Meat Dreams: A Poem of the Viet Nam War by Robert Borden

(From the Sixties Project Poetry Archive.)

1949

1949 was a good year
for meat:

Marilyn Monroe
posed naked on
blood-colored velvet
for calendar photos.

men were returning
in boxes from Korea,

ground beef was selling
for 49 cents a pound,

and this poet
was in the womb,
dreaming
of his own bloody birth

1969

1969 was a good year
for meat:

Jim Morrison
was exposing himself
in concert,

ground beef was selling
for 59 cents a pound,

men were returning
in plastic bags
from Vietnam,

and this poet
was in that war,
dreaming
of his own bloody death

1. Question

In Chicago
at the recruiting station
the sergeant said
to answer the question
about our communist activities

One young man
filling out the form asked
if such a question
didn't infringe on his
First Amendment rights

Two marine sergeants

pulled him from his chair

and threw him against

a wall,

knocking his glasses

off

They dragged him downstairs
and questioned him
all day long

2. Platoon Commander

It was the birthday
of the US Marine Corps
in boot camp

8pm/the platoon commander
calls us together
with unusual solemnity

Each and every one of you

has my respect, he said,

for joining an organization

in which you might

die

die

die

It was the one thing he said
that I still remember

The platoon commander
was a hero of the Vietnam War
with a foot full of plastic bones
where he was machine-gunned,
a purple heart
and a bronze star

Four months later
he was in the newspapers
again,
the first body
of nine expert swimmers
from Quantico, Virginia,
Marine Officer Training School,
dragged from the Potomac,
blue and cold
like the river itself

The recording never made
of his boot camp speech
plays back
on nights
when I'm not standing guard

3. Camp Pendleton

A white rabbit
ripped open
in demonstration

white fur
peeled back over
moist, pulsing
meat
still breathing through
skin-stripped nostrils

shrill rabbit screams

of instant

insanity

at this,

the ultimate nakedness

The troops laughed
when the sergeant
threw the organs at them,
and a man danced
with one inside-out
soft shoe

4. Shot

Rain and daybreak
in Okinawa

I met one marine
with a bleeding chest
who said he was going back
into combat

They gave me a shot in the ass

and I passed out,

cold

Inside a building

sergeants passed out

orders

to men who wore
the smell of death
like cologne

5. Flight

Good morning
we hope you have enjoyed
Flight 327
on the proud bird
with the golden tail,
and hope you will be
flying again with us soon.

It is 10:35am in Da Nang
and the current temperature
is one hundred and eight degrees

6. Greetings

Each morning at six,
radios started with
"Gooooooooooooood morning,
Vietnam!"

a cheery, insane greeting
to a day
some would not live through,

a curious blend
of comedy and horror,
like a fighter bomber
with a smile painted on it

7. Waiting

In the hold of a ship

just before dawn

the men sit in stunned silence

waiting for

The Word

Out on the beach
we can hear faint rifle fire
and see smoke rising
in blue-gray bursts

but it is quiet

on the ship

too much like a movie

in its twentieth rerun

overacted, too dramatic

How can I believe
there's real death
on that beach
when I know a commercial
is imminent?

Who's sponsoring this?
Let's have a brief message
of importance from
some local dealer,
let me hear someone say
that Coke is the real thing,
let me hear four out of five doctors
recommend something
for pain relief.

8. Sight

I am sitting

on the edge of a trench

eating a cactus plant,

unable to stomach

another can of unheated

ham and eggs,

chopped

I hear a quick rush of air
from behind,
like the sound of inhaling
through clenched teeth
followed by the crack
of the bullet, and feel
the shock waves
against my ear

If you hear it,

it missed you,

they say

but I can feel years later
the assassin's eyes in the jungle
on the back of my neck
that stranger with eyes
like clear ice,
watching me eat cactus
through his rifle sight

I write in my notebook:
Days left in Vietnam: 334

9. Da Nang

The city of Da Nang
has brick sidewalks
and streetlights that shine
off the harbor

and there are houses,
made of cardboard and wire,
and there are children
in the streets
selling photographs
of a beautiful young girl
fucking a dog

At midnight
on armed forces television
a Vietnamese girl
teaches three new words
of the language
to the American troops

10. In the Jungle

In the jungle at daybreak
I am just waking up
to a slither against my side

A bamboo viper
just passing through

11. Truck

I step out of a tent

where I have been drinking beer

and listening to Jim Morrison

singing

The End,

and turn to see a truck

headed up the road to the hill

explode

Next morning dawn
lights up seven rifles
topped with helmets,
stirring in the wind

12. Search

A girl working in a field
was approached by a patrol
of American marines

who shot her water buffalo
stripped her naked
and fingered
every opening of her body

looking for hidden weapons
and thrills

13. With Pencil

I sit in a bunker
covered with sandbags,
safe from all danger

and with mathematics,

with charts and maps and plans,

and with radio, with paper

and with pencil

I kill

Men die from my penmanship

14. Typhoon

Near the coast of Vietnam
a typhoon rolls in
off the ocean,
tents flattened and waving,
belly on the ground
like manta rays

I stand out in it
soaked more completely
than ever in my life,
watching rats as big as dachshunds
scurry through the whipping grass

Days left in Vietnam: 283

15. Cramps

The monsoon season
comes in autumn,
falling rain to replace
falling leaves

One night I sleep
beneath a leak in a tent
and wake up
in a pool of cold water,
shivering
with stomach cramps

And like a girl spread open
for her twentieth rapist,
I watch it begin to rain

again

16. Poem

A spiral of smoke in the air
marks the collision
of two helicopters

Twenty dead bodies
burning in a rice paddy
chopped by spinning blades

17. Off

A moment after a fire mission
we are notified by radio
that an artillery shell landed
in the center of a platoon
of South Vietnamese soldiers
killing 28 men

We check our guns

and find one of them

180 degrees

off

18. You Never Know

When it rains in Vietnam

the foot-long

centipedes

go where it is dry

into boxes

into bunkers

into boots

You never know
when you'll feel the bite,
shooting you up
with a foot's worth
of your last nightmare

19. Cigarette

I hear shots
popping and sparking
in the jungle.

The marine patrol comes in grinning
carrying a North Vietnamese soldier
they shot through the brain,
his head exploded
like a kernel of corn
whatever thought he had
were left in the jungle

They put a lit cigarette
between his limp fingers and said
"Show us your Lark pack!"

He didn't laugh
at their brief message of importance

20. Birthday

Two men were sitting
inside a helicopter
on a quiet Sunday morning
washing the tinted glass windshield

In Illinois, my friend
was having a birthday
and I was thinking of him
when I heard the whistle
of the rocket at dawn

After the explosion
came deep silence
and when I got up from the dust,

I saw the burning helicopter

with two indistinct forms

rocking

like flaming monks

in silent protest

21. Reprise

Reading the KIA list
feels like reading the phone book

so many names
of so many strangers

until I read the name
of someone I knew in boot camp,
and I gasp, choking on it,
cannot help hearing that voice
from under the Potomac saying

Has my respect

for joining an organization

in which you will die

die

die

Each and every one of you

22. Tracers

There's a hard rain falling
on the road up to Hill 65
just past sundown

I am in the back of a troop truck

trying to breathe
through the sheets of water,
too tired to care
about the tracers
streaming over the truck
in red glares

I bow my head in the rain
and try to sleep

23. Temple

In the deep jungle
the truck passes a temple
more beautiful than any
I ever remember seeing,
which I will see only once
in my life
as the truck goes by

Further up the mud road
a Vietnamese girl
watches the rain

As the truck lurches past

she looks into my eyes

for the only time

in my life

without bitterness

without sympathy

without recognition

24. Rifle Number

"What's your rifle number?"
the sergeant asked.

I told him:
"Seven, sixty-nine,
double-0 seven."

"Don't fuck around," he said,
"gimme your rifle number."
"I just did."

He grabs the rifle
from me and reads:
"Seven, sixty-nine,
double-0 seven."

Days left in Vietnam: 99

25. Epitaph

Malone, the truck driver,
shot in the stomach
on the day he was to go home
died on his nineteenth birthday

26. Civilization

I am in Da Nang
stealing materials
from the US Navy

I step inside a building

looking for a drink of water

and find:

waxed tile floors

electric clocks

air conditioning

water coolers

suits and ties

Oh God, where am I?

