...your introduction is overdue. Enjoy. Thank me later.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Dad Troubles
The train home was set to depart in one minute when the other kid announced he needed to pee. The trip home was set to take well over an hour. The alert sounded, the doors closed, and we started the journey.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
He said he could hold it.
The train has small signs pointing to a bathroom. I see people coming and going from what looks like one. I take the kid, we go down the steps, through the train car, to a door marked as a toilet. I try the door and it's locked. I ask the girl on the phone if it's occupied. "No, I don't think so." Does it work? "No, I don't think so." I try again to be sure with no luck.
I begin looking for rare corners where a bladder could be relieved with even less luck. I ask him if he wants a diaper. He reassures me he can hold it, but the small dance and look of discomfort on his face aren't terribly reassuring. He goes back to sit with mama while I sweat it out.
We could jump off the train at the next stop and find some place, but we don't have enough time to get back on and the next train wouldn't pass for a long time. As I'm trying to figure it all out, I watch a woman walk to the bathroom, pull out a tool for unlocking the door, and enter. The girl on the phone looks back at me with large puzzled eyes and shrugs; I see her recounting the story in disbelief to the person on the other end once the woman leaves.
I go back to the diaper plan. Erica and I have done some strange things on trains involving the needs of our children, but how do I discreetly remove the underwear of a three year old and replace it with a diaper among the other passengers? I set up a modesty booth using the reserved spot for a wheel chair, my coat, and our stroller, and I'm ready to do the job with confidence, but when I announce it to him he starts wailing. He's exhausted from our day, irritated from a bladder that's about to burst, and on the verge of falling asleep, peeing his pants, and throwing a temper tantrum all at once. He's yelling "I WANT TO GO TO THE TOOOIILLEEET" so loudly that I abandon the idea rather quickly and return him once again to his seat where it's even more visible that this thing is gonna blow sooner than later.
The woman across from us puts down her book to interject, saying there's a toilet on the train further back. I'm skeptical but we go immediately. We pass through at least two cars with no luck when we finally see an agent. The train comes to a stop and he says goodbye pleasantly to the descending passengers when I pull him aside to ask him if there are any working toilets on the train. No, sorry. So I ask: if I hop off to let my kid pee on the train platform can you hold the train? Yes, of course, but it'd be better at a platform that's less crowded. (The stations further out in the country are perfect places to pee, he's implying, and he's not wrong.) I understood and agreed. Can the little guy wait 10 or 15 minutes? With that I expressed my hesitation. Doubtful. Go ahead, and he waved me off.
We run to the nearest discreet corner and unload as quickly as possible. In my haste to get back to the train, I yank his underwear and pants up so hard that I lift him right off his feet into the air and he pitches forward, almost doing a face plant but catching himself on the wall next to him. The Agent's watching the whole thing and laughing at my misfortune. The kid cries, "I DON'T LIKE YOU WHEN YOU DO THAT!" I pick him up and we run back to the train, he's over it with a timid giggle of glee, the agent blows the whistle, the doors close behind us.
We hustle back toward our car and when he spots Mama on the other end he yells, announcing proudly and enthusiastically in front of all the other passengers, in English no less, "HEY! WE PEED OUT THERE!!!"
This is parenthood, and its absurdity never ceases to amaze me.
Monday, March 09, 2015
fitting music
it's a rare gift when you stumble upon some music that seems to catch the mood of life at the moment.
this is what life sounds like lately.
this is what life sounds like lately.
Wednesday, March 04, 2015
Finding Vivian Maier
She had an eye for the bizarre, the grotesque, the incongruous. She liked headlines that revealed the folly of individuals, where you could say 'I told you so.' Some man murders his wife then gets caught in cold blood. I told you so. The things that revealed the folly of humanity. If you look at her art, she sees the bizarreness of life, the incongruity of life, and the unappealingness of human beings.
This description of Maier and her work made me think that she's a kindred spirit to Flannery O'Connor, a woman only one year her elder. Certain aspects of their work make a lot of people flinch, but they'd most likely have left one another unfazed, and certainly could have produced some interesting, albeit dark, collaborations.
Another question: why did we ever stop using Rolleiflex cameras?
