Watched The Lives of Others today. For parts of it I just closed my eyes and listened to the words that I didn’t understand. I miss being surrounded by foreign languages. It is less overwhelming, to just hear sounds instead of thoughts and it helps me calm my own thoughts racing around inside my head. It’s  comforting to me, like being wrapped in a blanket of sounds I might not understand, but they keep me warm and cozy. Sometimes, you don’t need to understand. You just need to hear the sounds. Answers are not always what you’re looking for.

Today I closed the car door on the buckle for my coat. lame.

I’ve crossed the Atlantic Ocean fourteen times. It’s been almost nine months since my last transatlantic flight. I like it when they give you cheese sandwiches on the plane in the morning.

At a Superbowl party I didn’t get to have any pizza, because all ten of the pizzas they ordered had meat on them. Telling people I’m vegetarian is like telling people I went to school abroad. I’m super proud of it and I love it, but at the same time I just don’t want to mention it because of how pretentious it makes me sound.

I burnt my grilled cheese that I made for dinner. lame.

In the span of less than one week, two where’sgeorge?.com dollars have come into my possession. It’s really exciting. I miss francs.

Hardly an hour goes by that I don’t think of Svizzera. How long does it take before this changes, if ever?

I had the pleasure of covering the Scandinavian Film Festival LA last month for Moving Pictures Magazine. Go here to see the article “Scandinavian Film Festival LA 2010: A Celebration of Nordic Films and Oscar Submissions”.

Here is my unpublished video interview with founder and executive director of the festival James Koenig:

A young Arab man (Tahar Rahim) is sent to a French prison where he becomes a mafia kingpin. (Image.net)

Netflix Gets A Huge Influx of Indie and Foreign Films

As a result of the deals, Netflix is already streaming 300 previously unavailable indie and foreign films on its website to all of its subscribers. More classics are on the way, and some of Netflix’s new deals will allow the site to stream new releases from participating companies.

Read more information in: http://mashable.com/2010/02/01/netflix-watch-instantly-indie/#

With the passing of Éric Rohmer earlier this month, I decided to watch his “Six Moral Tales” in chronological order.  I own them now on the Criterion Collection DVD label, a set that is extraordinarily well done. The collection also includes a number of Rohmer’s shorter films, including “The Curve,” “Nadja in Paris,” and a fascinating, thought-provoking, and touching television interview produced by Rohmer featuring a conversation between two philosophers, one a secularist, the other a cleric, discussing the works of Blaise Pascal.  The shorter works provide atmosphere, background and context to his more famous six films.

Here are a couple of clips on YouTube of “My Night at Maud’s,”  generally regarded as the best of his Six Moral Tales, and certainly my favorite of the six.

Another film, not of the “Six Moral Tales” but a later work, “Perceval le Gallois” was also interesting.  I haven’t seen it in a few years, but I’ll likely watch it again in a couple of weeks.

Since viewers either love or detest Rohmer’s films, my near veneration of this giant of French cinema is best balanced with a few more clips of his works so I don’t risk steering non-fans into hours of “paint drying” boredom.   Besides, I just like introducing film lovers to Rohmer if I think they will enjoy his works.

Director: Rene Clement

Genre: Drama

Summary: After Paulette’s parents are killed during WWII, she takes shelter with a family of farmers in the countryside, and befriends their young son, Michel. The two begin to explore the nature of life and death as war rages around them.

Impressions: This is a unique look at WWII through the eyes of a child in rural France, a completely innocent girl named Paulette who has no concept of death and has to be reminded, time and time again, what death means. It is a film about how children deal with death, especially when constantly surrounded by it. No matter how far Paulette runs, death follows her, from her parents to her dog to the people who take her in. It’s sad that the first thing to be sacrificed in war is not life, but innocence.

4 out of 5

Not to be discriminatory, but his time, you can really call the non-white race 'alien.'

Avatar
Director: James Cameron
Cast: Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, Sigourney Weaver, Stephen Lang
2009

What bothers me is that despite its liberal positioning, heavy-handed environmentalist message, and critical appropriation of Bush era rhetoric, Avatar heaps all the progressive bits onto Jake Sully and his team of rogue Sky People. The Na’vi themselves are a people with no agency, portrayed as mere subjects of research, of love, of benevolence and aid. They are shown to be hardheaded, mystical, and to some extent, docile. Their physique and culture are an amalgamation of non-white entities: African, South American, Aborigine, animal and alien. “Savages,” Col. Quaritch calls them, but at least he’s the fictional villain. The real savagery is the directorial mishmash of everything non-Sky People (read: non-American, since Sully’s renegade team also consists of the token ethnic characters).

