The previous post was from the blog spot on the 48-hour film project. This, if you don’t know what it is, is a national film makers project that gives, us (film makers) the opportunity to see if we can hold up under the pressure of creating a 7 minute film in 48 hours. The kicker is you can’t write the film until you get the information from the Producers of the 48-hour film project.
Friday, August 7, 2009
There was a hum everywhere in the air. Artwork sat against the walls as primarily men filled the meeting area. There was a bobbing of heads here and there checking to see whom the ‘new kids’ were. Team members, chit, chatted back and forth with anxious postures -- some of them -- accept those ‘who knew what to expect.’ It is surprising that only 1 in 10 people here is a woman -- filmmaking is still overwhelmingly male dominated.
The crew’s are meeting with the BIG PRODUCERS of the 48-hour film project to get our Genre. Each team pulls from the hat, you get a genre then, or you can put it back and wait for the catch all genres they pick at the end. We pulled Fantasy -- This means that our film has to have the elements of a fantasy film -- something like “Legend,” “Star Wars,” they are flights of fancy films that have elements of myth and magic in them.
A couple of the team members weren’t too sure about doing the fantasy genre, but I assured them it would be fine, and that I could write a script for anything (no matter what the genre was we picked).
So then, we waited for the next elements that had to be incorporated into the film. First was a prop. Each team has to use the same prop in their film. The prop was a “present,” and it did not have to be wrapped.
Next, we had a character that had to be incorporated into each team’s film. The character was Alan or Alana Beaumont and they had to be a Phony. Guess what that means. They had to be someone they weren’t. It was a bit vague to be sure, but okay, I can handle that.
Last, we got a single line of dialogue. It was, “that’s never happened before.”
Okay we had all our elements for the film, we had to make a fantasy film, with a present, which included a character Alan or Alana Beaumont who was a phony and someone had to say the line “that’s never happened before.”
“GO MAKE YOUR MOVIE” the producer shouted at the group of people who were standing around. Everyone and I mean everyone made a B’line for the door. The films had to be turned in completed with all the paperwork by 7:30 on Sunday. That evening with information in hand, I set out to complete my first task, making the script into something “fantasy related” that incorporated all our needed items. By three o’clock on Saturday morning, we had a script and it was emailed to everyone on the team. -- First task completed. It wasn’t a blockbuster-writing job, but it would make them laugh (the audience).
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m. everyone (except the sleeping writer) invaded en masse at the Allegheny Country Club swimming pool to shoot the majority of our film. They were kind enough to allow us the use of their pool without payment. I can’t say enough about how wonderful they were to us, and how interested the members of the club were in what we were doing.
I made my way to the pool around 11:30 a.m. just in time for the beginning of major shooting. Aaron our cinematographer filmed much of the opening sequence before I arrived (mostly second unit stuff) -- he has a fabulous eye for beauty in simplicity, and I was happy he was part of the team. Aaron conferred with me when I arrived, they were already ‘off script’ -- shooting things out of order, and so adjustment in the story line had to be made, on the fly. Not a major deal, but an issue nonetheless. I didn’t want to waste another couple of hours trying to re-shoot the opening, so we just adapted. “Be the willow, not the oak.” Bend with the problems don’t cause more. We didn’t have time to re-shoot; we would work around the problem. We shot everything except 2 very small scenes in the 7 hours at the pool. Then everyone was off to eat and finish the last 2 scenes after dinner.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Editing started that night -- Aaron started splicing shots together. He had the majority of the film done by 1:00 p.m. on Sunday. I came in for final sound check, music placement and to double check continuity -- which I was amazed was exceptional considering no markers were placed for cameras during the entire shoot. Our composer Josh, a one-man wonder, scored the entire film in a single evening while Aaron cut and spliced and worked his magic. 6:00 p.m. Sunday, Aaron burned the film to DVD and flash drive -- and Kirsten our producer (that girl is a genius when it comes to finding things) strolled out the door to deliver our film.
Thursday the 13th of August, at 7:00 p.m. is the premier of our collaboration. 15 Actors and 3 additional crewmembers (I, Aaron and Josh) will see our film on the big screen. 48 hours in the making -- 8 minutes 12 seconds on screen. Not a second of that time is regretted.
This is guerrilla film making at its finest.
