Today, I am thankful that there are still Native Americans

Although I was born and raised in California, one of the few non-transplants, I am also 1/8 Choctaw. Thank you, high cheekbones. Every Thanksgiving, I eat and drink with friends. I’ve been a vegetarian for 25 years, so I don’t eat turkey, but I certainly celebrate those I love with those I love.

But I also think about the truth.

I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if the Algonquins hadn’t taken pity on the poor pilgrims who couldn’t farm for themselves and were already dying out. But the Mayflower pilgrims are my ancestors too. Would I even be here? And that’s not the first time my ancestors fought each other. I also have ancestors on both sides of the not-so-Civil War.

I feel the duality a lot. So much bloodshed and pain.

I have no answers.

But I have a heart and a brain, and that allows me to think and to feel on this day, to be grateful that I am here, despite the strange tragedy of it all.

After all, what was it all for if we can’t at some point just take a day to remember, celebrate, and be grateful for the peace that we have when we have it?

Today, I remember what we were given but also that we took without asking. Today, I am grateful that I have the luxury of time off, of friends who buoy me with the support that can only come from letting someone know you well. I’m thankful that my dog now has a yard and that my new neighbors are kind and communicative.

I’m grateful that I have a sister who is the kind of person who will help you move in the rain.

I’m grateful that I have made strong friendships in LA, even though a piece of my heart still feasts in San Francisco.

It is not lost on me that I won the geographical Earth lottery, and, because of that, I’m able to live a peaceful, protected, and rights-assured life. Today, I think of those who didn’t, and I hope they are okay for another day…

Today, I think of the turkeys. They just want to live too, you know? All life does.

Without getting too maudlin, let me just close by saying, life is good, so go live it. Be kind to a stranger. Hug your dog. Feel the sun on your cheek and let it be enough.

Tomorrow, you can be mad at the traffic. Today, just be happy you have a car and somewhere to be. For there are many who don’t. And I send them love as well.

Be well, be safe, be grateful,
~Char out

“drive” delivers: 4 wheels; 5 stars

a seeming homage to ’80s suspense movies like manhunter, drive is as deliberate and compelling as ryan gosling himself, who, ahem, wants to prove to us that he’s not a baby anything anymore. he’s all grown up, and he wants us to know he’s put his notebook in his back pocket, climbed behind the wheel, and is all about driving us to the edge of our seats.

what makes a great movie? simple plot; complicated characters. and drive delivers. at the end of it all (might be some spoilers around the bend here), it’s a whole hell of a lot of ado about nothing, really. none of it needed to happen, which is the point. deciding to become involved, that choice by driver, is what sets everything in motion. there is not a word out of place in this script, not a moment, not a choice, not a quiet glance, not a stomp or slice or curve–or blink–that wasn’t intentional and rife with symbolism. it’s, quite simply, the tightest film i’ve seen in years. and it stays with you like a dream you can’t figure out. it leaves you tied in a knot, but don’t expect a ribbon or a bow; drive leaves you with just enough questions to keep you turning down those mental side streets.

ryan gosling captures the quiet rage of this character doing a lot of bad things in the pursuit of doing one good thing. in this strange way it reminds me of holden caulfield in the catcher in the rye. that book always makes me wish i were a boy, and this movie does too. yeah, i know both of those characters are a bit, well, lost and effed up, but there is something so beautiful and vulnerable about how powerfully they act out while trying to become “a real human being and a real hero.” the way boys work things out is always so different from the way girls do such soul searching; boys are so external in their thrashing. then again, maybe we are all so brash–at least in our imaginations. as screwed up as he is, this movie leaves you wanting to be as cool as driver, even if it means you have to drive all night, alone, both craving and avoiding another honest moment because you know it will send you off the rails again.

and then there’s that kiss.

boys, let me let you in on a little secret. there’s something about leaning and angled shoulders that really gets us. if you can perfect that, you’re in. there’s this moment in the elevator (which is one of the most perfect scenes i’ve ever seen in a movie). that one scene delivers what every movie should: an emotional roller-coaster. it goes from this precise anticipation to a perfect moment of abandon (still filled with the promise of violence and, therefore, a supremely palpable tension) to a startling and gruesome anger. (well done, sfx crew!) that one scene is a perfectly condensed character study of driver: a troubled, tortured scene for a troubled, tortured soul. the love story goes from maybe to yes to closing doors, shrinking beneath symbolic subtext. an entire movie in a minute: perfection.

