Tom's Poetic Travels and Other Odysseys

Film Review: Up in the Air

(Spoiler Alert!)

The Oscars are Sunday night. One of the nominated films for Best Picture is Up in the Air. Also nominated were the actors George Clooney (lead), Vera Famiga (supporting), and Anna Kendrick (supporting). The film's director Jason Reitman is also nominated. He directed Thank You for Not Smoking and the brash Juno. Not a bad collection for such a young filmmaker.

I found this movie intriguing because it works well on two levels: the literal and the metaphorical. First, let's talk about the literal side of the film. 

I read mixed reviews on this film. I could understand why. Ryan Bingham (Clooney) flies from one city to the next, firing people due to layoffs. Timing wise, with this economy, it's probably quite painful for some to watch these firings and layoffs. But nobody is better at it than Bingham. Like the boatman who ferries the dead across the River Styx in Hades, he escorts the fired across the finish line. This he does with charm, grace, and patience. He genuinely listens to those he is firing. He is tender. He is firm. He stays on task. The outcome, however, is always the same. His habits of travel are nailed down - which line to enter for airport screening to prevent delays and squeezing out every frequent flyer mile. In my eyes, it is a tragedy that his "home" is a pitiful one bedroom apartment barren of any personal mementos. His true home is the road belonging to the archetypal road warrior.

But he runs into trouble when his company decides to ground him to try out a new way of firing people - online, over the web, with webcams. It could save a ton of dough after all. A young college graduate, Natalie, is the cause of Bingham's current situation, having pitched this idea to their boss. He takes her on the road with him, so that she can get a feel for how this works. She is of course a pathetic road rookie, but he shows her the ropes, starting with tossing out her pillow from the 50 pound wheelie that needs to be checked. Checked baggage - a big no no on the road. And in true Clooney fashion, Bingham is simultaneously an ass and a charming nice guy with that gravelly voice and handsome face.

Bingham meets his doppelganger in fellow road warrior Alex and the two hit it off, arranging to meet in certain cities based on their intersecting schedules. The archetypal road warrior, now with company on the road, seems to be changing, softening. Being in relationship moves him out of that "Up in the Air" posturing - makes his life messy. Natalie's boyfriend dumps her while she's on the road and Bingham must deal with - ugh - emotions. He brings Alex with him to a family wedding that he dreads attending alone. There, he somehow talks the groom into marrying his niece when the young man gets cold feet, to the great appreciation of Bingham's sister. Everything is going well. He's liking Alex with no commitment. He's developing a mentor's fondness for Natalie. Then he makes the fatal error of going off his standard course of behavior and makes a spontaneous visit to see Alex at her home in Chicago. Let's just say it doesn't turn out well for him.

Now, onto metaphor. As a metaphor, Bingham represents a part of the human mind. Well, at least mine, but I'm sure others too. Having been burned more than once by emotional upheaval or the ending of relationships, there is that temptation - nay - that NEED to turn in and lick the wounds. To gain some degree of control, in just the way that we see Bingham on screen. Organize, be consistent, be efficient - even inside chaos. By doing so, the out of control spiral seems less out of control. That structure is a way to contain the painful craziness of separating or of being in relationship. The risk is always stepping out of that shell to see what else the world has to offer. Bingham represents a part that chooses to stay aloof from the rest of the world. And amazingly, and sadly too, modern culture provides plenty of opportunity to support that feeling of separation from others. Our culture is crazy efficient, for better or worse.

Bingham as the archetypal road warrior is a beautiful rendition of metaphor. The edges of the archetypal image start to blur with Natalie and Alex in Bingham's life. His naive visit to Alex's home is an archetypal mistake - stepping out of the air and onto solid ground - and he pays for it. Having been turned away, he ends up finally getting what the archetype is supposed to get - his special frequent flyer card and a visit from the lead pilot for the airline - up in the air of course, in first class. Can't help but think this is like a visit with God, the archetype having returned to the fold. This fits the lyrics of a song in the film, The Prodigal Son's coming home.

And this is what typifies an archetypal image. There is a somewhat defined set of characteristics and radius of experience around the image and that is why they are archetypal. Bingham is no longer the archetypal image of road warrior in his attempt to enter Alex's home. The archetypal image of king is no longer king if he's a tyrant. The archetypal image of leader is shattered when the President has an affair with an intern. 

I don't believe that the film's message is that it is too risky to step out into the world because it will inevitably lead to heartbreak. I think it is more about giving significant face time to a part of psyche, an archetypal part that looks like Bingham's road warrior, that struggles with the complications of emotions and relationships. And that part, always there, works well in certain situations, and not others, reminding me of the need for empathy of the many inner parts of self.

