insomnia rambles.

Want some insomniac thoughts for your Wednesday (or whenever)? Here's a sampling of what goes on in my mind when unable to sleep:

1-Well, crap, y'all. I had to close comments again for awhile. Two people left me some thoughts about my holiday struggles. I'm not mad about them, but they weren't really what I needed to see at 3 AM when up with insomnia, thinking about my lot in life. (Both basically said I need to stop this foolishness and go back to my husband. One said do it for my daughter, she needs her father. Basically making a judgment call on me and my life without knowing me, him, or her, or the full nature of the situation. I have written copious amounts of other blog entries about it - had they read those and absorbed them, along with all of my other ridiculous inanity here, I bet they would have understood this is just how things work here and I'm a very this-too-shall-pass kinda gal. However, for now, I think no comments are best.) 

But you know. Such is the nature of social media and being open/vulnerable on the Internet. I hope this means my skin is getting thicker. I really, really want thicker skin. I sense it'll help me later in life. 

2- Mysteriously and without telling you the specifics (because this is the Internet), I got a message from a man the other day on the Internet. He was a stranger, and he wanted to take me on a date. He said I was beautiful. And then he said he changed his mind about taking me on a date, because even though he thought I was really pretty he could never date someone like me. And the reason he couldn't is because, politically, I lean left. And then he went on a really long rant about how leftie liberals are destroying America and the world, and we're the reason for all the bad things. And he concluded his strange rant with: too bad, because I'd totally sleep with you. Message me if you're interested.

Internet, you are a strange, bizarre world. 

(A) First, what? I bet he's a super fun first date. (I'm being sarcastic.) (B) Second, what?? Why would I want to sleep with someone who thinks I'm the source of all evil in the world? and (C) Third, what??? 

I'm not opposed to remaining single and alone for the rest of my life, if THAT is all I have to choose from. (But it didn't bother me; I really do think my skin is getting thicker. I just deleted and moved on. He'll find his Anne Coulter one day, and they will make hideous Donald Trump babies.)

I also think it didn't bother me because...you know what he really sounded like? One of those guys who gets all his information about how women work and how to get women from those misogynistic websites and organizations. You know the ones - they're the ones that tell men women are all bitches, and feminism is why. That you just have to keep your woman in the kitchen and let her know who's REALLY in charge, because that's what women all secretly desire no matter what they actually say. Women were created to be conquered. 

(uuuhhhh....NO. False. No, gentlemen. Not even remotely close.) (Unless you are Jamie Dornan...read further.)

3-I went to a former co-worker's retirement party yesterday. Sweet, lovely, amazing lady. Seriously. Like, Martha Stewart and Florence Nightingale and the Melanie Wilkes from Gone With The Wind, all wrapped up on one person. Breast cancer survivor. Artist. Immensely kind human being. The standard to which all humans should strive to be. Kind and creative and beautiful and lovely person. We were both on staff when the place opened, and so I have so so many memories she's attached to...lots of memories. 

The sweet lady who was our school secretary when I started there came, and she occasionally reads this blog (hi, M! If you're here!), and she came over and gave me the biggest, longest hug and let me know she understands how this is. Her situation was much harder, and far different than mine. Sadder. But it's all kind of the same, when you end a relationship. Even when it's the best thing to do. And she made me cry. Kindness and love always makes me cry, because my heart...my heart. 

Anyway. She told me to make my own memories now and to stay strong. What she said meant a lot to me. (Sometimes I think we are placed exactly where we need to be, at just the moment we need to be there, with just the people we need to be with. Don't you?) And I think people who are gentle and kind and non-judgmental are the best kind of people to be around. Also: hugs are nice. Way more helpful than anything else. Just be supportive when someone is having a hard time. Hug them. People need hugs and hugs are nice. That's all.


4-I've watched two movies recently that are about sex. Let's get the first one out of the way: Fifty Shades of Grey. Yes, I admit it: I watched it. But only for Jamie Dornan. And I will ALWAYS watching anything that Jamie Dornan is in now. Oh, Jamie Dornan. Beautiful Jamie Dornan. 

I haven't read the book. I refuse to read the book. The book annoys me. How many superbly amazing writers are out there right now, desperate to be published? And some fan fic chick not only gets pubbed but also becomes a famous millionaire on top of it AND Jamie Dornan stars in the movie version of her book??????? Goddammit, Humanity.  (There are some very talented fan fic chicks out there who ought to have this happen to them...not convinced E.L. James is one, but then. Confession: I refuse to read her book.) 

SPOILER ALERT:

But the movie, surprisingly, wasn't bad. I think because Jamie Dornan saved it. My overall reaction: I would be totally okay with Jamie Dornan's "playroom." And I think Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith's daughter was nuts for leaving Jamie Dornan. At the end (I'm just going to tell you the ending...if this is going to upset you, quickly scroll past all this) (though I must tell you that if hearing the end of this story is going to upset you, you may need to re-evaluate your entire life).........................at the end, she tells him to show her exactly how he wants to punish her. She wants to understand his fucked up psychology. (Girlfriend, he's been slapping at you with whips and a cat o'nine tails for 2 hours. You need further explanation?) So he shows her. And basically, it's that he wants to paddle her behind. He told her exactly how many times he'd do it, and on top of that they weren't even that hard (I could tell they weren't very hard hits because when I was in 1st grade, I got paddled at school) (I know, I KNOW!! I know you want to hear that story, but it'll get us off-track...I'll come back and tell you it this weekend). 

At any rate, she gets SO upset about it. She walks away from jet airplanes, fancy cars, expensive dinners, and you know..amazingness. And a man who secretly loves her, just in a really fucked up way. 

The main problem I had with Jamie Dornan/Christian Grey is that he was too controlling. I have a big, big issue with people who need to control other people. If you need to put someone in a cage to make them yours, then they were never yours to begin with. Constantly calling her, wanting to know where she was/what she was doing, showing up at the restaurant and interrupting dinner with her mom without permission - that's the kind of shit that would end things for me. She loved all that; yet it was a paddling session that ruined it for her. His need to paddle her butt was just too much. But not all the "What was that? That's right: 'Yes, sir.'" and the you-belong-to-ME issues. 

