Far from the shores of England

We shipped on board the Maryanne to find a better life
And we walked across the water when she broke up on the ice
We came ashore in Carbonear with nothing but our rights
And I wondered if I e'er again would see my London lights
We were far from the shores of England, far from our children and wives
To play our hand in the Newfoundland where the wind cuts like a knife
We were far from the shores of England

--from "England," Great Big Sea

I went to the Great Big Sea concert tonight. Wasn't expecting to; I snagged another windfall ticket. (I seem to be exceptionally fortunate at picking those up just recently. Thanks again, Tara.) As always, the boys put on a good show... and I don't know this for a fact, but it's possible that they're even more entertaining than usual when they have a pint or two in them before the show starts.

The lyrics above are taken from one of my favorite GBS tunes, "England," written by Séan McCann as a tribute to his English ancestors. It is notable both for its beauty and for the sense of yearning homesickness it inspires, even in those--like me--who have never been to England and who have never had a chance to see, let alone miss, the "London lights."

I've wanted to visit England since I was a child. I'm not sure if I can completely explain why; maybe it has something to do with reading too much British kidlit in my formative years. But I've longed to go to London, to see Big Ben and Westminster Palace, to walk across Tower Bridge and watch the water traffic on the Thames, to spend a day in the British Museum and the Tate, to visit the Tower of London and see the crown jewels, to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and to walk through Kensington Gardens until I find the statue of Peter Pan. I've yearned for it so much it makes my teeth ache.

On several occasions, it's almost happened. I had saved up enough money to buy a ticket just before Captain Midnight popped the question. There have been times when we've planned to go, only to have some emergency crop up at the last minute. And there's always been something that's come along to siphon off our savings. I'd all but resigned myself to the idea that the most exotic travel destination I was likely to experience in person was Vancouver. (Not that there's anything wrong with Vancouver; I love it. But it's rather like visiting the United States: Alternate History Version, where we never had the Revolutionary War.)

Why do I bring all this up, anyway? Well, a few days ago I mentioned a certain big thing I'd committed to doing.

That big thing was purchasing two round-trip tickets from Seattle to Heathrow.

End of March, beginning of April.

To say I'm excited about this doesn't even begin to cover it.

All we've done so far is buy the airfare. Anyone have suggestions for our week-long stay?

The Hot Curry moment

[Beware: blatantly scatological references ahead]

You'd think that, after some 40 years on earth, I would manage to remember a few helpful nuggets of wisdom about life: Don't take your parents for granted. Focus on needful things at needful times. Don't feed gremlins after midnight. And if you're going on a car trip of uncertain duration, don't eat anything spicy beforehand. Alas, I am an idiot who usually recalls these proverbs only after having violated them in some way.

Don't believe me? Read on.

Miss V is reaching an age where she picks up--and appreciates--the occasional babysitting job. Last Saturday she was called upon by a couple from our ward to take care of their toddler and young niece for a few hours.

"I should warn you," says Sister ____ over the phone to V, "our place can be a little difficult to find. Maybe I should give you directions."

"Just have her give you the address," I advise Miss V. "I should be able to find it with Google Maps." Thus violating another nugget of wisdom: when it comes to Google Maps, trust but verify. I enter the address into Google Maps, which displays what seems to me to be a rather roundabout method of getting there, based on what I know of the area. No matter; we have plenty of time before Miss V is scheduled to arrive.

At this point I feel a faint--a very slight--burbling from deep within. Earlier in the day I had enjoyed a spicy meal, and I consider, for a few brief seconds, the wisdom of a bathroom break. But no, it'll be fine, I assure myself. I'll get Miss V to her destination and be home again in a twink.

About halfway through the Google-planned route, I begin to remember that I'm an idiot. In fact, the idea of doing an about-face and heading back home is sounding ever more appealing. For I am discovering, with growing horror, the preternatural transformation that has occurred inside me. At some point between noon and now, my lunch has somehow morphed into an evil Jim Morrison doppelganger, who is now performing "Break On Through To The Other Side" at increasing decibel levels.

Google Maps tells us we are very close to our destination, but I decide I simply cannot wait to open the Doors of Perception: Jim Morrison will have to go right now. I flip a hasty U-turn and roar into the parking lot of the 7-11 across the street. As much as I'd love to sprint toward the doors, I fear shaking Jim loose prematurely, so I walk gingerly but swiftly toward my salvation.

