I don't drink blood. (Whew! Aren't you relieved?) Don't get fuzzy at the full moon. And am not powerless in the situations around me. But yet, in Being Human, I completely relate to their struggles to try and attain something they aren't, while keeping the essential core that is them.
The pitch is: a werewolf, a vampire and a ghost become roommates. They all long for that "over there" that anyone who has ever wanted to be a smaller size/drive a better car/have a different job, can relate to. And they each have a hangup: blood, fur, powerless.
But really, without coffee I practically AM the living dead ... so I get that. Are there parts of me that wish I could both toss off my norm and express everything I feel without consequence? Sure. (I'm gunning for the Mermaid Parade for that.) And there are definitely moments where I feel more than invisible (I think YouTube and blogging are testimonies to people trying to BE seen in an increasingly invisible world) - I feel like I've been removed from the equation. Not just powerless but Not.
All of this adds up to why I think Being Human is great story, great storytelling. It's an interesting enough premise to engage our heads with the technical understanding and the reasoning and complications ... but it also gets to the heart of what I, as a viewer, experience and know. Longing. Displacement. Searching. It's relatable. In all it's strange bloodbathiness (not so different from a chocolate binge, truly) and alienation, it's a very human story.
And since I'm not drinking blood/turning fuzzy/see-through ... I guess that leaves me as human.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Anti blog ... or how timing is everything
Anti blog ... or how timing is everything
Sting is nighttime music. I'm sorry, but those throaty vocals and sensual lyrics just seem like moonlight ... preferably on a beach. Sting doesn't seem to go with a.m. coffee. (This from a woman who has no problems with sequins any time of day or night.)
Recently I've tried green drinks (smoothies with fruit and lettuces) at night. Gotta say, they seem sort of strange. All that rev 'em up energy, poured into my body so that I can sleep?
Playing fetch with my dog? Afternoon event. She'll chase a ball once or twice in the morning, but that's all. Morning, for her, is about patrolling the squirrels. Afternoon is play.
Since this is whopping blog #3, I'm still trying to get a "feel" for how I want to do it. Is blogging a morning thing, or an evening one? Do I have more to say on one cup of coffee, post Morning Pages, or is that writing I should focus on "writing" and blog in the evening when my brain is melted anyway?
Where do these stories come from? Are they built into our bodies with our tendencies toward early bird/night owl? Are they cultural things that we pick up from our parents/environment?
When I was a cub reporter, I had the idea that massive amounts of coffee, all-nighters and neurotic levels of worry were what it meant to be a "real" journalist. Can't tell you how many times I vomited in the trashcan right outside the photo lab due to acid belly, out of control worry and no sleep, while waiting to see if my shots were going to be "right." All that story of "a real journalist" got me, was very, deeply sick for a really long time.
So as I fit blogging into my lifestyle, what I'm really choosing is thestory, that I'll use (until it's not useful anymore) for what kind of blogger I am.
Thus far, seems I am a short one.
Recently I've tried green drinks (smoothies with fruit and lettuces) at night. Gotta say, they seem sort of strange. All that rev 'em up energy, poured into my body so that I can sleep?
Playing fetch with my dog? Afternoon event. She'll chase a ball once or twice in the morning, but that's all. Morning, for her, is about patrolling the squirrels. Afternoon is play.
Since this is whopping blog #3, I'm still trying to get a "feel" for how I want to do it. Is blogging a morning thing, or an evening one? Do I have more to say on one cup of coffee, post Morning Pages, or is that writing I should focus on "writing" and blog in the evening when my brain is melted anyway?
Where do these stories come from? Are they built into our bodies with our tendencies toward early bird/night owl? Are they cultural things that we pick up from our parents/environment?
When I was a cub reporter, I had the idea that massive amounts of coffee, all-nighters and neurotic levels of worry were what it meant to be a "real" journalist. Can't tell you how many times I vomited in the trashcan right outside the photo lab due to acid belly, out of control worry and no sleep, while waiting to see if my shots were going to be "right." All that story of "a real journalist" got me, was very, deeply sick for a really long time.
So as I fit blogging into my lifestyle, what I'm really choosing is thestory, that I'll use (until it's not useful anymore) for what kind of blogger I am.
Thus far, seems I am a short one.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Roses, Witches and waiting ...
Cheated. I had a whole day to read, but my two-day delivery of A Discovery of Witches didn't come through. The rechargeable batteries ordered at the same time, did. But the book, not so much. So, as I amused myself by cleaning/straightening/planning while waiting, I thought about the nature of anticipation.
