kari made a list of the chick flicks she never tires of watching.

i felt inspired to make (yet) a(nother) list of my own.

about time

catch and release

chocolat

crazy stupid love

the cutting edge

dedication

dirty dancing

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

fever pitch

five hundred days of summer

for love of the game

hitch

life as a house

life or something like it

love actually

memoirs of a geisha

the mirror has two faces

no reservations

the notebook

one fine day

the painted veil

the proposal

she's all that 

steel magnolias

that awkward moment

the twelfth of october

i attended a writing workshop in houston this morning. for one of the exercises, we were to grab an object from a ziploc bag and write something about it. we weren't supposed to be too choosy. so i reached into the bag, turned my head so that i couldn't focus on the contents at all, and pulled out the first thing my fingers found.

a slip of paper. a ticket stub from a film festival. dated october twelfth. 

my older brother's birthday.

for the previous assignment we were to choose from a handful of photos and write about the person pictured. for this assignment, we could use that same person or make up someone new. i'd arrived late, so i used the same person. and we were supposed to place the object on or inside a nightstand. 

on the back of the picture i'd selected was a name (chandra), a date (10-31-86), and a number (16). so i subtracted sixteen from eighty-six and wrote the following:

she was twenty-seven then.

chandra slowly pulled out the drawer of her nightstand and withdrew a ticket stub. since the only other thing in the drawer was a ring, she didn't need to search for the ticket--a memento of the best day.

of the worst.

she missed him. especially on a day like this when they should've been together to see their daughter off. the daughter who looked like her father. who had his dark eyes and hair. his smile. his dimple in her left cheek.

there was a small bit of extra paper that had clung to the edge when the usher had torn it. chandra fingered it with her right hand, tempted to tear it so that the perforation was even, the edge clean, but she resisted.

the thirty-third chicago international film festival. the ice storm.

in october. on the twelfth.

his birthday.

his death day.

she ran a hand over the ticket and set it back in the drawer.

sixteen years ago.

"mama!"

she shoved the drawer shut. "coming."

landline

why i wanted to read it: i wasn't as excited about reading this as i was for her other books. fangirl didn't do anything for me at all. and while i liked beth and jennifer in attachments, lincoln didn't impress me that much. and this one? about a fifteen-year-old marriage in trouble, its complications corrected through conversations held via magic phone calls? i was wary. i wasn't going to buy it. i'm glad i did.

what i liked: neal trimmed the trees. neal kept tulip bulbs in the refrigerator and sketched garden plans on the back of whole foods receipts. he'd pore over seed catalogs in bed and make georgie choose which plants she liked best.

"purple eggplant or white eggplant?" he'd asked her last summer.

"how can you have a white eggplant? that's like... purple green beans."

"there are purple green beans. and yellow oranges."

"stop. you're blowing my mind."

"oh, i'll blow your mind. girlie."

"are you flirting with me?"

he'd turned to her then, pen cap in his mouth, and cocked his head. "yeah, i think so."

georgie looked down at her old sweatshirt. at her threadbare yoga pants. "this is what does it for you?"

neal smiled most of a smile, and the cap fell out of his mouth. "so far."

neal...

she'd call him tomorrow morning. she'd get through to him this time... time zones weren't on their side. 

and he was pissed with her.

she'd make it better... morning glories, georgie thought to herself just before she fell asleep (pp. 43-44).

but that's the thing, georgie--he isn't friendly. he growls at people, literally, if they get too close."

"he doesn't growl at me," she said.

"well, he wouldn't."

"why wouldn't he?"

"because you're a pretty girl. you're probably the only pretty girl who's ever talked to him. he's too stunned to growl" (pp. 76-77).

"he was mad when he left, but--i think he'd tell me if he was leaving me. don't you think he'd tell me?" she was asking it seriously.

heather made a face. "god, georgie, i don't know. neal's not much of a talker. i didn't even know you were having problems."

georgie rubbed her eyes. "we're always having problems."

"well, it doesn't ever look like it. every time i talk to you, neal is bringing you breakfast in bed, or making you a pop-up birthday card."

