I am not a patient person--not generally speaking, at least. I've been trying to teach myself to play the piano for the past couple months, and sometimes I just get so frustrated at my fingers' disobedience. I have often tried to console myself by saying, "Rome wasn't built in a day," but I've occasionally been so upstartish as to wonder whether it would have been if it had been built by me.
But tonight finds me feeling peaceful and calm, filled with an unspeakable assurance that everything is going to be okay, that I'm going to be okay, and that I'm actually doing better than I sometimes give myself credit for. It's a wonderful thing, and I want more than anything to not screw it up. That's my goal.
I will probably still tend toward impatience, but tonight, at least, none of my normal anxiousness is accompanying my sleeplessness (which leaves the question, "Why am I still awake?"). I guess what I'm really trying to say, here, is that patience is a good thing--meaning, I guess, that I expect you to forgive me in advance for the week I'm about to go without posting anything because I'm going on a family vacation, so don't look for anything new to appear here until sometime during the early part of July.
23 June 2008
22 June 2008
Post 140
I saw Get Smart last night. It was hi-larious. I loved it. It's been a long time since I've seen a good, clean, live-action comedy; it was quite refreshing. Steve Carell is so awesome. Man. Love that guy.
16 June 2008
Post 139
And now, it's time for another Good Idea, Bad Idea:
Good Idea
Pulling down that old toaster oven that nobody ever uses to melt some mozzarella on some bread.
Bad Idea
Tilting said toaster oven toward yourself while attempting to put it back on top of the cupboards before it has totally cooled, thus allowing the door to flop open and deploy a piping hot browning tray onto your face.
Not that I did that....
Good Idea
Pulling down that old toaster oven that nobody ever uses to melt some mozzarella on some bread.
Bad Idea
Tilting said toaster oven toward yourself while attempting to put it back on top of the cupboards before it has totally cooled, thus allowing the door to flop open and deploy a piping hot browning tray onto your face.
Not that I did that....
13 June 2008
Post 138
I have had the tendency to lean toward morbidity off and on throughout my life. Due to my recent "paradigm shift," I no longer lean that way (though I don't know how long that will last; I am one given to vacillation in such matters), but I can understand, to some degree, those who do. This post, then, is not me looking down on anyone; this post is me pointing out some blatant cheating that pops up occasionally in fictional works.
A couple of weeks ago, I watched Dead Poets Society. [Random sidenote: is it just me, or ought there to be an apostrophe at the end of poets--Dead Poets' Society? I mean, doesn't that make more sense? Kinda like Two Weeks Notice (which I've never seen) probably ought to be Two Weeks' Notice. Does Hollywood have something against apostrophes?] I cannot tell you how many times I've had Dead Poets' Society (HA! Take that, punctuation nazis!) recommended to me; people have often told me that I would like it.
I don't know why it is, but many people seem to recommend movies to me that they don't like. Dead Poets' Society is one of them. K-Pax is another. Whenever I ask someone if they liked K-Pax, it seems like they say, "Meh. Not really. You'd like it, though; it's your kind of movie." Moulin Rouge is another movie I've gotten such recommendations for: "I don't know that you'd like it, Schmett, but I'm sure you could appreciate it." I'm never quite certain how to take these kinds of recommendations. Curiosity is bound to get the best of me eventually, though, so I may end up seeing all of these.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I was at the library and saw that they had Dead Poets' Society, so I picked it up and checked it out. I was not surprised (though somewhat chagrined) when one of my roommates saw what I was about to watch and said, "Oh, you'll like that movie: it's depressing." I think, actually, two of my roommates made such observations, the other one saying, "Oh, that movie? It's pretty good, and it's sad enough that you'll probably appreciate it."
*sigh*
So I watched it, and (get this:) I didn't like it. Not that I hated it; it just didn't really appeal to me. Which is sad because I really like Robin Williams in dramas (I own Jakob the Liar), and I also like teachery stories (Freedom Writers and Mr. Holland's Opus are in my DVD collection; Goodbye, Mr. Chips is on my bookshelf), so it seems like it should be a real winner. But it wasn't. It was good right up until the suicide, which, ironically enough, is probably the part that my roommates thought I would like. (Do I really seem that sick, guys? I mean, c'mon!).
