More Horror

Last night, I watched two films in different genres which use the death of a child as a trigger for violence and horror. Both explore the ways in which two mothers express and ultimately deal with their grief. In Freedomland, the single mother allows her passion to take her away from her child which causes his death. Rather than accept responsibility, she blames a mysterious car jacker which results in unrest and then violence. Through the persistence of a policeman, she confesses her guilt and there is hope at the end that she can learn and reach outside of herself to help heal the community.

As the name implies, The Descent follows a journey into the darkness. It begins with a car accident in which a woman's husband and daughter are impaled. Her friends, lovers of extreme sports, convince her to go spelunking in North Carolina with the hope that she will be able to pull herself out of her depression. Instead, she plunges into literal and then spiritual darkness. Lost in a cave full of Gollumesque cannibals, you watch as her attempts at survival lead her into madness. By the end she has become one of the creatures of the night. In the American ending, she makes her way to the surface but in the European ending she remains in the cave with the memories of her daughter. Regardless, she has become the horror that she had witnessed.

As I lay in bed thinking about the two feel-good movies, I realized that almost all the books I've read this week, (White Oleander, The Road, The Return of the Player) foreground the real or potential injury of a child by their parents. And they all show how that pain or the threat of that pain leads the protgagonists on journeys. That of The Road is literal. The father leads his son to the west coast in an attempt to save him from the pain and horror all around him. In White Oleander, the mother's inhumanity leads to her daughter on a trip through a series of foster homes where she is emotionally and physically battered. In The Return of the Player, the mother's slap of her daughter in a shopping mall triggers the formation of a new and stonger family unit. The Road ends with the boy safe in the arms of a "good" family. And the daugher in White Oleander grows into a creative and sensitive artist.

Another common theme is cannibalism as representing the loss of our humanity. It seems as if The Heart of Darkness is woven into all my choices. In The Road, the father does all that he can to save his son but refuses to cross what is presented as the final line. Unlike the majority of survivors, he will not murder or eat others. Although we don't see the protagonist of The Descent knawing on thigh bones, we've seen the cannibal that she will become if she can survive in the caves.

The Road

I don't think I've read a negative review of The Road and now I understand why. I sobbed uncontrollably when I closed the book, but the afterimage burned into my mind is not the chargrilled infant or the pantry whose shelves are stocked with live humans, but the love of a father for his son. There is such purity in the relationship between the father and the son that in spite of the horrors depicted the beauty in that love can burn through all the ashes.

More Seduction

Since posting about White Oleander, I've had similarly intoxicating experiences with two other books: Return of the Player and The Road. It must be the case that I'm open to literary seduction during this magical time of the year. As pointed out by a teacher last night, time gets suspended somehow between Christmas and New Year's. We're not quite through with the past year but we're not quite ready to start the new one. Rather than focus on my own life, I think, I prefer to dip into others' lives.

In addition to the readerly context, I think the three novels share some qualities which contributed to their power. All three have at their heart a journey through the heart of darkness. The protagonists look at the world at face "the horror" whether it's the barrel of a gun held by your foster parent, a murder or cannibals, yet somehow they hold on to their love and retain faith in the world around them. No matter what terrible things they are forced to confront, they push foward. As a reader, I also believed faith that the books would end with a glimmer of hope thanks to notes by critics, blurbs and the authors themselves. If I didn't have that belief, I don't think I would have been able to handle the desolation of the bleakest of the three (The Road).

To keep with theme of The Road (since that's the book that currently leading me down the road to ruin these days), the books shed light on that grass which pushes its way through cracks in the cement. In spite of the parking lot which paves over the garden, it's the garden which prevails. If a book supports this belief somehow, I'm hooked.

Intoxicating Reading

I have to be very careful about when I pick up White Oleander because it seduces me. Once I start reading, I can't put it down. If I need to get a cup of tea, I'll take the book with me so I won't have to leave it. The experience reminds me of Thicker Than Water which has at its center another fragile and creative young girl who finds herself in the middle of emotional and erotic maelstrom triggered by poisonous parents.

I'll now play the 'If I were writing a paper, I would" game by saying that I'm sure that many students have discussed the two novels, but I'm more interested in why they both can draw me so completely into their fictional worlds.

