floor." I feel my contempt rising. I force a smile (more like a sneer) and explain to him, in nicer terms than this, that I was not born yesterday. (I actually said something, "Yeah, I got the third floor part.") But I think he read my tone, which is never hard to do, and promptly cut the crap and told me where to go.

Such a bore! And I do not tolerate bores.

The Self-Destructive Reader, Part 2: The Root of My Discontent

(This is a picture of Walden Pond that I found online. It's one of my favorite places ever and this is just about what it looked like the first time I saw it. I am also now a firm believer in including some sort of audio or visual something or other in all of my posts, but since I can't find my camera cord, I'll have to make do with other people's pictures. Anyway...)

Perhaps I avoid classics because as a student I was compelled—nay, commanded—to read things like Ulysses and Moll Flanders and The Canterbury Tales in middle English; The truth is I am a true escapist at heart and do not immediately gravitate towards really hard subjects. 

Hmm. The problem with being an escapist is that the escape is always temporary, and the thrill momentary. When the chapter or book (or movie) is over, I am forced to open my eyes to my own life again. I should clarify that my life isn’t by any means bad. It’s just that sometimes I feel like it’s a little…colorless. My real life doesn’t follow the rules of narrative. There is not always tension to make things interesting. And when there is tension, it isn’t interesting; it’s just tense and crappy. Every once in a very infrequent while, my life presents me with something so beautiful and romantic it takes my breath away. Usually, it doesn’t.

These days especially, I find myself wishing my life would follow the same kind of trajectory that good narrative does. (Having just taken a fiction composition class, I am very much aware of story and how it works.) I wish I could say that something really interesting is definitely in store—a promise that all compelling literature makes. I think it would be cool, for example, if my life had a soundtrack that other people could hear. But mostly, I just wish I knew where all of this waiting and wishing and mindless toiling was headed. I wish I could take a step back from my life and read it like a book, knowing all along that all the loose ends will be tied up in the most satisfactory way possible. Or at least in the most interesting way possible. 

The Self-Destructive Reader, Part One: Elizabeth Gaskell

I am what is known as a “self destructive reader.” When I get into a book, the rest of my life is put on hold. Eating even ceases to be a priority, to say nothing of sleeping; I become irritated when interrupted; I forget to do other somewhat important things...like graduate. About a week ago I finished watching the BBC miniseries North & South for the first time, and found it so fantastic, I checked out the book the next day. I then became so absorbed that I was almost late to my own graduation. A good book in my hands is a dangerous thing. To me, mostly.

Now, I am a sucker for a good romance. I love Georgette Heyer; I love Jane Austen. But I sometimes surprise myself by enjoying stories of, shall we say, greater substance—stories that are not just romance. So blown away was I by North & South’s combination of poignant social commentary and smoldering romantic tension, I couldn’t believe I’d never even heard of Elizabeth Gaskell before. I often make a point of telling people that I am no great reader of the classics. But after this, my latest voluntary dip into Classics, I can only ask myself why am I not? These books are classics for a reason…so why do I avoid them so? Can I not learn something from them, as a writer and as a human being? 

I heart acoustic music

You need to see this--the world needs to know!

Rare intelligence.