Frequent Destroyer of

toad friendship

2011-11-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

as i was walking down the road, who should i but meet

a proud and pudgy little toad, watching over the street

i, a quiet and internal girl don't often stop for much

but this toad stopped my walking whirl, a sweetheart he was such

it isn't oft that I feel much but light disgust or gall

at all amphibians in the world, their slimy nature's call

not on my natural empathy or feelings of sympathy

if you had been but ordinary I would have walked over thee.

this day however, i was feeling most unassembled

the way that a lady feels when shes muddled in the head

over thoughts of books and men and looks and all these things with power

i had been preoccupied, the better part of an hour

and you, dear toad it turns out was not quite ordinary

in fact i found you most endearing and not the least bit scary.

what is a toad? i asked you, right out load for all to hear

luckily it was just us, nobody had drawn near

to my surprise you opened up your little toady mouth

and answered, quite articulately my question was uncouth,

but you--you found me charming and so you did not mind

and we sat and talked for hours, your stories were the kind

that mesmerize the soul and mind and interpret our deep desires

and i realized i'd found a friend in this small and pungent mire

and this my friends is the story of my surprising friendship's start

and that sad but inevitable parting our differences made tart

but every day i walk along this one same road quite well
at the memory of our afternoon, that made my quiet heart swell.

our haunted man.

2011-10-31T19:53:00.000-07:00

oh unhappy plight, you leash of love, you hazard
i held to him with all my might, but you, you greedy gathered
all the strength the unknown has, the will but of a God
took my man so quick from me, flesh turned into fog

evaporated, death-dumbed man, pale now from the time
idles love and love's distress, movements that were kind
and oh the creaking of the stairs in night's harsh early hour
cruel and feisty up my leg, you crawl that ivory tower

a man can run an errand, a man can whisp and whirl
in life and death, these parallel scenes, like a twisting little girl
but heat and touch and taste are not the confines of the living
i know because my dead mans hands in death are just as giving.

2011-10-19T18:36:00.000-07:00

so the last four would-be posts have all stayed drafts--i wonder what's happening? i'm notorious for beginning and never ending (to be super clear: notorious absolutely and only to myself, and maybe some people who've known me for a while and seen me start and stop things faster than it took me to write the words "write the words"). i have like 349854358 started projects or poems or ideas that never go anywhere because my interest is like "hey what if i did this thing i dont care even a little about it anymore never mind". im not glamorous if you weren't aware. i love reading and want to be well-read, and well-written but I have 0 patience for tolerance for boredom or potential boredom and i fall asleep reading a lot--there i said it. also i like fiction. sometimes sci fi-I SAID THAT TOO, WOW! all of these things are embarrassing. i have a limited completed reading and writing list, a limited sensibility i guess and am concerned with sounding smart and even intimidating sometimes even when i'm trying not to try to be that way. the list goes on--again--not glamorous. shallow.

ok sunshine, time to take the foot off the gas pedal--this isn't a live journal and i'm not 14 and anxty--i'm 26 and barely employed with no inspiration--okay i'm stopping. i'm trying and all that blah blah blah, so it's okay blah.

i was like--ya know what--fuck it i'm publishing one of these, i'm getting something done and the world is going to fucking take it for whatever the fuck it is--F WORD MEANS I MEAN IT. so yes, out of all the posts that have been started aren't we all glad that this one is the one that made it. notice that's not a question.

woof: sam

reminder

2011-08-23T18:57:00.000-07:00

but if the willow heaves a sob and runs you down her cheek,
run you up another tree and sing her soft to sleep.

T.S.Elliot Makes a Fine Point.

2011-05-07T16:18:00.000-07:00

April really is the cruelest month.
all the poems that are born from January and February, cake
compared to the rigorous slog of April.
the promise of sun,
our dear magnolias on the tree, testing the air, slowly unfolding
like a woman out of bed.
and all the maples, shaken by winter, hub-bubbing about
the temperature, arguing over whether or not it's time.
Aaron and I picture them as the young and the old, the old refusing
to bloom until they're quite sure, the young, jumping out of their skin
perhaps a few weeks early, but willing to take the risk.
but it's all a tease, all dirt, all mud (we are New Englanders)
all gone FINALLY is the interminable snow bank under the house's ledge,
hidden from sun it stayed and stayed, like parents at dinner, and would not melt.
and this too is the most obvious metaphor that "things" might be just fine.
parents may not be sick, relationships may have their hope,
and we ourselves may not be forgotten, may not be diminished.
but we must wait. as we have waded through winter, ejecting
its poems out of our brains and on to paper, praying "god, when does this end?"
even the most Godless of us, "please God, please bring some relief!",
we must wait.
April: Spring's obnoxious and arrogant protege', and amongst the stentorian of Earth's eruption we must
find our reason and keep ourselves.
We must wait for Spring to raise us up,we must wait for May at least to be on the table.
Damn it April, look at me straight: your hand on my arm, your chill up my back, your hands coming up, an invisible, impenetrable blockade.
We must wait.

guh

2011-04-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

http://www.buzzfeed.com/sly/edible-babies

This will get proper attention later.

Paul Simon

2011-04-11T14:18:00.000-07:00

Aaron and I were talking the other day about the line, "Negotiations and love songs are often mistaken for one and the same." That's just something I don't want to forget. The way he explained it--and I think he's right--is that people can make the mistake of thinking love (or what they think love is or will be) will be like a love song. That love is something light and airy and easy and uncomplicated and makes you soar all day every day. I think the first few months are like this maybe, some people call this the honey moon phase which is a bit obnoxious, but I think it's true that that stage exists. The act of falling in love can be mistaken for being in love and being a partner: yes I think that's true. Love ends up being partially this and partially a big batch of negotiations. I've said this before and I stick by it: when you think of how hard it is to align yourself with what you want and who you want to be and think of doing that with two people, marriage almost sounds like an impossible feat. It makes it a little scary to picture the amount of married people out there too, and also the amount of people out there who are either in unhappy marriages or the ones who opted out and turned to divorce.

At age 25, I believe I am finally experiencing this: The difference between a love affair and being in love. It is airy and easy sometimes, and many times it makes you soar. But in between all those moments, and even in them, there is a serious amount of negotiating that is done and can just make you sore. However, the negotiating makes the love affair moments that much more rewarding, because most things that are worthwhile do seem to take work. Investment. That's an entry for another day.

moon cake

2011-03-09T21:57:00.000-08:00

all the moon's a chocolate cake, a piece for me, you, ohio and india.

the star light is in the star, then on the planet, then to the moon then to the planet, i have no other ideas about it though, I barely understand that.

and each cloud in this sky is coming from another. the moon in one night, the clouds in another. two tales told at night intercepting each other, but not disturbed by the other passing through, passing under, passing over.

each cloud in the sky is part of a different system. that one on the left is dense and interminable, as far West as West ever was. This one on the right is jagged and rocky. a grand canyon filled to busting with water. two storms moving in, two fronts with no indication of backing down, always about to collide.

each cloud is gone and there is one sky. the sky above, the sky on the left and the same one on the right, and then of course the sky below. there is the ice on the trees, the sun and all of those are against the sky. two strong natures against another, each a rainbow of unbending force. each alone become palatable as together they are sun, sky and ice and light and water and air. and everything disappears.

The Good Fight

2011-02-04T18:45:00.000-08:00

suddenly the truth comes marching in
and it pulls at you and pokes at you, ruffles at your dress.
and when you beat it away it's both smarter and beats harder.

stop thrashing, she says, you have to stop fighting,
and under attack, these words are loaded guns at your temples,
an intruder's hand on the nape of your neck

truth only ever marches at people who invite it,
or more accurately, invited all of it's friends and acquaintances
but never quite put her invitation in the mail.

She will always be your friend at the party,
she will always do what you ask her as long
as you give her the reason and respect she deserves.

put down your hands and be still.
put down your hands.
be still.

the blocking.

2011-01-11T08:43:00.000-08:00

the heart's inertia is maybe our biggest kept secret.
it goes harder and faster and further
lifts more
kicks more
breathes more.

the work of the heart is embarrassing.
it's vulnerable.
it does not play games; is too honest.
we put up our arms,
declare check points.
we stop, question, back up, block.

our whole lives go by us,
every one of us,
and our great questions are sometimes
never answered.
i don't understand the blocking of the heart.
the precious truth it tells.
i do it, but i don't understand it.

My Honest New Years.

2011-01-01T08:36:00.000-08:00

I'll wake up.
I'll read something quickly.
I'll eat peanut butter on toast, there will probably be a banana.
I'll invade social media and want to know bizarrely intricate details about people's lives who I haven't seen in years.
I'll maybe go to the gym
I'll maybe eat lasagna.
Maybe both.
Maybe just lasagna.
I'll go to get my tires filled,
I'll get mad that I dallied and couldn't get my tires filled.
I'll go to work.
I'll serve. I'll serve. I'll serve.
My brain will bust.
I'll serve.
I'll break!
I'll serve. I'll serve. I'll serve.
I'll leave.
I'll be tired, I'll be grateful for my car.
I'll lie on my bed. I'll stay up too late.
I'll sleep.
I'll wake up.

winter loss

2010-11-03T13:30:00.000-07:00

there's a special crazy howl that cars make.

it sounds at a pitch that only the lonliest people can hear.

all up and down it rings through the house, grazing my bed

touching my shoulders, pretending to be fingers.

i don't hear it, i feel it. it comes with the first frost, the snow, dead birds.

i wanted us both to get long johns, to be solid wood in the winter.

i wanted us to have firm hands and backs.

to work for our happiness.

i wanted all the lines in the right place, the numbers, too,

in the right order to be counted on.

i wanted to dig you up in the back yard amongst the bones.

i wanted you to want to be dug up.

i thought you wanted to be discovered with the dead ants

and leaves, a carriage for beetles with dirt for blankets and pillows.

i wanted to shake you off like a rug, wash your face

and touch your hands like the time at our greek diner

in queens.

there's so much that happens between i love you

and goodbye.

sympathy

2010-10-27T16:51:00.000-07:00

is it the phone call at 8 o clock,
or the way that man examines his fingernails?
or is it the day, just the day itself?
the grey sky. the black clouds.
perhaps it's 93 north and it's arresting reassurance
that you are, in fact, in new hampshire.
perhaps it's your father's birthday,
the shortcomings of your mother's heart
her bones,
your grandfather losing his wife, losing his step,
forgetting his eye drops.
or your friend looking at his watch,
simply wondering the time.
humanity. it's just humanity.
people being people. leaning down,
stretching to see the top shelf, warming
up their hands, itching,
tapping, thinking, doing things alone,
not thinking about how to do it, just needing to,
dealing with the day, with their life, with their loss
with their love, with their loneliness.
it makes my body ache, it makes me shake inside,
i can't look, i love it so.

grandma newcar, october 10th, 2010

2010-10-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

it's hard to hear your parents in pain. hearing their voice shake or wave is like hearing 10 others at once. the weight is heavier, the impact more grand. my grandmother passed away tonight and among the debris of childhood memories comes this gratefulness that i was around when she was a bit younger, a bit more of a woman not grandmother, not mother, but someone with character, with a peronality. what does the body do as it prepares to die? was she more clumsy? is that why she fell last week--because, like a house in winter, the body gradually shut itself down? prepared for death?