Death is a powerful thing. I mean, on the list of Things That'll Change Your Life, I'm not sure anything is so dramatic as death. Maybe I just think that because I've never been directly affected by a birth, but endings always seem more dramatic than beginnings, so I'm willing to say that death is the more impactful of the two. (Yes, I did just make that word up). Because of this, death is an extremely useful tool for a writer of fiction, and I fear that, as a device, it is becoming a bit overused.
In high school, several of we Drama Club folk were aspiring novelists, and I remember talking with a couple of friends at lunch and we decided that one of the Rules of Fiction (back then, I believed such rules existed, but I've since gotten over that) was Someone's Gotta Die (were I still an advocate of rules, I'd probably give that one a cooler name--Subito Morte, perhaps). We all agreed on this because each of us had, in the course of writing our individual novels (all of them fantasy, of course; it's the easiest place to start--perhaps because it's the hardest one to screw up [oh dear... I'll get angry comments for that, I fear!])--in each of our novels, we had come to the point where we had to kill off a very lovable supporting role; we certainly didn't want to, but that was just the way it had to be. If you ever want readers to become really attached to your lead, you've got to kill off that kindly old father figure/mentor person (*ahem!* J. K. Rowling *ahem!* George Lucas *ahem!*) or that best friend friend or that love interest or whoever, and that's just the way it is with fiction.
That seems ridiculous to me now, but I'm glad I remember having that discussion, remember agreeing with that sentiment, because it helps me to understand why some writers are so fond of killing people. (It also makes me love Stanger than Fiction just that much more.) I mean, sure, sometimes people are going to die in stories. I'm not saying that death should be removed from fiction altogether; that would just be silly. What I'm saying is that death has become a crutch, and Subito Morte in any story throws up a little red flag in my head that flaps and shouts, "Amateur author!"
Granted, death is often sudden. As is stencil spray-painted in Gothic text on the side of a newspaper stand here in Provo, "...But Death Is Always Certain." I mean, death is coming for all of us, and sometimes he comes for us out of that proverbial blue, and that's fine. But sometimes death just doesn't make sense in the context of a story. I feel that Dead Poets' Society was a good example. Now, I'm no psychologist, but the suicide in Dead Poets' Society rubbed me the wrong way because it didn't seem to fit in the context of the character who killed himself. There was nothing in the movie up to that point to support that suicide--nothing! It just didn't make any sense at all.
But this is one of those stories wherein the teacher character must be kicked out of the school. How can we do this? Aha! We shall blame him for the suicide of one of his students! This will spark flames of injustice in the hearts of all who watch this movie, and they will be moved by that beautiful, poignant injustice we have created. Look at us; we are such good writers. Let's go get slobbering drunk and write a movie, guys! Who's with me?
Tonight I came across Subito Morte again as I watched The Bridge to Terebithia. This was an especially offensive death because the surrounding story wasn't strong enough to support the weight of it. It just--it wasn't that kind of story! Had the girl's family suddenly moved (Subito Moto?), I think the whole story would have played out about the same and probably been a bit more believable. I liked the movie other than that; I thought it was a pretty good story and an intriguing idea, but the death was adipose (sorry for the malapropism--I'm tired--can't think of the word I'm actually looking for--something like inappropriate--stuck with the one that popped into my head) and kinda turned me off to the rest of it.
So beware the Subito Morte! (And I mean that, I think, in every way possible.) If you deign to write a story, don't take any cheap-shot shortcuts; there are other, better ways!
A couple of weeks ago, I watched Dead Poets Society. [Random sidenote: is it just me, or ought there to be an apostrophe at the end of poets--Dead Poets' Society? I mean, doesn't that make more sense? Kinda like Two Weeks Notice (which I've never seen) probably ought to be Two Weeks' Notice. Does Hollywood have something against apostrophes?] I cannot tell you how many times I've had Dead Poets' Society (HA! Take that, punctuation nazis!) recommended to me; people have often told me that I would like it.