Though I'd have kept the car, dammit. That was a nice car. (It's because I'm constantly terrified my car is going to break down on me and I'll have to put $2000 into it to fix it, and I'll be totally screwed.)

Also, there are really, really angry people out there who think this book and movie propagates domestic violence. I get it. On the surface, BDSM looks like a strange, effed up mess. I once hung out, reading for a bit, a submissive lady's website. I could never submit like that to a man...I could submit in a lot of other ways. But I would not be okay having a man tell me to clean this up or do your hair like this or I want you in black today. This raises my hackles and my latent anger issues really start percolating. But for some women, this works. I'm not going to judge them. Because I don't think BDSM is really about domestic violence, is it? Domestic violence is unwanted, unwelcome. People get rushed to the ER or die. In BDSM situations, everyone appears to be in agreement, there are safe words, and it's about weird psychological needs more than a need to own another human being because you can't handle your own shit. If this is what brings someone else peace and love, then it's not for us to say what's weird and messed up and what's not...right? I don't eat escargot because eating snails looks weird and messed up to me. Others think snails are incredibly delicious things to chew on. 

So - and this is probably going to garner me some more unsolicited commentary from Internet strangers stopping by (except they'll have to keep them in their brains because comments closed) - I don't have a problem with BDSM people in general. I think they may need some therapy maybe, but therapy isn't cheap and if this is what gets them from point A to point B to point C in life? Then maybe that IS their therapy, and so it is not for you or I to try to make them feel bad about it. We all have our own little vices, don't we? Some of us binge watch Breaking Bad whenever we get a chance, some of us eat too much brownie brittle (it's a thing now, did you know?), some of us use our credit cards too often and freely, some of us spend too much time thinking about Jamie Dornan...wait, those are my vices. But you understand what I mean, yes?

The other movie I watched was called Shame and it starred Michael Fassbender and Michael Fassbender's junk. Here's the thing about this movie: if you're watching it because you like Michael Fassbender (and who doesn't like Michael Fassbender??) and just want to see his junk and/or you've heard there's a really graphic threesome scene and you're all about those because yay threesomes? Then you aren't going to enjoy this movie. 

First of all, it's a long movie (about 2 hours). Second, it's a quiet movie, with really long scenes. God bless those actors, they all deserve an Oscar. I get nervous when someone won't quickly take my picture on school picture day; I can't imagine having a camera trained on my face for 200 minutes, while I'm supposed to just use my eyes to express my feelings. These are the kinds of scenes you'll watch in this movie. 

Also, the subject matter of the movie was disturbing. This is a story about fucked up people doing fucked up things. Fassbender's character wasn't erotic; he was a gigantic mess. The threesome scene wasn't erotic; it was a gigantic mess. I don't mean how it was directed, I mean what and why a threesome happened in this movie. Because this was a story about someone who isn't just occasionally cuddling with his inner demons, this was a movie about someone who consistently allows his inner demons to have their way with him in the most inappropriate of ways until, finally, they just throw their hands in the air and say "Fuck it!" and rape him. This is a movie about sex, but it's not the least bit sexy. Is what I'm saying. Fifty Shades of Grey was also about sex, but they really tried hard to make it sexy. This movie was just about raw human stuff. With really long, quiet scenes in which there was a lot going on. (It was Art, is what I'm telling you...Fifty Shades of Grey was a book-turned-movie. Steve McQueen's Shame is Art.)

Having said that, this wasn't a bad movie; it was really well-acted, directed, cinematography was gorgeous. Carrie Mulligan, you can SING, love. And Michael Fassbender can walk through my apartment naked anytime he'd like. Anytime. But not as this character. And also, Michael Fassbender can tell you his feelings just with his eyes, and that's nice. I think more people should do that - talk with their eyes. 

So here's what happened with these two movies and me: First I saw Fifty Shades of Grey, and I was all: hmmm...BDSM doesn't look so bad, not if you're doing it with someone like Jamie Dornan. Then I saw Shame, and I was all: Whoa! If Michael Fassbender's guy went to Jamie Dornan's playroom, somebody wouldn't make it out alive. So think I'm going to table that for awhile. A long, long while. 

(Unless I meet Jamie Dornan's Christian Grey and he takes me to Europe.)

5 - It is almost 5 AM now and my alarm is about to go off. Insomnia, I give up. I'm not even going to fight you anymore. I'm just going to let you have your way with me. Take me to your playroom, but let's not tell the Internet in case the Internet wants to judge us. 

anger management, xxl.

Forewarning: there are many angry swears in this - sorry mom. 

This scene is what the press junkets SHOULD have
focused on.

I saw Magic Mike XXL last night. I don't know if I should publicly admit this, because I almost feel like it's admitting I read 50 Shades of Grey cover to cover and had favorite sentences in it that I highlighted and return to whenever I need writing inspiration (I have never read 50 Shades of Grey). However, in my (and many other women's) defense, may I just say that I think there are all kinds of movies for all kinds of situations. Books, too. Just like taking a mindless/garbage-y/trashy romance to the beach to read and leaving War and Peace at home? Thus shall movies like Magic Mike  and Magic Mike XXL serve their purpose for (Wo)Man. It is a trashy beach read, on film.

I saw the first Magic Mike, yet preferred this Magic Mike to the first Magic Mike. (Which, just expressing that opinion out loud, I think officially makes me a connoisseur of trashy films). It makes fun of itself, and I like people/books/film/music/art that can make fun of themselves. Life's short, let's mock It. 

I loved Jada Pinkett Smith as the girl version of Matthew McConaughey--I'm sorry, Matthew McConaughey, I normally love you, but you were far too oily in the other one. But Jada! Jada was bad. ass. And she knows women and knew exactly what to do with this character (which totally makes sense, since she is one) - I want a Girls Night Out with Jada Pinkett Smith. And can we talk about Joe Manganiello for a couple of seconds? Oh my. Oh my! I know most women go for the Channing Tatum scenes, but Joe just looks like he has a secret obsession for Shakespeare sonnets. People are all talking about his gas station mini-market dance, but I am in love with the wedding/honeymoon dance scene. Minus the swing; let's not get crazy (because that was crazy).