And while this edge to Maier's personality and body of work can't stay unacknowledged, it's an overstep to reduce her work to this single dimension. Like the self-employed journalist she pretended to be, she did an incredible job of capturing and reflecting the full spectrum of the human condition in its honest entirety, good, bad, and ugly, be it a moment of tenderness, beauty, absurdity, or darkness. The vast scope of her work is precisely the reason it resonates as it does. She had a curiosity for the details of who we are and what we do, and in my mind that's most often what makes a good artist.
There are moments where I like that cliché conversation starter: what will you ask God when you get to heaven?
I imagine sitting down with Him for a long chat about mental illness. What is it? and Why? and Is it really illness? and Why do the mentally ill so often serve as artists, and as such, chosen as prophets? Why do the mentally ill seem to actually have a better grasp on some things than those of us who are "sane"? Who's really mentally ill here? What's the real delusion?
(cross reference to the lunatic in Revolutionary Road...or Sufjan Stevens' Age of Adz...)
Zoom out to the human condition in which Maier was trapped and tried so desperately to capture, perhaps in an effort to escape. God, what's really going on here? What are you up to? and Why?
All photos stolen from vivianmaier.com. Film website here.
Monday, March 02, 2015
Grieving with St Vincent
What's in the box?
My wife.
She died? ... Sorry Vin, for your loss.
I never understood why people say that.
They don't know what else to say.
How about What was she like? Do you miss her? or What are you gonna do now?
This quote came back to me the other day when I learned a friend's dad died and I thoughtlessly fumbled an "I'm sorry" in his direction. But it took me a while to remember where the quote came from.
Saint Vincent attempts to pack a little too much sappy fluff into one movie, but its message carried by Murray's terrific performance remains a worthwhile one. Wisdom will always come from unexpected places to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. This scene was just one example, where Vin gives great advice on grieving with those who grieve, probably because in his own way that's what he's done most his life.
My wife.
She died? ... Sorry Vin, for your loss.
I never understood why people say that.
They don't know what else to say.
How about What was she like? Do you miss her? or What are you gonna do now?
Saint Vincent attempts to pack a little too much sappy fluff into one movie, but its message carried by Murray's terrific performance remains a worthwhile one. Wisdom will always come from unexpected places to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. This scene was just one example, where Vin gives great advice on grieving with those who grieve, probably because in his own way that's what he's done most his life.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Boyhood
"So what's the point...of any of this? Of Everything?"
"Everything? What's the point of everything? I sure don't know. Neither does anyone else. We're all just winging it. But the good news is you're feeling stuff, you know? And you gotta hold on to that. You do. You get older and you don't feel as much. Your skin gets tough."
Boyhood, as is typical of Linklater, is so understated it's hard to appreciate it on first watch.
But even that says something. Sure, every critic is making a big deal about its innovation in being filmed over the course of 12 years. But don't forget the film doesn't make a big deal of it, and that's important. If it were filmed with the same cinematography as Tree of Life--a similarly profound Texan coming-of-age broad-scope story--there'd be more to immediately draw you in and appreciate. But humility, simplicity, subtlety, understatement: that was the road chosen in every regard. It doesn't make the movie an easily-digestible blockbuster but it does lend itself to transcendence.
It's tempting to wonder if the film would be any good if it wouldn't have been filmed over the course of 12 years, if it could stand on its own without this "gimmick" to lean on. But the two can't really be separated in such a way. It's not so much a gimmick as it is the story itself. The film is the 12 years, the 12 years is the film.
It's in the details of life passing: video games and clothing and music and food and haircuts and milestones and motivational pep talks and a slow, awkward evolution in and out of phases. For me, all these important slices of life captured and displayed in Boyhood were easier to appreciate after the fact, compiled in a trailer or the highlight reel of a critic, and that in turn made me more deeply admire the film as a whole.We tend to think all those phases stop in adulthood, as if growing up is restricted to boyhood and stops at the age of 18 or 21, as if it's just something to endure and survive, but we see here those phases continue all the same.
It's in the human experience: making sense and moving forward on a long road of pain and beauty, never quite arriving, and learning to be okay with that.
It's in the hard questions of an unfolding life: when making immature choices give their natural consequences, and when making supposedly mature choices don't work out like the world says they should.
It's the peculiar irony of life. Because this mom and dad, ready to give so much to their kids, would have in the end really made a great team and saved themselves a lot of trouble if they had stayed together. Hindsight is 20/20. And yet, even in the brokenness of the situation and the tumultuous experiences that come with it, they do still make a pretty good team all in all. The absent father we might have considered a deadbeat and a slacker isn't at all as absent as we thought. He is in fact the most stable, constant thing these kids have. The hot rod he drives giving him an air of rebellion becomes in fact one of the safest and steadiest homes they know. In spite of all the less-than-ideal circumstances, as seems to always be the case in this wide world of unexpected grace, all is not lost.
And perhaps the familiar motto we mutter to ourselves all through the movie becomes a pretty good theme for summing up all of life: My, how you've grown!
Yes, you've grown, and you're never done growing.
"Everything? What's the point of everything? I sure don't know. Neither does anyone else. We're all just winging it. But the good news is you're feeling stuff, you know? And you gotta hold on to that. You do. You get older and you don't feel as much. Your skin gets tough."
Boyhood, as is typical of Linklater, is so understated it's hard to appreciate it on first watch.
But even that says something. Sure, every critic is making a big deal about its innovation in being filmed over the course of 12 years. But don't forget the film doesn't make a big deal of it, and that's important. If it were filmed with the same cinematography as Tree of Life--a similarly profound Texan coming-of-age broad-scope story--there'd be more to immediately draw you in and appreciate. But humility, simplicity, subtlety, understatement: that was the road chosen in every regard. It doesn't make the movie an easily-digestible blockbuster but it does lend itself to transcendence.
It's tempting to wonder if the film would be any good if it wouldn't have been filmed over the course of 12 years, if it could stand on its own without this "gimmick" to lean on. But the two can't really be separated in such a way. It's not so much a gimmick as it is the story itself. The film is the 12 years, the 12 years is the film.
It's in the details of life passing: video games and clothing and music and food and haircuts and milestones and motivational pep talks and a slow, awkward evolution in and out of phases. For me, all these important slices of life captured and displayed in Boyhood were easier to appreciate after the fact, compiled in a trailer or the highlight reel of a critic, and that in turn made me more deeply admire the film as a whole.We tend to think all those phases stop in adulthood, as if growing up is restricted to boyhood and stops at the age of 18 or 21, as if it's just something to endure and survive, but we see here those phases continue all the same.
It's in the human experience: making sense and moving forward on a long road of pain and beauty, never quite arriving, and learning to be okay with that.
It's in the hard questions of an unfolding life: when making immature choices give their natural consequences, and when making supposedly mature choices don't work out like the world says they should.
It's the peculiar irony of life. Because this mom and dad, ready to give so much to their kids, would have in the end really made a great team and saved themselves a lot of trouble if they had stayed together. Hindsight is 20/20. And yet, even in the brokenness of the situation and the tumultuous experiences that come with it, they do still make a pretty good team all in all. The absent father we might have considered a deadbeat and a slacker isn't at all as absent as we thought. He is in fact the most stable, constant thing these kids have. The hot rod he drives giving him an air of rebellion becomes in fact one of the safest and steadiest homes they know. In spite of all the less-than-ideal circumstances, as seems to always be the case in this wide world of unexpected grace, all is not lost.
And perhaps the familiar motto we mutter to ourselves all through the movie becomes a pretty good theme for summing up all of life: My, how you've grown!
Yes, you've grown, and you're never done growing.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
You have the words of life.
I ran into these words as I read on the train yesterday. They struck me so strongly that I felt inspired to stand up and, in an act of freedom of expression and something resembling street art, write them in the foggy window with my finger. I didn't. I probably should have.
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
L'homme n'aboutit à rien par lui-même.
Vers qui irions-nous?
From John 6.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Another observed difference between boys and girls.
When boys get hair in their eyes, they leave it there. They jerk their head. They blow it. They cut it. Maybe, on a good day, they brush it over with their hand: swiftly and rough.
When girls get hair in their eyes, they tilt their head gracefully, sweep the hair gently to the side with their hand, and then the hand slowly continues down to their cheek, further petting the side of their neck, following down to their chest while never lifting from their body until it finally returns to their side, as if they are dramatically auditioning for a shampoo commercial or the like.
These strange creatures and their instincts are marvels.
When girls get hair in their eyes, they tilt their head gracefully, sweep the hair gently to the side with their hand, and then the hand slowly continues down to their cheek, further petting the side of their neck, following down to their chest while never lifting from their body until it finally returns to their side, as if they are dramatically auditioning for a shampoo commercial or the like.
These strange creatures and their instincts are marvels.
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