Brother, Can you Spare a lot of Dimes?

It's finally that time of year to get tax money back. Maybe some of you already got it back. Maybe you filed early and have already enjoyed a little bonus. Maybe you just had a enough for a nice dinner or maybe you paid off a bill or maybe you had enough to put toward a computer. I have to imagine what people would so with their tax returns because in a recent phone call with my own tax man, my dad, I found out I won't be getting any money back. Me, a student who earned less than 10,000 the last year won't be getting anything back. But oh, it gets better. Not only do I not receive a return, but I owe money. I owe the federal government $250. That's practically a whole paycheck. How can that be? I'm baffled. Bamboozled. I feel as though I've been swindled. And I'm not normally a complainer on such matters. If I made more money than I would understand. I think that's fair, but this is not fair. However, I am willing to recognize that I'm lucky in many respects and if I need help with money I can get it-from my parents, from loans. I have options. But what if I didn't? What if the only money I had was the poverty level amount of less than 10,000? Something's up there.

Not a Poet. Now I Know It.

I was once a poet. I was a poet when poetry was easy and bad and all good poetry had to be was typed in a nice font and situated next to a neat picture inside a plastic folder with an equally neat picture on the cover. But now I find the more I study poetry, the more I read it and the more I write it, the worse I get. And not only that, but I don't feel like a poet anymore. I feel like a poser. Maybe that's because I write fiction. But poetry was my first love. It was what I filled up journal after journal and notebook after notebook of with horrible mopey self-indulgent poems. Of course I did alliterate quite nicely. Then again maybe I feel that way because the study of poetry has still not given my any hard criteria by which to judge what is good and bad. Some stuff is obviously bad, everyone knows that, but then there is poetry I am supposed to love, but can't see why. And of course there is no reason. It is a communication of the soul and is seemingly just as elusive.

Gettin' Some Help(!)

Yesterday I had the delight shall we say of seeing the Beatles' Help! up on the big screen at the much beloved and often defunct Senator Theater. It was a campy little romp with a weak plot and cheap thrills, but how could you not love it? It's the Beatles. And the Senator makes any movie better; the wide auditorium, the art deco fixtures, the mauve and gold drapery, the gigantic screen, and the ceiling of a cathedral where the angels sing, or the Beatles depending on when you go.

It's sad to see the place on such shaky ground. In the lobby you can find movie memorabilia on sale, which is fine and pleasant and full of nice memories, but you can also find film reels and marquee letters and I'm hoping I don't have to see the chairs auctioned off. Not to mention the place is a mess; boxes of junk everywhere. The whole place feels like a sinking ship except the auditorium itself. That place is full of so much wonder. It transports me back in time. other people feel the same way yes, everyone loves the place, but no one seems to know what to do. And no I don't have any bright ideas, but I have to believe there is still space in the world for an old theater and its movies. I have to believe there is still a place for technicolor.

And now to blog about the MFA reading series, which featured poet Adam Z on Monday night. Let's see, he was a little hard to understand and he read in a manner a bit too slow for me, but I know there was power in his words and I think if I sat down and read his poetry on my own I might appreciate it more. And it was a long reading and some of the poems were very long and as much as I tried, I just couldn't pay complete attention, and so while I think he is a very good poet I didn't walk away from the reading feeling amazed. In fact, what I like more was a comment made during his introduction in which it was said that when reading his work it seemed so perfect that it seemed that it had to exist, that it had always existed. I grabbed onto that sentiment and thought how perfectly it describes the things we love and are impressed by; we just can't imagine life without them.

Lincoln Lincoln I Been Thinkin'

I sometimes say that if I did not want to be a writer, I would want to be a dentist, but I think I would be just as happy teaching history. I am a history geek. But I don't have an area of expertise, just a wide area of interest. Of course high on that list is Mr. Lincoln and yesterday I got to go and see the man. By that I went to the Smithsonian and stood in a room full of Lincoln portraits. My goodness what an odd looking man, but although his contemporaries and his followers are quick to denounce his appearance, I can't think of a more impressive looking human being. They say he had grey eyes and that explains the vastness of them, the depth, the sorrow. I had always known he aged badly during his presidency, but the exhibit showed the staggering degree of how hollow and sunken and old his face became in just over four years. The first photograph taken of him as president hung on the opposite wall to that of one of the last taken of him and I hardly believed what. I collect a number of his portaits just to hang on my own walls, just to have around, just to look at and get lost in. Oh Lincoln Lincoln I've been thinkin. Thinkin about you and everything else.

In the Land of Ugly Sunglasses

Oh springtime and the birds are chirping and the sun is shinning and all around the world people are protecting their eyes with the ugliest eyewear they can find. It is no longer a bad thing to wear shades that harken back to Elton John's sequin days. We actually want to know again who that is behind those ray bans. If they look like they once belonged to your grandmother then your status is secure. The universe is all topsy turvy and bad is good and ugly is pretty and everything old is all of the sudden new, as though it never was once before. I'm just waiting for monocles and eye patches to be the next big thing. Wait! I got it. I'm going to head over to the nearest opthomoligist and pick up a paur of those disposable box shaped glasses they give you after you get your pupils dilated. Behold! I will be wearing the crown jewel of ugliness. All others bow to my greatness.