What I most liked about this movie is it knew who'd be watching it (me...I'm saying I think Channing Tatum & Co. personally tailored it for me: "How can we make Amy in Georgia happy?" was a constant refrain heard at every table read). Best scene/stole-the-show character: Andie MacDowell. Oh, how I understood her - not her divorce situation; I am separating from a nice man. Just her anger. If you've seen or do see the movie, you'll understand what I'm talking about.

Because I'm pretty angry at the moment. A stew-y type of anger. A stew-y, soup-y, highly controlled kind of anger that's actually hard to explain unless you're inside of me. (Please don't make inappropriate jokes about how that came out because I started off rave-salivating over a male stripper movie. You'll just add to the swirling bog of turbulent vexation.)

Here are some examples of things that make me angry right now:

1. People, specifically men, telling me what to do/who I am/how I feel. Are you me? Do you have exclusive access to the thoughts in my brain? That's right, you don't, so. Fuck you.

2. People, specifically men, who make assumptions about what I need or what I want. Oh, why? Because I'm in a bad spot right now, and vulnerable, and so I don't really know what I need or want? Fuck you.

3. People, specifically men, who think because I'm separated now that I'm easier to take advantage of. Oh, you sense my vulnerability and think it'll make me less discerning? Fuck you. 

I continue processing where I'm at right now - this will take an enormously long time to wade through if I want to do it properly, and I want to do it properly. My summer is ending, I have to get back to work next week, and I have to engage and be present there. I've accepted that this is where I'm supposed to be right now, in terms of career, for whatever reason, and so it's really important to me now to stay engaged and focused. Yet I also know now that, particularly at work, I need to keep protective walls of immunity from the Crazy built around me. I need to tend to these walls, adding layers whenever necessary. 

And I'm still adjusting to my new home situation, and I am worried about me, about C, about Miss M. And so you know what? This IS all making me vulnerable, goddammit. And that's what's making me angry, I bet. Each interaction I have with a new human being right now, specifically the male of the species, leaves me generally suspicious: what do you really want from me? I am here for me and my family, full stop. If you are not in my family, I'm not here for you - I am not responsible for how you feel or what you think, and what you want is...sorry to be rude, but that's your problem not mine. You do you; I'll do me. And so I have nothing for you and I am a mess right now; please don't say or do anything to make it worse. 

Generally, I'm a ridiculously over the top nice person, an extreme people pleaser of the worst kind. I try very hard to keep my interactions with others - online and off - kind and pleasant. I prefer to spread love, not anger. But I'm finding I may have to start being a bit more assertive. Less nice. More Jada Pinkett Smith-y. If you will. 

Most of all, I need to be surrounded by healers and people who just want to laugh and have fun right now. Go see Magic Mike XXL, and you'll get a good idea of who I want to hang out with right now (and NO I am not saying I want to be surrounded by male entertainers...you seriously haven't even read a thing I just wrote, have you? Focus, or we can't be friends: I mean people who don't take themselves seriously, people who are interested in smiling and laughter and fun and goodness and kindness and authenticity. I want to be around people who know this planet is hard to live on and so let's not create any more messes than we absolutely positively have to. And I want to be with people - specifically men - who know sometimes women just want to be a queen, not a thing to be manipulated and used and taken advantage of). 

Ending side note: This would be one of those roller coaster emotions a friend of mine told me about. This week's roller coaster was anger; last week's was sadness. I'm cycling through, so happiness is right around the corner; I just know it.

pick good names.

I am having a Snow Day (actually, it's an Ice Day) (actually actually, it's a Winter Day but there was some ice up in the northern tiers of where I work, so they had to cancel the whole thing--it's hard to stop the Titanic once it's in motion).

So I thought I'd do some writing. Here. In front of you, Internet.

Here's what I've done today:

1. I made pancakes.
2. I hung out on social media.
3. I took a shower and got dressed.
4. I watched a movie.
5. I did some teacher work.
6. Now I'm here.

Let's talk about the most exciting part of my day--the movie I watched. Because I think you need to see it.

It's called BELLE. It was airing on HBO this afternoon, so I watched it (because it's a period piece, and I am all about period pieces). It's based on the true story of Dido Elizabeth Belle (played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw). Dido was the illegitimate, mixed race daughter of a West Indies slave and Capt. John Lindsay, a Royal Navy officer. When Dido's mother died, Capt. Lindsay took Dido back to England. She was raised by her great-uncle Earl William Murray and his wife Elizabeth. William Murray was also England's Chief Lord Justice to the Supreme Court--he made the rules and was super powerful. Dido grew up with William and Elizabeth's niece, Lady Elizabeth Murray, who was pretty much unacknowledged and unaccepted by her own father because he'd remarried. William and Elizabeth treated both Lady Elizabeth and Dido as if they were their own daughters.

....except when it came time to eat. Because Dido pretty much had to eat by herself. She was too high brow to eat with the servants, but too low brow (skin color) to eat with them. And this was basically Dido's entire life: she never fit in anywhere, really. Too much of a gentlewoman to be a servant, too much like a servant to be a true gentlewoman. Ditto when it came to marriage. No self-respecting English gentleman wanted a mixed race illegitimate wife. Back in 1700s England.

When Capt. Lindsay died, he left Belle a very comfortable inheritance. And that's where things got dicey. Because her cousin, Lady Elizabeth, HAD to find a man. Elizabeth's father never acknowledged her, so she pretty much was to receive nothing when her uncle William Murray died and her dick of dad got it all. Aren't you thankful for Women's Lib, ladies? Frickin' men.

At any rate, Oliver Ashford (Tom Felton) comes in at one point, doing a fairly evil turn as a potential Lady Elizabeth suitor, and Belle has to make a choice between marrying Ashford's brother (who is nicer than Oliver but still only marrying her because she's like an interesting trinket to him...oh, and she's got money and his family is pretty poor) (the British class system was BRUTAL)...or marrying a much nicer, cuter, and more passionate John Davinier (yummy Australian Sam Reid) (that was very female chauvinist of me to add that word "yummy" to Sam's name and I'm only slightly sorry about it).

This soundsJUST like a Jane Austen novel, doesn't it? But it's a true story! Because Davinier was an abolitionist and with the help of Belle, he successfully convinced Belle's great-uncle to make a ruling that set the forces in motion for England to outlaw slavery. Way in advance of the United States. NO CIVIL WAR NECESSARY. (America, listen up! Next time? Just watch how England does it.) (That's a fine irony.)

