Languishing in Obscurity

Adios, LJ world! I'll probably peek at my f-list once in a while, but I don't plan to post any more, so peace out, y'all. It's been real.

7/11/09. It's free slurpee day at the 7-11. It also happens to be my wedding day.

Dear Cristin,

I promise that at/before my wedding, there will be
*no slurpees (no 7-11 in town, oh noes!)
*no skank, meth-head North Alabama strippers
*no one wearing anything that says "bride" or "groom"
*no dumbass games
*no one who thinks it's a good idea to seat you next to her cousin with the Kleenex fetish
*no sermonizing
*no color that anyone describes as "sea foam" or "puce"
*a personalized flask, in the event that the reception is dry, with my favorite gnome's name on it
*nothing to stuff, tie, or fold
*and perhaps most importantly, no one in this dress:



Will you please be a bridesmaid in my wedding?

Why Helen is hanging out in the Big Apple (from the Mail):

Helen Mirren's busy in New York rehearsing a film version of The Tempest with director Julie Taymor - and the Oscar-winning actress will give us a Prospera rather than a Prospero.

Taymor's preparing her company of actors at a studio space in Manhattan and plans to fly her cast to Hawaii in November to shoot the island scenes, and finish filming in London.

... Gee, rough life, that. I'm thrilled about this project. Gender-bending, queer Shakespeare? Wacktastic director? Can't. Wait.

A rainy Friday morning sounds like the perfect time for me to do a little detective work. I knew I read all those Nancy Drew and Agatha Christie books for a reason...

How can this much fabulousness be in one place at one time without permanently altering the space time continuum? And how can I be oblivious to it when it's in freakin' Midtown?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

This photo just did :) Auntie Taye thanks Jennii for the fact that she is now grinning like an idiot. From the USC-Ohio State football game last weekend:



Seriously, there are no words. Unless you count HAHAHAHAHAH!

Helen Mirren has made my day two times out of the last five. Phaedra, anyone?

I'm off to ride rollercoasters for two days with my best friend. It should be a very good weekend :)

Sometimes that's what I feel like I'm doing, both intellectually and emotionally. Intellectually because each day when I begin doing research, I'm afraid I'm going to stumble upon someone who has already written the dissertation (or book) I want to write. (Had a close call yesterday -- from the title, it sounded like exactly what I have in mind, but turned out to be quite different.) Emotionally with one particular friendship, because we have the same conversation over and over, about why I'm hurt/alienated/etc., and things improve for a little while (this time it lasted for all of ten days, woohoo), and then ultimately go back to exactly the way they were before. No, actually, that's not true. Worse. Worse than before. My rationale to keep on keeping on has always been that this is someone I've known for a long time, but the returns on my investment are dwindling as badly as shares in Lehman Brothers. Meh, I can't even work up the enthusiasm to get upset about it any more. I'm just tired.

On a happier (?) note, some serious ass-kicking is likely to take place in my lit class tomorrow. A lot of you on my friends list are college students, and I was one myself not all that long ago, so riddle me this: what kind of jackass shows up for class 45 minutes late, with no book, and then proceeds to play with his/her iphone during class? Aww, HELL no. I ain't havin' it. So tomorrow: QUIZ! ::cue evil laughter::

My brain is very tired tonight, and it's way too early to go to bed. What's a girl to do?

Why have I never really noticed this photo before?

I'm having one of those days when I annoy even myself. I'm restless but totally unmotivated, and can't focus on anything. I've accomplished zilch today. If it were possible to do negative work, that would be what I've done today. Waste. Of. Space.

Clare, the photo you liked, dear heart, was from the 2007 SAG awards. Yes, Helen looked fabulous. Here are some more, just for you:



( Variations on a theme )

I'm having one of those days where I'm cranky and irritated and generally discontent with humanity, especially soaking wet humanity wielding oversized, pointy umbrellas on New York City sidewalks in the midst of the Great Deluge.

I believe that I, like Jane Tennison, have made an error in judgment. (No, NOT the same one she made!) Several months ago I became friends with someone who is relatively new to the city, and in fact to life on her own. She's a lot younger than I am, and very sweet and a little naive. Recently I saw that she was becoming very close to someone I've known for a while, a person who is charming and charismatic and, quite frankly, someone of whose motives I'm deeply suspicious. In short, I think this person is a liar -- not necessarily a bad person, but someone whose grasp of reality seems to be tenuous at best, and who lies a GREAT.DEAL. I gave this some thought, and the last time I saw my young friend, I warned her, in the gentlest terms possible.

