Monday, November 12, 2007
Good Question.
An interesting question came up this morning in Book Club. Me and my septagenarian feminine gang just finished reading "Suite Francaise," a novel written by a Russian-born Jewish writer living in France in the time of the German occupation during the second world war. This novel was recently discovered and published; the author died at Auschwitz before the book could be printed.
A talkative meeting with tangents galore, we waded through personal stories of escaping fires, travels in Africa and what it's like to be a young mother, before we got to the last question. In the novel, Parisians flee the city to escape German bombing. Each character's true personality comes out and rather than drawing people together, the class distinction and the individual roles of Mother and Son and Servant become more defined. Each character - whether an upper middle class Parisian or a mother in the countryside - thinks first and foremost for her - or his - self. In this chaos, the individual's needs trump those of the group.
The question was this: decades later, in an entirely different culture, do we do what is best for the individual or the group?
My first thought - one that I voiced at the table - was that in secular culture, we think for ourselves first, the group later. A woman is more likely to work to keep her own child from eating crap food at the cafeteria than work to help all kids in general. When I recycle, I'm motivated less by helping our waste situation in general than I am by knowing that I'm doing my part.
The women, however, looked at things differently. Everything from seatbelts to smoking laws, they pointed out, are created in mind of the group as a whole.
The good thing about Book Club is that no one has to be right, and within minutes, tangents will arise and we'll be talking about a sinking sailboat in St. Martens. Also, I must admit, I enjoy having my mind stretched by these women who have experienced areas of life that I've never considered. They've travelled the world (and are largely unimpressed by my jaunts to Tanzania and Cambodia), they've given birth, they've lost children, they've lost husbands, they've lived through wars and have satin gloves packed away from their courting days. They've survived illnesses, political change and the movement of culture. It's a priviledge to share a table at the bakery with them once a month and hear their views, their stories, and learn a little bit more about life from people who have really lived it.
As for the question, I'm curious. What do you think?
An interesting question came up this morning in Book Club. Me and my septagenarian feminine gang just finished reading "Suite Francaise," a novel written by a Russian-born Jewish writer living in France in the time of the German occupation during the second world war. This novel was recently discovered and published; the author died at Auschwitz before the book could be printed.
A talkative meeting with tangents galore, we waded through personal stories of escaping fires, travels in Africa and what it's like to be a young mother, before we got to the last question. In the novel, Parisians flee the city to escape German bombing. Each character's true personality comes out and rather than drawing people together, the class distinction and the individual roles of Mother and Son and Servant become more defined. Each character - whether an upper middle class Parisian or a mother in the countryside - thinks first and foremost for her - or his - self. In this chaos, the individual's needs trump those of the group.
The question was this: decades later, in an entirely different culture, do we do what is best for the individual or the group?
My first thought - one that I voiced at the table - was that in secular culture, we think for ourselves first, the group later. A woman is more likely to work to keep her own child from eating crap food at the cafeteria than work to help all kids in general. When I recycle, I'm motivated less by helping our waste situation in general than I am by knowing that I'm doing my part.
The women, however, looked at things differently. Everything from seatbelts to smoking laws, they pointed out, are created in mind of the group as a whole.
The good thing about Book Club is that no one has to be right, and within minutes, tangents will arise and we'll be talking about a sinking sailboat in St. Martens. Also, I must admit, I enjoy having my mind stretched by these women who have experienced areas of life that I've never considered. They've travelled the world (and are largely unimpressed by my jaunts to Tanzania and Cambodia), they've given birth, they've lost children, they've lost husbands, they've lived through wars and have satin gloves packed away from their courting days. They've survived illnesses, political change and the movement of culture. It's a priviledge to share a table at the bakery with them once a month and hear their views, their stories, and learn a little bit more about life from people who have really lived it.
As for the question, I'm curious. What do you think?
Monday, November 05, 2007
Reviews.
#1: The Darjeeling Limited.
It's been eons since my film minor days at Ohio University. For four years, I camped out in the dark rooms of Lindley Hall, analyzing Coppola, Hitchcock and Godard films for future papers. These days, I don't go to a lot of movies. Mainly, I suppose, because I don't know what's out there. The underwriting department at my local NPR station recently snagged Fox Searchlight, and it was after the traffic report that I learned that Wes Anderson has a new film.
It's an excellent film. Maybe not so much for the in-your-face metaphors about family baggage, but for the characters, the colors, the music and the sad reality that people are selfish, insecure and a little crazy. Wes Anderson films celebrate this fact in a way that makes me appreciate, to a certain extent, both the flaws of myself and of others. When Jason Whats-his-face's character comes back from checking his ex-girlfriend's answering machine messages, he says, without qualification, "I feel bad about myself." Good God. Refreshing honesty about the human condition. I wanted to tell all of my dirty secrets.
In elementary school, I stole my friend Sara's homework during recess so that my grades would be superior.
When I lived alone, I got drunk one night by myself and painted my dustpan blue while listening to Tom Waits.
I like to sleep on top of my sleeping bag on my bed and I'm more likely to wash my hands if I think that someone is paying attention.
So this Indian train movie both renewed my interest in humanity - in a whimsical way - and my interest in film. I've missed thinking about films, enjoying them, analyzing them. It's way more rewarding, some might say, than analyzing myself. Go see this movie. Observe the dialogue. And then go outside and look for color in your life.
#2: Bob* The Plumber.
He killed a man. He has a handlebar mustache. And he will discuss art with his lackey while fixing your drain the illegal way. He will tell you what the fine is for removing the thingie that helps your shower faucet save water ($10,000) and then offer to do it. (I declined.) Not only will he fix your sink, bathtub, other sink, toilet and showerhead for under $150, but he will tell you stories as he does so. Stories about breeding puppies, the armed forces, the intrinsic quality of art, his brother in Atlanta and 3 pound rats a few blocks over on Lakeview.
*Name changed.
#1: The Darjeeling Limited.
It's been eons since my film minor days at Ohio University. For four years, I camped out in the dark rooms of Lindley Hall, analyzing Coppola, Hitchcock and Godard films for future papers. These days, I don't go to a lot of movies. Mainly, I suppose, because I don't know what's out there. The underwriting department at my local NPR station recently snagged Fox Searchlight, and it was after the traffic report that I learned that Wes Anderson has a new film.
It's an excellent film. Maybe not so much for the in-your-face metaphors about family baggage, but for the characters, the colors, the music and the sad reality that people are selfish, insecure and a little crazy. Wes Anderson films celebrate this fact in a way that makes me appreciate, to a certain extent, both the flaws of myself and of others. When Jason Whats-his-face's character comes back from checking his ex-girlfriend's answering machine messages, he says, without qualification, "I feel bad about myself." Good God. Refreshing honesty about the human condition. I wanted to tell all of my dirty secrets.
In elementary school, I stole my friend Sara's homework during recess so that my grades would be superior.
When I lived alone, I got drunk one night by myself and painted my dustpan blue while listening to Tom Waits.
I like to sleep on top of my sleeping bag on my bed and I'm more likely to wash my hands if I think that someone is paying attention.
So this Indian train movie both renewed my interest in humanity - in a whimsical way - and my interest in film. I've missed thinking about films, enjoying them, analyzing them. It's way more rewarding, some might say, than analyzing myself. Go see this movie. Observe the dialogue. And then go outside and look for color in your life.
#2: Bob* The Plumber.
He killed a man. He has a handlebar mustache. And he will discuss art with his lackey while fixing your drain the illegal way. He will tell you what the fine is for removing the thingie that helps your shower faucet save water ($10,000) and then offer to do it. (I declined.) Not only will he fix your sink, bathtub, other sink, toilet and showerhead for under $150, but he will tell you stories as he does so. Stories about breeding puppies, the armed forces, the intrinsic quality of art, his brother in Atlanta and 3 pound rats a few blocks over on Lakeview.
*Name changed.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Deux.
Yesterday was a bad day. Job stuff. House stuff. People stuff. Money stuff. I spent a good half of the day on the verge of weeping. Except I was too confused as to what to start weeping for. The job stuff? The house stuff? The people stuff? So many issues, so little time!