I am forever referring a book to someone; I have friends who know to bring their notebooks when we lunch because I'm evangelical about the books I read and love. A phrase or thought will catch me and remind me how much this friend might benefit or enjoy said read.
A Discovery of Witches wasn't a referral ... unless I count EW as a friend. But the premise -- even the font style and title! -- made me hungry for it. I spend a lot of time reading nonfiction and even more reading students (unpubbed) fiction. A real live book by a real live already-published author is like floating. I don't have to edit or remember, I can just experience.
The sad thing now is, I've anticipated this book for so long ... longed for it ... found time to just sit and read it (thanks AMAZON for messing up that schedule) ... that it's going to have to sweep me off my feet. Be mind-blastingly good. And that's unfair because it may be great, but not stupendous.
Like when a movie or TV show is oversold: you are told it's the funniest, best thing ever. Might have amused you more, before someone told you your sides would hurt, you'd snarf your drink, you'd weep you'd laugh so hard. But, perversely, you crack a smile and shrug. The overselling ruined it. Anticipation, built to a boiling point, can serve as overselling. Unfair, for sure. Nevertheless, I think that's where we are.
Until mail service resumes, I guess I am left with Roses, which I longed for last year, picked up at an estate sale, read the jacket copy and put on the shelf, unread. (And I know that whoever writes the jacket may/may not have finished the book, but still ...!) But it's me and Roses. Or more cleaning.
No anticipation necessary to learn that outcome.
I am forever referring a book to someone; I have friends who know to bring their notebooks when we lunch because I'm evangelical about the books I read and love. A phrase or thought will catch me and remind me how much this friend might benefit or enjoy said read.
A Discovery of Witches wasn't a referral ... unless I count EW as a friend. But the premise -- even the font style and title! -- made me hungry for it. I spend a lot of time reading nonfiction and even more reading students (unpubbed) fiction. A real live book by a real live already-published author is like floating. I don't have to edit or remember, I can just experience.
The sad thing now is, I've anticipated this book for so long ... longed for it ... found time to just sit and read it (thanks AMAZON for messing up that schedule) ... that it's going to have to sweep me off my feet. Be mind-blastingly good. And that's unfair because it may be great, but not stupendous.
Like when a movie or TV show is oversold: you are told it's the funniest, best thing ever. Might have amused you more, before someone told you your sides would hurt, you'd snarf your drink, you'd weep you'd laugh so hard. But, perversely, you crack a smile and shrug. The overselling ruined it. Anticipation, built to a boiling point, can serve as overselling. Unfair, for sure. Nevertheless, I think that's where we are.
Until mail service resumes, I guess I am left with Roses, which I longed for last year, picked up at an estate sale, read the jacket copy and put on the shelf, unread. (And I know that whoever writes the jacket may/may not have finished the book, but still ...!) But it's me and Roses. Or more cleaning.
No anticipation necessary to learn that outcome.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
New behavior, new moon
From what I understand -- and I don't do anything without researching -- a blog is SPONTANEOUS! And worrying about spelling, syntax and grammar is outdated. It's about emotion and verve and of the moment.
My emotions are these: it's 11 p.m. (Tired. Tipsy.) I've postponed this until I can't anymore (nothing like posting on FB that you have a blog to inspire its creation) and the great options of names and titles came down to me: Suzanne Frank, author.
But in fact, that's probably the most authentic and transparent description. This blog will be about many things, but storytelling and books are the foundation. Everything, but everything, relates to and from them.
Not book reviews, but ponderings and comparisons. Relationships between old and new and ideas. Not stories retold, but stories analyzed, poked, prodded, and forced to give up their secrets. Everything is grist for the mill.
(Maybe that's what I should have named this?)
Anyway: welcome to the overcrowded, frenetic and story-centered thoughts and ideas of Suzanne Frank.
My emotions are these: it's 11 p.m. (Tired. Tipsy.) I've postponed this until I can't anymore (nothing like posting on FB that you have a blog to inspire its creation) and the great options of names and titles came down to me: Suzanne Frank, author.
But in fact, that's probably the most authentic and transparent description. This blog will be about many things, but storytelling and books are the foundation. Everything, but everything, relates to and from them.
Not book reviews, but ponderings and comparisons. Relationships between old and new and ideas. Not stories retold, but stories analyzed, poked, prodded, and forced to give up their secrets. Everything is grist for the mill.
(Maybe that's what I should have named this?)
Anyway: welcome to the overcrowded, frenetic and story-centered thoughts and ideas of Suzanne Frank.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)