I will tell you all about the premier if you are unable to attend.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Recipe for Creative Vision in 48 Hours
8 hours of script writing via email with an hour at eat n' park for dinner where we missed each other (producer and writer). We were each at the wrong eat n' park.
12 hours of shooting at locations
2 dedicated families (feeding the cast and crew)
2 hand-held mini digital cameras (with underwater shots included -- stroke of brilliance on the cinematographers part)
1 mic, no lighting except natural
Throngs of people not in the shot, but making noise enough to be in the shot.
1 composer, writing an entire score in an evening, beautiful and ethereal
15 actors - learning lines in seconds and trying not to crack up during takes
1 cinematographer with a an eye for beauty
4 directors/camera operators, making sure we followed the story -- well pretty close
12 hours of editing, -- with the occasional glitch in the system (save, save, save).
48 hours of little or no sleep, but all seriously fun.
12 hours of shooting at locations
2 dedicated families (feeding the cast and crew)
2 hand-held mini digital cameras (with underwater shots included -- stroke of brilliance on the cinematographers part)
1 mic, no lighting except natural
Throngs of people not in the shot, but making noise enough to be in the shot.
1 composer, writing an entire score in an evening, beautiful and ethereal
15 actors - learning lines in seconds and trying not to crack up during takes
1 cinematographer with a an eye for beauty
4 directors/camera operators, making sure we followed the story -- well pretty close
12 hours of editing, -- with the occasional glitch in the system (save, save, save).
48 hours of little or no sleep, but all seriously fun.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Writing On Robert
“Robert Fulghum?”
“Yes, Robert Fulghum,” I say.
“The writer?” he asked again.
“Duh, of course. Who else?” I answered, again.
A conversation with a friend over who makes me laugh and cry.
I read Robert’s first book on a bus on my way to work. I’m a fan, through and through.
I got stares from people around me. I could guess what they said.
“Why is she laughing? And so loud too.”
I didn’t care, Robert is funny, and then I would wipe a tear starting at the corner of my eye.
“Now she’s crying. What the hell is she reading?”
Robert can make you cry with a pen stroke.
Of course, they would have to guess. Not many people, at the time, had heard of
Robert Fulghum.
My mother wrote this inscription inside a book given to me at Christmas, “Artists and writers see the world differently than others.” That was all, a simple line that summed up my life to her.
She was correct.
Writers, like Mr. Fulghum, see beauty in the smallest of things. A meatloaf sandwich in a refrigerator at 3:00 in the morning -- for instance. The refrigerator is humming to the same frequency his body does. This was ‘Meatloaf in B flat major.’ Something so simple gives us pause to reevaluate the meaning of our life. Slow down, don’t just stop to smell the roses, darn it, smell the entire garden. Then, look at it -- I mean really look at it. It’s a miracle -- sitting in your yard. But we don’t see it, we are traveling at a speed of 60 mph and it’s a blur of red and green. We are missing the miracles of our life for work and appointments, PTA meetings and drive thru value meals.
As I’m writing this my daughter wants to play with me. “Come play with me mommy,” she says. Well, I’m not going to miss time with her just to write for you all. My miracle is waiting to play with me, and she smells like my garden of roses. I’m going to enjoy that garden while it grows. Check back with you all later.
Go enjoy your garden.
Read more about and by Robert at : www.robertfulghum.com
“Yes, Robert Fulghum,” I say.
“The writer?” he asked again.
“Duh, of course. Who else?” I answered, again.
A conversation with a friend over who makes me laugh and cry.
I read Robert’s first book on a bus on my way to work. I’m a fan, through and through.
I got stares from people around me. I could guess what they said.
“Why is she laughing? And so loud too.”
I didn’t care, Robert is funny, and then I would wipe a tear starting at the corner of my eye.
“Now she’s crying. What the hell is she reading?”
Robert can make you cry with a pen stroke.
Of course, they would have to guess. Not many people, at the time, had heard of
Robert Fulghum.
My mother wrote this inscription inside a book given to me at Christmas, “Artists and writers see the world differently than others.” That was all, a simple line that summed up my life to her.
She was correct.
