Clayton credits shot

Oh! I forgot to include begging those of you who see Michael Clayton to stay seated throughout the credits. Clooney allows so many emotions to play across his face in the span of that last, long shot - it was my favorite part of his performance.

The artifice of eternity

Saturday Biz and I sat the "best picture Oscar nominees" gamut, courtesy of AMC (which we learned during the trivia question and answer period stands for American Multi-Cinema). It was a lot less grueling than I expected it to be, even with There Will Be Blood lasting about seventy years! Seriously, Michael Clayton? Juno? Really? The Clooney was excellent and Tom Wilkinson was sublime, but best of the year? The Academy said so and I was in no position to argue, having seen exactly one newly released movie last year (Waitress; cute, hokey ending, don't try to make me dislike Nathan Fillion or I will cut you).

LOVED Atonement - loved it. But I'm a sucker for having my heart-wrenched and I would have gladly dragged Briony across a muddy pit by her hair. My chief complaint with Juno was the main character's reaction to the positive pregnancy test. I've been on the unwelcome plus side of one of those tests - summer after senior year - and trust me - there was no cracking wise in my story. I was hardly in a red licorice whip place afterwards. Maybe she'd already suffered her sturm und drang with the first two tests and had resigned herself finding a solution but that scene was so dishonest to me that the rest of the movie was even cartoonier than was intended. Even so, I love JK Simmons and Alison Janney and would happily watch them dig for oil in vast barren landscapes.

They ended with No Country for Old Men, the title of which I discovered is from a Yeats poem when I happened to read it last night. For the sake of my dreaming later that evening I wish they'd left us with a less compelling character than Chigurh but he certainly deserved his award.

SPOILERS FOLLOW



I'm not a fan of excessive graphic violence so this isn't a film I'd watch over and over again; on the other hand, none of it felt gratuitous. Unfortunately, once I saw a kitty cat onscreen I was watching any dark or ominous scenes through the hand over my eyes and missed a lot of the subtleties.

Specifically - the scene where Sheriff Bell and Chigurh are on opposite sides of the door to room 114. Chigurh (and the audience) sees Bell's reflection in the blown-out lock. That the room appears empty once Bell goes in just messes with me. Am I supposed to assume that reality is suspect from that point forward? Was there a clue that the film was moving in that direction that I missed? An unreliable narrator is one thing; one that is only unreliable for the last 20 minutes or so is another.

So far I've seen theories that the whole movie was Sheriff Bell's dream, that Bell is killed in the motel room, and that Chigurh moved to the other side of the doorway and slipped out behind Bell once he'd entered the room. I have issues with all of those explanations. How did you interpret that scene? (Support your thesis using evidence from the movie as opposed to the book - I think the book version makes a lot more sense but don't see any reason to believe that's how it went down in the film.)

The "c" word

Yesterday I held a piece of paper in my hand. On it were my name and the word "cancer".

I have a cyst on my left ovary. Because my doctor would rather give it time to go away by itself than rush me into surgery, she ordered a few blood tests to make sure it is in fact as benign as the sonogram tech seems to think it is. The tech has not wavered in her opinion of what she saw and she's seen it twice now. My doctor has not been in a hurry to get back to me with her thoughts on the sonogram results. There is no reason to think the worst.

But isn't that how the stories always start? Somebody goes to the hospital for appendicitis and finds out they have a tumor. Or bone cancer. I've always been a little morbid; I'm the one who goes right to the archives of a blog whose author has been diagnosed with something terminal (more immediately terminal than just being alive, that is) to get the story from the beginning. Am I looking for something? Some clue from the entries that were just everyday life that portends the fatal blow to come?

It isn't just illness; I analyze the blogs of anyone who dies (I draw the line at MySpace pages - too sparkly and loud). How is it possible that there's no warning - no anvil falling from the sky announcing the next plot twist? How can you wake up one day and just not know that it's the last time you will? But time after time, it's the same going from one day to the next with witty observations or thoughtful meditations until BLAM! Brick wall of diagnosis; sudden high fever; no posts following this post.

I was 36 before my first grandparent died; three years later, I've still never lost anyone who is part of my daily routine (this may have more to do with my not letting anyone get that close than any cosmic protective shield around my beloveds). I have groups of friends I've known for ten and twenty years - that's a long time for everyone to walk around charmed.

I don't like to say it out loud very often, but I figured that was a sign that I would be the one to go first. Like I said, I'm morbid. I remember being convinced when I got my braces put on that I wouldn't live to see them come off. I've always been reluctant to project myself too far into the future (is that why I've never seriously considered parenting?).

And now there's a piece of paper with my name and the word "cancer" on it. Just a precaution, but still it makes me feel - unsure, for the few minutes at a time I let myself ruminate on it.