One remembers the 1956 Rodgers and Hammerstein adaptation The King and I, which on the one hand tackled colonialism in Thailand and cites Uncle Tom’s Cabin to criticize slavery, but on the other, forms a grand precedent to Avatar with its dubious casting of Caucasians and Latinos to portray the Thai characters. Strange that there was a seeming dearth of Asian actors available, when the film was produced just right after the US war efforts to corral all its Japanese-Americans (the enemy, they say) and step up its military interventions in the Pacific, including Southeast Asia.

Puerto Rican actress Rita Moreno (left) and Russian-born Yul Brynner (right) play Thai roles in 'The King and I.'

Like the Thais in the King and I, the Na’vi are some sort of grand pastiche Other. James Cameron takes this to a whole new level when he mixes not just races, but species. To the human race, the Na’vi are literally illegal aliens, much like the Third World’s peoples who are rendered internal refugees in their own land, only this time in outer space. They are the large-scale equivalent of the archetypal damsel in distress: beautiful and incapable of saving oneself. Yes, we need the white man to save the world. Again.

In fairness to Cameron, even the white man’s intrusion wasn’t enough to win. The decisive factor was Eywa, who sent her animals to clinch the Na’vi resistance. It was nature who won the war. This is a rather deceptive twist, since it goes against the core of the environmentalist struggle, which is that nature cannot fight back, nature cannot defend itself, and that it is solely the humans, Nature’s most sophisticated creatures, who have the power to destroy or save the planet they live in. Avatar’s conclusion implies that however we ravage our planet, when push comes to shove Nature will strike back to defend itself from destruction—so why make the effort to save it when it can save itself? Not only is this message counter-productive, it also strips humans of their agency.

African Maasai women (left) and Avatar's Mo'at (right).

On Earth, humans are at the core of the struggle to save the environment. In Pandora, however, we’re not. It is no wonder that Avatar and the Na’vi culture has garnered so many devotees, because it’s so much easier to live with yourself when the fight is not in your hands. If any, the allure of Pandora is its perpetually lush, unspoiled (unspoilable?) landscape—and its exceedingly tall, exceedingly slim inhabitants with beautiful blue skin and large, expressive eyes, and the sexy animalistic gestures to match their sexy, barely-there attire. Who wouldn’t want to be a Na’vi?

Avatar presents a palpable progressive slant, but despite the film’s attempts at social critique and allegory, it ends up ideologically confusing. It is certainly a triumph, not so much for writing and direction, but for animation and the art of cinematic visualization.#

Bioluminescence always makes for a cinematic love scene, doesn't it? Jake and Neytiri (top) in Avatar; Richard and Françoise (bottom) in Danny Boyle's The Beach (2000).

- – - – -

APPENDIX

The FernGully Connection

Much has been said about the startling similarities between Avatar and Bill Kroyer’s animated feature FernGully: The Last Rainforest (1992). Let me indulge in a little more belaboring here with these illustrations.

FernGully (left) and Avatar (right) both have Hometrees, where all the creatures of the forest reside. In both films, the Hometree was always threatened with destruction.

FernGully had a black baobab (left) which contained all the environmental evil of the world. In contrast, Avatar has the Tree of Souls, a pinkish-white weeping willow of sorts which connects the Na'vi people to their earth mother Eywa. It is imperative that both trees, evil or good, were protected from harm.

Even the most casual pop culture enthusiasts could tell you that remakes and reboots are everywhere. (What’s the difference between the two terms? Is it the glimmer of hope provided by the latter? I’m not sure.) How popular are these things? After months of wrangling over the plot and casting for “Spider-Man 4,” Sony Pictures decided to scrap franchise star Tobey Maguire and director Sam Raimi in favor of a new director, a younger, hotter star who has yet to be named — oh, and a completely rebooted plot featuring Peter Parker in high school. If that wasn’t enough, casting is underway for the new “Conan the Barbarian” series, and the reboot of the “Karate Kid” franchise comes out this June.

Now that every studio on the planet is trying to get into the reboot biz, so-called Americanizations have lost a bit of their luster.  Primarily reserved for horror movies (“The Ring” “Quarantine,” “The Grudge”) and TV adaptations (“The Office,” “All in the Family”), these American remakes of foreign works have garnered vats of money for the studios, but little in the way of real prestige.  Until now. Maybe.