I cried and was thoroughly touched in several spots by this film. I'd say the overarching theme to it, it's primary message, was Love. Courage and Love. It was heartbreaking to see how very little power women truly had over their lives, and if you were a brown-skinned woman? Lands help you. The world really didn't work in your favor. As the mother of a 21st century mixed race child, I can see first hand how this still happens, quite a bit. Obviously, people have advanced a lot socially and have developed good social filters...but the subtle signs are still around, that this "you kinda don't really belong anywhere, do you?" message continues to be sent.

But I thought it also said a lot about sacrifice, how willing human beings can be to sacrifice themselves for love. And it was a commentary on how far we've come as a planet, and perhaps how much farther we have to go (because, I assure you, there are still Oliver Ashfords out there in the world). 5 stars and two thumbs up from this not-a-real-film-critic chick.

So please see it if you have a chance. (If you have HBO, you should have a lot of chances right now.)

Now. Let's talk about one more thing before I go: names.

What's in a name? Letters. Hopefully at least one or two vowels. True story: I got a student once with NO vowels in her name. Seriously. And her mother's name was even worse--I'm surprised it wasn't just a symbol. She tried to tell me what her name was but I couldn't even...my brain almost exploded. I just nodded at her and thought: M'am, your name is ridiculous. Try again.

But also, power. Names have letters (hopefully lots of vowels) and POWER. They can bestow their owners with a certain kind of bent toward a certain kind of personality, good health, creativity, sense of self. I have a friend who just informed me the other day that Jewish people all have a special Hebrew name. What?! They didn't teach us about THIS in Presbyterian Sunday school either! (Possibly because it was Presbyterian Sunday school.) So Jewish people give their children a special Hebrew name that's meant to empower them, or honor family, or both. And then there's also something you can do called Gematria, which has something to do with using numbers to the letters in the name, that will also further empower the name bearer.  In addition to this, whenever they want to, Jewish people can add names to their names. Like, if you're having a bad financial year? Go find a Hebrew name that will help fix that and add it to your existing one.

This is magical, and y'all should know by now: I like magical.

So, given my current Life flux and imbalance situation, I asked: Hey, uh...could I have a Jewish/Hebrew name? Even though I was raised by descendants of the Calvinists. And she said: Yeah, why not? So she gave me some Internet research homework to do (yay! my favorite thing!).  She told me to look up the story of Haddassah, aka Queen Esther, which means Compassion. That was a good start. But she said to also look at Shifrah and Puah, midwives who defied Pharaoh's orders to kill all newborn Jewish boys. (What IS it with the world and killing Jews? Huh? Seriously, Humanity. STOP it. You look insane.) Instead of just refusing to do it, which would obviously get them killed by Pharaoh, they were very crafty and pretended they wanted to obey orders but couldn't; Jewish women were too hardy and kept giving birth and hiding the babies before they could get there.

In the end, I was most drawn to the story of Puah, aka Miriam, which translates to Splendid. Miriam is known for her power to speak and pacify the cries of children; she's a baby whisperer. When Pharaoh does send guards finally to capture Puah and Shifrah, God turns them into beams that uphold a house. The symbology being these are two incredibly strong women who are fortresses. Rabbi Jonathan Sachs has said they were the first recorded examples of civil disobedience, abolitionists and proponents of social justice of their own time.

 Here's a poem that spoke to my soul (source: Shifrah and Puah, agitators for inner freedom):

Puah

Like freedom fighters

who pray with their feet

I protest for inner-peace

though paraplegic in comparison

to prodigious heels 

of powerful men

my prayerful wheels

spin tales of inner-freedom

and entone hymns of mindful treatment 

of children and kin

I commit to calm the din of crying infants 

with the easy clicking of my teeth

I speak for those who do not yet know how to speak

My freedom fighting is not political

that task is for a hardier class 

of jewish girl

for me - the Egyptian fiend 

is personal 

for the Pharoahs I dethrone 

rule the halls of each of our homes

in the inner-alcoves of a private despair

that petrifies the children 

and paralizes the parents

that inprisons our finest hours 

of family commitment and contentment

I prefer to peddle wares 

of wars-well-avoided

where everyone wins

through carefully worded 

apologies and the timely 

airing of grievances 

between friends

for cowering beneath the pyramids 

of needs – my fiends 

are the menacing insecurities of adolescents

and the lethal bickerings of parents

- the noisome whines of needy toddlers

and the all-too-common-household-hollers 

that oppress our most precious commodities

of family

my enemies crouch quietly beneath

the crumbs on the living room carpet

a beast between the sheets 

of a cold-shouldered bedroom

where partners sleep

unconscious 

and deeply out of tune

with the exquisite call 

of their common dreams

I come to loosen the shackled lips

of fathers and mothers

that they may better utter

their astounded praise

at the miracle of a house full 

of filthy shoes, spilled soup

and their children''s most innocent mistakes

My task is to counter the 

armor-clad offensive

against love and friendship 

- to incite a protest against 

the enslavement of a trillion 

inner prophets of tranquility

whose gentle-tongued souls 

are daily buried beneath 

straw burdens of poor communication

and tossed out with the trashed 

afternoons of a mother''s 

epic impatience 

I come to play the Moses of relational redemption

in the face of a sink-full of grimy resentments

And so I call forth all fellow 

freedom fighters for inner-transformation 

midwives with wise hands

toting Torahs, toting infants, toting pens

all prayer-footed-protesters

come & herald in 

emotional freedom from the pharonic foe

and let us birth our children 

into peaceable homes

for when our houses enshrine tranquility

then outer-world will follow inner-lead

and rock-hard hearts 

will soften grips

and all that's enslaved 

will lithely slip

into the soft of freedom found

and take your shoes off

to walk around

for our houses are the 

hallowed ground

from which God speaks

So call me Puah, 

who quiets the cries

of children, slaves 

and the Pharoahs 

inside.

Isn't that breathtaking? "So call me Puah, who quiets the cries of children, slaves and the Pharaohs inside." I so deeply love that. Don't we all have a little bit of Pharaoh inside of each of us, and don't we all need to find someone, some way, to quiet it. Contain it and be bigger. So...Puah it is. Except I prefer the more English-y version. Puah makes me think "Winnie the Pooh," who was very cute and cuddly and very silly and wise, but I'm going for a bit more than that.

