Minxie
June 1998-June 2010

I miss you, kitty. My lap is empty right now. That doesn't feel right.
Thank you for your trust and love.

Visual Poetry

It's a seat belt campaign.
And...wow. Beautifully simple, incredibly powerful. Someone was able to convey via images that universal desire to protect those we love.

Movie Night

Monday is movie night chez Zen. Last Monday Sovay and I watched the French classic, "Les enfants du paradis," directed by Marcel Carné. I had watched it years ago while living in Paris. The dialogue was filled with wit, poetry, and musings on life and love...and how could it not be, having been penned by French poet Jacques Prévert?

The movie had a different weight and quality this time around. I first watched it at the end of my teens...and remember sympathizing with the star-crossed lovers- Baptiste and Garance, being mystified by Lacenaire, sorry for the Count of Montray, endlessly annoyed by the pathetic Nathalie. A couple decades later and my allegiances have shifted: Baptiste and Garance said it all (pun intended- Baptiste is a mime) during their scene at the Funambules: they are idealized love- eternal, endless...but such epic love is only sustainable in small doses, for as Nathalie states, it's the day-to-day that challenges romance. Nathalie seems almost heroic, persevering in her need to show Baptiste the beauty and joy in that difficult day-to-day life. The Count of Montray: puts the boo in boor. Lacenaire? The catalyst: the trickster who is behind the great shifts in the plot.

The changes in my opinion and perspective were surprising to me and also something of a relief. I have to say, though, that the biggest surprise I had watching the movie was the fact that I found it so lovely, so dream-like that I had carried scenes of it with me all these years in my mind... in brilliant color.

The official trailer (which has that dramatic 'old-timey' vibe to it) to the movie here (I recommend watching without volume):

I've been listening to this song a lot since I heard it on the radio and had to scramble for Shazam on my phone to tag it.

It's a joyful song. A big happy noise.
I love discovering new stuff to love.

Robert Pinsky is not a new love. When I used to work in the dungeons of grad school as an assistant to the then-treasurer of the traditional and esteemed Dante Society, I used to get a geeky high anytime I sent the former US Poet Laureate an envelope to pay his membership dues... It led to the following exchange, which always makes me grin. There seems to be a pattern of odd celebrity crushes in my life...and that's the way I like it.

Happy Bunny Day to all who celebrate.

Paschal

by Robert Pinsky

Easter was the old North

Goddess of the dawn.

She rises daily in the East

And yearly in spring for the great

Paschal candle of the sun.

Her name lingers like a spot

Of gravy in the figured vestment

Of the language of the Britains.

Her totem the randy bunny.

Our very Thursdays and Wednesdays

Are stained by syllables of thunder

And Woden's frenzy.

O my fellow-patriots loyal to this

Our modern world of high heels,

Vaccination, brain surgery—

May they pass over us, the old

Jovial raptors, Apollonian flayers,

Embodiments. Egg-hunt,

Crucifixion. Supper of encrypted

Dishes: bitter, unrisen, a platter

Compass of martyrdom,

Ground-up apples and walnuts

In sweet wine to embody mortar

Of affliction, babies for bricks.

Legible traces of the species

That devises the angel of death

Sailing over our doorpost

Smeared with sacrifice.

Religious Doubt

Snicky has recently begun to ask a lot of questions about religion, so we've dedicated time to reading some stories for kids about Easter, Christmas, and so forth. This has led to some hilarity... Such as reading about Jesus' arrival in town during Palm Sunday, during which people yelled "Hosanna" as he passed by. After reading this particular story, she paused and looked pensive. I have to note that she was getting over an ear infection and wasn't hearing at 100%. It was later on in the day that she came up to me and asked,

"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Remember the story of Jesus riding into town?"
"What about it?"
"Why were are the people yelling 'iguana!' at him?"

Palm Sunday will never be the same.

Movie Night

On Mondays I meet up with my dear friend from Myth Happens and we watch a movie. We share titles we love, titles we're intrigued by, and series that just kick butt (Avatar- the Last Airbender, we're looking at YOU). Last Monday we watched one of her favorite titles, Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal.

