Colin Farrell's pipecleaner eyebrows

I'm Irish. Plenty of Americans are, if only in fractional units. Those of us of Western European descent are furry people, especially when we're brunettes rather than blondes. This brings me to the current hot-bad-boy of celebrity, Mr.Colin Farrell, and his pipecleaner eyebrows. I recently sat through over 2 hours of his John-Smith-as-a-tortured-man rendition in the film The New World. At this point, I am still trying to decide whether or not he was cast for his "Hollywood hottie" draw to get people to see a piece on the Jamestown settlement (next year marks the 400th anniversary), or if Farrell really believes in what he did.
What I will say for the film is that it portrays Indians as warm, peaceable people with strong bonds to community and nature. Good. They are as beautiful as the nature preserve along the James River, where most of the piece was filmed. Farrell speaks very little, comes to appreciate his surroundings, and falls in love with Pocahontas. Who wouldn't? She's great! But wasn't she supposed to be 11 when she befriended him? My father tells me that these were different times, when a 30 year old man could have the right intentions for an underage girl. Either way, the look of sensitive torture and a desire for a better world is written all over Farrell's face, marked strongly by his expressive pipecleaner eyebrows.

mi hermana no esta aqui

This morning heralded the re-commencement of my sister's globetrotting.

She would not allow anyone to act sadly toward her, as she was garnering up as much courage as she could muster. Of course her bags were not completely packed or her goodbyes quieted and complete. She managed to make herself quite ill with a sour stomach, which is classic. The woman who loves to meet new people, see the world, and have adventures, loathes above most things to travel. This point of irony is never far from her ears, as everyone has noticed the fact.

Still, she will be in Afrika tomorrow, bless her, to remain a year's time as a student. Bon voyage, mon ami!

restless soul

Not so long ago, when I was a boomerang kid, under the roof of my parents once again, I one of my epiphanies. The room in which I kept my things and slept in every night has a tented ceiling, as in the pitch is vaulted to the semblance of a great tent. A temporary shelter!
My imagination took me out of that room, that house; to be independent again. I have moved nearly every year since commencing college, and now we're up to year 10. And yet, I am still a restless soul. Why can't I just sit on my hands, settle down, marry a nice boy, and add to the population with 1.5 kids?
Because, from a very young age, I have been wholly desirous to fly. Flightiness, not to be confused with airheadedness, is one of my qualities. Never going too far from family, I have escaped to different cities and have had to make new friends all over again. With a job opening up in, yes, a city three hours away, this little bird might just take flight again. Maybe this time a good gent will be able to keep the pace...

I've got the kavorka

kavorka: lure of the animal

Cosmo Kramer once consulted with a Latvian Orthodox priest regarding his troubles of attracting women he shouldn't. He was advised to cease bathing and wear garlic around his neck, as the odors would have adverse effects on women's perceptions of him. Kramer was suffering from his naturally gifted kavorka, "lure of the animal."

This experience can be translated to the attractive woman and her daily encounters with men she is not attracted to (read: this in reference to guys who do not normally receive such attention). A nice woman will look such a man in the eye, ask how they are, and on occasion have a brief conversation. The attention being given is out of kindness, and perhaps pity. Yet this man quite often takes it for flattery and believes that the attractive woman in question must really like them. It is an uncomfortable experience, to realize that a guy has taken it the wrong way, because they must be set right. The woman's manners have made more of an impact than regular social interaction should ever mean. Passive women will continue on as before, avoiding a confrontation, although the conversations are now down to one word. Women like myself, however, give these men a cold shoulder once the realization has occurred. Most of these guys are nice, and simply unsure of how to act except openly excited. It's like Jim Carrey chasing after Mary in Dumber and Dumber, out of an incorrect assumption. Did he get the girl? Conclusion: a polite, well-mannered, attractive woman may indeed suffer from the kavorka. Here it means "lure of the socially-inept." Sigh...

a collage of dreams

A friend of my sister's makes a collage of everything she wants to do or accomplish in the coming year. Have you ever created a list of things you'd like to do, say, within your lifetime? Start with some secret dream you've had but thought the opportunity would never come/you would not have the time/you felt in some way thwarted from.
List two things you want to do, and let it stem upward like a vine climbing a wall in search of sunlight. Here are mine:

1) learn to play the piano
2) ride a horse on the beach

Brokeback

Last night I viewed the controversial, award nominated film Brokeback Mountain, by Ang Lee, on the one screen outsideof Chapel Hill showing it. I'm actually a fan of Ang Lee's work, for he is a man of vision, of cross-cultural interpretation. All of his films have a slow, building intensity with special attention to cinematography. Wyoming, the setting here, is the least populated, most destitute state in this country, and one of the most beautiful. The film is based upon a short story featured in the New Yorker, following the twenty-year relationship of two people, and the realities of what that relationship means in what could have been any small town in America in the 1960s. Cutting and tragic. Heath Ledger's perfomance alone is striking and incredible, and he will win at least one award for it. In sum: the film portrays gay men as human beings with feelings, and does so very well.

This issue, in my opinion, needs to be addressed. People are people, but people will be people. As a straight woman, I have been teased and bullyed for being and acting apart from the norm. No person is normal, just as no person is perfect. Everybody's just trying to figure it out. There is no dignity in treating anyone as an inferior. When their character shows them to be corrupted and parasitic, they can be left alone. A person's life is not over due to one choice they have made. Life is full of choices.

