here's another one for the pot

Lives of the Saints, by Nancy Lemann. It is one of those books that’s been on my TBR list for such a long time that I don’t know how it got there. I just remember it was always one of the pressing ones. The ones that pushed and pushed and pushed to be read.
The cover is not attractive. You know how I am about book covers. Someone had given away the ending to me and I was not particularly inclined to read it with all my presuppositions.
…I love when my negative assumptions are turned on their head.

I love every sentence.
The songs and poems I love best are the ones without waste. Every word has purpose, every single one. That’s this book. Every sentence changes it. Every little letter… the offhand use of the word fondly—it frames a character. Every sentence moves the story around, not FORWARD exactly since it’s less plot and more atmosphere, but it moves----left to right, as though we’re driving on a twisty road on the side of a mountain, and where we were headed wasn’t where we ended up. Lemann presents Louise’s voice in little disorganized pockets, never one long drawn-out passage. It’s fascinating.

When I read I dog-ear pages with any passages I want to go back and write down and keep… it got to the point with this one where I had to stop, because I would have folded over every page in the book. I will just have to buy it, I thought, and memorize it.

It was hilarious. It was tragic. It’s narrated by a young woman named Louise Brown who has returned to Louisiana after graduating from a northern college (anyone who has ever loved their hometown will understand Louise’s feelings for New Orleans; the book is almost a love letter to the city). She loves a man named Claude Collier.
A lot of people who read this book fall in love with Claude. I am more interested in Louise, and Claude interests me within the margins of Louise: how he talks to her, how he reacts to her, how he thinks about her. They are perfect foils for each other. I like couples that fit together like puzzle pieces, ones who mix together so ideally that producing such results would be impossible with anyone else. What makes a great character couple is not individual characterizations but how two people work together (see: Ned Henry—Verity Kindle; Charles Fairford—Flora Poste; Peter Wimsey—Harriet Vane). FOILS. Puzzle pieces.

I am now incredibly fond of the Collier family and all their friends. Claude is a riot. I like Louise. She is the perceptive observer relaying facts and sensations to her audience, and as such she is perfectly written. Hers is an organic response to the situations surrounding her. She calls things as she sees them.

It’s so funny. Burst-out-laugh and sudden-snort and silent-chuckle funny. It’s heartwrenching. Through Louise you love everyone; but she can’t save anyone, whether it be from physical or emotional or self-inflicted harm. What a beautiful little book.

That’s all I want to give away. It is not exactly a book you read for the plot. The love is for the characters and the words. And it’s not a book you can be told to love; you have to just open it up and fall in.

I love it so much I don’t want to read Nancy Lemann’s other books. This happens to me every once in a while. It is great fear… fear that the other ones will overexpose her writing style, will cheapen it, take away the uniqueness of this one and make it common. I would have loved Lives of the Saints no matter how it ended; but if the characters show up in other novels, as I have gathered some do, and they do not make everything BETTER—because the end of this novel is not rainbows and butterflies—then I think it will make me hate the whole story. IT IS THAT KIND OF BOOK. And yet. And yet! I must read them!!! Because she is that sort of author.

Claude was still sitting in the kitchen, fixing drinks for whoever came in and striking up weird conversations with them. He was talking to the undertaker.
It happened that the undertaker was a darkly glamorous twenty-nine-year-old man born in Paris. The funeral home was the family business, generations-old, elaborate and sumptuous, and the city’s oldest, a society funeral home. They were a society family. Claude had beckoned the undertaker into the kitchen, saying he wanted to “talk shop.” Then he asked the undertaker what kind of funeral he would like to have himself, after seeing so many other people’s funerals, and what kind of burial he would like to have. The glamorous undertaker said, “I would like to be exploded.”
“You mean, exploded, like with dynamite, at the funeral?” said Claude.
“Yes.”
This was Claude’s kind of person.
I went back into the garden to brood. I absented myself with some frequency that day in order to go off and brood.

People on a page, living and breathing.

night and books go well together

Claude reached into his pocket absently and handed me a pack of gum. It was a hot day. I got up and started scrambling eggs. He was standing a few feet away from me, tall and stark, looking at me through narrowed eyes, with a kind of stern, inscrutable affection.
“Are you by any chance scrambling eggs?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You mean, you’re just standing there scrambling eggs?”
“Yes. What is it, some kind of miracle?”
“What are you going to do next?" he asked as though it were intriguing.
“Take them out and put them on a plate. Do you want some?”
“Oh, no—but I mean, you, just scrambling eggs in the middle of the day, and here we are at your apartment, and everything is just normal, right?”
“Of course. It’s normal. What do you mean?”
“I mean, you, just standing at the stove scrambling eggs, compared to what you will be doing two minutes from now, and what you feel like and what does it all mean.”
He was shaking his head, bemused, at my scrambling-eggs capacity. Then he got up to go out on the gallery—except he tripped over a chair and tore his khaki pants from the ankle to the knee. Then his glass of gin and tonic slipped out of his hand and fell over the balcony and down to the bricks.
I just stood there at the stove, watching his catastrophes. These were Claude’s normal catastrophes. Claude was accident-prone. He always had catastrophes. He also gave new meaning to the word absent-minded. Whenever he left on trips on airplanes, he would go off with other people’s house keys and car keys in his pocket, causing huge Comedies of Error.