Writers, like Mr. Fulghum, see beauty in the smallest of things. A meatloaf sandwich in a refrigerator at 3:00 in the morning -- for instance. The refrigerator is humming to the same frequency his body does. This was ‘Meatloaf in B flat major.’ Something so simple gives us pause to reevaluate the meaning of our life. Slow down, don’t just stop to smell the roses, darn it, smell the entire garden. Then, look at it -- I mean really look at it. It’s a miracle -- sitting in your yard. But we don’t see it, we are traveling at a speed of 60 mph and it’s a blur of red and green. We are missing the miracles of our life for work and appointments, PTA meetings and drive thru value meals.
As I’m writing this my daughter wants to play with me. “Come play with me mommy,” she says. Well, I’m not going to miss time with her just to write for you all. My miracle is waiting to play with me, and she smells like my garden of roses. I’m going to enjoy that garden while it grows. Check back with you all later.
Go enjoy your garden.
Read more about and by Robert at : www.robertfulghum.com
Friday, August 7, 2009
Start Your Engines
Red, Yellow, Green -- We're off
Okay wish us luck kids ---
The 48 hour film project starts today at 6:00. We have until 6:00 on
Sunday to turn in a completed film. I won't be blogging over the
weekend. I will be writing a movie.
See you all on MondayDrivers Start Your Engines -- Vaaaroooooom
:0)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Lasting Impressions
Pink mascara lashes lengthen against baby blue sky batting away white candy-floss filled green valleys.
What a beautiful sunrise this morning.
The painters palette at work again. Although, I have to say, Arizona has the most awesome sunrises in the history of sunrises. In my view, of course.
The air, crisp and clean, rushing through the window, until it abruptly changes to skunk. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sure a car hit him, or another animal got too frisky with him. But, Au weh ist mir (‘Oh woe is me,’ for my non-German speaking friends), the smell.
The smell reaches your nose sending two signals to your brain. The first, ‘Oh god, a skunk,’ the other telling your hand to hit the up button on the window, which you, given the circumstances, will assuredly hit the down portion of the button first, filling the car with even more obnoxious gas before getting the window rolled-up, trapping the gasses inside the car with you. This is what we call a, ‘loose, loose scenario.’
These are lasting impressions. We take the good with the bad.
What a beautiful sunrise this morning.
The painters palette at work again. Although, I have to say, Arizona has the most awesome sunrises in the history of sunrises. In my view, of course.
The air, crisp and clean, rushing through the window, until it abruptly changes to skunk. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sure a car hit him, or another animal got too frisky with him. But, Au weh ist mir (‘Oh woe is me,’ for my non-German speaking friends), the smell.
The smell reaches your nose sending two signals to your brain. The first, ‘Oh god, a skunk,’ the other telling your hand to hit the up button on the window, which you, given the circumstances, will assuredly hit the down portion of the button first, filling the car with even more obnoxious gas before getting the window rolled-up, trapping the gasses inside the car with you. This is what we call a, ‘loose, loose scenario.’
These are lasting impressions. We take the good with the bad.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Traffic Jam of Ideas
I sit.
I sit looking at a blank page, not waiting for inspiration. I have plenty of inspiration. My brain is
a traffic jam of ideas. I wait for the chaos to clear so I can pick out an elegant one, a single well-designed idea, on which to write about today.
As a writer, I keep a few things with me at all times. One is a pen, the second is paper, usually
a spiral notebook, and third is a book -- it is usually the book I am reading that week, or
weekend, depending on how good the book is. I can eat up books like potato chips -- One is just
never enough.
I will dip into the well of writing from my notebook for this next story. It is a glimpse of something we all see at one time or another, but may take for granted. It is the airport. This is what I saw the day I picked up my daughter.
The Airport
The airport is a busy milling of ants running here and there, chauffeurs stand like statues holding illuminated signs of passengers they whisk away to exciting and boring places. Eyes race to a fro looking for family faces, signs of information and baggage claim carousels.
People who travel alone are expeditious, finding their avenues of exit quickly and easily.
There is a man with three small children in tow, things dangling from every possible clip on his already overflowing backpack, each hand filled with a smaller, more delicate one. They look at him with awe and wonder, their protector.
Women in heels, click clack their way across the floor, always perplexing me. How do they maneuver in airports, making connections in hubs, demanding miles of legwork?
The young couple is holding hands, tired from their journey. Who knows how many hours they flew? That same couple, aged with years of travel and worldly trials, walks thirty or so feet behind their younger selves, still hand in hand, still smiling, still tired from hours of travel and he still loves her, you can tell. He glances at her, making sure he isn’t dreaming, she smiles and grips his hand a little tighter, reassuring.