I back out
into the sun
and shiver
in the 114 degree heat

27. Mess Duty

The sergeant in charge of mess duty
was proud that all the men
hated him.
That was part of leadership,
he thought

Greasy pots,

scrubbed until midnight

were never quite

clean enough,

the floors, he said,

had to be mopped again

and again

and again

"Why doesn't somebody

frag that bastard?"

the men asked

no one in particular

One night, still and hot,
no one in particular
placed a grenade beneath
the sergeant's pillow,
pin out, waiting for him
and in an hour
the sergeant never had
such meaty blood dreams,
his last dreams

and at dawn could be seen
rubbery chunks of meat
scattered near the mess hall

and a dog
having breakfast

28. Habit

I begin smoking cigarettes

In a month I'm up to
three packs a day

plus a few I bum

29. Bunker

Marijuana dipped in opium oil
makes Lucy in the sky with
diamonds in one claw,
arrows in the other,

more terrifying than the six
North Vietnamese regiments
they said were surrounding
the hill somewhere, out there

"I don't caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare!"

screaming down
with that familiar whistle
and exploding
beside a friend of mine
inside the perimeter

At dawn I trudge up
and find a crater
deep as a well
and find psychedelic bits
of shattered brain
smeared across the bunker wall

"One less nigger," says a man,
beginning to laugh

and before that laugh comes out
my rifle is locked and loaded
and on the firing line, and I say
"What was that again?"

He says nothing,
amazed
because I'm white,
but not half as white
as he is

30. Whiskey

R&R in Honolulu,
the Eden of the Pacific, they say,
six days to forget the war
and myself

I got to a night club
looking for humanity,
and they refuse me admittance
for being too young
to drink

I go back to my hotel room
where I drink my own whiskey,
alone,
until I fall asleep

Who's sponsoring
this cruel dream,
this lost child in Eden?

31. Fifteen Men in Black

Just off Hill 55
fifteen men in black
carrying rifles
run across a wide clearing
toward a tree line

They are the enemy

I load my rifle,
aim in,
and do not fire

32. Meat Dreams

Days left in Vietnam: 0
It is my twentieth birthday

I have died

died

died

I have died a thousand times
without ever being part
of a column total,
I have turned on a spit
between dawn and sunset
like a sizzling piece
of meat,
dreaming of digestion
in the aching hungry gut
of America

But why the preoccupation
with meat?
I am as dead
as the corpses you tally,
the numbers ringing in my ears,
so why do you not count me
when I stand up to be?

Send me home in a plastic bag,
put me on the proud bird
with the golden tail.
No, I don't need a pillow,
stewardess,
I don't even remember quite
what pillows are,
so I'm sure I won't need one
on this flight

Send me home wrapped in a flag,

wrapped in a bag

with those red, white and blue

balloons

printed on the wrapper

And on the twist tie
will you include a note to Mom
explaining my speechlessness,
or should I tell her?

I can still talk, which amazes me,
but not nearly so eloquently
as the language of 2am telegrams
that tell
in twenty-five words or less
that their government issue
human being is no longer
a functional item, we regret
which does not suit
our present needs

Oh say can you see
by the dawn's early light?
I have seen so much
by the light of so many
bleeding, lacerated dawns,
I have been soaked in so many
storms of proud hailstones
big as mortars,
I have thought to myself
so many times
that I was witnessing
the twilight's last gleaming
on those pockmarked hills,
I have taken so many malaria pills,
heard so many brief messages
of impotence,
been bought and sold
over the counter of dead bodies

I am America's sacred cowboy

riding off into the sunset

after a job

well-done

Yippee-yi-o-KIA!

Roll out the cannons

and we'll have a blast!

Lyndon Johnson
so far away from
the lodge meeting
in Paris

From the jungle
I watch them discuss
not peace
not even war,
only the shape of the table
collapsing
beneath the weight
of what everyone had a steak in

And then it was Richard Nixon,

brought to us by

Peace With Honor,

and anyone can see that POWER

begins with P.O.W.

And now the proud bird
with the golden tail is coming
for to calley me home,
dragging me back
over the date line.

But I had a date,
I had a real hot date
with Vietnam
currently 108 degrees
I couldn't break a date like that,
the longest fuck I ever had,
thirteen months long,
a long and heavy
plunging dream of meat

How much difference can there be
between My Lai and My Lay
when the Pentagon is a vagina
and the Washington monument
a phallus?

I wonder when they do it?
When there is a chance
for those two aching organs
to go at it in Washington DC?
Does everyone turn his back?
How else could they produce
so many misshapen children,
so many recurring
American Dreams?

"Gooooooooooooodbye,
Vietnam!"

As the jet screams away from the Asian coast
slanting into the ocean black night,
I realize from the cramps
that I am in labor with the new
American Dream,

kicking its way from the blood bath,

clawing through the blind night,

slashing with bayonet through the wall of meat

that contains it,

slashing through the red tape,

through the copies in triplicate,

through the jungle,

slashing through the presidency,

slashing its way out of the womb-like

shelter

of America's dying dream

America,

where any boy can grow up to be Burger King

America,

where free stallions are ground up into dog food,

America,

where the cash flow pumps its purple heart

America,

where even the eagle is not safe from slaughter,

that proud bird with the golden tail,

plummeting from its blue sky perch,

crying the death scream of America itself

And as I scream

finally

down

onto that San Francisco runway,

one-tenth the age of America itself,

I carry with me the dust and the blood,

the fear and the loathing,

I carry with me the mincemeat carcass of my teenage self

and a plastic bag containing the remains

of the American Dream

Robert Borden grew up in the Chicago area during the 1950s and 1960s. He served with the First Marine Division in Viet Nam from May of 1968 to June of 1969, mainly in the Da Nang area, calculating how to aim large mortars. He was honorably discharged from the USMC in 1969 as a Lance Corporal. Borden began writing poetry in the early 1970s. "Meat Dreams" was written in 1974, more than a year before the end of the war. Despite its similarities, the poem predates the film "Apocalypse Now" by four years. Borden is also a painter, a prose writer and mural artist. He is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee and currently manages an art gallery in New Mexico.

"I'm an Honest Person"...and Other Lies Human Beings Tell

As people, we can be pretty shysty. There are so many lines we use on one another that are outright lies...and, surprisingly, most of these assertions are never challenged. I've taken stock of some of the more apparent universal lies we tell and compiled them here in a sort of Liar's Lexicon. I've included the line, the circumstances in which it is used, an example of the lie in action, and the translation of what it REALLY means.

Line: "I'm an honest person." Usage: Whenever someone says this, they always follow it by saying something really mean, oftentimes disrespectful and plain ol' rude. Example: "I'm an honest person, so you should know that I'm happy you're barren." Translation: "I'm an asshole with no tact."

Line: "Let's just lie in bed and watch a movie." Usage: As a lead-in to sexy time. I wonder how many people were conceived this way. And I know the veracity of this statement, for I, alas, have been both an instigator and victim of it. I ain't proud. Example: "I had a great time tonight on our date at the roller rink. Now let's just lie in bed and watch a movie." Translation: Scramble for the condoms and KY. You're about to go a-porkin'!

Line: "And thank you for riding the MBTA." Usage: Only Bostonians will get this one. This sentence is usually declared at the end of one of those annoying PSAs that blare while you're waiting for the subway. Example: "Due to oompa-loompas mating on the tracks, we only have one red line train in operation today. And thank you for riding the MBTA." Translation: "We hate you, and we can treat you like shit because you're dependent upon us. A pox on you, your children, and your children's children [insert maniacal laugh here]!"

Lines: "I need some space" and "It's not you, it's me...." Usage: These are age-old break-up lines, used to dump the dead weight of a boyfriend/girlfriend in an attempt to spare the dumpee's feelings. Example: "I need some space, I'm going through a lot right now. You're perfect just the way you are. It's not you, it's me." Translation: "You have a small dick, and I need space to escape your nasty-ass morning breath. So yeah, it really is about you."

Line: "I'm a people person!" Usage: Another one that I've both utilized and been on the receiving end of, this line is typically used in job interviews. Example: "I'm great with customers and enjoy meeting new people. I guess you could say I'm a people person!" Translation: "I am a jelly-spined doormat, and I accept that I will be forced to whore out my soul for your fucking $9 an hour job."

Line: "I'm between jobs." Usage: This one always pops out of the mouth of the unemployed when confronted with the question of what he/she does for a living. Example: "I'm between jobs at the moment. I have a degree in philosophy and was recently laid off from my career at Cinnabun." Translation: "I'm totally unemployable and my ass has grown fused to the sofa cushions. Could I borrow a quarter to call my dealer?"

Line: "I'm straight but curious." Usage: Usually found on social networking sites (in other words: places to find a lay), I see this line used by men wanting to "explore their sexuality". Example: "Attractive, white, married man seeking first time male-male encounter. I'm straight but curious and need to keep this on the down-low." Translation: "I'm a big old gay. Please don't tell my wife."