Amidst all the reboots, 2010 will also usher in two of the more highly anticipated American remakes in recent years: April’s “Death at a Funeral” and October’s “Let Me In.” For the most part, these remakes have been based on works that were little-known at best outside the United States (“Infernal Affairs” is a recent exception), but “Let Me In” has the added burden of cribbing from one of the best foreign films of the last five years, Sweden’s “Let the Right One In.” To make matters worse, “Let Me In” also has the bad luck of being a haunting and genuinely scary vampire film about two platonically passionate friends — in an era of emo bloodsuckers that sparkle in sunlight.

Frankly, what scares me is director Matt Reeves’ insistence on calling the remake an Americanization in the first place. The film and the book it’s based on traffic in pretty universal themes: There are bullied and lonely kids everywhere. Children come of age every day, all over the world. Teenagers are falling in love for the first time at this very moment. I’m not sure what we’ll get out of Reeves’ Americanization of the story. Will the climactic pool scene — one of the coolest things I’ve seen on film in years — look more like a Michael Bay fever dream? What works best about “Let the Right One In” is what you don’t see and what isn’t said, and that terrible sense of foreboding could be lost in translation in favor of CGI fangs and squirting squibs.  (For the record, Reeves promises that the new film will be “a darker, scarier journey than ‘Twilight.’”)

“Death at a Funeral” is an even more unusual cinematic specimen: an American remake of a successful three-year-old British English-language film. My initial reaction to this film could only be described as a long string of question marks, but my feelings changed after I saw the trailer. For one thing, the movie looks pretty funny — a bit more over-the-top ridiculous than the original British farce, but that’s to be expected. The movie also features a multiracial cast (a major change from the original) that includes Chris Rock, Martin Lawrence, Tracy Morgan and Danny Glover, directed by cinematic misanthrope extraordinaire Neil LaBute. The remake looks awfully faithful to its source, but LaBute’s presence gives me hope that this will be a darker take on the traditional family comedy. If I must quibble at all, I’m not crazy about the major plot point revealed in the trailer, but I’m really curious to see what this cast does with the material.

They’ve been around for a long time, and these Americanizations of foreign films aren’t going anywhere. Neither are the reboots or the remakes, for that matter. Are they evidence that Hollywood’s running out of ideas? Almost certainly. But when you’re adapting material like this, does it even matter?

Departures rightly deserves the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. In recent memory, I cannot recall a film that so adeptly portrays the dignity due to the dead and the respect due to the living. Departures tells the story of a young man, Daigo (superbly acted by Masahiro Motoki who conveys tomes with his face alone), who gives up his dream of playing the cello professionally and finds true artistry, and humanity, working as a Nokanshi – one who prepares bodies for burial.

Striking an appropriate harmony between humor and honor, the story infuses death (and life) with a meaning and significance often missing in Western films. Moreover, we find ourselves engrossed in this story not simply because it is so different from our own, but because in it we inherently recognize that here too is our story. We all are certainly more than mere mortals; yet, death shall come. Departures helps us find peace with our mortality and get about the business of living.

Along with its compelling story, this film has an amazing musical score by the John Williams of the east, Joe Hisaishi (who also composed the music for Spirited Away). The cello theme throughout strikes a beautiful accord with the movements of the protagonist on screen. In addition to the stellar soundtrack, the lensing is phenomenal especially during the burial preparation scenes (of course, it doesn’t hurt that the ceremony itself is beautiful). I admire the director’s choice of shooting most of the action in homely spaces because, as we find, the beauty of death is that it’s not separate from normal life but another natural part of that reality.

My only gripe with the film, and it’s a minor one, is the decision to shoot Diago playing the cello out in middle of nature . . . while it makes for great DVD cover art, it seemed out of place. Of course, the fact that he is playing on a narrow raised plain might represent that he, through his art (be that music or Nokanshi), is ushering the dead from one land to the next. Still, I think the symbolism too far afield from the story at hand.

If you have a propensity to avoid foreign films due to subtitles, or because they are so, um, foreign, I implore you not to miss Departures. Rare cinematic gems like this come along so infrequently. I guarantee you that even at 130 minutes, you will watch this film to the very end and you will be richer for having done so.

Some of my more cultured friends are always sharing how much they enjoy foreign films. If you’re like me you think of foreign films as Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon or an hour and a half of reading subtitles. However, I decided to put aside my stereotypes and watch one.

Not wanting to do anything too drastic, I decided to start small with a British film. No subtitles. I had heard many good things about the movie Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging. Many of my friends had been singing its praises so I decided that was sign enough to spend a few hours with popcorn and my large screen TV.

The film is about a high school girl named Georgia. Her and her friends notice the handsome new boys who just moved to their town of Eastbourne, England. Like most high school flicks, Georgia spends the movie trying to impress a boy. Meanwhile, she has to deal with her father getting a job in New Zealand and the effects it has on the family.

All in all, the film was a good laugh (the opening scene showed Georgia dressed like a stuffed olive running through the streets), but it was definitely your typical teen movie with a sugar coated, cheesy ending and many overdramatic scenes. It worked well as a pick me up movie. Maybe next time I’ll tread deeper waters and cross a language barrier with my film selection. Any suggestions?

Lindsay

Know when you reach that point where you wish there was a turn off/on switch on the wall for your mind? Some folks reach this point more often and faster than others due in part to how we spend our time and energy.  One of my ways of easing the influx of all the negative input is to watch several films in a row. Yep, just turn off the phone, turn off the lights, pop some corn, open the jar of herring, and pour some grape juice over ice and push the ‘play’ button on the dvd player.  For me, the key is finding some  mental relief from the sadism of the world at large via viewing satisfying films that work visually, textually and with solid performances.  Here’s a few films that I though might be worth sharing and inviting discussion/comments. I enjoyed them all–each for what they offered.  What films have you indulged in viewing lately?

The Grocer’s Son  — http://www.filmmovement.com/filmcatalog/index.asp?MerchandiseID=163&gclid=CMKVu_ypsZ8CFQUMDQodj0HW0w&

I want his ‘job’–I want that route! I want that stone house in the country…

Film Movement offers some very interesting movies that could be easily overlooked since there’s not huge market press everywhere for such films.

Brazil unlike I ever imagined it  in  The House of Sand  — >http://movies.nytimes.com/2006/08/11/movies/11hous.html

The House of Sand gives new meaning to getting away from it ALL.

The Pope’s Toilet  – in Uruguay no less!–Who needs a car when you’ve got a bike?

>http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/films/870

http://www.filmmovement.com/downloads/press/The_Popes_Toilet_FM_Press_Kit.pdf

Robert Redford, Helen Mirren, and William Dafoe ACT big time  in The Clearing

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0331952/

The Clearing’s cast is the reason for viewing this film.  How would you spend your last hours? I think I enjoyed Redford’s performance in An Unfinished Life, but it was good to see him deal with an entirely different sort of ‘character’ in The Clearing.  Dafoe—well, DAFOE is DAFOE—he never disappoints whether invisible as a vampire, The Man in Boondock Saints, or –or anyone else! Mirren–hmm…let’s have her face off with Judi Dench–or maybe not. LOL.

I Am Guilty—-Who needs trouble? This young man wants it. Parents might take notes.

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/i_am_guilty/#

The Motorcycle Diaries–

http://www.motorcyclediariesmovie.com/

Can Che swim? Yes, he can!  And that motorcycle loving dude sure can DANCE!  I do so adore roadtrips–but I think I would have traded that motorcycle for a donkey pretty damn quick!!!

Not yet on  dvd:

Still Walking   *****  http://fest09.sffs.org/films/film_details.php?id=85

Beautifully performed, visually engaging, textually satisfying film delivers on so many levels–like the delightful film, Departures– without resorting to horns and whistles.  Who says ‘pain’ must be expressed  with screaming and yelling? What’s in a song?  Should I let you be my ‘father’? If you’re sick of blood and guts and screeching wheels –see it if you can.

I decided to have a relaxed Friday evening and took in a solitary activity that I always do when feeling sullen. I used to have a stigma against going to the movies by myself, but sometime in my twenties that changed. I no longer felt the need to get a group of friends together to make obnoxious comments too.  I feel that has actually made me have a better understanding and appreciation for films too. So, when I got off of work I took the subway and headed straight to the Film Forum, one of my favorite New York City discoveries. Some people may have their Magnolia or their Buttercup bakeries, or their dive bars (I have a steady handful of those at my disposal), but I genuinely enjoy the Film Forum. Yeah, their are a bunch of foreign/old/pretentious movies, but it’s a nice escape from the crap I usually go see and almost immediately forget. I can’t tell you how many times I have forgotten what I was going to see during the previews.

I sit down and suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look behind me to see this brunette asking me to sit next to her. Immediately, I’m thinking I have a shot, but she follows that it’s because she didn’t want to awkwardly shift around my head during the movie.  The movie starts to play, and I test the waters with a sarcastic remark. She tells me to hush, and I promptly do. She then kisses my cheek, and I’m starting to be weirded out about the mixed messages.  The movie ends, and she’s pushy, and she’s calling all the shots. She doesn’t own the room, but she’s got me confused enough to stick around. I asked to buy her a cup of coffee.

No, you’re gonna buy me tea.

It’s recently been mention that apparently I have a tendency to like forward/sassy girls, and this was little exception. Every time I feigned a mild disinterest or complaint, anything that was anything other than satisfactory she’d give me the confidence-shaking “hush”.  We had sparse conversation over tea, and hot chocolate.  When she was done she gave me a patronizing kiss on the cheek and thanked me for the tea.

Now that I got that Netflix disc that allows me to watch their streaming movies through my PS3, I took a test run with this extremely creepy thriller from the Netherlands. I usually don’t like watching movies made before like 1995 because the video quality is often fuzzy and off-putting, but this 1988 film looked pretty good and I never felt I was in danger of hearing the Thompson Twins during an especially lengthy music montage.

The story is pretty chilling in its own right, but it is the execution that makes it really bizarre and gives you the feeling that you are actually watching a crime unfold.

A man and his wife (or girlfriend) are on a trip. They pull up to a ginormous gas station that appears to be a popular stop for tourists, travel groups and in this case abductors. Without giving anything away the lady vanishes (get it? like the title) and so begins the man’s three-year search for her.

Most people would certainly stop looking after that amount of time, but he keeps going. Why? Because the kidnapper periodically sends him cryptic clues as to her whereabouts and that she may not be dead. Gross.

Much of the movie is actually from the kidnapper’s point of view. It tells you pretty much in the first 10 minutes who he is. The flashbacks that make up a large portion shows his repeated attempts at abducting women. He fails numerous times until eventually pulling it off.

The kidnapper is really creepy. You get the distinct sensation that your uncle is touching you when he is on screen. He is a real fucked up bastard. This is of course countered by a seemingly normal home life with a wife and two daughters. The ending will probably make you pretty damn uncomfortable, but that’s the point really.

The Vanishing isn’t a movie you’ll be talking about vigorously with your friends, but it is a pretty good watch. You might even be able to throw in a pretentious aside at a dinner party that you watched a Dutch film. So, ya know…that’s neat.

P.S. – There was an American version made with Kiefer Sutherland, Jeff Bridges and Sandra Bullock. I’m sure it sucks, but if you want to see it, go for it I guess.

Score – 70

Maybe Angie would care to review the latest film we watched together. Pan’s Labyrinth.
I would be curious to hear her comments. En Ingles or Espanol…

The Golden Globes and the Oscars seem to loom before us – at least if you love film.  Maybe you’re a cinéphile, or a cinéaste, or you simply love to go to films and talk about them over coffee, or something.

It’s great fun…unless you don’t have or take the time to “indulge” in going; whether you want to see Jim Carrey or George Clooney.  It’s almost a shame.  And what if you want to write about your film passion?  You see the new Siskels and Eberts, you listen to film critics on National Public Radio’s “Fresh Air,” or you read the best of lists at TheRoot.com, if not all of these.

That’s me, except for “Fresh Air’s” film criticism.  It’s too snobby.  I’m chomping at the bit to reflect, write, and take part in these conversations (albeit the haute culture ones) – the fall, serious dramas are my season.  The summer movies?  Nope.  Entertainment for me is what others see as work.  I’m a film snob.  Summer is when I’ll have to catch up on the DVDs of the independent and foreign films that I missed in the last…14 months.

I still haven’t seen “The Class.”  The French documentary about a teacher working with either typical or at-risk students.

The ensemble of "An Education"

I saw the English film, “An Education,” only two weeks ago. I got out of it what I’d wanted; it means something to me; it made me laugh, think, and ask myself questions during and after.  That’s almost always what I want.  I’m on the edges of movie watching though.

“(500) Days of Summer” engages me.  At least the title.  It’s charming.  I’d forgotten about Michael Mann’s “Public Enemies.”  I haven’t seen the film, bit I did talk to Melvin Purvis’ son, an East Coast arts instructor, for a great radio segment this summer.  Part of me wants to bear witness to the hype about “Precious.”  I know about abuse.  I’m curious about “Up in the Air.”  The writing.  The characters.  Its footing in the 2008-2009 realities.  All of these elements engage me.

A scene from the documentary "Good Hair"

I still want to watch “Good Hair.” The trailer sold me on it.  But TheRoot.com’s criticism cooled my jets; according to them, the movie looks like a long-form docu-comedy – should that be a genre option? – not a documentary that examines and pursues candid answers.  There are tough questions that the hilarious trailer opens and leave that way.

I have seen “The Hurt Locker.”  I still have no love for it; my mind boggles at audiences’ exuberance and adulation.  My expectations remain as high as when I criticized Roger Ebert’s fawning over it.

I have a faint and fading recall, other than these titles, of which films came out after last January.  I feel horrible.  I had to check a list of nominations to remember even that 10% or so of the titles.  I love film, but I sure don’t show it.  I feel culturally detached and unengaged.

Winter cramps my style.  All I want is to cover every inch of flesh to avoid the elements, which completely trumps being fashionable.  I see women in stylish canary yellow coats, in sexy stockings, in cutie-pie knit caps topped with tufts of yarn or those funky Russian jobs old guys wear to go hunting.  Despite the icy tundra surrounding us, these gals look like a million bucks.  

Meanwhile, I’m dressed in four layers of clothes beneath a down coat hanging to my knees.  I’m in a bulbous hat covering my entire head, a chunky scarf and boots heavy enough to pass military inspection.  Because of my shortness and round features, the look is far from flattering.  I could only describe my winter style as “igloo-esque.”  

The winter is my cocoon period, a season of reinvention in which I discover new ways to put myself into the world once I become a butterfly in spring.  Clothes may be the most superficial aspect of this rebirth, but certainly they’re the most fun.  Usually, I only get rid of old stuff from the closet or choose new words to describe my style.  Last year, I was going to be “funky,” the year before a bit more “boho.”  But 2010 feels different.  More transformative.  My next incarnation?  

I’m going to be an Italian woman.   

I was watching this foreign film about an Italian guy trying to extract himself from a relationship with one woman while sleeping with another.  The first time we meet the passionate Cloe, woman numero uno in the film, she’s sunbathing topless.  When her bully of a boyfriend comes round to demand she get ready for dinner, she yells something impassioned and Italian at him, like, “I cannot live like this, you are nothing but a worm!  I have no use for you.  This isn’t love, it’s brutalization!”  Cloe slips on a wrinkled, sheer blouse and ties her hair in a loose knot yet still manages to look absolutely stunning.  Then she and her man go to a restaurant where she continues to don the see-through top, proudly displaying her breasts to any other patron who dares to look in her direction.   

I’m totally gonna start doing that.    

Really, I’d been working Italy into my wardrobe for years, but lots of items have remained hidden in my closet since I’ve been back in the States.  In fact, much of the vivacious, voluptuous, hot-blooded textures Europe gave to my character have been subdued in an attempt to re-acclimate.  Undoubtedly, it would be kind of odd to go to the movies in a busty, Sophia Loren-type getup or disagree with a colleague at work by telling him, “Your cruelty seeps into me like poison.  You are a fool and you are dead to me.”   

Anyway, it’s more than getting bored with my wardrobe.  It’s about wanting to free a caged part of my soul.   

Part of my reason for coming back to the States was realizing I couldn’t spend a lifetime drinking sangria and writing stories in cafés with manic poets and directionless bums.  But why does the alternative have to be so humdrum?  One doesn’t have to be a wanderluster who moves half way across the globe to know the way we’ve constructed our worlds kinda stinks.  The passion is gone from our day to day.  The vast palette of color that enriches our lives has been drained by a fixation on success, or nowadays, survival.   

I want it back.  Maybe I don’t have to channel Italian women, move to the other side of the planet or even alter the life I’ve built for myself in the here and now.  Maybe I simply need to be adamant in not allowing my own passion to drain.  Let the thigh high stockings beneath my business suit be a silent rebellion.  Let the sound of my laughter reach socially unacceptable levels as a more explicit revolt.  Maybe next time someone bullies me, I’ll skip the Oprah-style courtesy and let him know he’s a worm who’s destroying my life.  I’ll take flamenco classes and mimic the languages I hear in foreign films and write stories raw enough to unsettle more emotionally detached sensibilities.  And I’ll keep falling madly, dangerously in love.  That is, once I get out of this dag-blasted parka.

 Man, I can’t wait for spring.