Kelley – Page 43 – Kelley Eskridge

In which the President makes people laugh

President Obama attended the White House Correspondents Dinner recently and spoke for 16 minutes, poking fun at pretty much everyone including himself.

If you only have the time or patience to watch a little, go for the second clip, in which he summarizes his goals for the next 100 days of the administration. But the whole thing is worth watching, including the brief exchange about Michelle Obama’s awesome arms.

I cannot tell you how much it means to me to have a President who is capable of laughing at himself, his colleagues, his rivals and his detractors with equal ease, in the politest way possible and yet with no pretense or softpedaling. This was Obama’s chance to serve up a few choice trips to the woodshed with a big dollop of humor sauce, and he did.

And then he ended it with a graceful acknowledgment of his debt, and our debt, to journalism in all its forms, despite its compromises and struggles and the ease with which it can be turned to bad use. I admire that he did that. For me, it was another example of his commitment to bringing everyone to the table, which is an aspect of his leadership style that I admire enormously.

And most of all, I do like a sense of humor in people. In serious times, we can all use a good laugh that much more; and for the most part, this was a speech about connecting people through laughter, rather than dividing them. Good for him.

Strong opinions, weakly held

I have the same knee-jerk instinct to avoid extensive conversations about spirituality that I do for endless talking about politics: 90+ percent of the time they end up being an exchange of position statements which may even escalate into a full-out debate (oh goody, one of my favorite ways to spend time). In other words, people are so busy defending their own beliefs (as if disagreement constituted attack) that they stop listening. The first thing that often goes out the window is acceptance that other people really can be different. They’re not just stupid or ignorant or evil or trying to wind you up: they can actually think and feel and behave differently about important things.

I’m a big fan of the concept (which I first saw expressed in this post by Bob Sutton) of “strong opinions, weakly held” — the idea (see Sutton’s sidebar) that I should fight as if I am right and listen as if I am wrong.

I am still working on this. I find help from Nicola (which doesn’t surprise me at all) and from my screenwriting experiences (which has surprised me extremely).

Until fairly recently — probably until into my 40’s — I was invested in being Right About Things. Not because I needed to win arguments, but because I preferred to avoid them. And so my “rightness” was not about strong opinions, it was about weak ones. My strategy was to keep my opinions weak because it meant that I was flexible; that there was room for other ideas in my world. I didn’t get that real flexibility happens only when I have boundaries, beliefs, a firm center from which I am then willing to really question and really listen to the answers.

Which is why I find so much joy and hope and value in this post by Roger Ebert about death and what may, or may not, happen afterward. I love his curiosity, his acceptance, and his willingness to just let people be who they are. And to let himself be who he is, too, without apology or justification. There’s a great sense in his writing of This is who I am right now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a little different. Wouldn’t that be interesting?

And then there’s this part of Ebert’s post that particularly speaks to me:

I drank for many years in a tavern that had a photograph of Brendan Behan on the wall, and under it this quotation, which I memorized:

I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.

For 57 words, that does a pretty good job of summing it up. “Kindness” covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

— Roger Ebert

Part of what I’m learning right now is that I can’t make myself happier if I don’t have my own strong ideas about what that means, and if I’m not clear about it to other people. I can’t make others happier if I don’t listen to what would make them happy.

But for me the tricky part is to have strong ideas, weakly held, without sacrificing the strength of the things I know are truly right for me. To accept that I’m different from you, and that I can be right for myself even if I’m not “right” for you. Or maybe the better word is true — to be true to myself without having to be “right” about it in some greater sense. To accept that this is who I am today, and maybe tomorrow I’ll be different.

Hmm, I’m not so sure how to say all the things I mean yet. And yes, I’d love to hear what you think. But even more than that, I’d love for you to do something today that makes you happy. Of that I am certain.

Jukebox

“Sarah Victoria” — Acoustic Alchemy
“Black Water” — Doobie Brothers
“The Cloud Room” — Laura Veirs

The theme today is dreaming.