Line: "I'm not a big reader." Usage: If you ever find yourself talking about books, either with a group of people or one-on-one with someone you don't know terribly well, this line often comes up. Example: "Naw, I didn't read the latest Jackie Collins. I'm just so busy, I don't have the time. I'm not a big reader." Translation: "I don't read anything at all because I might miss "Wife Swap". Besides, they make all the good books into Meredith Baxter-Birney movies, so why waste my time?"

Line: "You have such a pretty face." Usage: Anyone with a half a brain recognizes that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. But unfortunately, we live in an image-obsessed culture that deems skinny = attractive and fat = ugly. People often say this when talking to or about an overweight woman. Example: "It's a shame she's so morbidly obese. She has such a pretty face." Translation: In the immortal words of the great Roseanne: "You'd look good if you were just a head."

Line: "Work from home! Make [insert insane dollar amount here] per day!" Usage: We are inundated with statements like these in our junk email and on neighborhood bulletin boards. Example: "Work from home as an independent sales consultant for Herbalife! Make $2000 or more every day!" Translation: "Welcome to the heinous world of multi-level marketing. Get ready to sell a bunch of shit to your family, friends, and anyone else you wish to alienate. Better yet, recruit them to work "under" you so as to better spread our message of world domination. And get ready to fork out a lot of cash for your stock. Our skanky vitamins aren't cheap. In lieu of payment, though, we are willing to accept the blood of your firstborn."

MYMHM: "The Shipping News"

Last week I wrote a post entitled "10 Great Films You May Have Missed". After writing this, I realized how many movies I'd forgotten to include. There are so many undiscovered little film gems out there that narrowing it down to a top ten simply isn't possible. So I've decided to make it a regular topic: Movies You May Have Missed, or MYMHM. I find that I am constantly encountering (or re-encountering) films that for whatever reason failed to make a lasting impression on the moviegoing public. Pretty much everything these days is available on DVD. I mean, if John was able to purchase for me (as a gag gift, mind you) a DVD called "The Very Best of Ray Stevens", then finding a few lesser-known film titles is really relatively easy.

My latest pick as a MYMHM is one I had the pleasure of re-watching last night, 2001's "The Shipping News". Despite a cast of top names, a revered director, and a script based on the smash Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by E. Annie Proulx, "The Shipping News" came and went without much fanfare. And it really is a shame, because this film is a powerful, sensitive exploration of relationships, redemption, and the ties that bind us all.

"The Shipping News" revolves around one man, Quoyle (Kevin Spacey), who can only be described as a beyond-pathetic loser. After fathering a daughter with the wildly irresponsible Petal (Cate Blanchett), Quoyle learns his parents have died in an apparent double suicide. This prompts the entrance of his aunt Agnis Hamm (Judi Dench), who wants to pay her respects to her brother's ashes, which Quoyle now has in his possession. Yet Agnis can't help but be drawn into the pitiful state of her nephew's existence: he's a fumbling ne'er-do-well, struggling to raise his daughter Bunny on his own (Petal flees the bonds of wife and mother pretty quickly) and not make a total mess of everything, as he usually does. She ends up taking both Quoyle and Bunny back to their ancestral home in Newfoundland -- a place of perpetual gray skies and seal flipper pie -- and this is where the majority of "The Shipping News" takes place. Actually, not simply "takes place": Newfoundland is where the story soars.

All the buried family histories, the dirty secrets, the despicable deceits, the tattered relationships and destroyed trusts, come brimming to the surface once the unconventional family is resettled in Newfoundland. Quoyle, feeling something akin to support for the first time in his life, slowly grows rejuvenated by the power of his family home, his newfound relationship with his aunt, and the fiery love of his daughter. He becomes a part of the small town in which they live, and, in turn, becomes a thread in the tapestry of the quirky society. He gets a job writing for the local paper (this is our first sign that things may be looking up for our hapless hero, since he's not a writer but an inksetter), befriends his colleagues and neighbors, and sets off on a rocky interest in the town's grieving young widow, Wavey Prowse (Julianne Moore). As he begins to assert himself in the light of the new community surrounding him, Quoyle gradually, believably, sets off on an evolution that is both affirming and painful. He's at a tricky point: on the verge of a bright future while staring directly into the darkness of his past. "The Shipping News" is a story of one man's healing while cradled in the arms of his stormy history.

Upon watching the movie again, I'd forgotten how dark this tale is. It's all there: all that "stuff" we have from years, even generations, past. But the film handles it all with a surprising grace and refreshing sensibility. You won't find any big shiny happy emotional breakthroughs here. You will find, though, the much more realistic landscape of all-too-human characters attempting to reconcile the pain of yesterday with the promise of what can be. It's a noble story, done with intelligence and integrity.

Director Lasse Hallstrom perfectly captures both the moodiness and eccentricities of Proulx's book. His love for these characters is apparent in every frame. And cinematographer Oliver Stapleton does majestically gorgeous work here, painting the entire film in somber earth tones and soft, sensual blues. Despite the bleak trenches of the story, the sensitive vistas of stark Newfoundland present a surprisingly inviting and warm love letter to the Canadian province.

Spacey is a terrific actor, and he imbues his Quoyle with a masterful balance of wit and pathos. Making such a miserable character not only interesting, but a hero, is a tough job, and Spacey does it with easy grace and skill. Blanchett and Moore are always brilliant, and they don't disappoint as the two very different women in Quoyle's life. And then there is Judi Dench. Oh, Judi! Is there anything this woman CAN'T do? Everything she touches turns to gold, and she plays Agnis with class and unadorned ferocity. Behind the set lines and almost feline eyes of Agnis's face, there bubbles a complex, damaged rage that always seems about to spill over. Dench skillfully translates Agnis's pain and grief with no more than a slight movement of the head, or a nearly-imperceptible lilt to her gravelly voice.

The only complaint I had about "The Shipping News" was its tendency, in the last 45 minutes or so, to both introduce and tie up a series of minor subplots that take away from the character study at hand. I realize that these smaller stories were meant to further illustrate Quoyle's progressive journey, but for the most part, they don't come off much better than a distraction. I would've liked to have spent more time with Agnis, or with Wavey, to perhaps peek a bit more into their own complicated histories.

But what's so surprising about "The Shipping News" is the message of hope it brings. The story isn't always a pleasant one, but that's what makes it so universal. And it shows us that second chances and new opportunities can come in the most unexpected of places.

There's Something About Mary

Occasionally, and only very occasionally, there are times I wish I could understand science fiction. Most days I'm content with not knowing the difference between a hovercraft and a Craftsmatic Adjustable Bed. Between a death-ray and a dead Ray Charles. Between an alien life form and an alien life insurance form. You catch my drift. My mind just doesn't wrap around sci-fi, and try as I might, I just don't get it.

But John does, and often I will be reading a book beside him as he watches some spaceship-laden epic. Most of the time, I'm able to just drown out whatever is happening on the screen and concentrate on my book, but I find this increasingly difficult when John watches "Battlestar Galactica".

You see, "Battlestar Galactica" has among its cast one of my favorite actresses, Mary McDonnell. I've long considered McDonnell to be the most underestimated, underutilized performers of our time. There is something altogether entrancing and luminous about her. Even in a show that dumbfounds me, as "BG" does, I am transfixed whenever she comes onscreen.

I first saw Mary McDonnell on a short-lived 80s sitcom called "E/R" (not that "ER", a different one: this one was a briefly-run situation comedy). Even in a presentation that did nothing to showcase her talents, she was able to bring a heaping dose of class to an otherwise dead fish of a TV show. A few years later, McDonnell showed up in a John Sayles flick called "Matewan". Though the movie was generally well-received within the film community, it really didn't go very far and unfortunately didn't provide the career boost the then-35-year-old actress needed.

But luck turned around when she won the role of Stands With A Fist, a white woman raised by and living with Sioux Indians, in "Dances With Wolves". I've always had a soft spot for "Dances With Wolves", and a big reason for that is McDonnell's incredible performance. Her masterful work in this movie is astonishing and restrained in its raw, naked power. And I wasn't the only one impressed with McDonnell: she received through-the-roof approval ratings from test audiences and was nominated for a slew of acting prizes (including an Oscar for best supporting actress).

There is one scene in particular that still resonates. It is McDonnell's first scene, and we see Stands With A Fist kneeling in the prairie grass, singing Lakota songs and carving into her flesh with a long knife. She has come to an isolated spot to commit suicide when Lt. John Dunbar (Kevin Costner) happens upon her. Bear in mind, that up until this point, neither Dunbar nor we as viewers have any inkling that Stands With A Fist is not a full-blooded Sioux. Panicked, he runs to her and lifts her up, trying to get her to calm down and stop what it is she's setting out to do. Stands With A Fist, enraged, battles him, scared witless, in a barrage of Sioux curse words...but then: something unexpected. In the middle of her tirade, she clearly says "DON'T!". From this moment on, McDonnell invites us into the sad, fragile world of Stands With A Fist. It is a perfectly-executed moment of supreme nuance that unlocks the entire universe of a fascinating character.