"yeah." georgie didn't want to tell heather that it wasn't that simple. that neal made her breakfast even when he was pissed; sometimes he did it because he was pissed. as a way to act like he was present in their relationship, even when he was chilled through and barely talking to her (p. 106).

christmas 1998. they fought. neal went home. he came back. he proposed. they lived not-exactly-happily ever after. wait, was that what she was supposed to fix? the not-exactly-happy part?

how was she supposed to fix something like that, over the phone, when she wasn't even sure it was fixable?

christmas 1998. a week without neal. the worst week of her life. the week he decided to marry her.

was georgie supposed to make sure that he didn't? (p. 113).

"you could do this for a living," georgie said one night at the spoon, before they even started dating. 

"entertain you?" neal said. "sounds good. how are the benefits?" (p. 117).

georgie had gotten that far into her imagining--to neal spooning with his more-suitable-than-georgie wife--when she imagined neal's second-chance kids in this second-chance world. then she slammed the door shut on all his hypothetical happiness.

if the universe thought georgie was going to erase her kids from the timeline, it had another fucking thing coming (p. 122).

"i don't want to go out with jell-o instant pudding," georgie said.

"i would marry jell-o instant pudding."

georgie rolled her eyes. "i want to go out with mikey."

"i thought you wanted to go out with jay anselmo."

"jay anselmo is mikey," georgie explained. "he's the guy in the life cereal commercial who hates everything. if mikey likes you, you know you're good. if mikey likes you, it means something" (p. 136).

neal would stir in his sleep and reach for her hips, pulling her back onto the bed. "what are you looking for?"

"paper," she'd say, leaning off the bed again. "i have an idea i don't want to forget."

she'd feel his mouth at the base of her spine. "tell me. i'll remember."

"you're asleep, too."

he'd bite her. "tell me."

"it's a dance," she'd say. "there's a dance. and chloe, the main character, will end up with one of her mom's old prom dresses. and she'll try to fix it to make it look cool, like in pretty in pink, but it won't be cool; it'll be awful. and something embarrassing will happen at the dance to 'try a little tenderness.'"

"got it." then neal would pull her back into bed, into him, holding her in place. "dance. dress. 'try a little tenderness.' now go back to sleep."

and then he'd push up georgie's pajama shirt, biting her back until neither of them could go to sleep.

and then, eventually, she'd drift off with his hand on her hip and his forehead pressed into her shoulder.

she'd get out of the shower the next morning, and it would be written in the steam on the mirror: 

dance. dress. try a little tenderness (p. 140).

"i've wanted a crayola caddy since 1981," georgie said. "it's all i asked santa claus for, three years in a row."

"why didn't your parents just buy it for you?"

she rolled her eyes. "my mom thought it was stupid. she bought me crayons and paint instead."

"well--" he lowered his eyebrows thoughtfully--"you could probably have mine."

georgie punched his chest with their clasped hands. "shut. up." she knew it was stupid, but she was genuinely thrilled about this. "neal grafton, you have just made my oldest dream come true."

neal held her hand to his heart. his face was neutral, but his eyes were dancing (p. 148).

and it won't be the same if you have kids with some other, better girl, because they won't be alice and noomie, and even if i'm not your perfect match, they are.

god, the three of you. the three of you.

when i wake up on sunday mornings--late, you always let me sleep in--i come looking for you, and you're in the backyard with dirt on your knees and two little girls spinning around you in perfect orbit... and they look like me because they're round and golden, but they glow for you (p. 164).

when georgie thought about divorce now, she imagined lying side by side with neal on two operating tables while a team of doctors tried to unthread their vascular systems (p. 201).

neal always held her hand during take off and turbulence... sometimes he didn't even look up from his crossword, just reached out for her when the plane started to shake (p. 275).

but these are the little things. there's pages and pages of goodness... things that are too good to put here. things i want you to read for yourselves. you're gonna love neal. he's a pretty cool dude.

what sucked: i'm not so much a fan of georgie's name. one of my friends, when i read her some excerpts, she said she liked neal, but not so much georgie. that her name ruined it for her. and yeah... i sure wish ms. rowell had chosen something else to call her, but... what makes me like georgie is that she was smart enough to recognize all the good in neal when so many others could overlook him.

having said all that: i loved this book. probably more than eleanor and park. and i LOVE that one, so...

the monastery's guest house grounds: photos from a five-year-old's vantage

at the top of the drive, just outside the back porch.

 the upstairs kitchen.

just outside the back porch, on the other side of the house.

 the upstairs kitchen again.

the redwood picnic table my great uncle built at my grandmother's request.

 the top of the box elder tree near the house.

and this one here... on the other side of the brush at the base of the tree... that's where my younger brother, at ten, tripped me, at fourteen, and fractured my collar bone.

i would've given yall better pictures, but the children used up all my battery.

wonder

why i read it: i saw it on the wall of bestsellers near the information desk at barnes & noble's. the cover caught my eye.

and the first page: i know i'm not an ordinary ten-year-old kid. i mean, sure i do ordinary things. i eat ice cream. i ride my bike. i play ball. and i feel ordinary. inside. but i know ordinary kids don't make other ordinary kids run away screaming in playgrounds... 

if i found a magic lamp and i could have one wish, i would wish that i had a normal face that one one ever noticed at all...

i know how to pretend i don't see the faces people make...

my name is augustus, by the way. i won't describe what i look like. whatever you're thinking, it's probably worse.

what i liked: "who is your favorite character?" julian asked. i started thinking maybe he wasn't so bad. 

"jango fett."

"what about darth sidious?" he said. "do you like him?" ...

maybe no one got the darth sidious thing, and maybe julian didn't mean anything at all. but in star wars episode iii--revenge of the sith, darth sidious's face gets burned by sith lightning and becomes totally deformed. his skin gets all shriveled up and his whole face just kind of melts.

i peeked at julian and he was looking at me. yeah, he knew what he was saying (p. 44).

"we sat together at lunch," i said.

i had started kicking a rock between my feet like it was a soccer ball, chasing it back and forth across the sidewalk.

"she seems very nice."

"yeah, she is."

"she's very pretty," mom said.

"yeah, i know," i answered. "we're kind of like beauty and the beast."

i didn't wait to see mom's reaction. i just started running down the sidewalk after the rock, which i had kicked as hard as i could in front of me (p. 56).

mom put the book down and wrapped her arms around me. she didn't seem surprised that i was crying. "it's okay," she whispered in my ear. "it'll be okay."

"i'm sorry," i said between sniffles.

"shh," she said, wiping my tears with the back of her hand. "you have nothing to be sorry about."

"why do i have to be so ugly, mommy?" i whispered.

"no, baby, you're not..."

"i know i am."

she kissed me all over my face. she kissed my eyes that came down too far. she kissed my cheeks that looked punched in. she kissed my tortoise mouth.

she said soft words that i know were meant to help me, but words can't change my face (p. 60).

for me, halloween is the best holiday in the world. it even beats christmas. i get to dress up in a costume. i get to wear a mask. i get to go around like every other kid with a mask and nobody thinks i look weird. nobody takes a second look. nobody notices me. nobody knows me.

i wish every day could be halloween. we could all wear masks all the time. then we could walk around and get to know each other before we got to see what we look like under the masks (p. 73).

i knew it wasn't a bleeding scream they were looking for. it was a boba fett.

i was going to go and sit at my usual desk, but for some reason, i don't know why, i found myself walking over to a desk near them, and i could hear them talking...

one of the mummies would say: "it really does look like him."

"like this part... " answered julian's voice. he put his fingers on the cheeks and eyes of his darth sidious mask... "if i looked like that," said the julian voice, kind of laughing, "i swear to god, i'd put a hood over my face every day."

"i've thought about this a lot," said the second mummy, sounding serious, "and i really think... if i looked like him, seriously, i think that i'd kill myself... i can't imagine looking in the mirror every day and seeing myself like that. it would be too awful. and getting stared at all the time..." the mummy shrugged. i knew the shrug, of course. i knew the voice. i knew i wanted to run out of the class right then and there. but i stood where i was and listened (p. 77).

i know the names they call me. i've been in enough playgrounds to know kids can be mean. i know, i know, i know. 

i ended up in the second-floor bathroom. no one was there because first period had started and everyone was in class. i locked the door to my stall and took off my mask and just cried for i don't know how long. then i went to the nurse's office and i told her i had a stomach ache, which was true, because i felt like i'd been kicked in the gut (p. 79).

anyway, it's not that i care that people react to me. like i said a gazillion times: i'm used to that by now. i don't let it bother me. it's like when you go outside and it's drizzling a little. you don't put on boots for a drizzle. you don't even open your umbrella. you walk through it and barely notice your hair getting wet. 

