Thoughts on Nostalgia and "Up" by Pixar

So I've been seeing a lot of movies lately, each one stranger and more action-packed than the last, but the movie selection all winter was so dismal you can't blame me for going to see three in one week, can you? Even at matinee prices, that's a lot of popcorn.

First we saw "Night at the Museum" (already reviewed) then "Star Trek" (enjoyed it, though I've never been a Trekkie), then "Up," the newest offering from Pixar. I've loved almost everything they've done. (Not too crazy about Ratatouille - other than the art! - or Cars, for whatever reason.) I had heard almost no press about the film and didn't know what to expect.

But I liked it. The problem is, I can't tell you anything about the premise of the movie, because that would spoil the story line, but I will say that at one point the old curmudgeon in the film (voiced by Ed Asner) lets go of all of his nostalgic artifacts from the past and frees himself to live in the now.

Which got me thinking about a statement I heard recently that really caught my attention: Nostalgia is self-destructive. I've been contemplating those words ever since and wondering if they could be true. I don't want to believe the statement is true, because I am a nostalgic/romantic person with all sorts of favorite memories, mementos, journals, photographs, letters, newspaper clippings...everything you could imagine, even an old pony tail (Well, that's really Scott's...well, I mean it's my pony tail, but it's his memento...)

I don't really want to believe that nostalgia is self-destructive, but a case could be made....All right, I think it probably is self-destructive in some ways.

I've done some research on the subject over the past couple of weeks. Cultural critic Susan Stewart said that nostalgia is "sadness that enjoys its own sadness." I don't think of nostalgia as sadness, but I do understand her meaning. She says that nostalgia is "a desire for comfort that blinds us to the urgent present." That's probably true as well.

What do I have to be so nostalgic about? Why am I thinking about this now? I think it has to do with our slowly emptying nest. (Having children over three decades and two millenia - 1989, 1991, 1995 and 2000 - makes for a very gradual but nonetheless emotionally taxing 'empty nest syndrome.' Heaven help Emily when she tries to fly the coop!)

I don't know what I can do about my tendancy toward nostalgia except try to live more in the present, savoring the here and now. That's why I loved the quote I shared last post from Jean Paul Sartre: "Mais it faut choisir: vivre our raconter" (But one must choose: to live or to remember.")

(It's interesting to note that the French philosopher Sartre started out as an avowed atheist. He actually wrote this depressing line: "Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident." What a perspective! But after he matured he wrote: "I do not feel that I am the product of chance, a speck of dust in the universe, but someone who was expected, prepared, prefigured. In short, a being whom only a Creator could put here; and this idea of a creating hand refers to God." If Sartre had ever met the missionaries, it would have been a match made (literally) in heaven.)

Book Review: The Herring-Seller's Apprentice

I haven't read a lot of mystery novels in my lifetime for the same reason I haven't seen a lot of horror movies -- I guess I just don't enjoy the sensation of being scared. But, intrigued with the synopsis on the back cover, I picked up a mystery at the library this week and devoured it. It's sooooo good! (And I wasn't scared once -- it's not that kind of book.)

The author, L.C. Tyler, is British, but I couldn't find any information on him/her (even a gender reference) at the publisher's web site. It is my personal suspicion that L.C. Tyler is a lot like one of the novel's most colorful characters, Elsie (L.C.?) Thirkettle, who edits the main character, Ethelred Tressider's, books. Ethelred makes his living writing mediocre mysteries and romances under three assumed names, but in reality his life is quite dull until his ex-wife goes missing and he is named the executor of her estate, which puts him in contact with all kinds of people from their shared past. Elsie, a choco-holic, shadows him on his rounds, trying to piece together what happened to Geraldine, whom she never liked anyway. Her interactions with Ethelred are hilarious! It's the very dry British humor throughout the book that makes every page a pleasure.

It's a short book -- just 206 pages. The characters are well drawn and all of the scenes are set with just the right amount of description, never too much. The mystery part was satisfying -- I didn't figure it out early on, though I did guess most of it before the very end.

Half-way through reading it, I hopped onto Amazon to see what other reviewers had said about it (confident that they had loved it, too) and found that there were none, so I wrote the first review. (It only recently came out.)