from every aspect: precision writing, flawless acting (i never thought saying albert brooks wasn’t funny would be a compliment!), artful direction and cinematography, extremely believable sfx, even down to the costumes and that damn jacket (don’t try this at home) that gets better as it gets bloodier, and the seedy la locations, etc., this movie just gets. it. right.

the music is as hypnotic as the film, another homage it would seem, to soundtracks from another era, such as blade runner or even ladyhawke. (okay, this soundtrack is a lot better than ladyhawke, but it has that ’80s casio feel but with an updated groove.)

you know that a movie’s hit you where it hurts when you find yourself wondering if a fictional character is okay. is he eating? is he sleeping? does he need a goddamn hug? a new jacket? is he out of gas? is there fresh blood on his gloves? is he on the streets–right now–cool and cautious, somehow profoundly capable but equally crippled, a compact explosive driving an impala?

and can i get five minutes?

the storm inside him escaping like invisible dark matter, trying to extract black and white from those gray eyes, betraying the need to just keep the wheels turning…

drive: four wheels; five stars.

“a” is for apple; r.i.p, steve jobs

at first it seems hard to put into words why i feel so sad about the passing of steve jobs. but when you stop and think about it, he was so much more than just a ceo or even a visionary. in a way, steve jobs was to technology what john hughes was to filmmaking: a safe haven, a place where outsiders could feel like insiders–a friend. okay, a really, really smart friend, but still…

i believe that, more than anyone else, he is responsible for making geeks chic. so every time you get laid, oh, bespectacled mac user, salute steve. every time you hear that familiar chime and think, “wall-e!” salute steve. every time you think dreams are only for sleeping, snap out of it, get off your ass, and go get it; then salute steve on the way to the bank.

from orphan to the father of modern technology, i salute you, steve.

unbelievers, if you doubt what an idea can do, how an idea can change the world–indeed, facilitate revolutions!–and where an idea can take us, just think about all of the devices you can’t live without. whether they are apple products or not, they were once swirling around the brilliant mind of steve jobs. and no one has spawned more amazing brainchildren than him.

so tonight, i take pause and think, “what would steve do?”

steve would stop, and smile that wry smile that only comes from being not just in on the secret but the creator of it, and simply say, “but wait, there’s more…”

rest now, steve. you’ve given us enough, and we are grateful. we are sad that you’ve left us so soon, but we are better for having known you.

and the art created on your works of art will outlast us all…

thank you.

i can’t believe i forgot: it’s the small things that slay you

like when someone trusts you enough to fall asleep on your shoulder. or when they realize you knew they drooled on your new sweater but you never let on because you didn’t want to embarrass them. and now you’re in their inner circle. no ceremony. no robes. but you’re in.

or like that moment in a john hughes movie when you realize that the protagonist is feeling–right now–the same way you did in sixth grade when __________ broke up with you in front of the whole school. and you didn’t let them see you cry. because you were storing it up for watching born free. because that movie will get you every time. it will dehydrate you like the serengeti.

or when the dog falls asleep sunken behind the couch cushion and looks so uncomfortable yet amazingly the most comfortable you can ever fathom. and you hear the tiniest rustling of a not-quite-yet snore. and his paw twitches that there’s a squirrel in his dream. and it’s the only time you hope he gets the squirrel.

or when your brain syncs up with your heart and you pause long enough to realize that life is now. and it is everything. and you have to write it down.

so you don’t forget.

again.

ode to art

full disclosure: election day always makes me a bit maudlin, then a bit cranky, then back to maudlin. i think it’s because it’s always a reminder that i hang onto the last thread of the hem of the inside lining of the fringe. but i feel like the mighty majority. i feel *right*. i guess everybody does…

