Movie theater. Southside, Chicago, Illinois
I don’t know if I have a favorite movie as an adult.
I mean, I have lots of movies that I like. Several have tickled my fancy, but I don’t know if a movie has really gotten to me as an adult. I wonder if it’s because we don’t have the ability to let go completely and focus as adults. We’re holding so fast to so many worries and things that need to get done that it’s difficult for that suspension of disbelief to take over and for us to really be in the moment.
I remember when I was in the throes of adolescent wonder and movies reached out and grabbed me by the scruff, ignited my imagination, tore my soul asunder and awoke a yearning for bigger and brighter. I remember crying in the darkness of a movie theater, being alive in the theater, laughing until my sides heart. I remember when the worlds that flashed across those golden screen become my very own reality for a few precious moments. Continue reading
I love books. A pretty obvious declaration from a writer, I know. But I do. I’ve read books on electronic devices but it isn’t the same for me. We can get into the ‘green’-ness of reading electronically, but I buy 99% of my books used…so I argue that’s green in a way too. Anyway, there is something about the tactile touch of paper on the tips of my fingers, the fibrous smell of pages, the way the heft of a book feels in my hands…all of that adds to the story that weaves its magic and envelopes me into its rhythm. I love that.
Lately, my kid has been obsessed with horses. Someone asked me if I ever went through that thing when I was a kid of wanting a horse. I tried to recall my childhood in suburban California and no, since my life nor any of my friend’s necessitated a horse, I never did want one. I tried to think about what it was I did long for at that early age and the one thing that came screaming to mind was books.
A friend sent me a video of Gordon Lightfoot singing “If you Could Read My Mind”. The subject line was “a song that references writing tropes for your pleasure.”
In return I sent said friend Jethro Tull’s “Minstrel in The Gallery”.
Which got me to thinking about several different things, as is the case for the writer. I was thinking about the poet, the song lyricist, the songs I grew up on, listening to albums, which all lead to thinking about album covers. Like a song that can bring back a thousand memories or emotions with a single note, sometimes I see an album cover and I am transported.
Sometimes I believe that I must write amazing inspired by gods type of things on my blog. But the thing is, most of the time the days just continue to roll, one into the other, and it’s the writer who can make the everyday entertaining that is at the heart of great storytelling.
So this is a blog that is neither inspired nor ordinary. Just random thoughts for a dreary Thursday midmorning. Though, we’ll get back to that aforementioned thought another day.
It’s a rainy day in my little corner of the world, the snow melts in the valley here but for the skiers, the snow continues in the mountains. Christmas has been swept into boxes in the garage until next year. Continue reading
I’ve had company for the past three weeks. I sprained my ankle. The dog chewed up the chord to my laptop. I’ve been sick. I had other things to do. I’m not in the mood. I have a headache…this list of excuses could go on and on.
Some of this is true, most of it is a smoke screen. A litany of excuses.
I haven’t written a blog entry because the muse has left. She packed her bags without so much as a by your leave and took off on vacation. I suppose she headed to a tropical location. Sitting on the beach, her elfish features causing people to stare a little longer than polite. I wonder what kind of problems she is causing. Has she given her mischievous grin that elongates her ears, makes her hair sparkle and her face soften? If she did that while sitting on a beach with a Pina colada in hand, it would be enough to cause hurricane like scenarios. But I’m not blaming her for Hurricane Joaquin, muses don’t cause disasters like that. (I don’t think.) Either way, I don’t imagine she would ruin her vacation.
My potato has a hollow heart.
Seriously, was cutting up potatoes for dinner tonight and one of the homegrown monsters, upon being cut in half, exposed what looked like the shadowed remnant of a purple butterfly or possibly a fairy. It caught me off guard. I called to my husband, the farm boy who gets to jump in and explain all these strange elements of my life that I’ve never encountered before, me having been raised in the concrete paradise o’ southern California.