Artsy Movie

While I have always been an huge lover of movies, I find myself lately choosing and watching them with a different attitude than I used to have.  Instead of choosing a movie based on preconceived notions of what I was expecting to see or happen in it (like choosing a movie because I know it has action or naked women in it), I find myself choosing or watching them with more of an open mind, examining them.  I find myself looking at them from an art perspective.  I think I'm analyzing them on the fly, and noting nuances that I find appealing.  I end up falling in love with a particular scene, perfect music choice, creative camera angle, unusual story line, or any number of things that may stand out while I'm watching it. I also am becoming more emotional during movies.

Recently, I watched Bagdad Cafe.  I have seen it once before but only recently acquired it for myself.  The movie was put together with a high degree of art-inspired cinematography.  It is full of great camera angles, and lots of scenes that were shot purposefully over-saturated for a particular feeling.  What tied the whole movie together for me was the song that played throughout the movie: I'm Calling You, by Jevetta Steele.  The feel of the song was perfect for the movie.  You can picture the dusty motel/cafe out in the middle of the desert while you're listening to the song.  It just oozes loneliness.

Throughout the movie there is a boy that is constantly playing Bach on a piano.  He plays it in a particularly dry, monotonous manner--like someone that is practicing their scales over and over.  In one scene, Jasmin, the main character enters the diner, and the boy stops playing--remembering his mother always telling him to stop playing when a guest comes into the diner.  The woman tells him to please keep playing.  The boy smiles slowly and begins playing, and she sits nearby him with her eyes closed.  The transformation of the music in that scene is almost spiritual.  It completely changes into something that is melodic and beautiful, and makes another truly great scene.

This is a movie that people will either love or hate.  It has enough oddball stuff in it that it will have the superficial, action movie lovers wondering,  "What the hell kind of movie is this?"  I can't say I love every scene in the movie either.  What I can say is I love the movie overall. 

Divorced Again

My recent lifestyle change has been a pleasant one. Even though I have been on my own several times in the past, I had forgotten how much I enjoy the quiet times and predictability of being alone. I knew I missed it, but I didn't know how much. Where most people tend to be bored out of their skull, I find myself being very relaxed, thoughtful, and enjoying the time to reflect. I also find myself sleeping better. My new home is clothing optional, and thanks to the stellar weather we've had this summer since I've moved, it has been very optional--as in hardly ever. I find myself almost in a hurry to get home these days. While I have always been in a little bit of a hurry to get home, it was just so I could take my shoes off and have a beer. Now, it's different. I am hurrying home to my place. I can unwind. I can think.

Maybe it's partly because Edgewood, my new home, is almost a sort of rural oasis. It's surrounded on all sides by the hustle and bustle of traffic gridlock and human over-activity only a few miles away, but here it is very relaxed and quiet. There are large fields of grass, barns, pastures, and all sorts wide open spaces.  There are very few apartment buildings here. I wake to the sounds of chickens, which I find strangely refreshing. Back behind my place there appears to be a menagerie of Alpacas, geese, and chickens. The geese occasionally emit their 'squonk' but other than that all I ever hear are the chickens. I love being able to slide a morning window open and hear chickens clucking or the occasional rooster crow, and none of them are close enough to bother me. Oddly enough, there seem to be no outdoor dogs anywhere around. Maybe people don't feel the need to have canine security devices here like they do in other places.

Things are peaceful.  Things are predictable.

Smiling to Myself

I have had so many moments of contemplation since I have been back on my own that I can't even recall the number. You know the moments: times when the temperature is just right, the breeze is just right, the sounds are just right, a feeling is just right, or any other perfect moment presents itself and is noticed. At first I thought maybe that was it--I was just noticing them. After all, with only me here my new house is quiet. In addition to the quiet in the house, there is quiet outside the house. I would find myself noticing it and drinking it all in. I would smile to myself.

Standing naked at the open, chest-high bedroom window moments before getting into bed, I would lean on the windowsill, looking out at the sky. I'd find myself inhaling deeply as I stood, letting my eyes close slightly as I tasted the summer evening air with my hungry nostrils. When I opened my eyes, the the clouds--lit by the waning sun--seem to invite me to watch. "Don't close your window yet!" they seem to say. I watched them, marveling at the various shades of pale pink, peach yellow, and purple-blue as if it were my private show. At that moment it was if time was frozen. I would smile to myself, wanting the moment to go on forever. When I would finally relent, telling myself I have to go to bed, I didn't want to close the window or the blinds right away. I would lay on top of my bed, eyes closed, listening, smelling, and reliving the almost spiritual experience I had at the window moments before. I would fall asleep almost instantly, and yes--I would be smiling to myself. Sure, I would awaken a little later and close the window and blinds, but that didn't matter. I had my moment of appreciation.

