Why I Love Sundance

I love Sundance (the film festival, although I do also have fond feelings for the resort).

I try to convince myself it has less to be with being starstruck and more to do with being in an environment, as pretentious as it may sound, where there is this undeniable emphasis on creating things. I love Utah. I do it is beautiful and it is my home, but Sundance provides a bit of needed escapism. Truth be told, I have only been up to the festival twice in my entire life and only for a handful of hours each time, but being surrounded by people who took risks and work hard to produce something that they can be excited about and proud of.

It is nice to be slapped in the face by your dreams deferred (thank you, Langston Hughes) because when you are lamenting all that you haven’t pursued you have to ask yourself, “What are you going to do about it?” And this whole week I have been enthused about recommitting myself to writing and have been drafting a stand-up routine in my head (I refuse to be held back by the fact that I am not exceptionally funny.) Cheesy phrases like “the greatest risk yields the greatest reward” and “let the beauty you love be what you do” are inspiring the crap out of me. Hopefully, the slight sting of my mild dissatisfaction with my current pursuits helps to propel me to a place I want to be.

That’s why I love Sundance.

If I Can Give Mike Birbiglia a Pillow, I Can Do Anything

I am feeling really emboldened right now (and miserably embarrassed. It has been an hour since the event that I am about to chronicle transpired and I still feel flushed).

Last night, nursing a cold, I settled into my apartment. Unfortunately, in my apartment I am completely cut off from civilization as I am deprived of cable and internet. At 7:00 I was facing early retirement if I didn't find something compelling to occupy my time. That's when the germ of an idea sprouted.

The Sundance Film Festival is happening this week. Every year I tell myself I am going to go. I am going to bask in the creative presence. You know, feel a small part of this artistic community that I continuously convince myself I am not cool enough to be a part of. (As the last movie I made was probably a shoddily produced music video set to some Good Charlotte tune, it really doesn't take much convincing.) Anyway, I went up first with my sister and we saw Reality Bites specially rereleased to commemorate its premiere at Sundance 18 years ago, and it was a delicious dose of angst. Especially since I can go on and on about how I am in the throes of an existential crisis (because I am your typical 23-year-old. Nothing new to see here people, move along.)

Anyway, Reality Bites made me excited about the festival and I resolved to see more. But the movie I really wanted to see was Mike Birbiglia's Sleepwalk with Me. I saw his show at Kingsbury Hall last Friday, simply because I loved his storytelling on This American Life. At the end of the show he announced he had a film at Sundance, something I had not known, and when I learned Ira Glass was a cowriter, my resolve was titanium, sort of.

Monday after work, I drove up to Park City. It was a little like running away because I actually left work early (my existential crisis was in sort of a crescendo roar that day) and Park City seemed like a different world. I stood outside the theatre where Sleepwalk with Me was playing

next to a girl with a sign that said "I Need Tickets." It was a supreme act of moochiness, but that way I didn't have to say anything, and I didn't have any paper of my own to write something like "I want tickets more than her." (Not that I would do that. Because that certainly wouldn't endear me to potential ticket-sellers. Maybe if I had a sign that read, "I am going to die at midnight and my last wish is to see this movie", but like I said, I had no paper.) Anyway, I didn't get a ticket that night, and my feet were so cold and wet that it felt like Thor had taken his mighty hammer to my little toes when my circulation resumed. On the shuttle bus I was wincing like a madwoman. Hopefully, no one looked at me (who know what onlookers might have thought, gastrointestinal problems? I pray not).

But long story short. I saw the movie on Tuesday. And loved it. But more than that I got that cheesy sentimental feeling toward the filmmakers. I loved being in their presence, and sure, a good portion of that was being starstruck; I mean, I was 15 feet away from Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia! People who tell stories and make money for it. (Actually, in m head I kind of think of Ira Glass as a story pimp (even though he does pepper the radio show with his own anecdotes at times), and his featured storytellers are sort of story whores. But I think of him as a benevolent pimp. I don't know why prostitution analogies come so easily to me...) I would love to be a story whore (that looks so crude. Perhaps I should say chanteuse or trollop.) I would love for my work to be telling and collecting stories. (I could get into some analysis that seemed profound to me on the importance of having storytellers in society, but I am already rambling like a lunatic.)

Anyway, loved the movie and wanted to be cool enough to hang out with the crew. But I have no experience in their area, so when I was bored last night and too tired and under the weather to go to the library to check out a DVD or book, I took out my embroidery tools, and in about 3 and a half hours had crafted a pillow. (Seemed appropriate for a movie called Sleepwalk with Me.)