I have all kinds of dreams about what I want to do with my work or with myself. And I also, particularly when I’m in need of rest, have dreams about places I’d like to be. I don’t see travel as excitement and froth and doing seven museums before breakfast; for me, the best travel is to go to a beautiful place and find rest, find stillness in myself, be taken care of so that I may step back and simply be in the world. Be free of care and responsibility so that I have the bandwidth to see the world through fresh eyes and remember that it’s bigger than me. To find particular small joys of food and wine and conversation with strangers. To stand in spaces that I may only see once in my life but can carry inside me always. That kind of travel gives me a particular sense of freedom and safety combined.

“Sarah Victoria” is for The Inn of the Five Graces in Santa Fe. Wow. So much color and texture, and yet it looks so peaceful to me. I’m not a minimalist by any means: the appeal of a white room with a single black chair eludes me. But it’s not easy to mix color and comfort; and yet, I see these photos, the small table in the shade of a private courtyard, the sun on stone, tile and textile from markets a half a world away, and I want to be there.

I’ve talked before about “Black Water” and my South. It’s here today because it’s always been a touchstone for me. It doesn’t take me back to the Tampa of my childhood, but rather to the idealized South that I took with me when I left the real one behind. This song is for floating on slow rivers through places where I belong down to my DNA, watching clouds and drinking iced tea. I miss Spanish moss and Florida sunsets and men in gimme caps with grease-stained overalls who will open up their auto repair shops on a Sunday morning to repair the radiator of a stranger and her teenage daughter for free because they are 500 miles from home with only $16 in their pockets.

And then there is “The Cloud Room,” which speaks to one of my oldest dreams of escape. I had some bad years in grammar school and was always escaping through books, and later through music. And when I was still small enough, 9 or 10, I would escape from class to the women’s bathroom — not the busy bathroom in the long hall where we had most of our classes, but the one down a flight of stairs in a quiet nook of the administrative section. It had a small window with a broad tile sill set high in the wall. I would climb up the radiator and wedge myself into the sill, so I could sit with my knees up and look up into the sky. I would imagine that I was a seagull flying over sea cliffs in Spain. Why Spain? I have no idea. I doubt I’d even seen pictures of it. But it was always Spain, and the cliffs were golden and beautiful, the sky was forever big and blue over a deserted white beach and a calm sea, the wind just right. And I could really feel it. For those moments, I soared.

Enjoy.

Edited to add: I’m sorry to say that I don’t have enough server space for all my audio, so most jukebox playlists become inactive after a few months. This is one. Very sorry. But the music is worth seeking out, it’s great!

To use the E-Phonic MP3 Player you will need Adobe Flash Player 9 or better and a Javascript enabled browser.

Gone fishing

The first draft of the screenplay revision is turned in to the Important Producer and Director Peeps, after 42 hours of writing in a 78-hour time period during which I revised a 114 page script into 102 pages, including restructuring sequences, writing new scenes, polishing dialogue, and ironing out inconsistencies. I am fucking tired. And I had an absolute blast. And I think it’s pretty good work, although of course some of it is first draft and so needs to be tightened up.

It’s actually been a pretty interesting process lately with the screenplay, and I will talk about it at some point soon when my brain does not feel like a scrambled egg.

But not today. Today, I am going to read Stephen King; eat butternut squash soup and ham sandwiches and spaghetti marinara; drink tea, then beer, then tea again; sleep beyond 4 AM (very exciting!); and then tomorrow accompany my sweetie to a matinee of Star Trek, possibly followed by (wait for it….) more beer.

In other words, I’ve gone fishing. Hope to have a post tomorrow morning, but actual comment/conversations probably won’t resume until later tomorrow or Saturday. You are all very patient and I appreciate it. I hug you through the internets (but watch out for the fishing pole, those hooks can be wicked….)

Enjoy your Thursday.

Work/bliss

I’ve been up and working since before 5 AM. It’s raining outside my office window, cold heavy rain from a gray heavy sky, more like fall than spring, except that under the rain the garden glows brilliant green and pink and orange and purple. The lilac against the gray sky is amazing….

Seattle doesn’t know it’s May and is still playing the April weather game, but it’s okay. It makes my office feel cocooned and safe. All I did yesterday, from 4:30 AM until nearly 6 PM, was eat meals with Nicola and work on the latest screenplay revision. And that’s all I plan to do today. It’s been months since I’ve had the chance to do this work, and it’s a particular bliss for me: today I am a screenwriter. Whatever happens next, I am happy for these days.