.......okay, fine. No I'm not. I would love to be known as cute and cuddly and silly yet wise. You can call me Pooh if you'd like. It'll be our secret handshake.

She also sent me to listen to (I forget why now, but it doesn't really matter) to "Tikvah," the Israeli national anthem. Tikvah translates to "Hope." And so I went to YouTube and found Israel's national anthem, and fell in love with it. It's a song that's mournful and full of hope, all at once. Kind of like this gal, me.

Miriam Tikvah. Splendid Hope. Based on a woman who defied the authorities and did what was right, not what was expected. Kind of like Dido, back in 1700s England. And look at what can be wrought when we stand up for ourselves, for what is right not just what is. 

For the record, I've always been sort of sad my parents didn't name me Delilah, because wouldn't that have been perfect? Delilah Samson. (I once asked my dad: "Dad, why didn't you guys name me Delilah? It seems like a missed opportunity." And he said, "Because your mother and I weren't cruel people." Hah, that dad! Always thinking ahead.)

My name means Beloved. My middle name is Lynne, which means "waterfall." Beloved Waterfall. I like that, too. I didn't know until just now what "Lynne" translated to--I was truly worried it was going to be something odd like Wood or Grass or, worse, Cranky. (I can be that, quite a lot actually.)

Seriously, I think the Native Americans did it best: just name your kids the qualities you want them to possess, be it from Nature or in Personality. Splendid Hope, Beloved Waterfall, Dances With Wolves, Busy Little Bee (that would be my Miss M), Walks on the Wild Side, whatever. Just make sure they have vowels in their names. And STOP putting punctuation in people's names, it's weird. Don't name them stuff like Q'rDshVZ-Mklv. I'm not kidding. There's somebody walking around out there, right now, with a name just like that and they're never ever going to get a job. They'll be lucky if they get a high school diploma. Stop it, human beings. Pick good names.

Baruch H'ashem (that's all the conversational Hebrew I know).

last week: summarized.

I am late with this. Normally I try to post by Saturday morning. But this Saturday morning, Miss M & I ate pancakes at iHop. (Is that how you spell it? Or is it IHOP all caps? Everything is so Apple-y now, so if it starts with the letter "i" I leave that letter "i" lowercase.) And then there was a playground visit. And laundry folding. And one movie called THE TRUTH ABOUT CHARLIE airing on HBO and starring one of my favorite thespians, beautiful Thandie Newton, so I had to watch the whole thing once it started. (My take away: Thandie Newton was too good for Marky Mark.) And then grocery shopping. And now I'm making spaghetti. And I'm drinking some wine while making that spaghetti. And later, I'm going to have some more wine. And coffee with Bailey's Irish cream because I'm a grown up now and I can do that.

Here is last week, summarized: 

Monday-Wednesday, I treaded water, as I normally do. Mondays are always supremely hard. On Monday mornings, my friend Cindy texts me things like: Amy, it's 7:45 AM. Time to go to work. Get out of your car and come inside, Amy. Now. And then I sigh and say quietly in my car, "I know. I know." And then I go in. (Teaching poor kids is rewarding in that the kids are my everything...everything else is spiraling me into Dark Nights of the Soul.)

On Thursday, I got home to a package waiting for me. I thought it was a left over order I'd put in for Christmas that had just come WAY late. No! It was a beautiful, silver ring inscribed with my all-time favorite Rumi quote: That which you seek is seeking you. It was from Tanya, a Midwest friend I haven't met in person, but we did a group blog together many years ago--we all challenged ourselves to complete a project that scared the beejezus out of us and wrote about the process together on the blog--and she and I are still in touch today, years later. 

So months ago, T threw up a Facebook post asking for people who'd like to participate in a Pay It Forward thing--7 (or more people) would say yes, and at some point in the year, she'd send each of those 7 (or more) people some kind of gift...and then each person was to put up the same Facebook status so that they could do the same for 7 (or more) people who responded to them. So. Cool. (And that T-dawg actually remembered! And it came at a time when I really needed something like that to fall into my life.) (This is when the Internet connects people and is actually a good networking tool, rather than just the hub for porn and psychos and angry people it usually is.)

I took Friday off for a couple of doctors' appointments, and when I was through, I went to the movies. By myself! And I didn't have to see a movie with animated characters, singing animals, or princesses! It was insanely amazing. I had too, too many choices and basically had to do eenie meenie miney moe. It ended up being between CAKE, THE IMITATION GAME, SELMA, or A MOST VIOLENT YEAR. I was interested in seeing CAKE because Jennifer Aniston was desperate for an Oscar and so she got fat (Jennifer, that's so cliche, but I still think you're lovely and a great actress, and overdue for an Oscar--stupid Hollywood, making its actresses get ugly or fat or play a crazy person before they give them an Oscar)...I wanted to see THE IMITATION GAME because I'd heard good things about it and, apparently, every straight female and gay man in America wants to sleep with Benedict Cumberbatch, and they like to call themselves "Cumberbitches," which the feminist in me just winces at...I wanted to see SELMA because it's a biopic about MLK (who's one of my heroes) and the husband of my sweet friend Angie worked crew on it (he got to drive Oprah around)(and also, I think they have scaffolding from some sets sitting in their driveway now)...and I wanted to see A MOST VIOLENT YEAR because Jessica Chastain is in it, and I will always see movies Jessica Chastain is in since I desperately wish she and I could have a coffee date and become BFFs. 

In the end, THE IMITATION GAME won because the timing worked out. My take away: It was so good! Please go see it, particularly if you're a WW 2 buff and/or technogeek. It's all for you. For me, I took away how important it is that we take care of each other; bullying does nothing to further our species. I cried in two places. Benedict has beautiful eyes and is a really, really good actor. Keira Knightley is gorgeous and talented--I wish people would stop being sarcastic about her (Oscars people, I mean YOU). Governments are full of sons of bitches. War is hell. Nazis, ultimately, were pretty stupid. Human beings can do awful things to one another. Alan Turing was robbed.