Seattle Half Marathon Play List

The songs on the iPod play list for race day should make one ravenous to run. When I train, running along forest trails or on city sidewalks, I listen to Podcasts of my favorite NPR shows: This American Life, Car Talk, Fresh Air. This just won't do for the race. The pace of the run has to be upbeat and so does the music. The songs cannot be rumpled - they must beguile the runner into believing the race is about the music - not the tired legs, the hills, the distance.

Each song is carefully scrutinized. Upbeat, intense - rap, hard and classic rock are good - mixed with the redolence of Van Morrison and Fleetwood Mac. Find songs with running in the title - Springsteen's Born to Run, or Van Halen's Running with the Devil. Throw in some tantalizing songs of one nighters, tunes with an attitude, and a few playful ones and the mix has potential. Then you hope they sync up with the course.

This play list served me well. Back in Black kicked it off, blaring in my ear buds, as I coasted downhill along Fifth Avenue, under the monorail, between lamp posts strung with sparkling starry Christmas lights. Born to Run burst into audio while I covered the flat miles alongside a calm Lake Washington. And I really needed Eminem's Soldier chugging up those never ending hills out of the Arboretum and Japanese Garden. A few tunes didn't work out (Mr. Jones and Romeo and Juliet - what was I thinking?!?) and were relegated to the skip pile. I finished with Put Your Lights On by Santana and Everlast. While a cute young volunteer with a smile slung a finisher medal around my neck and congratulated me, I thanked my mix for a virtuoso performance.  Finish Time: 1:37:44. Pace: 7:27. Overall place 283, 26th out of 328 in division. I was psyched!

Without further ado, here's the list:

Back in Black, AC/DC

You Shook Me All Night Long, AC/DC

Running with the Devil, Van Halen

Black Dog, Led Zeppelin

Carry on my Wayward Son, Kansas

Go Your Own Way, Fleetwood Mac

Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love, Van Halen

Into the Mystic, Van Morrison

Jack Rabbit Slim's Twist Contest/ You Never Can Tell, Chuck Berry (Pulp Fiction Soundtrack)

Romeo and Juliet, Dire Straits

Mr Jones, Counting Crows

Smoking, Boston

Two Step, Dave Matthews Band

Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel

(Da Le) Yaleo, Santana

Soldier, Eminem

Rollin' Crumblin', Tom Rothrock

Shoot to Thrill, AC/DC

Sharp Dressed Man, ZZ Top

Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen

Cat Scratch Fever, Ted Nugent

By the Way, Red Hot Chili Peppers

Get Out of This House, Shawn Colvin

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?, Paula Cole

I'm the One, Van Halen

D'Yer Mak'er, Led Zeppelin

Sometime Around Midnight (Acoustic), The Airborne Toxic Event

Put Your Lights On, Santana, Everlast

Copyright 2009 by Tom Flynn

Those Incredible Blue Angels

The Blue Angels were angelic on Thursday and Friday, with their graceful swoops and sweet trails of white candy across the blue sky, flying above a sparkling Lake Washington crammed with boats bobbing below the fighter planes as they flew overhead with sizzling exploding sounds. The crowd of observers in my office was at its peak on Friday afternoon's practice run, as Fridays tend to be relaxed and many employees wear jeans and casual shirts and blouses to work. They lined up like little kids waiting at the ice cream truck, all staring out the west facing windows on the ninth floor. I was one of them.

We talked about our past experience with these angels. When I worked at the UW, the planes would fly so low that they rattled windows and computer monitors and desks and employees and professors and students. I often wondered what it was like to live in a war zone and the naked fear that could be unleashed by that very same noise. One coworker described how a friend of his that lives on Capitol Hill has twice had to replace a window at the front of his house broken by the intense pounding of the Blue Angels' low altitude

On the street below us, I noticed pedestrians were often unaware of the metallic birds until one flew close enough to exceed the noise of the general din of the street traffic. One of my coworkers in fact returned from a walk in the neighborhood and she was surprised they were flying because she didn't hear them during her walk. But I could see the people on the sidewalks would sometimes stop walking, glance up at the sky, one hand shading their eyes with their head craned back, and gawk. As if they were extras in one of those sci-fi movies where flying saucers enter our airspace. Other pedestrians would catch on and they too would stop and gawk, mouths open, hands shading their squinting eyes.

On a rooftop garden area of a condo some floors below us, a man in shorts and short sleeves strolled around a patio area, scanning the skies on both Thursday and Friday during the air show. On the Wells Fargo building across the street, I saw a sudden stream of seven, maybe eight employees, exit a door onto the roof, skirt around rooftop mechanical equipment, and stroll near to the west edge of the seven-story building to watch.

