hours made to spend with others

he's begun to worry what others will think; what they think now. "i couldn't get a job now if i wanted to! you think someone would hire a crazy old man who hasn't worked in 24 years, who's raised a bunch of girls, whose wife provides for him?" he says it as if he's started to worry himself, as if some days he wonders if he should read his fantasy novels on the front porch during the middle of the day, wondering what the neighbors must think. "a man sitting around all day waiting for his wife to provide. despicable!" but he's learned that he has to answer the call. if it comes at 3 in the morning, if it comes at 3 in the afternoon, he knows he has to get up, sit outside, and reflect and pray. he confesses to sometimes being half asleep, and how that doesn't matter, because he's still learning something. he tells me that everyone thinks he's crazy or irresponsible, but he knows this is what he's supposed to be doing. he's supposed to have free hours. he's supposed to open that front door to anyone that knocks--magazine salesmen, mormons, the woman down the street, the insurance woman. he's to hear their problems, hear nothing, hear everything. but that door must be answered, and he must listen.

he speaks of inspiration. his days on the circuit at the black church. the elders would approach him and say "ronnie, whatcha preaching on sunday?" "i don't know," he'd respond, "but i've been fasting and studying." he tells me that he would not know what he was to speak of as he approached the pulpit, but that in that very moment that words would spill out. and that's when he realized that he was to do that. much as it grieved him at times. "my uncle frank called me and told me I needed to be praying for an hour a day. AN HOUR A DAY?!, i thought! impossible." but he's done it, even when it was simulation, even when his daughters dreaded it, and he as much as they.

he stops me as I ride pass tonight. he asks me about rwanda and the paper i'm writing. wonders if i'd discovered the causes--were there outside forces? was the CIA involved? The nephulum comes up. the sky darkens. the mosquitos bite. he returns to the central theme of all these years, like always, about getting right with god now. and as always, i walk away believing him.

the paper that looks like money

i remember it. that awkward exchange. the old man in line behind, anxious to buy his big red gum in a hurry. and mom pulling out that over-sized paper money that wasn't money, but, on a good day, operated as smoothly as the real stuff. nowadays, the transaction is less embarrassing for the bearers, less arduous for the big-red-gum-buying sorts, tapping their toes, sighing loudly, running their fingers over sharon stone's face on the glossy cover. I am 24, and should I give birth to three children in the next day, I will be awarded some sort of assistance from the government. But as it is, I am single, in between jobs (or two or three of them), and still living at home. But other than the plethora of cereal options at my disposal, provided kindly by the father, I'm on my own.

My slight disparity all hits home after watching a slew of Beverly Hill 90210 (season 2) episodes. Granted, I feel duller after having indulged, but man, all that neon-clad volleyball action, and bmw-buying, and oceanside triviality reminds me that I live in the 68502 zipcode, and things operate a little differently here.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, first of all, dialogue in my own life is most definitely better than that delivered in the show. Minus the synthy soundtrack. [But between you and me, I know an islander who could help out with that.] Second of all, my life still looks rosy and 90210 to someone else; my complaints are really just a series of neuroses afforded to me by a certain amount of wealth we Americans know (preachy mcpreacherson). Finally, life is something to sort out. The scholarly life is safety from taking on real issues, ones we dealt with peripherally as children (mom exchanging signed notes for potatoes and milk). But these images sneak back up on you and stare you down in the awkward transitional periods. Adult, but not steady; child, but not naive.

You may be asking yourself now, those neophyte blog-readers out there, how the picture I've opened up with hooks up with the blog's subject matter. I guess the moral is, between jobs or not, half empty or half full, one can still dress up and dance and relish something. Be it little dogs, black and white ceramic (oh-so-racialist), or falling in the mud followed by ceremonial foot-washing at a corner park (a man watches birds at the fountain; a woman reads the paper. it is 8:15 in the morning).

the telluride film festival recap, or how i stole a picture from mr. stewart

I half believed I would return to autumn. The nights are cooler, indeed, but the midday humidity still sucks my already tight shirts to the ol' ma'ams and draws negative attention in yet another long line of interviews. I've stooped low, kiddies, and am no longer envisioning grand things for myself (aka, trying out for the big jobs), but am instead subverting myself to the double interview process strangely drawn upon by the fast food-chain-owned coffee house in town (camped out conveniently and awkwardly in said fast food chain's parking lot). The stern interviewer cracked when I said I'd like to be a mountaineer if I could.

But this isn't about that. Nor about that old feces (read: thesis) that's due in something like five weeks (of which I really have yet to start). No, this is to brag about the cool nights in Telluride, and the brilliant days (most of which I actually missed as I couldn't pull myself away from the silver screen). This year I had the great fortune to travel to the Telluride Film Fest with three excellent comrades, Bill, Joe, and Andrew, all from ol' Neeeeebraska. I also was lucky in my first foray into the couchsurfing world. Mr. Brown was a delightful host, if not mostly absent, and we shared some good chuckles and convo over Chinese food. I was able to watch twelve films between my ushering shifts at the theatre and the shows I watched like all the regular not-so-regular passholders, in long queues, braving cold and heat, and those blasted line cutters. Here's a run down of some of the highlights, many of which, I suppose, will be the big films of the awards season. Bear with me if this is 1) long, 2) tedious, 3) obnoxious, 4) more awesome than you could imagine.

