Instead of coming out of the closet, I'd like to invite you into my closet... and while you're at it, take a gander at my underwear drawer!

Realizing that I haven't been a reliable blogger, I'd like to say that's going to change--that from here on out you can expect to see something new from me every day or every week or at least every month. Such a promise, however, would be like a dog vowing not to linger long enough to sniff the territory he just marked. Nature is nature and A.D.D. is... what were we talking about?

I'll never forget that moment in junior high English when I was first introduced to the concept of the "Stream of Consciousness" narrative mode. It was like a tiny glimpse of freedom in the stifling linear world of traditional education. I might have grasped how profound that moment was, had I known then what I've come to realize in recent years of "dealing with" and researching my own kids' learning challenges. As I came to grips with the fact that one of my children had all the symptoms of A.D.D. (which is harder to spot than it's more obvious cousin, A.D.H.D.), I also had to admit that I fit the description to a tee (and that coping wasn't getting any easier with age).

My brain doesn't process things quite as "efficiently" as the brains of others may--efficiently for the results that traditional academia is seeking, that is. I take detours to check out alternate possibilities (lots of detours), which means it may take me longer to get from point A to point B. When I get there, however, I usually have a web of connections that incorporates other tangent points; and, even though I may be slower, I think a web just might be stronger than a single thread. Some "Stream of Consciousness" literature seemed to reflect that web-spinning way of thinking that felt most natural to me.

As much as I can count my differing mode of operation as a gift that has allowed the birthing of some of my most creative ideas, I must admit that in other ways it is also a disability. What good is it to have heaps and heaps of ideas if one is too disorganized to ever see any of them through to fruition?

In preparing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month http://www.nanowrimo.org/) which is only days away, I've been trying to find all the story ideas and files I've compiled over the years. I've dug in boxes and file cabinets and drawers and closets, and plugged in external hard drives and zip drives. I've read notes that were typed on an old word processor, scrawled on restaurant napkins, and incorporated into old journals. In spite of all this searching, the two ideas I thought were developed the furthest are still nowhere to be found. All is not lost, however... in this process of searching, I've stumbled upon gems that I had totally forgotten about:

-- treatments for feature films that have held up over the time--I'd still like to see the movies described therein

-- old poetry, both mine and my parents'

-- short stories and plays

-- articles and books clipped and saved for possible adaptation...

I'm not going to fool myself that this will be easy to sort through. It's quite the overwhelming task. Those who live close enough to have been in my house in recent months can attest to the fact that what was supposed to be "Spring cleaning" has drug on into Summer and now Autumn with little evidence of an end point. I hauled boxes out of closets in order to sort through everything before putting it back in the closets, and now my closets are the only areas of my house where I would feel comfortable entertaining guests. Oh, my sock and underwear drawers are super-tidy now, too, but I'm not sure what that has to do with entertaining guests. It does, however, bring up an interesting quirk of mine that I have admitted to few:

My sock and underwear drawers are a sort of barometer of my psychological well-being. If I'm depressed and have essentially "given up"--as I sometimes do--I will start shoving undergarments into the drawers unfolded. If, on the other hand, I'm hopeful and my self-esteem is intact, I treat myself to the neatest, most orderly (nearing O.C.D. levels, I will admit) storage of my unmentionables (which, I just mentioned... sorry 'bout that.)

I am taking hope, however, that since I was able to organize my eating and exercising to the point that I've lost 1/4 of my previous body weight and dropped a bunch of pant sizes since the beginning of the year, I CAN discipline other areas of my life as well. At some point in time, I may have to ask for a little help from my friends. The number one way you can help me is by holding me accountable. Feel free to bug me. To prod me. To remind me of what I said I was going to do. If you haven't heard from me for a while, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm off making good progress on a project... It might mean I'm tangled in one of my A.D.D. webs and need to be reminded where I was headed.

I’ll Never Forget: a somewhat fictional autobiography

It was suggested to me that I write a memoir. I wasn't sure where to start, so I looked for a sign. Here it is.

Born an infant in the prairie province of Saskatchewan, Canada, where the tumbleweed danced, the deer & the antelope cavorted, and the summer sun shown well into the night, I now enjoy quite walks on the treadmill, diet water, and the covert founding of polyandrous sects in rural Utah.