Damien Rice in Minneapolis

I saw Damien Rice again last night at the Orpheum Theater in Minneapolis after having seen him perform on tour with Fiona Apple. The venues were quite similar, but the energy was very different. Owning the show allowed him more freedom to play with his musicians and the audience. And play he did for, I think, over two hours. At the end of the show, he asked the audience if anyone had a castle that could accommodate the band to extend the show. But then jokingly added, "But of course, you don't have castles over here." Although the show began and ended with him hunched over his piano, the concert showed how sensitive he was to the music going on around him. When Lisa Hannigan(who in her unflattering dress and with her shy way reminded me of a less crazy) and Rice sing together, my heart really creeps into my throat and I also laugh. Their duet, Le Professeur and La Fille Qui Dance was as fun as it was lovely.

What struck me during one of his extended riffs was how much he reminds me of Neil Young (albeit with a much stronger voice but weaker lyrics). When he sets off on a riff as he did with Volcano, I find myself reaching a point where I'm saying to myself, "C'mon. Pay attention to the audience and stop being so self indulgent." But he ends up pulling me back in by finding something new and interesting in his songs. (For example, he ended up on the ground singing into his guitar which produced this really distorted, cool sound.) He comes off as an introverted performer but knows how to command the stage. When he's reaching the highest notes on the keyboard or wallowing in feedback, he's exuding powe.

My favorite song is still Volcano, but my favorite performance last night was Eskimo. It began quietly and rose to a crescendo complete with stunning visuals.



I was disappointed The Swell Seasons didn't open for him. Instead, a Canadian folk singer with a lovely voice but with nothing really compelling to say took the stage. I really found myself bored to tears.

Metaphors and Science

I wonder how many scientists have used metaphors as inspiration for their work. For some strange reason, my mind brought to mind metaphors connected to the mind which I didn't mind at all. "Single-minded" and being "of two minds" are the two in particular which came to mind. Was the concept of left and right halves of the brain in place before there was scientific evidence supporting it? When someone is single minded, does that mean they're ignoring one side of the brain (probably the right)?

Circle of Life

Thanks to The Lion King, my little boy uses the circle of life to help him accept death better. I was thinking this morning of all the metaphors for life and death as well as the different milestones that we set up to understand where we are on our journey. One set of milestones that have become important to me involves uniqueness. I think we begin thinking that we are plural. We are connected to all that is around us. Once we discover our singularity, we spend years and years trying to cultivate it. Part of reaching maturity is finding our own voice. I used to think that was the end, but I don't think that's the case. Over time or perhaps traumatically, we come to realize that we are not unique. Our voice sounds like that of many others who live, who have lived and who will live. Initially, this may come as a shock and may even be be resisted. But I think embracing the fact that we are not unique and that we are more like others than is not is a milestone. We begin to see ourselves singing harmonies rather than solo's. And then perhaps the final milestone will be when the sound of our voice no longer becomes importance. At death, we're ready for the sound of our voices to fade completely and return to that time when there was no single identity.

Mt. Everest

You invest hundreds of thousands of your hard-earned savings and hours of training into the trip of a lifetime: Climbing Mt. Everest. You endure sub-zero temperatures. You deprive your body of oxygen. You patiently wait for the weather to clear. You may even ignore the pleas of a dying man for help as you make your way to the top. You realize that you have a limited supply of oxygen and digits (it can get very cold) and you want nothing more than to enjoy that spectacular view. And just feet from the summit, what do you find? A line. Yep, you behave in the same way you would as if you were waiting for a movie about climbing Mt. Everest. How must that feel? Would that cheapen the experience at all? (Metaphorically, of course given the fees attached to the climb).