Once a foursome of the angels flew straight up above the I-90 bridge and all flew away from one another upside down, to the four directions - north, east, south, and west, and three rejoined and one gave chase and suddenly I realized these four were on course to fly just past our building and I hollered to one of the directors whose office faces the west windows and he rushed out of his office just in time to see the angels fly close enough to see the lettering on the bottom of the navy blue and gold painted planes, flying 4 or 5 stories above us, roaring with a blast and we all looked at each other and grinned and the director for the first time was speechless. We were kids again.

Copyright 2009 by Tom Flynn

Thoughts on Writing and Drawing

I am taking a drawing class at the Kirkland Arts Center. Some ten years ago, I did some drawing and painting and it was means to explore that creative side. This time around I guess it's just something that is drawing my curiosity. In class, we have been working on shapes, contours, value, and composition. It's helped that I've drawn before so I don't feel as self-conscious as the first time I took a drawing class.

I find it challenging on a number of levels. One of those is the active critic that is in my mind anytime I start a drawing. In some way it parallels with writing, in that you have some idea of something you're to create, yet, you don't quite know where to begin or how it all ends. The anxiety of a blank page. If all goes well, you are drawn into this inner focus and the writing or drawing proceeds ahead. Meanwhile, you draw from the inkwell of tools that you have at your hand. In writing, it is the complication at the beginning, then you have to think about concrete images and words, then how do they all sound together. Then there is emotion, portrait, place, etc. etc.

In drawing the tools are your eyes, and trying to draw just what you see. It is an interesting exploration of seeing, in that we often want to move quickly to symbols - if you want to draw a tree, it will likely be a child-like rendering of a tree - the symbol. If as an artist you want to draw a tree, it's a difficult challenge of slowing down the mind, the processing, and putting pencil or charcoal to paper. It is zen-like. And frustrating and tiring if you're not used to it.

Writing is like this too. The ability to take a thought, an image, an emotion and then to translate that into words takes a lot of practice and getting out of the way of my impatience to get something done that sounds awesome.

Similarly, Riley struggles with batting because she goes to the plate and wants to get a hit and really the focus of the mind ought to be not on the outcome, but really on each individual pitch - no thought of past or future - but just each pitch as it comes in, the count, the pitcher's tendencies, the batting stance and so on. But she remembers if she struck out last time or she didn't get a hit and she just wants to get a darn hit and that is what she repeats to herself at the plate. Ha, that's me too when I'm drawing! I just want a good looking drawing!

I'm thinking that this practice in seeing has something to do with memory, with cultural learning, and with the dominance of the rational left brain.  Yet, at the same time, creating a drawing takes precision, focus, and not just willy nilly drawing of lines here and there. I find when I write poems it takes putting awareness somewhere between that willy nilly randomness of free writing that has no borders and the strict editor who gives shape, sound, and craft to the piece. This is how I find drawing and writing to be in some ways parallel processes.

Anyway, here's one of my better drawings.

Surfin' by Serendipity

Over the weekend I purposefully pointed my Firefox browser to stumble.com, and found...nada. Well, not exactly, nada, but someone's blog. I was told this was one of the great NEWest websites that all the millenials (those 30 and under) are surfing. That and Facebook, Digg, twitter, Youtube, etc. etc.

A Google search pointed me in the right direction. Stumbleupon is the website. I'm sure I'm the last one to trip this tripwire of serendipity. I'm sure you all know about this already because I am way too old for this stuff - ha!

You register at www.stumbleupon.com, select which categories you're interested in, press Stumble! on your new toolbar, and voila, up pops...?  and then ?!?, and then #$#, and then %%%. Random hits on websites that their members like the most. Some winners and some duds.

 Anyway, out of the first stumbles, here are my five favorites:

www.jacksonpollock.org - try it!

Scott Wades Dirty Art Car Gallery - Better than Art Cars!

Chordbook.com - Not only can you call out the fingering for a zillion guitar chords on the virtual fretboard, but also LISTEN to it played!

List of Unusual Deaths - for all you blocked writers out there, here's some material to riff off

The Scribbler - low tech drawing for those who like to doodle

Let me know what you think!

Third Place in State! And a Bowl of Jelly

I was as helpful as a bowl of jelly on Sunday. This was the day after my daughter's team, Redmond High, placed 3rd at the state fastpitch softball tourney. My brain and forehead hurt from too much thinking, worry, reminiscing, and sun. The Seattle PI called the RHS team the "cinderella" team after they won their first two games 10-0 and 10-1 against two strong teams. Yet their 7 regular season losses came in one of the hardest districts in the state. Eastlake, another team in district, won State, beating the favorite Shadle Park. Redmond peaked collectively at the right time, not one girl standing out too much against all the others. Definitely a total team effort.