Lying out in the back yard in the glaring hot sun, I would be in the same state. Taking deep, slow breaths it was if I was breathing for the first time, and I was reveling in the feeling of the sun baking my skin, my vision blood-red from the sun glaring on my closed eyelids. The sounds of chickens a short distance away, clucking as they searched for food was punctuated with an occasional rooster crow or squawk from a goose. The sound of a plane would catch my attention and I'd listen to it, mentally tracking with my eyes closed as it went across the sky. Suddenly, a breeze would come up, cooling me with a welcome relief and making the trees come alive with a whoosh of fluttering leaves. I smiled to myself.  I think if anyone were to see me at that moment they would see the smile slowly spread across my face as if I had just recalled a pleasant memory.

Recently, the rains came. After two months of nary a sprinkle, thunderstorms arrived. For those of you that don't live here, we are seldom blessed with thunder and lightning. The shelter of a mountain range on two sides of us usually prevents us from any of nature's light shows. When the skies darkened with thick clouds and the slow rumble spread across the land that afternoon, I smiled to myself. As I sat in my living room that day, I heard a soft ping. Then another. And another. Then it occurred to me I was hearing the slow build of a summer rain, and the pinging sound was the heavy drops as they hit the metal chimney top--the sound coming down through the fireplace. I stopped what I was doing and listened to the music.  The pinging from the chimney, the soft patter of the building rain hitting the canvas gazebo roof on the patio, punctuated with the occasional bass rumble of thunder. And yet--it was still warm enough to have all the windows open. It was perfect.  I smiled to myself. When I went to bed that night it was raining heavily, and I stood at the window as I always do--breathing deep, listening, and feeling the cool breezes that came with the rain. When I lay down on top of my bed and closed my eyes, the sounds that came with the rain were pleasant to fall asleep to. There was no abundance of roof noise, downspout noise, or any other noise associated with the rain. It was music.

I smiled to myself.

Chronicling Life

I wonder how many other people "go all philosophical" as they get older. How many people become aware of the things they did or didn't do during the course of their lives?  How many people remember things they are sorry they got mixed up in or sorry they missed out on? I would guess that it doesn't happen to as many as it should. If so, it's probably fleeting. They may be better for absence of it--who knows?

Not everyone has the level of introspection that I have, which is good. If everyone was over-thinking shit all the time nothing would ever get done. I like to think that my level of thought (call it analyzing, worrying, pondering, or whatever) is good for my life. I like to think that the fact that I do mull things over creates a more positive place for me and those around me. How? By the fact that I'm always carefully considering things before doing them or saying them. Ramifications, perceived reactions, fairness, honesty--all sorts of things go through my mind when I'm making choices. I try to think before I act. It drives me crazy sometimes. I know it drives other people crazy as well. My level of impulsiveness is sometimes so low I wonder if it can be measured. Cursed with thought? Hobbled by an overactive mind?

I have had many, many regrets in my life, and one of them is that I never kept a journal of any kind when I was younger. I would dearly love to be able to read what was going through my mind at various points in my life. Imagine being able to go to the "table of contents" of your life, select a time period, and zip right to it. It could be something as mundane as what I ate for lunch or what kind of weather we had that day, but it could have also given me some insight as to how I responded mentally or physically to something that happened to me during a particular day. Fell down and skinned my knee riding a bicycle? Angry at having to write "I will not..." a thousand times because someone did something to punish the whole class? Sick and home from school? Scared and alone in a strange place? All of these things I remember tidbits of, but it would be so interesting to be able to get a feel for how they affected me at that time. Hell, maybe it would scare the hell out of me to be suddenly looking though my eyes during a traumatic moment.  I didn't know I would like to write about things as I got older and more thoughtful. Had I known or aspired to it, I would have kept journals. I would have taken more writing and English classes. I would have focused my energies instead of just squandering life and living like a selfish, part-time hedonist.

Or would I?

Creative Arts Trifecta

As one of the early computer users, I have been surfing the internet since it's very beginning.  I have watched its evolution.  I have watched it blossom and grow, and have watched it morph over and over--as if each time it was trying to find a foothold or a reason for its existence.  It has grown from a simple place where businesses would pay some tech-savvy person to put up websites that were little more than a picture or two and contact information.  Personal sites were mainly available to only the nerds of the time, and represented things like clubs, associations, and hobbyists.  The internet--in its infancy--was made up of very few fonts or colors.  It was very boring.  We were limited by the web browser software, the internet connection speeds, and the computer hardware itself.  But we didn't know we were hobbled because at that time it was brand new in every way.