That being stated, I know that my many Christian friends have elected not to see this particular movie, for reasons I know well. There are several people in my life, whom I love very much, who are in the gay lifestyle, and as adults making decisions out of their free will, I respect them. I have always sought the heart of a person, crossing the boundary of personal choice and expression, to find what lies within. I could speak to the psychology of the situation, but in all the answer is very simple: so simple, in fact, that many see it as a near impossibility in the complexities of life. Yet there all of the time is the source of love and all answers: God. I believe that everything seems like a puzzle, the pieces scattered along the years of a person's exist'stance. You don't get it all at once. Each and every heart seeks love, acceptance, and stability in this world. Who will love me and care for me? Who will accept me as I am and understand me, and make me better? Everyone seeks these things, fumbling around in the dark until a light is turned on. It should start with one's parents and family as we start life, but [incredibly!] sadly it often does not. So we seek it elsewhere.

Love is the most powerful thing of all: it is what created us, what keeps us, and what we chase after. To quote Lauryn Hill, "From the dark night can arrive the sweet dawn." There is hope yet. Hope does not faid like our whims, or crumble at our misgivings. Take heart.

the winter that wasn't

oh coat closet, whose door remains shut,
save for the briefest of days in a week
when the air is brisk,
what you must be thinking?
this is the second winter that wasn't.

snow is not raining from the skies:
it is only raining. again.
the ground is soggy and yellow,
and the cherry trees are blooming.
everything is scratching its head;
no one is certain what season
this might be.

yesterday, young men played football
bare-chested in the park,
as though their wait through the cold
had been postponed, or
entirely called off.
another winter that isn't,
another january of seventy degrees
and blue skies.
the cherry trees are blooming;
no one is certain what season
this might be.

the beautiful one

The beautiful one is the young lady you have in your mind: she is poised for whatever dreams you may have, and she will sit right at your side in silence. You haven't bothered to find out much about her, because you think you already know all that you need to. Why? Because she smiled at you. She introduced herself before you even got the nerve to say "hello." She listens to you talk about whatever, and feels sorry for you when you whine. This actually means that she is polite, with good manners. You could take a few cues.
In your mind, she is beautiful in her cream-colored mohair sweater, an aura lit about her head. You find yourself saying words and issuing compliments you don't mean, just hoping she will stay there on the phone, sit on the bar stool, or pay attention to you for five more minutes. The truth is that you are bored with the truth: you already know that no woman is perfect. A compliment, afterall, is just a grouping of words you give meaning to, like the fortune in a fortune cookie. At least that's what you think you said. She tells you that you are interesting, which means she's just not interested. Enough with the words, the lip service.

no hay insulation

There are moments when I believe that I am sane. These brief instances of a level road and even temper are always vanquished when my mania reinforces itself. The latest: my predisposition for selecting apartments without air conditioning and/or insulation.

I adore older buildings. Really! This particular structure at present is thankfully without aesbestos. No artificial fillers can be found in the walls or floors, which should be great! Well... it also means that there is no insulation. End result= an icey winter indoors. The floors, people! Around 4PM, when the sun begins to hide a bit in the surrounding hills, the apartment begins its descent into the polar zone. Last night, for example, my bare feet made contact with the rug beside my bed and went numb. My girlfriend mel cannot afford heat, so this winter she and her roommate are sleeping under five blankets apiece and wearing hats indoors. Well, just call me Laura Ingalls because I now sleep in a cap. One could see this action as at once humorous and ridiculous. But I love older buildings! Honestly.

My place in A'ville had one radiator on the opposite side of the room (read: a one-room efficiency), which during Christmas 2001 I placed my sister within a foot of to sleep when the temperature plunged to 10 degrees. Nevermind that she could have reached out and probably opened the refrigerator from where she was resting. It was... an adventure... that my visiting parents rode out in a nearby hotel.

The first singles apartment was half an old bungalow, containing two unfunctional fireplaces and a handful of tinkling radiators. I love a radiator. They hiss and purr through the cold nights. The linen closet where I placed my bed had its own window and radiator. During the blizzards and ice storms I nestled in there, wearing the best ensemble you never want people to see you in. The old flannel robe. The threadbare flannel pants. Bright pink socks over purple socks. Two aged shirts that should've been rags to clean the windows with. Another girlfriend stayed in this particular apartment over Christmas and swears that she lost 5 pounds from the battle to stay warm.

You would think that I would learn. Or get a space heater, which would blow the fuses and send every cold, grumpy person in my building to my door with a heavy fisted knock.

two hogs strapped onto a scooter

they say that flipping a hog over onto its back creates a sedative effect. one can strap several such placid swine over the threshold of a one-man scooter, and tear off to the market to sell them by cuts and parts. such a concept does not bode well in my mind, as this information is not a held opinion of fact, but rather from a story of a recently-returned world traveler. in asia, you may well be privy, live animals are sold and occasionally slaughtered in the public market. this is also the market which produced s.a.r.s.
i put very little stock in a living creature turned contrary to its spine and natural stature as a pleased animal indeed. much less would i believe that a simple scooter would support the weight of an adult and two hogs all the way to market. what if the operator of said scooter hits a roadbump, runs out of gas, or is cornered by american animal rights activists on the way?

[this was meant to be a humorous commentary... hope you at least smiled]