Hello Charlie

The other afternoon I found myself with a rare bit of free time, as in time that I should spend doing pertinent yet not required activities, and I decided to use that time to watch the last hour or so of Charlie Chaplin's classic Little Dictator. I think it holds up to its reputation. Ok, so it had its corny moments, and yeah the train moving through the station is a cardboeard cut-out and yes the ending, as inspirational as it is, was a bit heavy-handed. But I was amazed notwithstanding, by the cleverness of the movie, the genius of the comedy. It's a comdey that isn't low-brow. Imagine such a thing today. A comdey with intelligence. There was a part of me that didn't want to laugh at some of the 3 Stooges like slapstick, but I am willing to recognize the brilliance behind physical comedy; it's much easier to crack an audience up with sarcasm and lewd situations and who knows, pie fights, then it is to get them laughing over the way you move your body. Couldn't you just watch Charlie walk all day long? Or balance on a beam from the roof of a house? Or slather mustard all over bread? He has such a way about him on film.

A Love Letter to TCM

Happy Birthday TCM. You are 15 years old and I feel as though I cannot remember life before you arrived. That's probably becuase I was only eight, but still, you seem to have always been there with your classic movies, your upstanding hosts in suits leaning casually on an armchiar before the fire, your love of all things draped in old Hollywood glamour. You really are the most chraming channel and the one I am most grateful for and dare I say it, but you are the reason I have cable. Last night you played Gone With the Wind followed by Singin' in the Rain and I wonder if we are best friends you and I. And today you are all about Charlie Chaplin and a little Double Indemnity thrown in there. I admire the way you have stuck to your guns over the years and continued to broadcast and protect the classics as well as the forgotten would be classics. You remind us of what a move can do, of what a really good movie can do, of what a certain camera angle, a certain line, a certain scene of a sunset or a desert, or a certain note on the piano at just the right moment can do. I could not devote my whole evening to the saga of Scarlet O'Hara, but I did catch the last bit before the intermission, the great scene where she vows to never be hungry again and I cannot imagine my life without those words and that scene. It is a thing that always must have been and always must be. And it reminded me that when I got my wisdom teeth pulled it was Gone With the Wind that I chose to watch as my mouth was packed with gauze. It was the sounds of Tara that put me to sleep and the sounds of Tara that woke me up. It is a movie that is a close friend of mine. And TCM, you bring those close friends to me when I least expect, which is the most wonderful of all your attributes. You see, I love the ability to own movies on DVD and watch them whenever I want, but they always lose a little luster that way, they lose the luster of serendipity, of turning on the TV just in time to see exactly what I would watch if I could choose.

A Legend Made in Mid-April

Today is a very important day that raises very important questions. It was on this day in 1865 that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. You all know where and how and who and what and you might even know, like me, what play he was watching and what were the last words he heard. But the question is, can I celebrate this day while maintaining my love of Lincoln? Maybe I can observe this day and celebrate his life. That's how it's done, isn't it? Except, is it not also fair to say with Lincoln as with many other greats who are cut down in their prime, that the cutting down is part of what makes them great? I'm not saying Lincoln was important becuase he died, but that his death preserves his greatness and his memory and it made him legendary the way that only an untimely death can. Now he belongs to the ages, doesn't he? Would he belong to them that same way if he died in 1885 from the flu somewhere out of the way and quiet? Of course William McKinley and James A. Garfield also met a similar fate as Mr. Lincoln and have retained non of the popularity or mystique. Was that becuase even their deaths could not lift up uneventful lives? I suppose I just want to know why I love Lincoln the way I do. Maybe I just love the story. Know one really knows Lincoln the man, they know the hero, the legend, the myth, the creation, and then really the story of his life seems only like one that could be written. And so today I'll neither celebrate the death or the life of Lincoln, but the story of it all. The poor log cabin born rail splitter who grew up and saved the country.

I like to pretend that I have decent music taste, well it's all subjective I know, but yesterday I embraced what I know to be simple unadorned bad music. After spending last Friday night watching all 5 hours (I don't know where the time went) of VH1's 100 Greatest One Hit Wonders of the 80's, I had a craving to infuse my ipod with a few not so classic throwbacks. And say what you will about my choice, but yesterday I bopped to school to the tune of General Public's Tenderness. Us younger kids, not aware of it in the 80's probably know it from the Soundtrack of Clueless. It's crazy how good that song made me feel. I don't mind saying that I danced just a little bit. I tapped my fingers against my jeans, I bobbed my head, I did, yes, I did mouth the words. Call it a guilty pleasure, but however you want to classify music, however much sugar pop choruses annoy you, there is something to be said for infection. There is something to be said for the way a shallow catchy song from the 80's can make me realize all the happiness at my disposal. I wash the dishes to ABBA on occassion. I have a cassette tape of Barbie and the Rockers with possibly one of the most fantastic songs ever recorded by a doll and her backing band. I love Belinda Carlisle. I just bought Madonna's hits collection from the mid 90's becuase couldn't we all learn a little something from vintage Madonna? Is that even a question?