McDonnell followed up "Dances With Wolves" with some plum roles: Alexandra in a TV version of "O Pioneers!", a disillusioned wife in the brilliant "Grand Canyon", a supporting turn in "Sneakers". But it was in another John Sayles film, 1992's "Passion Fish", that McDonnell proved her leading lady status.

As a soap opera actress who is confined to a wheelchair after a car accident, Mary McDonnell ignites the screen in a fiery inferno of rage, obstinance, and grief. Her Mary-Alice is as unlikable as they come, but in McDonnell's deft hands, she is transformed into an unlikely hero. By the end of the film, you not only like Mary-Alice: you understand her. McDonnell's unique choices and dedication to the smallest of moments makes Mary-Alice's journey altogether brave and only too real.

For her work in "Passion Fish", she was again nominated for an Oscar, this time for best actress. And I thought for sure, after her startling work in "Passion Fish", she would rise to the same highly-regarded level of Master Thespian as people like Meryl Streep and Katharine Hepburn. But Hollywood is criminally unkind to its 40-plus actresses, and McDonnell was relegated to supporting roles in a handful of forgettable films, as well as a starring turn in the AbFab-ripoff "High Society" (another short-lived sitcom).

But this was the point in McDonnell's career where she not only showed she was a great artist, but a crafty businesswoman as well. She knew something when she signed on to play the title hero's mother in "Donnie Darko", perhaps sensing that the movie was just bizarre and mesmerizing enough to acquire the cult status it eventually did. McDonnell plays her Rose Darko as not just another simpering suburban soccer mom. She is a damaged, despairing mother trying to hold fast to the quickly-unraveling threads of her family. A throwaway role, in McDonnell's grasp, became something truly unforgettable.

So when McDonnell took the role of President Laura Roslin in the sci-fi opus "Battlestar Galactica", I firmly believe this great actress knew what she was doing. She recognized the originality and appeal of the script, surely, but she also recognized that this was both a stable way to earn her living as an actor AND remain in the public consciousness forever. Her performance in "BG" infuses the show with vivacity and grace. She makes her Laura Roslin a powerhouse of intelligence and class, and, by turn, lifts the whole program to a new level of artistry. So what if she will have to spend her post-"BG" days at sci-fi conventions, signing autographs for runny-nosed dweebs in prosthetic pointy ears? Mary McDonnell is a damn fine actress, and a damn smart businessperson.

Now, if I could only understand what the hell she's SAYING onboard that bloody ship, I'd be set.

Book Review: "Nightwood" by Djuna Barnes

There are many books I love. I could easily compile a list of a hundred or more books that, for whatever reason, I adore. Some spoke to my own experience, dispelling my loneliness or despair; others were vibrantly written and entertainingly executed; and still others were just plain fun. Most are a combination of one or more of these elements.

But there are few books out there that are intense and powerful enough to shake me to my very core. These books are rare, and when I am lucky enough to come across one, my soul feels like it's been gripped by two great massive hands, shaken with ferocity, and placed back in upside-down. Just as when I see an exceptional movie, or an extraordinary painting, these books challenge and inspire me to leap from my seat and view the world through newer, clearer eyes. These books are hard to find in our short-attention-span, superficial world of John Grishams and Danielle Steeles. But they're out there. For me, they are books like "The Golden Notebook" (Doris Lessing), "Diary of a Young Girl" (Anne Frank), "Becoming A Man" (Paul Monette), and "The Hours" (Michael Cunningham). These books engage and enrage, entertain and empathize: they unlock vital aspects of myself, and the world, to which I had not previously been aware. In short, these books are life-changing.

To the above-mentioned list, I now add "Nightwood" by Djuna Barnes.

I had never heard of Barnes until several months ago, when I read a biography of art patron Peggy Guggenheim. Barnes was a supporting, though pivotal, player in Guggenheim's history. Peggy financially supported Djuna for most of her life, and one can only assume Guggenheim's affection was reciprocated: "Nightwood" is dedicated to her. The two women traveled in creative, bohemian circles of the greatest writers and surrealist artists of their time.

The influence of these comrades is evident in "Nightwood", a work of psychological surrealism first published in 1937. As with any exceptional painting, the power of "Nightwood" is not as easily seen in the details, as it is in the stepping-away from the details. The book is meticulous, down to the finest pinpricks of emotional nuance, and getting lost or bogged down in them is easy. What I found is that once you step back, you begin to see the awesome human landscape Barnes has created. "Nightwood" is a surrealist painting in words.

After doing a bit of homework on Barnes, I got my hands on a copy of "Nightwood", which is her most famous work. Though it has never been a commercially successful book, it has always been regarded as a literary masterpiece. But because of its lack of mainstream appeal, as well as its taboo-for-the-time plot points (lesbianism, feminism, cross-dressing, psychoanalysis), its status as a classic has been relegated to mostly underground acclaim.

T.S. Eliot wrote the introduction to "Nightwood", and in it he gives what is perhaps the best piece of advice one can take before starting the book. Eliot urges us not to take in the story as a reader, but rather as a poet. I daresay that only those who can appreciate poetry will appreciate what Barnes does with her seminal novel. It is tremendously -- oftentimes frustratingly -- complex. The aforementioned dedication to detail can be quite maddening: there are so many intricate ideas laid out that wrapping your mind around all of them is downright impossible. The book is a scant 170 pages, but it took me nearly a week to read. I found myself having to go back and reread sentences, paragraphs, even whole chapters over again. Even 70+ years later, "Nightwood" spills over with new, exciting, dangerous, and fascinating ideas.

The book chronicles five starkly different people caught up in the orbit of an enigmatic, mesmerizing woman named Robin Vote. There is her husband, the artificial baron Felix Volkbein, and their sensitive, unstable son Guido. There is her lover, the heartbroken and bereft Nora Flood. There is another lover, the unoriginal Jenny Petherbridge (nicknamed "The Squatter" for her lack of original thought and the way she lifts aspects of other people's identities). And then there is Robin's philosophizing, transvestite doctor, Matthew O'Connor, who isn't really a doctor at all. Sound confusing? Well, it is.

But it's also one of the most captivating, beautiful novels ever written. Calling Barnes' style "prose" is doing a great disservice; it really is poetry. The words are lush, thick, enchanting: you feel as if you are not reading, but swimming through her sentences. Her talent for describing both the epic and mundane is unparalleled in anything I've ever read; her every word has been chosen and weighed with great care. The images Barnes paints are deliberate, planned, and memorable.

This is also the novel's great challenge. Dr. O'Connor's role in the book can be declared a sort of Greek chorus. He seems to know intimately every aspect of the other characters' lives, and he uses these lives to expound upon his endless philosophies and conclusions about human nature. He does this through a series of conversations, which are really more monologues, since he has a habit of overpowering everyone with his interesting, though often confusing, ideas. I can't say I even scratched the tip of what the good doctor was theorizing.

Perhaps that's why I loved this book so much. "Nightwood" doesn't pander to the lowest common denominator. Barnes was no dummy, and she knew her readers wouldn't be either. Her story tests us in a way that most books don't. It pushes our buttons, forces us out of our comfort zones, and shows us human nature -- and, by extension, our own individual nature -- warts and all. It does so unapologetically and with great élan.

Don't go into "Nightwood" expecting an easy ride (I was so lost and flustered in the first chapter that I debated abandoning the book; thank God I didn't). Swim through the words and let them wash over your skin. Some will soak in immediately, more will be absorbed in the stepping-back. But even more will remain like the novel's heroine: aloof, seductive, and unforgettable.

Behaving As If The God In All Life Mattered

I try to avoid posting animal rights rantings. It's not because I want to ignore or downplay my own animal activist leanings, it's simply because the term "animal rights activist" is a loaded one. Our culture seems to view animal rights activists as PETA-worshiping, red-paint-throwing, angry social misfits. I don't think any of those adjectives can rightfully describe me. I'll fight for the animals in my own way, and it won't be by picketing the local KFC in a chicken suit, or by screaming violent (though witty) epithets at old blueblood broads who wear fur.

Several years ago, MacHaelle Small Wright wrote a wonderfully-titled book called "Behaving As If The God In All Life Mattered". The book is part autobiography and part intricate examination of the cooperative relationship between man and nature. Sound like a hippie-dippy, touchy-feely treatise on New Age concepts? Well, it's not. In fact, the book is smartly and sensitively written, and much of the ideas it explores border on quantum physics.