Now, for the rest of the weekend: 

I have a mountainous stack of papers to grade. I have other paperwork I need to fill out since Parent-Teacher winter conferences are looming. I need to plan for next week's lessons. We're going to a friend's house to celebrate men in helmets jumping on top of each other (I'm going for the Super Bowl commercials, beer and chips/dip--I simply don't understand sports) (though, for some reason, I think I could potentially kick ass at golf). I need to work on my resume some more. I hate grey, rainy days--yesterday was beautifully sunny and I had 95% more energy. Today it got cloudy and grey and my whole outlook depleted. I may need to invest in an anti-winter darkness light. It is not lost on me that I am winter-born and do not like anything about the winter, except for the occasional snow day here and there. And that's only because I'm a Southerner and it's a novelty; if I were up North, I'd have ten million complaints about snow.

I keep meaning to meditate and then keep forgetting to. I have way too much on my schedule and a needy, clingy 6 year old isn't helping things. On Friday, when I had some time to myself, I just sat in the peace and quiet...have you done that? You should do that. It's hard, especially if you have a brain like mine that refuses to shut up. But I found that if I just breathed deeply and really focused, for a good 10 minutes or so there were no worries; only peace. It was nice.

You know what else is nice? Jeff Bridges. Jeff Bridges just made a music album for insomniacs who want to help kids not be hungry. You can download his Sleeping Music, for whatever you'd like to donate--there is no real price on it--and every single bit of money goes to No Kid Hungry. Isn't that nice? Jeff Bridges is another favorite thespian of mine. But he's also such a lovely, artistic soul--he's a musician, and I think he's also a gifted photographer. (I find that most creative people are gifted in more than one craft or like to dabble in more than one. My friend P is a talented writer and musician...my friend Kat is a talented writer and photographer...most creatives are drawn to anything that creates. Which seems to make sense, in the grand scheme of things.)

Next time I write I will probably be doing some more promoting for several of my favorite thespians (including but not limited to Jason Isaacs...hello to him) because March 5 is coming, and March 5 is when DIG (on USA!) starts. I've been slacking off on my DIG free PR I promised to Jason Isaacs last summer on his Instagram account. This looks like an amazingly amazeballs show that will make you question EVERYTHING. If you don't live in the United States, you will be so sad. So sad! Since you won't get to see it until they put out the DVD for it (I hope they will put out a DVD for it, so other countries can see it). I don't necessarily feel bad about this, since I had to wait to see the BBC's Case Histories series 1 and 2. 

But it does underscore my belief that, because stories connect human beings, there should be no borders when good shows come on the air. We have satellites flying around in outer space right now--I'm sure technology exists that would let whoever, wherever, watch any country's television shows. If I can listen to BBC radio live every Friday, then I should be able to watch BBC television shows live whenever. Join the 21st century, television networks. 

Until that happens, we'll just have to share amongst ourselves, I guess. Be storytelling Resistance Fighters and all that. Channel our inner Alan Turings. Pay it forward. Let Jeff Bridges put us to sleep while we help hungry kids eat. Get plenty of UV Vitamin D rays, wherever we can, in the low winter sun moments. Be unimaginably wonderful and stupid, amazingly brilliant and crazy; find ways to channel our inner Resistance Fighters about pretty much everything. Resist everyone and everything that would like to contain us, keep us within safe borders and tell us who to be, where to go. Let's work on that, focus on it, all of February. Want to?

Here's a picture with something I'm pondering for the week and you can too, if you'd like:

supernova history movie stars.

Before you read: I apologize. I am sorry. I tried to find a way to break this into two posts so I wouldn't be jumping around all over the place. But I couldn't find a way to do it, after I wrote it, that wouldn't have involved a major re-write in some places and...I'm just happy to be able to find something to write about and the energy to still do it. So sorry but not sorry. Come jump around in my brain with me--it's fun! 

*******

Y'all, I have the most ridiculous child. You may think yours is ridiculous, but I'm sorry no. Mine is way more ridiculous. She both amuses and confounds me. Do you know that this flippant thing walked right up to me on Monday afternoon and announced she was sick. Then she announced I would need to help make her better by fixing her some hot tea and buttered toast and that when I was finished, I could bring it up to her room ON A TRAY as soon as it was ready. On a tray. With a little dainty napkin for her little dainty mouth and also some grape jam on the side, please, and oh yes: a chocolate biscotti as well.

Whatever. She's little and I had time, so I went ahead and played nurse. She plays foot masseuse with me occasionally, so it's the least I could do I figured. But then I got up to her room with tea/toast/tray, and she had her little Polar Express bell necklace out. As I set the tray down, she let me know that, for the rest of the day, whenever she needed something she'd ring her little bell, and I was to come upstairs to ask what she needed.

Clearly, I am raising Cleopatra. (I have been Googling lots and lots of stories about what happens, in the end, to queens like Cleopatra and Marie Antoinette and the like and we've been having some mommy/daughter history lessons.)

Speaking of royalty, Twitter is abuzz with news from Sundance 2015. You guys! The Sundance Film Festival is on my bucket list, in a BIG way! I am insanely jealous by each and every tweet and twitted picture I am exposed to when something with #sundance or #sundance2015 lands in my twitter feed. Or, you know, I torture myself by actively searching for Twitter news of what's happening right now in Park City, Utah. I wish you could be inside of me so you could feel how bitter I am that I am here and not there. There are a butt load of people, right now, drinking wine over steaks and salads and talking about some fabulous film they just saw. They are sitting in front of large bay windows of restaurants and coffee shops, panoramic snow capped mountains as scenery, arguing plot points and debating endings while snowboarders and skiiers hop onto ski lifts in the background.

I'm sure they're also working very, very hard out there in Sundance Land. It must be exhausting to visit swag parties (party after party!) with people handing you expensive things (free of charge!). And then? To have to go watch a lot of movies (movie after movie!) on top of that? I seriously don't know how they manage. And then after all the interviews, they maybe do some skiing. Or sit in a hot tub surrounded by snowy icicles. Eat a steak. Have fans send complimentary drinks to your table. Hard stuff like that. The life of a movie star is very, very strenuous, I can tell.

