Diary Friday: “Big news: J. overheard that Nick and Eric were going to ‘Ghostbusters’ tonight down at the Pier Cinema – so we decided to go and stalk them.”

This is a series of entries from the last week of my Junior year in high school. Finals week. As I was going through all of these – well, first of all, I was roaring with laughter at certain points because everything is so dramatic. But also, I recognize myself in these words. I am still the same person, although a bit more seasoned now, with more experiences and – hopefully – a better writer. But it was quite amazing to come across these entries and see some of the “themes” of my life, the “leitmotifs” (sorry, David) – all still here, reverberating. In clear prose. Keeping a diary for most of your life is good, if you’re a writer – because you have all this raw material to call upon. There it all is. It also can be bad, because it fills your head with ghosts, what-ifs, regrets, and the sense of the abyss between You Then and You Now. I feel that. Definitely. But I do love that I kept a diary because things get cemented. For example, roaring with J. about the silver shamrock wand in our box. I would never remember that if I hadn’t written it down, but it’s totally there in my memory banks now. Also, the sunset I saw with Kate and Beth. It’s not just that I described it that I remember it. But the act of writing something down, for me, puts it into a deep groove in my brain and my heart, it’s there if I want to look at it. Sitting on the beach at sunset, with my two best friends, 16 years old, looking at a sunset and thinking about God. A tiny moment, all in all, but it’s there: not just in the pages of my high school notebook, but in my mind’s eye. I own it. And Dad making fun of me as I studied for Chemistry. There it is: the memory captured, put down on paper, indestructible. So much is lost in this life. So much disappears. I have always had anxiety about losing things. I think, deep down, that is why I have always wanted to write, and always have written. I don’t want things to go away.

So here is the series of entries written while I was studying for finals my junior year. And I remember it all.

June 13

I took the Math test. I was shaking with fear even though I really did study (I had brought my math notebook home, luckily). Kate had told me that the test was a positive nightmare. So I went in there and took it but I didn’t find it horrendous. I didn’t get a few problems, but I knew more than I didn’t know. But still – today Kate told me she got a 55. KATE!! I don’t think she’s failed a test in her life.

I’ve been on such a downer, starting yesterday – what a cavern I’m in – and to fail a Math test! I may never recover emotionally! [I was dead serious, I believe. I don’t think this is ironic.] We only had 2 tests other than that one this quarter. On one I got an 80, on the other I got a 69. My average was a 74 or something. A 55 would really boost my average. [hahahahahahahaha] When I found out the highest grade in the class was an 85, I prepared myself. BUT! I got an 80! AND I got a C for the quarter!! [This was good news for me, not bad. I worked my ass off for that C.)

Today has been so hot and sticky. I stayed after school with J. so we could clear out our locker (an impossible huge gross task). You should have seen it. It was all my junk too. A winter coat, sneakers, sweats, pants, a sweater, a turtleneck, 3 pairs of mittens, 1 pair of gloves – all in a bag which was totally useless and ripped down the side. I also had my silver shamrock wand from when we did “Cinderella” in Drama.

J. and I were both really tired and hot and sweaty, so together we lugged the stupid bag (which I called “mental” and J. went off into gales of laughter) down to the library. It was so hot on the 3rd floor and we were laughing so hard. We went into the library to find a box but there weren’t any. We saw some in the janitor’s room, and were going to steal one, but there were newspapers in all of them.

Then we went into the back room in the library and saw a cardboard box full of books. No one was around so we dumped the books out, and ran out with the box. I honestly thought I was going to wet my pants I was laughing so hard. We both were. Since we aren’t allowed to take out books anymore (end of school and all), J. snuck 3 books out without signing them out. [Hahaha. I love her for that.]

My box was so heavy. J. held one side, I held the other. We looked so ridiculous. The minute we picked the box up, I said, solemnly, “There seems to be a silver shamrock in this box” … and J. started laughing – when J. laughs she makes me laugh – we both got so weak from laughing, we lost our grips and the box fell. We finally thought we got it under control, so picked up the box again, took 2 steps, and then fell down roaring with laughter again.

It was a fun day. We spent all of gym looking through the yearbook and planning what we were going to write for our senior blurbs next year.

We have one day of classes left. Then finals. Then SUMMER.

I deserve it. Oh boy, do I deserve a very long break, full of independence. I am now hooked on “Guiding Light”. No more boring “General Hospital”. So all summer I will watch it! [Sounds like a real plan, Sheila!]

June 16


I went to school, took my History final. 100 multiple choice questions. It was a joke. I see the entire world as a multiple-choice question now. [Hahaha] My eyes are spinning about in my head. Butler’s gonna scale the tests though. I did study hard. I HAVE TO DO WELL. I got an A this quarter though!! So that final – it wasn’t hard – but it was the first final, so I was really tired after it.

Mrs. Franco assigned us a paper for Thursday. I cannot believe she did that. Mine was a 9-page masterpiece though. I’m very proud of it. I wrote it on Hemingway. Farewell to Arms.