On the door of the 7-11 is a sign bearing three horrific words: No Public Restrooms. I stare inside for a moment, cursing the night manager and the patrons and the Dr. Pepper-flavored Slurpee lazily oscillating in the bowels of the machine, mocking my pain. Which is increasing by the second. Jim will not be denied.

I get back into the car. "They don't have a bathroom," I tell V. "You think Sister ____ would let me use hers?"

"Probably," says V uncertainly. "Uh, what's that noise?" Jim Morrison has just turned the volume up to 11.

"Gotta go!" I say through clenched teeth, and we spin around and head towards Sister ____'s house and deliverance.

Remember that part about not relying too heavily on Google Maps? Yeah. The moment I turn into the right street, the full nature of my folly is revealed. I am suddenly in a maze of twisty little driveways featuring a series of lettered apartment buildings, all alike. And though Google Maps has ushered me to within 90% of my destination, it has failed to print the apartment number we need to find the place.

Miss V pulls out her cell phone and calls Captain Midnight, hoping he will still have the index card with the apartment number written on it. Meanwhile the fierceness of my concentration is causing me to see colors not normally found in the visible spectrum. I am sucking air through my teeth and feeling disquietingly like Hoover Dam about to be breached. Jim Morrison is laughing like one possessed, and I'm starting to whimper softly.

"He says it's apartment G-4," V relays to me. "Could you stop making that noise, please? You're making me nervous."

"I'm making me nervous too," I mutter. "Look around for a building marked G."

After what seems like twenty minutes of agony, we finally light upon apartment building G. We both bail out of the car simultaneously. I am doing the Dance of the Sphincter Plum Fairy at this point, and Jim Morrison seems to have called up Jimi Hendrix and invited him to join the festivities, because I'm pretty sure I can now feel someone smashing a guitar.

It all must have been a bit confusing from Sister ____'s point of view. She heard Miss V knocking, opened the door, and had only time to register a Soozcat-shaped blur whooshing past her on the way to the restroom. Happily, it was unoccupied.

I'm also pleased to inform those of you who might be wondering that Jim Morrison, and whoever his cronies were, are now well and truly dead. I destroyed them myself. Anyone who had been close enough to that restroom would have heard a few mournful bars of "The End" followed by a satisfying flush, and possibly the sound of my exultant cackling. In fact, I was so relieved to be shut of them that I didn't even mind doing the subsequent Walk of Shame from Brother and Sister ____'s restroom to their front door.

To their credit, the ____s didn't seem to hold any bias against Miss V for her aunt's, erm, eccentric behavior, because they paid her handsomely for her trouble. Really handsomely. Maybe I should take up babysitting again.

By the way, the drive home took half the time because I was blatantly ignoring Google Maps. Go ye and do likewise.

*blink blink*

I just committed to something.

Something really big, and really REALLY exciting. At least for me.

Not sure I'm ready to talk all about it yet, for fear I should call down a jinx or something. But watch this space. When my heart stops hammering and the reality of it sinks in I'll write a bit more.

Meanwhile I shall be squeeing and bouncing around with glee like a sugared-up kindergartener.

Yeah, but is it art?

I've been chatting with a friend just recently about a number of ideas related to acting and moviemaking. Among the observations: before they ever start production, Hollywood film companies should pick 50 random members of the adult reading public to critique the script; being able to act well and being able to identify a good script are two very different skills; and if you're making movies so you can keep up with your meth habit, maybe you'd better just stop...

One of the interesting ideas we batted around was Hollywood's uneasy relationship between artistic merit and moneymaking. We're hardly the only ones to have noticed this; it's been a major topic of discussion since before the talkies. (And the whole question of making art lucrative has been around since the birth of human creativity; the more expensive an artistic endeavor is to create and present, the more it must appeal to those who will pay for it. That's why so much high opera has torture, adultery, theft, prostitution, incest, war, bigamy, treachery, boozing, wild parties, premarital sex, slavery, magic, jailbreaks, corruption, blackmail, jealousy, heartbreak, love potions, arson, cruelty to animals, smuggling, fights, rape, a walking talking statue from hell, execution, suicide and murder. Even our man Shakespeare wasn't above playing to the cheap seats. But I digress. Regularly. Anyway) It wouldn't be so bad if Hollywood could land squarely on one side or the other--if they could embrace either MGM's motto of "Ars Gratia Artis" or Gordon Gecko's mantra of "Greed is good," they'd probably sleep better at night. Instead they walk this weird tightrope where they feel the need to describe a cheesy flick wherein an obsessed man amputates a woman's limbs and keeps her in a box as "an art film," where directors refuse to cave an inch on the portrayal of their artistic vision (unless it's for airlines and TV networks), and where there's no idea so fresh and novel that it can't be beaten to death with interminable sequels. There's a reason why it's called Hollyweird.

