No One Belongs Here More Than Me

It must have been about two months ago. One of the four friends who read this thing (hello!) and I found ourselves in a heated debate about Little Miss Sunshine and Miranda July.

Him: That whole, look at me, I'm Miranda July, I'm so quirky- at least Little Miss Sunshine was humorous-

Her: Little Miss Sunshine was a typically written three act structure that pretended to be indie because it had the right soundtrack and caricatures of characters

(His eyes roll. Did she really just say "three act structure?")

Him: I'm not saying it's a movie that's going to change your life- I'm saying it's a fun movie. It wasn't great, but it was certainly okay.

Her: It was dreadful! It was totally pretentious!

Him: Oh and Me and her and everyone who sucks was so much better? Miranda July is all about the LA superficially whimsical image-

Her: At least her movie was different- and the perfect example, the two children-

Him: Yeah, so?

Her: I think the best way to judge a director is on how well the children are acting.

Him: The little girl in Little Miss Sunshine gave a very realistic performance, I thought.

Her: She was over acting up a storm! She was incredibly obnoxious! Whereas the boy in Me You and Everyone We Know-

Him: Was totally unrealistic. The girl in Little Miss Sunshine was over acting because children over act. She was obnoxious because children are obnoxious. So often what adults think is a good child performance, like that Buddha child in July's movie, is only a child acting the way we wish children were. But they're not- they're attention seeking, irritating, flawed human beings.

And suddenly my blood boiled. Because he'd made a very good point. Dang. But as far as the rest of the argument went, I still felt right. And suddenly I even felt personally defensive for Miranda July.

Her: Look, just because you don't like LA doesn't mean that you have to hate a good artist who comes from a bad place. Wes Anderson lives in LA as well.

Him: You know I'm right- why don't you just stop arguing? You know I'm right.

Her: You're not right, you're just not listening.

Him: (smiles, satisfied.)

But of course, I am presenting my side of the argument alone. But it left this inkling in me- was Miranda July no more than a wolf in Sheep's clothing? An insubstantial LA caricature?

No One Belongs Here More Than You is a collection of short stories just recently added to my and my partner's bookshelf. On the front cover is a woman, face down on a pillow, her hair in a perfect middle part down the back. A friend who's opinion is usually quite respectable was so passionately opposed to her, that I had started to question whether I should own this book to read it- or simply to make him angry when he came over and saw it on my bookshelf. But after my partner read a few stories, he said it was right up my alley.

I've had this inkling about July for a while- not that I loved Me You and Everyone We Know. I certainly thought it was enjoyable, and a very promising start for her career, and even pretty good, but it didn't blow me out of the water. (I suppose much the same way that my nemesis/friend felt about Little Miss Sunshine) but her stories seem to say what the film couldn't possibly. Miranda July is a rising star- yes- but most importantly she may be one of the first famous female misfits in a while.

Okay, Misfit, Odd Duck, you've heard me use all of these addages before- referring to John Guare specifically, who is less well known and therefore a cooler person to point out to my blog readers. And there are other famous misfits- Woody Allen and Wes Anderson for example- A famous misfit is more than just strange- they are so completely themselves that they'll never get away from it, no matter what and who they write or how hard they try. There is as much Miranda July in an old woman who is in love with Prince William as there is Woody Allen in a doctor who is in love with a sheep. It's as though art were a glass of water, and these artists add a few drops of themselves to anything they write- it spreads out in the glass, faintly colouring the liquid- just ever so slightly there.

Right- well I'm a bit obsessed with people like these. They are often/always my favourite writers and film makers (F Scott, Murakami and Salinger no doubt apply) because when I watch their films, or read their novels, I feel as though they have completely and totally accepted who they are - and they can't get away from it. More than accepted who they are, they can't escape who they are- I once wrote about Steve Martin on this blog- I said I'd missed his wicked ways from his youth- and worse, I feel now as though Martin has become some strange approximation, imitation of himself in later years. You see, I'll be bold here, and say that I think that this "accepting who you are" thing- no doubt tied in with a writer's voice- is psychological as well as artistic. ? I wonder if it's the path to success- not trying to be someone else. As Daniel MacIvor once said to me in an interview, "You don't have to be everything to be enough."

There's a lot of truth in what she does- I don't know, maybe it's not all great, but it's all her. And it's nice to read someone just being themselves. Writing starts with the writer, after all.

I like mixed cds.

When I was younger I went through a terrible phase of regifiting mixed tapes on birthdays and calling them "mystery tapes." I seem to remember this was mostly because I was amused by the idea of a mystery anything- be it tape or otherwise, but oh, that joke was surely not funny enough to be bought at the price of ever lasting nostalgia. Some of those mixed tapes would be dated now- to be sure- I doubt I'd be as impressed by a Greenday song or Bob Marley's redemption song now as I was then- but I do miss the year that I gave Tim Butters "spaced out" for Christmas (featuring the vocal wanderings of one Mr. William Shatner and Mr. Leonard Nimoy long before that sort of thing was the university craze) and nearly every second song on a mix he gave me was sung by one of the intergalactic rock stars.

(Someone just returned High Fidelity at the video store where I sneakily type this rumination- that must be the Gods blessing the celebration of Mixed Cds.)

But to bring it all back home- away from high school nostalgia, and into the present, where a mixed tape is only ever made by those so hip they own reel to reels (nothing wrong with that mind you, but it is a bit of a production- if someone goes to all of the trouble of making you a tape- finding a tape- sitting with a tape- they want you think they are really cool. And they probably also want to date you.) Although so many a hardcore tape follower will complain about the accessibility, the convenience of a mixed cd- it is that very accessibility and convenience that make them very acceptable as commodities to be exchanged between friends, without any suspicious subtext. And heck, I still listen to them from start to finish. Only once have I skipped a song- when embarassingly All Saints came on in the video store (sorry Andy, I couldn't take that trip down memory lane with you- the rest of the cd was excellent, however). Other than that, I appreciate transitions, I know that they are far easier to create if you've got itunes- and even if there aren't the same amount of blood sweat and tears as in a tape- there is some thought- and it's the thought that counts.

So while I listen to a country version of some mainstream pop song that I can't remember the name of, and look forward to the next few tracks of goodness- I just want to thank technology for making an easy way for us to share music, and to somehow feel responsible for great songs simply because we thought to put them on a cd. It's nice when thoughtful can be different from romantic. Though if my lovely mcbride is reading this- I wouldn't refuse a colourfully patterned mixed cd. As long as it came with a kiss.

*I had a fever and was supposed to be working at the video store while I wrote this. Being sick at work is kind of fun- it's like living out the dream of being drunk at work, worry free.

Procrasination- one of those sneaky things ending in "-ation"

In my kitchen, checking my email again, trying to ween myself off of facebook by going on myspace, trying to ween myself off of myspace by checking my email, trying to ween myself off of email by- no, Not trying to ween myself off of email at all. But expecting nugget after nugget of friends' well wishing wisdom to flood forth from my computer screen, too manana to write back. My email account starts to seem like a pick and mix of best friend samples- and me, takin and takin without any givin'. This is worse than procrastination- it's just plain selfish.

But wait- it gets worse- my flatmate James comes into the room bearing a container of jelly bellies. "My sister was just in America" he says as my eyes lit up. He good naturedly puts them on the kitchen table, signalling that they are for the flat to share- but to the detriment of the many, when he leaves I start eating them by the handful- potent and unpleasant flavour combinations filling my mouth. Grape coffee? Truly, if that were a good idea Starbucks would have patented it ages ago.

But no no no, I'm not here to tell you about light fixtures or anything else. I am here, in this blogging room, to diversify the way that I procrastinate. And rather than continue putting my relationship with my flatmates at perril by reading my own blog and eating jelly beans (what, I ask you what, could be more self indulgent?) I thought I'd continue this internet conversation and say something.

I- .... hm. I- ... crap. (I'm at a loss for words. Gawd, this is even more self indulgent.)

Okay, okay, I've got it- I recently read a very good book! Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, an excellent example of Murakami's Magic Realism- he skilfully creates a world in which the most fantastical things can happen, but where characters are well drawn enough that the fantastical things come as a total shock- as though they were happening in reality and not in some fictional sci fi universe. Think Charlie Kaufmann but way better and in a novel. He is, well, he's really great. You should all buy the book now.

Oh man, now I have a stomach ache. I wasn't kidding about those jelly bellies. What a bad idea. What a bad idea. What a-

Sorry. This blog will self destruct in ten seconds.

10, 9. 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, ....

Nothing happened? I guess now you're disappointed in more ways than....1! (zAZOOM!)

Still nothing happened? oh. Ok.

Fine. Truth is, I am supposed to be writing three script reports and a theatre review. But I meant all that about the Murakami. When I finished that book I felt the sadness of a best friend moving away. Something so comforting finished. Like a perfectly perfect day.

PS: The next post will be better. Really. Maybe tomorrow- or Wednesday? I could do Thursday, possibly... well, just, some time in the future. You'll see. My next post will be so wonderful that it will jump off of the computer screen, emerge as a wise old man, and tell you a tale that will break your heart. It will be the best blog posting that ever there was. transcendent. splendent. Mendent. Word-creating. Next time. - just you wait. Just you....

(You read a post titled Procrastination. What were you expecting? Mozart?)