Ruminating on the title alone is a valuable lesson. How can each of us, in our own way, behave as if the God in all life was equal and worthy? What can we do to honor the divine spirit of commonality and communion we share with nature? How can we better recognize and respect the unspoken interplay of support and assistance provided us by the animal (and plant) kingdom?

Every day, I try to behave as if the God in all life matters, and when I see that others are not behaving the same way, I grow very, very upset. I am a work in progress; my sensitivity levels, especially when it comes to the treatment of animals, is extraordinarily high.

Now, anyone who knows me, or even anyone who might read this blog from time to time, understands that I love movies. To me, there is nothing that compares to experiencing a great filmed work of art. For decades now, we've grown accustomed to the United States Humane Society's slogan popping up at the end of nearly every movie out there: "No animals were harmed during the making of this motion picture." And it's true. The USHS meticulously monitors all animals involved in the production of a movie. There are on-set specialists from the USHS who follow every step an animal takes and records painstaking notes down to the finest detail. These specialists even have a power that usurps that of the director: they can yell "CUT!" at any moment during shooting if they suspect an animal being filmed is in some sort of danger. It's a noble, compassionate job.

Yet knowing, and greatly admiring, this, I find even feigned violence to animals on film to be tremendously disturbing. I know that realistically (and legally) no animals are ever put in danger in a motion picture, but images of animal violence are nonetheless upsetting for me to watch. It's interesting to note that I can watch people get their brains blown out left and right on a movie screen (though I don't relish that kind of violence either), but the second an animal is the subject of such violence, I sorta freak out.

I almost walked out of "Cold Mountain" when I saw it in the theater. There seemed to be such gratuitous and senseless animal slaughter in that movie. I'm still haunted by "Cold Mountain"'s crazy-ass old lady and the baby goat she ruthlessly, frighteningly, butchers in her lap. The other night, I nearly stopped watching "No Country For Old Men" for its scenes of animal cruelty. Even the brilliant "Brokeback Mountain" had entirely too much animal violence for my taste. With the exception of "Brokeback", the only thing I remember about these movies is how heartlessly they portrayed our animal friends, no matter how staged or how many "No animals were harmed during the making of this motion picture" blurbs. It's the violence, real or artificial, that stays with me.

But at the same time, I can rightfully be called a hypocrite. For all my animal-lovin', vegantastic ways, I knowingly walked into Lars Von Trier's film "Manderlay" with the knowledge that a donkey had been slaughtered for a particular scene. And not in Movie Magic Land, but in real life. "Manderlay" was filmed in Sweden, and Swedish film law allows for the butchering of animals for the sake of a movie...as long as there is a veterinarian on-set to euthanize the animal immediately afterward. Actor John C. Reilly walked off the set of "Manderlay" due to the donkey issue and was replaced. It was a powerful, brave, compassionate move on Reilly's part, and I salute him for it.

So why, then, did I put down my hard-earned money to see "Manderlay"? Well, I am a Lars Von Trier junkie, and I've fallen in love with every one of his movies. Even "Manderlay" (the donkey scene, incidentally, ended up on the cutting room floor in light of the controversy surrounding it, as LVT didn't want the issue to take away from the film's central story). To be honest, it troubles me to a distressing degree that I may have indirectly supported the slaughter of an innocent animal for the sake of entertainment. I don't think this is what MacHaelle Small Wright had in mind when she explored the partnership between people and animals. I'm not perfect. As I said earlier, I'm a work in progress.

I will say, though, in my own defense -- as well as Von Trier's -- that the donkey killed in "Manderlay" was an elderly one that had already been slated for slaughter. I take a small bit of solace in the fact that the animal might have met a more "humane" end by euthanasia, as opposed to buzz-saw. But this is a fact, not an excuse, and it doesn't make it right. Alice Walker once said that animals exist for their own reasons. In other words, that donkey was not put on earth to entertain me.

It's also interesting to wonder if "Manderlay"'s script had called for, say, a dog to be killed instead of a donkey, would I have still seen the movie? If so, would I have still loved it? Is the life of a dog, or a cat, or a hamster somehow more precious than the life of a donkey, or cow, or pig?

I don't have the answers, and the few I can come up with are complicated and fraught with contradiction. But I do know one thing. Before I sat down and watched "Manderlay", I said a little thank-you to that donkey: a brief moment of silence for a voiceless creature that had to die for the sake of art. His sacrifice was not in vain.

Of Lavender & Longing: Fantasies of a Would-Be Homesteader

Blame it on lavender jelly.

About six months ago, I started research on Homesteading, also known as the back-to-the-land movement. In the 60s and 70s, there was a huge surge in Americans desiring a migration from the concrete chaos of urban life to the simpler, self-sustaining existence of the country. It appealed primarily to hippies, disillusioned with the materialism and capitalism of big city life, but also to free-thinking and open-minded professional urbanites seeking a quieter, less encumbered reality.

John and I fall somewhere in between these two types of people. While we are certainly members of the workaday world, collecting our paychecks and attempting to get by in the most costly city in the country, we are also unquestionably hippieish. However, we are less "classic" hippie and more "postmodern" hippie. For example: we bathe, rarely go barefoot, and do not make hemp jewelry or psychedelic T-shirts. We are not the stereotypical hippies of forty years ago, but the contemporary hippies of today, embracing the philosophies and tenets of the hippie life while eschewing the physical manifestation of the traditional. To put it simply, we think like hippies but do not look like them.

Scott and Helen Nearing were two pioneers of the modern Homesteading movement. Before it reached its zenith -- indeed, long before anyone even knew what it was -- The Nearings were living the sustainable country life and educating the public about it. They wrote two now-classic books, "Living the Good Life" in 1954 and "Continuing the Good Life" in 1979. The couple devoted themselves to their teachings and their land, starting out in Vermont and eventually ending up in Maine.

Homesteading can be defined as the acts undertaken by a person or persons seeking a self-sufficient lifestyle, a "living off the land', if you will. Homesteaders usually own their own farms, which don't typically consist of hundreds of acres, but rather a few acres of manageable land. They grow their own food, work their own fields, and tread lightly upon the earth. Some are fortunate enough to have careers directly correlated to their homesteads: selling their produce at farmer's markets or to local grocery stores, making and marketing their own candles, soaps, or handiwork, or writing and educating the world on how to live the good life.

I can't even begin to tell you how attractive this whole concept is to me. I've lived in Boston for three years now, and with each passing day, the desire for a simpler life makes itself more and more plain. But heading back to the land is not a simple task; I daresay it's downright impossible in contemporary America. It requires an exhausting trudge upriver while the water is flowing downriver. We live in a society that values money and prestige and physical evidence of those "values". Homesteading requires the polar opposite: it is a simplifying, a great letting-go of the material and the monetary in the name of something bigger and more fulfilling.

But the bitter truth is that homesteading demands money just as every other facet of modern life demands it. Mortgages, utilities, insurances, vehicles, and credit card bills are not suddenly nonexistent because you switch the focus of your life and go against the grain.

And this is the crux of the matter for me. To even get started and take some initial small steps toward self-sufficiency, money is a necessity. Though John and I make decent money at our current jobs, we barely squeak by, living where we do. The prospect of saving money, any money at all, is an unreachable fantasy. To resettle our lives in the country, we would need a vehicle or vehicles, a down payment for a house, and the assurance that we would be able to make enough money to pay for everything.

There's also the rather obvious dilemma that neither of us are farmers. While I did grow up in Iowa, we always lived in town. I couldn't tell you the difference between a tractor, a combine, and a seed bell if my life depended on it. John has a much better grasp of how to plant and grow things, but he is by no means an expert in the field. It's frustrating that there is not a class called "Farming 101".

So as quickly as I began my research, I abandoned it as nothing more than a daydream, an unattainable fantasy that the great majority of us can never come close to. But then last week, I found a recipe for lavender jelly on a homesteading blog. It was just a recipe, explaining how to make jelly from freshly-collected lavender blossoms. For reasons unknown, this simple thing has reignited my desire to be a homesteader, with a passion bordering on infatuation. I am desperate to make this happen.

This is what I want. I want an old farmhouse on a few acres of land. I want to wake with the sun. I want to wake refreshed. I want to wake. I want to stop shaving and plucking and caring about how I look and smell. I want to tend to the land as the first flurries of flaxen morning crown the hills. I want to sing softly to myself while I plant, harvest, reap, sow. I want the wind to carry my song through the open windows of the room where John lay sleeping. I want to run through fields with the dogs. I want room to create plants and poetry. I want the courage to share my work with the world. I want to be a working writer. I want to be a working farmer. I want to be a homesteader. I want my life and my work to be one entity. I want to hawk my writing to publishers. I want to hawk our bounty at farmers’ markets. I want no discrepancy between who I am when I am at work and who I am when I am at home. I want to answer to no one. I want to be done with corporate bullshit, petty bureaucracies, ridiculous hierarchies. I want to work for nature and for art.