I don't know why it is, but many people seem to recommend movies to me that they don't like. Dead Poets' Society is one of them. K-Pax is another. Whenever I ask someone if they liked K-Pax, it seems like they say, "Meh. Not really. You'd like it, though; it's your kind of movie." Moulin Rouge is another movie I've gotten such recommendations for: "I don't know that you'd like it, Schmett, but I'm sure you could appreciate it." I'm never quite certain how to take these kinds of recommendations. Curiosity is bound to get the best of me eventually, though, so I may end up seeing all of these.
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I was at the library and saw that they had Dead Poets' Society, so I picked it up and checked it out. I was not surprised (though somewhat chagrined) when one of my roommates saw what I was about to watch and said, "Oh, you'll like that movie: it's depressing." I think, actually, two of my roommates made such observations, the other one saying, "Oh, that movie? It's pretty good, and it's sad enough that you'll probably appreciate it."
*sigh*
So I watched it, and (get this:) I didn't like it. Not that I hated it; it just didn't really appeal to me. Which is sad because I really like Robin Williams in dramas (I own Jakob the Liar), and I also like teachery stories (Freedom Writers and Mr. Holland's Opus are in my DVD collection; Goodbye, Mr. Chips is on my bookshelf), so it seems like it should be a real winner. But it wasn't. It was good right up until the suicide, which, ironically enough, is probably the part that my roommates thought I would like. (Do I really seem that sick, guys? I mean, c'mon!).
Death is a powerful thing. I mean, on the list of Things That'll Change Your Life, I'm not sure anything is so dramatic as death. Maybe I just think that because I've never been directly affected by a birth, but endings always seem more dramatic than beginnings, so I'm willing to say that death is the more impactful of the two. (Yes, I did just make that word up). Because of this, death is an extremely useful tool for a writer of fiction, and I fear that, as a device, it is becoming a bit overused.
In high school, several of we Drama Club folk were aspiring novelists, and I remember talking with a couple of friends at lunch and we decided that one of the Rules of Fiction (back then, I believed such rules existed, but I've since gotten over that) was Someone's Gotta Die (were I still an advocate of rules, I'd probably give that one a cooler name--Subito Morte, perhaps). We all agreed on this because each of us had, in the course of writing our individual novels (all of them fantasy, of course; it's the easiest place to start--perhaps because it's the hardest one to screw up [oh dear... I'll get angry comments for that, I fear!])--in each of our novels, we had come to the point where we had to kill off a very lovable supporting role; we certainly didn't want to, but that was just the way it had to be. If you ever want readers to become really attached to your lead, you've got to kill off that kindly old father figure/mentor person (*ahem!* J. K. Rowling *ahem!* George Lucas *ahem!*) or that best friend friend or that love interest or whoever, and that's just the way it is with fiction.
That seems ridiculous to me now, but I'm glad I remember having that discussion, remember agreeing with that sentiment, because it helps me to understand why some writers are so fond of killing people. (It also makes me love Stanger than Fiction just that much more.) I mean, sure, sometimes people are going to die in stories. I'm not saying that death should be removed from fiction altogether; that would just be silly. What I'm saying is that death has become a crutch, and Subito Morte in any story throws up a little red flag in my head that flaps and shouts, "Amateur author!"
Granted, death is often sudden. As is stencil spray-painted in Gothic text on the side of a newspaper stand here in Provo, "...But Death Is Always Certain." I mean, death is coming for all of us, and sometimes he comes for us out of that proverbial blue, and that's fine. But sometimes death just doesn't make sense in the context of a story. I feel that Dead Poets' Society was a good example. Now, I'm no psychologist, but the suicide in Dead Poets' Society rubbed me the wrong way because it didn't seem to fit in the context of the character who killed himself. There was nothing in the movie up to that point to support that suicide--nothing! It just didn't make any sense at all.
But this is one of those stories wherein the teacher character must be kicked out of the school. How can we do this? Aha! We shall blame him for the suicide of one of his students! This will spark flames of injustice in the hearts of all who watch this movie, and they will be moved by that beautiful, poignant injustice we have created. Look at us; we are such good writers. Let's go get slobbering drunk and write a movie, guys! Who's with me?
