Friday, March 30, 2012
I want to read “The Orchid Thief.” I know, the movie “adaptation” happened 10 years ago and I’ve wanted to see it since it came out, and I’ve owned it for a year, so tonight, realizing I really had no idea what it was about I watched it. It was like I was having a date with myself. I laughed out loud and cheered for the characters; the end was a little wonky but I loved the beginning.
I have a copy of "a cargo or orchids" does that count?
I got off work before lunch and started reading the “navigation log” cause I’m working on a war story and I was drawn to something historical and that led to starts and stops of writing all afternoon to the point where I was exhausted even after 3 cups of coffee today.
I’m haunted by no longer wanting to live life as it comes, but start to put an effort into things I want to happen, which I think I am always working on, but today that want became a desire. Next stop passion.
I want to read “and no birds sang.”
I preformed a written from scratch story at a fund raiser and for world story telling day. I told a story of a woman in a man’s world, who builds her house for 1 dollar and with one tree. There were three days of telling. I didn’t tell the first day or the third day. There was some wacky intuition for the third day I said weeks ahead of time that I couldn’t tell in the old theatre, I did summer theatre in as a child, in the room named after my favorite author, or his brother or one of them, and that day and the day before I was crazy sick.
We had tea (and scones) as part of the fund raiser and we talked about Farley Mowat’s story of his time in the war in Italy. I’m a bit of a history buff so this interests me. I just don’t have an independent bookstore to walk to and ask them to order it for me.
I want to read all thousand some pages of the Sherlock Holmes collection because it’s there and on my e reader and I want to understand how to writers took what Doyle wrote and made it modern and their own.
I want to stay up all night and eat mangos and type nonsense into the computer, because I’m feeling a little bit freer today.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
I wanted to be a TV Character. I was brought up on smart-alec lead characters who knew everything, had great comic timing, had great adventures and had great interviews.
I wanted to walk into a room, assess the situation, get it right and not make mistakes. I thought I could do that. Imagine my surprise when in a meeting this week I was told other people didn’t agree with me. I wasn’t sure how to handle it, if maybe I would get fired for being wrong. Who knows maybe I will, but I took a deep breath and thought, I know a boundary.
For 30 years I’ve acted; was sure I was, a TV character. Perhaps that’s why I thought I deserved my Oscar, I was doing such a good job. Now I need to look at the world like I am a real person.
I can't imagine lovin me is easy with this style of life, there must be such distance and confusion to those looking in on me.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
A blog in which Frosty attempts a quickie folk tale to explain the processing of this week…
I go to the lake to swim. That’s all I want to do is swim. I want to go there. Dive below the surface. Swim to the other side and back. Come home. They invite me every earth day to help clean up the garbage that hasn’t been cleaned. I feel it is for show. I don’t want to see garbage. I want to swim. One day I am asked to see the sunset with a friend, to sit and drink wine as the sun sets, but it wasn’t swimming so I said no. One day they asked me to sign a petition to stop the building of a factory on the lake. I said it doesn’t matter what happens here, I will adapt. I did not read the newspaper, I did not watch the news. I kept living my life taking only what happened to me, giving only what needed attention immediately.
They started to build the factory on the lake shore, but my beach was still there. I didn’t mind, I kept swimming. They started dumping toxins into the lake. I didn’t know it. I kept swimming. I became ill. I wanted my lake back. I went to find the people who had come to me with petitions but they had all left the lakeside. I went to my friend who wanted to drink wine, and she said she didn’t sit on the beach any more. And I sat on the beach and cried and saw the most amazing sunset behind a factory. I headed to the capital to complain and realized it would be a whole lot easier if I had joined in before they started the build.
There is a task in front of me, and I am the first one to work on it. I see there are many problems. I say I have to work under those conditions. And then I am told I can change it, and I wonder why I didn't say something right away.I'm ready to work on the beach, so that I can swim.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
“My friends think that since I live here in Hawaii I live in paradise” cut to a movie of breath taking scenes and a tale of betrayal that could only be told in Hawaii. The movie was full of little quirky screens like this.
Kings father in law is yelling at King about how great a wife his daughter was, and how King never bought her her own boat. Myself and all the characters began to hate this man for saying this, and as we leave him alone to be with his daughter, we see someone who loves and is hurt by the situation. The director leads, with the characters, into a hate, a beautiful scene, and then he turns it around and we see an angry hurtful man cry for the loss of his daughter.
The movie, The Descendants was good last night. It had its weak points and took a while to get everyone introduced, but by the end I was glad I had sat through it.
At the start of the movie I was held on by scenes where George Clooney does what he does best, and I fell in love with George’s acting more than the character he is playing.
Of course we want to see him run, who else runs like this. I was disappointed in the costume choices for Clooney, his cloths looked a little drab and old-manish, which fit the character, but not the finesse that Clooney brings to the screen, I felt it needed to be upped just ever so slightly to take care of not only the character, but the actor as well.
Shailene Woodley held her own as Alexandra King, looking great in everything they put her in, and holding her own as an equal to Clooney. What must the mother have been like to create two women like Alexandra and Scottie as daddy was so absent.
I love a good character actor, and Beau Bridges in the bar, drinking and sitting, stole the scene. “Just let him go Clooney, just let him go…” He was the one actor that could really take the rhythm of the speech that the director wanted deliver with great comic timing and a sense of naturalism.
From a character that rocked the movie to one I’m unclear about. The boat driver was an added character that seemed to go nowhere except to show that the daughter would say an do anything with no worries and Dad didn’t know how to control her, but damn she was cute about it and King didn’t really seem to mind emotionally, although the script told him he did.
