Good Monday to you, dear reader. Hello from Saturday’s March on Colorado Springs, where seriousness and a bit of levity walked in harmony. We represented pretty well for a smaller sized city, with about 7,000 women, men, children, and pooches marching proudly for a shared love of our fine nation, the rights of ALL people, and the sacredness of our one Mother Earth. Praise be!

Some highlights:

The black mother and her children, walking with signs that said, “I MATTER!” and the myriad people giving them the thumbs-up.

I (and many others) thanked every police officer present for helping keep everything orderly and safe. Their response? “Thank you!”

The sweet family handing out bagels. The hubster and I shared one. YUM!

The girl gazing at the crowd in awe and exclaiming, “This makes me so happy!”

The signs: The Fempire Strikes Back :: Don’t Tread on My Rights :: I’m Here for the Women! :: Girls Just Want to Have Fundamental Rights :: My Daughters Deserve Better :: A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance.

Our signs were less creative, but no less sincere: Power to the Peaceful! :: Justice * Equality * Prosperity – FOR ALL.

For those who share the opinions of Christy and Chondra on Facebook who felt the march was foolish and are privileged enough to live with security, comfort, and choice, I pray that, should your bubble ever burst, you fall gently on the shoulders of those marching for the rights of us ALL and not in the pit so many of our less fortunate brothers and sisters are currently attempting to climb from.

And a final word on President Trump. If he honestly exhibited respect for truth and dignity and TRUE Christian values, I would gladly support him. Over his 70 years on the planet, I have only seen otherwise.

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Slow West – A wealthy boy from Scotland travels to America (Colorado, in fact!) to find his love, Rose. Unbeknownst to him, Rose has a price on her head, and his quest to reunite is unwittingly leading a pack of killers right to her door. The sweetness of first love, the innocence of youth, the wickedness of cynicism and greed. Beautifully filmed, not in my fair state of Colorado but New Zealand. It does a bang up job at imitation!

 

Lovesick – the first time I wrote about this series, it was called Scrotal Recall. The name is is a softer version of its slightly vulgar former self, but the story remains the same, a man looking for love while contacting a list of mates he’d once slept with. It’s funnier now, the hubster and I both agree, thanks to Angus! Watch and see.

The End of the Tour – Based on David Lipsky’s five day trip with David Foster Wallace, their conversations on writing, life, and being. I have read David Foster Wallace, though not the book of the tour, Infinite Jest (I am mightily preparing for it as a result of seeing the film – soon!), and was not expecting this softness, this caring, this joy, though the last sentence of this quotation should have at least given me an inkling. It was a marvelous gift, really.

The Moaning of Life – Carl Pilkington travels the world to experience how different cultures approach the biggest questions in life. As with anything Carl does, it is thoughtful, irreverent, and full of laughs! Take, for instance, the giant Twix package in the photo. It’s a coffin for Carl and his love, Suzanne.

Galaxy Quest – An oldie the hubster and I couldn’t believe we hadn’t seen. Aliens, after believing a television show was real, take the disgruntled actors to their world help them save it from destruction.

Morris from America – He’s a black kid living in Germany. He barely speaks the language. He struggles to see eye to eye with his father. He likes rap. He’s in love with a girl who is out of his league. He is Morris from America.

The Family Fang –  Two adult children of outlandish performance artists attempt to determine if their apparent murder is just another stunt. Fascinating! Jason Bateman stars and directs, impressive.

Sensitive Skin – Kim Cattrall stars in this poignant and often funny glimpse at a couple’s attempt to stay relevant. It is a thought provoking look at aging, marriage, and the aftermath of death.

The Nice Guys – Two private detectives, one a shyster who would be completely lost without his daughter, the other on the brutish side, join forces to find a missing girl and solve the mystery of a murdered porn star. A very fine nod to Elmore Leonard.

And, finally, Only Lovers Left Alive, which I reviewed here, but we watched it again last night, and the magical day we first saw it is worth revisiting. The act of revisiting also got me thinking about mid-life, more precisely mine, and how I am looking backward as much as forward now. I am savoring the memories of a multitude of ordinary days, knowing full well that their collection and care are what make life extraordinary. It is why I am here, literally, in the blogosphere. I want to see where I have been, what I have felt, and who I was with with the simple click of a mouse. Hard evidence. And what a joy it is, both the writing and the gazing. Then there is YOU, dear reader, an interesting and delightful side benefit. Thank you for being and for being here, too.

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Quilt

I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.

Lewis Carroll

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Silently

The most truly generous persons are those who give silently without hope of praise or reward.

Carol Ryrie Brink

 

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Last night Joy Division was on a constant loop, on the hi-fi and my mind’s eye. Positively agog that this music has been a steady part of my being for more than thirty years. What, whaaat? T H I R T Y.

I sat, joyfully awash in the memories elicited.

Of staying up late, hunched over my desk, doing homework, music low. Other times, the joyous solitude of listening for the sake of it, to grasp the meaning, scribbling words and ideas in notebooks, pinning them on walls and doors, of dancing by myself wrapped in the sheer pleasure, of attempting to drown the noise of a loud house and an even louder family.

Of being an outsider, neither a punk nor a waver, neither a stoner nor a jock, neither a nerd nor a cheerleader, but skirting the territories, knowing each as a person and friend, beloved, crafting the finest patchwork quilt of companions, threads of kindness in my wake. Proving some things never change. Be who you are. Love and do as you like, just show me your kindness, your heart, and we can be friends.

Unpredictable me. Clothes preppy and new wave, loafers and buckle shoes, never a sock. Obsessed with skulls and so much black, save around the eyes. Makeup light, bangs high, then the bob I would have for years, sometimes bangs, sometimes not, shoulder to chin and back again. Honor roll student doing donuts in my friend’s Charger, fast, faster, I laughed wildly while he whimpered like the baby I was purported to be. French student of the year who occasionally got high, drank practically never, save to taste. My first cocktail was a Lynchburg Lemonade, further proving some things never change. I do like whiskey best. Designated driver and caretaker, I got people safely home, handed out bowls to vomit in, and practically ran a therapist’s office out of my car.

My car! I worked long hours and saved for years, fast food and bussing tables, finally having enough Christmas break senior year of high school. 1981 Toyota Celica, five speeds and the freedom to do what I please. My music. My Thoughts. My whims. Mostly in darkness, when I reflect, whizzing and crawling along the back roads of Arvada, Boulder, and the mountains beyond. The Sex Lights and searching for possessed goats. Driving to parties, the Westminster Mall. The highway downtown to be among the skateboarders, outsider again, my favorite, wickedly handsome with a foot tall mohawk and bad manners. But, goll-ee, to watch him skate, the grace and lightness of fine articulated limbs.

Later, at night, to wander among the warehouses, under viaducts, places long gone. To smoke – stupidly, for a year – Camels and the fanciest black cloves at Paris on the Platte, sip a Cafe Jacques, or, on more brazen evenings, a Crowbar, plied with enough caffeine to open the eyes of the dead. Other times it was Muddy’s, darker, quiet and moodier, too, whispering among ceiling-high books, nursing a chocolaccino, delicate sprinkle of cinnamon on top.

Music was the undercurrent of it all, often misunderstood and mocked by friends, yet what held us together, too. Those dark hours, adding up to days and months, driving and talking, the music never stopped. Joy Division. The Doors. The Cure. U2. New Order. INXS. Lou Reed. The Clash. Eazy-E. The Rolling Stones. The Beastie Boys. The Psychedelic Furs. Echo and the Bunnymen. The Smiths. Modern English. General Public. More I can’t remember. More I choose to forget.

 

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