Tonight I came across Subito Morte again as I watched The Bridge to Terebithia. This was an especially offensive death because the surrounding story wasn't strong enough to support the weight of it. It just--it wasn't that kind of story! Had the girl's family suddenly moved (Subito Moto?), I think the whole story would have played out about the same and probably been a bit more believable. I liked the movie other than that; I thought it was a pretty good story and an intriguing idea, but the death was adipose (sorry for the malapropism--I'm tired--can't think of the word I'm actually looking for--something like inappropriate--stuck with the one that popped into my head) and kinda turned me off to the rest of it.
So beware the Subito Morte! (And I mean that, I think, in every way possible.) If you deign to write a story, don't take any cheap-shot shortcuts; there are other, better ways!
Post 136
Nathanael sat relaxing in the shade of a fig tree when Philip came running up to him.
"Nathanael!" Philip said between gasps for air. "We found Him!"
"Found who?" Nathanael asked.
"The Messiah promised by Moses!"
Nathanael raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes," Philip said. "Jesus of Nazareth."
Nathanael chuckled. "Can anything good come from Nazareth?"
"Come and see!" Philip insisted, pulling Nathanael to his feet. "He's the Promised One alright!"
"Okay, okay," Nathanael said. "Let's go see this Jesus fellow."
So Nathanael allowed his friend to drag him along until they came to a small group of people a ways down the road. In the center of the group, a tall, well-built man was speaking passionately, holding the attention of all present.
"There He is," Philip whispered. "Jesus."
Despite Jesus' calloused, manful physique, something about the way He held Himself made Him look (Nathanael thought) somehow royal, as though he could command the world.
As Nathanael and Philip approached the group, Jesus looked at them, stopped His speaking, and walked toward them.
"Here!" He said, pointing at Nathanael as He approached them. "Here we have an Israelite who doesn't have any guile in'm!"
Nathanael looked around, confused. "Me?" he asked. "Do you know me?"
"I saw you sitting under the fig tree," Jesus said with a shrug, then He put His hand on Nathanael's shoulder. "How are you?"
The strength of His voice! The sincerity of the common question! These things impacted Nathanael greatly, and, had the entirety of their interaction been limited to those things alone, Nathanael may have eventually come to the conclusion that Philip was probably right in his perception of this Man, but it was the the power of His touch and the intensity of His gaze that made Nathanael drop to his knees and exclaim, "Rabbi, Thou are the Son of God! Thou are king of Israel!"
The man laughed a kindly sort of I'm-not-mocking-you-but-you've-
got-to-admit-that-this-little-exchange-of-ours-isn't-making-a-great-
deal-of-sense laugh and said, "Because I said I saw you sitting under the fig tree, you believe?"
Nathanael sputtered a little laugh through his fast falling, guileless tears.
Jesus bent down, hands on knees, to look Nathanael in the face; Nathanael looked up and felt deeper reverence yet.
"Hereafter," Jesus said, "you will see heaven open and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man."
The tears began again, and Jesus offered Nathanael His hand.
"Nathanael!" Philip said between gasps for air. "We found Him!"
"Found who?" Nathanael asked.
"The Messiah promised by Moses!"
Nathanael raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes," Philip said. "Jesus of Nazareth."
Nathanael chuckled. "Can anything good come from Nazareth?"
"Come and see!" Philip insisted, pulling Nathanael to his feet. "He's the Promised One alright!"
"Okay, okay," Nathanael said. "Let's go see this Jesus fellow."
So Nathanael allowed his friend to drag him along until they came to a small group of people a ways down the road. In the center of the group, a tall, well-built man was speaking passionately, holding the attention of all present.
"There He is," Philip whispered. "Jesus."
Despite Jesus' calloused, manful physique, something about the way He held Himself made Him look (Nathanael thought) somehow royal, as though he could command the world.
As Nathanael and Philip approached the group, Jesus looked at them, stopped His speaking, and walked toward them.
"Here!" He said, pointing at Nathanael as He approached them. "Here we have an Israelite who doesn't have any guile in'm!"
Nathanael looked around, confused. "Me?" he asked. "Do you know me?"
"I saw you sitting under the fig tree," Jesus said with a shrug, then He put His hand on Nathanael's shoulder. "How are you?"
The strength of His voice! The sincerity of the common question! These things impacted Nathanael greatly, and, had the entirety of their interaction been limited to those things alone, Nathanael may have eventually come to the conclusion that Philip was probably right in his perception of this Man, but it was the the power of His touch and the intensity of His gaze that made Nathanael drop to his knees and exclaim, "Rabbi, Thou are the Son of God! Thou are king of Israel!"
The man laughed a kindly sort of I'm-not-mocking-you-but-you've-
got-to-admit-that-this-little-exchange-of-ours-isn't-making-a-great-
deal-of-sense laugh and said, "Because I said I saw you sitting under the fig tree, you believe?"
Nathanael sputtered a little laugh through his fast falling, guileless tears.
Jesus bent down, hands on knees, to look Nathanael in the face; Nathanael looked up and felt deeper reverence yet.
"Hereafter," Jesus said, "you will see heaven open and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man."
The tears began again, and Jesus offered Nathanael His hand.
09 June 2008
Post 135
More thoughts on movies:
I saw Kung Fu Panda this weekend. Every preview I ever saw of that movie made it look incredibly la-ame (I thought), but a friend gave me very strong recommendation, and the reviews have mostly been surprisingly good (85% from Rotten Tomatoes, 7.8/10 on IMDb, and 3 stars from Roger Ebert), so I decided to give it a try.
I'm not sorry I did. In fact, I'm pretty happy I did. I haven't laughed that much in quite a while. Of course, if you're over the age of 13, you probably have to be a fan of Jack Black's humor for it to be really funny, but I think Jack Black is a funny, funny man, so I laughed a lot. There was this one part (the acupuncture scene, for those of you who have seen it) that, even now, has me giggling when I think about it. And it was consistently funny throughout. Really, if you're in the mood for a good laugh, this is a pretty good flick. It has--oh, it's just so funny at times!
I sense an intense revolution--a paradigm shift, if you will--coming my way. As I may have mentioned before, I go through phases--"It's a phase he's going through," is a pretty fair way to describe my behavior at any given time. At least, that's always been my theory regarding myself; lately I've been so terribly consistent in some of my opinions that I've occasionally worried that I've arrived, and I don't intend to really "arrive" until long after I'm dead.
So anyway, this change: I want to start running far, far away from my gloomy intellectualism. There was a man I met during my sojourn in Idaho whom I knew as Brother Ganns. He was a fascinating human being, absolutely fascinating; I had no idea people like him existed--never crossed my mind, actually--and, to my knowledge, he is the only one of his kind. The man gets up every morning looong before he has to so he can spend an hour reading from the Book of Mormon, and hour in the Bible, and then another hour in whatever his other reading happened to be at the time (when I knew him, he had finished his reading of Journal of Discourses, making a personal index as he went because he felt the published index was insufficient, and was then working on the complete works of Nibley). The man was the most intense gospel scholar I have ever had the pleasure of meeting; seriously, he could tell you anything you wanted to know about anything you could think of, and he could site sources to back up what he said. His library was very impressive, but the fact that most of it was in his head as well as on his shelves made it even more so.
The best part about Brother Ganns, though, was that he was a totally nut; I mean this man was crazy. He is the closest thing to a 6'2", 50-year-old Jack Russel terrier that I have ever met. Seriously, every time he saw anyone he knew, it was as though it was a happy reunion after a long separation. And, strangely enough, it was never weird, and it never got old. Quite to the contrary, actually, it was contagious, and every time I saw him made my day. He'd see us and just light up, and we'd light up, too, because he was, in fact, the most lovable individual I have ever known.
Even as a missionary, that was hard for me to understand, but the more scholastic training I receive, the more unfathomable he becomes to me because I am incredibly guilty of falling prey to the school of thought that says the only happy people are the ones who really don't understand what's going on in the world around them and that all the really smart people become cynics.
Well, I'm done with that. I'm tossing it off like an old coat. I'm tired of being pensive. From here on out, I intend to laugh more. From here on out, I intend to joke more, to become lighter in heart, to just generally be happier. I've posted a few things along the lines of "I'm gonna be happier," but I always wanted to cling to my dark realism. Book's I've read recently: Night by Elie Wiesel and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Cheery, no? The Jewish holocaust and the abuses against the Lamanites. I'm done with it; done, I say! I understand that the world has been and is and will be a somewhat terrible place, but I don't think focusing on that fact will help me grow a whole lot. In fact, it may be just as bad as all the happy feel-good escapist stuff I've been so down on lately--which maybe I'll start reading now, who knows!
That said, I do still expect what I read to be well crafted. I still think Iron Man should have died, but I'm okay with him surviving; I just wish that the story would have led to that denouement a little more logically.
So I'm repenting. I'm changing my gloomy ways. Who's with me?
I saw Kung Fu Panda this weekend. Every preview I ever saw of that movie made it look incredibly la-ame (I thought), but a friend gave me very strong recommendation, and the reviews have mostly been surprisingly good (85% from Rotten Tomatoes, 7.8/10 on IMDb, and 3 stars from Roger Ebert), so I decided to give it a try.
I'm not sorry I did. In fact, I'm pretty happy I did. I haven't laughed that much in quite a while. Of course, if you're over the age of 13, you probably have to be a fan of Jack Black's humor for it to be really funny, but I think Jack Black is a funny, funny man, so I laughed a lot. There was this one part (the acupuncture scene, for those of you who have seen it) that, even now, has me giggling when I think about it. And it was consistently funny throughout. Really, if you're in the mood for a good laugh, this is a pretty good flick. It has--oh, it's just so funny at times!
I sense an intense revolution--a paradigm shift, if you will--coming my way. As I may have mentioned before, I go through phases--"It's a phase he's going through," is a pretty fair way to describe my behavior at any given time. At least, that's always been my theory regarding myself; lately I've been so terribly consistent in some of my opinions that I've occasionally worried that I've arrived, and I don't intend to really "arrive" until long after I'm dead.
So anyway, this change: I want to start running far, far away from my gloomy intellectualism. There was a man I met during my sojourn in Idaho whom I knew as Brother Ganns. He was a fascinating human being, absolutely fascinating; I had no idea people like him existed--never crossed my mind, actually--and, to my knowledge, he is the only one of his kind. The man gets up every morning looong before he has to so he can spend an hour reading from the Book of Mormon, and hour in the Bible, and then another hour in whatever his other reading happened to be at the time (when I knew him, he had finished his reading of Journal of Discourses, making a personal index as he went because he felt the published index was insufficient, and was then working on the complete works of Nibley). The man was the most intense gospel scholar I have ever had the pleasure of meeting; seriously, he could tell you anything you wanted to know about anything you could think of, and he could site sources to back up what he said. His library was very impressive, but the fact that most of it was in his head as well as on his shelves made it even more so.
The best part about Brother Ganns, though, was that he was a totally nut; I mean this man was crazy. He is the closest thing to a 6'2", 50-year-old Jack Russel terrier that I have ever met. Seriously, every time he saw anyone he knew, it was as though it was a happy reunion after a long separation. And, strangely enough, it was never weird, and it never got old. Quite to the contrary, actually, it was contagious, and every time I saw him made my day. He'd see us and just light up, and we'd light up, too, because he was, in fact, the most lovable individual I have ever known.
Even as a missionary, that was hard for me to understand, but the more scholastic training I receive, the more unfathomable he becomes to me because I am incredibly guilty of falling prey to the school of thought that says the only happy people are the ones who really don't understand what's going on in the world around them and that all the really smart people become cynics.
Well, I'm done with that. I'm tossing it off like an old coat. I'm tired of being pensive. From here on out, I intend to laugh more. From here on out, I intend to joke more, to become lighter in heart, to just generally be happier. I've posted a few things along the lines of "I'm gonna be happier," but I always wanted to cling to my dark realism. Book's I've read recently: Night by Elie Wiesel and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Cheery, no? The Jewish holocaust and the abuses against the Lamanites. I'm done with it; done, I say! I understand that the world has been and is and will be a somewhat terrible place, but I don't think focusing on that fact will help me grow a whole lot. In fact, it may be just as bad as all the happy feel-good escapist stuff I've been so down on lately--which maybe I'll start reading now, who knows!
That said, I do still expect what I read to be well crafted. I still think Iron Man should have died, but I'm okay with him surviving; I just wish that the story would have led to that denouement a little more logically.
So I'm repenting. I'm changing my gloomy ways. Who's with me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)