it's so interesting, the time line of someone's life we really do feel immortal, all-encompassing, all-knowing. now she's died. grandma is dead and all i see are images of her so bright, and so alive even with old skin, even with course hair, even with a weak body, i see her. i hope, even against the size of death, that makes a dent somewhere, that it's significant somewhere to her, to him, to anyone, perhaps it softens the blow just a little..to know she's seen.

poetry depression

2010-10-10T09:39:00.000-07:00

in between piano riffs
the pull of loss is overwhelming
rocks are falling, the ground is opening
and all around we've come apart.

inside
i am grateful for loneliness,
grateful to the tv for being loud
to the sky for being grey

outside
fall is vast and consuming
the trees are obnoxious in their ache for poetry:
"we look so beautiful, so alive in death", ripe, disgusting in their desperation for a rhyming couplet.

the maple outside the window
is red, brown and crispy,
the three points on it's leaf
are curling from the top, sitting up over the shoes, under the skin, into the veins.

new england is colder than
new york, than cincinnati has ever been,
where, per capita, the most depressed
of everything has settled, a calm and quiet blanket.

if I were my mother and you, the reader, were the writer,
I'd say: "the importance of where you put your feet in the morning
is second to where they're going,
and who they're going with."

direction standards and exceptions

2010-10-07T13:11:00.001-07:00

A direction would be helpful, new, old, used, used once and then resold at discount price, found under the couch, left out in the rain, overcooked, undercooked, raw, vegan, fatty, glass imitation, low battery, microwavable, knit, cotton, wool, spandex, stereo, one-legged, one-boobed, lacking legs,... lacking arm(s), lacking both, one with a receding hair line, receding gums, receding sex drive, one that doesn't quite fit but you wear it anyway, one with gum stuck to the bottom, one with small pox/chicken pox/chicken legs/chicken liver/liver spots, just one. any one.

the sinking friendship

2010-10-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

the leaves are changing, black and grey,
the fire's on the wall,
the hope of friendship--not today,
dense silence in the hall

the frantic rhythm of slots of air
billowing at lunch
forks scrape bowls, but mouths don't dare
to tell what they have done

for years, dear friend--years,
not days or a minute or two
great dots of time, spear
the heart of our sea-level proof.

i would have dug a hole around
the earth with finger and hand
for the ginger honey-suckle sound
of the kind word of my friend.

the 372nd poem about time

2010-10-04T09:07:00.000-07:00

How often has time been
the subject of a poem?

Charles Bukowski had a clock poem
where he discovers himself, in spite
of his father.

David Moreau borrows time
for his wife, for his son, for
himself.

Our Robert Frost, the man
tumbling down the road less traveled,
thrusts his hoe into the mellow
ground--a time to talk.

The subject has been covered:
glances come at 11,
curiosity at 3 and 10 o' clock
brings giving in, it brings a broken
spirit and blank and neutral heart.

So why another poem
expounding on time, or clocks
or waiting on both?

Because there's a man who should
have called at 11, then 3 and
then I gave up at 10 o'clock
for good.

Errands, despite yourselves.

2010-10-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

Home alone with the table in the kitchen.
home with the lamps and the cutlery, the spice rack
and of course the damp towels from last night's shower.

the creaks of an old house, the silence that makes me anxious,
the goddamn dog barking in the house behind us.

i wonder what work is like for you. if you're upset still.
if you miss me.
i wonder about last night, if i was harsh, or was i bold?
did i follow the advice i gave myself, or did i not go through with it?

all around people are losing each other. choosing something over someone
or someone over someone.
and every day i wonder if the silence that follows in the morning
will be the last, but then i feel stupid for being so damn dramatic.

looking around, i force myself to be still, to be calm, to sit in silence.
i think of our fight, our discussion i mean, of your mother's birthday.
i am so sad, so cold, so bored i could die, but we need milk, so i pull on my jeans,
throw on a sweatshirt, get in the fucking car and do what needs to be done.

Breakfast Silence

2010-09-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

breakfast can bring silence; the kind that covers walls, the kind that breaks down barriers; the kind of silence that could clear the earth of all it's nature. Breakfast silence on the walls. Breakfast silence on our hands, stomachs and ankles. Breakfast silence in our nature

Woman Proves How Smart She is by Harassing Starbucks Employee

2010-08-20T09:49:00.000-07:00

This happened on the 16th and isn't exaaaactly a "criminal case", but is far too dumb a story not to be told.

I want to punch people like Lynne Rosenthal in the face. A Columbia Ph.D. holder (as she won't let you forget) who would want to punch me in the face for my frequent misuse of the semi-colon andcomma, habitual repetition of the word "is" in a sentences like, "the thing is, is ____", a regional "thing" where I grew up, and the presence of "I" in an article.

Rosenthal, apparently, finds Starbucks' policy of asking "do you want cheese or butter on your bagel?" so "linguistically stupid", she is martyring a (one-person strong) crusade against the huge-gantic company (by screaming at the people who work behind the counter who have absolutely no control over how or why the company makes its policies).

According to the Post here's what happened, and it's stupid:

Rosenthal, who is in her early 60s, asked for a toasted multigrain bagel-- and became enraged when the employee at the franchise, onColumbus Avenue at 86th Street, followed up by inquiring, "Do you want butter or cheese?"
"I just wanted a multigrain bagel," Rosenthal told The Post. "I refused to say 'without butter or cheese.' When you go to Burger King, you don't have to list the six things you don't want. Linguistically, it's stupid, and I'm a stickler for correct English."
When Rosenthal was told she wouldn't be served unless she specified whether she wanted butter, cheese or neither, she took off her big girl pants and yelled, "I want my multigrain bagel!" She was met, again, with resistance when the Starbucks employee replied, "You're not going to get anything unless you say butter or cheese!" (and may or may have threatened to take away her binky, wah-wah, and other made-up words that represent a thing that shuts up a small child).

Eventually (after Rosenthal stopped using her manners and called the employee an @sshole) the manager called the police, who forcibly removed her from the store and told her she would be arrested if she entered again.

Rosenthal, of course, has no idea (or won't admit) that she was acting like a total dink ("It was very humiliating to be thrown out, and all I did was ask for a bagel,"), but nobody at Starbucks seems to care.
Rumor has it she can now be found at Burger King, sitting unpeacefully on her soapbox, clutching her Ph.D. in one hand and her stupid, no-good, stupid cheese-less bagel in the other.

Most Terrible Man Steals Wheelchair from Stroke Victim Dining with Daughter

2010-08-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

For the average, unimaginative Joe, it's tough to imagine a situation where you'd be tempted to steal a disabled person's wheelchair. Not for this guy, who should be given a list of s**t you just don't do and should be embarrassed for thinking about.

Maybe he was overcome by sudden fatigue, maybe he has a special collection at home of the oh-so-sweet, spacious and wicked-tricked-out Jet 3 Ultra Jazzy Power Chairs he likes to shine and keep in the garage just to look at and admire, maybe he's got a bizarre fetish that we...really want nothing to do with and so will stop pondering, maybe he has an indescribable desire to be made fun of mercilessly, we may never know or care.

Probably this guy is just terrible. The still unidentified man, described by My Fox News as a "white or hispanic man about 25-30 years old. He's about 5'8"-5'10", 160-170 pounds with short, dark hair, wearing a blue shirt, light-colored pants and white sneakers" was WALKING just FINE before he stole the motorized wheel chair of--here's the kicker--a 68-year-old STROKE victim HAVING DINNER WITH HIS DAUGHTER at Palm Too restaurant in Manhattan. Makes your heart want to shrivel up and die.

According to a witness, light-colored-pants-guy "zipped up Second Avenue, presumably at the chair's top speed -- 4 mph." You can't make this s**t up.

Apparently the incident happened on July 20th, but details were not released because the police were following leads...presumably on a slower, less Jazzy, rival motorized chair.

On

2010-08-19T08:51:00.000-07:00

The jump. The jump it had to be the jump.
Or maybe it's the leap, yes the leap it had to be the leap.

On sickness: a gooey misinterpretation of survival of the fittest, or the weeding out of overpopulation?
On love: a gooey misinterpretation of your body's instincts? of mine?

On entertainment: the catalyst to the glaze we look to cover our eyes or the reaction, human and fine, to the nasty revolutions of our changing little globe?
On intellect: just nasty? probing? a nosy, impersonal intruder to our most private emotions? our most important destroyer of?

On the world: it needs more ice cream/

Staples Gets Financial Lipo

2010-07-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

Staples is way more underwhelmed about it's most recent robbery than everyone else is.

A 20-something year-old woman described as black, 5-foot-11 and apparently rotund, committed that most recent successful robbery at Staples' 2nd Ave and 66th St location.

At around 6:00pm on Sunday, the woman, whose "still at large" (you can't even handle all the puns attached to this story), apparently barreled in as the store was closing: all 250-pounds of her. She initially asked for help with ink cartridges, but once the store had emptied of customers and she knew nobody was planning to rob this particular Staples on this particular day, thereby stealing her thunder (thighs), she took out a "small fire-arm".

The delicate flower managed to squeeze out $3,000 from the cash drawer and make a light-footed escape. Sources claim she put her fist through the wall when she requested, but was denied, a whole line of vintage candy that Staples just simply doesn't sell, including Jujy Fruit, Dum-Dums, Wax Lips, Candy Buttons, Necco Wafers, Hot Dog bubble gum and Mallo Cups (...that last part might be a lie).

Staples' 34th Street location was hit four times from February to May, it's 8th Ave and W36th St location has been hit twice and on July 18th, the 6th Ave & W8th St joined the coveted list. All three locations have been held up by the same four-man gang who seem to require an endless supply of paper product.

At this time there has been no connection found between the gang of men and Roald Dahl's apparently non-fictional BFG.

Autopsies Show Staten-Island Mother Killed Kids and Herself, Set Fire to House

2010-07-27T13:25:00.000-07:00

Photo: AMagill

Up until today CJ Romoy, 14, was thought to be behind the murder, suicide and fire that took the lives of his two sisters, Brittney and Melonie Jones, ages 10 and 7 respectively, his mother Leisa Jones, 30, his baby brother Jermaine Sinclair, 2, and finally himself. But autopsies revealed that Brittney, Melonie and maybe most importantly at this point, CJ, showed no sign of smoke inhalation, but Leisa and son, Jermaine did. The presence of smoke in Leisa and its absence in CJ prove he wasn't breathing at the time the fire was set. He has since been exonerated and blame transferred to mother, Leisa.

Once officials could get into the apartment and look around, they found the scene to be much different than an accidental holocaust. It was gruesome, and gave way to Melonie, Brittney and CJ all with slashed throats, surely not an accident. CJ, who was slumped over a bed, had an old straight-razor under his arm. The two girls and the mother were in the living room, with CJ close by. Jermaine, the youngest, had been rushed out of the burning apartment building as soon as firefighters had gotten a hose on the landing allowing Lt. Robert Strafer, a 29-year veteran of the Fire Department, to gain access and evacuate him. Unfortunately the effort fell short and Jermaine lost his life at Richmond University Medical Center.