Oops. I get the distinct impression I shouldn't have done that. I feel like I've been getting the cold shoulder since then. Maybe it's my imagination, but I doubt it. Oh, well. I suppose she'll find out for herself soon enough -- or then again, maybe she won't. Alas, no good deed goes unpunished.

On another note, my new teaching job is so much better than my last one that I'm afraid of jinxing it by even discussing it.

Your daily Helen (and Clare, in the unlikely event that you actually remembered to check in and are reading this, the paper still hasn't come, but when it does, I WILL find your photo!):


( Soft Target caps behind the cut )

I am sitting here in my apartment on a Sunday evening. My preparatory work for tomorrow is done, I've had a cup of real English black tea, my cat is curled up next to me (she's giving me the kitty stiff-arm, but that's immaterial), Helen Mirren is on my TV, and I find myself wrapped up in this total sense of well-being.

I've spent most of my day working on The Novel. It may never see the light of day as far as publication goes, but I'm trying to tell myself that it doesn't really matter, that that shouldn't be the point; and besides, who knows? Stranger things have happened.

How is it already September 7th? A month from tomorrow I'm flying to Texas. In less than a month I'm flying home for Tom and Rachel's wedding. What if my semester whirls by, and at the end of it I find myself with no prospectus and no conference paper? 

Enough of me. Here's your daily Helen:

  
( Roses are read, violets are blue/I'm about to f*ck up, so what else is new? )

So the thing you should all understand about me right now is that I'm in my fifth year of my Ph.D. program. I've passed all my qualifying exams, and I'm supposed to be writing my dissertation, or at least my dissertation prospectus.

Well, news flash: I'm not. My mental well is about as dry as this planet's going to be in fifteen or twenty years if we let the neo-cons keep running it.

I do, however, have 110 pages of a novel (unpublishable?); CDs for learning French; a Googling addiction; the desire to rewatch every performance Helen Mirren or Meryl Streep ever put on film; and improving Photoshop skills.

Yeah, I'm awesome.

My lovely friend Clare is encouraging my obsession with keen interest in my darling Helen Mirren by challenging me to post a different photo of her here every day next week. Well, it's not next week, but never let it be said that I do just enough to get by (unless it comes to, you know, my j-o-b).

Here's today's photo, selected because I'm just so damn happy to see Helen out and about and know where she is! (I know that sounds weird, but the woman ricochets around the globe like a damned pinball.) 


I've got to go with "Hel, No" on the outfit, though. Oh, well, one can't win 'em all.

Let's have something gorgeous to make up for that dubious choice.

Oh, yes. Nice jacket, if I do say so myself. Ahem.

And can I just reiterate that THIS IS THE NIGHT I MET HELEN MIRREN???

Cocaine and date rape and trashy headlines, oh my!

Oh, dear, Helen. Yup, that's my girl! I love you, babe...

More importantly: so this "interview" is from GQ, huh? Does that mean there are going to be... photos? Guess who's going to be hounding the magazine shop for the next week or so?

My life is not exactly thrilling; therefore, I blog about The Mirren. Y'all can deal.

And if you really want to know, the New Job seems to be going well, and I am still tragically unmotivated to think up a dissertation topic. I shall just sit here and watch Prime Suspect instead. Now, that's making the world a better place.

I did have this amusing phone conversation today:
Dad: McCain is absolutely going to be elected. We might as well get used to it.
Me: Well, I don't know... I'm hoping against hope.
(Stuff about politics in the South)
Dad: No, now that he's picked Sarah Palin, he's a shoo-in. The fates couldn't pass this one up. They can make a major motion picture out of this now. It'll be like 'Norma Ray Goes to Washington.'
Me: Hey, if he picked Sally Field as his running mate, I might vote for him!

Yeah, random, I know. So to recap we have: Helen Mirren, cocaine, date rape, and Norma Ray. Happy Labor Day.

As I trek across the SH- and HMAS-free desert, a small oasis. It's been way too long since we had an old-fashioned picspam.

This first photo, because I found it the other day and I think it's fabulous:


This one, because I just love it:


This one, because it's adorable:


This one, because it's so <insert theatrical gesture> dramatic:


And these, from A Month in the Country:

If these goes on for much longer, I may cease to function. How can Simply Helen AND mirrentalk continue to be down at the same time?? 

