"Whatever you feel, just DANCE it."

For reasons I cannot remember now, I once saw the movie "Center Stage." Okay, twice. Twice! And, as a total non-dancer, it's an entirely forgettable movie. Except for two things: Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, and the Most Meaningful Movie Quote Ever:

"Whatever you feel, just dance it."

See, that's what I've been trying to do in my life. Not dancing, necessarily (though I have been making it a point to dance a little bit every day, when no one is watching), but more just embracing and expressing whatever mood I'm in. And this week I've had a particular mood: a non-blogging mood. A mood that makes it impossible to do dishes, or take out the garbage, or eat fruits and vegetables. A mood that makes it impossible to return phone calls or emails. A mood that allows for one thing, and one thing only: DVDs of Friday Night Lights.

I've been in the mood to carry on an unhealthy relationship with my DVD player, and by extension, the entire Dillon Panthers football team. I've been in a mood to wear pajamas all day, and say, "Bleh," a lot. And I've enjoyed it. I've totally danced it.

And now, I'm passed it. I'm back in real clothes, and eating vegetables, and the garbage has been taken out. I'm blogging! And yesterday, some friends and I took the blog on a road trip to Spokane, and WE SAW AVATAR. Which leads me to my question for the day.

Question: is 3D cinema just a trick where all the leaders of the world were like, "Do you think we can get millions of people to wear really uncomfortable, ridiculous looking plastic glasses? You know, just to sort of test how gullible and foolish they are?"

Because, as a society we've put people in outer space, we've learned how to transplant hearts and faces from one body to another, and we've made robots to vacuum our houses for us. Hell, people figured out how to make a movie like Avatar, but these are what we have to wear to watch it? These are the best we can do?

I find that very hard to believe.


Disbelieving (and dancing that disbelief),

Kendall

Alien Face.

Ehhhhhhh. Tonight, I'm feeling just a little bit like life is fragile. So, I posted this up-close, out-of-focus (because I can't figure out how to focus my camera when the flash is off, but the flash has to be off for the colors to be normal, etc.) picture of an orchid. Or, an orchid flower. Is the whole plant an orchid? Or is each individual bloom an orchid? Regardless, I've got SEVEN blooms on this plant and one more on its way. Which is hopeful. Which is good. But, yikes, they seem fragile. If I sneezed, the whole damn plant might just disappear.

But also, if I could get a little ruminitive (and rheumatic--it's so rainy here!), this particular bloom is frowny, and it even looks a little bitey. It looks like I feel. And up close, the inside of the flower--which is poetically called the "the column"--has an alien face. I keep moping about my apartment, then coming up close to inspect the alien face in the orchid. Spooky. I like it.

I'm a little bit confused about how to blog about the utter minutiae of my life (I found a vending machine at LCSC that distributes Diet Coke, in a can!), when the earthquake in Haiti sucks so, so bad. Plus, some other stuff is happening to very important people around me, and that makes my heart hurt, "which I hate." (yes! I do have to be this cryptic. Sorry if it's annoying. This is a BLOG.) And I know no one needs another reason to feel down, but I try to blog honestly, and I'm honestly down. So...

I'm going to go stare into the orchid's alien face. Hang on a sec--

(It totally helps!) So, I'm a bit mopey, and needing to find some more snacks. Luckily, I've got these new glasses, that make glowering even easier. (Also, very sorry for the proverbial "blog self-portrait" (read: photo of myself I took in the mirror). It made the glasses look the best. Vanity persists, even through bad moods).

Gloweringly,
KS

Why our eyes are in the front.

Exposure therapy is therapy in which a patient is exposed to that which frightens them most. I'm no licensed therapist, but it certainly makes sense to me. Once you confront your greatest fear head-on, and walk away unharmed, it no longer has any power over you.

In this spirit, I present:

Eighth Grade Kendall. Here I am, about to catch the bus to lead me into the lion's den that was Whitford Middle School. It was the first day of eighth grade, and I had picked this outfit carefully.