The razor, Romoy's track record for not-always-stellar-behavior, and playing with fire (literally--he'd been thrown out of a Port Richmond pool the day before for setting a fire) left him wide open as the primary suspect for the whole overwhelming tragedy. Even when police found a badly burned note that read, "am sorry" in Ms. Jones' handwriting, they still felt the evidence pointed to Romoy.

“There was never any conflict. We had no incidents at all. The girls came in happy; the baby was healthy.” said Jacqueline Brooks, who worked at the daycare the youngest three attended. “They were sitting out front [Wednesday], like they do every night, trying to avoid the heat,” said 2nd floor neighbor, Nicholas Cotton. “They were playing — kids being kids, Mom watching them.”

But after the fire, after the murders, after the suicide and after all the initial articles that pointed to Romoy, an unidentified friend of Leisa Jones confessed Jones told her: "At times, I feel like killing the kids and burning the house down and killing myself." An interesting piece of information to withhold when the dead, 14-year-old son of the woman who committed the crime has been victimized and accused of the exact crime Jones sometimes pictured. And apparently she shared this with more than one person.

Additionally, undigested pills were found in Romoy's body (the same that were found in Leisa Jones). The police speculate that Jones had to drug Romoy in order to kill him, another charming little fact about this mother whose "hot temper" apparently still allowed her full custody of her children.

New York's "If you see something, say something" motto has gone national, and this story is an exact testament to that motto's sentiment. If you see something, hear something, my God, if you even smell something, if you SUSPECT anything, pay attention! Four children with futures ahead of them, long lives filled with who knows what, were brutally snuffed out, but their memory is insulted by the fact that their mother confessed exactly what she was going to do and how she was going to do it, told someone who did nothing, and then went ahead and did it. Are you really surprised? When it comes to children, we must protect them when they cannot protect themselves.

How Not to Get Arrested for Taking Pictures

2010-07-25T21:23:00.000-07:00

NOTE: COPIED THIS FROM WORD PRESS, SO SOME HYPERLINKS DID NOT MAKE THE TRANSITION...BEAR WITH ME.

Dear Doting and Beloved Reader of Crimeunitynyc.com,

Super old news: photography is not a crime. Photographers are not terrorists. Photographers are not all paparazzi, though even they deserve to be protected, nagging little nasties they are.

There seems to be a some–confusion– on what is legal and what is not when it comes to workin’ the camera. What’s not (too) confusing (though surprising) are the basic laws that protect you from having your film, your camera and yourself confiscated by angry people/the police. Remember to check your state’s laws for more specific situations:

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
(…PICTURES OF PROPERTY, PUBLIC AND PRIVATE):

You, the camera-toting-doting-beloved reader are a lady on the street, but a freak with the lens. Or maybe you just like taking pictures, whatever, but let’s say you’re stopped by someone who says you don’t “have the right to be doing that”/they don’t want you to do that because your photographing private property.

You are right if:

You’re clickin’ that button from a public street, side-walk, most public parks (just think places that are generally considered public unless otherwise posted), your own property, or property you have permission to be on for other reasons. When people or places are in public (available to the naked eye), it’s pretty much fair game. This goes for people, too, if they’re walking around in public. But you can’t follow people around, badgering them with pictures without their consent. Celebs forfeit that right a bit because they make money off their image, whereas we don’t. Nobody gives a s*** about what we do, so we have full rights to that protection. Half a point for being kind of boring!
You don’t have a tripod blocking street/pedestrian traffic/you’re not in front of something that will congest an area, making it unsafe and pissing people off.

They are right if:

You’re on private property (do look for signs, but be aware that usually people are not required to post them and that siting a lack of them may do nothing for your cause).
You’re in the private part of seemingly public domain; places like hallways of an apartment or condominium building, or offices for example. This can get muddy, but use that thing that sits atop your shoulders and between your ears. If you feel like you maaaay be getting away with something, then you probably are.
You are photographing a facility that requires clearance to get in. You are technically allowed to photograph the outside structure—that’s visible to the naked eye, anyone can see it—but even that could put you in a compromising position. Don’t be a bonehead, think about how much Al Qaida would pay to the blueprints to the White House or some of those huge nuclear plants in Texas or Arizona, how do they know what the hell your doing? And you are certainly not allowed to take pictures on the premises…duh.
You’re a gross, sweaty man (or woman!) with your lens pressed up against some poor, unsuspecting woman’s (or man’s!) window, and you’re wildly taking pictures of them changing you freak. That’s noooooooooot okay or legal or acceptable, and any thrill you get will be totally usurped by the thrill of having your a** thrown in jail. People are protected in situations like this because they have a reasonable expectation of privacy. Other places that apply are bathrooms, changing rooms, locker rooms etc. So…don’t do that, it’s weird and gross and…weird. It’s also an invasion of privacy.

A good friend of mine was shooting a scene for a movie outside of an apartment building on a public street. Some jerk-monkey got up in his face and accused him of being a terrorist, “How do I know you’re not a terrorist?” My friend, a sort of real-life, Irish version of Teddy Ruxpin (who does sometimes let the Irish out) calmly replied, “Don’t worry about it.” The guy got pretty angry and replied, “OH I WORRY ABOUT IT.” Thank God the guy walked away and my friend avoided what photographer Jules Mattsson did not. A lot of people site security or privacy as a reason why it’s unlawful for you to be taking pictures, and many times they couldn’t be more off (it’s actually a right—Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Press—underneath the first Amendment)…or more off their rocker.

But quickly, let’s not allow that video of Jules Mattsson to go undiscussed. If you haven’t seen the video, Mattssen, a minor at the time, is harassed by police officers while filming a parade, which is perfectly legal. He records about 9 minutes of the debacle, and asks about a hundred times why he’s been asked to stop photographing and eventually what law he’s being detained under. They hoped he would just leave by their request, but when he doesn’t and demands why that’s being requested of him the police respond:
You can’t take pictures of military personnel (legal, try again)
You can’t take a picture of a child without a parental consent form (also legal, try again)
You…are…a breach of the peace because you’re causing anxiety to the public because we’ve unlawfully disrupted you and oops now we’re unlawfully detaining you (Mattssen is still legal, but now the police are not…right)

Mattssen was pushed down the stairs, his camera was taken from him and one police officer, aware that he was being recorded (“I know you’re recording me right now,”) tells Mattssen he believes him to be a threat to the Terrorism Act which is totally transparent…and dumb.

Of course this situation is on the super dramatic end of the scale and does not represent a typical run-in with police (the same friend that was harassed by the local, scary, self-appointed terrorist hunter went undisturbed while filming in front of reams of NYPD). It does, however, bring attention to the fact that people do become—let’s be diplomatic and say “insistent”—that you are in the wrong when you aren’t, and demand you leave, turn over your film or both. So you know, pretty much they’re not allowed to do that ever, see below.

VIEWING/CONFISCATING YOUR FILM: WHO CAN DO IT AND WHEN

So let’s say whoever initially stopped you, the camera-toting-doting-beloved reader, becomes “insistent” (remember, we’re diplomatic) that you’ve done something wrong and demands you show them your film/hand it over to them. And who the hell knows, right? They could be lying or exaggerating, but what if they’re not?:

Ignore them:

Actually nobody has the right to your pictures, they are your personal property. If someone gets really sassy with you, you may actually be able to take legal action against THEM. Even the police can’t look at or confiscate your pictures without a search warrant/rare exception.

The rare exception:

RE Film Confiscation: If there is “reasonable suspicion that the suspect is engaged in photography or videotaping for some terrorism-related purpose,” then THE POLICE can confiscate your film. So don’t act like or be a terrorist. Done.
RE Viewing Film: “Members of the service may not demand to view photographs taken by a person absent consent or exigent circumstances. When there is probably cause to believe that the camera, film or other media contains evidence of criminal activity, the item may be seized, and a search warrant must be obtained in order to view its contents. In addition, a person who has taken pictures should not be directed to delete or destroy images stored within the device.”
If you’re already in custody for something else.

However:

If it escalates to the level that somebody is asking to see or take your film, cover your tracks. Be as kind and courteous as possible without being stepped on or compromising your rights. If you have nothing to hide, kill them with kindness, show them your pictures, certainly don’t delete them, but whatever you can do to diffuse a situation like this while maintaining the right to your work is probably the best bet. Understandably people get “emotional” when it comes to privacy, don’t let your pride get in the way. Some people also get “totally insane”, and regardless of the consequences will take great joy in whacking you in the face.
Carry this with you as a precaution. It’s a document stating your right to take pictures on/from public property. There are even some police officers who don’t know or are confused about these laws, and you can produce this Operations Order to prove you have the right to be where you are but again, don’t be a schmuck about it.

Miscellaneous:

It’s totally legal to take pictures on the subway and on the T, you just can’t bring a tripod (safety) or other equipment (unless you have a press pass).
I’ve had trouble finding definitive answer on tripod use in the city. I keep hearing that it’s “illegal” and I have friends who have been told just that, and been asked to stop. From what I’ve found though, the city states that you can use a tripod AND without a license, just not in a high traffic areas due to safety reasons. So basically, don’t set up shop on the sidewalk in Times Square or in front of an opening door, and if someone hassles you, show them this document posted on the city’s website.

Hope this helps. Until next time: take pictures, be merry and do both legally.

Additional sources/stories that may interest you

GREAT PAMPHLET ON PHOTGRAPHER’S RIGHTS BY LAWYER BERT KRAGES
http://www.krages.com/ThePhotographersRight.pdf

GOTHAMIST ARTICLE ABOUT LAWSUIT BY PHOTOGRAPHER WHO WAS ARRESTED FOR FILMING A PROTEST IN NYC
http://gothamist.com/2010/04/23/nyclu_files_suit_to_protect_photogr.php

LAWYER.COM INSIGHT ON PHOTOGRAPHING/FILMING ON PRIVATE PROPERTY
http://communications-media.lawyers.com/privacy-law/Videotaping-and-Photography-on-Private-Property.html

Inception...Totes Disappointed

2010-07-22T20:35:00.000-07:00

Inception doesn’t seem like it can go wrong: Leonardo DiCaprio, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Ellen Page round out a cast of big names; and Christopher Nolan, who did the newest installments of the Batman series, The Prestige, and of course Memento, is responsible for the writing and directing. The movie is built on some pretty sturdy, dependable pillars and they’ve done a really good job of “mums-the-word”ing it so as to keep it mysterious and put butts in the seats.