(Just in case you are someone combing through my archives looking for the sign that everything was about to change.)

Kurt Cobain would have turned 41 yesterday.

I was not a Nirvana fan. I heard Pearl Jam first, went from there to Alice in Chains, and only knew Nirvana’s biggest hits. And I have no idea where I was when I heard Cobain was dead. I know exactly where I was when I heard about Rick Allen’s car accident (New Year’s Eve, back seat of Ken’s car; Ken and Stephanie up front) and I’m pretty sure I remember where I was when I heard about Steve Clark (top of Mom’s basement stairs, on phone with Jayson), but Kurt? No idea.

Yet I have the issues of Rolling Stone and (I think) Time that devote their covers to his death. His death somehow brought it home to me that a person can be living their dream, financially secure, happily married and parenting…a person can have it all and still want to escape. Still want to get out of their own head. Still not be okay alone inside his own skin.

I didn’t know it then, but in the spring of ‘94 I was circling the drain. A year later the flashing lights went on behind me; I got clean (for good, so far) in January of ‘96. I’m living a couple of my less dynamic dreams and I still miss using sometimes but know that ultimately, peace is an inside job. Kurt’s death was the first time I honestly started to believe that.

Accommodation

Twice in the past 18 hours or so someone has made my life less convenient because their plans were more important than whatever I might have going on. I don't have a good reason to say no to the things being asked but that doesn't stop me from being annoyed by those doing the inconveniencing.

Let me set the scene.

I belong to a spiritual tradition with lots of formal rituals, one of which is scheduled for Sunday late afternoon/evening. It was made clear to us from the beginning that ritual is not an option; all members of our group are expected to attend unless there are extenuating circumstances.

One of our members has decided that, since she had to work Thursday and Friday and couldn't get a sitter for Saturday but could get one for Sunday, she's going to do the "Valentine's Day" thing with her husband instead of coming to ritual. She will still provide the things she volunteered to as long as I am available to pick them up. (Because she and I live close together and she is literally less than a mile from one of the major routes to our ritual space, I have been asked to ferry her contributions on previous occasions.)

This weekend happens to be a particularly full one for me. I am dog-sitting for a couple who live about 25 minutes away from me, which amounts to house-sitting, as it's easier to let the dog out in the morning if I'm already there. I've also agreed to check in on other friends' cats one day this weekend. I am supposed to have dinner with a friend tonight; my aunt and grandmother tomorrow. I have to prepare my contributions to Sunday's ritual, which means a trip to the grocery store among other things. I'd like to spend some time with my own pet, who is admittedly not as needy as a dog (except in his own opinion).

I also, now, have to come to work this weekend. This is a thing that never happens. This is an extremely unusual event and the amount of time I'll have to be here is less than the time it takes me to walk from my parking space to my desk. However, it does have to be done at least once this weekend; possibly twice. The other person on my team who could have performed this task has plans to be away at a B&B this weekend, coincidentally near where I'll be on Sunday. She declared that she would. not. be. available. to. come. in. The end.

There is no good reason for me to say "no" in either of these circumstances. Yes, I am unusually busy and yes, there are other things I'd rather be doing. My cousin is getting married in Vegas on Sunday (evening, my time) and they have a web-cam so we can see the ceremony. This was a last minute thing and I would love to watch but, alas, I have another commitment. The first race of the NASCAR season is Sunday (afternoon, my time) and even though I hate restrictor plate tracks, it would be fun to join my family who are getting together to watch. As they do every year. Alas, I have another commitment.

Once I get over the irritation at having to mindfully arrange my day to accommodate all these tasks I'd rather not have to think about, it's not that big a deal. Is it too much to ask, however, that the two people making themselves unavailable ask me if it's okay (in the first case) and thank me for making myself available (in the second)? I know it is my responsibility to keep my side of the street clean and other people's behavior is not my business. Most of the time, I know that.

But when things like this happen, I continue to be annoyed at the unavailable person. I react the same way every time - pissed off at the situation, then resigned because I'm unwilling to say "no" just to be contrary, yet somewhat resentful of the person passing on the responsibility. What am I actually pissed off about? That other people are content to make selfish choices regardless of how they affect others? I make plenty of selfish choices but I really try to make those that don't inconvenience someone else, and when someone is inconvenienced I try to recognize that. But other people's choices, again, aren't my business.

I can't figure out where I'm getting stuck here, which makes it hard to better navigate these situations in the future. I think I'm capable of saying "no" when I'd really have to go out of my way to pick up someone else's slack. And I can't make a habit of counting on someone else being available to pick up mine (although, gods bless her, my mother has volunteered to look in on my cat if I'm unable to get home during a day). It's stupid to spend my energy on things I can't control.