If you get it, you'll, y'know, get it ;) I hope many of you will recognize the characters -- they're certainly not mine. This is rather an odd thing for me to post here, but what the hell. I posted it on SH, and either no one noticed or, worse still, no one cared ;)

Checkmate

The squares on the board are precise, symmetrical, geometrically pristine. Their alternating pattern of dark and light is preordained, predictable, which is normally a source of some comfort to her: darkness and light don't mingle and blur until they become inextricable, indistinguishable, mutually dependent.

Today all of this -- the mathematical regularity of the board, the beautiful pieces, hand-carved in the old way, their outlines wavering, becoming indistinct in the fading twilight that glows softly at the half-open window -- is an exercise in frustration.

She understands the rules, the logic, the combinations and permutations possible to her and to her opponent, but she can't concentrate. Her eyes bore into her own bishop and skim over a flanking excursion force of pawns. Her mouth is set in a grim line, lips compressed. She knows that the image she presents is one of intense concentration. She also knows that her opponent isn't fooled for a moment.

It wouldn't be so bad if Alan Ginsberg would leave her alone, but he's been haunting her for a week or ten days now, skulking around the edges of her consciousness. At times the poet is a fleeting, intangible presence; at others, when she is letting herself into her flat, waiting for the bus, guiltily and defiantly buying a pack of cigarettes, she hears his words clearly.

She knows that the evening is warm, that the puffs of summer breeze fluttering the papers stacked on the desk are soft and humid, but she is cold, glacially cold even in long sleeves. She refuses to ask for the cup of tea her opponent would gladly make for her. He's very particular about his tea, buying only the best, one of the few luxuries he allows himself.

It is usually the first line of the poem, just the first line, looping over and over. She hears it now.

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.

Her opponent is Sphinx-like in his stillness, and she’s seized by the irrational desire to kick him.

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed…

She’s never been one for games, not even as a child. But mind games – in a way she’d built her career on playing mind games and winning, knowing her suspect’s thoughts better than he knew them himself, understanding where to apply pressure in order to elicit that hysterical up-swell of emotion – anger, superiority, pride, scorn, fear, whatever the case required – that bubbled into an admission, a confession. Sometimes abject, sometimes gloating. I did it. I bludgeoned that man. I stabbed those girls. Me. I, I, I.

I have seen the best minds of my generation…

Her father had begun to teach her how to play chess when she was eight years old, a plump, rosy child, inquisitive, eager, at times abnormally sensitive He had only taught her, not her sister. But they never played after she reached adulthood, after she became who she was rather than the gentle artist he had envisioned.

She played well, but not exceptionally. Now the opportunities for brilliant strategic maneuvering – the soul of the game, and the aspect that drew passionate enthusiasts – exhausted her. Sometimes, indeed, it left her feeling physically ill, and as empty as if someone had split her skull open and diligently scooped out the contents. On afternoons like this she suspected that perhaps she hated chess, but then she reminded herself that applying an emotion as strong as “hate” to her dull, sluggish sensations, only half felt, was absurd.

I have seen the best minds…

Shut it, Alan, she mentally snarled, and sacrificed a pawn for spite. She glanced up through the wisps of hair half fringing her eyes just in time to catch a flicker of surprise in her opponent’s piercing blue gaze. It was extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. She observed him as he lit a cigarette, crossed his ankle over his knee, and slouched further in his straight-backed chair. He tossed the red and white pack toward her and it softly slapped the table beside her elbow. Although it was his move, he kept his eyes trained on her face, unblinking. Penetrating. Unsettling. Perhaps oddly, his ability to unsettle her with only a look was one of the things that had always drawn her to this man. It was refreshing. But then, he always had been a worthy opponent, long before they started to play chess together.

She removed a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and transferred her attention to the dusty smudge of sky above the row of houses opposite. The smoke curled away from the window, doubling back upon the two people in the sparsely furnished living area.

Silence was her favorite interrogation technique. Maintaining silence was maintaining control, and at the first crack, the first fissure, the game was up. A verbal landslide inevitably followed.

There was so much silence in her life now, but not so much control.

Despite what Ginsberg said, she knew she was in no danger of going mad. Her brain would never concede to grant her such blessed relief.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at
dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient
heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the
machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high
sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz…

She had her own demons, of course. Oh, yes. And now the numbness of the last months was wearing off, leaving her raw and exposed. She avoided looking in the mirror, because the murky, fathomless eyes that stared back at her like twin open wounds frightened and embarrassed her.

Her opponent had offered to pour her a drink at each of their first two games, and both times she had calmly declined. He hadn’t asked any questions, but he had never offered again.