I’ll never forget the day my mother packed my bags and sent me off to join the circus. She said she was doing it for my own good, so that I would one day have an interesting story to tell. “How tragic,” she would often say, “to emerge from childhood with not a stitch of Lifetime movie-of-the-week material. To squander one’s youth on avoiding tightropes and explosives is tantamount to owning only matching pairs of socks. What a colossal waste!”

As a frail child getting caught up frequently by the winds that rushed across the prairie, I was sentenced by my doctors to the mandatory consumption of only whole milk even though everyone else in the family got to enjoy mom’s secret recipe low-budget “mixed milk” with it’s charming granules of powered milk snuck into the watered down bottled milk. Ah, the seeds of eating disorders.

I’ll never forget my trip to the emergency ward to get my tongue clipped.

This time I will freely point out that this is a true story--with the rest I will leave you to guess where fiction meets non.

It all started when I was in junior high and one of my friends had a younger brother who had a crush on me. I’ve heard it said that being crushed upon can be a flattering thing. There have been women throughout history who have captured the hearts of men and as a result had a ship, a street, or even a city named in their honor. Would that my friend’s brother had been a sea captain or an engineer of shiny slick machinery... but, alas, little brother was but a lad in 4-H. I never did know what the four H’s stood for, but I suspect that one of them may have been heifer, because that’s what I had the pleasure of having dubbed my namesake, and that darn cow didn’t even win a blue ribbon at the Vernon County Fair... but I digress.

What does that have to do with my trip to the ER to have my tongue clipped? Well, when you think about people going to the ER to get their tongues clipped (and you know you do), don’t you think of blue-ribbon-wanna-be cows sitting around with their fat tongues hanging out? Of course you do. I know cows don’t wear orthodontic braces, so I’m pretty sure my bovine namesake never had to choose between the expensive propositions of calling in an orthodontist during off-hours to snip the offending bracket v. cutting the tongue out of the braces. So, if Becky-the-Heifer never would have had a similar experience, why do the two events get all clumped up together in my mind?

Good question, but I’m bored with the topic so I will move on without answering it.

NANCY DREW, INCEPTION, & THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARTH

Once in a while, you come home from a movie and you know that you’ve just experienced something great. Other times, you come home and you think you experienced something great, but it may have just been a dream. My metaphysical jury is still out on the wonders of INCEPTION.

It’s kind of like Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew? What on earth does Nancy Drew have to do with the movie, INCEPTION? you may ask. Allow me to explain.

Years ago, a little girl who was supposed to be sleeping read Nancy Drew books under her covers by the illumination of a flickering flashlight. That little girl would read until she could no longer hold open her faltering eyelids, then, in the midst of the vicarious sleuthing, she’d drift off to sleep. In her dreams, the mysteries would always go in directions far more interesting to that little girl than the imaginations of the imaginary Carolyn Keene. Before long, that girl quit reading Nancy Drew, because the plotlines became disappointing.

Likewise, the blockbuster summer film INCEPTION is built upon a fun idea that provides a framework for some pretty spectacular special effects, but I don’t think the result is as groundbreakingly original or heart-stopping as some reviewers would have you believe. As usual, hype kills. You may enjoy this film more if you go in with lower expectations, so allow me to lower them for you. Before you dub INCEPTION “the greatest film of the decade” or an “instant classic” (as some online reviewers have done), step back, take a deep breath, and make sure someone hasn’t just hacked into your mind, planting a version of a film that doesn’t even exist.

Some people are lauding the “depth” of this

story. So... we go to a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream. Does that make this a psychologically deep and original story? I think I saw that same scenario played out by Garth in an old SNL “Wayne’s World” sketch. Just as I can dig a deep hole and still come across nothing but dirt, depth for the sake of depth doesn’t represent a wealth of content. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good dream movie and I don’t think INCEPTION was bad. I just think it had flaws, and I question whether those who so wholeheartedly (to the point of near worship) ignore those flaws may have had their minds hacked into and had ideas planted which have taken over like a virus.

If you are in love with the movie, don’t let me ruin your romance. Our reactions to films, after all, are subjective. We all bring our own projections with us into the theater, and those projections can make a single story different to different people. Moreover, we may not even be talking about the same movie. What is reality anyway? Maybe I only exist in your dream, or you in mine...