A women stands with me at carousel “J” for the United flight -- on time. She is waiting to see her daughter. It’s a reunion. They haven’t seen one another in twenty years. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach for her, butterflies and knots making their appearance. She has twenty minutes left to wait.
I watch a young couple embrace after their absence from one another. He wears a shirt stating,
“Life Begins.”
A new beginning, a new start, that is today for everyone in the airport. I decided to check the schedule again. I want to embrace my daughter; I miss her.
I want our life to begin.
I sit looking at a blank page, not waiting for inspiration. I have plenty of inspiration. My brain is
a traffic jam of ideas. I wait for the chaos to clear so I can pick out an elegant one, a single well-designed idea, on which to write about today.
As a writer, I keep a few things with me at all times. One is a pen, the second is paper, usually
a spiral notebook, and third is a book -- it is usually the book I am reading that week, or
weekend, depending on how good the book is. I can eat up books like potato chips -- One is just
never enough.
I will dip into the well of writing from my notebook for this next story. It is a glimpse of something we all see at one time or another, but may take for granted. It is the airport. This is what I saw the day I picked up my daughter.
The Airport
The airport is a busy milling of ants running here and there, chauffeurs stand like statues holding illuminated signs of passengers they whisk away to exciting and boring places. Eyes race to a fro looking for family faces, signs of information and baggage claim carousels.
People who travel alone are expeditious, finding their avenues of exit quickly and easily.
There is a man with three small children in tow, things dangling from every possible clip on his already overflowing backpack, each hand filled with a smaller, more delicate one. They look at him with awe and wonder, their protector.
Women in heels, click clack their way across the floor, always perplexing me. How do they maneuver in airports, making connections in hubs, demanding miles of legwork?
The young couple is holding hands, tired from their journey. Who knows how many hours they flew? That same couple, aged with years of travel and worldly trials, walks thirty or so feet behind their younger selves, still hand in hand, still smiling, still tired from hours of travel and he still loves her, you can tell. He glances at her, making sure he isn’t dreaming, she smiles and grips his hand a little tighter, reassuring.
A women stands with me at carousel “J” for the United flight -- on time. She is waiting to see her daughter. It’s a reunion. They haven’t seen one another in twenty years. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach for her, butterflies and knots making their appearance. She has twenty minutes left to wait.
I watch a young couple embrace after their absence from one another. He wears a shirt stating,
“Life Begins.”
A new beginning, a new start, that is today for everyone in the airport. I decided to check the schedule again. I want to embrace my daughter; I miss her.
I want our life to begin.
Singing the Blues and Other Hues
Judith, my aunt, and mother to my cousins Kevin and Melodie, sings.
She also plays the piano, a talent I envy. Oh yes, it’s a brilliant emerald green, this envy. She is also the first reader and editor of my stories. (Not this blog however, or it would be grammatically correct, all the time.)
Judy has the ‘ear’, which in musical terms means perfect pitch. Like a perfumer, who has a perfect ‘nose’ for sniffing out fragrance, Judy can hear a song and know with certainty what key it’s in, what cords are used and best of all, can tune my guitar without picking up a tuner.
This is talent. To me, one of the finest talents in the world.
She came to visit my humble abode (and when I say humble, I mean the straw house from the three little pigs) in September after a whirlwind trip through Germany, visiting her brother who was turning 70 years old. Many members of my family were on that trip to Germany. I, however, didn’t go. I’m poor, a writer, enough said.
I was thrilled when she came to visit; I would have kept her here permanently, if the gods allowed it. We sat and talked about her life and music. The stories are so much better when you’re old enough to understand them. I showed her the first ‘inklings’ of the story, Ms. Abigail Spotty’s Rainbow Spots, I was writing for my daughter. Kelsey hates that I named her Abigail; she is just Ms. Spotty to her.
Judy talked about Vegas, one of the first places she worked, and Gene Autry, for whom she worked. She met many wonderful people during her stay in Vegas, Liberace (that man sparkled), The Rat Pack’s Dean Martin and many other singers, songwriters and big band leaders, of the day. To be honest, I was star struck. WOW.
I got around to asking her about a song she wrote many years ago. The song is called, “Just a Bend in The Road.” Eddy Arnold performed this song on one of his albums. (I don’t know if there are right infringements to this song, so I can’t incorporate it into the blog.)