She was not calm here, in his space, in his presence; she could never relax with him. He understood her too well for that to be possible. His awareness of her forced her to be self-aware. She always left feeling rawer, more bruised and bloodied than when she had arrived. And yet she always came back the next week.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, very softly, his voice barely a murmur, and she jumped as if he’d shot her.

Yes, she thought.

“No,” she said.

He wouldn’t force her to quit, to give up, to resign herself to more hours of blank, blank emptiness, to minutes piling up on themselves while a clock ticked with agonizing slowness. Win or lose, she’d see the game through to the end. And then –

Her mind hesitated, her thoughts pausing, stuttering, anticipating.

And then?

Well, there would be other games.

He had bent his head to study the board between them, his elbows propped on the table, so she rolled her head back, stretching her neck. She heard her joints crack. They weren’t so old, those joints, those bones, those muscles. Beaten, weathered, ground down, yes; but not so old, mathematically speaking. Not nearly old enough. That was so much of the problem, the nightmare. She seemed to herself to be looking down an endless vista of time, of years, so many years stretching away beyond the horizon. So much time. Too damned much time.

Three months, twelve days, and about – her eyes narrowed – four hours. She did the math automatically when she looked at a clock or a calendar, and fought the impulse to cross to the other side of the street for protection when she passed an off-licence.

And they weren’t the only places she avoided. Now that she was “free,” her life had become restrictively circumscribed by old associations, old memories, and old acquaintances. Taff had scared the hell out of her by knocking on her door last weekend. She stood silently in the kitchen until he gave up and went away, although they’d both known she was inside.

That she hadn’t avoided the man across the table was an oddity. – Of course, she hadn’t sought him out, either. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

It had begun with cappuccino and oranges, but the cappuccino and oranges had begun with Italy.

“You’re free,” Pam – that silly cow – had said, “to do whatever you like. You can travel.”

One could travel. The idea of travel in the abstract was vaguely appealing. Sandy beaches, alpine meadows, desert oases. But the slightest thought of making the abstract concrete – plane tickets, rail schedules, currency shuffling – sapped her limited fund of enthusiasm. Besides, the point of travel was to escape, to get away from it all, and she’d only end up chasing herself across all the continents. She couldn't conceive of a worse traveling companion.

However, she liked guidebooks. She didn’t buy them, didn’t even read them, but she liked to stand before the neatly ranged rows in the bookshops, all marching along in twos and threes, their spines green and blue, red and yellow, purple and black. The glossy photo covers appealed to her, dramatic or peaceful, tantalizing, airbrushed and sanitized. They didn’t represent real places any more than postcards did; they were prepackaged, shrink-wrapped fantasies. They weren’t her fantasies, but sometimes she liked to look, voyeur that she was. After all, she'd spent her entire adult life looking into other people's lives, so this wasn't so very different.

The fantasy of Italy was a heaping platter of oranges, obscene in their ripeness, looking swollen nearly to bursting, and a dream of a cappuccino, frothy, with a little cinnamon or chocolate marbling the snowy surface.

She found herself drifting over a gray pavement under a gray, blustery sky amidst a world of blurry gray figures into a crowded café, heard herself ordering, heard the whine of the espresso machine, felt her arm stretching, fingers extending as she reached for an orange huddling against two apples and a green banana. It was a small orange, slightly anemic, but still an orange.

Clutching the fruit she leaned back, off balance, rocking hard on her heels, and crashed into something that was distinctly human. She whirled in time to see black coffee splashing over battered brown loafers and soaking into the sleeve of a pale blue jumper.

“Sorry,” she said automatically, and he said, “Jane? – Jane.”

They stood together in the spreading puddle of coffee, regarding each other with dismay, curiosity, maybe a touch of wary, inappropriate pleasure that each tried to stifle.

“In London, are you?” she heard herself say, and she bought him another coffee.

They’d ended up back at his cramped flat, playing chess, of all things. Neither of them mentioned that the last he’d seen of her had been her back as she walked away from him, livid, believing herself betrayed.

They didn’t say much at all, really; but then, they'd never had to.

He was watching her again. He blinked, and she heard the relentless mechanical click of a shutter. The gaze was dispassionate, analytical, but not unkind. Did his mind’s eye frame her the way he framed a photograph, transforming the raw subject matter into – what, in her case?

She knew he’d always seen something in her that reminded him of his female snipers, his mercenaries, his starving laborers and torture victims. Which did he see now?

The answer was so obvious that it made her wince. She forced herself to meet his eyes, steeling herself as she’d done a thousand times before entering a thousand interview rooms.