So I broke down, bought a pack of cigarettes and chain-smoked a few for a good half an hour. Shockingly, I didn't feel better. I found myself wandering around my house, alone, during the evening. Taking a bath. Taking photographs on my cell phone of water on the basement wall. Wondering why the hell I bought a house without a responsible adult to help me take care of it.
My friend Beth came over and I breathed out my problems in one long run on sentence as she listened and offered advice during the occasional pause. It was nice.
"I think that I'm the only person in the world that God doesn't love," I finally told her with a sigh.
Beth didn't try to correct the ridiculousness of the thought. Instead she laughed and I laughed and it felt good.
We closed our evening together with the getting out of the Nativity Scene. This sandstone set was purchased on our last day together in Africa. We had a grand time bartering with the shopkeeper. The look on her face when I asked her if I could just buy Jesus was priceless. Horror, it turns out, can be easily communicated even with an English-Swahili language barrier. We finally came to a common price, with the help of the teenage boy who brought us to the shop. $50. That's a lot of money in Africa, but it seemed right. I mean, I was a white person buying Jesus and Mary. God - and Africa - knows I could afford it.
At any rate, Beth and I put up the Nativity Scene last night. Piece by piece, we set it out, laughing at the carved faces of the figurines, laughing at the memories of buying it.
"These were probably made in China," Beth commented as she handed me a Shepard.
When the set was up, I decided to keep going, to add the LLadro (sp?) set my mom gave me a few years ago. Mary next to Mary. Joseph next to Joseph. And two Baby Jesus figurines, one curled up beside the other.
I've spent a good part of this afternoon trying to determine what a good captian to this photograph should be. Chill out; the Shepards weren't there either. OrIf one Baby Jesus is good, two must be better! But I think that tongue-in-cheek humor aside, this image somehow reminds me how good it is to have friends.
FYI. I gave the pack of cigarettes away.
Yesterday was a bad day. Job stuff. House stuff. People stuff. Money stuff. I spent a good half of the day on the verge of weeping. Except I was too confused as to what to start weeping for. The job stuff? The house stuff? The people stuff? So many issues, so little time!
So I broke down, bought a pack of cigarettes and chain-smoked a few for a good half an hour. Shockingly, I didn't feel better. I found myself wandering around my house, alone, during the evening. Taking a bath. Taking photographs on my cell phone of water on the basement wall. Wondering why the hell I bought a house without a responsible adult to help me take care of it.
My friend Beth came over and I breathed out my problems in one long run on sentence as she listened and offered advice during the occasional pause. It was nice.
"I think that I'm the only person in the world that God doesn't love," I finally told her with a sigh.
Beth didn't try to correct the ridiculousness of the thought. Instead she laughed and I laughed and it felt good.
We closed our evening together with the getting out of the Nativity Scene. This sandstone set was purchased on our last day together in Africa. We had a grand time bartering with the shopkeeper. The look on her face when I asked her if I could just buy Jesus was priceless. Horror, it turns out, can be easily communicated even with an English-Swahili language barrier. We finally came to a common price, with the help of the teenage boy who brought us to the shop. $50. That's a lot of money in Africa, but it seemed right. I mean, I was a white person buying Jesus and Mary. God - and Africa - knows I could afford it.
At any rate, Beth and I put up the Nativity Scene last night. Piece by piece, we set it out, laughing at the carved faces of the figurines, laughing at the memories of buying it.
"These were probably made in China," Beth commented as she handed me a Shepard.
When the set was up, I decided to keep going, to add the LLadro (sp?) set my mom gave me a few years ago. Mary next to Mary. Joseph next to Joseph. And two Baby Jesus figurines, one curled up beside the other.
I've spent a good part of this afternoon trying to determine what a good captian to this photograph should be. Chill out; the Shepards weren't there either. OrIf one Baby Jesus is good, two must be better! But I think that tongue-in-cheek humor aside, this image somehow reminds me how good it is to have friends.
FYI. I gave the pack of cigarettes away.