Here's what I did today, just to compare/contrast: I taught Calendar Math. I made 6 people move their behavior clips down; one landed on Purple (the SUPER DUPER BAD color...I gave him a choice: lose indoor recess or I call your mom--he chose wisely and went for recess). I gave a Reading Comprehension quiz and a Word Study quiz. I had to say "NO" exactly 10,000 times. I taught a 40 minute lesson on stars and constellations. I had to do indoor (aka LOUD) recess because it was disgusting and rainy outside. I had to deal with two boys hitting each other in the boys' bathroom--both had confusing stories about who did what when where why. I deflected 25 tattle tales. I made one child cry because she had 2 yellow owls on her weekly conduct card and didn't get to go to the treasure box. I had to help dress a boy who dresses himself every morning...in the dark, obviously--his shirt was buttoned all crazy and it was inside out. He also had his shoes on the wrong feet, but they were two different shoes so there was nothing I could do to help him there. I had to have a long conversation with someone about telling the truth, no matter what. I had to have a long conversation with someone else about how it's okay not to know but NOT okay not to try. I had to have a long conversation with everybody about how reading every day is important or they'll never increase their reading level data. I had to re-direct constantly, and nobody (nobody!) felt like walking through the halls with a bubble in their mouth today.

The highlight of my WHOLE day? Showing them THIS VIDEO and having 3 out of 25 kids say (out loud), "Wow! That was AMAZING! So, that means that inside, we're...STARS!")

Yes you are, my darlings. Inside, you are all stars. But your teacher still wishes she were watching movies with the bigger, brighter ones instead of hanging out here with you.

....Did you know the bigger a star is, the older it is? Did you know that VY Canis Majoris, a red hyper giant star, is 1,800 times bigger than our sun? Did you know that one day, our closest star the sun will get bigger...and bigger...and bigger...and explode us all to smithereens? But don't worry--it'll be 2 million generations from now that have to deal with that. If we don't melt their polar ice caps first. 

The thing I like about the solar system is the fact that we are all connected by the sun and the moon--we all see the same sun, we all see the same moon. That's the same sun and moon the dinosaurs saw, that Father Abraham and Ghandi and Buddha and Jesus and my great-great-great-great-great-grandma and your great-great-great-great-great-grandma and George Washington and Napoleon and Ghengis Khan and John Lennon and Susan B. Anthony and Queen Victoria and Shakespeare and Joan of Arc and Sappho and Eleanor Roosevelt and Emily Dickinson and Charles Darwin and Socrates and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton and their great-great-great-great grandmas all saw. When we look up in the sky, we are connected through the Universe. And when we look at stars, we are literally looking back in time. Starlight goes on through space and time, long after its life has ended. I can't think of anything more magical and amazing and connecting than Outer Space...and its stories.

Speaking of looking back in time: I watched one movie this week during a frustrating Insomnia Fest. It was called FIELD OF LOST SHOES. One of my favorite actors (hello, Jason Isaacs) was in it, but this is not why I watched it. Okay, fine. I knew about the movie because he's in it so Jason Isaacs was slightly why I watched it--I did have other movie options available to me. But ultimately I watched it for my dad. Like all war-themed movies I end up seeing: I watch them for my dad, because he no longer can. (I'm more into movies like LOVE ACTUALLY and FORREST GUMP...I'm the kumbayah commie pinko hippie wannabe peacenik, remember?)

When I watch war-themed movies, I also watch them from a soldier's daughter's perspective. I'm writing about FIELD OF LOST SHOES because this is a movie my dad would have loved. My father would have talked about this movie for days after. And then he would have talked about his time at Pennsylvania Military College (now Widener University) back in the day and how it related to the Virginia Military Institute in this movie. Not only did FIELD OF LOST SHOES involve guns and soldiers and war and military college kids, it was History (capital H). And my dad was all about History--he lived and breathed it. I mean, he died after falling asleep to the History Channel. 

What I'm saying is: I found myself at several points during this movie longing for my father. The opening scenes reminded me of photographs my family has of my father's PMC military rehearsals. (Which led me out of curiosity to do a YouTube search and--omg, you guys! Look what I FOUND! ...I don't think my dad is in it, though he'd have been at PMC then, because this is mostly of the band which he wasn't part of. But more nostalgia--my dad would have eaten up YouTube, too.) It brought back memories of my dad taking my little brother and me to visit his alma mater, and that, even at 13 years old, I could tell he was struggling to contain the emotional connection he still felt to a place he'd loved dearly. 

The exposition of the story, when the main characters are introduced, reminded me of stories my dad told of upper class men being fairly torturous toward their incoming, green freshmen. (One story: all the upper class men locked all the freshmen into their dorm rooms one afternoon; my father's roommate desperately had to go to the bathroom and they wouldn't let him out. But he had to go Number Two! This would have been horrific--he had to do it in his pants or their floor or both. Their room was on the ground floor, so my dad helped his friend stick his ass out the window and find relief in the bushes below. An upper class man happened to be walking by just as they were doing that, and they both had to, like, clean toilets with their toothbrushes for a week or something.) (The military does this to its incoming, and they do it on purpose--it bonds them, and teaches them not to be a hero...you're going to need to look out for each other later on, when you're trying to kill the real enemy.) 

This story was why, quite frankly, I was surprised the upper class men in FIELD OF LOST SHOES didn't go through with a threat they made to little, innocent Sir Rat. At PMC, I'm fairly sure they would've. Maybe they had to cut that scene due to test audiences' reactions. At PMC, they'd have shrugged and said, "Get over it, you fucking weak-kneed vermin! GET UP OFF THAT $%!@#*&#!!&^%#  FLOOR RIGHT NOW AND RUN YOUR $%!TH))# @%%#$ OFF BEFORE I KICK THE *&^$%^!)(*!&^#!!$$%#*@#!*&^$!  OUT OF YOU!!!! WHAT ARE YOU STANDING THERE LOOKING AT ME FOR GODDAMMIT?!?! I SAID: RUUUUUNNNN!!!!! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUN! RUUUUUNNNNNN YOU $^%@#%!&!*&!!!!!!!") 

Soldiers: they live hard, they die hard, they watch each others' backs. And they cuss a lot.