Here’s what is certain: I think I saw INCEPTION last night, but it may have just been the idea that my daughter put in my mind when she said I should go see it... What if there is no such movie, and technology has grown to the point where you can merely suggest that there is a film and people will imagine that they have seen it? Making seed-planting trailers might be cheaper than actually completing a film.

Logic is like an oven mitt.

Logic is like an oven mitt.

Need I go on? What more is there to say? If you can draw conclusions from the analogy, then there may be hope for you; if not, well, then (as the great Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say) "Never mind."

On a not entirely different subject, someone finally inquired into why I have not been writing here lately. Truthfully, it hasn't been mere laziness or even innocent preoccupation that has kept me from it as much as outright hiding. The title of this installment holds a clue to at least part of the reason. Anyone who caught the missing blogs may have detected a hint of frustration seepin' out my seams.

In the time since my last surviving blog:
~ there has been a senseless death in my community caused by an immature, irresponsible, selfish act;
~ my defenses were piqued when media buffoonery crossed the line with hasty and unfair generalizations that hit too close to home; and
~ suddenly real life surroundings in every direction began to bear a closer resemblance to the shocking spectacle of Reality TV.

Now, it's my birthday.* I've been thinking that by my age I should be settled with a pretty good grasp of the world around me, but it seems that rather than making more sense, things are making less. And as I observe the smug know-it-all attitude of so many young (and old) people these days (did I really say that? Boy, am I sounding old now?!!), I can't help but wonder if "the [proverbial] hill" that people refer to "being over" when they get old is actually the tipping point between thinking that you know it all and realizing how much is outside your realm of knowledge.

When you hit those bumps near the crest of that hill, it seems that there are a couple possible results: (1) they humble you, bringing you down to earth, or (2) they send you soaring airborne into denial (you think you're still on the upward climb, but in reality, you're just full of hot air, biding your time before the inevitable crash.) I edited and ultimately deleted a few blogs because I so desperately want to be found in the former group--humble, grounded--but I had detected a pinch of smugness in the mix. (It can happen to all of us, so the best we can do is try to be ever honest, ever learning.)

Well, the kitchen timer is beeping. It's time to take the cake out of the oven. Do I really want to fold a dishtowel and hope it's thick enough to keep me from burning my hands? There must be a better way.



* July 21 (when I wrote this, not when I posted it)


Sincere gratitude to my friend, Jim Foust, whose facebook status line inspired the title (and thus the direction) of this installment of Rebekah's Core.

Being Lovely

A few years ago, a friend gave me a lovely birthday gift. Knowing how much I enjoy the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's, she gave me a book entitled How to be Lovely: the Audrey Hepburn Way of Life (by Melissa Hellstern). As I glance at my shelf and wax philosophical, I am drawn to focus on one word in that title: "Be."

"Be" is a very present sort of word. It doesn't say "How to Become Lovely." The implications of these words are distinctly different. The difference ties in with this insight on yearning:

"Yearning is not only a good way to go crazy but also a pretty good place to hide out from hard truth." (from an old Creative Screenwriting email: Jay Cocks, the screenwriter of De-Lovely)

If one of the functions of yearning is an avoidance of truth, focusing too much on what we want to become someday off in the future can serve as an excuse (distraction) for not being what we want to (or should) be now.

It reminds me of a philosophy class I took years ago. As my friends and I worked on our final papers for the class, I realized that being caught up in the "search" for truth was actually keeping some of us away from believing anything in the present. It was as though the very search--the yearning--became a beloved idol-god that mocked any definite belief.

Obsession over the search, the yearning, can keep a person from appreciating or embracing the present--that which is as clear as day... while the one who has become a slave of yearning is constantly drawn to looking in the shadows for life.

"For since the creation of the world, God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles." (Romans 1:20-23)

Yearning determines vision--where we direct our sight.

"We look for the next reason to be happy. What if it is not about what happens to us, what we own or where we live, but how we look at it? Maybe those rose-colored glasses aren't such a bad idea after all." (Melissa Hellstern, How to Be Lovely)

As an artist, I find myself often yearning for the perfect expression. In the frustration of trying to become something that I am not yet, it's easy to become cynical and start looking at the world through darkened lenses.