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about something i said recently in san francisco. you know when you see old friends you haven’t seen in a long time, and they remind you of who you used to be and how far you’ve come, but you still feel like yourself? still known? i found myself flowing from one deep and brilliant conversation to another. (yes, i have excellent taste in friends. smirk.) anyway, i think it was nathan. yes, i was talking to nathan about how society likes to stereotype women as these baby-crazed uteruses (uterai???) who reach a certain age and become clamoring, frenzied kid-making machines who don’t have lobes for anything but measuring basal body temperature and dreaming up the new #1 baby name, but in my actual experience it’s the men who want the line to continue, an heir, a legacy. (but i guess i hang with the fringe, so my experience might be a bit left of center.)

what i told him is that i believe art is just as, perhaps MORE, important a creation as a kid. yeah, i said it. and i mean it. the word “creation” makes me want to skateboard over someone’s fingers. (at the moment michele bachmann’s fingers. y’all know she’s balls-out crazy, right?) i believe the word creation is one of the most bastardized and misused words ever–wait for it–created. and i’m so tired of the love hierarchy paradigm where parent-child love is the pinnacle, the highest form of love. what a bunch of yogurt. first of all, love is subjective. it cannot be quantified or measured or even qualified, so that’s the end of any potential experiment right there. you will never know whether someone “loves” pizza as much as you “love” lady gaga. you will never know if someone loves their kid more than you love your sister or mom or dog. or the soundtrack to “rent.” or an e. e. cummings poem.

and i have definitely known children who were far less interesting and contributed far less to the world than an e. e. cummings poem. do you see where i’m e. e. going with this?

art, to me, is everything. everything you feel about making a kid is how i feel about making a sentence sparkle. getting that final word…right. i suppose that’s how you feel when you tie a shoelace or something. and somewhere chrissie hynde pops up over a hedge and sings, “don’t get me wrong.” i have fantastic, brilliant future awesome adults in my life, and i get how the kid perspective makes life seem new and special; i really do. and i was a kid once; i get it. but *your* life path doesn’t have to be *every* woman’s, you know? (anyone watching mad men? this is what they fought for! anyone? bueller?) some women want to be nuns. some want to be mums. and some want to be artists. i suppose there are some who can be two of those categories. (but not all three, snort!) but who is to say one is better, higher, supreme? get back to me with that empirical proof, and i will be the first to examine it.

till then, the next time you see a woman of a certain age, try not to assume she’d rather be interviewing sperm donors. maybe she would be, and that’s cool. find your drum and dance to it. but maybe she’s already *making* everything she needs to be happy. and happy, well, that’s subjective.

right?

do i sound defensive? geez, i really don’t want to sound like i got my boxing gloves on atop this handy old soap box. but i do get the, “but you’re SO great. why don’t you have any kids?” speech a lot. like my being great isn’t enough for the world. like someone unrolled an ancient scroll when i wasn’t looking, and now i’m going to be ushered into some velvet-draped room where i have some unspoken obligation to pass my greatness on through “creation.” as though my *being* me isn’t enough. i have to create a new *being* in order to have any lasting impact on the world. how boring and tiresome and narrow. fringe that! anyone heard of shakespeare? now, quick, tell me everything you know about his kids. thought so. and i’m sure that little nightmare kicking someone in the checkout is the next mozart. okay, now i’m just being mean. (seriously, though, if you’re going to choose to be a parent, please realize that it’s a VERB and a noun!)

anyway, are you still here? you know i’m just passing time until the election results come in, right? it would be a mistake to take me too seriously. except for the art part. art is everything to me. it is revolution. it is love. it is the purest form of creation i can think of because any human: man, woman, child, (and some cats) can do it. it is therapy. it is hope. it is the easiest hard thing and most complicated simple thing you will ever do. and when you get it right, all is right. for a while.

so the next time you are thinking of asking a woman if she is married with kids, how about asking her if she has any paintings? or songs? or poems? or dances? some of us are rebels *with* causes, you know…. art is the first thing humans did when they had “free time,” isn’t that interesting? they’d been propagation fucking for ages, but as soon as they caught a break, they wanted to paint and tell stories. sounds like evolution to me…

art is the only constructive war there is, and i am battle-ready. we have so far to go, but you never know when the word or song, poem or painting stone you skipped will ripple out and move someone’s heart to action–to the calling of humanity.

be kind to yourself. be kind to others.* be kind to critters, and they will be kind to you.
~char out

*michele bachmann excluded; that woman is bat-shit nuts. vote for grapefruit before voting for her, please, for the love of citrus…

before you keel over–keilhauer

friends, writers, computermen:

your back hurts. i know because i’m you. you sit at the computer all day jerking and twisting, your neck throbbing and aching, and your fingers twitching and spasming. writing means sitting. and sitting means paining and complaining. we weren’t meant to sit. we were meant to wander nomadically in search of leonard nimoy. besides, you should be spending your time tearing out your hair and wondering if your ideas are any good. back pain is taking away from your special insecurity time…

you need to go from ergoNOTic to ergonomic.

now, there’s a solution, and i’ve done the back-breaking research for you!

last april i enjoyed a girls weekend in seattle with my bffs. whilst whimsically whittling away the world, i happened to sit in the desk chair at the hotel. the sky opened up, light poured down, angels wept, and my body didn’t want to stop–sitting. the only problem was i couldn’t tell just what kind of magical chair this was. i couldn’t find a tag. a brand. nothing. as soon as perfect chair came into my life, it was taken from me. poof!

but back pain is a tricky thing. it leads one to be…persistent. so after a month of being home and broken and pining for the perfect chair, i called the hotel. not only did the lovely attendant know exactly what chair i was talking about–but she also informed that i wasn’t the first writer to call in and chase after it. apparently, the chair gets around. she gave me the info, and i was on the hunt like a hungry nomad with well-calloused footpads.

i was referred to du graf associates in seattle, where i was once again informed that i was not the first to drool for this chair. (it turned out it’s the chair they use day in and day out as well!) so just what is it about this crack chair? when you sit in it, it’s like someone putting gentle support all the way up your spine. what can i say? it’s the only chair that ever allowed me to have the perfect forward tilt for when one is in the writing position, say, for HOURS? plus it has all the bells and whistles. if you’re tall or tallish, i recommend the deep seat. that’s the #1 problem i find with most chairs; they don’t have enough seat for the long-legged.

deep seats? writing positions? strap on your seat belt because, yes, this is chair porn.

the bad news is that this chair is an investment (read: pricey). but if you have to sit (a lot), it’s worth the investment in your RIGHT NOW! and your future. And it comes with a life-sit warranty; i couldn’t be happier.

you can even pick your own fabric! i call mine the volturi chair because i got the voluta fabric but kept forgetting what it was called and saying volturi. did i mention it’s also the perfect chair for being turned into a vampire? why be uncomfortable when crossing over to the dark side? ha ha

okay, well, endorsement over. i don’t know if this is the right chair for you. i’m not being paid to say any of this. buy your own chair at your own discretion, etc. but if you write, if you sit, or if you compute, i’d at least give this chair a try, a sit, a chance, but do your own due diligence, too.

it’s also somewhat enviro friendly–less off-gassing and such. you can read all about it on their website. it’s the junior task chair. i got the 8561. not sure why it’s called junior because this chair is a BIG deal. it should be called WRITER!

chairy on…
~char out

found

i am still suffering from a “lost” finale hangover as one of my friends put it. and i am not in this dissatisfied camp. i think “lost” is some of the best writing on tv i have ever seen, and you know i can be pretty picky about my tv.

i still think “the man from tallahassee” is one of the most brilliant episodes ever and an absolute work of art. the writing, directing, acting, just all pure and perfect. but i digress. as with lost…

in all fairness, the only thing that did bother me was the “no, they’re not dead” line we’d heard from them since the beginning. we all thought they were dead all along, and they kept saying, “no, it’s not that.” then, it turns out, with a slight twist–it’s EXACTLY that. annoying. but, hey, i’ll take annoying over mind-scrapingly idiotic reality shows any day.

i cried. of course. i mean they gave us all the romantic moments we’d been hoping for, though i still think the desmond/penny reunion on the boat was still the best. but i digress. as with lost…

they may not have come up with some totally unforeseeable ending that came out of lost field, but, c’mon, there are only so many possibilities, and at least it wasn’t a polar bear’s dream or an alien’s mind probe. and although i’m still not entirely sure how a sideways universe is different from a parallel universe, i found myself continuing to be invested, rooting for the characters, wanting them to make it. and that, my friends, is the writer’s job. and they did it. with love.