but when it's a huge gym full of parents, the drizzle becomes like this total hurricane. everyone's eyes hit you like a wall of water (page 207).

i read a good chunk of this on the flight to utah. i had to pause every so often because the tragedy of this boy's life broke my heart.

i also liked that the point of view shifts from august to his sister to his friends and back again. i liked that the story was told by so many.

what sucked: the last fifty pages or so. what was an incredibly touching tale became a really cheesy, preachy one. i was kind of disgusted by the conclusion. way too schmaltzy. it sort of wrecked it for me.

having said all that: it's rare that a book affects me so. and maybe it did this because my childhood resembled august's in some ways. maybe i'm overly sensitive and far too compassionate. but even though the ending annoyed me, i'm glad i read this story. because i like august. he's a good kid.

the good in my day: june

the chat i had with my mother before she left this evening to dine with my father and their friends. the drive into my subdivision at dusk this time of year. the compliment a server paid me; i don't remember the words, but they were incredibly kind observations of my character, and i almost cried because the beauty of that kindness was so welcome in that moment. one of my managers got me giggling after a long string of trying customers... too many instances of my not being able to satisfy, of disappointing and being disappointed, and somehow she got me giggling. she's very good at that. the smile on a friend's face when i dropped by with a gift. peter dinklage in game of thrones; he's pretty incredible. ansel elgort didn't ruin augustus waters; i was so certain he would. the lovely, lovely child i met today at work, and the kindness his mother bestowed upon me. my five-year-old nephew's voicemail: wub, i'm fine. i had a pleasant enough day at work. i spent the day watching game of thrones: resting while watching a great story is a wonderful thing. the gift i received from a fellow blogger: a pack of tul pens (just like i like'm) and b&n gift card. i've managed to get really great parking places at the mall on the first try two days in a row. quality time with my mother followed by dinner at home with the family. one of my coworkers, who's on maternity leave, picked up a shift for another yesterday; it was nice to see her again... it was also nice not to have to get up at six a.m. and work a long day, which i would've had to do had she not picked up. the elder lannister brother rescued the younger brother from prison; the younger learned of his lover's deceit (i KNEW she was bad!), then killed his father in the privy... go tyrion. the hug alex gave me. i enjoyed working with a particular manager; that doesn't happen often. lunch and window shopping with my father. i ended my day at work with a really good sale. a quiet house. the chat i had with one of the managers. breakfast with my father. the hug my nephew gave me. english muffins. dinner and window shopping with a friend. visiting with a sweet, sweet lady at b&n's cafe. playing i spy with my nephew. my store manager's smiling face at the start of my shift. mi cocina's queso blanco. no cavities!

this could be the last time... also knowns as "monks? monks live in utah?"

yes. yes, they do. on some of the finest land in the country.

i've posted most (if not all) of these images before. i won't have new ones for you for a couple of weeks. we leave on wednesday for what will most likely be the last time we ever go. my munkle is very old. and there are only ten monks left at the monastery. one by one, they're leaving--either because the body fails them or they've chosen to live elsewhere. 

this one'll have to close. there's not enough to sustain it. i hate like hell this has to happen. soon, much too soon this beautiful land will be turned into another cookie-cutter neighborhood. hundreds and hundreds of cheap homes on teeny tiny lots. i can't bear to think of it.

so here. look on this glory with me a little while longer.

my cousins, my brother, my mother, me, the monk and another cousin.

my aunt's brother, my brothers, my cousins and my munkle's red truck.
i miss that thing. i miss those days.

songs that start with the letter i: a not-so-random sample

one. i alone. live. throwing copper.

two. i am. train's self-titled album.

three. i choose. the offspring. ixnay on the hombre.

four. i dare you to move. switchfoot. learning to breathe.

five. i do. abra moore. everything changed.

six. i don't believe in love. queensryche. operation mindcrime.

seven. i drove all night. cyndia lauper. the essential cyndi lauper.

eight. i got id. pearl jam. merkin ball.

nine. i miss you. blink-182's self-titled album.

ten. i will not take these things for granted. toad the wet sprocket. fear.

eleven. i won't let you go. snow patrol. divergent (original motion picture soundtrack).

twelve. i'll stand by you. the pretenders. last of the independents.

thirteen. if i can dream. elvis presley. memories: the '68 comeback special.

fourteen. if you're gone. matchbox twenty. mad season.