And this is where I’ll be, in my safe rain-shrouded place with the people of my movie, until their story is done for this round and I come back, blinking, into light.

So now can we get to the important stuff?

Just so you guys don’t think I’m some googly-eyed myopic Obama fan who can’t see what’s really happening in Washington, I give you John Scalzi’s analysis of Obama’s First 100 Days.

I think he speaks for all of us, don’t you? Except possibly in the matter of Rosario Dawson… I would have to go with Jodie Foster or Johnny Depp, myself. And I might have to add the fact that I have not yet won the Mega Millions lottery, in spite of repeated requests through my Senators to bring this to the President’s attention.

Enjoy your Sunday.

*Waves thank you to Scalzi through the internets for a good laugh on a beautiful day.*

100 days of photos

photo by Callie Shell

Last October, I talked about a photo essay by Callie Shell that I really enjoyed, chronicling the Obama campaign. Well, she’s done it again. TIME magazine has just published Shell’s series of photos of President Obama’s first 100 days in office.

Here’s the thing: these are good photos, but they are not telling a hugely emotional story. They show the President and his people mostly at work, occasionally at rest. And yet, looking through them made me cry. Good cry or bad cry? Nicola asked when I told her. This was good cry, definitely.

I spent eight years believing to my core that there was not a single human being in the White House who was interested in understanding who I am and what I might need (not even as a citizen, never mind as one human being to another). I felt completely invisible to my government, except in all the let-me-monitor-your-email ways. And that was fine: I didn’t want to come to the attention of those folks, because no good ever came of that for most of us.

But I look at these photos, and I don’t feel that way now. I feel like smart people are working long hours to do their best for me. For me. I feel like it would be a pleasure and a privilege to sit with these people at dinner and talk about life, love, art, science, history, the beauty of the world and the people in it. I just like them, you know?

And I think this makes me cry because I had given up hope of ever feeling this way about government of any kind, ever again. The City of Seattle and the State of Washington take pretty good care of me; but suddenly, unexpectedly, I feel closer to these strangers in D.C. than I do to people running things in my own back yard. And it feels good.

(If you’re interested in an overview of the key events of the first 100 days, TIME also offers this very cool interactive guide.)

Jukebox

I’m missing Friday pint — I enjoyed that particular springboard for storytelling and general rambling about in my own attic. Since I don’t have any more archives, I thought I’d share music for a while, along with whatever it happens to bring to mind.

Music is so much part of the fabric of my day, an ongoing conversation with myself. Songs become stories about me, or stories about what I’d like to be, or pathways to certain parts of me. Music charges me up, talks me down, soothes me, keeps me on the boil. I have a fairly eclectic music library, so it’s hard to predict what will come up, which I suppose is my way of saying that if you don’t like what I’ve got today, wait a week… If nothing else, maybe we’ll all get some new music out of it.

If this gets boring, I’ll throw it on the floor¹. But now I think I’ll just get the party started with a playlist to Get Things Done By. I have more work to do in the next two days than is actually possible, which just means that I have to get TCM (The Crystal Method) on its ass. “Born Too Slow” is one of my earliest TCM favorites; and to keep it company, I’ve added Cocteau Twins and Juno Reactor.

These are all blood-pumping boots-on songs with just a little bit of the ecstatic overtones that I often enjoy in music. Nicola first introduced me to Cocteau Twins music at Clarion, and much of Solitaire was written to a couple of their albums. “Persephone” is something of an anomaly in their oeuvre, much more direct and in-your-face than the usual dreamy fare. Both kinds of CT are good; but today, this is better.

Juno Reactor also has a Clarion connection: our friend Mark, whom we met at Clarion, introduced me to this music years ago.

And The Crystal Method — well, I found them all by myself (grin). They are still my go-to band for getting down to business. Which is what I’m going to do. Starting with grocery shopping, including adding a few extra cans of this and that to the pantry because, oh joy, swine flu has come to Seattle. Not that I’m panic-stricken (or even panic-prone), but if the WHO raises the pandemic threat level to 6, I guarantee that staples will vanish from store shelves, just like they do when there’s more than an inch of snow in the forecast.

[Edited at 5:14pm to add: Yep. Hand sanitizer = already gone….]