so, farewell, “lost,” you linear rebels, you walkers to the beat of your own drum. there will never be another you. except in my sideways universe.

heart, char

on self-loathing:

it seems to me that so much of the human race’s trouble comes down to this: self-loathing.

pain.

the belief that we are unacceptable, unlovable, unteachable, forever imperfect and disconnected.

but we’re not.

for a while now i’ve been trying to zero in on my personal philosophy, the tao of charlotte, so to speak. i’ve long said i don’t believe in god: i believe in good. we can all agree on that, can’t we?

and that’s still true. but it’s more than that. i suppose my belief that everything is within us if we’d only look and believe it’s there makes me a secular humanist by default. throw in a little of this and a little of that, and i guess like so many people have faith in a certain organized religion, i merely have faith in myself: that i am good. that i try to do the right thing. that i am whole, right now. above all, though, that self-evolution is what keeps one whole.

i guess that means that i also believe that so many people feel unwhole because they’ve given up their power to an idea or a religion or a belief or a person or their own little, negative voice inside their head screaming at them that they are bad and wrong and stupid that they have disconnected from themselves. that we are figuratively chasing our own soul’s tail, trying to grab back on and be whole once again.

but we don’t think we deserve it. so we drink. or eat. or fight. or hate. or war. or fuck. or die.

all so we don’t feel.

when feeling is what makes us so perfect. isn’t that funny?

i often talk about the universal sound of pain. it’s the thing i don’t get about people who abuse animals. whether it’s a baby or a dog or a cow or a tiger, there’s the sound of pain that tells us in the core of our souls that another creature is feeling pain. it’s an unbearable sound, if you have a conscience, so i guess serial killers are exempted from this beautiful warning not to cause pain, not to let pain continue.

so i get it. we don’t want pain. we’d rather hate ourselves than feel pain. but hating yourself in and of itself is a state of pain. so i ask you this: would you rather feel and have the momentary pain of self-growth, of evolution? or hate yourself and be in pain forever?

it is my opinion that if you are the wounded creature, it is, therefore, your duty not to cause this creature (you) more pain and not to let the pain continue.

so to you, wherever you are, whomever you are, whatever you have done, there is a seed of light in you. following it will make you feel whole again, worthy again, right again, good again. it isn’t “out there.” it isn’t a mystery. it stares at you every day in the mirror screaming, “when are you going to believe it?” but you think it can’t possibly be that easy. it must be hard, difficult, you must suffer, that’s the least you deserve.

no, the least you deserve is to see your own light. see it, and it will grow, and you will pass it on. and then maybe once we stop hating ourselves, we can stop hating each other.

the light isn’t just in you. You ARE the light. And when you have those sudden moments of painful, breathtaking beauty at being alive: when the sun hits a loved one’s face just right, and you think you can die right then and be happy. when a stranger does you a kindness wanting nothing in return. when you offer a creature mercy without attention. when you walk with the humble confidence that you deserve to bear the light–for it is both a duty and an honor–you will smile that peaceful smile that says, “here, i have more than enough light. want some?” and with each gift of light, the light grows. in you. in everyone.

and all you have to do is love and accept yourself.

so please treat yourself as you would a creature sounding the universal cry of pain: hear it, then heal it. lead with kindness–for yourself–and that will lead you to see your own light.

i know i’ve gone all kumbaya on you, but i think for some reason we never think to write these things down and share them. we can be soul-searching hermits and hoarders of life lessons.

so, if you can, take a tiny step toward the light. don’t be invisible. don’t hoard attention. you are worthy of love, acceptance, and peace. you have been all over looking for it, yet every day sad eyes look up at you from the mirror “there you are. why so sad? you bear the light. be kind to the light. the light is you.” so try to take ego out of the equation (that’s a journey–not a destination, btw) and decide to choose the light (the true self) over the pain (the lie the false self tells).

the light is enough.

okay, lecture over.

