Tap Tap

My kids started taking karate lessons.  We figured we should make it official, as they’d been checking books out of the library about karate and practicing their “moves” on one another for over a year now and it was really only a matter of time before we had to explain a compound fracture or concussion to a suspicious ER doctor.

The only downside to karate, as I see it, is the chunk of my paycheck that will be going toward the class.  But that is nothing compared to the many upsides, at least at this particular place.  The biggest upside, without doubt,  being that we no longer have to parent our children ourselves.

In two classes, their instructor managed to drill into them the four or five major lessons kids need to learn in order to grow up to be decent, productive, happy, self-actualized little citizens.

Listen to your parents, and be grateful for the things others do for you.  Respect all other living things and other people’s spaces and belongings.  Take care of your body and your mind.  Self-discipline in the practice of one thing will translate to a life of happiness and accomplishment.  After getting my kids to stand at attention, respond to him with “yes, sir” every time he addressed them, and maintain eye contact with him and obey his every request for a full hour and fifteen minutes, their teacher explained the principal behind the “guard up” stance that all the students assume when they are not at rest in karate class.

You don’t have your “guard up,” necessarily, in order to constantly defend yourself from physical harm, he told them.  Instead, you practice being in the “guard up” position to remind yourself that in life you always need to have your guard up against negative influence – whether that be your friends trying to get you to do or say things you know are wrong, spending your time in ways that are ultimately harmful or not productive for you, or even to counteract your own negative “self-talk” – the nasty and critical, and often inaccurate, things the bitchy voice in your head says to you.

“Tap Tap,” he barks, as a way of initiating the command.  “Guard up!”  They yell out in unison, assuming this defensive posture, one foot back, fists clenched, and hands and elbows facing forward.  They did not take their eyes off him, not even for a second, and they talked about what he had meant the whole drive home.

Again, this is after two classes.  I can hardly wait to see what they’ll be like after a few months.  I’m thinking humanitarians?  Philosophers?  Future world leaders? People who remember to flush?

 

It’s Not the Journey, It’s the Destination…wait that’s not it.

We, and by we I mean HIM because if I had done it the house would probably need to be torn down, recently hung a big, old-timey-lookin’ chalkboard in our kitchen.  Last night I watched our kids draw for ages, totally unselfconsciously.  People, trains, animals, forests, I believe I saw a surfer being eaten by a shark at one point, but never mind.

What is the exact moment that children lose that unselfconsciousness about creative expression?  And how the hell can we get it back?

I am not aware of consciously thinking it, but I know for certain that when I read some books or essays or see some movies or look at particular photographs or paintings or mosaics or watch some tv shows (hello, The Wire, I’m looking at you), some part of my internal critic says, “Well, you’re never going to be able to do that, so why bother.”  There are those totally amazing creative enterprises that blow your doors off and make you want to try and inspire you.  And then there are those than just shut you right down because, screw it.  Or maybe they’re the same and it just depends on who you are at the time you experience them.

Keri Hulme’s The Bone People

REM’s NightSwimming

the aforementioned The Wire

Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window

a perfect creme brulee

White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby

to name a few.

 

 

 

 

Back In the Saddle…or why David Fincher needs a dope slap

New year, new leaf.

Apparently I haven’t had much to say.  I figured I should show up and say something, if for no other reason than to staunch the flow of emails and phone calls (thank you, by the way, does a heart good) checking in to make sure that I’m a) still alive b) doing fine c)you know, doing fine.   I am all of the above.  In spades. I just haven’t had anything to say.  I have no idea what that’s all about.  Mental holiday?  Dry well? Writer’s block?  Creative drought? I’ve decided not to poke at it.  I’ve also decided that it’s probably not good for me in the long run.

Here’s what else I’ve decided:  BORING.  Socrates may have said, “An unexamined life is not worth living,” but an overly examined life is only worth the examining for the person living the life, the rest of the world couldn’t give a rat’s ass.  Onward.

I haven’t been especially well read.  Or hostessy.  But that’s my goal for the time being.  It’s good to have goals.

David Fincher needs a dope slap.

I read all of Stieg Larsson’s Girl with the Dragon Tattoo novels (3), and listened to them (unabridged – I recommend this, heartily, read by Simon Vance, liked it better than reading the books, which is unusual for me, plus, listened while walking many miles, Bo-NUS). I also saw the Swedish versions of the films, of which I approve.  True to books.  Two thumbs decidedly up.

Neither here nor there.  We can debate Stieg Larsson and the trilogy another day should you wish.  Whomever you are.

Saw the American version of the film on Friday after a serious control-freak meltdown over hallway paint color and the rapidly deteriorating condition of my home which you might notice if you aren’t, say, me.  Or nuts.  Anyway, emergency Must See A Movie Instantly Situation.  Plus, Daniel Craig, so couldn’t really go wrong.  Win, win, win all over the place.

And here’s the verdict: well played Hollywood, well played, indeed.  Casting: excellent, I’m not madly in love with the choice of Robin Wright Penn as Erika Berger, but I’ll sign off on that one because I might be biased against her because she has a weird clavicle (I swear, go see it, you’ll be driven to distraction by this thing, it’s bizarre.), and also because her half sister once gave me a tube of MAC Russian Red lipstick in San Francisco that changed my life.  Mood, tone, atmosphere:  excellent.  Loyalty to book:  very good, I am totally OK with the adaptations in the name of expedience.  I never once felt like I was sitting through something I’d read/heard/watched once, let alone three times before.  I was entertained, impressed, pleased, delighted, engaged.  Hoo-freaking-ray.

BUT.

HUGE, BUT.

What, the, holy, hell, was the opening sequence about?

I mean, of all the self-indulgent, directorial, B.S., pretentious, craptastic pieces of nonsense I have ever seen committed to celluloid (OK, digital whatever whatever), this takes the cake.  It had absolutely no relevance,  artistic, symbolic, nor thematic, to the movie.  Why, oh why, was it there?

Days later, I’m still pissed about it.

Also.  The song that played during the closing credits was completely inappropriate and sucked.

The end.

 

 

p.s.  happy new year.

p.p.s. if you’re looking for something to read, pick up the Tana French trilogy, In the Woods, The Likeness, Faithful Place.  In that order.