Enjoy the rest of your day, whether you’re revving up or winding down. Stay flu-less.

To use the E-Phonic MP3 Player you will need Adobe Flash Player 9 or better and a Javascript enabled browser.

¹From the “Uncle Simon” episode of The Twilight Zone, in which the unpleasant Uncle S demands that his poor niece Barbara wait upon him hand and foot, including the immortal line Barbara! Bring me some hot chocolate! And if it isn’t hot enough, I’ll throw it on the floor! This has become the buzzword in our house for if we don’t like it, it’s outta here pronto.

Night Train

I’ve been reading Martin Amis’ Night Train.

Nicola has been telling me about this book for years, and it always ended up in the well, maybe someday shelf in my brain. Until last week, when I picked it at random from its actual shelf in my office and read the first two paragraphs:

I am a police. That may sound like an unusual statement — or an unusual construction. But it’s a parlance we have. Among ourselves, we would never say I am a policeman or I am a policewoman or I am a police officer. We would just say I am a police. I am a police. I am a police and my name is Detective Mike Hoolihan. And I am a woman, also.

What I am setting out here is an account of the worst case I have ever handled. The worst case — for me, that is. When you’re a police, “worst” is an elastic concept. You can’t really get a fix on “worst.” The boundaries are pushed out every other day. “Worst?” we’ll ask. “There no such thing as worst.” But for Detective Mike Hoolihan, this was the worst case.

— Night Train by Martin Amis

And now I’ve read it and am kicking myself for waiting so long. Kick, kick, kick.

Some people really hated this book and did some kicking (of it, and Amis) in print reviews when it came out in 1997. They said it didn’t capture the American voice. They dismissed it as a faulty police procedural. They called it clumsy noir. They said it was pretentious.

And you know what? I’ll betcha dollars to donuts that most of those folks had never read a speculative fiction book (excepting possibly Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, which they would doubtless have characterized as literary fiction in a bold futuristic setting and besides, Peggy Atwood’s a genius!). Well, I’ve read a ton of speculative fiction, and no, Night Train isn’t spec fic: it’s her fascinating sister, slipstream. It’s a literary psychological study that has paused to shrug into a noir coat and put on a crooked smile just before delivering that first fast punch to your brain.

I get so tired of the precious twee writing that passes for literary fiction most of the time, the kind that essentially points neon fingers at itself: My writer is such a fabulous writer, look how pretty she made me! Pretty and empty. Pretty much all about nothing at all. This is my beef with many of the major players; they are, to use one of Nicola’s favorite Americanisms, all hat and no cattle. But the ones who aren’t, the ones who bring home the goods — well, what difference does it make what kind of package those goods come wrapped in? A sweaty wife-beater stained with gun oil, a bloody startrooper uniform or clothes that look just like yours. What difference does it make?

How much more fun is it to see a really good writer doing the literary equivalent of cross-dressing? Dipping out of whatever genre bucket he wants to get the job done. Breaking the rules in the ways that only the best can do successfully. And oh, the energy and biting-on-tinfoil exuberance of this book, right up to the end, which ending is devastating, by the way. Socked me right between the eyes.

It’s not a book for anyone looking to spend a cheerful hour. But it’s a great book, a compelling story, a fierce distinctive sad human character, and an energy that burns. I really liked it.

Crazy are the search terms

Here are some of the keyword searches that brought people to my site in February and March:
—-
selfpity poems
Yikes, I hope you didn’t find any here.

I understand self-pity. There are times when I feel enormously sorry for myself in that particular I feel baaaad and it’s not fair way, and fall fall fall into the deep well of despond. I hate that place. If I have to go there, the last thing in the world I want to do is write about it, you know? Because it’s depressing. Because self-pity is ultimately passive. And one of the Great Rules of character is that passive characters are boring. So feel it when you must, but don’t ever write what you know in that particular way. Books are about feelings; just not necessarily yours (that’s memoir, and trust me, even there if you write about your own self-pity it’s just as boring as if you write about a fictional character’s).
—-
actors armpits
Shakes head at the heretofore unexpected corners of the human spectrum which the internet reveals.
—-
crazy is the answer
Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s crazy-ecstatic-hang-on-to-your-hat. Sometimes it’s crazy-scary-why-is-the-world-so-hard. Sometimes it’s crazy-put-down-the-knife. It disturbs me to have this phrase come up in the keyword search because crazy is the answer to so much right now. The world is going crazy and taking some of us with it in small ways, in big ways, in bright-eyed crazy ways.
—-
hollywood hung list
OMG, do you think there really is such a thing? An actual list? Do researchers with hidden cameras lurk in Hollywood’s Finest Bathrooms waiting for celebrities to wander in for a pee? Or maybe they have one of those laser measuring devices hidden in a watch, although I’m guessing that most guys would notice a red dot appearing in a sensitive place…. I imagine that if you are a Famous Actor, you get just a leetle tired of the constant sideways comparative glances and would probably draw the line at holding still while someone whips out the ruler. Wow, being famous sure is different.
—-
barbara kicks his ass 3
Doesn’t this sound like the Coolest Sequel You’d Ever Want to See? I’ve been enjoying myself trying to imagine the original Barbara Kicks His Ass. Maybe in the original, Barbara is a teenager learning to defend herself from sexism in school as well as creepy grabby sexual advances. Maybe the English teacher is her arch-nemesis, and his son is the varsity quarterback with a lech for Barbara, and in the stunning climax she kicks both their asses. Then in BKHA2, we follow Barbara to college or perhaps into her first grownup job…. then BKHA3 could be Barbara in her 40’s or 50’s, righting some community wrong. And so on into her 90’s, when she dies on a cliff overlooking the beach at sunset, just having delivered the biggest ass-kicking of her long and illustrious career, surrounded by dozens of people who love her. Now that’s a franchise.
—-
can gender be resisted?
Of course. The trick is to know exactly what concepts or expressions of gender you are resisting, and why.
—-
can you make a living off screenwriting
I love a dreamer.

Meaning no disrespect: I am one too.

Based on my learning and experience so far, screenwriting, like novel writing, is a passion for many and a sustainable source of income for few. The money for beginners isn’t generally that great, but getting a script optioned or getting a shot at a rewrite is like wedging your foot in a heavy door: it’s a great opportunity, but wow, do you have to grit your teeth, hang in there, and smile through the pain. I know at least a couple of writers who wrote seven or eight screenplays before they ever got one optioned, and sometimes even more before they saw anything of theirs on screen.

Can you make a living? Sure. If you are decent on the page, good in the room, professional in all your conduct, have some luck, turn your work around fast and clean, are always ready to listen, always ready to learn, and always ready to see your work changed by other people.

Or at least that’s my theory. We’ll see how it works out.
—-
cultural assumptions in snow white
I do get tired of the do-my-homework questions, but at least this one’s new and interesting. SW is so full of class, gender and culture assumptions I’m amazed there’s room for any kind of story at all. Nobility will out. Innocence will triumph over evil. Women compete with each other for men’s attention. Men rescue women; women depend on men to save them, or to just not kill them (if the Woodsman had been having a grumpy day, SW’s story would have been a lot shorter…). And so on. I’ll stop there, lest I become grumpy too.
—-
don’t work for asshole
Well, you know I agree with that.
—-
good pick for champagne
Krug. Thierry Triolet. And if you want to vamp up a not-that-great champagne, you can turn it into a James Bond (a champagne cocktail with vodka):

1 cube sugar (brown or white, I like brown)
Bitters
Champagne
Vodka

Put 2-3 drops of bitters on the sugar cube. Put the sugar cube in the bottom of the glass. Carefully add champagne until the glass is approx 2/3 full. Add 1/2 shot of vodka. Drink and enjoy.
—-
how to get my wife to like latex clothes
I remember in my late 20’s working with a woman who wondered constantly “how she could get her boyfriend to marry her.” I shook my head then, I’m shaking it now. Dude, if she’s not that into the latex, then ask her to wear it as a present to you for special occasions. But don’t think you’ll ever “get” her to like them. Either she will someday, or she will never. Either way, it’s not up to you.
—-
things we do for those we love
Sometimes we wear the latex.
—-
i see the words in my head
Me too.
—-

And this session’s WTF Award goes to:

gumphies.

I have no idea what it means. But if it’s good, I hope you find it.