It consists of:

• Carefully curled bangs.
• Braces with colored bands that were some tastefully subtle combination of green and pink; purple and blue; or teal and black.
• Over-sized sweater from the Gap. Tucked in (against all reason) and belted with a braided leather belt--also Gap.
• Worst. Jeans. Ever. From the Limited Too. Worst. Ever.
• Brand-new white shoes (more than just a little orthopedic).
  
• Exceedingly fragile self-esteem.

I have tried to explain to people why I am sometimes the victim of doubt, shyness, or extreme sensitivity. The secret lies with those terrible pants, that tucked sweater, the awkward pose.

But, by showing this to the world (or, to my twelve followers, which, by the way, 12!! Now we're cooking with gas!), I am taking the sting out of such an awkward, uncomfortable past.

It used to hurt, a little, to come to Portland. I used to hit the city-limits, and morph into the anxious, uncertain, brace-face above. It seemed like a past I wanted to ignore, and couldn't avoid when I was home. Now, I think I've been looking at it all wrong.

First, she's pretty endearing, right? Isn't she someone you want to put your arm around, and explain to her about the value of plain-colored braces, the optional nature of tucking and belting, and the importance, with jeans especially, of a well-suited rise? I hope she's endearing, because in a lot of important ways, I am totally still her.

Second, Portland is home to some people who knew this thirteen year old, and still want to hang out with her: my parents, obviously, who probably ought to have stepped in with some fashion advice, but I forgive them; good friends from the old days, who also could've stepped in, but no matter; and my brothers--though, I admit it has taken a while to convince them I can, in fleeting but dazzling instances, be cool.

Third, our eyes are conveniently located in the front of our heads, which I take to mean that probably, more of my energy needs to be spent on looking forward, and not worrying overly much about the past. Even though coming home usually requires you to consider your past (ie, I've had to drive past my old high school maybe twenty-five times since I got here), loosening up on such retrospection has allowed me to have a brilliantly good time while I've been home.

Tomorrow, I'll be back in Moscow, writing from my little spider-house on the Palouse. I'm packing up my plants, my blog, and all my clean laundry, and I'm headed home. But I'll be leaving home tomorrow too.

Profoundly yours,
Kendall

I'll Keep My Eyes, Thank You Very Much

Last year, when I completely lost my mind and elected to take a poetry workshop, I read a really lovely book by Thomas Lux, called The God Particles. Lux is a smarty-pants, and kind of a rock-n-roll type poet, judging from his handsome cover photo. I had a crush on him--a literary crush--which means that my mind plays a weird trick on me where I want the author to like me, so I make sure I really understand and respond well to his work in case we ever meet (and in my mind, we do meet, and I am unbelievably charming and well-versed). It's twisted, but it's true.

So you can imagine my dismay to read his poem titled, "Eyes Scooped Out and Replaced by Hot Coals," where he writes:

"that the eyes shall be gouged out
and replaced by hot coals
in the head, the blockhead,
of each countryman or woman who,
upon reaching his or her majority
has yet to read
Moby Dick, by Herman Melville (1819 - 1891), American
novelist and poet.

Um. (ashamed whisper): I haven't read Moby Dick. That's bad, and I know it. It makes me a blockhead. Thomas Lux claims it merits the forfeit of both my eyeballs. MD is pretty much widely recognized as one of the most important things that ever happened to human words and human brains. I get it.

I just never had a clear sense of what the book was about. I knew that there was a whale; I knew that there was a guy named Ishmael ("Call me Ishmael," I say, whenever someone mentions the novel, because I was told once that that is the first line, and I hope saying it will keep the person from asking me straight up, "Have you read Moby Dick?") and there is a Captain Ahab (I think?); and I knew that I should never, in any of my graduate classes, or in life, on pain of death (or getting my eyeballs scooped out) admit that I hadn't read it.