Yet here I am, forty minutes later, still typing this.

I didn't realize I do that!

I know that when I see someone who intimidates me in some way - they are impeccably made up or extremely self-confident or wicked smart - I assume they will reject me based on my inability to keep up in whatever I find intimidating. I behave as if I've already been rejected, which, from their perspective, looks like I'm rejecting them. I figured that out some time ago, but the realization doesn't seem to have changed my life very much.

Just now I was - what was I doing? Reading Lostpedia? Catching up on LJ? I don't remember. Anyway, here's what I figured out today: I assume (and perhaps this leaped out at you from that first bit, but it took me a little longer) that people are only interested in people who are like them. Somebody wearing expensive clothes only cares about people who can afford to dress like him. Computer geeks are only interested in other computer geeks. Someone who wears a lot of make-up and always has her hair done looks "past" women who aren't interested in (or don't have the energy for) those things.

Why? Why is that my default? Sure, it's true sometimes, but it's also not true sometimes. I assume that if I'm not like you in some objective way, you will have no interest in me as a person. It just baffles me that my very goal-oriented, driven friends are friends with me, the aimless meanderer. I, myself, have had great love for people of all manners of personal appearance, lifestyle, and ambition - why don't I allow others that same flexibility?

Kevin Aucoin fascinates me - I have no idea why. He was a brilliant self-taught make-up artist and I once told my cousin that the only time I would ever take advantage of her position in the theater/entertainment world (she's in theater management) was if she could somehow get me in his make-up chair. The way he could change faces with make-up was amazing.

I love very stylized, old glamour looks - hair, make-up, and dress. I also love dressing up for Renaissance fairs or like Stevie Nicks - flowing, gauzy, and corseted. Most of you have seen pictures of me and know that I usually present a far different look. I have long, straight hair that hasn't seen a stylist in over a year, my clothes are either wash & wear or left in a pile for years, and most days my make-up (if I take the time to apply it) is mascara and lip gloss. Frankly, I don't have the energy to iron, run to and from the dry-cleaner, or wash my face and re-moisturize every time I go to bed. And I do not have the patience for shoes that hurt, no matter how many times I try to get away with them.

Yet I spend so much effort trying to achieve the "right" look for whatever is the occasion. WHY? What difference does it make? I am still me, whether I've let myself lay in bed until the last possible minute or gotten up early and put on a whole new face. I certainly don't choose my friends based on whatever amount of effort I've put into my own appearance or education or career that day.

Why would I assume that you do?

Bob

Early recovery is like high school. It's said in the rooms (code for "in meetings" or "in the fellowship") that emotional development stops when excessive drug use starts. In effect, everyone comes into recovery with the emotional maturity of a 13- or 14-year-old. As the drugs wear off, emotions that have been stuffed or numbed are overwhelming and hard to keep in perspective.

Newcomers are told that they only have to change one thing about themselves - everything. They are told that people in recovery will love them until they love themselves, but they need to do some work on themselves. It doesn't take long before every thought is analyzed for "motives" and "disease vs. recovery-oriented thinking". EVERY thought.

Specifically, it's like high school when you've already gone to school with most of these people for three or four years. You go to different meetings (classes) with mostly the same people you've come to know way too much about, either through what they themselves have shared or what you've heard from other people who have already gone to meetings with these same people for several years.

It's suggested in recovery that you get a home group: a place to know people and be known; a meeting you'll attend consistently; a place to contribute your service. You are also encouraged to get a sponsor who has a sponsor. If you're lucky, your home group or your sponsorship family (others sponsored by your sponsor or her sponsor), becomes your "posse" - your clique, your extended family, your peeps.

I got just that lucky when I chose my sponsor and joined her home group. Most of the people there were warm and welcoming, and twisted in all of the right ways. Everyone was committed to recovery, to the group, and to each other, and I truly felt like I was home. I learned about area service, white water rafting, and staying clean with those people.

I learned a lot about love, powerlessness, and surrender, too. It was time for me to surrender when I had two ex-boyfriends and one ex-boss in that home group. For me, that meeting no longer had an atmosphere of recovery. While much of the hurt and anger were the consequences of my behavior, I had to find someplace else to work through all of it.

Bob - the titular Bob - was the ex-boss (one of the ex-boyfriends is also named Bob). Bob was the big brother/father figure of the group. He'd been clean for almost 10 years when I met him. He was extremely intelligent, extremely opinionated, and extremely serious about the program. After our Monday night meetings most of us would adjourn to the local diner and spend the next several hours talking about recovery (until midnight or so - then the conversation became far less spiritual). He smoked way too much, he was relentless in his mission to get all women into sensible footwear (he made orthotics for a living), and he pretty much knew something about everything (and was hardly ever wrong). You either loved Bob or hated him. First I hated him, then I loved him, then I hated him again.

Some people are good at relationships, some people are good at school, some people are good with money, and some people are good at careers. I am the opposite of good at careers. Nothing makes me anxious like having to find a new job; I have always under-achieved work-wise because I neither give myself credit for my abilities nor have the chutzpah to sell myself. When Bob needed a receptionist for his orthotics office, I was thrilled to take the job.

Long story short: there were some work practices with which I was not comfortable. Lying was a necessary part of the job; whether it was justifiable or standard procedure in the business, I felt I couldn't continue to work there without sacrificing my integrity. Which would put my recovery in jeopardy.

I shared in at my home group (I'd pick a different meeting if I had it to do over again) that I had to make a tough decision involving someone I cared about and didn't want to hurt. A few days later Bob came to me and asked if I was getting ready to leave the business. I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I would give him plenty of notice and I'd stay at least through the rest of the year (this was early December). I also shared with him a letter I'd written to him explaining exactly what my concerns were and what steps could be taken to mediate them.

The next Monday I was handed a letter accepting my resignation. I was shocked, hurt, and eventually, angry. I felt completely betrayed. Not only had he used what I shared in a meeting against me (oh, naive me), but he'd acted like he was willing to give me time to make a decision.

It got worse when I filed for unemployment. He fought me, claiming I'd quit. My claim was initially approved and the decision was upheld through the first two rounds of appeals. Bob failed to appear for the third round, calling with the excuse that he had to pick up his daughter at the airport (Bob had no children; it was his girlfriend's daughter). His case was dismissed and finally, it was over.

That last paragraph leaves out the worst of it. I was so completely unprepared for him to behave the way he did. Bob had been one of my confidants - I trusted him implicitly. More than that, I trusted him to live by the principles of the program to which he so fervently adhered. The appeals process dragged on for months and every time I had to show up to defend myself was like walking through hell. I am not confident or strong and I hate confrontation but the bottom line was that I DID NOT QUIT. That was what I held on to every time the Department of Labor, Licensing, and Regulations return address appeared in the mail and my stomach started to churn.

At the same time I was fighting the appeals process, I had to show up at my home group. I had to face all those people I loved who loved him. I would not let Bob chase me out of that room. That was also about my integrity and my recovery. I had done nothing wrong. Naive? Yes. But not wrong.

Bob's celebration of his clean time anniversary was in June. Some people call on specific people to share at their anniversaries - friends, sponsors, family - but Bob never did. After he spoke that year after he'd let let me go, he said he wanted to call on five people. Later I found out everyone was mentally counting his sponsees and closest friends trying to figure out who he was talking about. He called on his girlfriend, her daughter, two people I can't remember, and me. He didn't look at me as he said my name.

I know I introduced myself. I know I said something like "I wasn't sure I was going to come tonight" and "the importance of supporting a home group member" and "if you don't understand why I'm so upset, it's none of your business" because by that time I was sobbing. It wasn't long after that that I got a new home group.

I didn't see Bob for a long time after that. I knew he'd gotten married. I'd heard a couple of years ago that he had cancer but that his treatment was going well and, later, that he was in remission. I saw him after that at a convention - I said hello and gave him the fellowship hug and kept right on going about my business without having too many feelings about it.

Bob died on Sunday. The cancer came back in December. I got a message last week that he was extremely sick and didn't have much time. I'd made my peace with the situation (though I will admit that in my opinion, he owed me amends) and didn't want to intrude on the time he had left with his loved ones. I got all the way to the parking lot of my home group after I got the news from Danny last night (how convenient that I had to meet V. at area service to give her our group's donation) and drove straight out the other side to go to Bob's home group - my old home group.

On the way, I checked my motives. Why did I want to show up now when Bob and I hadn't talked for years? What was that about?

What it was about, I decided, was wanting to be there to offer my support to my friends who are grieving. It was about honoring the place Bob had in my early recovery - recognizing that despite the way it ended, the relationship mattered.

I'm not one of those people that says nice things about a jackass just because they're dead - we've all got an expiration date; death doesn't make you a saint. Bob was definitely an ass to me and it was just as much on him as on me that we never spoke about what happened. I made the one amend that I felt I owed him years ago; we had no unfinished business between us that was so important it couldn't stay unfinished.

Although...I would love to know why he called on me that night. Then again, maybe I wouldn't; maybe he just wanted to put me on the spot to see if I'd apologize to him for filing for unemployment. If I want to believe that it was his way of reaching out - of telling me that I still mattered to him and he was glad I was there - maybe I'm kidding myself.

I'm okay with that.