I like movies that make you feel good. So sue me. I've seen both of these movies (below) within the last few weeks, and I would highly recommend them. Not only do they make you feel good, but they have great messages of acceptance, love, life, personal growth and understanding. They also have killer soundtracks, wonderful casts and are interesting takes on the standard "summer" movie. Neither of these are blockbusters, which is probably why I love them.
Of the two here, this is my particular favorite for a number of reasons. The sound rack is to die for, including a song by Wolfmother that I have a special fondness for. The story is really sweet, and I think everyone can relate to an unrequited love story on some level. It's funny without being corny, and indie without being emo. All around wonderful film.
The Answer Man
Managed to catch this by accident on a movie channel we get (one of our 700 channels...) and it was really great. Lauren Graham is quirky, as always -- she's pretty much Loralai Gilmore but as a chiropractor, and Jeff Daniels is equally sweet, weird and fabulous as the famous writer, Arlen Faber. It was an entertaining film, both my mom and I got sucked into it.
Usually I'm not a film critic, but I felt like I needed to share these -- they're just so enjoyable and in times like these, who doesn't want to sit and just be entertained for an hour.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
connectivity.
I'm becoming more and more convinced as I get older that everything is connected, that there will be things in your life that never seem to leave or disappear all the way.
My mom and our family friend Karen and I went to the 50th Anniversary Barbie convention the weekend before last. Yeah, I know ... but my aunt makes reproduction historically accurate gowns for the dolls (her work is some of the best there, if you ask me) and the convention was in D.C., so we went. It was an experience, to say the least, but the best part was the memories it evoked. More than once Karen or my mom would burst with joy at the sight of a doll they'd forgotten they had, or would begin to tell a story about a pair of shoes, a wig set or cutting Barbie's hair.
I was astonished by how few of my Barbies they had. In fact, they didn't have any of the ones I had -- perhaps they're not old enough yet. My Aladdin and Jasmin dolls, my skater Midge and Barbie, my Kelly dolls -- they're just not "vintage" enough yet. As I walked through the tables, I wanted some sort of a jolt of recognition, something from my childhood that I'd forgotten, something that I'd loved and then given up along with the American Girl dolls, Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies. But it didn't come, at least not until the very end.
And then, on a table, there it was, my Barbie poodle. Yes. I had a poodle. He was white (I'm assuming it's a "he" even though there were no anatomical indicators) with legs that bent at the shoulder and hip joints. Matted white "fur" with floppy white ears and white, hard plastic feet and face. He was my dog! I had him! And I had completely forgotten about him. He's sitting in an enormous plastic container in my parents' basement. I'd loved him.
Moments like that one are so bizarre, and they remind us of how strange memory is. How we can be such good friends with someone and then five years later we can still remember the name of their cat, but their name escapes us. We can find our way to their house, or remember their phone number, but their birthday is gone. We can be so invested and yet something happens and the dustbuster in our brains turns on and starts to make space, eliminating somethings and keeping the others, forging hair-thin links between that stuff and other stuff so we can someday access that bit of information in our seemingly infinite rolodex.
I'm thinking about all of this because I've realized that these links don't actually matter unless we pay attention to them. Like anything else, if you ignore it, it might as well just not be there. As I was updating some contact information today for one of IPM's donors, I had a moment's flash of recognition with the organization she works for: The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.
It was one of those moments that's similar to trying to remember the movie a favorite quote comes from. Or the lyric to a song where you can only remember the tune -- why did I know this organization!? I've been working with organizations with names like that since I started at IPM. I've even seen that name before, so why was it sparking something now? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But then I realized it -- I know them because of the Corcoran. I worked with them last summer.
The Global Fund partnered with Magnum Photography last summer to produce an exhibition called "Access to Life" that would originate at the Corcoran. I wrote the press release for the show. I stuffed hundreds of press folders for the show. I met people from the Global Fund at the show. Light bulb!
So, I don't really know what it all means or if there really is any significance that it's all connected. But I find it really bizarre how one thing has taken me to the next. How everything seems to be related, whether or not it really is, I guess that remains to be seen. But still, it's these little flashes or recognition, these moments of connectivity, that really surprise and startle me into questioning how many of these moments we miss.
My mom and our family friend Karen and I went to the 50th Anniversary Barbie convention the weekend before last. Yeah, I know ... but my aunt makes reproduction historically accurate gowns for the dolls (her work is some of the best there, if you ask me) and the convention was in D.C., so we went. It was an experience, to say the least, but the best part was the memories it evoked. More than once Karen or my mom would burst with joy at the sight of a doll they'd forgotten they had, or would begin to tell a story about a pair of shoes, a wig set or cutting Barbie's hair.
I was astonished by how few of my Barbies they had. In fact, they didn't have any of the ones I had -- perhaps they're not old enough yet. My Aladdin and Jasmin dolls, my skater Midge and Barbie, my Kelly dolls -- they're just not "vintage" enough yet. As I walked through the tables, I wanted some sort of a jolt of recognition, something from my childhood that I'd forgotten, something that I'd loved and then given up along with the American Girl dolls, Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies. But it didn't come, at least not until the very end.
And then, on a table, there it was, my Barbie poodle. Yes. I had a poodle. He was white (I'm assuming it's a "he" even though there were no anatomical indicators) with legs that bent at the shoulder and hip joints. Matted white "fur" with floppy white ears and white, hard plastic feet and face. He was my dog! I had him! And I had completely forgotten about him. He's sitting in an enormous plastic container in my parents' basement. I'd loved him.
Moments like that one are so bizarre, and they remind us of how strange memory is. How we can be such good friends with someone and then five years later we can still remember the name of their cat, but their name escapes us. We can find our way to their house, or remember their phone number, but their birthday is gone. We can be so invested and yet something happens and the dustbuster in our brains turns on and starts to make space, eliminating somethings and keeping the others, forging hair-thin links between that stuff and other stuff so we can someday access that bit of information in our seemingly infinite rolodex.
I'm thinking about all of this because I've realized that these links don't actually matter unless we pay attention to them. Like anything else, if you ignore it, it might as well just not be there. As I was updating some contact information today for one of IPM's donors, I had a moment's flash of recognition with the organization she works for: The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.
It was one of those moments that's similar to trying to remember the movie a favorite quote comes from. Or the lyric to a song where you can only remember the tune -- why did I know this organization!? I've been working with organizations with names like that since I started at IPM. I've even seen that name before, so why was it sparking something now? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But then I realized it -- I know them because of the Corcoran. I worked with them last summer.
The Global Fund partnered with Magnum Photography last summer to produce an exhibition called "Access to Life" that would originate at the Corcoran. I wrote the press release for the show. I stuffed hundreds of press folders for the show. I met people from the Global Fund at the show. Light bulb!
So, I don't really know what it all means or if there really is any significance that it's all connected. But I find it really bizarre how one thing has taken me to the next. How everything seems to be related, whether or not it really is, I guess that remains to be seen. But still, it's these little flashes or recognition, these moments of connectivity, that really surprise and startle me into questioning how many of these moments we miss.
Friday, July 17, 2009
we get up
When I was in London, the girls I lived with and I began taking what we called "bridge jumping photos." The premise was fairly simple, any time we would cross a bridge, we would take a photo of the group jumping. Everyone's body had to be airborne and we had to yell "1, 2, 3, jump!" because let's be honest, it's pretty funny (in a morbid sort of way) to hear a group of girls yelling "jump" while on a bridge.
The album that resulted from this little activity spans nearly a dozen different countries. Each of us had vowed to take a jumping picture any time we crossed a new bridge.
Until I stumbled randomly upon a blog, "Jump. Because.", I hadn't thought about these photos in a very long time. Run by a few people in Richmond, Va., the blog asks for submissions of jumping photos and then asks the photo's creator to finish the sentence, "I jump because ..."
As I scrolled through, I became more and more nostalgic for the jumping I've recorded over the years with my friends, and I wanted to share a few with you. We're going to share a few with that blog, but I figured I'd include a bunch here also.
Why do I jump? There are so many reasons that I can't even begin to explain, but the biggest: I jump because I can.
(I'll add more as I find them...)
Olivia and I in Prague, CZ
The album that resulted from this little activity spans nearly a dozen different countries. Each of us had vowed to take a jumping picture any time we crossed a new bridge.
Until I stumbled randomly upon a blog, "Jump. Because.", I hadn't thought about these photos in a very long time. Run by a few people in Richmond, Va., the blog asks for submissions of jumping photos and then asks the photo's creator to finish the sentence, "I jump because ..."
As I scrolled through, I became more and more nostalgic for the jumping I've recorded over the years with my friends, and I wanted to share a few with you. We're going to share a few with that blog, but I figured I'd include a bunch here also.
Why do I jump? There are so many reasons that I can't even begin to explain, but the biggest: I jump because I can.
(I'll add more as I find them...)
Olivia and I in Prague, CZ
Olivia and I on Millenium Bridge, London, UK
Mandy and I on a bridge near the Vatican, Italy
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
cubed in silence
Since starting my job about a week ago, I've learned, among many important lessons, how to sit in silence for extended periods of time. This is an impressive feat for me -- I like to talk. A lot.
Let me clarify, I have absolutely no problems with periods of quiet. Like the silence you get when you're on a car ride and everyone's listening to the radio or watching the cars and scenery fly by. I like the quiet you get when you eat with someone and you're so hungry, three words of any sort just get in the way of the fork. I like being so comfortable with someone you can sit in silence next to each other and read a book. That silence isn't really silence to me. It's active quiet -- usually there's some sort of background noise, or some sort of shared appreciation of the void. You aren't partitioned by the silence.
This is the reason why I can't study in libraries, why I write best in cacophanous newsrooms, and why unless there's someone who absolutely needs quiet, quiet it shouldn't be. I actually think better when I have to tune things out. When it's already tuned out, when I'm surrounded by silence, that's when my mind starts to wander, my thoughts start to drift and ten minutes later I realize that I've lost track completely.
I'm currently working the most silent office I've ever been in. The floor is carpeted, the space too large and too spread out, and everyone is cubed.
I've been cubed in silence.
I'm learning to make do. I'm learning ways to be productive like everyone else while surrounded by two walls and no sound. I can't even hear the click of somone else's keyboard.
Then something strange happened yesterday, I looked to the bottom right corner of my screen and realized three hours had gone by. I was so busy, so focused despite the silence, that time had flown and the day was progressing.
Perhaps I was just focusing on the wrong thing?
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