All of Thursday was exhausting, nerve-wracking review. I started despairing. I was drowning, overwhelmed. Then – oh, I don’t know how late or how early I stayed up Thursday night – just studying and studying and studying. For the History final. I mean – how long could I study? An entire year of US History in one test? How detailed could it be?? Well, it was detailed, and it was very dumb.

After my History final, I came home, and had the most wonderful time relaxing, with records. [That’s like saying, “I relaxed with my quill pen, my oil lamp, and my parchment paper.”] No one else was home, so I played the piano, and sang. [Nerd.]

Mum came home. I am always in a foul mood after finals, so she came home today, and I think this was the first time she ever told me to go watch my soap opera. “Sheila, just go watch your soap opera, please.”

Ha!

Today was a beautiful day – even a little chilly. Brilliantly clear and sunny. Lush green, yellow sun, blue blue sky. Kate called me and we decided to “do something”.

I just wasn’t in the mood for studying tonight. I have all night, and all day tomorrow.

So Kate invited me and Beth out, and the 3 of us went down to Narragansett Beach for a walk.

It was about 6 pm I guess. Just at sunset. We all rolled up our jeans, and took a long long walk. The sky was indescribable. [And of course I will proceed to describe it.] I felt God there. So much.

The sky changed every time we looked up at it. I think it was the most spectacular sky I have ever seen. Where the sun went down, it was like an explosion. It was gold and shimmering – huge clouds billowing out – all red and orange – and all around the sunset were big thick bright clouds, and stretching off around that, the clouds got wispier and stretched out really long, so they looked like they were zooming off into the distance – all in a blur. The sky was exploding.

So the 3 of us sat down to watch the sky. As though it were a movie.

The waves were lapping. Whenever the waves receded, it was perfectly silent.

Then 3 solitary seagulls – teeny black Vs – flew across the gold sky.

It was weird. It was like the gulls were a mirror of the 3 of us, sitting on the sand. We were them, they were us.

That was when I felt God the most.

It was weird, but later, the 3 of us talked about it – and Beth and Kate had noticed the 3 black seagulls too.

The sky out over the water got darker and darker blue – sort of muted, and deep – a twilight-dusk-blue – and the water was darkly deeply blue. For a while, the sky stretching out over the ocean was glowing with this soft subtle rose-lavendar color – and the waves that lapped (it was a gentle night surf) were all shimmering with this pinky-purple from the sky. Then, again, there were those “rushing” pink clouds -almost reaching for the sunset. It was so peaceful.

By the time we headed back, it started to get dark, so the sky had calmed the hell down. But we could look across the water to the town, all glimmering with lights.

I had this wish that someone was beside me, a boy, holding my hand. And we could sit and watch the sunset. [Of course you did, Sheila, you sweet thing. You have always wanted such a thing.]

The beach was sparsely populated [that makes it sound post-apocalyptic]- but most were couples. One couple in rolled-up jeans, barefeet, were wading along through the water holding hands. There was one couple huddled together in a lifeguard’s chair.

That sky was so bursting with beauty that I could not believe it. It was OVERFLOWING with God.

Then we all went to Newport Creamery for ice cream.

Kate kept saying, “I really feel 17 right now.”

We got back into the car, put the radio on, and it was 50s night – so as we drove along, we were laughing at how much it felt like we were in “American Grafitti” or something – cruisin’ along, Saturday night, Wolfman Jack, rock ‘n roll, just being teenagers.

And now? I am in the right frame of mind to study for the entire day tomorrow.

11:30 pm


I have never studied so long in my whole entire life. All day. I have Chemistry and French tomorrow.

But I am not dreading them anymore. Hey. I have studied massively. I will go in there, and I will do my best. It is only 2 hours out of my whole life. I will survive. Life will go on, whatever happens.

Dad and I had so much fun tonight. I recited practically the entire Chemistry book to him – just for practice – it felt good to rattle it all off, but Dad was so funny – I mean, he didn’t even know if what I was saying was right or not, and he so didn’t care!

I’d say, “So. Dad. You want to hear about Molality, Dad?”

And he’d say, eyes in his book, “No, not particularly, Sheila.”

But I would rattle off the definition at him anyway.

I told him all the rules, all the formulas, and he would just sit there, behind his book the whole time. I’d babble on about protons and neutrons and he would just look at me with this totally bland deadpan face.

He’d say, “You know what Avagadro’s number is????Why?”

Dad, I honestly do not have an answer for that. But I do know what Avagadro’s number is, and quite frankly, I wish I didn’t.

Wednesday is the Drama final, which is just going to be fun. We each have to sing a “character song” and a “love song”. Then the entire class has to put on a production number. It is so incredibly fun. For “character” I’m singing “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”, it’s a vaudeville song that Judy Garland sang a lot – when her name was Frances Gumm – [Look at me, filling in my own diary on Judy Garland’s early career.] and then for my “long song” I’m singing “This Can’t Be Love” from The Boys from Syracuse. For the “production number” the whole class is gonna do “Summer Lovin'” from Grease. We’re all gonna dress up 50s, and bop around being total stereotypes. Kris, Betsy, Joe, Beth, Kate -it’s gonna be great.