One caveat: being a British book, there is a little bit of language and some off-color references, but nothing too terrible. (I've been reading more modern British lit lately and I am always surprised by the offensive language -- I don't get it. But I think this book has much less language than most. It seems to have been peppered here and there like artificial seasoning.)

I just thumbed through the book to find a suitable passage to share, but in the interest of not divulging any of the plot, I will share only the opening quotation, which I love:

Mais il faut choisir: vivre ou raconter. -- Jean Paul Sartre

(But one must choose: to live or to remember.)

Movie Review: Night at the Museum 2: Battle of the Smithsonian

Every year on my birthday weekend they start releasing summer blockbuster movies, so today for my birthday we went to see "Night at the Museum 2: Battle for the Smithosonian." (I could practically count my birthdays by which movie came out. We'll have a traditional family birthday party/picnic on Monday.)

I kind of liked the last "Museum" movie despite excessive action, which is a common problem with modern movies geared toward ADHD audiences. As I said in a previous movie review post, I can be entertained watching grass grow if the movie gives me something to think about, but many movies today substitute loud noises and special effects for good story lines and dialogue...anyway, I digress.

So I went to the theater pre-disposed to have a good time but not certain that I would, and the good news is -- I did! It was a lot of fun, despite the fact that a few of the jokes fell flat and the entire plot was completely unrealistic. It might have something to do with the fact that I enjoy history in general and museums in particular. (I've always wanted to sleep in one of those period rooms overnight in a big four poster with a heavy brocade canopy and curtains...digressing again.) The art work on the walls of the Smithosonian comes alive in the film (a la Harry Potter), which was also a lot of fun.

The writers on this film must have had a lot of fun imagining what Napoleon, Al Capone, the Thinker, and Abe Lincoln, among others, would say and do. The large cast was great, especially Owen Wilson (important message from him toward the end of the film, given his suicide attempt quite a while ago -- do I sound like a groupie?), Robin Williams (poignant given his recent heart troubles), Amy Adams, and Ricky Gervais. (He's one of those people who is just naturally hilarious. I really enjoyed him in "Ghost Town" last fall, though that movie overall was a little depressing for me and haunted me for days. Now I can't remember why...isn't aging great?)

If you're able to suspend reality completely and just go along for the ride, I think you'll enjoy "Night at the Nuseum 2."

Fantasy Du Jour

Pictures of the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, with the famous Algonquin Roundtable, where prominent writers met weekly for lunch. It's a literary and historic landmark famous for having a resident cat (Hamlet, if male, or Mathilda, if female) who rests on a red velvet chaise lounge in the lobby.

I'm taking just 20 minutes out of my busy schedule to write this complaint on behalf of spouses of people who travel "on business."

You have to know, first, that I am 44 and have never spent a single night alone in a hotel room. I fantasize about it, but I haven't actually done it. I've spent a lot of nights in hotel rooms with one or both of my parents, my husband, friends, children, even alone with my children, but I have never spent the night in a hotel room alone.

This is what I'd do if I were to stay at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City, for example: I'd pull my wheeled suitcase past the concierge and a row of potted palms to approach the check-in desk, where I'd identify myself by name and tell them I have a reservation. They would key something into the computer and produce a key card for a room on the twelfth floor with a view of Central Park. Once in my room I'd remove the comforter from the bed (I always do this) and admire the view from the window for a while. I might leaf through the room service menu and flip through the channels on the television. I might take a nap. I might read a book or pull out my laptop and start writing one. I might change into tennis shoes and go for a walk or out to dinner or shopping. I'd probably take a lot of pictures of unfamiliar things.

After dark, I might study the evacuation procedures for the hotel before going to sleep without asking for a wake-up call or setting the alarm. And the next morning, after showering and getting dressed and putting on my favorite perfume, exhilerated from surviving my first night alone, I'd go to the Metropolitin Museum of Art and the Natural History Museum and maybe the Cloisters and Battery Park. I'd eat lunch at Tavern on the Green or the Russian Tea Room. (In this fantasy, it's spring in New York, the weather is perfect, and my feet never get tired.) I'd buy fresh fruit, a baguette and some butter at a corner grocery store somewhere (Mom and I did that in Amsterdam) to take back to my room, which by then would feel like home, and I'd spend my second night ever in a hotel room alone. After the second or third (possibly fourth) night, I'd probaby be ready to go home.