–Lives of the Saints, Nancy Lemann

I think I'll move to Australia

Reserve me the seat next to you, buddy.Because plan B is
crawling into bed and never coming out.

amazing, the things i once knew

I’ve been digging through a bunch of old high school notes to glean art information as a favor to a friend (HI ALEX!!!) and am consistently blown away by the fact that I got good grades on my tests. I mean. Not that I’m not brilliant. But I’m kind of embarrassed, looking at these facts I once had at my fingertips—things about the world I understood and knew—because after all the time and work and money that went into becoming educated, I don’t know my stuff anymore. These are things I still care about, still want to know, but I’ve let go of or lost the knowledge over the course of four years. That is really annoying.

And, disgustingly, everything that came in to replace it is already leaking away. A bunch of college notebooks exploded on me while I was digging around. I’m sitting here trying to figure out if I don’t know who these authors who I wrote papers on are because my long-term memory sucks or because they were simply uninteresting. Both, probably. There’s a lot about getting an English degree that is BORING because you have to read all these stuffy Writers who have been labeled Great Minds for writing tip-of-the-icebergs or train of thought nonsense, and you think, screw you guys, got any Stephen King?

It honestly never fails to surprise me that anything can be made boring in a classroom. I had teachers who managed to bore me with Sayers, with Botticelli, with God… they achieved this feat by roasting one facet of the topic dry until it made me gasp for air. They told me everything but what I wanted to know. When I’m studying a classic work of literature or art, I want to know what the big bloody deal is: why is this definitively better than that? What makes this Great Mind greater than MY mind? What did they figure out how to do that nobody else could? Tell me what’s UNDERNEATH IT ALL, BEHIND it all.

I want to see the craft. I want to know the passion. It’s why I can’t love anything at face value. It’s why when I discover something new to love I become so invested. What love brought it forth, and why should I love it? I love biology because it lets me, in a very limited and fascinating way, glimpse the passion and brilliance of the mind of God. The books I love are ones with joy spilling from every sentence from the fact that the author got to write that sentence (HI, CONNIE WILLIS!!!!) Even the saddest sentence in the book: you made that—I want to be able to tell that you love it.

That being said: I want to repossess the knowledge that has fled my brain, and (when I ignore the schooly taste) it’s an exciting thought: I get to fall in love with something I already know I’ll love, all over again.

"Love the writing, love the writing, love the writing... the rest will follow."
—Jane Yolen

Happy New Year!

love,
hurley and charlie and peri

what i finally remembered today

Healing is gradual, not instantaneous
It is generally painful
Sometimes there are relapses
And those rehabilitating cannot be apathetic.

current favorite thing:

integrating the phrase “AND I AM JACK SHEPARD!” into all my sentences.

KATIE, GIVE ME BACK MY STUPID and delicious LINDT CHOCOLATES! I AM JACK SHEPARD!

It’s like putting “in bed” at the end of a fortune cookie fortune. Once you start, you can’t stop.

You tell me NOW! I AM JACK SHEPARD!
YOU’RE LYING, AND I AM JACK SHEPARD!
I just made a small incision in Ben’s kidney sac. Now if I don’t stitch that back up in the next hour, he’s dead. NOW GET IN HERE, AND BRING THAT WALKIE-TALKIE, BECAUSE I AM JACK SHEPARD!
RUN, KATE, DAMMIT! I AM JACK SHEPARD!

It even works for everyone else:

Sayid’s not your husband, and I am Jack Shepard!
You FIGHT, Sawyer! I am Jack Shepard!
Who’d have guessed that a drenched Scotsman would be standing in this rotunda? I am Jack Shepard.

If I had anything else to talk about, I would, I promise. This is kind of all that my life is right now.

we are ALL OVER THIS

December 24, 2009
One of Them
Maternity Leave
The Whole Truth
Lockdown

December 26, 2009
9:30 PM - 11:59 PM
Dave
S.O.S.

December 27, 2009
12:00 AM - 1:50 AM
Two For the Road
Question Mark

12: 15 PM - 2:30 PM
Three Minutes
Live Together, Die Alone part I
Live Together, Die Alone part II
A Tale of Two Cities

to definitely be continued

Katie is taking everything much more calmly than I did my first time around.

I've requested Season 5 to rent but at this rate we're going to have to just go out and buy it... or steal it.

