ah, valentine's day. i would like to say i spent yesterday in the throes of an all-consuming, passionate affair. i would like to say that. reality, however, is much less kind.
i spent the day in an unseeing fuzz of uncomfortability. what kind of a dork makes an eye exam appointment for 10 am on february 14th? this kind of dork, apparently.
i had been wearing my glasses for the last few days, and though i adore how intellectual and wise they made me look, i knew it was past time to get these peepers checked out. so, dutifully i got dilated, and ran into my first problem in short order. i had forgotten my sunglasses at home. yeah, i'm brilliant. the doc had given me some cheapie plastic sunglasses, the kind that are large and square and cover half your face. i put them on in the car when it became apparent that even the soft morning light was too much for my enlarged pupils, but promptly discarded them after one look in the rearview mirror. yikes. i may not be a certified fashionista, but god help me if i willingly allow myself to look like i'm starring in the original terminator movie.
since my appointment was on the west side, i decided to hop skip and jump over to the claddagh irish pub, peter's place of employment. figuring i could hang out at the bar for a bit until my eyes returned to normal, i headed over. let me tell ya, when your pupils are denied the right to contract, things can get dicey. i barely made it over, and settled myself down for a wait.
now, i've had the need for corrective eyewear since the second grade, so i'm no stranger to dilation. but it had been several years, and damn, i'm getting old and forgetful. i had completely forgotten how freaky it is to be unable to focus. i had good mid-range, but far away or up close? forget it. word for the day: blur. not to mention the fact that i looked like a tweaked-out alien with pupils the size of a small island nation. every so often i would ask peter for a "pupil check," to which he would reply "still freakin' huge."
point of fact: it takes more than 1/2 hour for the effects of dilation to wear off. i parked my rump at his bar for a good 4 hours. i understand now why peter is not enamored of the canned "irish" music that constantly plays. after hearing jigs and dirges all afternoon, i was ready to rip the head off the next "irishman" that came my way. i ended up staying until peter was off work and gave him a ride home, sunlight smarting my eyes enough to make my cry out "it burns" and "i'm melting" during the drive.
but before i left, i shamelessly listened in on the phone conversation of a gentleman sitting a few seats away. the air was mixed with equal parts love, cigarette smoke and some fine fiddling. he ordered a pint of guinness and flipped his phone open. upon his greeting of "hi, happy valentine's day," i immediately thought how sweet. an absent lover, an upcoming rendezvous, countless possibilities of love love love. then came "how's your day been, mom?" oops. he proceeded to tell her how he'd gotten his hair cut that day, and how he bought those martini glasses from michael's, and yes, he'd used the coupon, but they only had three left, and on and on.
i admit it. i was making fun of him. calling his mom on valentine's day? come on. but later that night while sipping scotch alone in the window of maduro's, i realized what an ass i had been. for god's sake, it's a day of love. and it should be celebrated wherever it's found and/or given. so sure, mom's included. and your cat. and your friends. so many stores sell plastic roses and glow-in-the-dark boxers and made-in-china fuzzy handcuffs that we think if we're not in a relationship on one freakin' day of the year we're losers.
it's all around us, we just have to remember to look for it. so, although it took several slow hours for my pupils to contract, it only look several quick minutes for my heart to expand.
so: love to those who have been generous with their affections. it is much appreciated. i can see you clearly now, and it is a wondrous sight to behold.
ps: any 6'2" blond norwegian goddesses lookin' to stalk peter, the claddagh irish pub is located at 1611 aspen commons street in beautiful, bucolic middleton. the clam chowder is delish.
1.30.2006
thank you for flying madtown airlines...
so it's been a while, and i've been sadly remiss in my posting duties of late, and an apology is in order.
my bad.
i've gotten caught up in many things, including but not limited to: 1) directing never the sinner, 2) updating my website, and 3) continuing my search for gainful employment. but i'm back (briefly) to make an important announcement.
please fasten your seatbelt and store your tray in the upright position.
yes, i'm going to be leaving the fair city of madison in search of life, liberty, and the pursuit of something more. madison is a fine town, one of the best, and i feel really comfortable here. i've found some kindred spirits with mercury players, and i love that i can live 5 blocks from the capitol while remaining 5 blocks from the lake as well. not to mention the multitude of fine eating establishments, and even finer drinking establishments. but there's a problem in paradise.
if i stay, i would forever be (to quote from never the sinner) "...comfortable. unexceptional." and (to again quote) "i truly think i shall be able to do the world some good and at least try to live a much better life than i have."
when am i moving? not really sure, possibly end of july/august-ish. where am i moving? not really sure, although several places are calling to me. so many decisions yet to be made. but regardless of the when and where, i'm going to launch myself into the great unknown and see what these wings can do.
movie quote of the day:
"you know when you really want something, you close your eyes and wish for it really hard? god is the guy that ignores you."