Well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, kids: Inception is hands down the biggest disappointment of the summer and maybe of the year. It has some redeeming qualities, don’t get me wrong, but the absolute dysfunction of the script so very much bungles up the story, the stunted development of each character gave me no inkling that these characters cared about anything/were something I should care about, and the shameless insertion of the most overused clichés made Inception worse than mediocre or bad because I walked into the theatre actually expecting to see something worthwhile. Below are what I believe to be Inception’s three greatest flaws:

SCRIPT

The script was so bad I almost can’t believe it. At one point I actually turned to my friend and asked, “Are they joking?”, and I was serious. The dialogue and scenario got so ridiculously twisted up I literally thought that Leonardo DiCaprio might come out and scream, “Live from New York it’s Saturday Night”, or maybe it would be Ashton Kutcher telling us we had been Punk’d, or maybe it would just be anyone involved with the movie coming out to apologize for how goddamned laughable it was and ask us to please just stay for the last 30 minutes which may make us feel like the price of our ticket was not paid in vain. I think Christopher Nolan thought that because the concept was “so complex”, that meant the (so obnoxiously expository) dialogue could be too, and if you don’t get it, too bad. I don’t think it’s right to leave your audience out in the cold. They paid to see your movie, why would you make them feel stupid? What makes me angrier is that when I finally understood what was happening, I totally got it. That says to me this: the concept of the movie was not bad, it was really interesting actually, but the concept of Chris Nolan writing and directing the movie WAS bad. You go see the movie, count how many times they say “dream” or “dream within a dream” and tell me if it makes you want to shoot yourself juuuust a little bit.

ACTING

The acting was also pretty bad—all three big names were clearly trying, but were ultimately disappointing. DiCaprio is supposed to be a father. The man is not a father, or maybe he is, but he certainly can’t pretend to be one. Gordon Levitt doesn’t belong in this movie. I love the idea of casting him because he’s super skinny, and that made his fight scenes so great, but he simply wasn’t right. I was always a little bit nervous when he opened up his mouth to speak that he might accidentally say, “I’m acting in an action movie.” And Ellen Page was the same thing she always is: cute, always a little panicked and always a little obnoxious. Perhaps it’s not all her fault, perhaps it’s not the fault of any of them, perhaps the directing was just bad, but the three of them gave underwhelming performances.

EFFECTS

Actually, the effects themselves were really great, but that they’re introduced in such a way that screams IT’S TIME FOR SPECIAL EFFECTS. Effects of any kind are supposed to compliment and highlight the script, not be an entity all on their own. I kept thinking of the movie 2012…not really a good thing. 2012 was very much like, “This is a ridiculous end-of-the-world movie chalk-full of special affects starring John Cusack.” Special Effects, John Cusack, end-of-the world COMEDY; if you look up “blockbuster” in the dictionary, there it will be. 2012 knows that though, and doesn’t go parading around as something else.

QUICK “REDEEMING QUALITIES” LIST

Really creative concept
SOME unique and “oh-my-God” effects enhanced by seeing it on a big screen
Last 30 minutes are awesome, but you can’t build a whole movie around one scene/climax/idea because the rest of the movie becomes superfluous. 30 minutes of applicable action to 120 minutes superfluity is a terrible, bad, bad and terrible, terribly bad ratio.
Watchability. A word I made up to try and encapsulate how flawed the movie is, but that it’s still “an experience” seeing it in the theatre and in general.

In conclusion, go see Toy Story 3.

The "I love you, parent" Debate.

2010-07-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

That's my mum. She's wicked cute.

As the train was pulling out last night, I had this very surprising burst of sadness. The Downeaster goes right past Mercy hospital and it's obscenely gorgeous ocean view, which is where ole' Holl had the "girls" lopped off. I felt nostalgic, and I couldn't figure out why--"For her having surgery?"...no..."For visiting her at the hospital?"...no, duh..."For..I don't know, I don't get it." That's as far as I got before having the overwhelming sensation that I was going to cry. And I did. On the train. In front of the people. Uch, I hate when that happens, but what can you do, we're all human.

And it's fine, and she's fine and she WILL be fine, it just became clear to me that the ocean, the coast, open space, Maine, small town values/joys, etc. are all something my mother has given me. These are things that she loves, brought into my life, and have become part of me and my identity. They are now things that I love.

Anyhow, it had me thinking about my whole life in that light. About everyone, really. It's interesting, you hear people say all the time, "I never had the chance to tell my (parent) how I felt." And of course you DO have that chance, you just don't feel like you do, because most of us, though we love our parents dearly, end up DEALING with our parents instead of ENJOYING them. And it doesn't make you bad, or me bad, or them bad, it just IS that way. That's the natural order of things, and it's the same with our parents and their parents. But I do feel like it's something that I at least want to make sure I say to my mother and father before I don't have that chance anymore. And not just them, everyone in the family, really. I think people are more apt to be honest with friends about how they feel, or boyfriends or girlfriends because they are people you see when you want and they are people you associate with by choice. Not that we don't want to associate with our families, I love my family, but it IS something we are BORN into, there is no choice, it is something given to you by birth and people being people, are resistant to having something be REQUIRED of them. And it's weird to sit your mom down and be like, "Mom, I super love you and here is the list of things you've done for me." Ewww. But none-the-less, I know there's a sweet little spot in the middle of dealing and gushing that needs to be discovered. Being afraid or embarrassed or scared will be no excuse if you allow the chance to tell them how you feel to pass, and then get stuck wondering if they knew that you actually didn't hate them and, in fact, enjoyed and appreciated their presence in your life.

Alright yeah, yeah, enough of this.

the body

2010-07-10T20:52:00.000-07:00

the Johnny's come off, first the left arm then the right, which slid off the shoulder and on to the lap; eventually on to the ground in a bundle at the feet.

the feet. the feet are older, disgruntled, a bit mangled with bunions. the big toe-nail bumpy and white, the stuff of fungus and age.

the legs stand fine and sturdy, still youthful, the wrinkles still around the knee, the same that came with a younger leg, the same that came to me with the beach when the body was tight, taught and bikinied.

the face. the face is remarkable. the face of every fight, every joy, every fear. the face of history. the fury of the woman who delivered your life.

most important:
the breasts. the breasts are gone. the breasts are gone and it's okay. the breasts are gone for the best, the health of body, the body that breathes.

the rest doesn't matter. the body breathes, the rest doesn't matter

I reviewed Eclipse...deal with it

2010-07-10T20:26:00.000-07:00

Whether you are a devout Twilighter or one of the rest of us poor schmucks who happens to have been trampled on your way to the movie theatre by the hordes of teenage girls whose brains have been usurped by their hormones: you probably have a bare-bones understanding of this epic saga.

Bella Swan is human, Edward Cullen is a vampire. They are in love or in lust, or whatever you want to call it, but nobody will argue that they are very…intertwined. The story follows them as they deal with the seemingly otherworldly connection they have and the disappointing detail that Edward instinctively wants to put a hole in her neck and suck out her blood…naturally. Eclipse, specifically, deals with the potential marriage of the two, Bella’s impending “change” (into a vampire), the vampire (Victoria) who wants to kill Bella and the ever-dark, always-watching, always-hooded Volturi (lead by Dakota Fanning, whose surprisingly disappointing in this chapter of the series).

I haven’t read the books so I’m just going to stick to what I’ve seen. I have seen all three movies and I’m actually quite pleased to report Eclipse to be watchable. I don’t know if there’s a movie-goer out there who has bought their Twilight ticket thinking they were going to see a “film”, but damnit if it doesn’t have its place. It will be the stuff that 10-17-year-old girls talk about in their late 20’s when they’re reminiscing about their childhood, and it is for 20-something-year-old women a “guilty pleasure”. It ALMOST does another service, too (though it stops just short) for young women. Bella has decided she wants to become a vampire because there’s nothing she’ll ever want more than Edward. Eclipse surrounds her with moments to doubt herself, though—an important consideration for young women who will soon discover the tug-of-war between love and personal fulfillment. She encounters multiple situations where she is presented with the opportunity to change her mind and lead the life of a normal teenager and grow into a regular, human woman. In my opinion it stops just short of teaching a lesson, but I won’t tell you how, because you’re rushing off to the theatre at this very moment to see it for yourself.

Eclipse is exploding with camp, but it knows it and accepts it. There were certainly moments where I couldn’t sink lower in my seat out of shame and embarrassment for myself, and pity for the actors (I’m thinking now of a Mormon-infused sex-talk Edward and Bella have, which I won’t spoil for you.) However, not only is it 3485039548 times better than the piece of @*&% that was New Moon, but there’s a plot, action, relationships, SUSPENCE and humor! I burst out laughing certainly more than once, usually when Charlie (Billy Burke) was on screen, and was pleased to see that even Bella learned how to move her lips upward into an almost-smile.

There’s a reviewer who suggested that for the first time he felt like he was actually watching a movie, and another who commented that Eclipse is “an improvement”, and I think I’m going to have to agree. It’s not something I would seek out, it includes all the repetitious “will we love and live, or love and die”-themed teenage angst you can take, the always sans-shirted Jacob (Edward asks at one point, “Doesn’t he have a shirt.”), the uncomfortably handsome Edward who looks like he got into a fight with a glitter gun when he’s exposed to the sun, and the always sullen and distressed Bella that we’ve come to love or...at least accept.

If you have a friend whose too ashamed to go by herself, are looking to escape for two hours and four minutes, or care enough to declare yourself part of “Team Jacob” or “Team Edward”, then go forth and Godspeed!

Please Give: Gives a Little, Takes a Little

2010-06-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

If you’ve read a plot summary of Please Give, chances are it lead you to think it’s something it’s not.
From what I read before seeing the movie, Please Give is about a couple living in NYC who buys the apartment next to theirs. The intent is that, when the 91-year-old lady currently occupying the space passes away, they’ll knock down the wall that divides the two spaces and renovate them into one large apartment for them to live in.

The only reason I think this is worth pointing out is because Please Give is, at least for its first half or so, a pretty ambitious movie that is not done justice by a quick plot summary from IMDB or rottentomatoes. Every character is so developed and each actor so ensconced in who they are and what their struggle is, that most of the time you feel like you’re doing some pretty heavy duty eavesdropping on the lives (public and private) of six people for 90 minutes. While caring equally for six characters for that long IS a wonderful accomplishment, Please Give is not without its major problems.

First of all it’s written and directed by Nicole Holofcener. Having some decent credits under her belt (Sex and the City [the show], Friends with Money, Bored to Death), she seems to be a talented writer at least, but no matter how good you are, you take a huge risk directing your own work. It’s so easy to get swallowed by the presumption that the audience knows the story as well as you do, that you can forget to include important details, overlook transitions, or be unable to cut something you love to benefit the production as a whole. Holofecener definitely suffered some blows that I would attribute to this scenario. Most of theses blows are small, but there’s at least one major problem that may have been treated differently if the script had been handed to a different director with a fresh set of eyes and a new perspective.

Because the characters are so interesting it’s difficult to tell at the beginning who you’re supposed to be following. That’s fine, but for one problem: eventually the movie ends. By the time Please Give is over, you’ve been given a lot of provocative information about a lot of interesting people. But, you’ve been shown a slice of life movie that is dissatisfying because it doesn't choose what it wants to be. I think they should have given us one of two things:
1. a slice-of-life movie that shows six people dealing with their problems and how those people are connected, but make it clear that their problems are not going to be solved by the end of the 90 minutes, or
2. a movie that shows us six people who are about to be tested by events that connect them all and their stories will wrap up by the end of the movie.

