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Here is what I have to say today

Stevie Wineburg proved, in his short life, that you don’t have to be good at talking, or walking, or have a career, in order to make a difference in the lives of those around you.

Grief doesn’t come to those who deserve it, or earn it. Grief comes because life and death are things that happen. Good families and bad families equally are touched by tragedy. Meaning is in our response.

Despite riotous, flagrant dysfunction, we nonetheless have seen our families (Lipps and Wineburgs) come together and grieve together and love each other. That matters. That is meaning.

I am so proud of my sister and brother-in-law for staying so deeply connected to love; to love of each other, of their daughter, and of their son, Stevie. I am learning so much about wisdom just by watching them. I am humbled by the size of their hearts.

Stevie was baptized a Catholic, and his funeral was Catholic, and so for that I will say that I pray he is with his Heavenly Father.

But I am Craft, and from my Craft belief I will say with all my heart: May he be born again to those who loved him, and know them, and love them again.

Stevie Wineburg

stevie

Steven Joseph Wineburg II
May 28, 2008 – January 29, 2009
Blessed be

Monday Movie Review: Out of the Past

Out of the Past (1947) 10/10
Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) owns a small-town gas station and woos a small-town girl, until a man from his past pulls him back into a life of deception and danger. Directed by Jacques Tourneur.

Five years ago, I broke my knee and spent four or five days in the hospital, during which, not surprisingly, I watched quite a lot of television, including a showing of Out of the Past. i didn’t much care for the movie, I found it disjointed and corny. Turns out I took an awful lot of Demerol and Percoset during those four or five days, and that may have affected my perception.

Out of the Past is a perfect film noir, hitting all the classic themes in exactly the right way. The femme fatale (Jane Greer) is beautiful and dangerous, the hero is witty and insouciant, yet cannot escape the hand of fate, and the shadows of night and the city are sharply contrasted with the sunshine of small town decency.

The first thing I noticed was the construction and pacing. Every beat hits at exactly the right moment. A dark stranger arrives in a small town. We hear about the hero before we see him, and then move away from darkness into light; Jeff and Ann (Virginia Huston) fishing at a secluded lake, and then embracing, and then discussing marriage, and only then does Jeff’s deaf employee (Dickie Moore) intrude with news of the stranger’s arrival.

Kathie Moffat, the femme fatale, is also introduced in conversation. Before we ever meet her, we know she’s shot Whit (Kirk Douglas), her powerful lover. Whatever we know of her afterwards, we are not to forget that she is capable of attempted murder, perhaps to steal forty thousand dollars, perhaps just to get away.

Whit wants Kathie back, and hires Jeff, at that time a private detective, to find her. Jeff follows her trail to Acapulco, his fascination growing, and we still have not yet seen Kathie onscreen. Before she appears, we know what will happen when she does. It’s inevitable: Jeff falls for Kathy and deceives Whit into believing he has not found her.

The introduction of the two principles are a perfect parallel. Jeff in an innocent, natural and loving setting, but haunted; Kathie in the midst of a deception, seductive and manipulative. Kathie is a trap, and Jeff is caught in it.

The film catches us up with Jeff’s past by means of his confession to Ann, then we are in the present with Jeff seeing Whit for the first time since betraying him. Late in the movie, we return to Ann’s small town to check in with events there, and it is startling how bright the sun shines there. Yes, we’ve been to Acapulco and Lake Tahoe, but the sun is only beautiful in Bridgeport; Jeff’s past-become-present is one long shadow.

Out of the Past is very interested in showing us goodness and evil, and contrasting them, but carefully notes that they don’t produce different results. At one point Kathie tells Jeff that she’s no good, and so is he, and that’s why they belong together. It struck me pretty powerfully in that moment, that Jeff had shown no real sign of being no good, except for falling for Kathie. Even when he betrayed Whit, he refused to take Whit’s payment. His only crime (as in, felony) was in covering up a worse crime of Kathie’s. We see from the start that he is honest with Ann, and even Whit says that he’s hired Jeff because he has a reputation for being both smart and honest. Maybe it’s “smart” that dooms him.