Hip Parents

The local, cool radio station hosted an event today called, Rock the Cradle. Kids got the chance to have their faces painted, talk on the radio, listen to stories told by dj's and even scratch records. As I stood in line waiting for the face artist (and I do not use the term lightly. I waited for 1 hour for a yin yang sign painted on my son which I still covet), I checked out the other parents. Instead, the room was full of attractive twenty and thirty somethings shuffling their feet to the ultra-cool tunes being spun by the ultra-cool deejays. The music was good and the activities interesting but what I enjoyed the most about the event was realizing that an entire group of hip parents reside in the Twin Cities. For them, personal style still matters in spite of the demands of parenthood. Rather than choosing function over form and comfort over aesthetics as I think the majority of parents do, they simply expanded their sense of style to include their children. I couldn't tell who was trendier, the five-year old wearing the bright blue platform boots or the mom wearing a New York Dolls T-shirt and even brighter blue platform boots.

Trendsetters, artists and other hipsters have always been objects of fascination for me. I appreciate interesting texts when I people watch and the stories they tell with their appearance is often so carefully cultivated that I can't resist trying to read them. I try not to engage them because the stories I weave for them are generally more intersting than they are, but today I actually wanted to pull out a tape recorder and start interviewing them: Why was style so important for them that even in domesticated they remain slaves to fashion? Was it because they had a strong feel for aesthetics? Was their clothing choice a way of expressing themselves?

Children as Mirrors

Although I've always believed that our children can teach us, I hadn't realized until relatively recently how deeply those lessons run. A while back, I scolded my son, Luc, for something. He immediately ran into his room and proceeded to chant, "I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself." He even went so far as to start hitting himself. I was dumbfounded not because the behavior was so strange but because he was externalizing all the thoughts that ran through my head when I made a mistake. It had never occurred to me how harshly I treated myself nor how visible that criticism must be until I saw it written all over him.

Since that moment, I've been paying attention to all my flaws reflected in my six-year old mirror. Luc has started to make comments about red lights and slow drivers so I've begun to work on being more patient and tolerant. The other day I ran into Target with the hope of getting out as quickly as possible only to find myself with a very, very slow cashier. (And to make matters worse I had switched lanes thinking it was going to be the faster of the two . . alas) My first reaction was to shoot laser beams out of my eyes so that she would see my dissatisfaction. But I took a deep breath and thought back to all that I'd been hearing in yoga classes. "Don't sweat the small things. What are you rushing for? Live in the moment." I then noticed that she was not purposely slow. She wasn't lazy or untrained. I think she was just developmentally challenged. Nonetheless, I felt myself began to stew until a moment when she apologized for an error in judgment. I realized that she had no idea that she was slow and if she did, she would be sorry. All the tension that had been building inside of me dissipated. It was a small battle that I fought but I won.

Now, let's hope that I can win so often that my little mirror starts reflecting patience.

Google as oracle

When I asked Google what I should do with my life, he/she/it/they directed me to an article by Fast Company on the book with the same title. In one of the comments, a woman from the UK mentioned that she had googled the same question and was doing an article on all those who had as well. My e-mail to her was bounced back and I was deeply disappointed. I too wanted to know who had googled that question, why they had googled it and if they had discovered any deeper truths after it. I then realized how imported the search engine has become to me. I must use it at least five times a day. It helps me continue to pretend as if I know anything for my little boy by allowing me to answer questions such as, "What does a virus look like?" But I think my favorite use of Google is to extend the pleasure I derive from texts. I love being able to easily locate information on authors such as Po Bronson (especially when they have blogs).

Last weekend, I picked up a book at the library entitled What Should I do with My Life? by Po Bronson but didn't think anything more about it until I decided to google the same question. It pointed me towards the same book. I decided that I couldn't argue with Technology's i-ching/magic 8 ball/tarot cards (Google) and I began reading it. I was shocked to discover that I couldn't put it down. I guess that I thought it would end up being just another What Color is My Parachute? It turned out to be inspirational, comforting and entertaining. One of the books main assumptions is that the world would be a better place if people were able to pursue their passions and I couldn't agree more. Bronson interviewed hundreds of people. He chose those stories to which he most related (mostly folks in their 20s and 30s) and recounted their successes and failures to follow their hearts in the workplace.

What makes the book unique is how effectively and compassionately the author weaves his own tale of self discovery into those of his subjects. Bronson demonstrates a willingness to learn from his subject's stories and to even help shape those stories. In fact, he goes as far as to find what sounds like an ideal position for one of his subjects with a publishing group on which Bronson serves as a director.