One version allows the characters to live more separately while the other ties them together by events that affect them all. Please Give, while insightful, moving and blissfully accurate in its delivery of life’s nuances, is a bit of a schizo. It ends up being a slice of life movie that shows six people dealing with their problems and how those people are connected, and then sort of wraps up some of their issues but neglects others, thereby putting the first and second halves of the movie at odds with each other.
There are little things here and there, too. For instance a conversation between Rebecca and Abby—one a terribly shy woman, and one a bitchy teenager—that would just never take place because they aren’t those kinds of people. A keener eye may have concocted a way to fix this, or applied more pressure on them forcing them into conversation instead of just letting it happen. It also gets very “sappy music playing while actor reflects” at the end, which is a bit maddening. It meant that I left the theatre feeling pretty sad and I don’t know if that was necessary. Being beaten over the head by emotion is cheating, and people don’t want to be cheated.

All of that being said, it’s still a pretty damn good movie. While it’s a little foggy, it does ask some tough questions about the difference between self indulgence and self fulfillment. And the cast is BRILLIANT: Catherine Keener, Oliver Platt, Rebecca Hall and Amanda Peet are all stunning individually and as an ensemble. Peet gives maybe the most impressive performance, which is a treat given her character may be the most shallow.

It’s not for everyone, but most things aren’t. For the movie-goer looking for something mellow, but provocative: I definitely recommend it.

pieces of wood

2010-06-27T20:44:00.000-07:00

there's something wonderful about the power of struggle.

it eats like dusty termites, making holes, leaving them empty.

Somehow, and I haven't figured it out yet, but somehow we--you and i--have become immune to the side effects: the aching, the pain, the resentment, all the common configurations of the struggle and the struggle's struggle and the struggle to manage the struggle.

but what's most surprising is what happens when there is no struggle. peace seems to bring discomfort; suspicion. without a worry, what are you to think about? what are you to lament over? without a fight, what's the point?

Your tooth hurts or your dying or both

2010-06-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

i am nearly 25 and have developed heart burn over the past two weeks. it's either the seltzer or age wiggling it's way in.

things are either fine or they're about to blow apart. you either have cancer or an itch, maybe a misplaced pen is stabbing you and it's not your prostate exploding into your liver. and then sometimes it is cancer or the exploding prostate, or both God forbid, and sometimes even when it is, it's okay. and sometimes it's not.

i can never think about a person dying without picturing them in their coffin, in their grave, hands across the chest like the vampire i imagine them to be i guess, and then, eventually, rotting. people in boxes rotting. it happens six feet below, it could be happening to you right now: are you standing on a patch of green grass? is there a body rotting beneath you?

this is my plea to go to the doctor sometimes.

Toy Story 3: Way Better Than "Killers"...Like WAAAAY

2010-06-20T20:54:00.001-07:00

Toy Story 3: WAY Better Than Killers...LIKE WAAAAAY

Standing in front of the digital movie board at Regal Cinemas, I went back and forth so many times about what to see, but finally heard my single/white/female, twenty-five year old ass say, “Toy Story 3” to the sixteen year old kid behind the glass. There was a slight pause as we both reflected on the choice and asked of me, “Samantha, what does that say about you?” Whatever, go away.

After the small to medium blow to the ego, I mosied into the theatre and sat by myself. I was early and as the time edged closer to 6:30, the seats began to fill up with families. I slid into an angry pit of anxiety when I realized I had just paid money to sit with many, many children for the length of a movie, and nearly hit the ceiling when a very pleasant man asked if the seat next to me was taken. “No,” I responded, looking into his soul, seeing if I could search out and destroy his heart with my eye balls, wondering what the HELL was wrong with the five other seats in the row. Turns out it was a family of six with three kids and I was going to get the privilege of sitting next to them as they gorged on popcorn and Snow Caps and asked stupid, dumb questions about the movie, joy, joy, joy. I was really kicking myself and thought about trying to dash into Jonah Hex or the A-Team, but decided to stay put. PEOPLE: I’m so glad I did.

Toy Story: 3 is not your typical third-movie-of-a-trilogy. I was a little concerned when the opening montage began (Andy playing gleefully with his toys, a creative kid with no cares in the world); I wondered if I was in for a repeat of the first Toy Story, but with the number “3” tacked on at the end (great movie, but it’s always so sad when you see talented people trying to recreate the same success under a different name), but that was not the case. There’s not tons to tell, but that it’s a well-acted, well-animated, well-written reiteration of the whole Toy Story institution. Mind you, I said “reiteration”, not “repetition”. Yes, it’s the same message, but it’s a good one: remaining loyal to those you love, sometimes sacrificing your own interests in the name of theirs (or a higher one), but not at the expense of what you believe in your bones to be right…can’t really fight that. And their are some interesting new tactics.

For example, the movie doesn't gloss over some of life’s most painful truths: the truth of loss, for one. Bo Beep and Etch have been donated to other families, a painful experience, but one they’ve gotten through with each other’s support. Another is the truth of the struggle of duty versus self-interest. The toys have the option to stay in a daycare where they’ve been donated and know they’ll be played with every single day, or escape and get back to Andy (their loyal owner), whose now seventeen and hasn’t played with them for years. Forget kids, that’s something that adults struggle with, some for their entire lives!

But hands down the most surprising and—I'm going to say it—MOVING (yeah, yeah just keep reading) part is when the crew ends up getting dumped in a colossal incinerator at the dump. They’ve been through hell helping each other, even helping the bad guy, when they are dropped into a pile moving toward a huge, undeniable fire-ball. They start to fight, but they simply are no match for such a large machine. Jessie turns to Buzz and asks, “Buzz what do we do?” Buzz, who always manages to come up with something, simply has no answer for her. Instead he takes her hand, looks her in the eye, and without speaking asks her to accept that they’ve fought as hard as they can, but now they have to give up. They all then simultaneously take each other’s hands, knowing they’re on a sinking ship with no life boat. Silently, they thank each other for their friendship and love, and accept death.

Sure there’s a formula to the movie, it’s more accessible that way, but the story itself is unique. And I honestly wasn’t always sure what I would do given their choices. They did a marvelous job illustrating life’s greatest defeats and joys in a straightforward, non-patronizing way.

Towards the end, one of the little girls sitting next to me was crying, not because she was scared or hungry or had to pee, but because she understood there was an exchange of hurt/loss/pain with joy of a new adventure/experience/life. Something was being lost and something was being gained and she felt that. I think it’s our duty to prepare kids for life’s obstacles and I think Toy Story 3 handles that in a graceful, funny, and gentle way. Four or ninety-four, go see it.

On again.

2010-06-17T06:03:00.001-07:00

I woke up wearing only grey with grey socks and grey hands and grey sorrow and grey brow, and my cheek was grey til he took his hand and placed it where it hurt and went on and on again.

I woke up in the hills, he in the city and my dreams began to fade. He stayed there, never writing and goes on and on again.

I woke up in the hills, my dreams long forgotten. The snow falls, the heart beats still, and a new man whistles for me to come to bed. The heart, the feet, the brow and the cheek all go on, and I've gone on, and on and on again.

Killers: Womp-Womp

2010-06-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

Killers: Heed the Title

There are a lot of puns out there on the title which is getting sort of boring, but unfortunately the sentiment is pretty…dead on. You’ve now reached your bad pun quota for the day.

Killers is certainly not the worst movie I’ve ever seen by a long a shot, but it’s something else that may be worse: it’s a drop in the over-flowing, “beginning, middle, happy ending” bucket of mediocrity that we are bombarded with year after year. I don’t hate Killers…I don’t hate it because that simply would take too much energy. I had a couple laughs (not many though…) and enjoyed reviving my sometimes-crush on Ashton Kutcher, a crush I was able to enjoy even more due to the sometimes-at-best chemistry between he and Katherine Heigl.

I don’t hate Kutcher and Heigl either. Kutcher is harmless, I don’t feel like beating up on the guy. It’s obnoxious to me that he has money to produce a movie (which to the average Joe is the monumental chance of a lifetime) and didn’t do it right, but he has strengths as an entertainer (that this movie just didn’t cater to) and seems like a decent person. In my book that counts for something…especially for Hollywooders. Heigl though, after this film especially, I just want her to go away. Every role is the same: we’re supposed to believe she’s the nerdy or ugly girl, the “diamond in the rough”. This could have been the same clueless, clumsy Alison Scott from Knocked Up, I saw no difference. She’s got some emotional depth, is funny sometimes and is pretty, but ultimately: mediocre.

I was so hoping Tom Selleck and Catherine O’Hara would be the saving grace of Killers, but even they fell flat. They’re pretty funny together, but other than the (predictable) first scene, they sort of wander in and out of the movie until it finally comes to an end.

I think ultimately the problem with Killers is that it wanted to be too many different things. If this beaten, confused and potentially concussioned little film had limped into a doctor’s office and pleaded to be fixed, it would have been answered with this:

“Your script/director/leads are not tight enough to be so many things successfully. So instead, try and do one thing successfully because you’re compromising yourself by being choiceless.”

There was definitely the potential for a great story: a man lives his life making bad decisions, he falls for a woman and decides to completely walk away from his past without tying up the loose ends. What a great question that asks of the audience! What happens when you’ve left a trail of destruction behind you and decide not to deal with it? Ah! We know what happens when people do that, it comes back to bite them in the ass, and because we’re human we want to keep watching to see how it happens to THIS person. AND we’re made to care about the character automatically because he’s made a decision to do the right thing so we empathize! Why? Because. We’re. Human!

There were numerous chances to make Killers into a dark comedy, which is where I think it would have been most comfortable (with a new director and major script overhaul, but even the title fits perfectly with the genre). Funny people in a life-threatening situation: isn’t that life? Can’t we all relate to that? Don’t we all feel like we’re mostly good and have to muddle through the ridiculous obstacles that life throws at us.

Here’s what’s up: either you’re a fantastical story with bond-like qualities or you’re not. Both have their place with audiences, but damn it you have to choose. This film makes no choices, there was not even any blood when people were shot, no mourning over deaths, no attempt to salvage the parts of the story that held weight and so it was superfluous. Sometimes-but-rarely funny superfluity.

The film asks, “Who said suburban life was easy?” Well nobody did, but that doesn’t give you permission to make a bad movie about it.

Depression and The Unemployed

2010-05-28T13:05:00.001-07:00

Sorry, that's a good picture, I couldn't help myself. There's a genuine problem that's about to get some addressing:

Having been unemployed for months now, and officially collecting unemployment since late January, this article (linked below) caught my attention:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/05/28/depression-in-the-recessi_n_592201.html

It's a quick spread on a few people who have gone through their unemployment and despite their efforts are still jobless.

I am 24, educated, white, attractive, smart--I'm not bragging, just identifying the "tools" in my toolbox that in a healthier economy have proved helpful in getting a decent job (I do sight being white and attractive which have not outwardly been an aid, but I suspect they have been however wrong it may be).

I now find myself back home for the SECOND summer in a row (though I'm very grateful to my parents, the time does come when you shouldn't be living with them anymore), scrounging around for a job, applying to businesses I would have once thought "below me". The whole process of becoming unemployed, filing for unemployment and collecting unemployment has been rather unpleasant. The same goes for the job-hunting process which has run me through the gamut of human emotion, though at the end of the day has been very humbling.

No matter how crappy your job is, when you wake up and you know you have somewhere to be--that your presence is required to help run a business--you are given a sense of purpose, whether you like it or not, whether you know it or not. Remove that and you lose direction, you lose context--you are inconsequential and superfluous.

The article discusses the untold story of the mental affects of long-term unemployment and says it's going to share stories on just that over the next few weeks. They call it reporting on the 99ers, the group of people whose 99 weeks of unemployment is up.

It's important not to forget about these people, especially the older population of people out of a job and going up against a younger population, recently out of school, who will work harder for less money. They're also, more than likely, interviewing with people who are younger than them, too. I'm only 24 and I've run into that, and let me tell you it's like someone is thrusting a giant sack of potatoes into the soft belly of your ego.

I look forward to the series and thank Huffingtont Post for the attention their calling to it.

I only have one thing to say:

2010-05-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

Falling is only funny when it's not happening to you. My whole right side hurts and I don't want to talk about it.

Memory at the Trading Post

2010-04-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

I remember we were looking for something
Something specific.
And instead of the drill bit or battery or special knife,
We found buttons, butterflies, piggy banks and barrel o'monkeys to collect.

It's a flea market I say to you,
but you don't understand.
You don't understand what a flea market
means to me.

And it doesn't mean too much, I guess we should get that straight, I should be fair.
But it means a little.
My mother held a booth at a flea market in a little town in Maine.
She'd been left with all the junk my brother and I had left behind in the heat of college and our independence.

She never made us come and get it, my guess is because she knew we wouldn't,
and she didn't really want us to.
People selling at a flea market are selling 'junk'
But a button was something to someone, a butterfly, too. And a barrel o' monkeys...well sometimes it's just a barrel o'monkeys

So see, it does mean something.
There is something in the memory, something quick and sharp.
I'm instantly saddened by these people, selling off their memories
for pennies and nickels.

I wonder if they do this because they don't have
enough money, and I become livid on my soap box, that we live in a world
where people have to sell off the small, once insignificants
of loved ones bygone just to pay the electricity for a month.

Then I find peace because I think they do it because it makes
remembering less painful.
Mom's gone now, and I, the executor, was paid back when I had to sort out all her stuff;
Some of it still in storage not ready to be traded.

Shameful Plug (see what I did there?)

2010-04-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

Dear avid reader of my blog (or probably just current reader of this post specifically whose attention will hopefully be held until the end),

I am now going to be a regular contributor on haveuheard.net (stop, stop, stop, before you give me fake enthusiasm, save your energy to get to the end of the post).

I will be recapping The Daily Show (airs Mon-Thurs, though I'll mostly be doing it when celebrities are interviewed, going in line with the tone of the website), but you can go there for other info on whatever shows you watch etc. (they actually just posted some great clips of past SNL skits/interviews with cast members that was really interesting if you like that kind of thing and are unemployed like yours truly).

My first post was published today (Tracy Morgan did an interview with Jon Stewart that made me pee in my pants):
http://haveuheard.net/the-daily-show-recap-with-tracy-morgan-41510/

Please, if you have a some time, read it and post something as simple as "gold star", or "you're the best" or "you write good" so they let me continue with them. I like doing The Daily Show, but because it tends to be "controversial", we are in a testing period with it. I don't want to review "The View", so if you can, I'd love your support.

Is rumored to buy people's support with delicious, delicious beer,
Sam

Anthony Weiner...the second politician that doesn't make me want to blow chunks all over

2010-04-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

http://www.weiner.house.gov/about.aspx

That's Anthony Weiner's website. He's a representative for New York and growing more and more popular it seems:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/15/tea-parties-protest-tax-d_n_538747.html#s81252

That's Anthony Weiner speaking at a bar on the Lower East Side:

“I follow Twitter for the Tea Party and just show up to fuck with them,” he said to the crowd.

I don't know much about Anthony Weiner, but when I listen to him I get the same gooey feeling I got while watching Obama waaaaay way back before he was even the democratic nominee. Watching Weiner, I feel relaxed. The guy is funny (though I'm not surprised, as he's the former roommate of Jon Stewart; he was on the show for the first time ever in february http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-february-4-2010/anthony-weiner), relaxed and intelligent. The only other position he seems to be interested in his Mayor of NY, but who know what his future plans really are. I, for one, am excited to watch him.

Another article on the progress and potential moves for Anthony Weiner in the future:
http://www.observer.com/2010/politics/anthony-weiner-goes-viral

I don't remember.

2010-04-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

The faramones of creativity are drifting up from the ground
pump pump
pump pump
the dampening of the dirt has come fast with spring and up they come through the beating earth.

the smell is something between trash day and a thousand lillies.
it's beautiful and delicate, but there's a strange sting in the nostril as you inhale.

a heart beats
a woman cries
a little boy jumps into the road, but no matter, it is the country and there are only tractors, horses and people walking.
a jump rope sits, still and coated with dew in an old grass on an old lawn, a map that leads you to an old house.

a friday night brings you closer to what you want, but saturday shows you, again, your boundaries.
and we are still. we are still. we are still.

Octopus is smarter than the both of us

2010-04-14T12:18:00.000-07:00

Do you know how smart octopus' are?

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2009/12/091214-octopus-carries-coconuts-coconut-carrying.html

That's how smart. Aaron can tell you more because he's obsessed, but the video's a pretty good start.

What the *&%$ does "happiness" mean, people?

2010-04-13T12:13:00.000-07:00

Gretchen Rubin wrote the book The Happiness Project...anybody familiar?

It's interesting, I'm pretty sure this is the book I've walked by at Borders and made some kind of bitter comment about under my breath, "Shut up," or "What do you have to be so fucking happy about GRETCHEN?" (Like that might not really be her name)

I am a little skeptical, which is maybe not fair because I haven't read the book. I have been looking over her blog, though. (http://www.happiness-project.com/) It's striking me as a little...I don't know...perky? It's a little "You can do it!" for my taste, I think is what I mean. However, she has a list on the left side of the site of her 12 Personal Commandments--again, a little much for me--but I've been reading through Gretchen's commandments and she not only brings up some interesting points, but also led me to a review of the book which begins with:

The happiness of American women was called into question recently by a study titled "The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness." Societal advances, the authors suggest, have not made women happier

First of all, the reviewer (Elizabeth Chang of the Washington Post) confirms my suspicions about Gretchen's book.

"The result is an easy, sometimes entertaining read, though the navel-gazing can be off-putting. But if you like hearing the details of someone else's vague discontent ("I wanted to save all these mementos . . . but I didn't know where to put them"), relish keeping charts, are game to try singing in the morning and think adding more chores to your life will increase your happiness, well, then, this book is perfect."

I really do wonder WHERE Gretchen will put those mementos. I may have a suggestion or two.

Second of all, that's not something I've heard about women, that our happiness is in a decline. Is this true? I'm going to try and get through the article and see if it offers more than what Elizabeth Chang says, "I found the ensuing debate puzzling because, as far as I can tell, the study revealed only that women today are less likely to say they are happy. "

Either way, as someone who is in the process of looking for what "makes me happy", who is going through a rigorous process (well...rigorous mentally at least, physically...not-a-so-much-a), who has a brain, it's frustrating to see books and articles by people who claim to be able to show you the way. I think what Elizabeth Chang said about Gretchen's book is probably true: it doesn't seem like Gretchen needed to be happier (at the point she decided to embark on the project, she was happily married with kids and successful professionally, too), she just needed an attitude adjustment. And, if we're being honest, it irks me because for a moment, for one beautiful little moment the title of one of these discontent-cures comes my way and I wonder if maybe there is a simple answer to all the complicated little fuckers that keep popping up.

"Happiness" is so very subjective, and there doesn't seem to be a right or wrong answer to any of this shit. Only a list of POTENTIAL actions you can take that will PROBABLY lead you to some happy moments, but will not answer the big questions that at least stand in the way of MY happiness (I can only speak for myself).

Thoughts?

If anyone wants to read the rest of the review to Gretchen's book, which also offers reviews on two other books about happiness (particularly RE: women):

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/02/05/AR2010020501328.html

A response to a response from Doug

2010-04-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

Below is a response to a response form Doug on April 10's post. He wrote to me and this is my response to him...bringing more questions:

"Life can be good anywhere"--that is such a simple and fabulous nugget of wisdom. You're so very right, I appreciate you passing that on.

That being said, I think I worry about this whole "potential" thing. You've probably heard this before, too, I hear it from my dad a lot, that "You have such potential." Quickly: He thinks I have a lot of talent and is lovely and brags about me a lot, it's all very sweet. This week though, he told me, in so many words, that he thought I should get moving. If I don't think I want to be in theatre, he thinks I should pursue a career in law. "Don't you want to have something to show for your twenties?", I almost imploded. We had been discussing the possibility of my going to grad school in the near future, and if I didn't go for theatre, what would I go for? He made a comment about how he's thought about going back to school. When I asked what he would go for, he said, "Law." So.

Anyway, my point is, what if you DO have the potential to be the best at what you're doing? To really become a respected artist in the field of your choice? This is what I keep coming up with and tell me what you think:

Being good at something is not enough of a reason to pursue it, you have to love it. And probably the level of love you have for it, is equal to how far you get with it.

For ex) It is not enough for me to be good at acting for to move to NYC, give up my relationship, give up seeing my family when I want, give up having enough money, give up having a lot of control over my life. This probably means I can only rise so high as an actor, because there are things I just can't bring myself to do. More interesting, maybe: I can't even bring myself to care about creating a website, postcards, AUDITION for that matter.

I think if I'm going to have a career as an actor, it's not going to be in NYC. Though I may be able to do something in production, because it happens to be a liiiittle more stable.

Aaron has pointed out to me that there's no shame in this, that it may be healthier, even, because it allows for more balance. Instead of driving yourself in one direction for a long, long time, possibly running over other possibilities and opportunities in the process, there is room for career, family, love, a little security perhaps, too.

Thoughts? Does this make sense? GUH...my brain hurts. All this before breakfast and coffee. Let me know what you think, when you have a free moment, sorry about the book-long reply.

♥
Sam

Carson’s FanGraph Podcast is near the middle on the right

2010-04-12T07:46:00.001-07:00

He’s responsible for putting it together—it’s really good.

2010-04-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

I'm stuck. Very stuck, like...not a little stuck, not temporarily stuck, I'm talking full-fledged, two-year long feeling around in a dark room stuck. Really stuck. Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stumped? No stuck.

When I had my wisdom teeth out I remember being struck by how invasive the procedure was and how much it affected EVERYTHING. You sleep, eat, breath, talk even sit differently. Your priorities change, your schedule changes and someone else's does, too if you're lucky enough to have someone around to make sure your drugged ass doesn't take a vicadin or two too many and wander over to your neighbors looking to borrow their propane tank so you can "make fire tricks".

