Saturday, March 31, 2012

Martha Marcey May Marlene


I cannot stop thinking about this movie. D and I watched it just this past Tuesday. It has legs. I don't want to say much about the plot. The plot isn't the point and I don't want to ruin a bit of it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet. It got a lot of attention when it first came out--a movie about a young woman who joins a cult and then is rescued by her estranged sister.

What's so disconcerting about this film for me is that the setting of the whole film reminds me of huge happy swathes of my life--my family's farm in Cleves, OH, the seven years I spent in Athens, OH, vacations in Maine. And so much of the film could be happy and has all of the markers of usual summer splendor--sun glinting off a lake, having a beer on the back of small speed boat, reading in adirondack chairs at the edge of a pier, the slant of sunlight through dust kicked up while working in a barn, young folks long-limbed and attentive listening to their friends playing acoustic music, skinny dipping in a wooded creek, everything green on green as far as the eye can see rustling in a warm wind. It's the summer I've been dreaming of ever since I first started having to work all year round.

And despite all of that, it's a horror movie. And that was a sense I didn't have until it was over, as if while watching it, my mind kept trying to resolve the story, kept trying to fix the narrative to go with the sensation that the visuals of the movie were giving me. But it's a horror movie, and the first one that I have ever seen that is 99% psychologically horrifying. There's almost no blood whatsoever and there is certainly no gore.

Four days later, I haven't been able to shake it. I keep thinking about who I am and if there's any way that I could have been the lead character, Martha. I don't think so, but it's hard to know. . . and frankly, in the end, I don't want to. I'd just prefer to stop thinking about it.

Rent this movie immediately, just please don't watch it with anyone under the age of 13. This would be a rough one to explain to young people. . . though probably a good one to explain to young women sometime in their teens as a cautionary tale. *shudder.



Written and Directed by Sean Durkin and starring Elizabeth Olsen, John Hawkes and Sarah Paulson.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Dear Field Museum,

I love your dinosaur mold-a-ramas


and your giant underground adventure bugs


and your baboon conapic jars


and your quirky sense of humor


and Sue


but what in the world do you have against giraffes?

Dreams of the Future

Casey and I were going to go to France. . .

Letters


When my parents visited this past weekend, they brought us loads of things: a ham, Kroger's cottage cheese (it's the best. truly.), a sharp trowel, four buckets of horse manure from the farm for our small garden, a sifter for compost. All amazing gifts.

But they also brought me two boxes filled with old journals and toys and folders filled with work from college workshops. The most exciting things in those boxes were letters. As soon as they left town, I poured over them. Letters from kids from church camp (that includes you Kris Hale!). Postcards and letters from friends from high school while they vacationed with family. Letters from old boyfriends and professors and even some folks who I don't remember and so am not sure how to classify. The best, though, were letters from my friends Casey and Alex.

While I was finishing up undergrad, living in a house near the center of a tiny town in the foothills of the Appalachians, Casey had moved to Chicago and Alex was studying in Tubingen, Germany. From Athens, OH, both of those locations seemed equally far away and romantic and exotic. And seeing those letters brought back memories of that time and the feelings wrapped up in letters into sharp delightful focus.


I remember vaguely the act of writing letters. Making drawings, trying to collect interesting stories so that I had something worthwhile to share, needing to be entertaining for my friends who I wrote faithfully to. But I remember far more clearly the waiting for letters, the excitement that one might show up in the mail, the sitting in the swing on the front porch, ignoring my housemates and taking the time with a cup of tea and the view of the green mountains in the distance to pour over Casey and Alex's letters. Their stories were amazing and I believe deeply that reading about the portions of the lives that they shared prompted me to make my life more exciting so that I would have stories to send back. Language pushing me to take more action and pursue adventures every day to shape me back into compelling language to write down and send away to Chicago and Germany.


But until I saw all of the old letters, I'd kind of forgotten that this was something we used to do. In college, there was no internet, no email, no cell phones. Long distance calls were expensive, and so the only way to stay deeply in touch was by writing letters. And it's amazing the kinds of things we would write down and willingly send into someone else's hands. Nowadays, I think long and hard about what I write down and give to another person. If a message gets too tricky, a conversation too difficult or political or emotional, I call and have that conversation purposefully to keep the conversation from coming back to haunt me later in print.

But back in the day, we wrote fierce, complicated, heartrending stuff. We were trying to write our full selves down. We were trying to elicit responses from people, wrenching at them and their hearts so that they would have no other choice but to follow suit and write back. Letter writing was exciting and dangerous and manipulative and filled with joy.

And I miss it.


(remember this Casey? that you would send me, out of the blue, poetry?)

Casey and I often referred to each other as Kafka (me) and Bukowski (her). I think that had something to do with ill-chosen men that we had let into our lives. Those were their favorite writers and we were making fun of the seriousness of men. Alex would send me stories about train rides and drinking wine and larger mountains than my own and at night I would dream about narrow cobblestone roads winding up hill through tightly packed storefronts and overhanging second story living quarters, lined with flower boxes and the sounds of barking dogs. Letters multiplied my life, allowing me to live in their lives while having my own.