When the Google era came into existence, it was an "awakening" of sorts.  Suddenly, there were free platforms at our disposal--things that the common man could use freely without much difficulty. Some people (such as myself) placed themselves out there for the world to see in the form of blogs.  Many of us were probably not really sure why we did it.  I know I really didn't.  I guess we did it because we could.  We were looking for something. We didn't know what.  It was a new, exciting place and people were the new explorers.

The internet has become a potentially dangerous place.  In the blink of an eye the unwary traveler can find him or herself in a dark alley filled with badness that can steal your identity, infect your computer, or bombard you with undesirable email.  The wonder of the internet is gone.  Seldom am I ever surprised or pleased by what I find on the internet.  It has become a ubiquitous resource and a tool.  It has become a place where too much information is shared, and and a place where we know too much about each other.  In the beginning of the internet there was no interaction.  Now there is too much interaction.  It has lost its original luster.  We have become shallow people living for the moment.  We have lost our depth.  We have lost our culture.

Or so I thought.  It's refreshing to find that in the right hands, the internet can also a wonderful place.

As I've aged I've become more of a lover of the arts.  Whether it's traditional art like painting, drawing, or sculpting, or something like movies, books, music, or anything else that falls into the creative arts, I love them all.  Recent history has led me down multiple paths that all converged in one place:

The Creative Arts Trifecta.

Like any Trifecta, it's made up of three parts.  In my case, it's music, literature, and visual arts.

Music:  Radio Paradise.  Since I first discovered this online radio station several years ago, it has always been near and dear to me.  It is playing almost constantly when I'm home.  It gets substantially more play time than my TV does.  What makes them so good?  The same thing that makes all the winners of my Trifecta shine: they go above and beyond just being "good enough."  They don't just slap music onto an online play list and let it run, they take pains to put songs together that flow nearly seamlessly from one to another.  Sometimes it's the sound, tempo, or instrument and that provide the link between the songs, and other times it may be the song meaning or the vocal style.  It's not possible to please everyone 100% of the time when it comes to music, but when they hit their groove on a relaxing evening there's nothing finer than that moment.  What's more, they do it all with no commercials.  It's not unusual to hear something unique, something new, or something rare when you're listening.

Literature:  Brain Pickings.  This is a relatively new find to me.  I'm constantly amazed at the things that are carefully researched and posted by Maria Popova, the person behind this great site.  Her love for books becomes apparent when you read what she has assembled every week.  It's comprised of book content, illustrations (she loves the artwork as much as I do!), and stories about the authors themselves.  I have been inspired to find many of the books she has featured on there and have not been disappointed.  My favorites have been books about writing, written by the writers themselves.  Very interesting stuff.  I recommend you sign up for her newsletter.  If you do you'll get a very interesting compilation that she personally created, delivered to your email inbox every Sunday morning at 8am.  Well, it's 8am Pacific anyway...  While it's a free site, I can easily see myself becoming a subscriber very soon.  As I said, her love for books shines in her work.

Visual Arts:  Colossal.  This is the newest find of my Trifecta.  It never ceases to amaze me.  It might be the work of a unique artist, amazing photography, street art, unusual products, or anything visually pleasing or striking in some way.  All of the things on the site are presented in great detail--at the very least with great pictures, but many times with moving GIF files or movies (don't miss the movies!) as well.  When you spend some time on this site it shows you just how creative humans can be.  The talents and the ideas that come from people is sometimes nothing short of amazing.

Turn off your Facebook, turn on Radio Paradise, close your eyes, and get lost.  Think about things.  When you feel like opening your eyes, visit Colossal.  When your mind has been juiced with inspiring art, slow it down with a visit to Brain Pickings and get lost all over again.

You won't be sorry.

My Mind's Room

I wish I could see through to the darkness in the distant corners of my mind. Truth is, I'd be happy just to be able to make out the walls.

When I sit and stare out the window as I often do, my mind starts wandering. I find myself formulating analogies, making comparisons, coming up with descriptions, and all kinds other ways of explaining my shortcomings and idiosyncrasies. I am my own psychologist. One of things I have come to grips with is the fact that I have a bad memory. I would so dearly love to write about my entire childhood and be able to recollect every nit-picking detail about it, but can anybody really? Sometimes I'm under the impression that people can because I read things that they have written that can only be explained by an above-average memory. Well, either that or they are just good a spinnin' a yarn. What if--even though it appears to be a complete memory to me (the reader)--the person that wrote it is feeling the same sense of incompleteness and frustration that I feel? As the reader I would never know that would I? After all, how can you feel badly about missing out on a particular item at a yard sale if you never knew that item was there in the first place?