This dual pull between art and money is reflected, as well, in the attitudes of different actors. Broadly speaking, most actors fall into two different camps of thought: those who think of what they do as craft, and those who regard what they do as art.

A fair number of working actors--Michael Caine, Gene Hackman, and before he retired, Sean Connery--seem to fall within the camp that perceives acting primarily as a job. One they love, obviously, and one they happen to do very well, but still a job. As such, part of their job involves not just doing whatever film they're doing now, but setting up for the next one, as they are essentially freelancers; if they don't work, they don't eat. They make lots of movies, some good and some bad, because they don't sit around waiting for plum roles. (This might explain why Connery made Zardoz... except NOTHING can explain why Connery made Zardoz.) They take the best of what comes, make the best of what they take, and because they do this they're constantly working and constantly being seen by casting directors.

Then there are actors who primarily see what they do as art. They will pass up roles they consider to be beneath them. They may not work for a long span of years if they feel they're not receiving roles that are worthy of their time and effort. If they get involved in a film, it has to be for personal reasons--because they love the story and the message, because they can't resist the part. For them, it's not a question of being seen by casting directors or even by fans, but by peers and by the Academy. They want to be taken seriously as artists. These are the people who are most likely to bristle at Hitchcock's infamous desultory comment that actors are "cattle."

This is not to say that one camp is right and the other is wrong. These are simply two different philosophies about one profession. And during his lifetime, one actor might make the jump from one camp to the other multiple times; often an actor starts out taking any role he can get, and progresses to the point where he can pick and choose, or an actress begins her career in a series of bijou independent films, and over time gravitates to overblown blockbusters. It's a question of what the individual chooses to perceive, how his or her career is progressing, and whether or not the bills are getting paid.

Of course, the differences between high and low art are often blatantly obvious, but there are places where the boundaries definitely smudge. Who determines what is art, and what is craft? The Academy or the box office? Does Kenneth Branagh's dreary, interminable Hamlet have true artistic merit, or do we assign it such merit just because it's Shakespeare? Can a big blockbuster film with showboating stars, flashy special effects and an eight-figure budget have its moments of touching artistry?

I make Lego jewelry on Etsy. (Plug, plug.) I am not fooling myself that what I do is anything other than craft. It is something I thoroughly enjoy doing, and I've managed to make a number of people--including several sets of brides and grooms and one self-described supervillain-in-training--very happy with my geeky creations, but I don't harbor any delusions of grandeur about their status. Objets d'art these ain't. But I don't feel the pressing need to describe everything I do as artistic; that's not, personally, how I get validation. With that said, there are a number of people whose work I've come across on Etsy, and their work can only be described as artistic, if not exquisite. And yes, it's also marketable, so it's possible to do both successfully.

Which leads me to wonder just how many box-office failures are propped up as "artistic" simply to assuage the egos of all who worked on the project. Hmm.

YESSS!

Earth-shattering kabooms! Woot!

People tend not to believe me when I tell them this, but it's true--we don't get a lot of big thunderstorms in Seattle. Overcast, yes. Drizzle, certainly. But the huge storms where you're soaked to the skin within 10 seconds of exposure and the lightning crackles beautifully overhead, and the thunder is so powerful it can be felt down in the marrow of your bones? Not s'much. So on occasions when it does happen, as it has tonight, there is cause for celebration.

The death of secrets

As I've wandered through the constellation of actual blogs (as opposed to spam factories and thinly-disguised storefronts), I've noticed what seems to me to be a singularly disturbing trend--the tendency of bloggers, especially younger ones, to reveal intimate personal details to absolute strangers. There are people who give out their addresses and phone numbers online, people who post publicly-accessible photos of themselves wearing little or nothing, people who update Facebook and Twitter from inside public lavatories, people who give out blow-by-blow re-enactments of the last night's sexual encounter. The blogosphere is awash in TMI.

No, I'm not turning a blind eye to my own tendencies in this direction. This blog is called "CONFESSIONS of a Laundry Faerie," after all. Although I usually try to keep it light, over time it's come to be chock-full of personal information. Even so, there are some things I simply won't reveal here--things that I truly believe are nobody's business but my own.