Why this solitary fantasy? Maybe it has to do with the fact that Scott is in San Antonio right now staying at a lovely hotel on the Riverwalk while I am going to choir and piano recitals and doing double carpools, boomeranging, as I call it, all over the place. (My fingertips actually hurt yesterday from gripping the steering wheel.) Oh, sure, he has to attend a mostly boring conference, and in a couple of months he'll have to go to Boston to another conference, and he tells me it really isn't as glamorous as it sounds to me here at home. I'm sure it's not...

But I may need to go to a conference myself soon to do some relaxation research. When I dropped Scott off at the airport before he left, he said I really should go to a writing conference somewhere...hmmm. Maybe I will. But probably not at the Algonquin.

Is it just my imagination...?

Vladimir Lenin

Ben Bernanke

Am I the only one who's noticed the similarity between our Federal Reserve chairman, Ben Bernanke, and Vladimir Lenin, first leader of the Soviet Union? It's the facial hair, mostly -- at least I hope it's only the facial hair....

I noticed that Bernake looks like Lenin when I saw footage of him on the news walking down a corridor somewhere. I couldn't believe my eyes! But until I put both pictures on this blog, I had not seen them 'side by side.' The resemblance is uncanny!

Coming Soon to a School Near You

Call me crazy, but tomorrow I'm going to attend substitute teacher orientation, where they'll review all the rules, the process, the dress code, etc.

I can't say that I ever WANTED to be a sub, but I'm kind of looking forward to it. I think this will be a good way to see if I would really be interested in certifying to teach on a permanent basis, and, if so, which I would prefer: an elementary or a secondary classroom. I'm really not sure. Maybe I will decide not to certify to teach at all. (There are certainly more lucrative, less stressful ways to spend my time.)

My sons think I am insane. They are recent witnesses to the atrocities visited upon substitute teachers in high school. Twenty plus years ago when I was in school I don't remember kids being particularly disrespectful to subs, but that was another time and place. I may have my work cut out for me.

I do feel like I'm doing a brave thing. We'll see how many days I survive in the classrooms of 2009.

I know another mom who substitutes in all of her kids' schools. She is the sub of choice at each one, and the kids and teachers really like her, but she's currently in the process of moving to Chicago. (I wonder if she will continue to substitute in the Windy City? That would be a whole new experience...)

I know that subs are often called in at the last minute when the teacher hasn't left a lesson plan. On those occasions I plan to teach geography, a fascinating subject near and dear to my heart. They don't teach much about geography in school anymore. I plan to have a lesson or two ready to go in a variety of pet subjects.

Reminds me of being a Merrie Miss years ago when we made "Kiddie Care Kits" -- decorative boxes filled with all of the supplies we would need to begin our own babysitting services. My 'clients' loved it - the distraction of having unfamiliar toys, coloring books, puzzles, and stories.

As a child, I 'played school' every day after school, but in college I didn't seriously consider teaching as a profession for many reasons. I think I am interested now, in part, because my own children are growing up and slowly leaving the nest. I was reading a Richard Peck novel aloud to Emily one night when she said, "You should be a teacher!" She didn't know I had been thinking about it.

Then I saw a commercial about some educational issue (must have been election time) featuring the state's "Teacher of the Year." She was walking around her neat and orderly classroom placing folders on each desk, and I could almost see my own classroom and how I would govern it and how I would love the children -- that would be the most heartbreaking part. I know, I know -- too idealistic! Remember, it's 2009...

So I have my little reporter job, my temporary Census job, and now substitute teaching. Trying to stave off boredom, I guess. Or derail my own dream of writing the great American novel. I suppose I'm searching for a new excuse not to finish writing it.

I think the truth is I have become a specialist in helping other people pursue their dreams and achieve success educationally, professionally, musically...That's what a wife and mother does. Now it's time to pursue my own dreams and achieve my own success and I'm afraid.

Reminder

Many years ago, I found a lot of comfort in this stanza of a poem by Edward Cunningham. I still need this encouraging reminder -- maybe you do, too.

Speak gently to yourself.
Speak freely in praise of all you are.
Speak clearly with pride in all you've been.
Spreak bravely with hope for all you may become.

Edward Cunningham