This last card is a mystery. It could be from Alex, but it may have been from my boyfriend Alex. They had the same handwriting, the same sense of humor. And Alex-boyfriend never wrote anything romantic in his letters. . . until things had ended and there was romance in his anger. I have that letter, too. So, I like to think this card is from Alex-friend, but it's strange and lovely either way.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Lichen


There's nature in the city.

Agora

My folks came to visit this weekend. A quick visit. Just one full day. So, we spent yesterday in misty Grant Park walking about and checking out a few exhibits in the Field Museum.

We started in Magdalena Abakanowicz's Agora at the south end of the park.




We took pictures like we were bona fide tourists. . . I guess Mom and Dad actually were.

Monday, March 19, 2012

What's up with R.H.?


Despite its weird appalling extravagance, I tried to flip through it lying on my couch, but I couldn't find a comfortable position that didn't wear my arms out within a minute or two. What I was able to glean from the catalog, however, is that--while my Tuscan villa is under repairs and currently unable to be decorated--there is little in the 22 pound tome that would suit Dan's and my humble bungalow.

Even if we had the space, though, much of what is in Restoration Hardware makes me too nervous to invest in it. The photos in the catalog make me feel physical queasiness. . . some claustrophobia, mixed with good old fashioned heebie jeebies. The wall lamps are all posed too closely to the bed/the couch/the desk, as if they are alive and predisposed to really being in your business. Everything is on such a huge scale that were people posed in the catalog images, I would expect grown men's feet to not touch the ground at the dinner table, for couples to be being swallowed whole by massive couch cushions, for one of the weird, pointy, over-sized objets to be chasing, Tim- Burton-style, after the family dog or the neighbors' visiting 3-year old.

It's a vision of the world equal parts Bauhaus, Jules Verne, Das Boat Chic, and Jean-Pierre Jeunet (in his darker Caro partnership days), with just a touch of both Viking-flare and Hannibal Lecter thrown in for good measure.

Don't get me wrong. There's some beautiful stuff there. A few pieces I like and wish I could own. But there are many more I would fear to own lest they come to life and kill me, D, and L.P. in our sleep.

Here are some of my favorite ridiculously sized and/or creepy things from the newest Restoration Hardware catalog.

1.Foucault's Orb Crystal Chandelier, Extra-Large

Foucault's Orb Crystal Chandelier Extra-Large

If a crystal chandelier is simply not enough of a statement piece for you, you can now get one encased in a metal orb. At 62" tall and 60" wide, it's as wide as my monstrous dining room table--of which many friends have made fun.

If this ceiling light is too fancy, don't worry. . . they have another orb style light wrapped in jute for everyday wear.

2. 5-Foot French Tower Clock



Its size is in its name, but weighing in at 85 pounds (and costing a mere $1195), you'll be happy to note that it is "not a functional clock".

3. Aviator Wing Desk

Aviator Wing Desk

Seriously. WTF? If you buy this thing, you better put it in a room with only north-facing windows or this desk (nee airplane wing) is going to blind the beejeezus out of anyone with the misfortune of being in the room when the sun hits.

4. 1850 French Dentist's Chair

1850 French Dentist's Chair

If you didn't get the chills just looking at this thing, I'm worried that can only be because you've already been strapped to it by Dexter, been given the business, and no longer have the requisite pulse that permits for the generation of chills.

5. Infrared Floor Telescoping Patio Heater



So, I doubt that the designer of these patio heaters meant to model them after the giant killing light stalks of the spaceships from "War of the Worlds", but something about their positioning makes me worry that anyone who sits beneath them might be vaporized. And there are four--one aimed at each seat--so that nobody gets away.

6. Maritime Caged Sconce

Maritime Caged Sconce

When outfitting your next submarine, dirigible, or underground evil lair. . . there's a light for that.

7. Circa 1930 Adjustable Pulley Sconce

Circa 1930 Adjustable Pulley Sconce

Thank god for the 52" long arm and the 8' long cord on this sconce that gets the vigorous 40W bulb right where you need it.

8. 1970s French Airplane Chair

1970s French Airplane Chair

Because we all love airplane seating so very very much that we need to bring it home with us after the trip is over. . .

9. Cloche with Babies

Cloche with Babies

*shudder (and that shudder can be yours at a steal! $395.00)

10. Handwoven Rope

Handwoven Rope

No lie. Rope. 18 ft long and described as "for decorative use only." Going rate for a short length of use-free rope? $99.00.

(Here's the takeaway, though, R.H. Save the offensively massive carbon footprint of printing and shipping your 22 pound catalog package, and you're not likely to get this kind of attention paid to your strange commodities.)

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Spring is Here


So, it's been really warm in Chicago. . . a few days have actually been hot and humid. Over 80 degrees. The kind of weird extended hot spell in March that makes you want to look askance at Rick Santorum when he pshaws global warming as a bad scientific myth.