Jack would never let me do that.

have a holly jolly one

O SOURCE OF ALL GOOD,
What shall I render to Thee for the gift of gifts,
Thine own dear Son, begotten, not created,
my Redeemer, proxy, surety, substitute,
His self-emptying incomprehensible,
His infinity of love beyond the heart’s grasp.

Herein is wonder of wonders:
He came below to raise me above,
was born like me that I might become like Him.
Herein is love;
when I cannot rise to Him, He draws near on wings of grace, to raise me to Himself.
Herein is power;
when Deity and humanity were infinitely apart
He united them in indissoluble unity, the uncreated and the created.
Herein is wisdom;
when I was undone, with no will to return to Him,
and no intellect to devise recovery,
He came, God-incarnate, to save me to the uttermost, as man to die my death,
to shed satisfying blood on my behalf,
to work out a perfect righteousness for me.

O God, take me in spirit to the watchful shepherds, and enlarge my mind;
--let me hear good tidings of great joy,
and hearing, believe, rejoice, praise, adore,
my conscience bathed in an ocean of repose,
my eyes uplifted to a reconciled Father;
--place me with ox, ass, camel, goat,
to look with them upon my Redeemer’s face,
and in Him account myself delivered from sin;
--let me with Simeon clasp the new-born child to my heart,
embrace Him with undying faith,
exulting that He is mine and I am His.

In Him thou hast given me so much that heaven can give no more.

How I feel at 2:50 AM after a night of good writing and happiness in general

CRANK IT UP

true story

I bought myself eighteen pairs of socks today.

The Joy of [watching someone else] Painting

My mother was channel surfing in the other room.
Mom: “Peri, come here! It’s your best friend!”
me: “BOB ROSS!!!”

I watched him paint happy little trees for thirty minutes.
“What the heck. Let’s have some fun.”
me: “I can’t wait for him to make it beautiful and then ruin it!”
Mom: “This is putting me to sleep. I’m going to go do laundry.”
me: “It looks like an atomic bomb went off behind that tree!”

me: “Bob Ross paints with knives.”

BOB ROSS + CHUCK NORRIS = BFF 4EVA

“Maybe there’s one here…” [paints enormous dark line right down the middle of the canvas]
me: “NOOOOOOO”
“Shweeoooop. [chuckling] You have to make those little noises or else it won’t work.”
me: [Laughing so loudly my dog ran in]

“Put some white there so this little rascal sparkles in the sun.”
TWILIGHT FOR TREES.

“Maybe in our world—yep, you’re right! There’s some happy little grass right there.”

my favorite Bob Ross quotes here

you're the reason that i decorate my yard

dear scotland,
please scoot a little closer. dani and alex are way too far away.
loooooooooooooooooooove,
peri

megan and i make a pie

THIS ONE'S FOR YOU, PIEMAKER.

Meego and I baked a pie the other day, since she’s somehow managed to grow up in America but never eaten apple pie before. I know. What. Seriously.

It was my first time making pie crust from scratch and all I have to say is that making a lattice-work topping is VERY DIFFICULT, especially when the pastry is crumbling in your hands, dang it. We also had trouble peeling the apples and had to resort to using steak knives.

"Come on knife, work with me."

"They're slippery little suckers."

"You've got--like-- this little pile of tiny pieces...!"

"If we were doing this with Monica she would have made the perfect pastry."
"And all the apples would be peeled and cubed already."
"And she would have all these little baking tips..."
"And she would make the top in the shape of an angel."

"I feel like I'm whittling."

"YEAAAAAAAH!!! I GOT ME SOME BAKING TIPS TOO!!!"

"How many of these do you think I need to do?"

"Ok. Lattice top is not happening. It's going to have to be like... this."

"It's a Star of David!"
"It's a Jewish apple pie!!!"

I'm so sorry. This is hilarious to me. We were laughing hysterically the whole time. The rest of you are like PERI SHUT UP GET TO THE POINT.

The point is, all I want for Christmas is The Pie Hole.

The point is that we were triumphant. The result was a little awkward looking but it tasted wonderful. Three different kinds of apple, loads of brown sugar, flaky crust-- I could start a bakery* with this.


Watching North & South was even more wonderful. Megan is officially inducted.
First sight/shot of Thornton...
Megan: —Oh.
me: [smiling proudly upon her]

For the patient among you, a reward (IF THE IMAGE ABOVE IS NOT ENOUGH): I have a recipe for you with which to wow and astound your friends. I got the filling here. The crust recipe is from my mom and I don't feel like going upstairs and calling it forth; I'm sure the Pioneer Woman has a good one.

1/2 cup unsalted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 cup water
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
4 Granny Smith apples, peeled and cubed

Preheat oven to 425F (220C). Melt the butter in a saucepan. Stir in flour to form a paste. Add water, white sugar and brown sugar, and bring to a boil. Reduce temperature and let simmer. Place the bottom crust in your pan. Fill with apples, mounded slightly. Cover with a lattice work of crust. Gently pour the sugar and butter liquid over the crust. Pour slowly so that it does not run off. Bake 15 minutes in the preheated oven. Reduce the temperature to 350F (175C). Continue baking for 35 to 45 minutes, until apples are soft.

As a note, Lee Pace, I love you.

My continuing mission of converting the entire world into ardent lovers of North & South, status update:
Strickler - check
Megara - check
Arrika - check**
Johna - check
Cathy - check
Gloria - check (plus a miniature Victorian suit for baby Jack)
Meggo - check

__________________________________________________________
*It is one of my goals in life to work in a bakery.
** I can't take original credit for this. But I'm doing it.

SondRAY LerKA

I practice saying his name every day.

how to fail at a prank in 15 minutes or less

Print off dozens of tiny pictures of Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen; dimensions should be around 1"x1". These are excellent options:


Cut them out and double-side-tape the backs.

Take full advantage of the fact that this morning your boss's daughter picked her nose and somehow caused a fountain of blood to spout ceaselessly from said nostril, causing her to decide that she is dying. While they are at the doctor, sneak into boss's office and stick all the tiny pictures onto the 50 tiny ornaments that are dangling from the ceiling. Position the faces on the ornaments so that they're all facing her desk.

Randomly hide the leftover pictures around the room, like on the back of her door or over her husband's face in one of the photo frames.

Test the theory that the size of the pictures will keep them from being noticeable upon first entering the room by leading other coworkers into the office and asking what they see. Blank stares and "Uhhhh..."s are satisfactory confirmation.

Cackle quietly. It looks amazing. Her Christmas decor will never be creepier.

After racing time in order to keep from getting caught [triumph!: printed and pasted in under 15 minutes], wait impatiently for the arrival of aforementioned boss.

Smirk like the Cheshire Cat when she walks in and out of her office multiple times, totally oblivious to the scowling vampires hanging above and around her.

Two hours later, lose patience again. Discuss the situation with your other boss (who helped put tape on the pictures).
"This is ridiculous."
Gloria: "If it weren't for the Christmas party she would have seen them by now."
"She's not going to notice until tomorrow morning--"
Conversation is interrupted by a sudden squawk from next door:

"I LOVE MY OFFICE!"

Fail. Utter, utter fail.

paging all cute coffeehouses

COME CLOSER TO ME.

In Dublin one was just a stone's throw from the next. Options upon abundant options. Three on my block, mere steps from my blue front door. Multitudes along the busy streets I traversed daily. Candy Cafe--I miss you. Insomnia(s)-- I miss you.

In St. Louis, these are my lousy options:

St. Louis Bread Co. [Panera] (makes my hair and clothes stink)
Kaldi's (15 min drive)
Starbucks (stingy with their wifi)
The Daily Bread (cold)

All I want is to kick up my feet in a plushy chair, preferably by a fireplace, hot drinks at easy access, and write and read and do my daily trolling of the internet. Which leaves... my living room.

I guess I'll go to Walmart and buy some shaving cream and that pine candle I've been needing.

desmond & penny

One of the most moving scenes in the history of Lost. It has made grown men weep. And it still makes me cry, every single time.

"I won't call for eight years." (youtube)

FEBRUARY 2, EVERYONE!!! I HAVE ONLY BEEN WAITING LIFETIMES.

PDA

Look left! Opa.
Look right! New yaller coat.

find the tree and put it in your house

Wesley: MY TREE I MADE IN SCHOOL IS BROKEN!
Mom: So fix it.
Wesley: I CAN’T FIX IT! THERE’S TAPE ON IT!
Katie walking past me: Tape as strong as steel!

me: Mom, listen to this. This is a dancing tealight holder. Haha! Dancing!
Mom: Uh-huh.
Katie tapping me: I thought it was funny.

Katie: Wesley, what do you want to put that you did this year?
Wesley: I struggled in school.
me: He went to Kanakuk and won that thing!
Wesley: The Invisible Hero award. You can just put Hero Award.

long-suffering

deservedly trapped

secret santa

strongest mother IN THE WORLD

the conifer of glory

sister winter

hey guys! it's christmas time!

we are a family of pirates and asians

the things that stay the same

388 years. Almost four centuries and the pilgrims and I still share things that we're thankful for. Religious freedom. Their lives and the lives of those they love. Unexpected friendships arisen from unexpected circumstances. Food and the assurance of continued provision.

The Plymouth pilgrims: I admire their fortitude. Squanto and his tribe: I admire their generous giving and guidance. The fact that these attributes are still recognized and lauded past elementary school teachings and are celebrated yearly by an entire nation: I am thankful for that.

Thanksgiving 2009:

23, yo.

"i'm laughing at clouds"

Come on with the rain, I've a smile on my face

re-enter the apricots

I waltzed into work bearing a dozen warm lemon-poppyseed muffins in my arms. Despite having just smashed my car door into my face (top and bottom lip are a pretty sight) I was in a t-double-e-rrific mood. I opened the door and walked down the hall, eying my desk curiously and warily. There was something hanging above it. From a blue string dangled what looked liked a deflated balloon. 'But my birthday isn't for another two weeks,' I thought (and subtly hinted at here)... and then I realized.

It
was
an
APRICOT.

Mentally popping one of these sticky, withered lumps of preservatives and fleshy sucrose into my mouth makes me mentally barf. In every family there is the distant cousin who claims kinship while the rest of the clan wonders whose brilliant genes produced this freak specimen. In the fruit family, this member is the dried apricot. Nobody likes the dried apricot. They look, taste, and feel like something a vulture just downed and regurgitated.

"Have a fruitful day!" crowed the post-it.

She hid them all over my desk.


Cathy, the battle lines have soooo been drawn.

As he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedgerow, linked to the plowed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden plot. For others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with Nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime.

-The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

This half of me wants action and excitement, to go exploring with Cousteau or Sir Edmund Hillary or Neil Armstrong.

This half of me only asks to live quietly without much disruption, in my own version of Cranford or Stars Hollow.

Will I have adventure in the great wide somewhere?

Might I to keep to the tilled fields I know and function well within?

Or
is it perhaps possible
that the explorations and the frequented lane
might turn out to be one and the same?

exclusive exclusive - read all about her

MEGAN: Peri. How do you feel about me as a person… as opposed to… something else?
…It’s kind of a serious question.

PERI: I wish that you would shower more often.

MEGAN: CRAP!

PERI: Next question.

MEGAN: I wish that you would not push the alarm snooze button so many times. Just saying. Okay. Next question. If I were an animal, what animal would I be?

PERI: One of those bugs that flies into the light.

MEGAN: Okay! Different animal.

PERI: … I don’t know what animal you would be but you would definitely be a tangerine if you were a fruit.

MEGAN: Why?

PERI: Because that… was the answer the first time, we asked this question.

MEGAN: Okay. Ahem. Next question. If you could describe me with one song, what would it be?

PERI: “Gaston.”

MEGAN: ‘I know!!!’ That one?

PERI: Yes. You tromp around in boots… and you decorate with antlers… And you definitely—I mean, those twelve dozen eggs, they’re really paying off.

MEGAN: You know I feel like that’s actually kind of relevant because I eat eggs every other day. Just so you know.

PERI: I don’t. I wish that I did. Because then I would be like you.

MEGAN: If I were a Sims character, what would I be like?

PERI: This is not a good question because there are no typical Sims characters! You make them up as you go.

MEGAN: Well, in my Sims game I have some typical characters. I’ve got the slut… I’ve got the good girl…

PERI: Oh… okay.

MEGAN: Okay.

PERI: You would be one of those ones that eats the Instant Breakfast. A lot.

MEGAN: Maaaaan. And you’d be the one that’d make the mess every time you ate. Every single time. You know how the food flies everywhere? Yeah. Well that’s you.

PERI: But I would also be the one that goes to work in a helicopter.

MEGAN: That happens?

PERI: You see? Obviously I would!

MEGAN: If I was a guy—an attractive one—what would I look like?

PERI: You would look like………………………………… Clive Owen.

MEGAN: Nice. Alright, because I can’t think of any other profound questions right now, this interview is over. Until next time.

Emma: THE EVALUATION

Tonight I watched the BBC’s latest 4-hour installment: Jane Austen’s very own Emma, starring Romola Garai. I liked it more than I thought I would; I ended up disliking it more than I wanted to. For any lover of costume dramas, the 1996 film version starring Gwyneth Paltrow is a basic. There are elements of that version (to be referred to here as Gwyneth’s version) that I love and dislike; same said for the new 2009 version (“Romola’s”). Here I have the complete evaluation of general film elements, specific scenes, and characters that I prefer in one version over the other.

Links and photos to come if I can get my act together.

GWYNETH'S

General
COSTUMES
Sets: Outdoors & TOWN

Scenes
Emma helping the less fortunate of the village (the antidote to her snobbishness)
Emma and Harriet’s friendship
Mr. Elton’s attentions at the Christmas party
The ball – all parts, particularly “Harriet is all alone” and her rescue, and “Whom are you going to dance with?”
The strawberry picking
Emma’s snub of Miss Bates (and any relating scenes that follow)
Harriet’s reaction to Frank’s engagement
Emma’s reaction to Harriet being in love with Mr. Knightley and the chance that he returns her affections (to both Harriet and Mrs. Weston)
[throughout] Emma’s jealousy – the clarity that she is in love with Mr. Knightley (R’s didn’t have acceptable chemistry until it was too late for me to consider it valid)

Characters
Miss Bates WIN – (even though I love Tamsin Greig—she was hilarious in Black Books) Sophie Thompson was annoying and pathetic, but somehow you sympathized.
Mr. Weston WIN – always so jolly!
Mrs. Weston WIN – I still want her to be my governess. Emma clearly wanted to model after her, and with good reason.
Robert Martin WIN – What a nice man. He had a little more screen time in Gwyneth’s, which gave us a chance to want Harriet to marry him.

ROMOLA’S

General
MUSIC – by FAR!
Book accuracy
Sets: Indoors and house décor (I loved the Woodhouse main room)

Scenes
Film introduction
The Knightleys – all family interactions (esp. the snow fight and any times Mr. Knightley interacts with his nephews)
Emma and Mr. Knightley’s fight over Harriet’s refusal of Robert Martin
News announcement of Mr. Elton’s engagement
Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax – their entire relationship
Mr. Knightley leaving for London
Film conclusion: engagement announcement to Mr. Woodhouse (the hands), Harriet's wedding, the Churchills, Emma's surprise honeymoon destination

Characters
Mr. Woodhouse WIN – Michael Gambon, you did everything I didn’t expect of you. I raise my glass.
Frank Churchill WIN – the perfect mix of charm and assiness
Knightley clan WIN; John Knightley – DOUBLE WIN.
Jane Fairfax WIN – she had a personality!!!
Mr. Elton WIN – so, so, so full of himself [side note, I loved that both our Edmund Bertrams starred in this film]
Mr. Knightley WIN! Sorry, Jeremy Northam. It’s got to be Jonny Lee Miller. He WAS Knightley. Congratulations, Jonny—I’ll toast you right after Michael Gambon.

TIES

General
Emma’s hair. This would have been a total Gwyneth WIN (see the pretty curls and HEADBANDS) and Romola LOSE (see just MESSY and unappealing) but for those unfortunate times when all of G’s hair was severely slicked up into an ugly little knot of curls, and those rare times when Romola’s pulled back waves were quite lovely.

Scene
The Declaration, [way too] broken down:
-Emma meets Mr. Knightley for the first time since she’s realized she’s in love with him: Gwyneth WIN. It’s a great moment! "…Happy?"
-Mr. Knightley comforts Emma about Frank’s engagement: Romola WIN. Better delivery.
-Emma confesses her realization of her own faults: Romola WIN. Gwyneth’s barely does this.
-Emma stops Mr. Knightley’s announcement: Romola WIN. She handles it way less awkwardly, and much more believably.
-Mr. Knightley stomps away: Gwyneth WIN. He attacks the plants with his cane! It’s an image imprinted on all our minds!
-Emma apologizes: Gwyneth WIN. It’s better her way.
-Mr. Knightley confesses his love: Gwyneth WIN. Jeremy, I know I gave the character honors to Jonny, but you could have sailed away across the horizon on this moment.
-Emma’s reaction: Romola WIN. Her face is PERFECT.
-Mr. Knightley confesses his realization of his faults: Gwyneth WIN. Romola’s doesn’t even do this.
-The kiss: Gwyneth WIN. Wonderful! Wonderful! Wonderful! (Romola: boooooring.)
-“MY Mr. Knightley”: Romola WIN. I hate that line, and she doesn't say it.

Characters
Mrs. Elton: Gwyneth’s wins for being completely obnoxious and Romola’s wins for being a total bitch
Harriet Smith: Romola’s was both pretty and dumb as rocks. Gwyneth’s was less of both, but I actually cared about her issues.
Emma: Romola’s was more human—more selfish and vain and curious and gossipy and contrite and a little more self-examining. Gwyneth’s was a snob and selfish and affectionate and LIKEABLE. Romola win for Emma’s facial expressions. Gwyneth win for Emma being funnier.


AND CAN I JUST SAY: Gwyneth is an incredibly difficult word to type correctly. You have to really concentrate. … for those who care to know.

not sleeping

1. Listening to Chris sing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" many times over. Quiet, always a bit depressing, lovely.

2. Looking longingly at Where the Wild Things Are production stills.

3. Incredibly comfy, half sitting half laying on bed, propped up by pillows.

4. Why has no one yet married Sufjan Stevens?

5. Coraline, I wish you were real because I WANT TO BE FRIENDS.

6. More contributions to the Trashcan of Germs.

7. I don't want it to be dark and silent in here.

cub odddd, i wud do go do sleeeeeeeb!!!!

TRANSLATE THAT, INTERNET!

Dear world,

I have been sick in bed/couch all day. Not the worst thing when you throw in vital ingredients: sleep. tylenol. movies. mother who cooks for you.

But now it is past midnight. And my exhausted body will not let me sleep. It will NOT! But that's all I ask for!