pass it on…

salute to salinger

i wanted to post immediately upon hearing of his passing, but i had to pause and try to calm the warring thought-storm.

the thing about great art, great writing, is that it gives you a false sense of intimacy–as if the words were written for you alone. so, yeah, it feels like a good friend has been gone on a long trip, and i’m just now hearing that he’s decided not to come back; so i’m pouting. so goddam what?

although i’d waned in recent years, the catcher in the rye was one of those rare books i read annually. my friend cassandra summed it up best when she said, “the cather in the rye makes you want to be a boy.” yeah. i suppose it could have just been the miracle that is writing a character sympathetically, but for all of his failings, all of us were holden, in some way, perhaps for that very reason. you see yourself in the flaws and think, “if he can be that screwed up and still so lovely, perhaps there is hope for me.” perhaps: the very word itself a symbol of flickering hope. perhaps.

and something about the repetitive slang made it sexy. after reading it, everywhere i went, everything was goddam this and gorgeous that and crumby everything. it infected your soul and, therefore, your speech.

and who can judge for the need for solitude? despite all of the pitching and meetings and lunches that comprise the hollywood machine, what writers need most is solitude, time with their thoughts, their paper, their words. virginia knew. oscar knew. and so did salinger.

what else can i say? he passed peacefully with his wife by his side. perhaps there will be posthumous works, but, honestly, what can one expect after catcher? it is perfect. even if he spent the rest of his life playing tic tac toe, i’m good. i have catcher. free pass.

what else can i do but kick dirt, perform my best james dean forehead scrunch, and dig my hands deeper into my jean pockets? for crissakes, i feel gorgeously crumby, goddamit, okay?

then again, perhaps that friend isn’t so far, after all. perhaps i can visit him right now, and my side-smile will say it all. perhaps the real word for–and symbol of–hope isn’t “perhaps” at all but, quite simply: paperback; perhaps.

writers on the storm

rain. it makes one feel so much more writerly than usual.

the music of the tinkling drops on the window transports me to my many jaunts to the u.k., especially the year i spent in nottingham as a student living as the locals do. so many bold memories. some memories fade and become hazy with the passing years, but my u.k. memories always seem to push and elbow their way forward; they are brash and dashing hooligans, indeed.

* being bundled up in every article of clothing i owned, fetal (and futile) in my sleeping bag, in bed with the heater on–and still cold. surprisingly, it still counts as a good memory.

* the first time i saw snow falling from the sky. before then, it merely appeared on ground. i knew it to be snow, but i had never experienced its descent.

* trudging over the moors lined with heather entertained only by the breeze and my little voice whispering stories to me.

* gorging myself on raspberries from the unfortunate orchard that became our back garden if one walked far enough. i do believe that counts as stealing, oh dear.

* the joy of country kittens that appeared here and there and grew into tomcats we fed and then tried to pretend we hadn’t actually adopted and named.

* the field trip to paris for the man ray exhibit. although the ferry from dover to calais made me a bit green, the sight of the sacre coeur and oscar’s tomb at pere lachaise more than made up for it.

* touring chatsworth/pemberley and dreaming the dreams only creative writers do.

* starting or returning from a journey and happily walking oliver’s lane, a full mile from the cottage to the road. i can see the bruised sky and lack of fences so clearly.

* being chased from the stone cottage that was the inspiration for Wuthering Heights by surprisingly persuasive sheep who’d claimed the territory. the ensuing, and i suppose obligatory, rainstorm we were caught in on the trudge home was equally fulfilling. oh, england, you little charmer.

* awaking suddenly aboard the flying scotsman with the instinctive knowledge that we had just crossed into scotland–and it turned out that we had; i just knew. there is something so mystical and heartening about that land.

i suppose i could go on and on and on. sigh. the blessing and the curse of being so observant and imaginative is that everything takes on a romantic, heightened hue: receiving the post, drinking tea, walking–all of it seemed so much more poetic and transformative in england.

why have i not been there in so long? perhaps there is a moratorium on romantic americans stealing all of their fresh air, the terrible byproduct of which is producing horrible sonnets.

to the rain! thank you for submerging me in such happy, vibrant memories. try not to knock down too many trees. we writers like those too.