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It's official...
Oct. 26th, 2005 11:28 pmIt must be cold because I'm wearing pajamas AND socks. You can't imagine how rare this is. It makes me desperately nervous about moving to colder climes, as I tend to get tangled up in all extraneous fabric come nightfall.
I went out with Lisa tonight and saw a sneak preview of Shopgirl. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, despite the deviations from the novella and the casting choices. The movie leads the viewer to an entirely different conclusion than the novel does. Normally this would have annoyed the holy hell out of me, but tonight it resonated and as a result, I didn't obsess on the inconsistencies. Perhaps it spoke to my melancholy mood. Perhaps Steve Martin can do no wrong. Mostly I think it appealed to my fundamental understanding that all literature (good, bad, and otherwise) is an attempt by someone somewhere to be understood, a "message in a bottle" sent out in the hopes that someone else will get it. We all want to be found, and books are simply a way to reach across time and space to connect with other people, if only briefly, distantly, and inevitably, imperfectly. It's that chance connection that keeps me turning pages and seeking new authors. I really don't expect that I'll ever be understood in "real life" but I often find glimmers of my own understanding in other's words. It makes me feel part of things and less alone in the world. It's a comfort, quiet and solitary, but a comfort all the same. Ironically, the movie offered this to me in a way that the novella didn't. I came home feeling a little more connected. It was good.
The movie made me think about Los Angeles and my return home for Christmas. I hate almost every single thing about Los Angeles and always have-- I ran from her smoggy skies and traffic-congested arms as soon as I legally could (age seventeen and I was gone). Visiting home makes me that much more invested in staying away. The shallowness, the posturing, the rampant materialism, the screwed up priorities, the traffic, the bad planning, and the inequality (to name a few things) suck my very soul. Did I also mention the two hundred dollar sweat suits with "Juicy" written across the ass? (I'm going to make my own that say "Suck It" on the ass.) I hate, hate, hate it there. I often wonder how I came out of such a place with any values at all. I worry for my sisters. And yet the place still has some glamour that appeals to me. It's enough to keep me coming back, ever hopeful, always hoping that it's changed. I'm not sure why. It's like a bad ex-relationship, complete with amnesia.
I went out with Lisa tonight and saw a sneak preview of Shopgirl. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, despite the deviations from the novella and the casting choices. The movie leads the viewer to an entirely different conclusion than the novel does. Normally this would have annoyed the holy hell out of me, but tonight it resonated and as a result, I didn't obsess on the inconsistencies. Perhaps it spoke to my melancholy mood. Perhaps Steve Martin can do no wrong. Mostly I think it appealed to my fundamental understanding that all literature (good, bad, and otherwise) is an attempt by someone somewhere to be understood, a "message in a bottle" sent out in the hopes that someone else will get it. We all want to be found, and books are simply a way to reach across time and space to connect with other people, if only briefly, distantly, and inevitably, imperfectly. It's that chance connection that keeps me turning pages and seeking new authors. I really don't expect that I'll ever be understood in "real life" but I often find glimmers of my own understanding in other's words. It makes me feel part of things and less alone in the world. It's a comfort, quiet and solitary, but a comfort all the same. Ironically, the movie offered this to me in a way that the novella didn't. I came home feeling a little more connected. It was good.
The movie made me think about Los Angeles and my return home for Christmas. I hate almost every single thing about Los Angeles and always have-- I ran from her smoggy skies and traffic-congested arms as soon as I legally could (age seventeen and I was gone). Visiting home makes me that much more invested in staying away. The shallowness, the posturing, the rampant materialism, the screwed up priorities, the traffic, the bad planning, and the inequality (to name a few things) suck my very soul. Did I also mention the two hundred dollar sweat suits with "Juicy" written across the ass? (I'm going to make my own that say "Suck It" on the ass.) I hate, hate, hate it there. I often wonder how I came out of such a place with any values at all. I worry for my sisters. And yet the place still has some glamour that appeals to me. It's enough to keep me coming back, ever hopeful, always hoping that it's changed. I'm not sure why. It's like a bad ex-relationship, complete with amnesia.