My point is, I think this is a similar experience. The problem is not one of motivation or desire: I have plenty of that, plenty of gusto, all that shit, but I just don't know where to point it. The main problem I think has been narrowed down to the following:

1. Do I continue to try and live a life in New York City (with Aaron--that should not go unnoticed) with the opportunity to get internships, meet people, make connections and be in THE place to be for a life in theatre, but sacrifice the desire to live somewhere that I love? Or

2. Live somewhere I love and perhaps go back to school for Journalism/psychology/writing/poetry/something of that nature, but give up pursuing theatre as my life's work? And maybe the most important question:

Is a life lived in a peaceful place exclusive from an artistically challenging one?
Is it possible to do incredible, moving artistic work outside of the/a city and be able to gain worthy recognition for it?

I think I do believe...I take that back (commit, Samantha, goddamn it commit)....I BELIEVE that if you are in love with something, if you want it, then eventually you will want it more than the people/things standing in your way want to keep you from it. It's how so many poor leaders are chosen (don't we see this a lot with artistic directors?). If people have the patience to stick around long enough, someone (who can) will eventually turn around and say, "Hey, you've been here a long time, come do this job that requires responsibility, creativity and commitment. You're probably still here because you have those qualities, not because you can't leave/didn't want to leave/did leave, but couldn't stand change and came crawling back here eager to do anything that was asked of you just so you'd feel comfortable again and swore never to venture out ever again in fear of being faced with adversity/life lessons that would eventually make you a better/more affective/more resilient/more relative artist/person...it's probably the first thing--the one about being qualified and creative--whatever I said before."

For the record: I'm not knocking people who "leave and go back"--I really, really get it. Before I "left", I was all dressed up in my judgey-pants over people who try and then quit without dedicating loads of time to whatever they were trying (a good ex: people who move to NYC and then leave three months later), but not anymore--sometimes you know when it's time to stop, and you just do. I applaud those people, I mean that. I am knocking people who are given the responsibility, the PRIVILEGE to choose leaders and do not take that job seriously--whether it be artistic director or president.

One of the hardest things to let go of is this frame of mind that I was going to always live a life working in the theatre in some capacity--perhaps you can relate. I think I'm good at it (not bragging, just reasoning through this) and it's hard to leave something that you think you're good at, and let's be honest, something that other people think you're good at. We do things so much of the time for--or maybe BECAUSE of--other people, don't we? Even if we think we're not. I think a large part of why I ended up pursing theatre so aggressively was because I heard I was good at it, but never thought critically about whether it would make me happy later. And if I did, if I tried to, it was almost a joke--it was laughable to think about "later". There was joy in thinking of ourselves as "starving artists"--there was honor. But, hey, now that I think of it--I don't want to be 30/35 + going "Shit, I need to take my kid to the doctor, but I don't have insurance and I can't really afford to just PAY for it." Although, perhaps I have not been mature enough in certain ways to understand the different kinds of happiness that are out there...until now that is.

I hope this begins to go some where. I don't want to rot. I think I have something to offer (I really think we all do), I just need to figure out what I can do best and if that thing is okay with me. RE: theatre--jury's still out.

au revoir for now, and good luck to you.

Gingerhead

2010-03-28T20:00:00.000-07:00

Gingerhead

They called you Gingerhead in grade school. You told me once in confidence and I’ve never even thought about it in front of someone else (until just now).
There’s always been a sad infatuation with the past, “better times”, where so little had been lost.
We treat the future like a train to Montauk: sure it’s the beach, but it’s still New York.
On this beach though, there’s frisbee, whiffle ball, a bar with half-price margaritas on Wednesdays. And when those things are over, I remind you that at the very least there’s sand and water, the mouth to nature, the bearers of the hand, the head and the heart.
And then, at the very, very least, there is the Newark airport which is only a few miles away.
Really, if you want, we can go anywhere.
If you want, we can do that.
Little Gingerhead, come out
from under your coat and
tell me what you want.

Telling Stories

2010-03-15T22:38:00.000-07:00

The man I’ve always thought I was going to marry came over today.
Wearing his usual get-up, he walked in (jeans fitting nicely, collared shirt, wrinkle-free)
and sat. He sat heavy; sat like there was a load of rocks on his back and he’d been hauling them up and down 43^rd street.

I’ve come to understand that a man, specifically this one, does not sit this way for no reason.
Looking down at the linoleum, he breathes in and out with great care, taking his time.
In the exhale, his body shifts and he arrives at some conclusion. There is silence, but it goes from silence to the beat you take before you say something big.

This man is the one whose story keeps crossing into mine and our characters keep running into each other in the woods. “I’m in my story, what are you doing here?” I say to him, “Well I’m in mine, so what are you doing here?” and we sit down to play for a while before remembering that it just can’t be.

Lawrence Raab always says to me, “But nobody ever sees how far the things we shouldn’t feel can take us.” , and other things about how nobody understands when something important is beginning, or ending for that matter. He also says that you only understand the story when it is over.

Before he says anything, and without making the decision, I say, “Think back to the story of your life. The one before me. Erase me, let me be gone and live out the years we’ve had without me. Is it encased in a shadow? Does it sit at the bottom of a well? Do you feel lighter or darker?” Silence.

Silence.

He sits up and adjusts his collar with the deliberate nature of someone spiraling into a black hole. Our end hasn’t come and probably never will. He leans forward again resting is hands on his knees. Pushing himself up he lets his voice out, making a growling sound that helps him up. He looks at me and touches my skirt, “Let’s go out for Chinese, I don’t feel like staying in. My treat.”

New Poem

2010-02-27T22:43:00.000-08:00

The Boar and His Hen

In fall, of late, or later still,
I walked along my window sill.
A pigeon, or I could have been,
the more obscene, a clucking hen.
But on this day I had mistook
The fiery ocean for a sullen brook,
and when I thought the light would shine,
it curdled, floated up and died.

The wind hurled hay pennies at my waist,
and burned the wool into my face.
“Because,” it said as it disappeared,
“You lost the edge, the listening ear.”
But how can you listen when you’re on the edge,
a pigeon woman in a bird’s image?
You crack my cheeks like a whistling boar,
a brassy man to his brassy whore.

I am not where I might have been,
but had no help where I might have had.

How to make some money, I mean make a man, I mean Love your Man.

2010-01-27T23:52:00.000-08:00

if my grandmother hasn't already told you, it is just as easy to love a man with money. oh, my mother might have told you, too.

i think you might have some money somewhere, a piggy bank, maybe, with a rusty penny, a cotton ball and i think i saw a clothes pin in there, too. that's what poor people keep in their piggy banks, i know because i have a collection of 20 and am looking for more (if you don't want yours, can i have it?)

i have looked around for men with money, and i think i have just the guy.
he's wealthy, and his parents are, too. they have bags in their closets filled with hot and sweaty 25 dollar bills...the kind they only advertise on rite-aid billboards--the kind you have to be rich to buy.

this rich man--let's call him Kyle--said i could have one or two if i promise to fall in love with him, if i promise him I'll put on more make up, quit my job, sell my friends (Liz is a bit of a liability because she's a jew), cut my hair short and neat, and start wearing clothing "smart" clothing. i also have to stop telling him he's boring.

i, of course, agreed (you did imply i should love someone more "normal"), but keep drifting towards books of poetry and doing things that are embarrassing when he's not looking...like speaking to his plants in the voice of a very small child, telling the computer that she just isn't tall enough to play Rosalind, and tying Kyle's socks together to wear around my head while doing a my famous Neil Diamond impression.

sometimes i try to get his golden retriever to hold me, to tell me i'm pretty, to speak to me in the language of Lawrence Raab and Ray Lamontagne. but Old Golden just doesn't have the hands of a man, and I think Kyle looks down on this kind of behavior.

The poem goes to Jail

2010-01-11T12:10:00.000-08:00

In this poem I will talk about love

"I had it once, I lost it."
So that's done.

In this poem I will talk about hope

"I had it once, I lost it."
Another one down.

In this poem, I will talk about the benefit of forgiveness

"I had it once, I lost it."
Another, too.

In this poem, I will talk about the importance of figuring out your life's work

"I had it once, I lost it."

Why write down a poem if it cannot bring you joy?

What is the benefit of analysis if you cannot be relieved?

If pain comes often and quickly, shouldn't writing it down allow you to breathe?

I don't think I believe in the poem anymore.
Stupid metaphors with sudden, abrupt endings.

What does it think: that just because it lives like we do,
it deserves just any goddamn thing?

I think poems should be spend a night or two in jail, probably more.
All locked up and left to to think about what they've done.

Make jokes about dropping the soap,
join gangs and shiv each other; start riots.

That's what a poem does best, and it
should stick to what it's good at, if it knows what's good for it.

Breast Cancer: Officially Not as Funny as Once Predicted

2010-01-11T00:46:00.000-08:00

Mom has to have a mastectomy. She will have a boob removed. I...can't help but laugh...it's one of those stupid things where it's serious, and you know it, but who "has to have a boob removed"? Well, I guess the answer is: your mother...when the lumpectomy didn't work...because, while her cancer did not get into the lymph nodes (good news), it also isn't just a concentrated mass, and thus, the lumpectomy was not enough to save the breast and requires a mastectomy and chemo or radiation to zap all the random cancer cells that may be lingering (decidedly the bad news). Haa...ha. Still laughing, Sam?

She's been a great sport, which sounds really awful when you're talking about somebody whose sick. It sounds like you're saying if they feel bad for themselves, they deserve a good talking to about their attitude or something, when, really having cancer should just be enough. I guess I just mean her attitude is really impressive. She's bummed, of course, and I'm glad she showed that to me, but she's still making jokes, which is a good sign. She has to have treatment for about a year it sounds, and she joked that she had free range to be a bitch for a year and I couldn't say anything. She's right, though two can play at that game.

I feel torn, because I feel like I should be there for her more...physically. Of course she has Carl, thank God, but I am her daughter and I think I would bring her some peace. Of course I think she may get mad...tell me I'm stupid, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Move out of New York for a few months when my sublet is up and hang out there: make sure she's okay for a bit? We'll see...maybe just for the surgery or something. Maybe just to be there. I imagine having a breast removed is pretty traumatic, and she deserves support and attention. That's what I'd want, I know. Maybe I'll donate one of mine, lord knows there's some extra baggage up top of this woman. We'll see. We'll see.

Chronicle Poem

2010-01-11T00:43:00.000-08:00

Release

for a moment there is peace. and not the artifact of peace, but the real thing. it's alive in this room and there's you, the man of so many memories. the man who doesn't stop...a man who has all the promise in the world, but cannot give me his. i will not be the scorned woman, i will not be a monument of sadness. i am upstanding for my strength to finally say goodbye. i am strong in myself. and you love me for that. you love me even more, want me more then you ever have, want me to fight. but you do not feed a cancer, my dear sweet man. you do not feed a cancer. and so...for this moment, there is a peace.

New York bout to get slapped by some sass

2010-01-08T09:07:00.000-08:00

Tonight, New York will be slapped with some sass.

The source of the sass? Kaitlin Henderson, a fabulous (and recently single--we have this in common) young lady and myself. Other potentials include Harmony and two of Kaitlin's friends.

I'm actually a little nervous because I really wanted to pick out where we're going because I'm a freak and thought that buying a Zagat guide to nightlife would be a good way to get in touch with the nightlife in the city. I was only a little bit right.