Every performance here is perfection. Mitchum is powerful, watching the world from under his dreamy eyelids, yet still entrapped by it. Kirk Douglas is excellent as a wealthy man who pulls every string, and Jane Greer is captivating. The plot and characterization strongly resemble The Maltese Falcon, but that doesn’t detract from the film.

The whole thing works together: Acting, directing, cinematography, wit, sensuality, morality, and the dark shadow of film noir falling over it all.

I hate Fanty

So the Gang of Two consists of Mingo and Fanty. Mingo has some annoying eccentricities, but is basically the ideal pet. Independent yet affectionate, he’s even a good mouser.

His sister, on the other hand, is here on earth to drive me mad. And she’s succeeding. She’s so nervous that if you walk near her she runs and hides, and yet so demanding that she will cry near your hand until you pet her, and cry whenever you stop, for hours. (But only your hand. She’s terrified of being picked up.)

Fanty has occasional seizures (I know, I know). Previously, they’d been every couple of months, but then she had three in four weeks, so we decided to medicate her. Problem is, she’s nervous, so I was very concerned about giving her pills. My vet gave me Pill Pockets. You put the pill inside the treat and squish it closed. The first one, she refused to eat, and I had to force it down her throat. The second one, she ran from me when she saw it, and forcing it down her throat was harder. Somehow, though, she realized they tasted good, and the next dose she ate readily when I left it on the floor by the spot where she comes to cry at my hand, and soon she was begging for them.

The problem is that I have to get Mingo out of the way because he doesn’t have seizures and shouldn’t have phenobarbital.

This morning it was complicated. Mingo was in the bedroom and Fanty was not. I couldn’t get Mingo out, and then Fanty went into the bathroom, and I thought ‘Fine, I’ll give it to her there’ and shut myself and a pill in with her, but she became upset and cried. So I opened the door, got Mingo out, and shut us into the bedroom.

But now she was already upset and just cried and cried and cried. I put the pill/treat on the floor on her spot and dangled my hand, but she was having none of it, and just kept crying. So I thought I’d ignore her so she could relax, and started fiddling with my cellphone.

At which point, she got up on my bed and let loose a long, angry stream of urine.

Peed.

On my bed.

Sort of “Welcome to Monday” writ large.

The Return of Friday Catblogging!

<small><strong>Luggage? What luggage? You mean my cat bed?</strong></small>

Luggage? What luggage? You mean my cat bed?

After getting back from Florida, I hurt my back, and so I haven’t finished unpacking. Mingo loves this suitcase. Loves it. Snuffs it. Sticks his head in. Sticks his body in. Lays on it. Sharpens his claws on it.

So at 5am when nature called, I nearly tripped over this little scene, and somehow thought to grab the camera. Took the picture in the dark and only saw afterwards that it came out cute as pie.

I am Jack’s Executive Function

I’ve been thinking about the notion of executive function. It’s basically the part of the brain that handles organizational things. Because someone will tell you, “Oh, it’s easy, just make a phone call,” and your brain goes BLAH and you wonder why you’re going BLAH.

So here’s a thing that happened. I had to buy a gift. I went into the store and I picked it out. I got it home and I realized there was no way I could ship this sonuvabitch. It was a weird shape. So I went to the store’s website, figuring, I’d order online and then return the one I bought. Let them handle figuring out how to ship it.

So the website was down, but I managed to squeeze the item number out of the url before everything went crash kaboom blooey bam. I phoned and I had to go through all the hoops to place an order. Have you ordered before? Will you order again? Would you like to form a long-term relationship with us? Fuck you, your website doesn’t even fucking work, just give me my present.

So I give them the billing info and they read it back. The credit card number is wrong. I give it again. My name is spelled wrong. I give it again. My address. Again.

Now we’re up to the shipping address, and the same thing. Everything is wrong. Everything. I have a dyslexic order taker. I have a person who inverts digits who has decided on a career of copying down digits. Fucking fuck.

And all the questions. Apologies and questions and how many items do you want and are you sure I can’t offer you a discount card for purchase of fifty dollars or more and JUST SHUT UP.

So finally, he gets to my total, and it’s over thirty dollars. For a nineteen dollar gift. “What?!?” “Well, ma’am, there’s a fuel surcharge…” “You’re charging me fifty percent of the cost of the item.” “Well, the reason is that the fuel surcharge…” “I actually don’t care what your reason is. You’re charging me fifty percent of the cost of the item!” (My stern voice.) “Hold please.”

So, long hold. Long. And he comes back and my shipping charges have been reduced to $2. But he emphasizes six times, this is one time only, because I’m a first time customer. Six times. Nicely, politely telling me, “Don’t ever try to pull this again, bitch.” Don’t worry, I won’t.

Next day I go back to the store and return the original gift.

Gift doesn’t arrive.

I call the recipient after 2 days, after 4 days. Gift hasn’t arrived. I check the website. Gift, it says, was delivered after 2 days.

So now I call the post office where the item was supposed to be delivered. “Why yes, we do have a package we can’t deliver from that company.”

It was addressed to me. Not to the recipient. To me.

So, we got that all straightened out and the gift was delivered, and I looked at this supposedly simple thing I did. Nine steps. Nine. Some of which were highly stressful and took a lot of tenacity on my part.

1. Buy gift
2. Try website
3. Place phone order
4. “Renegotiate” delivery price
5. Return gift
6. Follow-up on delivery with receipient, find it didn’t arrive
7. Look up delivery on company website
8. Call post office, straighten things out
9. Let receipient know it’s on the way.

That was one errand. One. Of the dozens I may do in a week. It really made me hyper-aware of this whole area of brain function, I’ll tell you.

I’m in Baltimore

Arthur hugged me a lot. It was great. Then I spent all last evening trying to get connectivity in my hotel room. No luck. Then this morning it was like nothing had ever been wrong.

Friday Catblogging: Strange Things Mingo Does

Mingo loves plastic bags.

Cat on Bag on Chair

Cat on Bag on Chair

This may look like a cat on a chair. It is not. It is a cat having a love affair with a plastic bag that happens to be on a chair. Soon he will begin to suck and chew it.

Frickin ew.

» Read more..

Why Man Creates

Why Man Creates is a marvelous short film by Saul Bass (famous mostly for title design) and Elaine Bass. It won the Best Short Documentary Oscar in 1969.

My art teacher in high school was a huge fan of the film, as was his buddy, the English teacher. I’m sure I saw it in high school at least five times, maybe more. It was also shown a couple of time at early Starwoods, so I saw it again then.

It’s a beautiful film, hard to find now, but a true cult classic.

There’s a sequence where scientists are interviewed about their research. Many have been working on the same problems for 10 or 15 or 20 years, and feel a solution is only a few years away. There’s one scientist who worked on a problem for 20 years, and failed. His project for all those years was now over, and it was sad to see him pack up and walk out of the lab, not knowing what was next.

But in truth, success would bring the same empty space. You work on a thing for 20 years, and you succeed, you’re done. Now what? It’s a good thing, a wonderful thing, but it’s also a hole. It’s a loss.

For twenty years or, not to put too fine a point on it, for eighteen years.

What has happened in my life this week is a good thing, a joyous thing. But it’s also a loss. Motherhood has been eighteen years of a science project. And I know I’m not done. I also know it’s now, quite suddenly, different than it ever was, and it’s not ever going back. Like a scientist packing up a lab, I don’t know what’s next.

So I cried a little

I was about forty minutes up the road when I realized there was a huge hole in my gut, and I felt like howling into it. I cried a minute. But I was driving. And I’d have had to pull over to succumb to that howl, and I just didn’t feel like it. There’s pain, sure, because it’s a hole. But there’s also no pain, because it’s right and good and what we’ve worked for.

Arthur may end up like me, and stay on his own from the day he first leaves home (which was, for me, a little more complicated than that sounds, but more or less). Or, he may be one of those offspring who keep coming back, into his thirties or later, to rethink life whenever the need is there.

It doesn’t matter. Either way, he’ll never be back the way he was. He’ll never be my kid living here. He might be my adult son who moved out and came back, but that is entirely not the same thing.

So it was time to cut the cord and cuts hurt. That’s okay. And I wanted to howl and I cried a little and that surprised me. And that’s also okay.

Right now, tonight, I don’t know what my life is like. I’m a little confused. But I’ve taken all the right steps and I’ve done all the right things and I’m not empty. I’m just confused. And I may cry some more.