I didn't know what to expect because it's one of those movies that has become iconic and, if this makes sense, knowledge of it precedes ...it. (Wow. Such elegantly put insights.) I had the same thing happen when I approached Joyce's Ulysses. I had heard so much about the novel before I actually read it that I felt like I had almost already formed an opinion of it before. Maybe not even an opinion- mostly a feeling: it's gonna be hard, dense...boring? And guess what? Magic: I read it and owned it: meaning that I made it mine by establishing my own interpretation and vision of it. I loved it. So much so that it was one of the novels I wrote my dissertation on. So there.

Although I should have learned the lesson taught by my experience with Ulysses, you really can't expect much from someone who is about to spend her evening at the Roller Derby...SO! I had those little prejudiced shadows sitting on my shoulder saying things like..."Dense...boring? SWEDISH!"

And they were promptly shooed away soon after the Knight meets Death and Death turns out to be a tad amused by the Knight's nonchalant chess challenge...

The Seventh Seal

Make sure that if you watch this, you get the most recent version released by the Criterion Collection (which the nerd girl in me is drooling to own in its entirety). Which is the correct version? The version that doesn't translate Joff and Mia's name as Joseph and Mary, which is really terrible and sloppy translation leading to all kinds of interpretative mischief probably contrary to Bergman's vision.

Next on our viewing list: Babette's Feast- one of my favorites.

And You Are?...

Ok, so I brazenly walk in as if nothing had happened...In fact, nothing terribly newsworthy HAS happened, which would explain why I haven't really been posting- but anyway, bla bla...I haven't posted in a really long time and I have always enjoyed my reader(s?), so I am sorry and won't make any promises I can't keep but will make a bigger effort to post more often.

Here's a link I discovered by accident: Care2 is a great website that allows you to send some original e-cards while doing some environmental and social good. Go ahead, they're legit- featured in several news stories.

And now...back to the Tuesday that feels more like a Monday...

A tout-a-l'heure!

Classic

Cocteau's "La Belle et la Bête," 1946, did not have the benefit of cutting edge special effects, and yet the imagery is ethereal and hauntingly beautiful. Black and white, filled with shadows, shades, and shimmer, like the print off a story book page. One of my favorite fairytales and movies. I love when the Beast crosses the room's threshold and Beauty's humble attire is transformed into a regal gown. After all, the beloved is transformed in the eyes of the lover...Enjoy!

Good Stuff

The other night I watched Volver, by Almodovar. Watching Spanish movies or movies depicting some facet of life in Spain always affects me because Spain has always been, for me, a fabled land. My maternal grandfather hailed from Madrid and passed away before I could get to know him better, ask him questions, perhaps even practice the language. Watching movies from Spain always feels a bit like research, as in I have a link to a place I have not yet visited. Sometimes, as in the case with Carlos Saura's movies, it's pride and celebration of a lovely aspect of the culture: flamenco, the typical music, the artistry of dancers and actors like Antonio Gades, my first eternal crush, and Laura del Sol. Sometimes it's complete heartbreak and sadness, like it was in Pan's Labyrinth, with the backdrop of the civil war and a child walking between two worlds. The other times it's something satisfying and moving, which was exactly what I needed: Volver is filled with the most interesting and strong female characters who deal with absurd realities in almost mythical and whimsical ways. Can't say much without spoiling the plot, but I can say that it is worth the time: every minute.

Why Paris When We Can Always Go to Madagascar!

Watched The Curse of the Jade Scorpion tonight. Hadn't seen it in several years and it made me grin. I know there are a lot of complaints regarding this film- one being that Woody Allen was too old to cast himself as male lead- but I enjoy the repartee and whole humorous homage to the detective/ Damon Runyon genre. Only Woody Allen would have been able to deliver some of the lines in this film or infuse so much hilarity into certain scenes.

Some favorite dialogue:

"It's a match made in Heaven...by a retarded angel."

"She thinks she’s smarter because she went to Vassar and I went to driving school."

C.W. (Woody Allen) encounters the detectives who are building a case against him standing outside his door: "Did you guys get lost? The mousetraps with the little cheese are in the basement."

