The Lovely Bones

I don’t usually go to movies. It is not that I have anything against them; I just don’t often feel a pressing need to spend money to sit in a theater with a bunch of sneezing strangers to watch a new film. The Harry Potter movies are certainly an exception to this. Apparently so is the new movie, “The Lovely Bones”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikUWKi0W5_g

I read this moving book by Alice Sebold several years ago, when it was all the rage to do so. The premise appealed to me quite a bit. Yes it is all very, very sad. A beautiful, innocent and sweet 14-year-old girl is creepily raped and murdered by a disturbed neighbor and then cut into several pieces. Her family is understandably left in ruins. The story is not nearly as traumatizing as it might be, however, because the dead girl, Susie, continues to exist as she hangs out in her perfect “in-between” world, watching her family and doing her best to help them deal with their grief and catch her killer.

Something in me was seriously intrigued when I heard that this book was being made into a movie. As it turns out, I am undeniably fascinated by the obscene. The dark and twisted aspects of humanity are so enigmatic and unbelievable to me that I literally could not wait to see how the trauma would be alluded to in this film – and how Susie’s serial killer would be depicted. I was also excited to see the stunning “in-between” world. “The Lovely Bones” is so brilliant because it manages to interweave the most abhorrent aspects of the human experience with the most magical and transcendent. The presence of these two extremes make the beautiful moments shine with brightness and power.

A good friend of mine went to the movie with me on Saturday. She is a particularly sensitive and empathetic person, so the movie was a little much for her. I loved it. The rape and murder is not shown at all. Even so, the emotional power of the film is immense and difficult to handle at times. My friend was literally balled up in her chair throughout much of it and sometimes huddled under her sweater for protection. I might actually go again… just could not get enough. It was truly a magnificent film.

Empty Spaces

The trip to Barnes and Noble yesterday was notable for several reasons. As described in my previous post, I managed not to purchase anything. More interesting than that, however, was the way I suddenly felt about the prospect of walking up to the register with STUFF.

STUFF (as currently defined by me): Unnecessary clutter; material tangible or otherwise that serves to soothe our nagging inner fears while doing nothing whatsoever to solve them. A.K.A.: crap we buy or hold onto to make us feel OK while we traipse around haphazardly through life. Perhaps stumble around would more accurately depict the most typical human efforts at getting through a day.

Yes, I know that Barnes and Noble has books. Many good books. Enough good books to overshadow the quality-challenged books also in stock. And I love books. New and pristine books are in my STUFF category right now as I already have plenty and live one block away from a library. The book covers I perused are not, however, what inspired my anti-clutter musings.

Examples of STUFF I saw at Barnes and Noble yesterday:

1) Decorated filing folders, promising to organize lives.

2) A short, cylindrical case with three zippered compartments created to hold (I can only guess) particularly noteworthy toenail clippings, wished-upon eyelashes, tiny bathroom tiles, and friendly ladybugs.

3) Dr. Atkins books. No explanation necessary.

4) Roughly 400 different ways to jot down a quick note and then throw it away. Some had letters on them (post-its to reaffirm your identity?). My personal favorite was a candle put inside a chalkboard cup. Write a note reminding yourself not to burn off your bangs – just to be safe.

Most people can theoretically understand that these and other objects don’t enrich their lives in any meaningful way. Most people can explain in detail how we should be volunteering in our communities and giving objects away instead.

Most people buy STUFF regularly. Most of this STUFF sits eternally in corners or cramped cupboards, rarely if ever seeing the light of day.

The question of why we do these things is certainly interesting. Right now I don’t care. I just want to stop.

For some reason, I have noticed in recent months that I simply don’t want to buy anything that I can’t use immediately. I left many of my beautiful books in my parents’ barn when I moved to my apartment, taking only the books I could envision myself reading very soon. I have given boxes of clothes and trinkets away – many of them things I have held onto for over a decade. This has felt surprisingly easy and good, like rinsing sand off of itchy feet.

Empty spaces intrigue and motivate me. I have spent my lifetime lusting after blank journals and fields vacant except for untouched powdery snow. My bookshelves now have far fewer books per shelf than they once did. The bookshelves of my adolescence often contained two rows of books; half of all books were hidden. Now all books are given space to breathe. They also spend more time off of the shelf now, open on my lap.

Reading Resolution

Confession: I love books.

Clarification: I love the way new books look on my bookshelf, my bedside table, and hovering around my toilet. I love the rare times I actually sit down with a book to read; and I love the even rarer occasions I manage to finish one.

Truth: I love the idea of being someone who reads regularly.

There was a time that I lived this idea. Starting around my sixth birthday I was a hungry and consistent reader. I did not discriminate. My completed books included the more sophisticated youthful literature, such as Tuck Everlasting and The Giver, as well as the more trashy options available to me, such as several V.C. Andrews novels (I’ll admit it). I was one of those irritating sixth graders who had to ask for extra sheets of reading logs in which to record all my recent reading adventures.

Somewhere around the time I started brooding in adolescent despair, obsessing over betrayals and zits, I stopped reading. This is also the time I stopped practicing my scales and instead spent a lot of time writing endless lists of what I should accomplish. And then I wrote more lists. And more. I got very good at planning as soon as I stopped reading and practicing.

In recent years I have managed to read more and make fewer lists. The magic of my preadolescent reading marathons has yet to reemerge, but there is progress being made. I have started several books. Finished some. Audiobooks have become a staple in my life – though I shy from calling that activity reading. Ultimatums have entered my life of good intentions, such as: “Do not even consider buying one book until you have read twenty you already own.” I am embarrassed to admit how short-lived that ambition was.

Today I managed to walk around a Barnes and Noble for over an hour and not buy a thing. This is truly remarkable for me, as I have had an unfortunate habit in the past of placating my guilt over not reading by purchasing more and more new fabulous books and placing them with great respect and show around my living spaces. This debt-producing habit has created a lovely (and illusory) self-image of being extremely well read. Sadly, the mere presence of great literature has not elevated me as much as I had hoped.

Here it is a new decade. Empty resolutions abound. Even so, I am determined to find my way back to the excitement I once experienced through literature. As I am currently barely employed, it appears to be the perfect opportunity to raid my beautiful (ahem barely touched) bookshelf and embark upon… a new chapter in my life. Off I go.