I want to be carried on the tide of the day, meeting the demands of the earth and the demands of the Muse. I want to take a nap in the afternoons, like they do in more civilized countries. I want to make my husband grand dinners eaten by candlelight. I want us to read e.e. cummings to each other, with the cats in our laps, by the beacon of the fireplace: a beacon leading us home, to one another, to the bed we share that is clogged with so much love. I want to fall asleep in John's arms to the lull of his snoring, the rhythm of his heart, the warmth of his belly. I want to look out the window just before sleep finds me, at the great round silver moon and the sky pearled with a million stars, and think to myself:

Yes. This is it.

Dream Jobs

Since I can never seem to find a job that I like, well-meaning people often ask me, "Well, what do you want to do?". These people, I fear, don't really want to know the answer to that question. The majority of the time they just inquire out of exasperation, as if to say, "You dumbass. Lots of people would kill for your job. Why can't you just come down off your throne of idealism and enjoy something for once? What is it exactly that you would rather be doing? What's your calling?".

My "calling". As if I'm a nun. I mean, am I supposed to believe that a stockbroker, for example, was just playing in the sandbox when he was a kid and suddenly heard a divine voice urging him to buy stock in AT&T, or sell shares in Tab cola? Of course not. The question is only posed to those of us who would rather eat our shoelaces than become stockbrokers. It's asked of those of us who have chosen unconventional career paths and who demand our work, however menial, is at least in sync with our passions.

But the question remains. While I try to become a working writer, what would my dream "in-the-meantime" job choices be?

Well stop asking. Here they are.

-Underwear Inspector. You may have noticed that when you open a new pack of undies, there is typically a small loose tag in the folds that reads "Inspected by #[insert number here]". This is actually someone's job. Standing on an assembly line, the inspector picks up every undergarment, checks it, and issues either a pass or fail. I don't really know what their checklist consists of, but I assume it goes something like this: Elastic waistband? Check. Equal-sized leg holes? Check. Enough support for even the most massive schlong? Check. Plus, underwear inspectors don't have to deal with the public. They deal with the pubic. Har-har-har.

-Amy Winehouse's Personal Assistant. I love Amy Winehouse and feel inexplicably protective toward her. I think she is insanely talented and insanely troubled. My fear is that she is going down the Janis Joplin road. I'd love to be Amy's assistant: trailing her all over London in order to shield her from the paparazzi, making 3 a.m. runs to 7/11 for candy and smokes, holding her hair back while she pukes. As an added benefit, you know that Amy gets the goooooooood shit, and she'd totally share.

-Pooper Scooper. I don't mind poo at all. It's a natural byproduct of being a living, food-dependent creature. Given these feelings, is there any more Zen-like job than professional pooper scooper? Some of these people make surprising amounts of money (I saw one ad offering $22 an hour!), and all they have to do is mosey around your backyard with a nifty contraption that collects caca. Dog, cat, rabbit, monkey...it doesn't matter. Poop is poop, and those who make it their business have a damn cushy job.

-Late-Night Cable Talk Show Host. Oh how I would love to have my own nighttime chat show on cable. It would have to be on cable since I would insist on a forum that allowed both my potty mouth and nude male dancers. The show wouldn't be tacky, though, in spite of the prodigious use of the F word and prominently-featured features of the go-go boys. I imagine an intimate setting, no studio audience, low moody lighting, and big comfy La-Z-Boy chairs. I would sit down with movie stars, singers, politicians, artists, and writers and would become known for asking the most unique, probing questions. Things like, "Tell us, Loni Anderson, who was the biggest slut on WKRP?" and "Dame Judi Dench, would you please satisfy our viewers and show us your boobies?". You know, important stuff.

-Sommelier. This one would be a toughie because I don't drink, but there's got to be a way to make it happen. When I was an imbiber, wine was always my favorite; a good merlot was better than any drug. And even with those days long behind me, the intricacies and biographies of wine still fascinate. I actually went so far as to find a school that teaches aspiring sommeliers, The Wine School of Philadelphia. You just know they have a rockin' graduation party.

-Angelina and Brad's Seventh Child. As I write this, Angelina Jolie is pregnant with twins, her fifth and sixth children. If I could find a way for she and Brad Pitt to make me their seventh, I'd be set for life. My mommy and daddy would be gazillionaires, as well as humanitarians and Goodwill peace ambassadors. I have no qualms about shamelessly fabricating a tortured past: my Arctic village was burned to the ground by a drunken Mrs. Claus when I was just a child, and I've been subsisting on seal blubber and polar bear milk ever since. Adopt me, Brangelina!

In closing, if anyone knows where I can pick up applications for any of these jobs, please email me. I am an expert multi-tasker with solid references. I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thank you for your time.

Where It's At: Redux

So I didn't get fired today. And I didn't quit.

In fact, I didn't even get the "talking to" I was so anticipating.

I did talk to the "big boss", though, and told her that despite what she may have heard, I have good reasons for my actions. I gently reminded her that there are always two sides to every story. She responded by telling me that she didn't know how to respond. That she wanted to take the weekend to think it over.

In the company for which I work, this is lingo for, "I hope you forget about this over the weekend so we don't have to worry about it anymore."

If only I could.

If only.

Where It's At

"An unfulfilled vocation drains the color from a man's entire existence." -Honoré de Balzac

"When people go to work, they shouldn't have to leave their hearts at home." -Betty Bender


It's here.

Judgment Day.

My Judgment Day. Tomorrow.

Years ago, my therapist handed me a slip of paper (which I still have) that contained a gentle reminder. The words are meant to help shatter my cycle of unfulfillment: the mad spiraling in which I have often found myself. It reads, "I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. And that is where it's at."

That is where it's at.

In my apparently-outrageous attempts to do my job well, I have stepped on one too many toes, bruised one too many egos, and refused to take part in any childish games. It seems I have offended someone in a position of power at my place of employment, and for that I will pay. Tomorrow I am expecting yet another "talking to".

I've never found myself in a situation like this before. I have been damn good at all the jobs I've ever held, and my current job is no exception. Anyone who knows me understands that if I do something wrong, or handle something inappropriately, I am the first person to fess up. I have no problem admitting I made a mistake. I have no problem apologizing.

But in the issues at hand, I made no mistakes whatsoever. I've handled myself with professionalism and skill from day one, and I am simply not responsible for how someone else -- even an authority figure -- might interpret my actions. In fact, I think I've successfully handled everything that has come across my desk in the last eight months, despite working for a company that is structurally and operationally a total disaster. I wholeheartedly and unwaveringly stand by every decision I've made.

I must remember this tomorrow during my "talking to". I must remember that I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. It behooves no one for me to apologize and atone for things I've done, when those things require no apology or atonement. Tasks were done effectively; they do not demand an explanation or a defense. I must hold fast to this. I must tell my truth in an assertive, professional manner. I must stay calm. I must quash the desire to apologize and be made into the bad guy, just so someone else can feel better about their own position. I don't owe anything to anyone, except the truth.

Will I be fired? Probably not. Will I be so shaken that I walk out? Possibly.

But what I must remember...what I must always remember...is this:

I live my life in accordance to principles that are false. And that is where it's at.

While You Were Sleeping: 10 Great Films You May Have Missed

With the slew of craptastic movies that are released every year, it's easy to overlook some of the good ones. Tucked between the blood-and-guts gorefests and mindless, soulless shtick displays, there are many quality films that didn't find their proper audience, yet remain truly well-done works of art. I've assembled a list (hurray, another list!) of ten movies you may have missed the first time around.

10. Afterglow (1997). This is the only entry on my list that could honestly be called a shitty film. So why, you are asking, does it deserve a spot here? Well, two words: Julie Christie. Christie takes this Alan Parker-written and -directed snooze-o-rama and lifts it to the realm of magic by the sheer force of her performance alone. I've never encountered a film so transformed by a single actor's work. Christie makes watchable this silly tale of two couples who unknowingly swap spouses. Yet there's something more at work here: a tour-de-force presence that dominates the entire landscape of the movie with deftness and style. While everything else about this film may be a great heaping pile of ash, Christie is the magnificently glowing ember keeping it all afloat.

