Toy Story 3

I've gotten a lot accomplished so far today, so I'm pushing on and including a long-overdue blog post in my spurt of productivity. The question is, what do I want to write about? I have a number of topics saved up that I just never seemed to get around to. I'm feel in the mood for something happy and nostalgic at the moment, though, so I'll go with what I deem the best movie I've seen in a very long time. Toy Story 3.

*SPOILER ALERT*

I am fully aware that some of you may be very skeptical about my taste in movies at this point. But this is my own personal opinion and based solely on my emotions and whims. So I'm not interested in arguing about plot or anything like that. I went to see Toy Story 3 a few weeks ago with my mom. I figured that it would be cute and fun, as I had always enjoyed the first two films. In fact I even went back and watched the first two with friends the night before, just to get in the spirit and remind myself what happened in them. What I forgot about was how the Toy Story movies are every bit as enjoyable for adults as they are for kids. There are a number of jokes that are definitely aimed at the parents in the crowd--jokes that I didn't get or even recognize as jokes when I was ten or eleven.

Toy Story 3 did not disappoint in this department. In fact, I think that of the three, the third movie is most geared toward adults. Sure, kids will enjoy the adventures Woody and Buzz have as they try to escape from Lotso, the pink, strawberry-scented bear. But the brunt of the movie, the real core is about growing up. Andy is going to college and leaving behind his toys, his childhood best friends. It's heart-wrenching to watch the abandonment Buzz and the others feel when they think Andy is throwing them out, disregarding all of their history together for something newer and more exciting. We've all been left behind before, whether it be by siblings or friends or significant others.

The thing that makes the Toy Story movies so successful is that they are universal. The premise behind the movies, that your toys come alive when you leave the room, is something I think every little kid believes is true for some amount of time. I know I did. My toys were alive to me. They had stories, backgrounds, likes and dislikes. They loved me, and I loved them. Watching this fantasy come to life on screen draws you in; it takes you back to your own childhood.

There is one scene in particular, where Andy's playtime is illustrated as a child would see it while playing. Everything becomes real. Evil Mr. Porkchop is trying to take over the world with his Barrel O' Monkeys minions and Sheriff Woody and Ranger Buzz have to save the day. It is so perfectly imaginative. I can't get over it. One of my goals in writing is to recapture the child's imagination, because  to me it is one of the most incredible, fascinating things ever. Toy Story has done that. Three times. And it's gotten better every time, in my opinion.

So all of this combined makes the final scene in Toy Story 3 one of the most emotional scenes in a movie I have ever experienced. It had me in tears. And I don't cry during movies. I honestly cannot think of another movie that I've actually cried in. Teared up, maybe, but no rolling tears. It ends with Andy finding the toys that his mother accidentally donated just as he is about to leave for college. And there is a note (written by Woody) telling him about a little girl who lives around the block. So he takes his toys and makes the little girl promise to take good care of them for him. And he has one last playtime session. You can feel the love and reconnection well up in every single heart in the theater, watching Andy play with his toys one last time. It's not something I can get across in words. I strongly recommend that you go and see it for yourself if you haven't already.

It may not have been made for 3D or visually amazing, but it was emotionally outstanding. And I know I'm not alone. A 99% score on rottentomatoes.com is not something to be scoffed at.  All I know for sure is that when I got home that night, I went into my closet and checked on my old friends--Baby Susie, Pink Bear, Samantha and Megan, and all the rest. And I reassured them that I still loved them. And I always would.

I Feel Home

Becca reprimanded me for not posting anything recently. So here is something small. These are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs at the moment. "I Feel Home" by O.A.R. I'm mildly obsessed with the band, and every time this song comes up, it makes me smile. So here are the lyrics, and I suggest you find the song and listen to it at some point.

There are few things pure in this world anymore,
and home is one of the few.
We'd have a drink outside,
maybe run and hide if we saw a couple men in blue.
To me it's so damn easy to see
that true people are the people at home.
Well, I've been away but now I'm back today,
and there ain't a place I'd rather go.
I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own.
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need is something real.

Feeling alright, heading out tonight,
maybe out to a dark driveway.
I say now some feel bored,
and some are looking for more.
Well, we all just decide to stay.
We got nothing to do,
and I look at you
I see something that I know and love.
and with the crack of a smile we all stay a while
we know from home there ain't nothing above.

Well in the end we can all call a friend
well that's something I know as true.
And then a thousand years and a thousand tears
I'll come finding my original crew

cause to me throughout eternity
there's somewhere where you're welcome to go
I said it's something free that means a lot to me
when I'm with my friends I feel home.

I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real

I feel home.

Altered State of Mind.