Todd Haynes's "I'm Not There," USA
This is the new Dylan biopic, sorta, or rather, a postmodern tale tracing Dylan's various personas, from the folk revivalist to the electric guitar dissenter to Billy the Kid and French poet Arthur Rimbaud. Yeah, weird. To further highlight Dylan's transformative nature (always "becoming" never just "being"), the story follows not only these different facets of his personality but plays them out with different actors and actresses. It's crazy. But it's also stunningly beautiful, and a brilliant concept. Unfortunately, the film drags, its parallels sometimes unclear, and its focus redirected too many times. Haynes is likely making a point here. It's not easy to understand Dylan, and thus spectator alienation is not so out of step with Dylan's real life. But . . . Anyway, see it for the music, and for the few moments of brilliance, and for the breathtaking cinematography. And cause it's Dylan, for pete's sake.

Werner Herzog's "Encounters at the End of the World," Germany
I've misunderstood Herzog since "Aguirre, the Wrath of God," and loved him desperately since "Stroszek." He has a brilliance, a beauty, and a hilarity that are unique, and it was my great pleasure to see his new film on Antarctica (and to see HIM as well as he was present to introduce his film). As always, he seeks not normalcy, and asks questions like "are penguins ever deranged or insane?" In one of the most genius moments of the film, he documents one penguin that has apparently left the pack (do penguins live in packs?), wandering not toward the feeding area, nor toward the mating area, but taking off alone toward the mountains. Herzog later asks why monkeys that are intelligent beings don't subjugate lower life forms--like kidnapping goats and riding them into the distance. There are grim moments in the film, as well--the general scientific sense that humanity, like the dinosaurs, won't survive, without offering any positive "what you can do to save the world" list. The film, though, is mostly about the characters he meets (what strange and wonderful people decide to flee here), and his sharp commentary interspersed. This was my favorite film of the festival.

Sean Penn's "Into the Wild," USA
Both Penn and author John Krakauer were present for the film. The prior walking around with a cigarette in his mouth, filling all Galaxy Theatre staff with terror. The crackle over the headsets went as such: "Ummm, who wants to tell Mr. Penn that he can't smoke on the theatre property?" Yikes. The floor manager and I exchanged glances at several tedious and over-saccharine moments in the film. Still, the idea of fleeing all, burning money and identification and social security cards, and running off to Alaska, via Kansas, Mexico, and California, inspires. But the film felt too heavyhanded, falling too easily into typical Hollywood machinations. Ultimately, too hyped.

Marco Ferreri's "Dillinger is Dead," Italy
A little treasure from 1969, recently restored and distributed by the old tendertroves at the Criterion Collection. A film about time, space, and cinema, I suppose. A film about patience (on a spectator level). For the duration, one follows a man in a kitchen, cooking, disassembling a gun, soaking its parts in olive oil, reassembling it, painting it red with white polka dots, all while changing restlessly between radio stations. This and a honey-dipped mistress. And super 8 footage that he interacts with (for a longer period of time than you'd expect). It really is genius, but again, must be seen. One of my favorites. Copy and paste into your netflix queue: Dillinger is dead.

Eran Kolirin's "The Band's Visit," Israel
The bright spot of a festival dominated by dark storylines. This brilliant film follows the misadventures of an Egyptian police band lost and stranded in a small town in Israel. Bill and I waited in a long line at the Palm theatre, cynical about humanity and the poor behaviors mob tension brings out. But we left wanting to dance, peel oranges, and love people. The film was simple story-wise and cinematographically. There were rarely cuts, and thus action and comedy had to spill out into the screen instead of being cut into. Kolirin delivered complex expression through simple means--colors, framing, facial pathos. The Q&A afterward revealed some interesting insight, including the undercurrent of politics. The film, he said, is a tribute to the Egyptian romance films on the TV of Israel's youth (Israel now looks west, not east, for models of love). When asked about the comedic moments in the film, he said he saw the film as an incredibly sad story. I had a hard time believing him, as I reflected on a scene in a skating rink, delivering raw comedy in a way I have rarely seen it.

Noah Baumbach's "Margot at the Wedding"
I am a f-a-n of this ol' chap, and was looking forward to this film--a story about the tensions between two sisters as one decides to marry an absolute dingleberry, played by Jack Black, to give you an idea of the dingleberry potential involved. As always, Mr. Baumbach develops great authenticity in his characters, and the exchanges between characters are sharp and delightfully real (despite his perhaps over-pretentious rendering of adolescent dialogue). All I can say is this: great, great performances, but a little lacking story-wise. These characters, though well-delivered, I couldn't, nor wanted to associate with.

Jason Reitman's "Juno"
This film is based off of a screenplay written by Diabolo Cody, who was discovered through her blog. It follows at 16-year-old girl (played brilliantly by Ellen Page) who gets pregnant, and thus shops around for adoptive parents. Her dialogue is sharp throughout, in a Veronica Mars sort of way--a witty comment on hand for any occasion. It is continuously funny, and, as one of the sneak previews at the festival, it was a welcome change from the usual fare of genocide and suffering presented at the festival. This will be a big one in the fall, I'm sure.

Marjane Satrapi's "Persepolis"
Persepolis is an animation, based off of the comic book history of Satrapi's childhood. The animation is beautifully done, and the story well executed. It follows a young girl growing up in Iran under the oppressive Shah, and follows her through the revolution, the Shah's overthrow, the war with Iraq, and the "freedom" post war. As it is told through her perspective, it is surprisingly comical at times, heartwrenching at others. A great gem on female coming-of-age. And a good historical update on life in Iran. Very impressive.

So as not to weigh you down with all descriptions, shoot me an E-mail me if you're interested, and I'll tell you all the films I saw and provide you with some better commentary.

Go film! Whoot!