The last frost date for Chicago is in May, and with my garden coming to life so early, I'm worried things are getting set up to be damaged--especially the newly transplanted irises and lilies. I also am having to fight the pretty daily urge to get out there are get to work. There's no way that the end of cold weather has come to Chicago by St. Patrick's Day.

So, there's that worry, but it's also pretty exciting to see green things popping up all over and knowing that winter will soon be a thing of the past. Plus, Chicago is a magical place in the spring and summer--and last week, as if someone turned a switch on, the streets were filled downtown with slowly strolling folks enjoying the sun and the warmth. There's a party atmosphere in town when its warm, and I can't complain that it's come so soon.


Transplanted Asiatic lilies.


Our neighbors gorgeous tree--blooming a month early.

Good Thing 17

This last December, I vowed to create one post a day to list a thing that improved my life in 2011, despite 2011 being a pretty terrible year. Well, some of 2011 has gotten its claws into 2012. . . and I don't care. Life is good.

But thinking about that, I can't believe I didn't mention this as a good thing at the end of December:


Our dog L.P. He's not what we wanted when we were looking for a dog. We wanted a short-haired, 40-50 lb lady dog. He's not a lady. He's fluffy. He's topped out at 18 lbs. But, man, is he cute and awesome.

I've been thinking about dogs a lot lately, how they improve our lives. It doesn't matter who I disagree with at work. It doesn't matter if jerks were mean during the commute home. When I open that back door, L.P. is standing there waiting for me, tail wagging, hooting his happiness that I'm around.

He's a snuggler. He's a fetcher. Unfortunately, he's a barker and (most unfortunate for men in the 5'10" to 6'2" range) a jumper. He swims. He doesn't know he's a small dog. He hates doorbells and not being included in stuff. His favorite treats are greenies, carrots, and dog food soaked in bacon grease (in that order). If he had to choose between starving to death or never playing fetch again, I fear he wouldn't be long for this world.

He's a star. And he makes both Dan and my life better each day he's in it.


Sunday, March 11, 2012

Grimes Video Love

I love everything about this video. She's ridiculously cute dancing with football and motocross crowds. . .



I'm looking for joy wherever I can find it.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

It's a Terrible Week for Singing

So, a friend at work shared this with me today and it brightened my day considerably.

A bunch of industrious musically-minded film students at Columbia College Chicago have gotten together with the hopes of putting together a 90-minute musical film about a puppeteer whose life seems to be going from bad to worse.

If the video they created introducing their idea and asking for donations to help fund the film is any indication of what the full-length film will be, I'm in.

How bout you?

It's a Terrible Week for Singing from Evan Mills on Vimeo.

If you want to help these young folks out and donate to their film, click here.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Butternut Squash Ravioli

Homemade Butternut squash ravioli--every bit of it. I made the filling two weeks ago and then the fresh pasta and assemblage last weekend.




Finally assembling the raviolis by the antique light of sunset. Cooking makes me feel connected to something. . . something historical and long-lived. Every piece I learn feels both important and inevitable.

These ravioli are part of a long-term obsession. Years and years ago, I went out for a holiday dinner with my whole work office at the restaurant "A Mano." Sister restaurant to its upstairs neighbor, Bin 36, it was one of the yummiest Italian joints I'd ever visited in Chicago. And the second course was pumpkin ravioli. . . coming at a time in my life when I hated pumpkin soup, butternut squash as a side dish, anything orange and squashy and edible. The only use for pumpkin was a Halloween decoration or pie.

But that ravioli--sweet and rich and buttery--served with walnuts, crisped individual leaves of brussel sprouts and tangy blue cheese changed my mind forever. And eating it, in the warm, sort of cavelike openness of A Mano, after the cold mile walk from work, up over the river, neck craned to take in the Marina Towers, surrounded by friends, I thought I might only want the waiter to bring that course again and again for the rest of the night.

And when A Mano went out of business in 2010, I knew that the only way to get those yummy ravioli again would be to make my own.

I've been working on it ever since.

Is there any conceivable way that this house is not haunted? Is there a universe in which this house is not filled with moldering lace and wavering candle light and the sounds of things going bump in the night?

This house is on the extreme west side of Chicago on a side street just off of Austin. Dan and I discovered it in large part because we had also discovered a great ma&pa butchershop (though, truthfully, it's a bro&bro shop), called the Blue Ribbon Meat Market. The BRMM sells everything, makes their own sausage, will put turducken together for you, and its where I always buy my pork shoulder for pulled pork makin's. And an added benefit of the BRMM, is that there's this amazing street of old monster homes that's fun to take a little walk down as part of the trip.

But this house is the most unusual. . . and undeniably beautiful/really really creepy:



And I have to assume that the owners are okay with their house being super creepsville. . . or they probably wouldn't have bought two stone statues of actual sized people to flank the entryway to their home: