My Review of Baz Lurman's, "The Great Gatsby"

I saw the Great Gatsby today.

Some thoughts:

There was a crazy lady in the theater sitting behind me. Her running commentary throughout the movie was delightful. A few gems from her "not-remotely-involved-in-the-production point of view" were as follows:
"I'm goin' out for a cigarette."

(upon returning to the theater after her cigarette some 30 minutes later)
"Oh! Leonardo Dicaprio!"

(reading out-loud every word shown on-screen)
"The Great Gatsby. Oh!"

(during any intense background music)
"Oooh, something bad's gonna happen."


Here are my thoughts:
Blink, or "Banana Girl" from An Education once dated Jack, presumably after he drowned in the Arctic judging by his old face. Blink's cousin, Spiderman has a bromance with Jack and Jack likes to toss shirts around. Apparently, dude bought a house across the bay from his ex girlfriend whom he never got over. (Dumb move, weirdo.) He said he couldn't be with her because he wasn't born into a wealthy family. We don't know this for a while. We all think Jack's an heir to a fortune or something, but really he just sells alcohol. Oh no, he's not a cool home brewer or anything, he bootlegs whiskey or some crap.
Blink's husband (no idea who the actor is) is cheating with her on a girl who wears a lot of colors. This is how you know she's low-class. Blink accidentally hits her husband's mistress with a car, killing the mistress. Then the mistress's husband thinks it's Jack, shoots him so he falls in a pool and dies. Then he shoots himself, or maybe THE BUTLER DID IT!?!
Sometimes when there are scenes with driving cars, the movie looks like that weird "Speed Racer" movie with Christina Ricci. It's disturbing.
Also, sometimes there are African Americans singing and dancing. Yeah.
All that said, my new goal in life is to go to a party held at Gatsby's house. It looks totally kick-ass.

"Leo always be drownin'"

To: Empty Spaces

Here's something that's been rattling around in my head all day. It's about family, houses, graves, contracts, and daughters.


One and one left their homes
set out young to create their own.

One and one filled up what they could
of an empty space.

So I'll raise a glass, to these empty spaces.
Raise a glass, there's room in empty places.
Fill these spaces up with the memories of us...
Raise a glass, it's not enough.

Two by two, these empty spaces
seem to grow smaller with every day.

Two by two, in empty places
we try to hold out but we can't stop time.

So I'll raise a glass, to these empty spaces.
Raise a glass, there's room in empty places.
Fill these spaces up with memories of all of us
Raise a glass, but it's still not enough.

Watch all three grow up and leave: empty rooms will fuel the grief.
Watch all three change their names: create spaces of their own.

Side-by-side, two empty spaces

in the ground - space enough for two.

Side-by-side, two empty spaces

on the contract - room enough for two.

Hey man, nice luggage

Emotional baggage.
I gots it.

My childhood home is going to sell. It doesn't matter who buys it, but it matters who buys it.
I need the new owners to understand. This house is "home base." I sit here, typing this in the master bedroom: the room in which I was most-likely conceived, the room in which my father died peacefully after a long illness.

How can you let new owners know what a house means to your family? There is so much history here. It's us. It's my family. But I shouldn't let this house define us. It really doesn't. We are so much more.

I can't think about this anymore. It's too much. I thought writing it out would help, but I don't think I'm properly expressing my thoughts.

Words escape me. Why am I so bothered?

Privacy and the invasion thereof

Hey Readers,

Remember what it's like to have your own space?
Yeah?
And there's no one there - it's all yours.
Yeah?
And when you come home from work, you aren't bombarded with soundssoundsconstantsounds?
Uhm, yeah?
And no one went into your room while you were at work at made your bed and moved things around in your room?
Yeah. Wait, what?

Remember privacy.
Remember quiet.
Remember freedom.
Remember not talking for hours on end.
Remember the only sound being your guitar.
Remember leaving doors open.
Remember the sense of accomplishment when another room was cleared.
Remember satisfaction of emptying the garage of so much garbage.
Remember the pride you started to feel.
Remember it.
Remember it.
Remember it.
Remember.

"Is this mine?" "What is that?"

She's going to be here for a week.
It's only been a few hours and I have already felt my stomach turn into a complete, untying knot from her residual stress. "What's that?" "We need to hide this." "Is this mine?"

She is stressing out about a realtor coming tomorrow. It's just constant. The pacing back and forth in the hallway, the chattering to herself, the sighing. Oh my god, the sighing.
There seems to be nothing I can do to make her stop stressing out. Or complaining about the temperature. Or that her stomach hurts. Or that - god it doesn't matter.

I decided a while back that being someone prone to anxiety, a good thing to know are my triggers.
1. Grocery stores during the holidays
2. Dealing with my ex-boyfriend
3. Loud, constant noises
4. People who are equally prone to anxiety in a phobic manner

My avoidance tactics work well. It's 100% effective. Also in avoiding these few situations I become less and less prone to anxiety overall. So when I have to go to the grocery store and it's cold out, and there are too many people, and that damn Christmas music is playing I am much better at coping with it.

Here's the problem - my mother is the MOST ANXIOUS person on earth. It's unreal. I've never seen anyone act the way she does. It makes me kind of sick honestly. I do not want to be her when I grow up, in this respect, which is why I try to be careful about anxiety-inducing situations. But her anxiety and constant questions to me make me anxious. (Clearly this is a behavior I learned from her.) I try to combat it by speaking in a quiet, soothing voice but it doesn't seem to work. I try distracting her with something like talking about her grandson, but she'll quickly find something to obsessively worry about concerning him.

I'm screwed.
And she'll be here ALL WEEK. Possibly longer. I am completely imprisoned in this god damned fucking piece of shit hell hole. All of my hair is going to turn gray and fall out.

You're A Heartbreaker

The only thing worse than going through all the awful emotions of a break-up (reference: stages of grief) it's watching a friend go through it. I think I finally see what others have had to deal with in me for forever.

My good friend is experiencing a break-up with her first relationship since her divorce. The guy is really nice. I like him. But it just isn't working out. I know she has to come to the inevitable conclusions on her own so I'm stepping back from speaking opinions. This is new for me.

So the Kubler-Ross model tells us there are 5 stages of grieving. They can be done in any order.
Denial
Bargaining
Anger
Depression
Acceptance

"No, this isn't happening.
We'll get back together-it'll be like before.
I can be better-give me a chance.
Fuck you - I hate you - you are the problem!
I don't want to go out or talk to anyone ever.
Hey wait, I don't have to deal with his shit anymore. This IS better."

And then you drink a beer and sing some karaoke. At least, that's how it works for me.

I feel so bad for her right now. I know I just have to encourage her to look ahead.
As I like to say, "Hey, at least I didn't marry THIS one, eh?"
But I know how important that relationship is - the one right after the end of a long-term relationship. It proves that you can move on. It proves that you are capable of loving and of being loved. After a divorce, those things seem nearly impossible.

Also, this is a lot of heartbreak for her to have to deal with in a short amount of time. It's not like she started dating this guy immediately after the ring came off or anything. She definitely waited an appropriate amount of "mourning" time. But more than 1 heartbreak every 3 years can wear you down.

Wristy

I hurt my wrist last weekend and it still bugs me. It's making it very hard to play the guitar.
That's all.

Oh, and a 23 year old hit on me and wants to hang out. I told him we can be great friends. Poor kid. He's very sweet. I would definitely hang out with him. Ha!