Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Yards (Part Four) (write-a-thon edition)

My third yard was a tiny square, called a garden locally, but a patch of grass bordered by a hawthorn hedge. The small house we lived in opened right onto the garden from the dining room through double-glazed french doors. The yard was just big enough for the trampoline and a few kids. It always smelled of rain and ivy. When you jumped on the trampoline the neighbors came into view. Again and again you could see the granite grave stones of the the church yard next door. Hundreds of tombstones, the color of a cloudy winter sky, covered in gray-green moss and lichen, crowded the cemetery. Bashful angels and earthly sentiments long forgotten waited for fresh flowers.

This was the year I outgrew my back yard, now too tiny for much fun. I was old enough to roam around the neighborhood. My real back yard was an abandoned estate next door the the semi-detached development where I lived. The estate was accessed formally by the long drive from the main street which led to a loop in front of the house. My friends and I usually found our way to the house through a broken down fence, carefully tip-toeing over barbed wire.

The surrounding woods and the overgrown, long-untended gardens were scraggly and difficult to distinguish from one another, though the gardens had been perfectly regimented at one time. Now they are drooping and forlorn.

The house was unlocked. There was no furniture in the rooms or art on the walls, but the peeling wallpaper and old-fashioned light fixtures spoke to us of better days with boisterous children, cocktail parties, and formal dinners. The kitchen was bright and airy. Its huge Aga brand cooker, with 6 smaller ovens and 6 burners on the stove, bragged of its capacity to prepare huge meals. Behind the house was a mostly full tank of kerosene.

At some point, probably at my instigation, my friends and I decided to play at camping in the woods around the house. There was plenty of twigs and dry plants for small fires, and matches were easily pilfered from my home where my mother's More's never burned down to the filter. We would clear a little area just to be safe, and make a pile of dead bracken, weeds, and small limbs. Those fires lit something in me. My heart raced, my face flushed, my legs twitched. I could never just sit and enjoy the heat and crackle. I knew what we were doing was wrong.

Our first fires were in the front of the house, where the trees were relatively sparse, and daytime was always bright. Soon, though, we decided to move our clandestine activities into the woods behind the house that were thicker, darker, harder to get into. About that time we also discovered the kerosene. A crisp bag served as a bottle for some of the pink liquid. One of us would carefully carry the bulging bag to the fire circle.

I was not too surprised when I got home from playing in the old estate to find both my parents with grim faces. My father told me my friend's parents had said we were making fires in the woods. Swallowing hard, I said we were, hoping to be rewarded for my honesty. I wasn't disappointed. There was a stern admonishment, a shaking finger, and a few tut tuts. Contrition flushed my face, and I wondered if I would be able to resist the seduction of the flames.

I suppose I held out as long as I possibly could, but the draw was too powerful. After about 3 weeks of abstention, we were back at it in the dark woods. Crisp bag full of kerosene carefully carried from the back of the house into the woods, a circle cleared in the underbrush to keep our fire tame. But none of our safeguards were appreciated in the long run. After only three or four of these cherished adventures I looked up from a freshly smoking campfire to see my father, stomping through the underbrush with about as much purpose as a soldier entering a battle. I froze, though I wanted to run. I knew this time there would be no wagging finger, no stern words. My father grabbed me by the arm and took me home at a pace just a little faster than I could walk.

That was the last spanking I ever remember getting from my father. And I never lit another fire in the woods around the abandoned estate.

10 minute prompt: Dear Pride Fairy (write-a-thon edition)

Dear Pride Fairy,

Please bring me all your radical friends to decorate the streets and buildings with glitter and tinsel and feathers and sequins and paint the nails of everyone who passes by.

Please bring me a gaggle of cute women to flatter me and play with my hair.

Please bring me a warm sunny day in Volunteer Park with squirrels who know that crumbs taste the same from queers as from straights.

Please bring me hugs and kisses from every queer I've ever known.

Please bring me dykes on bikes and fags on scooters and people so happy to see them they pee their pants.

Please bring me a passle of people who look like a man and a woman mashed together in unpredictable ways by a big queer super-collider.

Please bring me drinks al fresco, because everyone needs refreshment.

Please bring me into a future where no one asks me if I have a man, but just looks at my life, knows me, is open to who I am before I get there and force the issue.

Please bring me an ocean of love to wash my queer people, present and past, to absolve them of the wrongs done to them.

Thank you,
yours queerly,
Caren

Sunday, June 20, 2010

10 minute prompt: I am more ____ than _____

I am smarter than I am pretty
I often think of this and sometimes say it
and see the taken aback in someone's face

I am more student than woman
But no one sees student when they look at me

I am more thinker than player
But people just want to play

I am more memoir than fiction,
But I don't want you to know that

I am more poetry than prose,
but prose is more appealing

I am more rain than sunshine
But there is nothing I love more
than raising my face to the heat
and blinding light on a late summer afternoon.