I'm suffering though. Withdrawals. Hard to believe. Here I am, 45 years old. My 16-year old is highly involved in this team, and yet, so am I. I feel like I'm the one who weathered 5 games in 2 days. I was just a spectator!

Well, not just a spectator. I participated in the greatest folly of baseball/softball: superstitions. Not exactly like Jason Giambi's gold lame thong to get him out of a slump. The second day of the tournament, I wore the same faded jeans, wife-beater undershirt, ranch wear long-sleeve, and socks from the day before, but not the same underwear! Until they lost 6-0 to the prior year's state champs and the sun burned through the clouds. Then I switched to a t-shirt, nylon shorts and sandals. Practicality won out in the end over superstition.

So I have been feeding my obsessive exhilaration over the achievement by surfing dozens of websites since Saturday night, looking for any mention of Redmond's achievement - RedmondMustangs.com, Seattle PI, Seattle Times, Google News, New York Times (kidding), and the PI had the longest writeup of all (buried at the end of this article). The Times devoted one stingy sentence to the third/fourth place game.

My girl was 6-13, with 2 walks over the five games. I'm proud of her progress during the season. She faced pitchers who have been playing 18U and varsity softball for a couple of years. She had to learn patience at the plate, guessing pitches and working the count. I cherish these years right now. I feel lonely and bored at work, but as a softball spectator and a father, life is drenching me like a torrential downpour.

Softball Craze

Six games in four days. First game of the playoffs is on a cloudy, cool Wednesday night. My daughter is a sophomore at Redmond High and this her premier in KingCo 4A tournament. She starts in center field. Varsity softball, end of season playoffs, double elimination. We might play two games. We could play six. "We"? Well, I guess I'm just playing in my brain. But what anxiety! The sweaty palms. The pain in my chest. The tight gut. The eyes aren't twitching, but that's probably next.

First game is a  3-0 win against Juanita! Yes! I miss soccer but who cares.

Thursday night, two games. 1-0 to Woodinville loss followed by 5-3 win against  Inglemoor. They're still in it.

Friday night. Have to win to stay in. A 4-3, walk-off, single scores the winning run again, against Juanita, to advance to consolation game against Eastlake. Same night. Second game. This is a big loss, 8-1. The same Redmond pitcher pitched all five games. The other starter is out for season with stress fracture in her throwing arm. There is no backup.

Having placed 3rd in KingCo, we're off to Vancouver, Washington, for a pig-tail game (as I've seen it called in the Seattle Times) against Evergreen High. Whoever wins, goes to state. Whoever loses, goes home - season over.

R and I drive together for three hours to get there from Seattle, leaving at 8 a.m. She listens to music on her iPod, text messages and dozes off and on, her seat reclined all the way back. I listen to Divisadero, book on CD. Same author as The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje. I'm nervous. I wonder if she is too. She has been dreadfully hard on herself since the playoffs started on Wednesday night, collecting few hits, some strikeouts, and deep frustration at some errors and not playing as well as she would like. Her frustration is affecting her attitude and effectiveness.

I battle with the mental part of sports too. When I play soccer, I feel the constant struggle to stay in the present after making some routine "blunder." I confessed this to a teammate once, who told me, as a defender, that if he has a pass intercepted, that he blames himself for any goals that might occur even seven passes later, and could only relax when our team got the ball back. Hearing that was a huge relief to me.

Before one soccer game last spring, I was patting myself on the back for getting less worked up in recent games. That night, however, I made five or six horrible passes one after another  - turnovers, and I was so frustrated and pissed off and calling myself every name in the book, that I couldn't stand to be on the field anymore. More like I couldn't stand being in my own fit body. My mind, oh, it was on fire.

In Vancouver, the temperature was 90+ degrees. Redmond scored two quick runs, Evergreen High scored 1. In the 4th inning, Redmond was up 3 to 1, when two ugly throwing errors caused 3 runs to score. Redmond down 4 to 3. I thought to myself - don't panic, there's three innings left. Redmond came right back, took a one run lead, but Evergreen responded as well, and the two teams entered the final inning tied at 5.

The Evergreen pitcher labored through a long seventh inning, when Redmond scored 7. Redmond's pitcher was tired too, but finally put them away, 12-8 Redmond. My daughter had 3 walks, was 1-1, 1 RBI, 2 runs scored! She was finally smiling! After fifteen years absence from State, the Redmond High girls softball team is going. Afterwards, it was a very enjoyable dinner with the players and parents at a local pub style restaurant (firkin something?), as well as the 3-hour drive back home, with my kid. This time, she didn't text so much, listened to iPod with one ear bud in and not two. And we talked the whole way, father and daughter, stopping just once for an Icee and ice cream sandwich.