The frequency with which I cry at movies is, honestly, a bit embarrassing. It's not like streams of tears down my face; it's more like a watery eyes kind of thing. But still, I see someone crying up there, and I just can't help it. It seems as if it's good for us to see ourselves cry. I watched Children of Men tonight and something about it spoke to me, and maybe it was that. Not that there was much crying during the movie (and no crying from me, either, this time). It was, however, a clear reflection of the pain in our world. Maybe when we see ourselves, transformed into characters on the screen but still recognizable, we can learn about ourselves, and weep for ourselves. In this move the images of war and hatred and prejudice and fear were constant, and along side them courage and hope. There's something about the juxtaposition of the ugliness of the world and it's beauty that rings true. Of course, there was little beauty in this movie that wasn't the result of some very fine film making, but the fact that we can turn the horrific into something beautiful, or that we can find beauty in the terrible, seems to hint that they are not so far apart. The ugliness in this movie was our ugliness, and the beauty our beauty, in us side by side. Now, Little Miss Sunshine, another movie I loved this year, did make me cry (just a little). Mostly, it's a hilarious family comedy, but there's a lot of hurt there. At times you ache for the characters. But it's easy to see that we are those people, lovely and broken and funny and sad all at once. In her exquisite book, Gilead, Marilynne Robinson writes "every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations." Each one of us criminals and murderers, healers and the saints.

The Cold, in Retrospect

It's cold today. The cold lives under our feet and creeps up through the floorboards of our ancient house. Every ten minutes or so the heater makes jet engine noises as it pushes warm air up into the rafters, far away from my frozen toes. I'm trying to think about warm things, tropical beaches, volcanoes, hot sauce, but it doesn't really help. So instead I've turned on the little space heater that's been sitting behind my door, put on the warm slippers I got for Christmas, and I am now sitting at my desk wrapped in a blanket. Is this what it's like in colder places, like Minnesota and North Dakota and Antarctica? Each time the penguins venture out of their little penguin-homes, do they shiver a little and say "It's cooold."? Cause that's what we do here in Texas. Do they shut down their penguin-streets completely, like Texans, and spend their days surfing weather.com to see if it will be cold again tomorrow? "I heard there might be ice on the roads tomorrow," they tell each other, "I wonder if they'll cancel penguin-school."

I have often said that I want to live somewhere colder. "Somewhere with seasons," I sometimes say. I still would, I think, like to try it out. But it's been sixteen years since I've lived in a place where people don't talk about "the snow flurries I saw that one Christmas, you know, I think it was 96." Being a six year old in Wisconsin is very different from being an adult. An adult must drive in the snow, and shovel the snow, and buy warm jackets. A six year old makes snow forts and can wear those once piece snow suits without fear of embarrassment and his biggest worry is avoiding the trees as he sleds down the hill. To a six year old, finding the little tin shelter by the school bus stop upside down and across the street after a particularly nasty winter storm is really cool. On the other hand, that might worry his mother. Also, this six year old, by the time he has become 25, has forgotten all about how much his face stung in the cold and the snow getting inside his boots and soaking his socks. (Well, I remember the wet sock thing...that really sucked).

It's no surprise that most things seem better in retrospect. This is how Wisconsin has become a kind of paradise in my head, populated by friendly six year olds who like to sled in the winter and catch frogs in the summer, where the leaves of the forest catch fire in the fall with orange and red and yellow and the winter is cold, but never uncomfortable. And there are gigantic toads the size of watermelons and tree frogs that stick their bright red toes to your screen door (Apparently there are a lot of frogs and toads in paradise. Well, I was six, what do you expect).

If I move away from Houston, I'll probably think of Houston fondly someday. I'll remember how mild the winters were and forget about the days it the thermometer read 108 and the mosquitoes had quick little cocktail parties on your arms and legs each time you stepped outside. Even today, a cold and stressful day, will be blurred into a time of growth and change in my life. And I'll remember how this old house had charming wooden floors and it wasn't too bad if you had a space heater.

But if I leave I won't forget the little inconveniences completely. I might remember the smog and the stress and not having a washer and dryer. And I probably won't move back.

A Question

Here's a question for you: Why is that guy next door always sitting out in his car? Is he thinking? Is he avoiding his wife? Is he smoking weed? Is he staring at me through my window?

Well, I know the answer to the last question: No. Because I put a sheet over the window.

That is all.

The Little Things

For reasons I won't go into here, it's not been a great weekend. But don't worry, I've got something to celebrate. It's great. And I'm wearing it. Well, I'm wearing them. Here's what I'm celebrating: my socks and my shirt: THEY MATCH!!....doesn't that make you happy too?

And it's not just like I'm wearing white socks and a white shirt. Not even black socks and a black shirt. No, my shirt is tan with green sleeves.

And my socks?

Funny you should ask, they are tan with green toes.

You might be thinking that I live a charmed life. Well, not really. I mean, they aren't exactly the same shade of tan. And my toes are a little brighter hue than my sleeves. But I do consider myself lucky. I mean, how often is it that your only pair of clean socks and the sweater you happen to be wearing match so exactly right? Not very often. Not very often at all.

Now, like I said, parts of the last few days haven't been so great. But I'm not going to dwell on that. I'm going to celebrate the little things. Little things like green toes and green sleeves (green sleeves, not greensleeves. Aw hell, I'll celelbrate greensleeves too, it's a nice melody). And Hotel Song by Regina SPektor, which I like quite a bit. And Sudoku and John Hodgeman (he's a funny guy), and the way words fit together so nicely to make sentences. And the sun on a January afternoon, how it's warm but the breeze is cool and I can wear a sweater with my sleeves rolled up.

Well, actually, the sun isn't exactly a little thing. But I like it.