Soon this person will be me:


Things could be getting interesting, and quickly.

it's about time!

Just got back from a sunset run. I can't wait for Halloween season to be over. Most of my runs of late have been at night, and I'll be making my way down the sidewalk, completely absorbed in "Map of the Problematique" and wondering whether it has the power to get me up the hill, when all of a sudden some vague shadowy human form will be looming there in the darkness ahead of me. We have really got some ghastly ghouls in our neighborhood this year: bodies hanging from trees, skeletons sprouting from the ground en masse, bloody appendages that are really horrifying. Last night I scared myself with my own shadow TWICE.

On a lighter note: photos, above. The rain stopped for about 2 seconds today... I took full advantage of that moment and went rolling down Manchester with my windows (half) down and Chris Thile's "Eureka!" playing. It is impossible for me to listen to that song and sit still, which never bodes well when I'm supposed to be steering or braking. It was such a perfect, gorgeous, gold-tinted-air, orange-tree-tunnel-street afternoon. At one stoplight I pulled up to this huge white van, and the driver was an old man with a full white beard... smoking a HUGE cigar. It absolutely made my day. Interesting people keep my world turning.

Be safe tomorrow, everyone. This will be my first Halloween in a long time that I haven't gone trick-or-treating around the mountain or dressed up with Megna and won Courtney's Halloween party contest. MeggoSTL and I are going to camp out in my basement with scary movies [probably just one will suffice] and all the candy we're supposed to be giving children, and of course Charlie Brown & the Great Pumpkin, which I already watched on Tuesday. I've suggested that Wesley carve a pirate skull face for his pumpkin. Has anybody heard the Trader Joe's commercial for their pumpkin pancake mix? It's so funny--it starts something like "In every family, there is always the prettiest member. In the gourd family, this member is the pumpkin." It made me deeply want to go buy a box of pancake mix ($2.99). Speaking of autumnal food, it should be about time for Jello's pumpkin pudding to start appearing on the shelves. Last fall, I would frequently eat a bowl of it as my entire meal. We had like 30 boxes in the pantry for fear that we would run out before the seasonal stock did. I keep writing my train of thought because I don't know how to end this post!! GOODBYE!!!!

what we do when it rains

BIRDS FLYING HIGH
YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
SUN IN THE SKY
YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
BREEZE DRIFTING ON BY
YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL

IT'S A NEW DAWN
IT'S A NEW DAY
IT'S A NEW LIFE
FOR ME

AND I'M FEELING...
GOOD.

I'M FEELING GOOD.

FISH IN THE SEA, YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
RIVER RUNNING FREE, YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
BLOSSOM ON THE TREE, YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL

IT'S A NEW DAWN
IT'S A NEW DAY
IT'S A NEW LIFE
FOR ME
AND I'M FEELING GOOD


DRAGONFLY OUT IN THE SUN, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN DON'T YOU KNOW
BUTTERFLIES ALL HAVING FUN, YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN
SLEEP IN PEACE WHEN SAY IS DONE, THAT'S WHAT I MEAN
AND THIS OLD WORLD IS A NEW WORLD
AND A BOLD WORLD
FOR ME

FOR ME!


STARS WHEN YOU SHINE
YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
SCENT OF THE PINE
YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL
OH FREEDOM IS MINE!
AND I KNOW HOW I FEEL
IT'S A NEW DAWN
IT'S A NEW DAY
IT'S A NEW LIFE

IT'S A NEW DAWN, IT'S A NEW DAY, IT'S A NEW LIFE

IT'S A NEW DAWN!
IT'S A NEW DAY!
IT'S A NEW LIFE!
IT'S A NEW LIFE FOR ME
AND I'M FEELING GOOD.

I'M FEELING GOOD... I FEEL SO GOOD, I FEEL SO GOOD.

Starring my brother Wes"Michael Bublé Jackson"ley. I CAN'T WAIT to show this video to his future wife.

so, peter o'toole's still kicking around.

Just thought it worth mentioning. These genes: they still walk the earth.
Also, he's Irish.

can we have him for supper?

"Have him over for supper, Michael. We're not cannibals."

away we go

I really want the Eisley ladies to start writing fairy tales. They would be guaranteed to instill all the otherworldly horror and wonder that needs be present in any good nighttime tale.


Away We Go is a song from their new EP Fire Kite, and it’s a story and a poem in and of itself.
There is not a wasted word, there are no filler spots of drawn-out syllables, and the music conjures up a truly creepy and mesmerizing image of dark woods and endangered lovers. I believe (not because I can tell, mostly because I want to since because it’s been declared that Chauntelle would be singing on this album) that there are finally three DuPree sisters harmonizing on this song.

