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.

new year. blue moon…

i suppose all of you are out amongst the living in your finest clinking champagne glasses and nuzzling noses with others, hopefully significant.

i am home writing. i know–how romancing the stone of me.

it’s a blue moon tonight. did you see it? the man in the moon looked so lonely as i was walking keaton and then seemed to be smiling a knowing smile. he knows why he’s blue, i suppose. new year. blue moon. sigh.

don’t mind me. this is just a side effect of too much pride and prejudice mixed with procrastination. pride and procrastination? not quite so catchy.

tonight feels like the culmination of much winsome writerliness or perhaps just self-indulgent reflection coupled with an overzealous affinity for seeking portents. i claim the blue moon. look away. it was meant for me.

2010, be kind to me. i have plans for you. i will allow you a few hiccups to escape if you promise to mostly be a happy buzz of good times and friendly faces. and the words. the words need a home. and they long for the screen. they won’t rest until they get their moment. you know how persuasive they can be. you know how they scratch at sleep till you commit them to page. you know how they disturb the deepest of dreams and demand depiction. you know how they won’t let go. like aged, fermented embarrassments, they won’t let go but can be called upon with immediate clarity, anything to cause the hands to cover the face. so, 2010, you will have to take them. for new ones are pushing through and in and all around. these must go to make room. 2009 clearance. 2010, be kind to them.

sticks and stones merely break bones, but words, words can slay you again and again, the torment growing with each keystroke. words can part or seal two lips forever. words can rent or heal. words, my dear friends, are why poets weep. and without the poets to describe the weather of our hearts, how can we truly live?

writers are not merely observers. we are translators. distillers. we take the small moments and offer them sweeping backdrops. we give a tear its rightful place on the side of a cheek or the back of a hand. we magnify insignificant moments to passersby until they scream, until someone looks up from their newspaper, so that the words can be heard.

that is why anyone does anything ever.

okay, little script, i hear you calling. shh now. be still. i’m coming back–with coffee–and dreams of red hearts on blue moons.

so hear me, 2010. like the moon of blue, be round. be whole. be heard.

where the child things are

i’m going to see where the wild things are tonight. it’s been a long time since i was this excited to see an adaptation; the trailer makes me teary.

the memory of the stuff, the wonder, the ferocious desire to explore that is childhood makes me eager to see the translation, but i do have a word of caution for these book warriors.

everyone wants ready-made audiences these days, the pre-built franchise, but it’s a dangerous thing to mess with the memories of a generation of wild things. i hope they come armed with a heart and plot to match the effects, for we wild things know how to vote with our wallets.

we have bought our tickets, so you’ve at least got our attention for now, but you have to earn the repeat viewing, the dvd sales, the merchandise.

childhood nostalgia on tilt; expectations officially soaring!

please live up to them. please live up to them. please live up to them.

and for those of you who are new to the magic that is maurice sendak, do not let the movie alone be your experience, for nothing can substitute the turning of a page that sparks your own imagination…

**update**
i liked it; i didn’t love it. and i spent pretty much all of act two watching between two fingers to see if the hand-cam would keep me motion-sick; it did. i am sensitive to that, and i know it’s all the rage, but in this case i have to say i think they used it to try and stir up action where there really wasn’t any.

act one was solid, great, expectations still good. i was on board with max; ice-fort problems suck.

they diverged early from the book. i got why, but it was noted.

it’s ironic that in the land of the wild things is where the action pretty much stopped, the dramatic action anyway. lots of activity, not a lot of dramatic action driving the story forward. i really felt the two conflicted voices of the writers. it’s as if they couldn’t agree on whether to be whimsical or edgy, and it wound up being sort of neither: not really for kids, and not really for adults. and, no, not really for wild things either.

depressed wild things. hm, that seems like an idea i would come up with that my agent would respond with, “wtf, you do want people to go SEE this, right?” yeah.

i still cried, but the kid did possess a great deal of pathos, to the actor’s credit. and the directing, especially in the first act, was fantastic. it was from max’s perspective: all the angles of childhood where you basically spend all your time looking up or through things to see life, the world, what’s leaving you behind. yeah.

blink and you’ll miss the third act. there is NO real reason he leaves. he just kinda decides to and goes. it is not well-set-up, and that makes me squint in their general direction. then it’s like boom he’s back, mom stares at him while he eats soup, and that’s sort of that.

i still hate to heart dave eggers, but, um, yeah, i will not be seeing this again. i will not be buying the dvd. i will not be buying a plush wild thing.

luckily, i still have my actual book from childhood, which is, you know, gift enough.

the best thing about the vampire diaries?

the soundtrack.

seriously.

i realize that vamp stories are suffering from receding plotline; combo bastardizations a la dracutwangelight are all that seem left, but can a girl get an original bite up in this molar?

and if i see one more teen drama where even the parents and aunts and uncles all look 18, i’m gonna go van helsing on someone.

at least there’s true blood. “it’s got electrolytes. it’s got what vamps crave.”

yeah, the four of you who got that know what i’m talking ’bout.

~char out

John Hughes’ Words Speak for Themselves

Sixteen Candles
The Breakfast Club
Weird Science
Pretty in Pink
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
Some Kind of Wonderful
Planes, Trains & Automobiles
She’s Having a Baby
The Great Outdoors
Uncle Buck
National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
Just Visiting
Mr. Mom
National Lampoon’s Vacation

A great voice has been silenced. The likes of John Hughes will never be seen again. His work is still THE bar as far as I’m concerned for delivering funny, relevant, and poignant content.