Judy came to the VFW here in Millvale and played for everyone in the club. Oh happy day. She took requests, sitting in that smoke filled bar and put a smile on everyone’s face. That is a blessing. That, my friends, is talent with a capital T. My husband, Kevin still talks about that day with a glimmer in his eyes. He wishes she would come to stay, too.
She never did play the song, “Just a Bend in The Road.” She told me the story behind the song, which is a private part of her life. Someday she'll let me tell the story.
And Maybe she will come sing the blues for us again.
You come along and sing in your hue.
She also plays the piano, a talent I envy. Oh yes, it’s a brilliant emerald green, this envy. She is also the first reader and editor of my stories. (Not this blog however, or it would be grammatically correct, all the time.)
Judy has the ‘ear’, which in musical terms means perfect pitch. Like a perfumer, who has a perfect ‘nose’ for sniffing out fragrance, Judy can hear a song and know with certainty what key it’s in, what cords are used and best of all, can tune my guitar without picking up a tuner.
This is talent. To me, one of the finest talents in the world.
She came to visit my humble abode (and when I say humble, I mean the straw house from the three little pigs) in September after a whirlwind trip through Germany, visiting her brother who was turning 70 years old. Many members of my family were on that trip to Germany. I, however, didn’t go. I’m poor, a writer, enough said.
I was thrilled when she came to visit; I would have kept her here permanently, if the gods allowed it. We sat and talked about her life and music. The stories are so much better when you’re old enough to understand them. I showed her the first ‘inklings’ of the story, Ms. Abigail Spotty’s Rainbow Spots, I was writing for my daughter. Kelsey hates that I named her Abigail; she is just Ms. Spotty to her.
Judy talked about Vegas, one of the first places she worked, and Gene Autry, for whom she worked. She met many wonderful people during her stay in Vegas, Liberace (that man sparkled), The Rat Pack’s Dean Martin and many other singers, songwriters and big band leaders, of the day. To be honest, I was star struck. WOW.
I got around to asking her about a song she wrote many years ago. The song is called, “Just a Bend in The Road.” Eddy Arnold performed this song on one of his albums. (I don’t know if there are right infringements to this song, so I can’t incorporate it into the blog.)
Judy came to the VFW here in Millvale and played for everyone in the club. Oh happy day. She took requests, sitting in that smoke filled bar and put a smile on everyone’s face. That is a blessing. That, my friends, is talent with a capital T. My husband, Kevin still talks about that day with a glimmer in his eyes. He wishes she would come to stay, too.
She never did play the song, “Just a Bend in The Road.” She told me the story behind the song, which is a private part of her life. Someday she'll let me tell the story.
And Maybe she will come sing the blues for us again.
You come along and sing in your hue.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Cracking Creative
Since I was old enough to hold a crayon, I have been creative. To be honest, I was creative before I held a crayon. Smelly art however, may not count.
My mother told me a story of, coming home to an awful smell, overpowering the house and my father, blissful in his ignorance, hadn’t noticed any smell.
I am giving you fare warning, if you have a weak stomach -- stop now.
“Oh god, Roger, what the hell is that smell?”
I am sure my mother held a hand to her face, trying desperately to block the odor. He most likely just shrugged, wondering why she asked. She proceeded to my nursery room finding me, happy -- enjoying my first masterpiece of creativity.
“Jesus Roger.”
I know my mother pretty well; I am truncating what you might have heard. Her spoken words would have had more flourish, (meaning, a truck driver would have blushed).
The white walls and crib were now a subtle shade of greenish brown and so was I. My diaper had been my first palette and the walls and crib, my first canvas. Luckily enough, I don’t remember this every happening. I only have the word of my mother and she wouldn’t make this up. Who would make up a story this horrifically wonderful?
I was the Picasso of poop.
I'm sure it wasn't long after that, crayons made their appearance on the scene, then pencils, acrylic and finally oils, with plenty of paper and canvas thrown in for good measure.
I am an artist in the truest sense of the word. I have created all my life, in multiple mediums.
Writing was thrown into the mix somewhere on the timeline of 45 years, probably during Jr. High School. Writing wasn't something that came easily to me, nor did reading. I stumbled around in the darkness of words, unintelligent in their meaning.