C.W. to policeman: You got any witnesses??
Policeman: "Yeah, me!"
C.W.: "And you're gonna take your word over mine?"

Fun stuff to watch curled up on the couch on a chilly night...

Moving

Yesterday I took Snicky to watch Ponyo, a movie by one of my favorite animators, Miyazaki. He was also behind Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle, movies I absolutely love for their storytelling and gorgeous and surreal imagery.

It was so wonderful to share the experience with Snicky and watch her eyes widen with wonder, or have her hide her face against my chest whenever she got a bit scared for the characters. At the end of the movie she turned to me and asked, "Is it all done??" And proceeded to dance to the music rolling during the credits.

What I like about this movie- actually, all of Miyazaki's movies- is the element of mystery. Unlike movies that feel the need to explain every bit of mystery and whimsy introduced, Miyazaki's movies assume that this is how it is, there are magical and mysterious things going on, and we either know what they're about or don't. There is enough for the viewer to build a theory, but he does not step into the story and explain why Ponyo's father is a former human-become-sea-wizard who has children with the Goddess of the Sea, whom the sailors call "The Goddess of Mercy," or what he is doing, and what his elixirs are all about. It is not frustrating in the least and Miyazaki knows that sometimes the story we conjure in our heads is the only wondrous one we really need...

Poetry Friday

In memoriam.

Shifting the Sun
by Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish,
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Welsh,
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Canadians,
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the French,
you become your own father.
May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

When you father dies, say the Indians,
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the English,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever.
And you walk in his light.

Have a peaceful Friday, everyone.

Who?

So I've been thinking a lot about this blog and the fact that I haven't updated it as I once used to. The main reason is that other social networking applications, like Facebook, offer a kind of "captive" audience and usually very fast feedback. Also, it's feedback over something simpler- like one image or a one-liner. And that is definitely easier for me these days.

I love Poetry Fridays, but the truth is that I didn't have the time to always put in the amount of thoughtfulness into it. It will remain, but perhaps less consistently as intended.

I do miss blogging, I do miss sharing the contents of what Zen refers to as "monkey brain"(mine gets to be Curious George).

So things I'd like to expound on- for real this time:

1) Switching from PC to an iMac (Hallellujah!)
2) True Blood and the yumminess of Stephen Moyer.
3) Political comments filled with personal bias.
4) Books? Yes.
5) Movies I've been watching with my friend Sovay.
6) Stephen Moyer and his yummitude in True Blood.

There! Be glad I am back.

Poetry...Saturday

Away with pretense. I haven't updated the blog in ages. I am not quitting the blog, although perhaps the majority of my readers has. I'm here right now, whenever the time stamp for this entry is/was.

And here is the poem I chose, by a former US Poet Laureate. Enjoy...and hello?


POEM
Passing Through
—on my seventy-ninth birthday

by Stanley Kunitz

Nobody in the widow’s household
ever celebrated anniversaries.
In the secrecy of my room
I would not admit I cared
that my friends were given parties.
Before I left town for school
my birthday went up in smoke
in a fire at City Hall that gutted
the Department of Vital Statistics.
If it weren’t for a census report
of a five-year-old White Male
sharing my mother’s address
at the Green Street tenement in Worcester
I’d have no documentary proof
that I exist. You are the first,
my dear, to bully me
into these festive occasions.

Sometimes, you say, I wear
an abstracted look that drives you
up the wall, as though it signified
distress or disaffection.
Don’t take it so to heart.
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much
as being who I am. Maybe
it’s time for me to practice
growing old. The way I look
at it, I’m passing through a phase:
gradually I’m changing to a word.
Whatever you choose to claim
of me is always yours;
nothing is truly mine
except my name. I only
borrowed this dust.

Have a peaceful weekend, everyone!

This poem is incredible. The notion of suffering takes an unexpected turn, something Buddhist, when linked to desire.

sorrows
by Lucille Clifton

who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be

beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin

sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking

their bony fingers
they have heard me beseeching

as i whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again

but who can distinguish
one human voice

amid such choruses
of desire.

Happy Friday, everyone!