It frustrates me because I feel the desire to get my words down about a memory, but I just can't remember quite enough detail. I can't quite recollect enough about the particular slice of my life that's on my mind to be able to tell how much of it's fact and how much is fiction. I just can't remember it. Why wasn't I paying more attention? Why didn't I take notes?  Why didn't I keep a journal?  I know why:  Neither of my parents were literary people. I had no role model.

I sometimes feel like my mind is a dark, dusty, cavernous room with one naked, cobweb-draped light bulb hanging in the middle of it. There is an old piece of string hanging from the pull chain, but I can't find it until I wave my arms blindly around me and I feel it brush my hand. With a slow tug on the string, the long, mechanical 'click' sends yellow light from the naked filament almost reluctantly, as if I've bothered it somehow by awakening it from its slumber. I look around the room, but it doesn't illuminate much. I can dimly see a few artifacts of my life scattered about--each one dragging a dull bit of a distant memory into the light where I can see it better. I can't see all the corners of my mind's room. I can make out a wall here and a wall there, but I can't even make out how big the room really is. I can't see everything in it. I'm afraid to leave the safety of the dull, yellow light--knowing that if I shuffle away from it my body will block what little light there is and keep me from seeing anything in that direction. I take cautious steps away from it, craning my eyes, trying--hoping--to see more. I want to see everything.

But it's no use. The light bulb is dim. It won't show me the farther reaches of my memory. I can't see enough to know if I've seen all there is to see in that direction. I would be happy to be able to see more experiences in the distance, or be able to see farther than I can see. I would love to be able to see all the details.

I tell myself: "It's no use. You will never see the corners. The light bulb in your mind is not replaceable with a brighter one. The best you can hope for is to clean some of the dust off of it and make it brighter. Or, maybe if you stand long enough you will accustom yourself to the dimness and be able to see a little farther." No--it's no use--the details just aren't there.

I'll just continue to feel my way along the floor of my mind, purposefully shuffling so I don't inadvertently step on anything of importance, collecting things I find as I go.

At least my mind's room is not completely empty.

Me and Movies

When I watch a movie I focus on it. When the lights go down and I hit the "play" button, the isolation panels go up. I don't want interruptions of any kind. If the doorbell rings I will probably reluctantly answer it, but that's only because I know whoever out there can hear my movie and knows I'm home. If the phone rings, however, it's another matter entirely. When I was married I would usually answer the phone because I would be expected to, but inside I would have annoyance or anger. "Who the hell is bothering me with a stupid phone call? Can't they see I'm in the middle of a movie?" Of course they can't. That wouldn't stop me from clenching my teeth about it when it would happen. For these reasons, really prefer watching a movie in a theater. In that setting, you're forced to turn off all interruptions like phones before the movie starts. That's the way movies should be watched.

I like lots of different kinds of movies. Although I do like your typical "guy" movies, I also like deep, emotional movies. Actually, they tend to be the ones that I dread interruptions the most while they are playing because the movie will have my interest and my emotions. I may be into the movie on a much deeper level than usual, which would mean I was probably captivated. I like many, many types of movies. My taste in them runs quite the range. I think my favorites are the "surprise hits" I never heard about. The ones I had no idea of how good they might be or sometimes not even knowing a lot of what they were about. I like the ones that get me misty-eyed from feeling, the ones that make my palms sweat from drama, and the ones that make my heart race from action. Movies I don't like? I don't like to see gore. I also don't like movies that are too centered on one character or scene, like those that could easily be performed as a play on stage. I don't like bad acting. There are too many really, really good actors out there for a director to subject their audiences to substandard performances from people that should never have gotten the job. There are famous actors that I can't stand, and unknown actors that I've watched and loved. There are actors that used to be good but should have retired at the top of their game, and actors that have steadily gotten better with each role they have undertaken.

To me, movies are an escape and an artful expression. They are a chance to witness a story told and expressed the way someone else perceived it. Movies are especially riveting to people that don't have very good imaginations. Although well-written books are the best way to make the imagination run wild, movies are great for one reason: They are a crash course of storytelling. They are a full-throttle, nonstop conglomeration of sensory input that crams an epic story into your mind, complete with sights, smells, and emotions. I like old movies and new movies, simple and complex, amazing and ordinary, laughing or crying. They are an art form that I can escape into for a couple of hours. I treasure those hours