- steve buscemi explaining god to the clones in michael bay's excruciating movie "the island"
my bad.
i've gotten caught up in many things, including but not limited to: 1) directing never the sinner, 2) updating my website, and 3) continuing my search for gainful employment. but i'm back (briefly) to make an important announcement.
please fasten your seatbelt and store your tray in the upright position.
yes, i'm going to be leaving the fair city of madison in search of life, liberty, and the pursuit of something more. madison is a fine town, one of the best, and i feel really comfortable here. i've found some kindred spirits with mercury players, and i love that i can live 5 blocks from the capitol while remaining 5 blocks from the lake as well. not to mention the multitude of fine eating establishments, and even finer drinking establishments. but there's a problem in paradise.
if i stay, i would forever be (to quote from never the sinner) "...comfortable. unexceptional." and (to again quote) "i truly think i shall be able to do the world some good and at least try to live a much better life than i have."
when am i moving? not really sure, possibly end of july/august-ish. where am i moving? not really sure, although several places are calling to me. so many decisions yet to be made. but regardless of the when and where, i'm going to launch myself into the great unknown and see what these wings can do.
movie quote of the day:
"you know when you really want something, you close your eyes and wish for it really hard? god is the guy that ignores you."
- steve buscemi explaining god to the clones in michael bay's excruciating movie "the island"
1.11.2006
webster's dictionary: 476,829. cara: 0
you've heard the phrase "a mind is a terrible thing to waste?" well, meet the girl who takes that to heart. i've always been too intelligent for my own good. and, often, for the good of others. this precocious lass has been reading shakespeare when she was barely in double-digits, and memorized keats and donne in middle school for the hell of it. i cannot begin to try and number the books that i've read, and am the proud possessor of a vocabulary larger than vermont. there is a right word for everything, from someone who is prone to using long or cumbersome words (sesquipedalian) to the term used for a poor choice of words (cacology) .
those who converse with me on a regular basis know that i take a certain (and excessive) amount of pride in my use of the english language. those rarer few who actually understand what i'm saying can confirm my zealous adherence to the rules and regulations that structure correct communication. i must admit to a certain thrill when i am called "the word girl," although i think more often than not it's said in a slightly mocking manner. but truth, even when spoken with sarcasm, is still truth, is it not?
that being said, i also delight in the turn of a clever phrase, be it full of dangling modifiers or not. sometimes rules are made to be broken, right? sure they are. as long as you know what rules you're breaking. picasso (the cubist version of him that most people have been exposed to) would not have been able to paint "guernica" without first investing years of study in anatomy and form.
the thing is, i get serious cotton-mouth whenever i try to actually express a feeling. words fail me, and i get swamped with sensation, emotion, everything but a coherent string of words that contain all the necessary adjectives to get my point across. i've even gone so far as to have conversations with myself when confronting a particularly sticky subject, trying to search my way around the emotive landmines that trigger an embarrassing arrest into silence. sometimes i'm successful. other times, not so much. but at the end of it all i'm still a girl so uncomfortable with her feelings she clams up at the slightest suggestion of anything irrational or illogical.
i could blame a distant and verbally abusive father, or a serious lack of self-confidence, or a heart that is too too sensitive to stand much more than the fleeting touch of problematic emotions. nonetheless, and because i'm typing and not talking, the cold, hard facts are these: all of the above, and then some.
i simply feel too much. of anything. my mother thought i was manic depressive for years, because of my penchant for extreme joy and excrutiating pain. but it wasn't, isn't a chemical imbalance in me causing it; i just seem to have been born without barriers, thrust into a world where everything comes at me like a high-speed train on full-throttle. over the years i've been able to find ways of shutting things off when they feel ready to engulf me, but the learning curve on that has been slow and grueling. and yes, a certain chemical imbalance of the regular depressive variety has factored in, but again, with my own natural cunning and a brief fling with zoloft, i have been able to nullify (for the most part) it's effect.