There are too many options. Too. Many. And yesterday, when I finally decided on a bar, I found reviews later that did not speak kindly of it and now I'm questioning--again.

And it's not just "OMG TTYL ROTFL A;LKDJFLA I WANT TO GO OUT, WHERE CAN I GET DRUNK?!?!" Yes, we do want to go out, spend a little bit of money (not tons) and have fun. Maybe dance? Kaitlin and I, having recently moved here (she's about a month in, I'm about two months BACK, after having been here for almost a year, but staying in NH over the summer), want to enjoy ourselves. Big moves and big break-ups are recent occurrences for both of us and we want to have a good time and start enjoying what the city has to offer...besides obstacles.

I don't know where to go, because I'm not a real girl. I have some nice clothes, a pair of heels, and I can dress up, but "going out" so very rarely includes a lot of effort, so I feel clueless.

We're planning to go to Libation and then perhaps Beauty Bar. I've been to Beauty Bar and it was nice. I'd like to go somewhere I've never been, but in the end I don't care--I just want to have fun. Also, it's supposed to snow. So. That's neat.

We'll see. I read about Libation in Zagat and it seemed promising, but reviews say otherwise. Whatever, I guess part of the experience will be just getting there, haha. There's some quote about enjoying the journey of life instead of just waiting to get to a goal or something blah blah. I guess insert that here and have a nice night. Hopefully tonight will be fun and I won't end up with my face in a toilet tomorrow morning. My liquor-holding days seem to be coming to a distinct end--but that's another post for another time.

Liquid Language

2010-01-07T10:45:00.000-08:00

u⋅biq⋅ui⋅ty

[yoo-bik-wi-tee] Show IPA

Use ubiquity in a Sentence

See web results for ubiquity

See images of ubiquity

–noun

1.	the state or capacity of being everywhere, esp. at the same time; omnipresence: the ubiquity of magical beliefs.

2.	(initial capital letter) Theology. the omnipresence of God or Christ.

The first thing I did this morning after waking up, finding Kristina Lagzdins next me (my beautiful and intelligent science-brained college roommate who came for a visit) and making sure my head was still attached to my body (after pouring a bottle of wine into my stomach)--I peed. As I was peeing this word popped into my head.

Ubiquity.

I'm not sure if I saw it somewhere and it attached itself to my subconscious or what, but out it came, and I wasn't even sure what it meant until I looked it up just now.

It is, as of today, my new favorite word. It's beautiful to read and beautiful to say. This may sound silly, but say it out loud kids and then come talk to me. And when you do, use it in a sentence.

__________________________________________
APPLICATION:

I do wish I could use "ubiquity" in a sentence that related money and my bank account. Alas.

"The ubiquity of my family's love is apparent, often obnoxious, and despite my objections, always present."

and

"But my roommate's sudden and apparent ubiquity proved to be quite detrimental to my having a sex life."

Eating your love for dinner

2010-01-05T22:18:00.000-08:00

"i've gone on vacation," you say to me. this was across from our dinner table. our table with all the wheat bread, steamed vegetables and tofu. our table with the red table cloth, white candles and easy listening old-timey radio used sometimes when we "entertain" two or three of our six friends. When i ask you what you could possibly mean, you extend an arm and flip up a hand, a gesture that makes me crazy. you know this. but you are diligent and i listen. "i'm on vacation from being your partner. i need a break from you." possibly the meanest words ever spoken. "well i'm not that bad," i say, as if it would convince you. as if i should have to convince you. as if, to say, "i know there's some excuse for being with me. this is a good one."

the fine and very stupid little delicacies of romance are infuriating and tedious. i say these words in my head, look up at you and realize i just don't care. your vacation is only any different then before because you've said it outloud. you've said, out loud, "i'm officially not trying for a while." and we go back to our steamed food and our wheat bread and consider having company.

I think these are my neighbors.

2010-01-04T21:44:00.000-08:00

All. The. Time. Our neighbors who, according to my roommate, seem pretty normal outside their whirling cacophony of angry, biting "fuck you"'s and "AHHHHH!!!!"'s, fight. And like...a lot. I wonder if, for them, this will be a relationship where they look back and say, "I was in a bad situation and didn't know how to get out, but thank God I did.", or we'll see their children on, "Teens Acting Out: teens that come from homes where their parents fought about everything...and like...a lot"

They're young. Well...they sound young, at least...really what what I mean is the voices I hear on the other end of the wall shrieking and yelling and cutting each other down SOUND like the voices of young-ish people. And they even sound like they love each other a lot, so...what's up? I guess it's pretty common for people to find themselves in situations where they are digging their nails into familiarity's poor, bloodied back. And while there may still be lots of love, sometimes it really isn't enough. My friends, level with me. Don Henley and Patty Smyth hit it dead on:

And there's a danger in loving somebody too much,
and it's sad when you know it's your heart they can't touch.
There's a reason why people don't stay who they are.
Baby, sometimes, love just ain't enough.

Do not pretend you don't know that song. You do. I do. Now we can move on.

My measure has now become this: If the relationship is making you more miserable then happy, something big has to change. Seriously life is too short.

OF COURSE it's always easy to be the expert on other people's relationships. It's the only thing that makes us not drive a hammer through our heads after another failed attempt at connecting with someone. You see your friends go through hell and even though your love life is a staggeringly rotten, grotesque cracked little egg, "At least,", you can say, "I'm not going through that."

So many times, though, I have to shut my face UP, because I reeeeeally think I know exactly what my friends should do with in their relationships. But...friends...we may THINK we know...but we're all just idiots. Biiig stupid morons. I really try to keep my mouth shut, because it really is a dick thing to do to offer your opinion unless they 1) ask, or 2) are in mortal danger. If you're telling someone they should break up with their "other"...it's because you are not attached to that person and you're being a dick. You are talking about the situation, while your friend is dealing with a person...and a bond with that person, at that. It's much much much more personal.

So I guess, the final word has to be: Dear neighbors, I hope you find happiness and peace with or without each other. Do what you will, I will shove my fist in my mouth and bite next time I hear you arguing about the same goddamn thing you argued about before. But as my grandpa would say: keep it down to a college cheer.

Good luck and God speed.

Falling in Love is dumb and stupid and dumb.

2010-01-03T23:05:00.000-08:00

So...when you google "relationships" under the "image" option, this is the first image that appears. Is this depressing to anybody else? Sort of funny, yeah, but what the hell is wrong with people? After this latest hurtle with...I really shouldn't use names...after this latest hurtle with what's-his-face, which has ended up in us seeing each other...AGAIN (as in casual dating--if there is such a thing with a person you've been in a relationship with for years), he tells me I would probably see a lot more of him if I didn't try to as much. But I only try because he makes it seem like he may not want to hang out and that makes me nuts, because he usually does--he just doesn't want it to be expected of him.

So, riddle me this folks: what's-his-face wants to keep me around, but is afraid of being obligated to want to keep me around. I want what's-his-face-around, and it doesn't make me crazy when he wants time to himself and all that, but when I see in him that he doesn't want to be obligated to see me, it makes me press harder into him, the whole "Why not?!" thing that leads to the picture above. We actually WANT the same thing right now, but the whole big, fat, looming idea of the future and time and what our "story" is supposed to be, becomes extremely destructive! So, see, that's me on the right ("I only want you around more because you don't want me to want you.") and him on the left ("I want to be around you, but when you want me around you, I don't want to be around you!"

WHAT.

What kills me is I don't even need that much from him. I don't. I know the difference between what I want and what's good for me, and I've expressed feelings about marriage and kids (in the future) because that is something I want (eventually...waaaay eventually), but he really hits a wall when we get to that stuff. That scares me, and I think that's legitimate, because if that's somethings he doesn't ever want--I'd like to know. I haven't had the chance to be content with our relationship because for years I've been busy wondering why he can't entertain the idea of marriage and kids. Which, now that I see that written, is the dumbest thing in the world. Of course he can't entertain the idea, he's a twenty-five year old man with a penis where his brain should be. But I will point out that he's got a severe case of the "I'm scared of you, woman"s...worse then even your average Joe-drinks-beer-and-sleeps-around-a-lot (which he isn't). He's an exceptional man which makes him worth all the effort and basically voids this whole Post.

And that whole first "What kills me..." part of that last paragraph is unfair to him. I think that's the way it is now, but...it hasn't always been so clear, and I haven't always been able to separate what I want now from what I want later...I can see how that would freak him out. Hell, it freaks me out. People are ridiculous. What makes us think that you can take two totally different people from different backgrounds, class, moral/religious/ethical beliefs, family history, nature and nurture and stick them together...forever. It's scary when you think of it that way, because there are a lot of marriages out there...and they're not all between the most diligent and thoughtful people. To me that says there are probably a lot of unhappy people out there stuck in marriages they don't want to be in (whether they know it or not).

And it's funny...I, Samantha's hormones want to be proposed to and married and all that, but I SAMANTHA--like the real Samantha--really really really really like my freedom and can tell you where to put your engagement ring.

Women: a Secret History.

2010-01-03T17:48:00.000-08:00

On top of the mountain you might as well be on top of the building. This is what my friend thinks and I try to tell him he is a pessimist. We are secret lovers, though, and I am always stupid and blushing and a little shy to tell him about my insecurities, though these are the things that keep me from being boring. The funny voices, the funny faces, all things too private to give someone who is interested in what you look like as a naked lady.

He just told me he has a blog and I am furious, because I have seven and never told him. I want to be the one who offers information first! I want to be the one who says "I can't, I have a previous engagement!" But, I am stupid and weak. I am, with him, all the things I don't want to be as a woman. I am dependent and serious, all clingy and weepy...like a small child whose lost her binky and doesn't know what else to suck on. "I'll give you something to suck on," he'd say, and I'd giggle like an idiot, and let him grab me until he was satisfied. Stupid woman. Stupid, stupid woman.

But sometimes I get that glimpse of the future, when everything has worked itself out and all the red flags that shoot up when I'm with him have finally been dealt with and, to my great relief, I am strong and funny and silly and stupid...but on purpose. And my husband knows me as a woman with a blog, who may have a previous engagement, who will grab me when I say he can.

Breast cancer: a comedy for the family

2009-12-26T20:50:00.000-08:00

So, yes. Blah blah, mom's got breast cancer. First of all: thank God she's hilarious. Every other sentence out of her mouth is "Can you get me that, I can't...you know...the cancer." or "The cancer's hurting, we have to watch 'my programs'." She's funny and thank God for that. It's a little ridiculous because she loves all reality t.v. and keeps regaining control of the remote. Right now it's "Jersey Shore" and she's rooting for "these kids to reproduce".

So...I guess this is an interesting challenge. I do not feel sadness, and I don't think she does either. I am amazed, constantly, at the depth of the human spirit. I am amazed, too, by the strength of a mother. She is not the strongest person in the world, but as a mother she becomes the mother protecting her cub if you make her be.

More to come, I guess. She's been in surgery, they took out the tumor and now, of course, we wait. There's always this waiting thing, isn't there? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I have faith though. She is so calm and so funny, and I have faith.