It’s Hansel & Gretel meshed with The Snow Queen plus a foreign element all its own. It is every tale of being lost in the woods and captured by a witch that we have ever heard, complete with rescue and flight to freedom—the happy ending.


we will sing loud, bellowing out as we stride towards the sound
and we’ll hold hands just like children
on our path through the woods

sneak soundly
there’s bound
to be
a witch hiding somewhere
so we’ll bring matches
if she snatches i will rescue you

we saw the path before our eyes
we were taken by surprise
when she swept down upon you
and i
love
so just listen for my voice
and we’ll finally rejoice
when I’ve found you and smite evil

whisper my name in the darkness that
surrounds this cottage of
black bark
and foul smells
i’m waiting for you

come quickly, i feel my
red heart will
cease beating
your footsteps on dry leaves
tender kiss
will save me

sing loud
bellowing out
as we crash up through the trees
i have saved you
you have saved me
and away, away
we go.


It’s free here, for I don’t know how long.

I’m reminded of Emma Bull’s story “Silver and Gold,” a tale that I have loved for a very long time. It’s too long to post here, but if I give you a couple excerpts will you go here and read it?

In the Seawood the last edge of sunset was never visible. By then, beneath the trees, it was dark. So Moon built her fire and set water to boil before she took Alder Owl’s drum from her pack.

The trees roared above, but at their feet Moon felt only a furious breeze. She hunched her cloak around her and struck the drum.

It made no noise; but from above she heard a clap and thunder of sound, and felt a rush of air across her face. She leaped backward. The drum slid from her hands.

A pale shape sat on a low branch beyond her fire. The light fell irregularly on its huge yellow eyes, the high tufts that crowned its head, its pale breast. An owl.

“Oo,” it said, louder than the hammering wind. “Oo-whoot.”

Watching it all the while, Moon leaned forward, reaching for the drum.

The owl bated thunderously and stretched its beak wide. “Oo-wheed,” it cried at her. “Yarrooh. Yarrooh.”

Moon’s blood fell cold from under her face. The owl stooped off its branch quick and straight as a dropped stone. Its talons closed on the lashings of the drum. The great wings beat once, twice, and the bird was gone into the rushing dark.

Moon fell to her knees, gasping for breath. The voice of the owl was still caught in her ears, echoing, echoing another voice. Weed. Yarrow. Yarrow.

Tears poured burning down her face. “Oh, my weed, my stalk of yarrow,” she repeated, whispering. “Come back!” she screamed into the night. She got no answer but the wind. She pressed her empty hands to her face and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

There was no stone helm beneath, or monster head. There was a white-skinned man’s face, all bone and sinew and no softness, and long black hair rucked from the hood. The sockets of his eyes were shadowed black, though the light that fell in the clearing should have lit all of his face. Moon looked at him and was more frightened than she would have been by any deformity, for she knew then that none of this—armor, face, eyes—had anything to do with his true shape.

* * *

She plunged immediately into full sunlight and strangeness. Another clearing, carpeted with deep grass and the stars of spring flowers, surrounded by blossoming trees—but trees in blossom didn’t also stand heavy with fruit, like a vain child wearing all its trinkets at once. She saw apples, cherries, and pears under their drifts of pale blossom, ripe and without blemish. At the other side of the clearing there was a shelf of stone thrust up out of the grass. On it, as if sleeping, lay a young man, exquisitely dressed.

Golden hair, she thought. That’s why it was drawn in so lightly. Like amber, or honey. The fair face was very like the sketch she remembered, as was the scholar’s hand palm up on the stone beside it. She stepped forward.

Beside the stone, the black branches of a tree lifted, moved away from their neighbors, and the trunk— Not a tree. A stag stepped into the clearing, scattering the apple blossoms with the great span of his antlers. He was black as charcoal, and his antler points were shining black, twelve of them or more. His eyes were large and red.

He snorted and lowered his head, so that she saw him through a forest of polished black dagger points. He tore at the turf with one cloven foot.

It's a good story.

I am tempted to start constructing an anthology—poems and stories and songs that all deal with the same topic or at least make me feel the same way, think and see the same things. Sort of like my Give Me Something Good to Reads, but for more varied topics and smaller items—no novels for this one. If you have any to share, please send them on.

I love this God-breathed school.

A delightful weekend:
Campus and the Overlook with Eliz --- Lupi's own calzones with the fam --- The Office and cinnamon rolls with Megarama --- Kelsey's birthday cupcakes --- jogging the gorgeously leaf-covered back roads with Laura --- snagging hot tea from Admissions and chatting with Hannah VB --- freezing at the men's soccer game with Blu and Katie Mac --- not recognizing anybody anymore --- hot chocolate with Kat but more like Colby --- fried chicken with the fam + Megs --- a bonfire at the Weavers' weirdly sans my gang --- lounging around in the sister's room with her sweet and funny roomies --- church at my dear Chatt Valley with Will and E and all those others I love and have missed --- successful avoidance of ingestion of any food prepared by Chartwells.