my problem remains thus: i have, in the defense of my system and my sanity, shut it almost all the way off. and now, when i am encouraged to "just spill it" or "get it off my chest" i find that the pathways that should demarcate the way to communication have become overgrown and impossible to navigate. and god forbid i should ask for a guide. without meaning to, i give off serious "don't ask" vibes; not because i don't want to talk about it, but because more often than not, i can't talk about it without feeling weak, or stupid, or both. pride, and a little dash of self-consciousness, relegates me to a certain conversational isolationism that is impossible for most people to break through. myself included.
as i told a friend tonight, "sometimes i'm not so good at talking." i think what i really meant was, "sometimes i'm not so good at feeling."
diagnosis? inflamed psyche and overactive soul. prognosis? chronic loneliness. inside and out. cure? still working on it.
tonight's tête-à-tête is a doozy. couch (sans therapist), here i come.
those who converse with me on a regular basis know that i take a certain (and excessive) amount of pride in my use of the english language. those rarer few who actually understand what i'm saying can confirm my zealous adherence to the rules and regulations that structure correct communication. i must admit to a certain thrill when i am called "the word girl," although i think more often than not it's said in a slightly mocking manner. but truth, even when spoken with sarcasm, is still truth, is it not?
that being said, i also delight in the turn of a clever phrase, be it full of dangling modifiers or not. sometimes rules are made to be broken, right? sure they are. as long as you know what rules you're breaking. picasso (the cubist version of him that most people have been exposed to) would not have been able to paint "guernica" without first investing years of study in anatomy and form.
the thing is, i get serious cotton-mouth whenever i try to actually express a feeling. words fail me, and i get swamped with sensation, emotion, everything but a coherent string of words that contain all the necessary adjectives to get my point across. i've even gone so far as to have conversations with myself when confronting a particularly sticky subject, trying to search my way around the emotive landmines that trigger an embarrassing arrest into silence. sometimes i'm successful. other times, not so much. but at the end of it all i'm still a girl so uncomfortable with her feelings she clams up at the slightest suggestion of anything irrational or illogical.
i could blame a distant and verbally abusive father, or a serious lack of self-confidence, or a heart that is too too sensitive to stand much more than the fleeting touch of problematic emotions. nonetheless, and because i'm typing and not talking, the cold, hard facts are these: all of the above, and then some.
i simply feel too much. of anything. my mother thought i was manic depressive for years, because of my penchant for extreme joy and excrutiating pain. but it wasn't, isn't a chemical imbalance in me causing it; i just seem to have been born without barriers, thrust into a world where everything comes at me like a high-speed train on full-throttle. over the years i've been able to find ways of shutting things off when they feel ready to engulf me, but the learning curve on that has been slow and grueling. and yes, a certain chemical imbalance of the regular depressive variety has factored in, but again, with my own natural cunning and a brief fling with zoloft, i have been able to nullify (for the most part) it's effect.
my problem remains thus: i have, in the defense of my system and my sanity, shut it almost all the way off. and now, when i am encouraged to "just spill it" or "get it off my chest" i find that the pathways that should demarcate the way to communication have become overgrown and impossible to navigate. and god forbid i should ask for a guide. without meaning to, i give off serious "don't ask" vibes; not because i don't want to talk about it, but because more often than not, i can't talk about it without feeling weak, or stupid, or both. pride, and a little dash of self-consciousness, relegates me to a certain conversational isolationism that is impossible for most people to break through. myself included.
as i told a friend tonight, "sometimes i'm not so good at talking." i think what i really meant was, "sometimes i'm not so good at feeling."
diagnosis? inflamed psyche and overactive soul. prognosis? chronic loneliness. inside and out. cure? still working on it.
tonight's tête-à-tête is a doozy. couch (sans therapist), here i come.
1.08.2006
the bruce speaks: brokeback mountain
the latest film from director ang lee (crouching tiger, hidden dragon and the ice storm) has garnered 7 golden globe nominations. see if you can garner whether i think they are deserved (or not).WARNING! the following synopsis contains spoilers. please do not read further if you are planning on seeing the movie, or if you need to be somwhere in the next two minutes. other than than, enjoy.
randy quaid: i need some sheepherders. go up brokeback mountain for several months. just the two of you. with one tent. now git.