I didn't know if I would have the courage to give this pillow to the one of the filmmakers, and the Lord knows that I don't need another hand-stitched pillow for myself. So all day I worked up the bravado to give it away. I didn't think I would really have the audacity to bestow it upon its intended recipient for a couple reasons 1) any time I respect someone's opinion and desperately want them to think highly of me, I almost immediately lose the capacity to speak 2) I would seem like a stalker 3) I would seem like a stalker. But despite my fears, I showed up at the Tower Theatre in Salt Lake with the pillow in my bag. I intended to get a ticket to see the show again, but that didn't work out (I could get into the details of that, but I haven't exactly been thrifty with words and this is already an excessively long post).

Near the entrance of the theatre, I saw a guy who had stood with the filmmakers to discuss the movie (I had also seen him the day had silently begged in the cold for a ticket.) I tried to pawn the pillow off on this man, Jakkob Jaffe, one of the producers. He said, "No, you should wait and give it to Mike. He'll love it." I told him I thought it would make me seem crazy. And he said, "We love crazy people." We then ventured on to amiable chit-chat, despite me feeling foolish, but we talked about NYU and student debt (because I wasn't very good about talking about films. I didn't know anything about the ones he was talking about). But then, he had to go in and introduce the film, and Mike was late. So I sat out there, with a pillow in my hand feeling like an obsessed fangirl (which maybe wasn't so far off) when finally, Mike came around the block rushing into the theatre. I sort of threw the pillow at him and mumbled some random incoherent sentence along the lines of "this is for you and have a nice day" as if I was his waitress or something. He moved along into the theatre and I ran from the scene of the crime.

However, despite feeling that this may be near the peak of my silliness (becoming emotionally attached to a pommello is probably the peak), I also feel so bold. Suddenly, I am thinking, "Hey, I'm brave. I should quit my job." "Look at me, I'm fearless. I should move to New York City."

I had the courage to give Mike Birbiglia, a minor celebrity, a pillow. I can do anything (because obviously, my shame and embarrassment threshold is pretty high.)

words.

so, i want to be a writer, but i hate saying it out loud. i think it seems so pretentious. and then, once i declare that intention, i figure i open myself up to all criticism. like: "you don't use the world troglodyte enough" (response: "i don't even know what troglodyte means!"), "your grammar is atrocious" (response: "i'm sort of a futurist."), and "well, write something then." the last isn't really a criticism, just a bit of snide motivation, and i don't have a good response. i do write a lot of first pages, though. and i like to think that i think in a writerly manner which is just the sort of nonsense statment you'd expect to hear from lazy wannabe novelists.

i could take this moment to explore what keeps me back from pounding out readable material, but i am not going to.

i was just reading my friends' blogs today and thought they wrote such beautiful entries about a plethora of things from the mundane to the profound. they are all writers and literature classes should study their posts. really. and i know this sounds like trite praise. but it is not. i was just thinking, "man, i don't know if my writing could convey the simple, resplendent honesty of it all like these do." so i was actually feeling jealous while basking in the life of their words.

and see, now i've gotten sort of pedantic. if that even is the right word.

Ferris Wheel for One, Please

I really vividly remember an episode of Ellen Degeneres' sitcom simply called Ellen. I wasn't actually a fangirl of this sitcom. It aired while I was still a cartoon devotee and could not understand the entertainment factor of watching real-life people interact with the world. I mean, that's what I did without TV. When I sat down to watch the boob-tube, I wanted to see a football-headed boy play it up on the streets of NYC and a masked duck fight crime.

Anyway, one day Ellen was on (I think she/her self-named character had already come out as a lesbian) and she was all about self-empowerment. She was going to do what she wanted regardless of whether she could get other folks on board. One of her objectives was to dine in a fancy sit-down restaurant alone. She goes so far as to actually call ahead and make a reservation for one. When she gets there the maitre d insists that she actually made a reservation for 7 because to dine alone is nigh unfathomable. (And depending on the reservation-taker's handwriting, I one could fairly easily be mistaken for a 1). Comic antics ensue. However, I think it left me with the stigma that dining alone is a crazy, bold thing to do.

Fast forward 15 years or so, I am in Berlin. I figured I was going whether I could rally a travel companion or not (I couldn't) and that I was going to enjoy myself, dangit (I have). I have sat alone in a formal dining setting twice, and truth be told, the food is not as good. It is lonely just me and a book, or me and my stitching. I swear to you the food does not taste nearly as delicious when not peppered with good (or even just halfway decent) conversation. I enjoy a meal on the go (perhaps munched on in a park) much more than occupying only a quarter of a table.

Anyway, I still had the resolve to have fun. So I found out about this Deutsch-Amerikcanisches Volksfest which was basically an American-themed carnival celebrating its 51st summer of operation (I guess it was sort of an institution during the time Americans were stationed in West Berlin). And I went. And I decided to ride the ferris wheel. Oh, and you'd think there may be one or two Americans at a festival boasting "American" as half the title. Nope, aside from the performers (that almost no one was listening to) from Austin, Texas, all I heard was deutsch, deutsch, deutsch. So I sauntered up to the kasse and paid my fare to ride the wheel. And I endured the awkward stare I got from the operator after he asked (twice, the first time he spoke in German to which I replied with a very ignorant sounding "What?"), "Alone?" I nodded my head, while holding it high. Thinking of Ellen Degeneres.

But have you ever ridden a ferris wheel alone? When you are eating you can immerse yourself in your food. On the ferris wheel, I was surrounded by five empty seats, staring out over the tops of concessions tents watching the sunset over Berlin. I even changed seats a couple of times just so the unoccupied spaces could have a little human touch. The ride was pretty and being that high up was a little scary and definitely thrilling. But I kept hearing the giggles and undecipherable German chit-chat of the happy family behind me. I wanted to let out a big belly laugh myself just to throw them off. But then I could immagine the chipper mom saying, "Who is that crazy solo rider. She must have some sort of mental illness. Perhaps schizophrenia?" and maybe the oldest daughter would say, "Maybe she is on some sort of hallucinogenic drug." So, I sat silently. I did take pictures of myself an arm's length away with my digital camera. So there is evidence of the events of this evening.

I may eat by myself, play tennis by myself, sing a round by myself, but I don't want to ride a ferris wheel alone again.

Stonehenge and The Last Unicorn

it seemed to me fitting to post about the 1985 animated feature the last unicorn and the mysterious stone circle erected around 3000 b.c. in the same entry.

people at work asked me what i thought of stonehenge, and my immediate smart-aleck response was that it was rocky--which is an adequate description, if sarcastic and uninventive. but i did enjoy it very much. it was fun to contemplate the mystery and good for the soul to be out of the city and see the rolling green fields of salisbury. the audioguide also included an excerpt from thomas hardy's tess of the d'urbervilles which made me ecstatic. i've been saying i wanted to see stonehenge because of its being an important setting in that novel.

since the visit, i have become mildly obsessed with the idea of ley lines (not obsessed enough to do any research, mind you, but obsessed enough to mention it). the theory of ley lines is that important spots of worship are built along or on an intersection of these invisible lines. very druidic. it had been a long neglected theory until the whole new age movement came along.

to the last unicorn. my, oh my, i can't begin to give a critique. but it was a riot at times. it was screened in an old anglican chapel (and admission was free) and someone gave me a chupa chup lolly, so i don't know that the night could have been any better.

i love this postcard.

i don't love breaking out in stinging blisters after accidentally grazing some obscenely poisonous plant (this morning my hand still stings a bit as i type, but don't worry i shall overcome.)

last night i saw the musical billy elliot. i bought the ticket from a "half-price ticket kiosk" in the heart of the theatre district, and i really think Rick Steves may be right when he calls those ticket booths "scalpers with an address." i bet i could have gotten a cheaper, and perhaps better, ticket from the box office.

anyway, billy elliot was a pretty stunning production. while the first half left something to be desired it really picked up and won my love after intermission.

I feel I owe my public some blogging.

Life has been busy in London (much busier than my student life was in Italy. I chalk it up to volunteering full-time (it is a 9-5 gig, baby) and my one-hour commute each way (but I have been whipping through books.) I am residing with a family, and for their hospitality in taking me in and treating me so nicely I often spend my evenings home in their company chatting or watching some movie, and spend many evenings away from home trying to soak up the sites of this thriving city!

But everything has been wonderful.

Compared to Italy, I feel entirely at home. It is wonderful to actually be able to express myself with my arsenal of words fully loaded! Bless that mother tongue!

I feel like I have done hardly anything though, when in actuality, I have done quite a bit.

I have been to the Science Museum, Tate Modern (and I saw Ai Wei Wei's (free him China!!!) sunflower seeds, not all of them from the original exhibition, but a very sizable pile, about as tall as me), the Tate Britain, Trafalgar Square, the London Pride Parade, the Hyde Park Ward, the play The Woman in Black, seen the outside of Buckingham Palace, listened to Mumford and Sons play in Hyde Park (I didn't have tickets to the concert, but I found a good peep hole through the walls around the official space, and the sound carried nicely on a June afternoon), and have seen the inside of a good many pubs. One Saturday night, we got caught along with a stag party (in American language, a bachelor party) and went pub crawling a bit with a crazy bunch of lads, until we tired of them and just settled in to dance.

I also had a homeless man tell me I looked sexy eating my ice cream. I told him sincerely, "That was not my intention."

And I will do my best to take more pictures in the future! I just bought new batteries for my camera!