The confessional nature of our era encourages people to throw clods of information at each other. Witness the proliferation of meme lists (as Gretel points out, they should probably be called "me-me lists") like "100 books I've read" and "25 things I've eaten" and "20 BEST SONGS EVAR" and "68.3 fascinating facts about me." Yes, I've done these too; some of them are even posted here. They're seductive; it's fun to share such information, and these lists make you think you've learned something of interest about the person who's filled them out. But what have you really learned, apart from a collection of bullet-point trivia? It's like the difference between getting lost in the nuances of a wonderful book and skimming through the Cliff Notes. Part of the pleasure of making friends is the slow, gradual process of getting to know a person thoroughly--and likewise, the process of cautiously unfurling one's external being and allowing the other person to catch glimpses of one's inner self. Part of the joy of making a true friend is recognizing when you can tell someone else a deeply-hidden secret, and know that it will be as safe in that person's hands as it was in yours. But how can that particular joy ever be obtained if you grow up in a culture that doesn't even understand what a secret is, let alone why someone would want to keep it?

I've known my mother my entire life. Like most people in my family, she's good at telling stories about all sorts of life experiences. Until fairly recently I was sure I knew about every major event in her life, including some highly personal information. And then Mom's sister came to visit, and while they were happily reminiscing on the couch together my auntie just asked a question in passing--something like "Whatever happened to that one boy you were going to marry?" I was pretty sure I knew who she meant; after all, Mom had told us that she'd considered marriage a few times before she met Dad. But to my shock, in response to the question, my mother suddenly began to cry. I sat quietly and listened, and heard for the first time about her first true love in college, about their engagement, and about how her parents flew out from California and forced her to break it off because they didn't approve of him. It was a revelation.

My mother comes from a different generation--one which recognizes, for the most part, that some things are simply too personal and private to share with the world. She understands the concept of the secret. I wonder how many people of my generation and younger could even recognize this concept, much more know how to apply it.

And speaking of not being able to keep secrets: today is my 40th birthday.

The killdeer

A killdeer is a type of plover, a bird that lays its eggs in a shallow nest made in an open field, rather than in the safer refuge of a tree. The eggs are mottled, a protective coloration that makes them look like the rocks that often surround them. The mother killdeer usually covers these eggs to warm and protect them. But if a predatory animal comes near, the killdeer starts acting very oddly. She flops off her nest and begins limping away, carefully favoring one of her wings, and occasionally flaps around awkwardly, making a loud distress call. Recognizing all the signs of a bird with a broken wing, the predator usually stalks the killdeer for some distance--or at least until the killdeer has determined her eggs are no longer in danger. Then, if all goes well, she suddenly recovers and flies away, leaving the predator with nothing. Such distraction displays are common among birds (and some fish) as a means of protecting their young.

But distraction displays aren't limited to animals. Human beings--especially children--resort to them as well, in situations where there is a predator in their midst and they cannot hope to best that predator by physical force. In the movie Good Will Hunting (an otherwise excellent story marred by excessive profanity), Will's counselor and mentor Sean has a discussion with him
about abuse. One of the things Sean says, almost in passing, is that his alcoholic father would "come home hammered, looking to wale on somebody, so I'd provoke him so he wouldn't go after my mother and little brother." Sean was a killdeer. He couldn't turn in his own father--or maybe he tried, and nobody believed a little kid, or they didn't want to get involved in a domestic violence situation. He didn't want to be hurt, but he wanted even more to keep the people he loved from being hurt. So he stood up and took the abuse, drawing the predator's fire in order to keep other people safe. In similar fashion, in the case of child molestation, a killdeer child may try to draw the predator away from other children by putting on a seductive display, even though it may turn her stomach to do so. As the Wikipedia article on distraction displays states clinically, "Distraction displays have their cost and displaying adult birds are sometimes captured by the predator being distracted or by other opportunist predators." (my emphasis)

Like their animal equivalents, human predators often lack empathy for their victims; unlike animals, however, when human predators are caught, society usually demands that they account for their monstrous actions. It is illustrative of their mental states to see how many cornered human predators immediately, almost instinctively, blame their victims. And of course, most such victims also blame themselves, assuming that there must have been something they did to precipitate such behavior on the part of someone who should have protected them and who instead did them harm. It may take a very long time--well into adulthood--before an abused child finally internalizes the idea that he was not somehow to blame for what happened. The scene from Good Will Hunting ends with Sean gently, firmly, repeatedly telling Will, "It's not your fault," until the words finally sink in. A number of people seem to find the repetition in this scene funny. I'm guessing that's because they've never known what it is to be a killdeer.