(heath ledger and jake gyllenhaal meet awkwardly outside the trailer office several moments later.)
heath ledger: please pardon my regional mumble.
jake gyllenhaal: please pardon my ridiculous sideburns.
(many sheep scenes later...)
jake gyllenhaal: hey, let's drink lots of whiskey, cause i'm named jack twist, and i'm crazy.
heath ledger: okay. boy, i'm too drunk to go check on the sheep... i could sleep out by the fire...
jake gyllenhaal: sure... but it's gonna get cold... why don't you come in the tent with me...?
(heath ledger and jake gyllenhaal engage in drunken fisticuffs and graphic, grunting anal sex.)
(heath ledger and jake gyllenhaal meet awkwardly outside the camp tent the next morning.)
heath ledger: this is a one-time deal, we got goin' here.*
jake gyllenhaal: ain't nobody's business but our own.*
(four years, two wives, and three children later...)
jake gyllenhaal: surprise! i'm up from the texas rodeo. let's go "fishing" on brokeback mountain.
heath ledger: hot diggity damn. wife, i'll be back next week.
michelle williams: i've colored my hair and deliberately stayed pasty-white for this role. i shall now show my acting abilities by looking meek and troubled, as i saw them kissing but can't get up the gumption to holler about it.
(unspecified number of years later...)
heath ledger: please pardon my closeted tendencies.
jake gyllenhaal: please pardon my cartoonish mustache.
(several more years...)
heath ledger: just because i've gotten a divorce doesn't mean i want to "open a spread" with you.
jake gyllenhaal: shit. i guess i'll have to go to mexico for man whores.
(several more years...)
jake gyllenhaal: now that we're forty-ish, i have an ultimatum. i guess. maybe not.
heath ledger: why don't you quit me? why do you love me? why did my parents name me "ennis?" (breaks down crying.)
(the next month...)
heath ledger: damnation. jack twist is dead. and all i have left are the two shirts from our summer on brokeback mountain that he saved and didn't tell me about that still have dried blood on them from when we punched each other out the last day we were there because.. well, who the hell knows. (cries. just a little.) jack twist, i swear...*
*actual lines from the movie.
grade for one extremely hot man-on-man kiss: a+
grade for for the dumbass ending: d-
grade for the movie: c
1.06.2006
all hail the bruce...
sometimes life creeps up on you like a bad head cold. it starts with a scratchy morning, which you just know will progress to a dry, hacking afternoon and end with a thoroughly congested evening.
and sometimes it will body-rush you straight into pneumonia.
there are no antibiotics for the particular virus i've caught. 13 consecutive clouded days (an almost-record for wisconsin) and a handful of bitter weeks have laid me low. at this point even the idea of sunlight pains me. and dear god, does time creep when the most exciting part of the day is night and bed and sweet oblivion.
but through the watery eyes and pounding noggin, i find an abatement of my symptoms. mornings ripe with the promise of something better than what came before. afternoons of plans and purpose and a finding of my true direction. three nightly hours when i am sure of my place in the world.
they may not cure what i've got, but they can surely ease the aches and pains until once more my head is clear and my body hale and hearty.
the best medicine? remembering three things. one: things could be worse. two: joy abounds. three: i'm still here. after all else, i'm still here.
so bring it on. i stand ready with all the weapons at my disposal: a rapier-sharp wit, a keen intellect, a ferocious heart and a killer smile.
all hail the bruce.
and sometimes it will body-rush you straight into pneumonia.
there are no antibiotics for the particular virus i've caught. 13 consecutive clouded days (an almost-record for wisconsin) and a handful of bitter weeks have laid me low. at this point even the idea of sunlight pains me. and dear god, does time creep when the most exciting part of the day is night and bed and sweet oblivion.
but through the watery eyes and pounding noggin, i find an abatement of my symptoms. mornings ripe with the promise of something better than what came before. afternoons of plans and purpose and a finding of my true direction. three nightly hours when i am sure of my place in the world.
they may not cure what i've got, but they can surely ease the aches and pains until once more my head is clear and my body hale and hearty.
the best medicine? remembering three things. one: things could be worse. two: joy abounds. three: i'm still here. after all else, i'm still here.
so bring it on. i stand ready with all the weapons at my disposal: a rapier-sharp wit, a keen intellect, a ferocious heart and a killer smile.
all hail the bruce.
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