THE NOTEBOOK
A simple masterpiece that could have a place next to Romeo and Juliet and the Lady of the Camellias, if only someone had died
When in October of 1997 a small book with just over 200 pages by a practically unknown writer was published, its story and message spread through the world and fascinated readers and critics alike within days of its release. Translated into twenty- three languages and on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year, nobody could deny the magic of what became an instant classic. Yet, being confronted with a story that took the reader on a simple path to the purest form of romance and love was something almost foreign to many of us. It ultimately created a gap between one group that was truly touched, moved and changed by Nicolas Sparks’ novel, and another group that looked at his work as boring, dusty and shallow.
I am not attempting to speak for Mr. Sparks’ abilities as a writer and novelist, trying to catapult him to a level where on a literary basis he clearly does not belong. He is no Shakespeare and no Dumas, and no argument in the world could be strong enough to convince anybody otherwise. What I am arguing for is a story of romance between two people sharing a life together, giving even the most cynic of readers a glimmer of hope for what they don’t dare to hope for: True love.
Sparks takes no more than three paragraphs to prepare the reader for the story he is beginning to tell:
“I am a common man with common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul and to me, this has always been enough.” With these words he sets the stage for what is awaiting us. He makes it very clear that this book is not meant to keep us on the edge of our seats and that we are not about to get pulled into a plot that keeps us awake at night, trying to unravel a twisted story of betrayal, conspiracy and suspense. He makes no secret of the fact that The Notebook is a common story about a common life, which in our times might just be the most uncommon thing one can imagine.
It therefore comes as no surprise to me that a large number of people flipped through the pages of this book, underwhelmed by the lack of action, deceit and tragedy, when in reality one of two things took place in the minds of those unappreciative readers: They either failed miserably at recognizing the beauty of simplicity, or they were in fact overwhelmed by the sheer idea of love on such a profound level, in which case it is easier to talk it down as opposed to admitting the fear of not ever finding love as described in The Notebook.
Every book that passes through our hands leaves something behind. It can inform, it can make us take sides, and it can trigger changes in our views. It can disgust, excite, frighten, arouse, teach or calm us, granted we are receptive to the power the words can have over our minds. And while we all enjoy the idea of using stories as material or motivation for our own lives, love might in many cases be the exception. The reason for this fact is surely not the lack of desire for love. It is not even the fear of love itself. It is the reality that love is the one thing we have no control over. It is not something we can create, produce or force. We read books that describe art, wealth and beauty. Stories about overcoming tragedy, fighting crime, solving riddles or saving the planet, and in our fantasy world we can envision ourselves as a part of the story, wondering how we would act or what we would do within the scenario. Sparks’ novel does not provide us with the luxury of letting us “act out” anything if not love. He bases his storyline purely on the emotion between two people, and by doing so only grants access to those readers who can envision themselves in a scenario where no other distractions are needed or even wanted. Most people might find themselves imagining being in Allie’s or Noah’s places in life and experiencing those perfect moments of sharing a love that is returned on an equal level, but they again base their imagination on “actions”. The first time they kiss, their first sexual encounter in a rundown building or sitting on the porch in silence. The idea of sharing those moments with another is appealing to mankind in general, but the fear of never finding the person to share them with overpowers many people’s ability to sink into those fantasies.
When in 2004 Nick Cassavetes directed the film version with Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling in the lead roles, he took the risk of disappointing his audience, just as Nicolas Sparks did when initially writing the novel.
Rebecca Murray wrote in her movie review on About.com, entitled “The Notebook, like curling up with a good book”:
“The Notebook is a gentle romantic tale in the midst of blockbuster action films and goofball comedies. It isn’t just a film for women. It’s a movie for anyone who wants to get lost in a beautiful story, for anyone who believes romance is still alive on film.”
Ms. Murray realizes that a story without a substantial amount of action or slap stick humor has a hard time succeeding nowadays. There is an image to uphold. There is a degree of what’s “cool” and “hip”, and the thought of spending two hours amidst a lifelong love that ends with two people holding hands as they die in their sleep simply doesn’t fall into any of those categories. And yet, the world appears to be in desperate need of everything The Notebook stands for, which explains the fact that over five years later the movie is still shown at least once a week on one of our many Cable TV stations. The truth is that we all want to relate to love, but just like in life, people have lost patience and appreciation for love in books and on film if it doesn’t provide a certain amount of action. Looking at masterpieces such as “Romeo and Juliet” or “The Lady of the Camellias”, they all have one thing in common: Their love for each other ends in tragedy. For many writers of our past and present, death has been the ticket to success. Who would even remember the story of a young couple lusting after one another, had they not been found poisoned and stabbed in Juliet’s tomb? Would La Traviata*have ever debut at the Teatro La Fenice in 1853, if Violetta Valery had not suffered a terrible death, preventing the love between her and Alfredo Germont to succeed?
The Notebook is a complete story with a beginning, middle and an ending that is not cut short by death or other catastrophic circumstances. It reminds us that disasters are not necessary in order for a story to reach the masses and move readers or viewers. The gap between the romantics and the cynics will never be closed, but one thing is certain: While The Notebook will forever remind the romantics that love might in fact begin, grow and last a lifetime, it will just as much remind the cynics of what they do not have the privilege of appreciating.
*Opera in three acts by Giuseppe Verdi based on Dumas “La dame aux camelias”.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
So much has happened...
Once again.. it has been forever since my last post. Just the other day I talked to a co- worker of mine about how quickly this summer has passed, remarking that "I didn't do any of the things I usually do in the summer...", which she answered with: "You started a new job, your relationship ended... I think you might have had your hands full!?"
I guess I can agree with that. It has been a pretty intense few months, but I strongly believe that every ending is the beginning of something new.
The relationship thing sucks... although it was really no surprise to us (or many who know us, I guess...). And even if we believe that it was the right - and only - thing to do, nine years is a long time to have together as a couple. It is a lot to leave behind, no matter how good or bad things might have been. There is a lot of love, a strong connection, and - let's face it - a lot of "being used to" in any long term relationship. Things have changed... I have changed during those years; or so I like to believe. The most eye opening thing for me was (and is) that there comes a point when you just stop blaming the other person. I can only compare it with some pieces of clothing I own... pieces that I invested a lot in at some time. They were amazing when I got them, but a few years down the road I either grew out of them, or they just weren't right anymore. It wasn't the clothing's fault... nor mine. It was just a fact. But those few special pieces still have a home in my closet, and I will probably never really get them completely out of my sight. They will always carry great memories of when I first got them, or the occasions I wore them for, or what they made me feel like. So... The fact that we are able to honor our years together by still being there for each other and by not tearing each other apart and by respecting each other is more than I could possibly wish for. We have had our "up's"and "down's" before, and we know how ugly things could get. But at this point I think that we found a way of making it all as easy as possible on ourselves and each other, and I am pretty sure that Demi and Bruce could not possibly have done a better job than us!!!
And then I started my new job for Ralph Lauren, which is a dream come true! My closet is starting to look so good that I am seriously considering to get back IN it. Now... going to work in the morning by public transportation is another story, and the hood pretty quickly took notice of my growing wardrobe. During my second week I walked back from the bus stop - for the first time dressed fully in RL, when I heard a female voice from across the street yelling:"You better work, sister"... which I answered with "I sure as hell am trying!!!", to provide the entertainment portion of the evening. I mean... who am I kidding? I stick out like a sore thumb. My pants actually sit where pants are supposed to sit, my shirts don't reach my knees, and I do still have all my teeth. Clearly I am gay. And just in case I could forget about that fact, I am glad there are still people out there to remind me of it!!! The other day I was listening to the new Whitney album (yes... I am talking about the Houston one... crack didn't do her in yet...), when I passed two total trash guys (who might actually know Whitney - or at least have the same dealer), and one of them called me a foggot. Really? Come on. Something about them really bothered me; and I felt safe when I realized that the guy was holding on to a wall to prevent his drug- soaked body from tipping over behind the gate he was hanging out at. I took one of my ear pieces out and asked:"What did you say?" And he repeated "you faggot". I looked at him up and down, put on my gayest smile and said:" Just because you are only doing it for crack doesn't make you any less of a faggot". Praying that the guy didn't have a gun to aim at me (not that he could have focused...), I confidently put my music back in, and proudly walked on.
I am very much entertained by those people by now, and guess what: Tomorrow at the same time I will be walking by again, and pretty soon you will be tired of calling me - or any foggot - a foggot.
I wonder why it is still somewhat "OK" to even use that word for my kind. In Germany it is downright illegal to make public, negative remarks about the jewish community, and it certainly is the closest thing to a crime in this country to use a certain word to refer to an African American. For good reason. And as far as I can recall, I didn't have any more say in the way I was born than any other person who might be discriminated against for the color of their hair, skin, religious background, origin or gender. The only conclusion I can reach is that not enough gays and lesbians have been killed. That is really what sets us apart. The fact that homosexuals have been tortured, experimented on and killed by (my other kind-) Germans, was just not public enough, and other than that there was really never a time when a big enough mass of us have been publicly extinguished. Therefor it is quite alright to continue the verbal abuse, and all it does is create laughter and provide entertainment on the street. I have no problem taking part in the process, and it would be great if I could make even one guy on the street ignore the next faggot that walks by. But I do have my moments when I wonder about why things are the way they are, and why so many people are still thrown by something that is all around them.
I guess I can agree with that. It has been a pretty intense few months, but I strongly believe that every ending is the beginning of something new.
The relationship thing sucks... although it was really no surprise to us (or many who know us, I guess...). And even if we believe that it was the right - and only - thing to do, nine years is a long time to have together as a couple. It is a lot to leave behind, no matter how good or bad things might have been. There is a lot of love, a strong connection, and - let's face it - a lot of "being used to" in any long term relationship. Things have changed... I have changed during those years; or so I like to believe. The most eye opening thing for me was (and is) that there comes a point when you just stop blaming the other person. I can only compare it with some pieces of clothing I own... pieces that I invested a lot in at some time. They were amazing when I got them, but a few years down the road I either grew out of them, or they just weren't right anymore. It wasn't the clothing's fault... nor mine. It was just a fact. But those few special pieces still have a home in my closet, and I will probably never really get them completely out of my sight. They will always carry great memories of when I first got them, or the occasions I wore them for, or what they made me feel like. So... The fact that we are able to honor our years together by still being there for each other and by not tearing each other apart and by respecting each other is more than I could possibly wish for. We have had our "up's"and "down's" before, and we know how ugly things could get. But at this point I think that we found a way of making it all as easy as possible on ourselves and each other, and I am pretty sure that Demi and Bruce could not possibly have done a better job than us!!!
And then I started my new job for Ralph Lauren, which is a dream come true! My closet is starting to look so good that I am seriously considering to get back IN it. Now... going to work in the morning by public transportation is another story, and the hood pretty quickly took notice of my growing wardrobe. During my second week I walked back from the bus stop - for the first time dressed fully in RL, when I heard a female voice from across the street yelling:"You better work, sister"... which I answered with "I sure as hell am trying!!!", to provide the entertainment portion of the evening. I mean... who am I kidding? I stick out like a sore thumb. My pants actually sit where pants are supposed to sit, my shirts don't reach my knees, and I do still have all my teeth. Clearly I am gay. And just in case I could forget about that fact, I am glad there are still people out there to remind me of it!!! The other day I was listening to the new Whitney album (yes... I am talking about the Houston one... crack didn't do her in yet...), when I passed two total trash guys (who might actually know Whitney - or at least have the same dealer), and one of them called me a foggot. Really? Come on. Something about them really bothered me; and I felt safe when I realized that the guy was holding on to a wall to prevent his drug- soaked body from tipping over behind the gate he was hanging out at. I took one of my ear pieces out and asked:"What did you say?" And he repeated "you faggot". I looked at him up and down, put on my gayest smile and said:" Just because you are only doing it for crack doesn't make you any less of a faggot". Praying that the guy didn't have a gun to aim at me (not that he could have focused...), I confidently put my music back in, and proudly walked on.
I am very much entertained by those people by now, and guess what: Tomorrow at the same time I will be walking by again, and pretty soon you will be tired of calling me - or any foggot - a foggot.
I wonder why it is still somewhat "OK" to even use that word for my kind. In Germany it is downright illegal to make public, negative remarks about the jewish community, and it certainly is the closest thing to a crime in this country to use a certain word to refer to an African American. For good reason. And as far as I can recall, I didn't have any more say in the way I was born than any other person who might be discriminated against for the color of their hair, skin, religious background, origin or gender. The only conclusion I can reach is that not enough gays and lesbians have been killed. That is really what sets us apart. The fact that homosexuals have been tortured, experimented on and killed by (my other kind-) Germans, was just not public enough, and other than that there was really never a time when a big enough mass of us have been publicly extinguished. Therefor it is quite alright to continue the verbal abuse, and all it does is create laughter and provide entertainment on the street. I have no problem taking part in the process, and it would be great if I could make even one guy on the street ignore the next faggot that walks by. But I do have my moments when I wonder about why things are the way they are, and why so many people are still thrown by something that is all around them.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Safe in the hood...
I never thought I'd say this, but it pays off to call some of the scariest people in my hood my "friends" (ok... this word might be pushing it...). The reason I give some of those guys even a second of my time is usually - plain and simple - fear. The fear of... what!??? Well... let's see. The other day I came home from work, but coudn't go my usual route, due to police blocking off the entire road. As I turned left to get around the obstruction, I caught a glimpse of a white sheet in the middle of the street, covering up a body. Now - I am not sure ifthat person got shot, stabbed or hit by a car, and frankly I don't care. All I know is that my behind will not be found in such an unfortunate position if I can halp it. So yes... I am a sissy, I own up to it, and that's the end of that tale.
On my way to buy cigarettes in the evening I might pass one of the "crack houses" and might be stopped by one of the guys asking me for a cig. And instead of saying "sorry... I don't have any", I say "I am getting some right now, and I'll give you one on my way back".
And so, one of my "friends" is a rather dangerous looking guy who works at the liquor store around the corner. He's got the whole nine yards... tatoos everywhere, a big scar running down his face from temple to mouth... the kind of guy who surely carries at least two weapons with him at all times. But - liking my beer as much as I do, and being a "regular" there, we greet each other by name, shake hands and are pretty much buddies.
Quick shift in story;
recently I have gone back to taking public transportation again. Maybe because it is getting warmer and I don't mind listening to my "gay- pod" for the hour the bus takes to go up to work. And in the morning it is no problem at all. The people at the bus stop are there for a reason and with the purpose of going to work. But the other day I had a "split shift"; meaning: I went to work from 9am - 11am (which I took the car for), and then had to go back to work at four, taking the bus. Now... at 3 pm the bus stop is another story. This time around you have all the crazy ones just "hanging" at the corner, looking at me like I am from Mars. It became clear very quickly that this was no place for little old me to be spending my time. Rowdy guys started a "play- fight", pushing each other closer and closer in my direction, kids looking at me up and down, whispering. I am sure it didn't help that I nervously played around with my $300 mp3 player or my BlackBerry. I finally reached the point where I thought: "I'll give this bus two more minutes before I go back home and take the damn car. Screw going green!!!" And just in that moment, the crowd on the street got quieter, and I notices how the loudest kids on the corner shut up and moved out of the way. From the distance I saw Will - my scary liquor store friend - walk down the street to work. I mea... people litteraly move out of the way to let him pass. And what does he do? He walks right up to my with his hand reaching out to me, said "wassup, ben (he thinks I'm ben... but who cares) how you doin'? good to see you!" and walked on. From that moment on I was the safest person in Trenton. Nobody blinked at me... not a peep!
Yayy... here's to victory and to the right kin of friends at thie right time!!!
On my way to buy cigarettes in the evening I might pass one of the "crack houses" and might be stopped by one of the guys asking me for a cig. And instead of saying "sorry... I don't have any", I say "I am getting some right now, and I'll give you one on my way back".
And so, one of my "friends" is a rather dangerous looking guy who works at the liquor store around the corner. He's got the whole nine yards... tatoos everywhere, a big scar running down his face from temple to mouth... the kind of guy who surely carries at least two weapons with him at all times. But - liking my beer as much as I do, and being a "regular" there, we greet each other by name, shake hands and are pretty much buddies.
Quick shift in story;
recently I have gone back to taking public transportation again. Maybe because it is getting warmer and I don't mind listening to my "gay- pod" for the hour the bus takes to go up to work. And in the morning it is no problem at all. The people at the bus stop are there for a reason and with the purpose of going to work. But the other day I had a "split shift"; meaning: I went to work from 9am - 11am (which I took the car for), and then had to go back to work at four, taking the bus. Now... at 3 pm the bus stop is another story. This time around you have all the crazy ones just "hanging" at the corner, looking at me like I am from Mars. It became clear very quickly that this was no place for little old me to be spending my time. Rowdy guys started a "play- fight", pushing each other closer and closer in my direction, kids looking at me up and down, whispering. I am sure it didn't help that I nervously played around with my $300 mp3 player or my BlackBerry. I finally reached the point where I thought: "I'll give this bus two more minutes before I go back home and take the damn car. Screw going green!!!" And just in that moment, the crowd on the street got quieter, and I notices how the loudest kids on the corner shut up and moved out of the way. From the distance I saw Will - my scary liquor store friend - walk down the street to work. I mea... people litteraly move out of the way to let him pass. And what does he do? He walks right up to my with his hand reaching out to me, said "wassup, ben (he thinks I'm ben... but who cares) how you doin'? good to see you!" and walked on. From that moment on I was the safest person in Trenton. Nobody blinked at me... not a peep!
Yayy... here's to victory and to the right kin of friends at thie right time!!!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Lucky people...
I need to start this one with a little introduction.
As many people with basic history- knowledge might know, when at the end of WW2 the Americans got to Germany, German families had to clear out their spaces for the American soldiers to basically move in. That's also what happened to my grandfather, whose room became the temporary home of Bob - one of the soldiers. As strange as this situation might have been, Karl (my grandfather) and Bob remain friends to this day. Bob and his family live in Albany, and Karl calls him every other month, they write holiday cards back and forth, and keep a great long- distance- friendship. Many years ago (I was just born...) my grandparents actually visited them here in the States and had a great time. So - when I moved to NY over ten years ago, naturally my family kept telling me to get in touch with our friends in Albany. "Wouldn't it be great to stay in touch with friends of the family" that sort of thing.
And about a week ago I learned that one should always listen to parents' advice.
OK... Bob has a son who is married to a woman who didn't know what she should give her husband for their 17th anniversary. In the last minute she went to a little corner store and purchased a lottery ticket. And guess what!? They won 10 million Dollars!
First of all: Somewhere inside I always doubted the reality of lottery winners. We hear about them on TV, we might see one of those annoying photos of the winners carrying larger than life checks, but somehow I always felt it was all staged in order to make people buy the tickets. In that perspective it is kinda cool to KNOW that it is actually true!
The other thing is though that I consider myself a fairly lucky person. So - IF the winning of lottery- money was real, I thought that I might just be lucky enough to win one day (granted I would start playing...). But now I just see that chance fade away - isn't winning the lottery so rare that knowing a winner statistically means that I really can't win myself!?
And last, but not least: Why did I not listen?????? I can't just start calling them NOW!!! "Hey guys... I am Karl's grandson; what's up? I've been trying to reach you for ten years, but your phone has always been busy...!?"
As many people with basic history- knowledge might know, when at the end of WW2 the Americans got to Germany, German families had to clear out their spaces for the American soldiers to basically move in. That's also what happened to my grandfather, whose room became the temporary home of Bob - one of the soldiers. As strange as this situation might have been, Karl (my grandfather) and Bob remain friends to this day. Bob and his family live in Albany, and Karl calls him every other month, they write holiday cards back and forth, and keep a great long- distance- friendship. Many years ago (I was just born...) my grandparents actually visited them here in the States and had a great time. So - when I moved to NY over ten years ago, naturally my family kept telling me to get in touch with our friends in Albany. "Wouldn't it be great to stay in touch with friends of the family" that sort of thing.
And about a week ago I learned that one should always listen to parents' advice.
OK... Bob has a son who is married to a woman who didn't know what she should give her husband for their 17th anniversary. In the last minute she went to a little corner store and purchased a lottery ticket. And guess what!? They won 10 million Dollars!
First of all: Somewhere inside I always doubted the reality of lottery winners. We hear about them on TV, we might see one of those annoying photos of the winners carrying larger than life checks, but somehow I always felt it was all staged in order to make people buy the tickets. In that perspective it is kinda cool to KNOW that it is actually true!
The other thing is though that I consider myself a fairly lucky person. So - IF the winning of lottery- money was real, I thought that I might just be lucky enough to win one day (granted I would start playing...). But now I just see that chance fade away - isn't winning the lottery so rare that knowing a winner statistically means that I really can't win myself!?
And last, but not least: Why did I not listen?????? I can't just start calling them NOW!!! "Hey guys... I am Karl's grandson; what's up? I've been trying to reach you for ten years, but your phone has always been busy...!?"
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A glass of (Trenton) water, please
When a while ago the "Trenton makes- the world takes" sign was repaired - or replaced (?) - I had this brief moment of thinking: What exactly does Trenton make these days? I even wondered if Trenton at least made the sign stating that "Trenton makes" whatever it supposedly makes. Personally, I am only familiar with the very cool ANA candle place, where Manolo and I go once a year to stock up on mood- lighting, but other than that I simply cannot come up with anything else that is actually made here. So when I got wind of Trenton selling Trenton Water, it got me a little worried; assuming that this might - in fact - be the only thing left in this town that actually brings money TO the town.
So - last night my friend Christine took me to a meeting to fight the sale of Trenton Water, and I have to say that I was very impressed. I am not gonna lie...: I was certainly not an ACTIVE participant for several reasons. 1 - as a foreigner I cannot sign any petitions. 2 - there was a lot of talk about political insight I simply don't have. 3 - I enjoyed just listening in, learning and trying to understand what the hell is going on. And honestly; I walked out of the meeting STILL not fully understanding what exactly it is our dear Mayor has in store for "his" (oh wait... isn't it OUR???) city. Let me just put it in my words - the way I understood it:
Farmer X owns a large potato field that grows enough potatoes to feed his entire family. In fact - the field had been in his family for generations, and has fed the family for centuries. One day farmer X wakes up and decides that he wants to sell his potato field. Maybe the thought of quick profit lured him into this plan... or maybe he is secretly planning on leaving the farm and the family, and wants to make a buck to take with him. Either way, he made up his mind and he announces his plan at the dinner table. The family takes some time to think, but questions quickly arise: Once we don't own the field anymore, how much are we gonna have to pay for the same damn potato we used to just pick off the field? Since the potato field is virtually the family's only source of income, how can that income be replaced? How much is the future owner really paying, and where is that money going to? What brought all this up in the first place? What would George Washington say about the complete downfall of the very field HE once fought a historic battle on? (I am getting carried away...). And while the farmer has never been a great leader of the family to begin with, the fact that he doesn't answer any of those questions only deepens the family's dislike of him. They get together in a chamber up above the dining room, try desperately to fight for the good and the future of the family, feel lied to, misguided and ignored by the very person who should only have the family's best interest at heart.
Now - please feel free to educate me if my understanding of the situation is incorrect. And if you do, I would appreciate if you did so by using my rather artistic potato- scenario. It somehow makes more sense to me than water. But also:
As a none- American, all I can do is sit through a meeting, show my support and write my little blog. But YOU guys out there actually have a say in this situation. This is a country led by its residents and by caring, everyday people who know what is right and wrong. Thanks to all the people who are getting together to fight for US, to all the people who are standing up for Trenton by speaking out or by simply putting their names on a piece of paper. I encourage everybody to go out there, sign what needs to be signed, say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done in order for us to enjoy our own potatoes from our own field.
So - last night my friend Christine took me to a meeting to fight the sale of Trenton Water, and I have to say that I was very impressed. I am not gonna lie...: I was certainly not an ACTIVE participant for several reasons. 1 - as a foreigner I cannot sign any petitions. 2 - there was a lot of talk about political insight I simply don't have. 3 - I enjoyed just listening in, learning and trying to understand what the hell is going on. And honestly; I walked out of the meeting STILL not fully understanding what exactly it is our dear Mayor has in store for "his" (oh wait... isn't it OUR???) city. Let me just put it in my words - the way I understood it:
Farmer X owns a large potato field that grows enough potatoes to feed his entire family. In fact - the field had been in his family for generations, and has fed the family for centuries. One day farmer X wakes up and decides that he wants to sell his potato field. Maybe the thought of quick profit lured him into this plan... or maybe he is secretly planning on leaving the farm and the family, and wants to make a buck to take with him. Either way, he made up his mind and he announces his plan at the dinner table. The family takes some time to think, but questions quickly arise: Once we don't own the field anymore, how much are we gonna have to pay for the same damn potato we used to just pick off the field? Since the potato field is virtually the family's only source of income, how can that income be replaced? How much is the future owner really paying, and where is that money going to? What brought all this up in the first place? What would George Washington say about the complete downfall of the very field HE once fought a historic battle on? (I am getting carried away...). And while the farmer has never been a great leader of the family to begin with, the fact that he doesn't answer any of those questions only deepens the family's dislike of him. They get together in a chamber up above the dining room, try desperately to fight for the good and the future of the family, feel lied to, misguided and ignored by the very person who should only have the family's best interest at heart.
Now - please feel free to educate me if my understanding of the situation is incorrect. And if you do, I would appreciate if you did so by using my rather artistic potato- scenario. It somehow makes more sense to me than water. But also:
As a none- American, all I can do is sit through a meeting, show my support and write my little blog. But YOU guys out there actually have a say in this situation. This is a country led by its residents and by caring, everyday people who know what is right and wrong. Thanks to all the people who are getting together to fight for US, to all the people who are standing up for Trenton by speaking out or by simply putting their names on a piece of paper. I encourage everybody to go out there, sign what needs to be signed, say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done in order for us to enjoy our own potatoes from our own field.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Poor dog...
The most exciting thing that has been happening in my life in the past months is most certainly my job. It is what I obviously spend most of my time with, and what occupies my mind even when I get home in the evening. And even though I have been working in this new field for over eight months now, moving around in a field that is not 100% familiar is extremely tiring. It reminds me a bit of the time when I first moved to the states, and how just speaking english all day would tire me out. Every word I said would have to be translated in my head and thought through before being released, which was a lot more work than just blabbing something out.
Anyway - bottom line, I come home from work at night and I am pooped;... happy, but pooped.
So, the other evening was just another on of those days where I basically crashed on the sofa as soon as I came back home, while doing a "Nip- Tuck" marathon (which - we just got into and is a GREAT show!!!) Here I was, dosing off, when Kitry decited that it was time for her to visit the back yard. Half asleep I followed her to the door, opened it and let her and Fiby out. Kitry generally only goes out to do her thing - Fiby, on the other hand, LOVES to spend time there. She is in and out of the bushes, hunts for squirrels, birds and cats, runs, leaps and barks as her heart desires. After a few minutes both were back at the door, but when I opened it to let them back inside, Fiby realized that there might be more animals to hang out with and ran back into the greenery. I'm gonna be honest... I was mad. I was tired, wanted to go back to my beloved sofa, cover up and pass out. I as around 11PM, and I was not in the mood to be reminded of how useless our training was when calling "come here", which only causes her to look over her shoulder at best. I closed the door with the words "then stay outside, you little tramp" (which is her nickname) and went back to the living room. On my way there I told myself to let Manolo know that our little one is still outside, but at my state of exhaustion I must have forgotten by the time I was back on the couch.
So - about an hour and a half later I woke up from Manolo laughing like a crazy person, and here is his side of the story.
In our neighborhood it is quite common to hear dogs bark; too many irresponsible dog-owners who let their dogs run free at all hours of the day and night. So - for the fist 15 minutes he was not too concerned when this poor dog started barking at half past eleven. Half an hour into the noise he started getting a little irritated, and when the barking wouldn't let up an hour later he started losing it. "The poor dog... damn those dog owners... idiot neighbors..." Another ten minutes later he went online to find the number for animal control - knowing that there is this particular little dog around the corner that is in desperate need of help. Finally - as he was scrambling around to act on behalf of the poor little pooch that must be freezing cold, possibly hungry and certainly not supposed to be outside, he realized that THAT poor little dog was Fiby.
The little thing was on the back steps FOREVER, trying to get our attention, while I was sleeping like an angel and Manolo was about to call animal control... ON US.
In any case... I have always heard about stories of parents accidently leaving their kids at home, or driving off a supermarket parking lot whithout their child... and I have found a new understanding for it. The mind is an amazing thing - a thing that does not work worth a damn if you're tired.
But I made up for it... sort of; Fiby and I spent the rest of the evening cuddled up on the sofa, wrapped in blankets. She also doesn't run away anymore when I open the door to let her back inside, which is a safe thing to do. But the guilt of neglecting a child is deep, and I have never felt less like a fit parent. No cookie, no toy and no belly-rub can let me live down the fact that I left my daughter outside in the winter in the middle of the night.
Anyway - bottom line, I come home from work at night and I am pooped;... happy, but pooped.
So, the other evening was just another on of those days where I basically crashed on the sofa as soon as I came back home, while doing a "Nip- Tuck" marathon (which - we just got into and is a GREAT show!!!) Here I was, dosing off, when Kitry decited that it was time for her to visit the back yard. Half asleep I followed her to the door, opened it and let her and Fiby out. Kitry generally only goes out to do her thing - Fiby, on the other hand, LOVES to spend time there. She is in and out of the bushes, hunts for squirrels, birds and cats, runs, leaps and barks as her heart desires. After a few minutes both were back at the door, but when I opened it to let them back inside, Fiby realized that there might be more animals to hang out with and ran back into the greenery. I'm gonna be honest... I was mad. I was tired, wanted to go back to my beloved sofa, cover up and pass out. I as around 11PM, and I was not in the mood to be reminded of how useless our training was when calling "come here", which only causes her to look over her shoulder at best. I closed the door with the words "then stay outside, you little tramp" (which is her nickname) and went back to the living room. On my way there I told myself to let Manolo know that our little one is still outside, but at my state of exhaustion I must have forgotten by the time I was back on the couch.
So - about an hour and a half later I woke up from Manolo laughing like a crazy person, and here is his side of the story.
In our neighborhood it is quite common to hear dogs bark; too many irresponsible dog-owners who let their dogs run free at all hours of the day and night. So - for the fist 15 minutes he was not too concerned when this poor dog started barking at half past eleven. Half an hour into the noise he started getting a little irritated, and when the barking wouldn't let up an hour later he started losing it. "The poor dog... damn those dog owners... idiot neighbors..." Another ten minutes later he went online to find the number for animal control - knowing that there is this particular little dog around the corner that is in desperate need of help. Finally - as he was scrambling around to act on behalf of the poor little pooch that must be freezing cold, possibly hungry and certainly not supposed to be outside, he realized that THAT poor little dog was Fiby.
The little thing was on the back steps FOREVER, trying to get our attention, while I was sleeping like an angel and Manolo was about to call animal control... ON US.
In any case... I have always heard about stories of parents accidently leaving their kids at home, or driving off a supermarket parking lot whithout their child... and I have found a new understanding for it. The mind is an amazing thing - a thing that does not work worth a damn if you're tired.
But I made up for it... sort of; Fiby and I spent the rest of the evening cuddled up on the sofa, wrapped in blankets. She also doesn't run away anymore when I open the door to let her back inside, which is a safe thing to do. But the guilt of neglecting a child is deep, and I have never felt less like a fit parent. No cookie, no toy and no belly-rub can let me live down the fact that I left my daughter outside in the winter in the middle of the night.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A television event worth mentioning
Let me start by saying this: I don't care if you are female or male, gay or straight (or anything in between), young or old. If you missed Saturday's premiere of the Lifetime movie "Prayers for Bobby", WATCH IT AS SOON AS YOU CAN!!! I am not saying this to promote a tear jerker, but because it is an amazing story about an inspirational journey that provides insight into the lives of - god knows how many - families out there.
I am very critical of "gay" things, and am generally tired of gay movies that reflect only the negative sides of our lives. AIDS, rejection, hatred, discrimination. For the most part I just wonder why nobody makes a gay film about a happy couple, or about a great relationship with ups and downs - basically a movie that could apply to the average straight couple just as well. Or I would love to see a gay couple in a commercial for some random household item. Just to be shown in a "normal" situation; but as long as we show only the "ab-normal" sides of it, we really can't expect others to look past them.
That being said, this latest movie made me think. It is damn easy for me to say "just give me something "normal"", when the sad reality is that AIDS, rejection, hatred and discrimination are things that a lot of people out there have to deal with on a daily basis. I might not face those issues in my life, but we know that a large number of people are not that lucky. And if a movie like the one just shown can make even ONE un-accepting parent think, or ONE catholic question the bible, or make ONE gay man or lesbian woman decide not to jump off that bridge, than we moved yet another step in the right direction.
So - get a bottle of wine, some cubes of cheese, crackers and grapes and tissues and turn on "Lifetime." If they play it on weekdays at nine, you can just stay tuned, go right into "Will and Grace" at eleven and have an entirely GAY evening!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
