somewhere between the kosher deli and the middle eastern restaurant

We don't have to "go after him", Wendy.
We're not in a Sam Shepard play.

Movie snobbery is something that I suffer from, but as a quasi-rational and generally anxious-to-please person, I am very aware of that fact, and I often announce it to others early in the game so they can't secretly harbor a grudge when they begin to suspect snobbery in the first degree.

Like any serious relationship, I don't rush into love with a movie. I have high expectations, even for crappy movies, b-movies and chick flicks. If you are going to BE a chick flick, at least be something confusingly but substantially endearing,
like You've Got Mail, or When Harry Met Sally.

When I love something with my whole heart and offer it up to my friends or family with that look in my eyes that says, "this thing is amazing, and I want you to love it too," it certainly hurts when I'm met with "...why?" or "...that's nice, but it doesn't do the same for me."
So I understand why my friends probably think I'm a Jerk, capital J, when they recount a scene or soundtrack with tears in their eyes, full of admiration and love for a film that I can't embrace the same way.
Often in the theater, I've looked back over my shoulder at a credit sequence and actually thought "it's not you-- it's me".

I have a very wide array of 'taste' in movies, and despite the fact that I can jump out of love with a movie faster than many, I love hearing people talk about why they loved a film, regardless of my opinion.
But sometimes there's a loneliness in that... a deep urge to explain why some films have 'heart' to me, and why others fall so flat into curse of the self-conscious screenwriter, or the overly-proud director.

The films that "work" for me on a profound level are tone-sensitive to a music that is impossible for me to explain with words, but it makes 3 out of 5 movies sound tone deaf to my ears.
And on top of that, I hear my dad's sad remark that he's said so many times, and been so infuriatingly right-- "it stopped being truthful. Right...there" as he points at a line or a plot device that takes all the wind out of the story.

The Savages worked for me on a deep level because it was truthful. It had heart. And it had all the elements that just can't quite work in so many films-- the "I Love You!" balloon that plays a supporting character in two scenes, the banter between characters, the irresponsible romantic relationship between two semi-neurotic adults.

I'm beginning to learn that film is just one of maaaany things that I am craving similarities in. For example, I recently came across two work opportunities that literally made me stand up from my desk with excitement. The second ellicited a literal Irish Jig (and I was alone in my apartment). Nothing makes me want to get up and dance like a production company whose mission statement includes every single one of my professional ambitions-- and about six that I hadn't even thought of yet.

Discovering a potential career path, a film or even an overheard conversation that I relate to on a deep level is currently the most moving and exhillarating part of my life. It pierces straight through several thick layers of anxiety, loneliness, second-guessing and frustration that envelop my brain like a muscle-- a dense, stringy layer of "you're kidding yourself" that's easily penetrated by one shining moment of empathy, whether it's someone talking about their commitment to non-patronizing children's programming, or an old edition of "Calvin & Hobbes" on someone's bookshelf.
In this case, it was The Savages.

Like many attractions, I'm sure that a good part of my affection for this movie tonight was self-indulgence... Hoffman's looming paper on Brecht, his annoyance at anything "Sam Shepard" in real life, and his tragic outlook on a "Comp Lit professor finding work in the US" kept me stifling giggles long after the scenes had ended. And of course, memories of my own family's loss and suffering seemed paralleled by half the images in the film. But isn't that what all fiction is about? A compelling and almost primordial appreciation of the reflection of what we have experienced, what we have seen but can't put words to, who we are, and who we want to be?

I came home tonight and felt a heavy weight on my chest. I went to make dinner and threw in a bag of popcorn instead-- I started to fold laundry, but couldn't concentrate enough to fold socks. My apartment was silent, but my mind was full of buzzing non-thoughts.
I realized that this film pulled something out of me that I've been sad about my whole life, and try to surpress as much as possible. On a very quiet and subtle level, it gave me permission to feel the loss of not having any siblings.

I'm sure that it's stupid to be sad or complain about the way your family is, if it's functional. My parents mean the world to me, and I enjoy their company as much now as I did when I was very young. Being part of my family was an incredible experience growing up... I felt enveloped by two people who were wide-eyed and interested about my development, my well-being, and the person that I would be throughout my life. Dancing on my father's feet to the soundtrack of "Top Gun" playing on a record, putting on puppet shows with elaborate special effects that made my parents laugh until mom turned pink all the way up to the tips of her ears, taking long walks in the evening and stopping in awe to admire every large bird at the ponds... my memories of my family are so deeply part of who I am that it actually hurts to think about some of them.
But the older I get, the more I wonder what it would be like to have a fourth person present in those memories. Or a fifth.

I cry easily, especially when reading or leaving a theater. But tonight I cried because I was touched by the film's perspective on siblinghood-- something that I will only ever have the pleasure of knowing through film. What if there was someone I had competed with through my young adult life... someone who I had mini life-long grudges against? What if those once-a-week phone calls home in college had discussed the recent development in mom's life, dad's life, my most recent Shakespeare exams and improv shows, and so-and-so's budding interest in Biology because they were taking a neat class in Boston?
The what-if that I secretly long for most generally tends to be-- what if I had someone else to look over at and smile at when dad's laughing his three-octaves higher, head thrown back, 100% unique Dad Laugh? What if I had someone's number on my phone I could call to ask advice about wanting to dye my hair so bad but being too wussy to... and by the way... why does everyone in our family have such freaking high standards for everything else?
Do you feel that way too?

The thing I am the most afraid of in life is my parents getting old. It's something I never think about, never talk about, and never accept will happen.
I am determined to be the first person whose parents never age, never go through hard times, never get sick.
There is no way in hell that I am anywhere near able to handle that as a far-in-the-future possibility, and there is even less of a chance that I could handle that alone. Without that person who knows your family... who understands all those years of fights and laughter and dancing-on-feet to the Top Gun soundtrack. That person who sat on your bed and wrapped Christmas presents with you, or who made fun of you when you got grounded for climbing in the dog door after curfew.
There are many things that I would love to have in life, but don't possess. Having a brother or a sister may always be #1 on that list.

Maybe my movie snobbery, like this journal, is self-indulgent. Maybe my love for Kramer vs. Kramer and my boredom with Little Miss Sunshine just makes me sound old.
But for whatever it's worth, days like today-- warm, Kodakchrome Sundays that include a moving and affirming film in a creaky artsy theater, sandwiched between a Kosher Deli and a Middle Eastern restaurant-- these days make me feel less alone in that regard. These days include friends and actors and moments of solitude that are familiar, accepting, and comforting.

And that's as much as I'll write about The Savages.

Except for the side-note that Linney's cat was named Goliath... which for some reason seemed like the best name for a cat *ever*.

Martin Luther King, Jr. Day: seen through snow

Today was an abrupt cold snap-- the kind of cold that reminds me of agonizingly chilly walks to class in central New York. I can't believe that it took me two Hamilton winters and a bout of pneumonia before I learned the virtues of buying a Siberia-level winter coat.

The Colorado cold is much more merciful-- desert air can't cut straight through you the same way out here-- but unfortunately, it's currently seeping through the thin glass of my windows and making my apartment into 700sq feet of popsicle. I'm happily buried under an afghan and a quilt on my couch, wearing pajamas, reading glasses, chapstick that smells like summer and a hoodie that has accompanied me for eight years of memories.

It's Martin Luther King Jr. day, which seemed like an appropriate day to start writing a long-overdue letter to Charles Moore-- the photographer who famously captured MLK (and most of the 60s) in black and white, hard-hitting truth. He was an incredible photographer, and I feel very grateful to have been able to spend an absurd percentage of my savings on one of his original pieces. Mr. Moore is very old and sick, but he and his wife spent their last years protecting the rights of his photographs so they could be sold for a fraction of the tens of thousands of dollars they will go for in the next few years. Even if he is too ill to understand a letter from a twenty-something in Colorado, I hope he knows what a gift that was to people like me who feel like they literally have a piece of history in their home.

Mmm. Home.
Few things are more beautiful to my ears than the sound keys make when they're tossed on the kitchen counter-- that familiar tinkle of metal and plastic that sounds *undeniably* like coming home.

I love days like this, the ones that are very quiet, and very cold. There is something so meaningful to me about bundling up, disappearing with a book and a few loads of laundry, and glancing up every few pages to just get lost in thought.
I don't know who I'd be without quiet, cold days. If it was mid-July, I wouldn't have stayed up until 1:30 last night snuggled into my bed enjoying the **heated mattress pad** Brian bought me for Christmas (oh MAN. for a cold, cold girl, that is quite an amazing present)... reading a book about Mr. Rogers' life philosophies until I fell asleep with the book across my chest. If it was summer, I wouldn't have hidden behind hot chai and scarves all afternoon, reading "The Terror" again, talking about African Pythons with Thaddeus and planning sunny vacations with my family.

At the end of the day-- typing with freezing hands and a cold nose-- I feel very happy and comforted. My friends bring so many wonderful conversations into my daily life... in the past 24 hours, Brian shared a really interesting insight into evolution and physics with me; Meredith and I had a very meaningful conversation about Life, capital L; dad and I stood in the foyer of his house with my shoes dripping ice on the floor as we debated the recession and the way that foreign stock exchanges work; and Parent Dog and I continued swapping funny stories in our attempt to document every funny moment that could ever possibly be written in a book (how else will we ever earn our millions?)
And did I mention the African Pythons that Thad and I talked about for over an hour? And hippos. Oh lord, the amazing life of hippos.

Mr. Rogers (YES, Mr. Rogers... he AND Dr. King are my heroes because a girl can have more than one love in her life) has a lot of truly lovely thoughts about gratifying ways to live and share one's life. One of his most persistent points throughout his work and writing was to simply seek to find the best in people. I think if we all reminded ourselves of the meaningful conversations that could be had between ourselves and the "other guy"-- the mean boss, the parking ticket officer, the annoying little kid in the waiting room-- if we stopped more to remember that the other people in our daily life are real, and interesting, and have life experiences that we could benefit from... it could truly cut down on the amount of negativity in our daily lives.

And sentimentality takes over once again.
Must be the cold. It reminds me of my college days, you see...

It's almost time to start the week. I can feel my script, the gym, the uncooked food in my fridge, the laundry in the dryer and unfinished letters waiting for me.

These things would be much less pleasant to face without a "warm preheat" setting on my bed awaiting me.
In this lifetime, Warmth can literally make all the difference.
And I truly believe that.