fifteen. (if you're wondering if i want you to) i want you to. weezer. raditude.

sixteen. in 'n' out. van halen. for unlawful carnal knowledge.

seventeen. in my place. coldplay. a rush of blood to the head.

eighteen. in the end. linkin park. hybrid theory.

nineteen. in this life. chantal kreviazuk. what if it all means something.

twenty. in your eyes. peter gabriel. so.

twenty-one. in your room. depeche mode. the singles 86>98.

twenty-two. innocence. the airborne toxic event's self-titled album.

twenty-three. invisible city. the wallflowers. bringing down the horse.

twenty-four. iris. goo goo dolls. dizzy up the girl.

twenty-five. is it any wonder. keane. under the iron sea.

fifty different reasons

six weeks or so ago, i wrote a post called fifty reasons to live. i reread it a lot, especially when i'm sad and lost and lonely and tired and... like today. today was not a good day. nothing happened to make it bad. nothing has to. that's why it's bad. because... nothing. i feel like a nothing. i've accomplished nothing. and i've no desire to do anything. i have more days like today than not. this is what depression looks like for me. fifty reasons to want it over. done. the end. this is the bullshit i battle in my brain on what seems to be a daily basis. the good news is, this time it was a helluva lot harder to come up with the fifty.

one. because they said you couldn't.
two. because they said you shouldn't.
three. because they said you wouldn't.
four. because you crawl into an empty bed. every. night. in your parents' house because you can't afford your own.
five. cupcakes. sure. because you need another five pounds on your ass. go ahead. eat.
six. you think you have friends. hahahah. no, you don't. how many of them actually give a shit about you? isn't that why you spend so much time at pappadeaux's? you're not writing. you've not written anything in weeks. you just sit there, running your mouth, wasting your money and annoying the servers.
seven. the scars. those doctors, they've made you so pretty.
eight. not that you were pretty in the beginning. and all you did was cry. all the damned time.
nine. yeah. daddy. you treat him like crap. and it's always take... take... take.
ten. and mama. you think your mother's a saint. and she is for putting up with you all these years. you're a spawn. a spore. you're nothing like her. you're no lady. you've no class. no grace. you're too selfish and bitchy and needy...

eleven. films. that's all you ever wanna do. watch movies. you'd spend the rest of your pathetic life in bed, watching movies. because you're too afraid to live. you'll never write a story so good someone will feel compelled to show it on a screen.
twelve. there's those things your peers... those people who can manage to make friends and live good lives... they said things like this: you should go kill yourself because the world would be better off without you in it. you should've listened.
thirteen. poetry? everything you write is crap. no one's ever gonna wanna read it. your poems are too prosaic. remember? your creative writing professor told you that.
fourteen. star wars sheets. what? are you twelve? geek.
fifteen. pappadeaux's. amy's right, you know. they're only nice to you because they have to be.
sixteen. literature. if you're not watching a movie, you're reading a book. because being stuck in your life is such a hell. and the only way you know to escape it is to get lost in some stupid story.
seventeen. you're taking up valuable air and space, and there are more important people who need it.
eighteen. minn was only nice to you because she felt sorry for you.
nineteen. shazam...
twenty. and bambam... they're getting older. wiser. they won't love you quite so easily when they see who you really are. you'll hurt them.

twenty-one. you quit smoking? why the hell did you bother with that? you want a short life, right? doesn't quitting just make it last longer?
two. your teachers... how many of them hated teaching you? i bet it was a lot.
three. stupid.
four. ugly.
five. worthless.
six. like school did you any good anyway. all that money your grandmother and great aunt left you, so you could have a fine education. and you squandered it.
seven. you're so fat. it's so disgusting. lazy bitch.
eight. and your teeth. gross.
nine. your face, though. that's the worst. no amount of make-up will make that thing pretty. it won't matter how many times you stare in the mirror and how many different ways. that glass is gonna show the same cross-eyed, freckled, scarred shit.
thirty. everything bugs you. remember? your brother's friend the other day started rattling off a list. he only stopped because you interrupted him.

thirty-one. every night... just so you can sleep, you've gotta pop some pills. there's so much ugliness in you the only way you can silence it is to drug it. how sad.
two. and then there're the things you'd overheard: i'm only nice to her because she gives me gum.
three. you like giving things to people don't you? makes you feel better about yourself? they're just things. and you're trying to buy affection. just like when you were a kid.
four. phineas. how many cars is that now? six cars you've wrecked. and you love that car? sure looks it, what with all the scrapes on the exterior, the gashes in the seat, the patches in the carpet... yeah. you love that car. i can tell.
five. your own brother doesn't even wanna spend time with you. but that's okay. you don't much wanna spend time with him, either.
six. you're too much like a boy. don't even know how to be a girl, do you?
seven. but that's okay. the boys don't want to get their hands on you anymore. not that they ever really did. you were just convenient. and lonely. and easy. or so they thought.
eight. but you can't even do that right, can you? so eager to play. til you get to a certain point. and then you balk. and walk. every time.
nine. when's the last time you did something good--really good--for anyone?
forty. you talk too much. no one wants to hear the words coming out of your mouth. no one cares.

forty-one. you've been at that job of yours for almost four years. how many people have been hired and promoted since then? some of those gals got promoted to management in six months' time. and look at you. still struggling. how long do you think they're gonna let you do that? move up, or move out, jenny. pretty soon, it's gonna be out.
two. and look at you. you've never held a job for more than four years. ever. that's pretty pathetic.
three. no one wants you here. not really.
four. god knows your parents would be better off. they could actually enjoy retirement instead of having to support their stupid, lazy daughter.
five. no one will ever wanna marry you because you're too ugly, and no one wants to wake up next to something that ugly every morning.
six. laughter. really? have you forgotten how often, how loudly and how gleefully they laughed at you?
seven. no one gives a shit about any stories you have to tell.
eight. if you die? because you call this living? they've already won, silly girl. they won a long time ago.
nine. your brother can't because he was weak. you're just like him. in all the wrong ways.
fifty. that promise? you signed a piece of paper twenty years ago. that doctor who made you sign it? he's probably forgotten all about you. so many will...

so... there. i took my benadryl. i'll brush my teeth and crawl in bed, and read or watch a movie until i can't stay awake anymore. and to counter all this ugliness, there's number fourteen from that happier list:

at the end of the day, you get to crawl into your supremely comfortable bed dressed in its star wars sheets and sleep knowing that you made it one more day. that you hung in there. that even if you hadn't accomplished anything else in your day, you did that. and that was enough.

yeah. star wars sheets. return of the jedi to be exact. and they are badass. i love them.

love is a mix tape

why i wanted to read it: this thing's been in the line of books atop my desk, guarding the windowsill for YEARS. i bought it because one of the gals who worked the music department at the bookstore for which i once was employed... she'd said she loved it. and i liked her tastes, so i bought it. and i maybe read a chapter of it. but then i put it down, never to return.

and then last night i decided to do this little challenge, and so i piled all the books i've bought but not read on my bed and made my list. for twenty-five points, i'm to read a biography, autobiography or memoir. and so i chose this.

what i liked: tonight, i feel like my whole body is made out of memories. i'm a mix tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape... i now get scared of forgetting anything about renee, even the tiniest detail, even the bands on this tape i can't stand--if she touched them, i want to hear her fingerprints (p. 12).

i was totally clueless about social interaction, and completely scared of girls. all i knew was that music was going to make girls fall in love with me.

so i approached my beatmaster duties with the same reverence i brought to my sundays as an altar boy serving mass. i approached my stereo sanctuary and genuflected. i lifted each vinyl wafer to the heavens. i unveiled the cassette ostentorium: "take this, all of you, and rock. this is the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. it will be shed for you, and for all who rock, so that rock may be worshiped and glorified" (pp. 29-30).

if i had my way, the story would end here. renee was always braver. she always wanted to know what happened next (p. 86).

the months leading up to the wedding had been a pageant of highly entertaining (for me) and traumatic (for her) dreams, which she confessed with shame every morning. they all had the same plot: renee trysts with a boy from her past, he begs her to run away with him, she thinks about it, and then she decides instead to move on to her future with me... my favorite was the volleyball player from roanoke. the last time she booty-called him, he said he was busy--he didn't want to miss the farewell episode of magnum, p.i. years after the fact, renee was still fuming. i wanted to shake his hand (pp. 87-88).

it's a pop cliche that the ideal band partnership is between the guy who lives it and the guy who writes songs about it... one is voice, celebrity, performance; the other is music (p. 137)

i knew i would have to relearn how to listen to music, and that some of the music we'd loved together i'd never be able to hear again (p. 149).

i loved the scene in the killers when ava walks up to the piano in her black dress and sings her little torch song: "the more i know of love, the less i know it/ the more i give to love, the more i owe it." ava gardner didn't lie (p. 156).

i had no voice to talk with because she was my whole language. without her to talk to, there was nothing to say... now, we had a whole different language to learn, a new grammar of loss to conjugate: i lose, you lose, we lose; i have lost, you have lost, we have lost. words i said out loud, every day, many times a day, for years and years--suddenly they were dust in my mouth (pp. 156-7).

the way i pictured it, all this grief would be like a winter night when you're standing outside. you'll warm up once you get used to the cold. except after you've been out there a while, you feel the warmth draining out of you, and you realize the opposite is happening... you get weaker the longer you endure it (p. 173).

some nights i would drive up route 29 to the all-night wal-mart. i'd push a cart around with some paper towels inside to look like a real shopper, just to spy on married people. i just wanted to be near them, to listen to them argue... people fight over some dumb shit when they think there aren't any widowers eavesdropping. and they never think there are any widowers eavedropping... i was so hungry for the company. i was scared i would be caught, that my wedding ring would be put under a scanner and exposed as a fraud, a widower trying to pass as a husband (pp. 173-174).

when my friends and family would ask how i was doing, i stalled or stuttered or lied. sometimes i could feel the glaciers shifting inside me, and i hoped they were melting, but they were just making themselves more comfortable (p. 178).

ralph waldo emerson knew the score: "i grieve that grief can teach me nothing" (pp. 189-90).

i marked a lot of other pages that weren't quite as poetic, but i enjoyed the sentiments expressed nonetheless. and i liked looking at these mix tapes of his and renee's and remembering the music.

what sucked: the author's a contributing editor at rolling stone. so there's some pretentiousness. i don't always agree with his definition of good music. there's a whole chapter dedicated to nirvana, which was a good band, sure, but i've never seen kurt cobain as a god. and sheffield so very clearly does (though i can understand and appreciate the comparisons he makes in some instances). and i don't always like the way he writes. it could've stood to be thirty pages or so shorter. maybe. the beauty of the above passages sometimes gets lost in the rest of it.

having said that: it's a good story. maybe i like mr. sheffield a little better for having read it. 

an author survey found at the back of a book (with some modifications)

where i was born: texas city.

where i live: the woodlands.

current weather conditions: seventy-two degrees. clear sky. no rain in the past twenty-four hours.

opinion of the current weather conditions: it's nice out. in another month i won't be able to say that. and we could use some rain. i mean, we just got some the other day. but we could use some more.

first real book i remember reading: that wasn't assigned by my teachers? and i'm guessing romance novels don't count as real books. the silence of the lambs by thomas harris.

last book i read before writing this: thirteen little blue envelopes by maureen johnson (i filched this here survey from the back of said book).

books read in the swedish language: uh... none.

where i write: pappadeaux's seafood house in shenandoah. at the bar, on the service end, near the to-go stand and the budweiser tap. not that i drink budweiser.

what i use: tops docket gold writing tablets--letter-sized, legal ruled, canary paper. tul retractable gel pens--seven millimeter, medium point, blue ink. or, occasionally, my laptop, an apple macbook pro, which is, the geniuses would probably say, limping along on an outdated version of os x and an intel core two duo processor. i've tried updating it, by the way; it keeps failing, and i'm too lazy to take it in.

how many beverages i have while i work: a lot.

current beverage count: i don't count.

do any elements of let it be [title changed to make it relevant to this here picky post] come from your own life experience? let's take isabel since she's the main gal in this story. yes. and no. the little things... she's fairly antisocial, incredibly anxious, moody, brash, a little tomboyish... a lot of personality traits are similar, and so the way she handles things, the way she responds to questions and whatnot, is similar to how i would. but the circumstances of her life are VERY different. so the little things... i use some of those because that's how you make a story feel real. you write what you know. but i also make a lot of them up. and whatever i've borrowed from my own life ALWAYS gets distorted somehow to make it more hers than mine. the origin of the story, the path it takes? that's all her.

what's the first thing you put in your suitcase before a trip? an aggie sweatshirt.

why did you decide to read a story about a girl who travels through europe? because i've traveled through europe, though not nearly as much as i would like. and i miss it.

have you been to all the places [england, scotland, italy, france, the netherlands, denmark and greece (and hopefully i've gotten them all)] in thirteen little blue envelopes? nope.

did let it be change at all as you wrote it? yes. it got a LOT better as i got better at telling the story. i CRINGE when i read old copies of the manuscript, especially ones from my twenties (i keep thinking i've set fire to them all, and then i'll find one hiding out in my desk or closet or something). and no. the premise of the thing is the same. the stories that will come after it, though, they've changed quite a bit. in writing this particular tale, in getting to know the minor characters better, i've seen their stories' premises change drastically.

what's your favorite travel destination and why? london, england. because it's magnificent. i love the architecture, the history, the tube system. the life. it's fantastic. i'd live there if i could. but only in the summer.

so there is that. and now that i have finished reading this particular novel, i'm happy to pass it on to someone else. if you'd like a little light reading, let me know. 

the actors... and the writers....

last night, while watching that awkward moment, i lay in bed (lie? i NEVER can remember... and i just looked that shit up the other day) skimming my bloglovin feed (which, i'll admit, girls, i'm SO bad about doing that... but i'll get better. i swear). sarah at venus trapped in mars wrote a post about how hard it is to make friends. she titled it dear match.com and implored them to develop a platform that made making friends just a little bit easier.

i thought of my friend katy who moved to tennessee not so long ago, a place she's longed to be... she loves the countryside there. LOVES it. and was so excited to go. and then she got there, and she's having a rough time making new friends. she's got two LITTLE boys who command much of her time. but she's lonely, i think. and she's shy, like me. and sensitive, too, like me.

i thought of katy. and i thought of myself, because sometimes that's what i do. and i left a comment about how hard it was for me to make friends. the first two decades of my life, i didn't speak that much.

when the secret life of walter mitty came out--i'd read the book in eighth grade english, i think, and it didn't really leave much of an impression. in fact, i thought it kind of ridiculous. but this movie... i identified quite a bit with walter.

he's either not seen. or he's the butt of the joke. and so he sort of shuts himself off, escapes into his imagination. and no one, no one takes the time to appreciate his talents. or so he thinks.

a LONG time ago, one of my facebook statuses was something about not all of us are supposed to be standing on a stage playing a part. that some of us are supposed to be sitting in a corner booth in some bar, writing the script.

now i don't presume to think i'm THAT talented. but... i am talented in that way...

this is why i love that movie. everyone reveres the photographer's work. and the photographer is in awe of one man's ability to treat that work well.

it's easy to forget this. that you don't have to impress hordes of people. that just because you don't doesn't mean you don't matter.

and the things i like the best about walter mitty... the man has one hell of an imagination... and he's a good person. a really good guy. and yeah. i know. it's just a movie. but there're people like walter mitty all around us.

dear kevin spacey, these didn't suck

yesterday, cbs sunday morning aired a really good interview with kevin spacey. in it, he said: every now and then, i remember, i would read things where people said my career was over and that, you know, i'd run away from hollywood. but i'll tell you this: i don't think i could've picked a better decade to go run a theater than the decade we just had in terms of what i missed.

today, i scoured imdb's lists of the most popular films released from two thousand three to thirteen. and i made a list of my own. twenty-five films that merit some attention.

incendies

lone survivor

memoirs of a geisha

cinderella man

seabiscuit

the help

the lord of the rings: the return of the king

star trek

pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl

the last samurai

the way way back

people like us

five hundred days of summer

serenity

the painted veil

love actually

the notebook

the secret life of walter mitty

crazy, stupid, love

mr. magorium's wonder emporium

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

gangster squad

about time

dedication
the devil wears prada

and... the twenty-five best films of the eighties

star wars: episode v-the empire strikes back

full metal jacket

steel magnolias

the color purple

dead poets society

die hard

the princess bride

when harry met sally

the breakfast club

top gun

lethal weapon

ferris bueller's day off

dirty dancing

fast times at ridgemont high

turner and hooch

terms of endearment

labyrinth

the terminator

parenthood

field of dreams

big

can't buy me love

sixteen candles

young guns

real genius

rolling stone's list is here. 

what's your list look like?

my texan-aussie friend erin made up a list, too. go check it out!