9. The Sweet Hereafter (1997). Though it was a critic's darling, "The Sweet Hereafter" seemed to fall by the wayside of the general moviegoing public. It's the brave, smart, devastatingly sad character study of the denizens of a small Canadian town in the aftermath of a tragic school bus accident. Fueled by inspired writing and direction (by Atom Egoyan) and dynamite performances, this is one of those rare films that gets under your skin and stays there. "The Sweet Hereafter" implores us to study our own ideas of grief and forgiveness, and, as a result, reminds us how everything can change in an instant: a poetic call to better embrace each and every moment.

8. Now, Voyager (1942). This may be the great Bette Davis's finest hour. Though "Now, Voyager" is rightfully regarded as a classic, I'm shocked by the number of people who've never even heard of it. In an age of overblown melodramas, it stands out as a sincere, restrained mapping of one woman's emotional transformation from ugly duckling to gilded swan. Davis shines as Charlotte Vale, making each step of her voyage a thrilling, brave lesson in discovering our own unique nature. The legendary final scene alone is worth taking the journey: Paul Henreid, lighting two cigarettes, hands one to a radiant, teary-eyed Davis, beneath the glittering stars.

7. 8 Women/8 Femmes (2002). A musical like you've never seen before. Director/adapter Francois Ozon adds a delicious twist on the classic murder mystery with catchy songs and a brilliant all-female cast consisting of some of the greatest actresses in French cinema. Headed by the insanely sexy Catherine Deneuve, "8 Women" has a ball with its old-hat whodunit: Who killed Daddy?...with rollicking, contagious song-and-dance numbers! And trust me, even though it's in French, you'll be humming these songs long after the mystery is solved.

6. Eve's Bayou (1997). Virtually ignored at the box office, "Eve's Bayou" is a startlingly unique story of love, redemption, and black magic in the Deep South of the early 1960s. Writer/director Kasi Lemmons turns her lens on the turbulent world of a well-to-do African-American family in rural Louisiana, examining the complex web of relationships surrounding the family patriarch, Dr. Louis Batiste (Samuel L. Jackson). The story unfolds through the eyes of the middle Batiste child, the precocious Eve (a brilliant Jurnee Smollett). The film holds its finest moments, however, when focused on Louis's sister Mozelle, played with electric ferocity and emotional nakedness by Debbi Morgan. Morgan's performance is nothing short of astounding and aids in further elevating "Eve's Bayou" to the realm of a modern film classic.

5. "Mourning Becomes Electra" (1947). The central family in this story may well be the most dysfunctional in the history of motion pictures. Based on Eugene O'Neill's 1931 play, "Mourning Becomes Electra" is the emotionally complex and psychologically fascinating story of the Mannon family, a post-Civil War, well-to-do New England clan. The plot is an updating of the classic Greek myth "The Oresteia", so it's not without its fair share of murder, mayhem, greed, incest, adultery, vengeance, and, of course, fate. But damn: it's oh-so-much-fun! Rosalind Russell is riveting as daughter Lavinia, Michael Redgrave is graceful and sexy as brother Orin, and Katina Paxinou is divinely bitchy as matriarch Christine. If you see it for no other reason than to feel better about your own messed-up kin, it's time well spent.

4. "The Turning Point" (1977). Two aging dancers, one still hoofing it onstage every night (Anne Bancroft), the other now a homemaker (Shirley MacLaine), meet up after a lengthy separation and all the triumphs, recriminations, and turbulence of their former friendship are reignited. Sound like the latest Lifetime Movie-of-the-Week? Well, it ain't. Thanks to flawless performances from MacLaine and Bancroft, the soap operatic elements of "The Turning Point" are turned into scene after scene of intense emotion and painful, palpable regret. Their catfight scene alone is worth a viewing: no two actresses could've turned such a Dynasty-esque moment into something so raw, so explosive, and so real.

3. "One True Thing" (1998). Despite the mega-wattage of Meryl Streep, William Hurt, and Ms. Squinty Face herself, Renee Zellweger, "One True Thing" failed to find it's niche among audiences. And that's sort of understandable, since it ranks in a class of its own: an intelligent, sincere tearjerker that manages to neither pander to our tear ducts, or fall into the traps of insincere melodrama. In fact, that's what makes "One True Thing" so affecting: it is utterly, completely honest. Zellweger's Ellen is asked to care for her terminally ill mother, the once-vivacious Kate (Streep), who is a Homemaker with a capital "h" and puts Martha Stewart to shame. The women's relationship has always been strained at best, Ellen much preferring the company of her professor father (the wonderful Hurt). But Ellen slowly learns that not only are things not always what they seem, especially in Happy Family Life, but that sometimes your One True Thing is that person, place, or thing you'd least expect. And this is simply one of my favorite Meryl performances. I defy anyone to make it through the "Silent Night" scene without at least one emotional breakdown.

2. "Fearless" (1993). Peter Weir's brilliant "Fearless" is one of those movies that I want to tell everyone to see. It must be experienced to be fully understood. The film revolves around Max (a masterful Jeff Bridges), a plane crash survivor, and his relationship with his family and fellow survivors -- one in particular, Carla (Rosie Perez). Bridges work here is among the best ever captured on film, and Perez matches him step by step with her devastating, genius performance. It's one of those movies that reaffirms life, all the while staring into the face of darkness and death. I guess you can say it's a metaphor to what each and every one of us experience every day of our lives: the will to go on, to heal, to fear.

1. "Dogville" (2003) & "Manderlay" (2005). Leave it to my favorite director, Lars Von Trier, to craft two entire films without sets (they are both filmed in big, black-painted warehouses), without fanfare (minimal music, no fancy camera work or special effects), and without fear ("Dogville" deals with a woman's ostracization by her society; "Manderlay" profiles a Southern plantation where slavery is still in fashion -- in the 1930s; oh, and they're both mesmerizing allegories of contemporary American politics). Both of these movies are extraordinarily original and possess a boldness not seen in modern film. Relying on subtle lighting changes and the talent of the actors at hand, Von Trier creates two masterpieces that can be held up (along with most of his other movies), as stunning examples of what defines great filmmaking.

Book Review: "Lord of Scoundrels" by Loretta Chase

Romance novelists have a thankless job.

One might assume that romance novelists spend their sunny days holed up (no pun intended) in immaculately-appointed, chintz-covered parlors, pitter-patting away on their computers, amongst heaps of love letters and the lingering scents of lilac and rose. They may occasionally sip some Evian from a goblet of Lalique crystal, or reach for a box of Christopher Norman chocolates sent by an adoring lover. All the while, a strategically-concealed Bose sound system spills out violin sonatas or Callas arias: musical honey to inspire the romantic soul and the pen that translates it.

Well, I don't think I'm taking much of a risk here by saying that this isn't how most romance novelists write. I speak from experience, since I'm still hacking and kvetching and throwing my hands in the air over the romance novel I myself am writing. Or attempting to write.

Most of us sit in our darkened dens of creativity, trying not to nod off in the blue light of the computer screen, struggling to ignore the screaming baby on another floor, or the ear-splitting street noise rising up from below. We may reach for our cold Sanka from time to time, in between swatting the cats off the keyboard and wondering which one didn't make it to the litterbox in order to create that awful stench lingering in the air. And in between all of this, we fearless romance novelists must not only write amorous, entertaining stories: we must take an age-old formula and wrap it in sparkly new clothes.

For that's what the great majority of romance writing is: adhering to the accepted, stamped-and-approved, age-old Formula of the Romance Novel, while trying to make the elements of the story fresh and entertaining. You'd think this might be easy, since you're embarking upon a story that's been written hundreds of thousands of times before; you just have to dress it up a bit. But trust me, it's not this simple. It's like attempting to write with an invisible ghost (Dame Barbara Cartland perhaps?) fiendishly judging your every keystroke. And she's a ruthless literary commandant who answers only to Fabio.

If I'm making it sound impossible to write a decent romance, let me just clarify that there are some well-written ones out there. Just as in any genre of literature, there are, in romance, writers with varying degrees of talent and skill. I've read some truly exceptional romance novels, like "The Spymaster's Lady" by Joanna Bourne and "Nightrose" by Dorothy Garlock.

I've read some mediocre ones, like "Nobody's Darling" by Teresa Medeiros and "The Wolf of Haskell Hall" by Colleen Shannon.

And I have read some really, really stinky ones, like "Savage Heat" by Cassie Edwards and "The Demon's Daughter" by Emma Holly.

Since I have undertaken writing a romance novel, I have studied the usual romance novel formula. It's typically something along the lines of: Hero and Heroine meet, Hero and Heroine spar, Hero and Heroine secretly want one another, Hero and Heroine have wild monkey sex, Hero and Heroine get married and live happily ever after. There is usually some type of subplot going on, involving a bad guy(s) trying to thwart the lovers. At times, these subplots can work quite well. At others, they can be distracting and viewed as nothing more than filler material. Most romances, after all, are nearly 400 paperback pages. The above-outlined formula can be accomplished in, say, about a dozen, making filler material a requirement for a book-length manuscript.

All of the landmines that romance novelists encounter can be transcended with one thing and one thing only: good writing. If a romance novelist knows how to write well and tell a story with respect and flair, it can lift the entire tired old story to the status of art form.

This is what I experienced while reading "Lord of Scoundrels", an historical romance by Loretta Chase, originally published in 1995 (and recently reissued). I was referred to Chase's writing by a trustworthy source in all things Romance Novel, as a writer who is truly at the top of her game. Chase is able to take The Formula and dress it in those sparkly new clothes, just by way of her strong skills as a writer and storyteller.

"Scoundrels" is the story of Lord Dain (the sexy, troubled scoundrel) and Jessica Trent (the snappy, stubborn heroine). The Formula is of course at work here: they meet, they spar, they flirt, they fuck, they save the day. All of that is nothing new. What was new to me was the talent with which Chase is able to get into the minds of her characters. Let's face it: falling in love is the most illogical, indescribable thing in the world. Making it happen in a believable, natural way is a momentous task.

But Loretta Chase meets that task with panache. She is able to convincingly and fluidly shift perspective between her hero and heroine, giving almost voyeuristic access to their every thought, desire, and hesitation. She imbues her iron-willed characters with such vulnerable humanity that every step of their unfolding love comes off as both believable and understandable.

She even handles the subplot requirement with deftness. The subplot, revolving around some of Dain's double-crossing friends, his skanky ex-lover, and the search for a precious piece of artwork, is fleshed out enough to be memorable and interesting, but not overpowering to the story at hand. In true soap opera style, there's even an illegitimate son flitting around the heart of the tale, and Chase uses this as not a cheap gimmick, but a plausible way to further illustrate her hero's emotional journey. Though the story itself is nothing new or revolutionary, Chase's talent as a writer skillfully makes us forget that fact.

One more thing I really enjoyed about "Lord of Scoundrels": the sex scenes. But not for reasons you might think. You see, out of all the romance novels I've read, this one has the fewest, sparest love scenes. Chase does not find it necessary to go on for page after page about the absolute physical perfection of her characters in coitus. She's more focused on the story she's telling, and the moments of sex, while beautifully written, are not the driving force (once again, no pun intended) here. I think this is a testament to the author's considerable talent: she's not relying on trite romance novel buzzwords ("rosy bud", "stiff rod", "Venus mound", et. al.) and soft-core porn to make her story work.

"Scoundrels" is not without its problems, though. There were three minor issues I had with the book. One is the cover. While it's true that romance novelists have no say in what the covers of their books will look like, the cover of the reissue I read sadly missed the mark. It's all pastel blues and greens and pinks, all watercolors and soft angles. The portraits of the hero and heroine looked nothing like their physical descriptions, or at least not how I had envisioned them. The "gauziness" of the artwork is misleading to the story: these are two feisty, opinionated characters represented as sappy, wistful lovers. I'd hoped for something darker, more in keeping with the personalities of the hero and heroine and the general moodiness of their story.

Another issue I had was the nearly unreadable Cockney vernacular used by one of Dain's servants. I hate, absolutely hate, reading dialog that attempts to mimic a regional accent. It's impossible, even coming from a writer as skilled as Chase, what with all the dropped letters and made-up gibberish. The only romance novelist I've encountered who is a true master at portraying these dialects, without mangling letters and spellings, is Joanne Bourne. Bourne is able to create regional dialect with an unexplainable ease (to better grasp this, read "The Spymaster's Lady").

The last problem I had was Chase's decision to make one of her villains a -- gasp! -- bisexual. Or at least, his bisexuality is hinted at. LGBT people get enough flack. Can't we at least be the sassy best friend in a romance novel? Why make us villains, as so many books, movies, and television shows have done for decades?

These are minor roadblocks, though. I only wish all romance novels were as expertly-executed as "Lord of Scoundrels". Loretta Chase proves that not only can oily-hunk-covered, five-buck paperbacks be entertaining...but skillfully written as well.

No Country for Old Meh

OK. Now I consider myself a pretty astute and intelligent filmgoer. When I watch a movie, I am not simply observing an interplay of characters on a screen. I watch films through several different lenses: I (try) to see the director's vision, the writer's intentions, the actors abilities; these are just a few examples of how I digest a film. And I give all movies an equal shake on this; my multi-faceted scrutiny is not reserved just for "highbrow" films: I apply it to the largest grandest epic to the most silly slapstick comedy.

Approaching film-watching in this manner typically results in a more balanced critique. Like, the story may have sucked but the actors made it watchable. Or, the actors came off as community theater rejects but the end titles were in a nice font. You see my point. There are very few movies I outright hate -- or outright love.

And there are even fewer that outright confuse me.

Like most sharp-minded, red-blooded human beings, I hate looking like a dumbass. Especially when it comes to a subject in which I consider myself a bit of an aficionado, like movies. When a particular film is lauded with critical praise, heaps of awards, and the acclaim of millions of moviegoers, and I see the flick and just don't get it, I feel kinda dumb. What did I miss? What didn't I see, that clearly everyone else saw? It makes me feel as if there's some great joke that I haven't been let in on.

The latest movie in which I missed the punchline in a big, big way is "No Country for Old Men". Last night, I settled in to watch this film, all ready to enjoy a rollicking, highly original piece of art as only the Coen brothers can produce. And, 122 minutes later, I was left with one feeling and one feeling only about this multiple Oscar winner, critic's darling, and box office smash. I was left with "Meh".

Allow me to attempt a translation of "Meh" as applied to "No Country for Old Men".

The movie wasn't bad. The movie wasn't good. But I suppose I failed at seeing it through the lens of the directors' vision, since I didn't really see much of anything at all happening. Granted, this stark simplicity is a Coen brothers trademark: their films tend to move slowly though methodically, introducing fascinating and unique characters along the way, presenting deliciously dark and twisted moments of intensity, leading up to an unforgettable climax. Though I couldn't identify any of these elements in "No Country". It's more aimless than slow. The characters are more one-dimensional than human. And the usual dark humor and memorable climax were missing altogether.

But I know this is what some people liked about the movie. They enjoyed that the Coens stepped out of their "violent black comedy" genre and made a movie that was entirely different for them. A) It's the first time they presented an adaptation of someone else's work; "No Country" is based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy, and though I haven't read the book, most agree that it is a faithful, almost identical reworking of the novel. B) The movie eschews their usual dark and bloody humor for dramatic and deathly-serious mayhem, the consensus being that this is the first interpretation of "real life" the Coens have given us without clever, quirky little commentaries. And C) "Hurrah!" Hollywood seems to be shouting. "You've finally abandoned your artsy-fartsy ways and given us the guns and blood and explosions the world so desperately needs!"

Well. I don't need it. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer the riskier, darker, wonderfully wicked Coen brothers that gave the world such American masterpieces as "Blood Simple" and the amazing "Fargo". Don't get me wrong, all of the Coen's movies are violent and bloody and extreme, but in their pre-"No Country" work, it's typically in aid of a higher purpose: painting a certain picture of a certain community of endearingly oddball characters in moments of sinfully entertaining crisis. To me, "No Country for Old Men" seemed to be violent only for the sake of violence, and any hope of the Coen brother's usual wit was substituted with a pretty ho-hum story of a bunch of bad guys chasing each other for a bunch of money. Meh.

Normally by this point in a movie review, I would've given you a synopsis of what the movie is about. But if you reread the second-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph, you pretty much have the gist of it. There's nothing new here. There's nothing surprising. There's nothing revolutionary. And there's nothing I found even remotely unique.

So why all the praise? Why all the unabashed adoration for this film? Sure, it's the Coen brothers and they are a respected cinematic institution. Yes, the actors all do fine work here (Javier Bardem is a stand-out -- and somehow manages to still look incredibly sexy even with that ridiculous bowl-haircut; and I am a big fan of Tommy Lee Jones, I think he's the most underrated and underappreciated actor in movies today...plus he reminds me of my dad). Yup, the cinematography is great and adds to the overall mood of ruthless desert bedlam. Of course, with the Coen's adaptation of the great McCarthy's words, the script and (surprisingly sparse) dialog are commendable. So yeah, I can see giving a nod to "No Country" for being an acceptable departure from the Coen's usual work. But this movie was a critical and commercial blockbuster! And I totally missed why! Argh.

I think it's in order that I watch "Fargo" again tonight, just to remind myself of the many, many reasons why Joel and Ethan Coen are masters of their craft.