It occurs to me that many of the world's most influential writers were alcoholics, drug addicts, or severely depressed. I've even been told that in order to succeed in the writing field these conditions are prerequisites.  I wonder if this is true. These three conditions have something in common. All three involve a sort of hypersensitivity. An understanding of the state of consciousness that cannot be reached by the sane, sober self. (I must admit I've never been on drugs, but I understand from others that this is the case.) There is a complete focus on every thought and every notion. One picks up on things that might otherwise be overlooked, assumed stupid and unimportant. But isn't this what most of the great writers focus on? The seemingly silly and unimportant things, which experienced at a different level are actually highly interesting and remarkable?

The questions of motivation--why we do things--are suddenly obvious. Completely obvious and no longer complicated by the excuses of the sane. Every motivation is clear and obvious. We are at peace with our base selves. Or if not at peace, we at least admit their existence--the fact that it is impossible to ignore the most embarrassing faults of our inner selves. They are real and unavoidable.

I'm not saying that I want to be an alcoholic, drug addict, or severely depressed. But I do think that they are interesting states of being. And perhaps more in tune with the desires and thoughts that drive us on a deep level. Thus they are what make us think and consider on the basest level of sobriety.

Oh, Summer Days

I went biking in the PA Grand Canyon today. It's one of my favorite places to be, to tell you the truth. Especially at this time of year, when tourist season is still in its beginning stages and the trail is still a little rutted from the winter, discouraging the tourists who are around from going too far. My friend Heather was with me: just the two of us. We rode in silence for most of the trip, only stopping once to watch a doe bent over drinking in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but revel in the memories that flowed along like the river next to me.

A good portion of my high school and college summers were spent at the canyon. There was a group of five or six of us who would go every week or so, as often as we could. Given the small town we lived in, it was one of the few places we could go to just hang out, and we often had it to ourselves. I would make the rounds, picking up various friends along the way (I had my dad's SUV and a bike rack, making me automatic designated driver). We almost always unloaded in the Darling Run vicinity and biked to the bottom of the Turkey Path, where there was prime access to the river (because, let's be honest, playing in the water was really the highlight of the trip). 

As I rode along today, I remembered many games of bike tag, usually started out of the blue and wavered on and off as we rode, the best strategy being to ride along until everyone forget who was it and sneaking up behind someone. No tag-backs, of course. I recalled the year three of us came in March, anxious to get the summer underway, only to find snow still covering the trail. Biking in snow, let me tell you, is extremely difficult, but makes for some great stories. Certain places reminded me of one accident-prone friend who always brought a first aid kit with him, just in case he skidded out on the gravel or managed to fly over his handle bars in one way or another. And of course the summer nights after a canyon trip: rinsing off in Catherine's pool and inevitably running around the perimeter until we had created a whirlpool, hunting for raspberries on Casey's property, a bonfire at my house, or lying in someone's yard on the sleeping bags we kept in our cars all summer, watching for shooting stars.

But the most vivid memories were more centered on what summer meant back then: our first tastes of freedom, late nights, and true friends of the opposite sex. The sticky red flush of skin under the hot sun; the salty smell of sweat mingling with the pungent odors of bug repellent and Coppertone Sport; the warm yet strangely refreshing breeze in our faces. The inevitable ache in butt, legs, and arms after a winter away from bikes and hiking. Dust, earth, the occasional rotting fish. Everything that makes summer the most magical season for kids and teens alike.

The friendships that came about as a result of those summer canyon trips are still some of my strongest and most treasured relationships. I'll never forget the boys struggling along with the red Radio Flyer wagon rigged up to the back of their bikes, carrying a picnic lunch we ate on a large rock in the middle of the Turkey Path waterfall. "Yellow Submarine" will always reserve a special place in my heart for the summer we found a plastic yellow submarine floating in the river. Rocks piled high in the middle of a river will send a shiver of dread through my spine as my mind's eye watches a friend narrowly avoid being hit by a tumbling tower of rocks he built.

Even though it was just Heather and me this time, and the bottom of the Turkey Path was swarming with pesky flies so we couldn't stand to stay too long, I feel as though my summer has finally, really begun. And that makes me indescribably happy.

Jump

There's a time in everyone's life that comes just as you're about to embark on a new project or journey. You can't wait to get started, but at the same time you're just not totally into it yet. You find yourself holding back, unsure of how to start. It doesn't matter how many times you remind yourself that it's easy: you just have to take that first step, and you'll be fine from there. Sometimes you can make yourself do it; close your eyes, plug your nose, and plunge into the cold waters of uncertainty. Other times you need someone else to push you, assuring you that they're there to catch you just in case you need some help. It's a very frustrating place to be. You're excited, anxious, ready, and uncertain all at the same time. You know in your heart that somehow you're going to get into that water. It's just a matter of how long you stand there trying to convince yourself to just get it over with, so you can move on and have fun. Sometimes it's just so much easier if someone comes up behind you and pushes you with no warning and no chance to look back. You may have to fight your way up for a little while, but in the end things will calm down, and you'll be in a better place.

And you know this. But you still can't bring yourself to jump.

I Was Thinking...

I've been jolted back into the world of blogging, it seems, thanks to a good friend's recent decision to launch herself into the world of internet words. I admit that I'm cheating a little, because I'm going to steal her thoughts and add on to them with my own. You can see her original post here. She begins with a quoted ad that's really a poem about thoughts and the importance of thinking them. We all think; whether our thoughts are average, subconscious, grandiose, or just plain bizarre. Some people argue that the capacity to think is what makes us humans distinctly different from all the other species of the world. I have no idea if that's true or not, but thinking is a pretty incredible thing.

I often have conversations with myself in my head. Or I have conversations with other people. I recite poetry, sing songs, compose fiction, yell at myself, curse others, obsessively repeat words or phrases that strike my fancy, and count my breaths. I see pictures, hear voices, remember past events. A teacher once told me she thought I did a lot of living in my head. It's true. My head is a sounding board for real life. Before I say anything, write anything, or do anything, I think it through first. (And if I don't, I usually regret it almost immediately.) Sometimes my brain is so wired I can't sleep at night. At times I wish I could just shut it off and stop thinking for a while. But overall, I love to think.

Some of my most productive thinking takes place in my bed late at night when I should be falling asleep. That's when I come up with solutions to life's problems, stories that need to be written, conversations that must be had. It's dark and quiet and there are no distractions to lure my thoughts away from where they should be. (This post is being written as I lie in bed.) Another place I do a lot of thinking is in the car when I'm driving. My most creative thoughts come through then, which is unfortunate, because most of them then disappear before I have the chance to write them down.

My brain is also supercharged by theatre and concerts. After watching (or better yet, performing) I feel like I can do anything I want. I can write that novel or play. I could change the world for the better. I'm not sure exactly what it is about performance that charges me so powerfully, but my brain churns out the thoughts left and right in the hour or two after a performance. It's a creative high that is really quite impossible to describe, but one of the most extraordinary experiences I've ever had. If it wasn't 2 a.m., I might do a better job of explaining, but as it is, my brain is slowing down bit by bit.

I wonder, though, where do you do your best thinking? And what charges your brain?

Insomnia

It’s a dream, this life. A dream of the morning, a half-awake dream. There is something more, something clearer and sharper and more real, but the heavy comfort of sleep prevents a full recognition and understanding of the real life just a step away. And so we live on the edge, on the brink of consciousness, too overcome by the fluffy, cottony dream world to care much about what there really is, what there is meant to be just beyond our waking (dreaming?) reality.

There is something so much more important beyond oneself. Those brief moments when I realize, “This is me, I am living and alive and doing these things.” What does it all mean? What is the point? There has to be a reason I survived. Those are moments of truth, and more than that, of hope. Hope for the future, that I will break out of the dream and accomplish something, realize something, do something. Something that is more important than the day-to-day antics we busy ourselves with and consider so important. They aren’t, really. What is important is the other being, the being that can only be channeled randomly, unexpectedly, saying, “This is me. I’m alive and I’m doing these things. Why? I should be…”

But then the channel ends, and there is only this dream world, and it’s too comforting, too suffocatingly soft to leave room for anything else. Maybe that’s all there is, after all. Maybe that’s all there’s meant to be.


***

The words wouldn’t come anymore. They stuttered, faltered. Never the right word. Gone was the vocabulary, the vernacular; no living-walking-breathing dictionary. Not anymore. Writing was no longer an outlet for that which could never be expressed in spoken word. The brain-to-finger connection as faulty as that to the mouth, the vocal chords. Stutters, stops, painful pauses, disruptions. No clear thoughts nothing perfect anymore. So much to get out that it doesn’t know how to come. Fitful, fretful, in bursts. Not fluid. Gone are Flannery and James, no more to be found. Too much work writing, not enough for her. Words and thoughts like sloughed-off hair and soap scum and toothpaste down the bathroom sink. Rigid and dougy and clunky. Like play-doh or clay. Rigid, unbudging. Only blown out in chunks in unidentifiable shrapnel, word-shrapnel. Sharp and stinging and bludgeoning. No flowers or purple patches, just word shit. Use enough drain-o, write long enough, push out enough of the crap until the words start flowing more smoothly, with only a few chunks here and there a rush of words at once. But then more liquid, smooth, wet, words flowing out, just a few flakes here and there, nothing more of the rot and harried stabs at words that blocked the tunnel, the tube, that channel to the fingers. Finally, at last, the words flow smoothly, unobstructed, effortlessly. And once again the brain-world is right, and that is all that matters.