But a New Year is on the horizon, and I don't need to carry all this baggage and guilt into 2010. (By the way, are we going with "twenty-ten" or "two thousand and ten"? I like the poetry of the latter.) So, I'm reading Moby Dick. I'm on page 21. Do you hear that Thomas Lux? Leave me my eyes!

You know what? I already get why the book is kind of a big deal. It's funny. I just finished the scene where Ishmael, stuck in an over-crowded inn, has to share a bed with a stranger, who just happens to be a harpooner named Queequeg, a cannibal and seller of embalmed heads. So, there you are, with poor Ishmael, hiding beneath the sheets when Queequeg comes in from a busy night of selling his shrunken heads and climbs into bed, weilding a tomahawk between his teeth. And Ishmael, of course, freaks out. Funny, right? Can't you just see Owen Wilson as Ishmael, and Vince Vaughn as Queequeg?

If someone had told me MD was a funny book, I would have read it years ago. Plus, Ishmael, the protagonist, feels super modern and human and flawed. So, here is my big revelation for you, and you're going to be so pleased that you stuck with me until now (did anyone stick with me until now?) : Moby Dick is good.

You can send your gratitude for this insightful review in the form of cash money, or a comment on the blog either about a) your own confessions about Moby Dick; b) your suggestion for another book adults must read, or else have their eyes scooped out and replaced with hot coals.

"Well, they were a bit bitey..."

Confession #....okay, why won't the italics feature turn OFF...I'm pushing the icon for undo italics...my computer is driving me CRAZY (and that word I actually did want in italics, but was forced to CAPS so you would know it was EMPHASIZED). Hold on...

Confession #7: Behold, My Dinner.

What? You got something to say about that? Jealous???

You want to know, Kendall, where is the glass out of which you'll drink the orange juice? Or, Kendall, where is the toast upon which you'll spread that peanut butter?

I'll spare you the suspense. I drank straight from the jug, and I double, triple, and quadruple dipped the spoon. Less dishes. :)

And if you think that's bad, buckle your seat belt because here's confession #8:

My Friday night:

But don't cry for me Argentina, because the truth is I'm pretty excited to tackle that pile of TV scripts (given, graciously, by a professor at the UI--and yes, that is the pilot episode of FREAKS AND GEEKS), find out even more about my parachute, which today I am pretty sure is chartreuse, and of course, I'll be watching some Criminal Minds, because I always watch Criminal Minds. I've got a thing for dreamy Dr. Reid.

(I put the glasses on the top of the pile just for effect. I'm near sighted, so there is no way I'd actually wear them to read. Terrible headache. Which is one of my greatest regrets about my eyeballs. I long for reading glasses, not stupid "be able to see oncoming cars or important traffic signs" glasses. Lame.)

Finally, today's blog title comes from a movie that I loved, but forgot I loved, until I saw it while I was at the gym today (ahem, please note, I went to the gym today): Shaun of the Dead. And you know, it might even be funnier with the subtitles we're required to use with the gym TVs on account of the equipment being from the early 1990s and--blasphemy--not hooked up to the sound from the TVs.

Here:

I never thought I'd say this, but what the world really needs is more romantic comedies. With zombies.

PS: I'm not totally convinced it is the blog's fault, but ever since I started keeping this thing, I've been reading a lot and writing more of my own stuff. Coincidence?

Suspiria

SEE IT. (And I don't bold unless I mean it.)

Well, if a cat can do it...

It hasn't been easy, that's for sure, but twice now I've successfully put in--and taken out--my brand new contact lenses.

All thanks are due to Rosa, the woman who sat with me for what felt like hours in the "training room" of the eye center. Really, it was only thirty minutes, but poor Rosa kept telling me, "Don't blink," which has the same effect as someone telling you not to move. I blinked. And blinked and blinked. By the time I left, my eyes were exhausted, my nerves were shot, and my ego was shaken to the core.
Oh, but to see makes the whole project worth it.
I'm sure the cat would agree.