A wonderful English teacher in 7th grade opened my world and mind to the written word. The first story I remember breaking through the darkness was, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- by C.S. Lewis. The door cracked open and blinding light shone through. I was engaged in the story, which the teacher dutifully read to us each day in class. The characters came to life in that classroom. My mother purchased the rest of the stories for me, which I devoured with a voracious appetite. I was starving and didn’t realize it.
I sat, unmoving for days, lost in worlds completely foreign to me, saturating my minds eye with images of magical places, beasts that talked and children who were brave beyond measure. I was hooked, a story junkie looking for my next fix.
High school brought with it the classics, Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck and Homer. Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Withering Heights and the Tale of Two Cities, were lost on me. I didn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know how to appreciate them because I was new to the written word. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I grew to love the classics, thankfully.
I bravely brandish a shirt, which states, “I read banned books.” A philosophy I happily live by. "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it." Edmund Burke (1729-1797). All books and art are part of our history. The good, the bad, and the ugly (idiotic idea -- banning things -- censors, argh).
Writing starts in lower grades, but I didn’t become competent in the concept of writing until High school. Essays -- WOO HOO. This is where you learn serious organization of thought into coherent sentences and paragraphs on a blank page. Most people I knew hated essays. For me, it was a place for creativity. I was given a blank canvas and words colored my new palette.
Blue ethereal skies filled with beetle black ash, vomiting forth in volcanic explosions of words. Who could not write with a palette like that? They are vibrant, multi-hued expressions of what we see, just like a painter with dollops of paint on his canvas; the writer paints a picture, allowing us a glimpse into his or her perceptions.
Beautifully creative.
My mother told me a story of, coming home to an awful smell, overpowering the house and my father, blissful in his ignorance, hadn’t noticed any smell.
I am giving you fare warning, if you have a weak stomach -- stop now.
“Oh god, Roger, what the hell is that smell?”
I am sure my mother held a hand to her face, trying desperately to block the odor. He most likely just shrugged, wondering why she asked. She proceeded to my nursery room finding me, happy -- enjoying my first masterpiece of creativity.
“Jesus Roger.”
I know my mother pretty well; I am truncating what you might have heard. Her spoken words would have had more flourish, (meaning, a truck driver would have blushed).
The white walls and crib were now a subtle shade of greenish brown and so was I. My diaper had been my first palette and the walls and crib, my first canvas. Luckily enough, I don’t remember this every happening. I only have the word of my mother and she wouldn’t make this up. Who would make up a story this horrifically wonderful?
I was the Picasso of poop.
I'm sure it wasn't long after that, crayons made their appearance on the scene, then pencils, acrylic and finally oils, with plenty of paper and canvas thrown in for good measure.
I am an artist in the truest sense of the word. I have created all my life, in multiple mediums.
Writing was thrown into the mix somewhere on the timeline of 45 years, probably during Jr. High School. Writing wasn't something that came easily to me, nor did reading. I stumbled around in the darkness of words, unintelligent in their meaning.
A wonderful English teacher in 7th grade opened my world and mind to the written word. The first story I remember breaking through the darkness was, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- by C.S. Lewis. The door cracked open and blinding light shone through. I was engaged in the story, which the teacher dutifully read to us each day in class. The characters came to life in that classroom. My mother purchased the rest of the stories for me, which I devoured with a voracious appetite. I was starving and didn’t realize it.
I sat, unmoving for days, lost in worlds completely foreign to me, saturating my minds eye with images of magical places, beasts that talked and children who were brave beyond measure. I was hooked, a story junkie looking for my next fix.
High school brought with it the classics, Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck and Homer. Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Withering Heights and the Tale of Two Cities, were lost on me. I didn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know how to appreciate them because I was new to the written word. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I grew to love the classics, thankfully.
I bravely brandish a shirt, which states, “I read banned books.” A philosophy I happily live by. "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it." Edmund Burke (1729-1797). All books and art are part of our history. The good, the bad, and the ugly (idiotic idea -- banning things -- censors, argh).
Writing starts in lower grades, but I didn’t become competent in the concept of writing until High school. Essays -- WOO HOO. This is where you learn serious organization of thought into coherent sentences and paragraphs on a blank page. Most people I knew hated essays. For me, it was a place for creativity. I was given a blank canvas and words colored my new palette.
Blue ethereal skies filled with beetle black ash, vomiting forth in volcanic explosions of words. Who could not write with a palette like that? They are vibrant, multi-hued expressions of what we see, just like a painter with dollops of paint on his canvas; the writer paints a picture, allowing us a glimpse into his or her perceptions.
Beautifully creative.
A World of Work
In the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth -- and all manner of creatures to fill that earth, including Adam and Eve of course.
Let’s look at this for a second. God created -- this means the omnipotent being that he is had to work (didn‘t he see that coming). Sure, he only had to work for six of the 7 days, getting his holiday after, but the man/women/being had to w.o.r.k. (I’m thinking I wouldn’t have wanted the job.)
Therefore, Adam and Eve had to find jobs. Their first job was naming everything. I would like to have been a fly on the wall when body parts came up in that conversation, or for that matter the platypus. I mean -- really -- platypus. Their main job however, was not to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. This seems like a pretty easy job to me, but alas, no -- Eve sticks her big nose into Adams business, “You need to assert yourself, you’ll never make manager if you don’t take initiative.” That is how I hear the conversation starting. “Go on show him you can take charge.”
I get a chuckle from the thought of Eve brow beating Adam.
Oh, so many wives have had this conversation. I knew it started somewhere.
Back to work.
Let’s look at this for a second. God created -- this means the omnipotent being that he is had to work (didn‘t he see that coming). Sure, he only had to work for six of the 7 days, getting his holiday after, but the man/women/being had to w.o.r.k. (I’m thinking I wouldn’t have wanted the job.)
Therefore, Adam and Eve had to find jobs. Their first job was naming everything. I would like to have been a fly on the wall when body parts came up in that conversation, or for that matter the platypus. I mean -- really -- platypus. Their main job however, was not to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. This seems like a pretty easy job to me, but alas, no -- Eve sticks her big nose into Adams business, “You need to assert yourself, you’ll never make manager if you don’t take initiative.” That is how I hear the conversation starting. “Go on show him you can take charge.”
I get a chuckle from the thought of Eve brow beating Adam.
Oh, so many wives have had this conversation. I knew it started somewhere.
Back to work.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Life Of Laughter
Laughter is an automatic response (usually) to jocularity. When something is funny, we laugh, simple. We also laugh in response to horror, anger and fear, which is a defensive mechanism developed by men to show they ‘ain’t scared of nothing,’ -- that makes me laugh.
I am a laugher, but there was a period in my life when I wasn’t. I used to say, “Oh that’s funny,” but would never laugh. People thought: I was stuck up (of course that wasn’t the case), or just didn’t find ‘things’ as funny as normal people -- normal being the key word here. The problem was and still is, I have migraines and anyone who knows about these, (you’d rather put your head through the wall) light blinding, noise sensitive, head splitting types of headaches, will appreciate that certain things set them off. Of all the things that could and would possibly set them off, laughter was the culprit. I found this out (after years of going home so sick I wanted to die), at the amusement park. So, I stopped laughing, good-bye, the end.
Kevin, my cousin and jester in residence of our family, used to get me laughing so hard I would stop breathing as tears streamed down my face. I might even turn blue, if the jokes were particularly riotous. We loved to laugh and Kevin was always happy to help in that aspect of our lives. He was a class clown that George Carlin would have envied. Luckily enough, Kevin found an outlet for his jocularity. He moved to Hollywood and now tortures others with breathless, tear stained, sidesplitting glimpses into his endless well of jokes.
My sister Chris and my mother Susan (you remember her from the southern cooking piece I wrote) and me, used to sit in our estrogen based atmosphere and make each other laugh, boys are banned from this club. They found particular pleasure in trying to cause my death.
We will call this “Death by Taco Chip Inhalation.”
A little Mexican food restaurant, down the street from our home, was a favorite of ours. They would wait patiently until I consumed the crispy chips in the bowl before hitting me, upside the head, with punch lines of jokes. This, in turn, would instantly cause me to inhale fragments of chips into my lungs, making the two of them laugh even harder. At the time, it wasn’t funny to me. Years later I look back and laugh -- it was funny but dangerous.
They weren’t being mean (I hope), they were just enjoying the time spent together laughing.
After realizing that laughter was causing my migraines, I found a way to fix the problem medically (better living through chemistry). Thank goodness. Could you imagine going your entire life without laughing? Neither could I. So now I laugh and pretty regularly too I’m happy to say.
I have children now who need tortured with the jocularity that runs rampant in our family. I promise not to choke them on taco chips, or turn them blue -- maybe. I might see if I can get my kids to laugh milk through their noses though. George Carlin and I will both laugh, him in heaven (because God likes a good joke) and me here on earth.
She laughed.
I am a laugher, but there was a period in my life when I wasn’t. I used to say, “Oh that’s funny,” but would never laugh. People thought: I was stuck up (of course that wasn’t the case), or just didn’t find ‘things’ as funny as normal people -- normal being the key word here. The problem was and still is, I have migraines and anyone who knows about these, (you’d rather put your head through the wall) light blinding, noise sensitive, head splitting types of headaches, will appreciate that certain things set them off. Of all the things that could and would possibly set them off, laughter was the culprit. I found this out (after years of going home so sick I wanted to die), at the amusement park. So, I stopped laughing, good-bye, the end.
Kevin, my cousin and jester in residence of our family, used to get me laughing so hard I would stop breathing as tears streamed down my face. I might even turn blue, if the jokes were particularly riotous. We loved to laugh and Kevin was always happy to help in that aspect of our lives. He was a class clown that George Carlin would have envied. Luckily enough, Kevin found an outlet for his jocularity. He moved to Hollywood and now tortures others with breathless, tear stained, sidesplitting glimpses into his endless well of jokes.
My sister Chris and my mother Susan (you remember her from the southern cooking piece I wrote) and me, used to sit in our estrogen based atmosphere and make each other laugh, boys are banned from this club. They found particular pleasure in trying to cause my death.
We will call this “Death by Taco Chip Inhalation.”
A little Mexican food restaurant, down the street from our home, was a favorite of ours. They would wait patiently until I consumed the crispy chips in the bowl before hitting me, upside the head, with punch lines of jokes. This, in turn, would instantly cause me to inhale fragments of chips into my lungs, making the two of them laugh even harder. At the time, it wasn’t funny to me. Years later I look back and laugh -- it was funny but dangerous.
They weren’t being mean (I hope), they were just enjoying the time spent together laughing.
After realizing that laughter was causing my migraines, I found a way to fix the problem medically (better living through chemistry). Thank goodness. Could you imagine going your entire life without laughing? Neither could I. So now I laugh and pretty regularly too I’m happy to say.
I have children now who need tortured with the jocularity that runs rampant in our family. I promise not to choke them on taco chips, or turn them blue -- maybe. I might see if I can get my kids to laugh milk through their noses though. George Carlin and I will both laugh, him in heaven (because God likes a good joke) and me here on earth.
She laughed.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Oh The Food My Mother Cooks
On any given day, in Arizona, you can find my mother cooking something, she is an excellent cook. (She's a better cook than I am a writer.) Her mom, dad, and sister were and are expert cooks.Judy, her sister, owned a restaurant in Tennessee where I worked summers busing tables, rolling napkins and washed dishes during my stay. I learned a lot about food and cooking in those summers.
The one thing my mother and my aunt cooked, especially for me, is rutabagas. If you don’t know what rutabagas are, you will have to check with a produce manager in your supermarket. They fall somewhere in-between a kohlrabi and a turnip, closer to a turnip I think. They are large and somewhat waxy in texture on the outside and very much like a hard potato on the inside. My mother would peel them, boil them and finally mash them into an iron skillet with bacon fat and fry them. Oh, for the love of bacon fat. This was love for me. Emeril has no clue. BAM! to you sir.
The other food, which I alway loved (I think I got it twice in 18 years), is ham hocks and beans with cornbread. But not just any cornbread, oh no. It was Jiffy cornbread, the little blue box that was three for a dollar -- that was something special. If you haven’t eaten it, you don’t know what you’re missing. It is manna from heaven that cornbread. But, of course, it's a southern thing. It's soul food.
Southern women know how to cook (my mother is originally from the south). The love they have for cooking is counted in the calorie content of their food, and their food alone. You ask Mrs.
Paula Deen. If a southern woman cooks your food, the love she puts into her cooking will add 10 pounds to you before you leave the table. This is soul food, this is the food of love and this is my Southern heritage. Smothered chicken, red eye gravy, buttermilk biscuits and ham hocks do me just fine.Thank you mom. Can you pass another biscuit? I still have gravy on my plate.
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