She'd known who she was then: the boss. The gov. Not the last word, never that – but close enough. And now she was just –

“Jane?”

No, that couldn’t be right, could it?

Her expression was defiant, daring him to pity her. For all the response his cool eyes gave back, the warning had been unnecessary; and yet his low monotone was soft. He pushed the cigarettes toward her again and she removed another. She wouldn’t take his pity, but she would co-opt his vices.

“What?” she asked finally, but he only leaned back in his chair and rested a dingy trainer on the cross bar, still just looking, looking. She looked back.

It was growing dark. He understood darkness as well as she did. They both stumbled blindly around in it, apparently fated to bump into one another periodically.

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.

Through the window a slow exhalation came again, breathing out curry and petrol, and an engine ground to shuddering life.

“I should go,” she said, and the clock ticked and the damp papers rustled in the humid breeze as they crisped and crinkled.

“All right,” he agreed equably, and lit another cigarette. She watched the ember glow. The darkness deepened, spread, enveloped both of them again, as it had enveloped both of them long ago. Neither of them moved, because some things in life were inevitable.

She didn't go, of course. They'd both known she wouldn't. And they both knew there would be other games, rematches, and that they would continue to play, whether they wanted to or not.

 

 

It's officially after midnight here, so that means it's my granny's birthday. She is 83 years old today. My grandmother is my hero. She is the bravest, strongest, truest person I've ever known, and living a life that's just a *little* like hers is the highest goal I can think of. Happy birthday to Granny :)

Last week H. and my dear friend Cristin shared a birthday -- happy belated birthday to two of my favorite people (and Cristin, if you're reading this, please don't use your little gift on me -- unless you can craft something truly diabolical).

... And my own 27th birthday was last month, but last night H. and my friend Amanda threw me a surprise (un)birthday party, packed with my favorite (chiefly transplanted) New Yorkers (but then Amanda always throws good parties, and there's always plenty of booze, so I don't have the hubris to think it was all about me). It was totally unnecessary, but wonderful.

Happy unbirthday to everyone!

Livejournal is seriously pissing me off right now, because for some reason it won't let me upload my new userpics (and no, it's not because I've exceeded my limit; I don't quite understand the nature of this evil), but anyway: fun with Photoshop. Yay, Photoshop. Yay, Helen. Yay, Meryl.

This is my wallpaper -- hence the big gap on the left. That's where my desktop icons live. Obviously.

I just made an appointment to go see the video of The Seagull from Shakespeare in the Park starring, yes indeed, Ms. Meryl Streep. I've been meaning to do this for TWO YEARS, so I'm finally getting around to it. Next week: Dance of Death.

It's a research library, so you have to have an access card and a "valid" reason for doing research. Now, I'm ace at churning out valid reasons for doing research, but I wasn't prepared for the question, so I stammered out something totally lame. Obviously the guy on the phone couldn't care less. Anyone with an access card is golden.

...AND I'm buying a plane ticket to go to TEXAS!

Good day, good day ;)

I fail at commenting, and I fail at updating. I promise I'll try to do better, although I think I probably only have about three people left on my friends list by this point anyway.

I'm on the Left Coast this week, in sunny northern-ish California. The weather here amazes me. Every morning it's foggy and gray, and then suddenly and miraculously, shortly before lunch, it seems spontaneously to vanish and the landscape is deluged in oceans of sunshine. I'm here attending a work-related conference-type-thing (it's really more like summer camp for academics), and we have a crazy schedule, non-stop from 7:30 a.m. until after 11 every night. Yesterday we had a free afternoon, though, so I thought it would be fun to walk to the beach... It was fun, and fun to splash around in the Pacific and wriggle my toes in the sand, but about the last mile and a half back up to the campus was less of a delight. I took a wrong turn on the way down, so in all I think I walked at least twelve miles. My feet were actually sore today. Maybe next time I'll take the bus ;)

By the way, I'm in desperate need of some new icons, and maybe a new header (I might go back to the whole having-a-header thing.) So if any kind, artistic soul is reading this, I would just be THRILLED if someone would help me out!

I did NOT forget Helen Mirren's birthday; I just had to celebrate very quietly while on a transcontinental flight. I was on Jet Blue, and they actually showed an excerpt from Helen's Times Talk. Crazy, huh? So I sort of mentally sang "Happy Birthday" to her while I flew over the Rockies or wherever.

Also, I'm officially in love with Meryl Streep again. A little Streep, a little Mirren -- life is good.

A belated thanks to my dear friend Cristin for sending me the world's greatest e-card for my birthday. See below: