(photo credit: A portrait of the lovely Pioneer Valley in Massachusetts by the staggeringly accomplished Abby McDonald)
When I walked into my apartment today, I stopped at the mailboxes and got my mail. It was mostly stuff for Stu. Getting your law degree means that you’e on quite a few spam-lists.
A guy walked into the lobby and went to the door. I had just closed it. His eyes were bloodshot, and he asked me, “Is this a chuch?”
I replied, yes, it is.
“Can I see a priest?” he asks. Of course. I had to say, “It’s not that kind of church.” My funny hat from Montreal and general air of young heathen didn’t deter him. He stayed in the lobby. He was sweaty, it was snowing. He looked like he was about to confess everything.
I’m really going to miss my old apartment. Although I realized today that there is a moment of insight in Garden State, where Zach Braff’s character mourns his lack of a “home” in his twenties, how his childhood home isn’t it, how he feels adrift. I completely agree and can relate to that sentiment. But I think I know now the exact circumstances that make up a home for me, and it’s not location. I may live in a church once again.
I saw In Bruges, and I kind of loved it. I’ve never seen a Martin McDonaugh play, though, so his tough guy tropes, wordplay, and love of viscera was all new to me. Apparently he was inspired by Quentin Tarantino in his playwriting.
There’s a book called “Ask Me Anything” by Francesca Delbanco–I had picked it up since I remembered her byline from Seventeen, since she was writing for it when I was little. What’s funny about the book is that it’s this weird hybrid of chick lit and not; it has blurbs from Charles Baxter, possibly Ann Beattie or someone else who writes snappy interesting literature that is considered Literature, not genre stuff. While the subject manner concerns a 26 year old making her way in New York, trying to find love, meaning, and purpose, it does a great job at capturing the weird malaise of being in your twenties, watching friends grow up, trying to grow up yourself, kicking and screaming the whole way. I don’t remember the source, it may even be this book, but someone said that your twenties are difficult because you go into them as a child and come out of them as an adult. What makes me of Martin McDonaugh is that the heroine finds true love with a surly Irish playwright who she convinces faux-Seventeen to write a “hottie of the month” piece on. The details aren’t too much different, and I suspect this character’s based on McDonaugh, which makes me giggle.
Good art, in my opinion, generally starts rooted in some genre conventions and then rises above them, twists them around into something new. “Three Kings” is essentially a heist film, but by the end, it’s much different.