What I really want is a sequel. I want to see King take his daughters and Sid camping, I want to see how he saves the land and how he goes back to life with the two kids how he deals with dates and love and his family after all that has happened in this movie. I left wanting more.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Today I was reminded of the theatre department. Of looking around the building for a secluded place to work on the chosen plays, something as well read as Miss Julie, or as homegrown as “The Chair” or plan a performance. Today we met in the community room at the local grocery store, which we probably won’t do again, as there were a few too many announcements that cheese was on sale and the blue truck had its lights on in the parking lot. We got together and planned the creative outings of next week, whose car we’ll be taking where is this place that we’re going to anyway? I guess I’m not the only one who has never been to our destination. Then we told our stories. I’ve written my story, most of us had, and mine clocks in at 15 minutes, that’s a handful to memorize and tell with confidence. This was the first time I’d shared it and its size and delivery overwhelmed me.
I learned today that I had confidence of my story on the page, but now I need confidence in the telling part of it. I learned that I know the plot of the story, but now it has to be well told, with eloquence. I learned that some parts could be dropped out. I learned that I have to stand up in my apartment and do some voice exercises and really let my voice be heard, let my story be heard. I need the confidence that my story is worth telling, that my words are worth hearing. I know that what my story is and it’s my time to tell the story I’ve lived until now.
A director once said “All Frosty has to do is walk on stage and she’s a better actor...” I need to tap into that world again, where I can walk on stage, in front of strangers, and capture an audience… this afternoon, seemed so long ago…
*hides under the computer desk and eats sweet potato fries*
Sunday, March 4, 2012
I feel incredibly positive today, I spent the morning writing a piece that so far I’m very proud of and can see the growth from the begging to now. I can see ways to make it grow; I’m not just looking at the rough draft circling words to move and delete, I’m feeding the story making it better making the people and the places real, exploring them and that feels good.
My weekends are all three days this month, and last week I had three days off too and so far I seem to be liking it more than just taking a whole week off. I spent the morning writing and walking around B’town.
Yesterday It rained. So I watched T.V. I had perchance to find the BCC’s version of Sherlock Holmes, with Christofer Cumbersnatch, Benedict Cumberpatch, Cumberbatch, oh, whatever. I was intrigued by this mash up…
and being fascinated with Cumberbatch, no matter what name I call him, I looked into it. I was a little frightened because I’m not a Dr Who fan, I like the idea of it, and the situations and great characters, but have never been cool enough to sit through a whole show, or curious enough to stop playing scrabble to figure out what all the shouting was about in the next room when it’s on.
But Sherlock I wanted to see.
The question I was left with was how could I be totally in love with episode one and totally disappointed at the same time?
I love Sherlock and Watson. Well except that I kept thinking Bilbo and couldn’t figure out why. (Martin Freeman will be playing the famous hobbit in the upcoming movie). But feel jipped that Sherlock had to narrate every reason why this relationship was working. I love the diolague how sweet is it to warn someone to put the human eyes back in the microwave.
And I love the workings of Sherlock’s mind and Cumberbatch’s delivery.
I was disappointed because as soon as it was mentioned I knew what the killer did for a living, and was pissed that Sherlock, although delivering all the clues, had no idea about who the man was at the door, which was cute if he hadn’t unraveled it at the start, and then I thought he did, but he didn’t and oh my.
The directing of the two geniuses, at the very end fell apart. There was so much potential for two men who enjoy murder so much and it seemed to fall flat, didn’t crescendo off the pace of the rest of the movie. I was left thinking about how they were going to outsmart each other. And this came to mind, as it was done better...
I didn’t find what the killer to be saying to be that manipulative and controlling. I couldn’t figure out how all these smart people he killed fell victim to this simple man especially the smart business woman who left her phone as a clue. It’s worth seeing, I just wish it they’d spent an extra week or two on the ending.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
I started reading Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood." I'm only on page 29 and there are no doubts that it could get nasty so I don't know how far I'll get, but I love the writing style. I'm trying to be inspired by it for my story for world story tellers day although at the moment I'm blocked so I thought I'd do a blog.
I tried to live in the city, but it wasn’t me, the traveling on the busses, the tall sky scrapers all the concrete the black and white rules, it didn’t work for me and only made me sad. I packed up my bed, some cook pots and my favorite novels and came home.
The day I made it to the small town I stopped at a coffee shop, where they sold books and art pieces and went through the news paper. There was one add for a one bedroom basement apartment. I knew nothing about the couple who lived upstairs; I called them and moved In that night.
The village of Sunborne lies between two towns that no one has ever heard of. They’re not on maps, politicians don’t visit and tourists aren’t interested in the inland trees and lack of recreation. The towns have what they need and nothing more. When you pass the sign on the side of the road that says “Welcome to Sunborne,” the trees turn greener and thicker, the air coming in the open car window it cleaner and crisper. Your body forgets the tension that has been building up after years of being in the city.
Sunborne is a secret no one speaks about it, no one talks about it. I heard about it one afternoon at the front desk of the second hand bookstore I worked at. When I asked for his address he said “I’m from Sunborne and that’s all you need to know, here’s my phone number you can call me.”
I smiled and told him I had never heard of Sunborne and said “I’ve lived there all my life, now with my wife of thirty years, now I have to be off.” When he talked to me the words seemed to join together like songs and yet I had to ask him to repeat everything he said twice because I couldn’t understand it the first time round. His commands and orders started deep in his diaphragm and exited his forehead like and opera singer.