Thank you, John, for your words and your work. Your legacy will inspire for generations to come. I, for one, know that I will continue to enjoy, laugh, and learn from your masterful word-strokes. Your genius, your engaging storytelling, and your commitment to the craft are truly–awesome–and it’s so rare when that word is used correctly.

Farewell, Maestro!

Sigh…

Spammerificus Exitus!

did my spell work? let’s ask hermione…

have you spammers gotten the message???

or do i need to ask more nicely or perhaps not so nicely? i can do fierce. if the wand didn’t work, i wave my finger in your general direction.

i’m tired. i delete you. you return in another dress. i delete you. you return wearing a moustache. i delete you. you return with silly questions. i delete you. this dance is getting dull.

please go bug someone else for a while; may i recommend someone in your own family? yeah…

gratitude is not a platitude

today was a good day. tough week: the bermuda triangle of deadlines, but the end-of-week grin is worth it.

thank you, universe, nothingness, infinite whateverness, god, not god but we call you god, fate, and/or good people doing good things.

it’s important to hit the pause button once in a while and smile like you mean it. at the end of it all, life is just a series of moments. seize one like it’s everything; it is.

leashed likely to succeed

let me begin my stay in rantarctica by stating that i am a statistic. at age seven i was dragged around the neighborhood by a bullmastiff pitbull. 50 stitches to the head. (yes, it explains a lot, but let’s not dwell there just yet.) three trips to the hospital. a shaved, punk-rock hairdo before pre-teendom. yeah, that was me. so, as much as i love the big dogs, when i see an unleashed pit bull running toward me and my tiny snack-terrier mix, yeah, the fear dial hovers around 11.

and i know you think that you’re being cute by naming your giant dog “flopsy” or “mouse,” but it doesn’t change the fact that dogs are, well, say it with me, animals. like people, also animals, they need tending to…guidance…dare i say…training. and because dogs can be “SQUIRREL!” a tiny little bit “CAT!” oh let’s say “MAILMAN!” predictably unpredictable, we now have this incredibly handy societal tool called laws. it guards against anarchy, which, you know, sounds great when you’re discovering The Germs or how handy safety pins are, but when your frontal lobe fully develops, you tend to realize that rules exist for a reason. by all means, rebel away, just please do it a) with art or b) somewhere else. please don’t do it against the leash law. (and for the record, i don’t have a bias against large dogs. i love large dogs. i just don’t love strange, unattended large dogs bounding toward me while i’m trying to pick up poop.)

one, two, three, FOUR times in the past week my dog and i have been unpleasantly surprised by unleashed large dogs and their equally “surprised” humans. “i’ve been walking her this way for two years.” oh really, then you have been incredibly lucky for 730 days. congratulations! i’ll see you at the vet with your bleeding dog because you are stupid.

during another incident, a stupid human’s dogs were bounding across the street totally unsupervised. but that’s okay because he’d left his front door wide open, which is great because even then he was nowhere to be found while his dogs were following me and my “meaty morsel” of a terrier up the street and narrowly escaping Escalades. awesome! your dogs could die while your smoking a j in the backyard. go darwin!

don’t get me started on the woman who replied (after i explained that her dog was found sitting in the middle of the street and would have been hit had i not intervened) by saying, “oh, she’s already been hit once.” and you? how many times have you been hit BY THE STELLARLY DUMB STICK?!

sigh, as much as these people infuriate me, i do not report them. their dogs can’t help the fact that they have asshats for owners. and with the three-day shelter law looming, i can’t bring myself to doom a creature to certain death, though their owners are playing a kind of russian roulette with their lives. each time i just unleash a tide of expletives in my mind, say something slightly more diplomatic to try and spark a rational thought in these people, and think to myself, “at least it wasn’t today.”

i leave you with this: i know you think you know your dog. i know you think your voice will be able to overpower your dog’s urge to run across the street to smell another dog’s butt. but i tell you this once and for all: NOTHING IS STRONGER THAN YOUR DOG’S URGE TO SMELL ANOTHER DOG’S BUTT!

so, please, law up and leash up.

i carry pepper spray, and if i ever have to use it, it won’t be on the dog.

~char out

p.s. there are these amazing places littered throughout the city where dogs can run free, able to smell as many butts as they want for as long as they want. there are usually even places to hang these dreaded “leashes” blech! they are even enclosed. and–miraculously–there are NO CARS allowed inside. it’s almost as if these places were specifically designed for canine play. they are called DOG PARKS! if you hate leashes; please learn to love dog parks. your not bleeding, soon-to-be-dead dog; your not sued, soon-to-be leaving you spouse; and your not mauled, soon-to-be ranting you into oblivion neighbor thank you. PAWS UP!

the blogger: tv’s love affair with nouns

okay, i get it, something had to go up against the mentalist (aka smiles a lot), but the listener? when my sister (who has a medical background more extensive than merely watching e.r.) wasn’t pointing out emt-related “that would never happens,” we were making fun of the 11-year-old boy haircut they chose for their lead. um, hello, it’s louis skolnick from revenge of the nerds calling, and he wants his haircut back.

and when there’s the effortless and consistently underappreciated / underawarded tim roth laying down how it’s supposed to be done on lie to me, do we really have time for another “ist” or “er”?

what could be next: the smeller? no, wait, the olfactorer?

yeah, smells fishy.

and i gotta give my favorite show, dexter, a pass because:
a. even though it ends in “er,” it’s a proper noun, which is, you know, a whole ‘nother story.
b. they avoided the slow death that would have been calling it the serial killer(erererer) or the knifeist? (aka slices a lot).

dear tv: thanks for the attempter. better luck next noun.

~char out

Copyright © Charlotte Brewster, Wordsmithery