I need to remember that it's not about becoming, but rather about being. It is through being that we become... and being comes from clearly seeing:

"...whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such..." (Phil. 4:8)

Power of Media: Nazis, Reality TV, and You

My friend Greg recently shared this link to an article on a rather disturbing "experiment":


http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/Strange-News/French-TV-Experiment-Which-Encouraged-Players-To-Torture-Another-Contestant-Condemned-In-France/Article/201003315575334?f=rss

Given that so many of my friends are active or at least interested in various forms of media, I'd very much like to discuss the subject of the power of the rolling camera, the flowing pen, the clicking keyboard, etc. Power used and power abused. Power knowingly employed and power under-estimated...

What are your thoughts?

Ouch, that Hurts so Good: The Tortured and the Torturing Artist

Ouch.

Just got one of those healthy, humbling kicks in the pants that reminds me of why some artists say they don't read reviews, and it's got me thinking about rejection in general. Artists of any sort get a lot of that ouchy stuff and the hurt is probably deeper the more of yourself you put into what ever it is that is getting shredded--be it a painting, a poem, a performance...

I can't remember any especially bad reviews as an actor, so most of the rejection I associate with acting would be audition-rejection--not getting the part--which is a daily staple for most actors. There are so many factors that go into casting, so that kind of rejection is really no statement about the talent or value of the actor as an artist... it's more of a matter of fitting in. I can deal with that.

Rejection of a script can be similar, but since it takes longer to create a script than it does to secure and drive to an audition, I think the blow to a writer is a little bit more personal. Writers, too, have to remember that often the rejection of a script is a matter of not fitting into the line-up or tastes of a particular production company at a particular time (that's not to say that a writer shouldn't also consider the fact that the script may still need work, or may actually belong in the trash).

The jolt I got today was neither of those types. It was a full frontal assault on the most personal piece of work I've ever done. It wasn't a simple "I didn't like it" or "It wasn't my kind of thing..." but rather: "This was the biggest disaster of the festival... if people are telling you nice things..they are being kind…not truthful."

I wrote, directed, and produced a piece that I knew wasn't for everyone. I knew I was taking a risk and that there was a chance that I would be the only one who "got it," but on the off chance that there were others out there, like me, who longed for this type of film, I made it. When I read that review, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It was the bluntness of it that caught me off guard, though. I was raised on the Bambi philosophy of "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Don't get me wrong--I'm as opinionated as the next person (okay, maybe even more so), but I do always try to balance the blow with some kindness, some benefit of the doubt, some personalization of the "maybe it's just me" type. And this reviewer seemed to truly HATE our film--enough to put the energy in to rattling off his/her longest review of any in the festival. I think the review was actually longer than my script!  [BTW, I found it interesting that he/she could dub something the "biggest disaster of the festival" so early in the line-up--there is a lot more to the festival than just the shorts. Who knows? there could be a 5 hour documentary on which direction one should hang a toilet paper roll! I do hope that Mr./Ms. Brave Anonymous Reviewer will expend the energy to come back and update the review if some later film manages to beat us out for the honor of the "biggest disaster"; however, since most reviews are basically hit-and-run, I don't expect and would be seriously shocked by such a courteous post script. But I can dream, can't I? I'll imagine the addendum of: "sorry, I spoke too soon; your film was actually the second worst disaster of the festival. It didn't suck as bad as _____." Ah, what relief!]

Before this review, I was already struggling with how to word my own comments on other films in the festival. I want to be constructive. I want to see filmmaking as a whole grow in artistic quality, but I also realize that much of appreciation is in the eye of the beholder. I want my words to encourage that which is universally good, beautiful, challenging, moving, entertaining and all that, but I also don't want to be a snob that derides things that I personally don't like just because it doesn't suit my particular taste. It's a scary thing to put your art out in front of others to be critiqued, but it's also daunting to be in the role of the one offering feedback. Sometimes I'm tempted to do neither and just crawl back into my cave and write. Sometimes I think I should become one of those artists who refuse to read the reviews and just create what they want to create... but I have a feeling I'll always be tempted to peek, and I'll always go through these emotional roller-coasters after doing so. To me it's part of being an artist. People don't walk down the street looking for artists to torture... it's something we do to ourselves. It may be painful for those who have to live with us to watch, but I think it does have some value in that it humbles us and it pushes us on to fight back--to reach even further next time.