No News is Good News

I make a lot of vows to turn over a new leaf. I set goals like flossing more often, drinking water, moisturizing my elbows on a regular basis, and most recently catching up on the news. Now I don't have a subscription to the newspaper, which I know I should get, but I do dabble a bit in online news such as the New York Times website. I try to read a little of everything, even the boring sections, like business, but I find the more I read, the less I want to. I don't want to be ignorant of the world around me, but the news is depressing. I don't think I can read another shooting massacre story. I can't read any more about people killing each other. When I was little I would try to watch the news with my parents until my mother decided it was too upsetting. I don't want to ignore the world because it upsets me, but I find it hard to reconcile who I am with what the world is.

Don't Eat This Book

I've been hearing a lot about lead lately and frankly I haven't been listening. But then a few weeks ago the recent lead hysteria that has gradually been growing in the country over the past year finally peeked in my kitchen. I was grinding coffee beans in the evening for a nice cup when I noticed a warning label on the cord of the grinder. It has been there since I bought it several months ago, but I've never bothered to read it assuming that it was warning me not to try to use the grinder in the sink or bathtub. But no! The label told me that the cord contains lead and that I should wash my hands thoroughly after each time I touch it. I suddenly thought back to all the times I had touched that cord and then made breakfast or touched my face or my lips, or the edge of my coffee cup. I thought perhaps I had already been poisoned. So I called my dad, explained the situation and he told me not to worry. He said back in the 1980's when he was making stained glass windows he handled loads of lead without gloves and never tested high for it. As quickly as the panic came it passed, but then just hours ago I was speaking to my mother and she told in fractured bits what she remembered hearing about school libraries in my dad's school district being forced to throw out books published before 1985 because of possible lead used. I have yet to get the full details, but I'm pretty upset and angry that such a thing is actually being considered. I don't claim to understand the lead panic, but fine, ok, in certain situations I can understand the caution. I can understand that small plastic toys made for toddlers that often get chewed on should not contain lead, but I don't think books belong in the same category as toys and I certainly don't think that books should just be thrown out. Think of all those wonderful books. I won't eat them! Can I have them?

Goodwill Gone Bad

I've had some strange experiences at the Goodwill before, but this Saturday tops the pops. I don't know why exactly, but the good people at Goodwill have decided to revamp their operation. There are no more clothing racks, no more hangers, no more neatly organized departments, no men's, no women's, no outerwear. What they have instead are bins. Giant green bins on wheels that are stuffed with a random assortment of everything clothing. I go to the Goodwill to do a little hunting, sure, I love flipping through the racks and racks of outrageously ugly stuff to find the stuff that is either pretty or just ironically ugly. So it isn't that I mind having to do a little digging for the good stuff, but something about grabbing through bins of clothes is more than degrading. And of course I am not the Goodwill's target shopper. I have the luxury of not shopping there. I have a choice, but their mission is to help people without choices. Their mission is to provide an affordable and dignified shopping expereicne to people with very little money. The Goodwill is suppossed to help the community. That's the reason they exist. And now they want shoppers to root through heaps of clothing like searching through the dumpster? As I picked up a few flannel shirts among the wreckage, I went from feeling uncomfortable to feeling angry. I think everyone deserves a better shopping experience. I'm pretty dissapointed.

Rain on Me

It's cloudy and overcast and rainy outside and I wish so much that I could put on Billie Holiday and curl up on the floor by a window just like a cat and read and doze and drink coffee or maybe eat a bonbon and watch the sky get so dark with rain that I need a lamp to read by. Everybody has parts about themselves that they share with everyone, everybody has that one story they tell a hundred times becuase it defines who they are, everybody has one tired attribute. For me it is this love of a gloomy day. It has become such an intrinsic recognizeable part of me that friends and family in all parts of the country will inform me when it is gloomy their way and say they thought of me.

I can remember so many perfect gloomy days. The edges of those memories are so crisp like the outline of a tree branch on dark sky. Someone once asked me about the best day of my life and despite all my other options, like the day I first arrived in Rome, or got accepted to grad school, or kissed a boy, or whatever, I chose the rainy day in ninth grade when I listened to Semisonic on repeat and read Anne of Green Gables underneath a big warm comforter and the rain kep falling and from downstairs the sounds and smells of a big family dinner in preparation floated up to me. And when I emerged from my sanctuary of rainy reading, the house was bright and warm and became Home, with a capital H, like true home.

Or there was that Friday morning my senior year of college when I got up early and sat on the fifth floor of the student union in an empty cafeteria drinking coffee and staring out the window at the leaves just begining to turn red and orange in backdrop of raindrops. I remember really wanting to remember that moment. I remember knowing it was important, that it could bring me an unstoppable joy even in fifty years.