I am more water than land
but often feel at sea,
desperate for an atoll.

I am more cold than hot,
but the waters that run deep
in me are magma

I am more big than small
but sometimes cannot find my voice
and shrink to a pinpoint.

I am more gray than technicolor
but I can see someone catch the emerald and sapphire
of my eye and sway mesmerized.

I am more flesh than bone,
but yearn to shed the flesh
and live sharp, bare, hard, and brittle.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Snow White Redux, Part 2 (part one is in May 2010)

"It's quite pleasing, Cilla." Snow looked at her father, who was smiling for the first time in years. This must be good, thought Snow. This must be good.

Over the next few months Cilla taught Snow all her favorite recipes. Snow became adept at cooking large quantities of food to reheat in smaller meals later. But somehow she always managed to burn what she was cooking on even the lowest heat. "Nevermind," sympathized Cilla, "You can take the food off the top without disturbing the char, no one will ever know." While Cilla talked about her thoughts fo the day, Snow never noticed the sour look that came over her father's face when she had cooked dinner, as his tongue sorted out the sharp tang of singed rice.

Snow learned from Cilla how to sew and crochet and tat, though she thought her lace looked more like rags that had lost their nap. She couldn't figure out ow the thread could look stained when she was so careful about washing her hands. "Nevermind," Cilla would cluck, "You can wash it clean when you are done." But no matter how she washed, Snow's lace never came out clean.

Snow learned how to craft her thank-you notes and invitations with a fountain pen. She never understood why, no matter how careful she was with the nib, the ink could drip between the letters. "Nevermind," winked Cilla, "Drip a little more around and make a flower out of it." Over time Snow's acquaintances and neighbors began to pity her for her obviously poor attempts to hider her lack of skill.

Snow learned how to plant herbs to use in cooking. Cilla's herbs always grew fast and flavorful while Snow's herbs would grow a few inches then wither and wilt without ever amounting to much. "Nevermind," Cilla sighed, "I'm sure the slugs like yours better than mine."

10 Minute Prompt: Write about where you "hurry, half-dressed and barefoot"

This morning I found myself feeling ready to head off to work and woke to the fact I needed to put on a shirt first. At least I had my pants on. Isn't that the dream cliche? Being at work without your pants on? Yet I was more worried about driving without a shirt on. Being seen by other drivers who might lose control of their car, who would most certainly gawk. I hadn't, in my imagination, even gotten to the point in my journey where I'd be at the elevators, bare shoulders shining honestly yet shyly under my chin. Riding elevators with people too polite to stare or ask. How could you not ask the half-naked person if she was OK? Why would you want to scuttle off to the safety and privacy of your cube in the hive, when something far more interesting was happening? How could I get all the way to work, let alone out of my front door, without a shirt on? Certainly embarrassment would slow my stride and turn my feet back to the house, back to the closet for a shirt. Clothes are just drones from the closet, doing the work of hiding when the closet can no longer do that work.

10 Minute Prompt: Write a Detailed Description of a Childhood Photograph

Scalloped edges frame a black and white moment. There are three people in the photo, but only one faces the camera. A small child in a high chair, right arm outstretched, hand high like a cheerleader at the end of a routine. The highchair is in front of a rough wooden picnic table. On the table is a round cake encased in white frosting, a numeral 2 in wax on top, waiting to be lit. An older woman, grandmother or great-aunt, shoulders slightly hunched by early osteoporosis, is walking away. Her hair is short, tightly curled, the fading tint of her last color rinse like a veil. Behind the child in the highchair is the house. Coming out of the house is a pair of legs. The rest of the person is beyond the edge of the picture. Legs in black pants, maybe a man, father or uncle, someone who is carrying a load of wrapped gifts.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Ghost Writer: A Review

Is it possible that Roman Polanski was channeling Alfred Hitchcock when he directed The Ghost Writer? Not a chance. Well, maybe, after all, they are both known to be or rumored to be perverts. But Roman made this movie every bit as suspenseful, every bit as lyrical, every bit as atmospheric as The Birds, or The 39 Steps.

The wind, rain, and island isolation are not the only Hitchcockian touches at play here. There are lots of delicious shots where important action is happening on the other side of the door, and sometimes we can see through a crack or a window in the door. The music is very tense string action, like in the best Hitchcock films. There is a tight closeup of a note being passed, seemingly endlessly, through a crowd. The final shot is a fixed medium shot that delivers a devastating, inexorable ending. In short, the camera work and editing are superbly suspenseful.