(True confession: when I originally wrote and published this blog entry, I had the original soldier-y swears in that ALL CAPS dialogue up there. But then I started feeling the disapproving ghost of my father watching me, shaking his head at me and saying something about being ladylike and ladies don't blah blah blah ladylike. So when I woke up this morning, I couldn't stop being nervous about that, and I edited it all out with cryptic symbology. One day I will stop seeking my father's approval; today will  not be that day. Sorry if you missed it; I was astounded, impressed, and amazed at how much filth I am able to access. It was really kind of breathtakingly lovely and disgusting, all at once. Let's meet for drinks and I'll recreate it for you in person. We can horrify the old ladies dining near us.)

At any rate, back on track:  This movie gets a high five from me. You will like it, I promise. However, as a (commie pinko, left-leaning liberal) Southerner, I'll be honest and say I had a bit of a problem with how they dealt with the slavery thing, and I usually do whenever I watch movies like this--this is not a negative commentary, is what I'm saying, because it wasn't a surprise. I think a lot of storytellers don't know how to deal with some of the touchier stuff, especially issues that society is still healing from. Which seems very human--we all instinctively want to gloss over embarrassing things our ancestors did, note that we're horrified by it, and then try to sort of desperately find some sort of nugget of human kindness to latch onto, to prove to ourselves there were good people even on the bad guys side. The fact of the matter is, it's still sort of being done. Isn't it? It is. You can see it, because we are very, very uncomfortable about talking about it and worried about putting it in our art if our ancestors were the antagonists. (Fighting really REALLY hard here not to tangent off into a rant about SELMA and the Oscars with an anecdotal side story about how I cried when Halle Berry won an Oscar.) 

Lots of people, especially in America, continue to deal with racism's after shocks to this day. Seriously--go talk to a black or a brown or any other color that's not white person; go have a chat with someone who's not Christian in America...bet they've got at least 100 personal stories of prejudiced or bigoted things someone's done or said to them and/or someone they love. This continues to be a problem, and we continue to pussyfoot around it, and if you don't think so it's probably because you're a WhiteAngloSaxonProtestant. And don't argue with me until you've had a heart to heart with someone who's not a WASP. And if you're arguing with me and you're NOT white, well goodness gracious...bless your heart. And if you're all mad at me because you're convinced there's a war on Christ, you have just GOT to stop watching FOX News. I'm not kidding. It's totally messing up your synaptic neurons, giving you a slow lobotomy of sorts. 

I've completely off-tracked me. Where was I? Right--FIELD OF LOST SHOES. I wish they'd have just dealt with it or not dealt with it at all. There really didn't seem to be a reason to add in scenes to prove the lead characters were just fighting because their daddies said to, that they abhorred slavery which they probably didn't really...so some white people feel better about pieces of their history. They did what they did then because they didn't know better. But now we know better, so we should try to do better. Embrace thyself and thy history, Humanity. Tell the story like it really would have happened so no one wants to live it again. 

The truth of the story was: once upon a time, America enslaved black people. There was a war over it. A general named Sherman was ruthless. This is a story about a group of boys who lived back then, and were products of their times. One of them was Jewish, ain't that some shit. People are complicated. Life is hard. We're going to tell you a story about a heartbreaking moment in our history when the shit hit the fan. We aren't here to fix what and why this happened, we aren't making ROOTS here. We're telling a small moment story about some babies being sent to fight grown ups. This is a story about friendship and honor and what happens in war sometimes. People should be allowed to truthfully tell their stories.

I think it would have been okay for these storytellers to basically say that. In the prologue and/or in interviews. (It's possible they did and I am unaware. But as someone just looking for a movie to watch at midnight one night, that's what I wondered about at the end.) I mean, I'm pretty ticked off still about women in Civil War times being held down, confined to narrow roles, and nothing was done to address that situation in this movie. Just let be what it was--this is how things just were back then. And in some houses to this day.

But I'm also a Southerner and get the nuance--this was filmed and premiered in the South, and believe me when I say we have a sordid history that continued well after slavery ended and people are very, very sensitive about to this day. Nobody wants to be professionally skewered in the press here. On the flip side: down here in the South? There are still people fighting this war in their hearts--and they are STILL holding grudges against Sherman and I'm not kidding or making that up. Sherman is still cursed here in some places--I think this movie did a good job expressing why through his character's brief onscreen bits. This was a nasty war, and it left scars, scars that we are still tending to in the 21st century. There was a LOT for the filmmakers to grapple with, psychologically, artistically, professionally, historically. So, not judging, just wish they hadn't done as much revising to the story's contents. Yet as a Southerner, I get them. We are a weird country.

The rest was fine and lovely and what mainly gripped me as I watched, what I kept thinking, once the plot really got under way was: these boys were just babies...they were only babies. And I think there are a lot of common threads we can identify with today: children are being scarred right now by grown ups who are killing each other and sometimes using them as shields and bargaining tools in the process; there are grown ups, right now, shoving AK-47s into the hands of babies and turning them into lethal killers.

Only a few of the boys sent into fight that day came out of the battle alive, and these scenes wrought tears from me. No child should ever die because adults can't manage their shit. The boys this movie is about were very, very brave. Far braver than the men in charge who were afraid of losing--men who feared losing enough to send in babies to fight their war, men who feared losing enough to pull their triggers and fire their cannons at children and young men barely out of childhood. This was a movie with a lot of complicated moral issues underlying it. (And I like those. I don't know if you can tell or not.)

I downloaded it on cable; I'm not sure if it's in theaters still. If you have time, and you like to watch war-themed movies (for yourself or for your dad because he can't now), you should watch this. It's an independent film, and those have notoriously low budgets, so going in knowing that I was so impressed with what they were able to do with what they had. And the people they had in the cast--wow. This was clearly a labor of love.

If you have a 6 year old, you'll have to watch it after 9 PM. If you do watch and disagree with anything I've written here, please let me know--we can meet for coffee or wine and argue about it. If you do watch and agree with lots of what I've written, still let me know--we can meet for coffee and wine and we can high five each other on how very brilliant and so much smarter than everyone else we are.

One day, I hope to be doing just that in Park City, Utah, with someone fabulous, after a Sundance premiere. Or just myself. Whatever. I'm fine either way as long as I have access to a hot tub and there are snow capped mountains behind me.

Well-done movie trailers are almost more thrilling than the actual film! (You will like this movie, I promise.)

And hey, you know what else? YOU'RE a star!