I'll be honest, I did not like this movie for the first 10-20 minutes. I thought it was ponderous and ham fisted. But before long it hit its stride and I was enthralled. Part of my initial response was about the pacing. The progression of this film was measured and deliberate. Sometimes this comes across as slow. But I also find that political movies sometimes benefit from being a little slow. I'm not sure why, other than it reinforces the perception of deliberateness in the political characters.

Ghost Writer seemed to be its own ghost in many ways. Not only the strong echos of Hitchcock, but the actors looked vaguely like themselves. Was that Kim Cattrall with an English accent? I swear I have never looked so intently at her face and still not been certain it was her. And Pierce Brosnin appeared to be a caricature of himself. Than again, Pierce Brosnin often looks like a caricature of himself. There was also a lot of echoing in the scenes, as characters positioned themselves near each other, striking similar poses. It was quite odd sometimes, but interesting.

I spent the whole movie wondering where I'd seen I Olivia Williams, who played Ruth, the former Prime Minister's wife, before. Here's a weird thing: There is a scene in Professor Emmett's (Tom Wilkinson) house. For some reason the house reminded me of the Philadelphia home of the psychiatrist in Sixth Sense. Really, it was just the wall under the banister of the stairs, and the door to the space under the stairs. I was reminded of the rattling of the doorknob as Dr. Malcolm Crowe looked for his key to open the door under the stairs. When I finally looked the actress up in IMDB, turns out she played Anna Crowe, the psychiatrist's grieving wife. Cue eerie Twilight Zone music.

Here's the strangest thing: Why haven't I heard of this film? Where's the fanfare? Where's the hype? It's not like I've been on a media blackout. I simply had not heard of this movie before I looked to see what was playing at The Crest. My theory is that the film was released after the widely publicized arrest of Polanski in Switzerland. The sordid details of his crime have been rehashed ad nauseum in the press. It could be that the distributing company simply did not want any backlash. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. At any rate, I'm not sure this is Polanski's best film. I'm still favoring Knife in the Water, or Death and the Maiden. Nevertheless, it is definitely one of his finest moments as a director. As a political suspense film, it ranks right up there with The Contender for me.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Yards (Part Three)

The back lot was my portal to the woods. The woods surrounding this yard were lush, green, deciduous, purring woods, full of crickets, katy-dids, snakes, turtles, lizards, skunks, raccoons, and stray cats. I slipped away into the downstream side of these woods as often as time and weather allowed. I played long hours following the creek as far as I dared. I was often distracted by a deep pool, not quite big enough to be a swimming hole, around which turtles sometimes gathered to bathe in the filtered light. Turtles were the first animals I ever saw mating. As often as I followed the creek, I took new steps inches at a time. It was years before I finally saw the confluence with Savage Creek. I usually played in the woods alone, but when I was about 9 my father and brother and I walked through the woods further than I had ever gone before. For most of the walk we seemed to be deep in woods, far from the developed world, though we were probably no more than a quarter mile from the nearest house. At one point we could hear the rattle and diesel of bulldozers, through the trees I could see their bright yellow pushing around piles of red dirt. The smell of fresh sap and earth was overpowering.


As we skirted past the encroachment we came upon something I wonder about to this day. The poles were covered in fluffy dark green moss, the kind that grows on the ground, they leaned against each other in stolid opposition to time and bulldozers. 5 points of a star were the ends of the poles on the ground, the high ends met and crossed near the top. I was caught up in wonder about who would have left a teepee frame in the woods. I grabbed my dad's hand and asked him who had lived there. "I don't know," was all I got. I could see the shadow of an old Indian, a craggy faced, gray haired Creek warrior, living out his days in peaceful resistance, alone, the last of his kind, all the rest having been marched off to Oklahoma. Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee was thick in the air at that time. Billie Jack was demanding respect one roundhouse kick at a time. They could not escape the romantic mind of a 9 year old in love with the living world and the mysteries of hidden history.

10 Minute Prompt: Get Really Serious about something we usually dismiss as ridiculous

Whistling
Whistle me up. I was talking the other day with someone who said he never learned to whistle. I felt it was unfair that I had learned to whistle in 3 different ways. I immediately wanted to give him one of my whistles. But I couldn't quite figure it out. Instead I shared with him my self honed skills and how I had learned each. He said whistling would come in handy and that he thought he would like to be able to whistle just in case he needed it someday. I stepped close to him and told him about my cute little bird imitation that I use sometimes just to get people to look around for the bird in the theater. Even as I whistled the little bird up, his eyes darted to catch it's corporeal counterpart. Then the childhood whistle with puckered lips that makes people laugh at the sight. Then the loud, obnoxious sport game whistle, really only 2 tones that deafens anyone standing withing arm's length. Then he told me of the whistle he used to talk to his aunt's cockatoo. He whistled a soft, airy sound, like a fairy beckoning you into a circle of magic.