June 18


It is not a pleasant feeling to look in the mirror and see an old woman. [I am 16 years old at the point of writing this sentence.]

June 19


I cannot even explain to you what the past few days have been like for me. I don’t want to see my report card. EVERY final has been SO HARD. Chemistry! It’s NOT that I didn’t study – I DID I DID! I have gotten about 6 hours of sleep since Sunday. But all my finals have been SO HARD. Chemistry wasn’t even that. It was just impossible, it was outrageous, and it was TOTALLY unfair. I am so glad I am out of there. I hate Mr. A. I hate hate hate him. I don’t think even HE cares about Avagadro’s number. I think he’s just happy to have a paycheck. He always wanted to trick us. He would purposefully make the language of the quiz questions confusing – and then not care when everybody got confused, he wanted us to be baffled. [Speaking as an adult, looking back, this was an accurate assessment. He was a terrible teacher, hated kids, and found it amusing and awesome when we were lost, and did what he could to keep that feeling going in his classroom. He was awful.] He was a tricky teacher, and I don’t like being tricked. Good riddance to protons, neutrons, and stupid Avagadro.

June 20


Oh Diary! summer is here! I survived my finals! Not without blemishes. [“Blemishes”, Sheila?]

But today – officially – truly – I am a senior. A senior.

We aren’t underclassmen anymore. There’s a whole new mentality with being a senior.

One more year.

After school got out today (oh yeah – the Drama final was so fun! Mrs. McNeil gave out what she called “Drammy Awards” Kate and I tied for “best love song” – we couldn’t believe it!! And, of course, the whole class got one for “Best Production Number” -since, basically, we had no competition.) [hahahahahahahahaha] Anyway, after school got out, Kate and I, again, wanted to “do something”. She had her car. So we called J. from school (she had just had her Chemistry exam and was suicidal), so we went to pick her up. I was still in a school frame of mind – it still hasn’t sunk in -SUMMER – wonderful summer! After this year of hell, it is like an outpouring of relief, a huge catharsis.

We drove to Kate’s house and we had such a great time. We made scrambled eggs and toast (it was only 11 am) and we ate outside on the porch with an umbrella table. The sun was warm and bright, everything was glowing, and we all just basked in this new feeling: 2 and a half months of NO SCHOOL. And also – now we only have one more year. It gives us a very strange feeling of peace. I have not been at peace one day this year. I DO NOT EXAGGERATE. [Sheila, who are you yelling at? You’re just writing in your diary. Nobody said you were exaggerating. Also: you ARE exaggerating. It’s okay. ] I can’t remember ONE DAY this year when I didn’t feel all rumpled up, or scared about school – and now it’s summer, and I can just take a long 2 and a half month deep breath.

After lunch, we went inside and talked until 3:30. From 12 to 1, we talked about finals. From 1 to 3:30 we talked about boys.

We reminisced. We talked about all the good times we had with all 3 of those boys. [Each of us had been in love with someone for the entirety of the year. It didn’t work out for any of us. But we had supported each other through our individual manias.]

I’m not sorry. I mean, there were times this year when I felt so good, perfectly good through and through. I have never felt so great. I remember it all. How happy I was. And I am glad for that. I am still so MAD that it didn’t happen between us. I still don’t know why. He did care. I know he did. [No, he didn’t.]

J. and I laughed about how we had actually planned out, in our minds, our double dates. Which, of course, never occurred. We talked over everything that had happened to everyone. J. being asked to dance and how unbelievably exciting that was, DW asking me if I hated him and then J. flying out the door, trying to make herself invisible (I love that girl!!), we talked about Project Adventure (we devoted a good half-hour to that), we talked about all the dances – we talked about the whole fun and nightmarish year.

J. and Kate were telling me about when they found out that I wasn’t gonna go to the prom cause he said no. I had called Kate IMMEDIATELY, and then called J. where she was babysitting. J. told me, “When you called me, I thought right away that he had said Yes, because you were out of breath -I thought you were excited – and when you told me, it was like – oh my GOD – this huge CALAMITY!” Kate said, “I know! I know! I just wandered around saying to myself, ‘He said no. He said no’, trying to make myself believe it, but I couldn’t believe it!” [Good friends. I am blessed.]

This is true for me too: when one of my friends is down, or has a calamity, I feel it with them.

And – big news: J. overheard that Nick and Eric were going to “Ghostbusters” tonight down at the Pier Cinema – so we decided to go and stalk them. And then be like: “Wow! You’re here at “Ghostbusters” too?? What an unbelievable coincidence!!” Hee hee.

So after the time at Kate’s, I went home, I got into jeans, and had a wonderful time just being a vegetable. I watched “Guiding Light”. I listened to records. I sighed a lot. I feel like I still have to keep studying. I can’t really realize it’s summer yet.

Then, at about 6:30, I got ready to go out and stalk those boys at “Ghostbusters”. I had on my dad’s Oxford shirt (everyone wears their dad’s clothes now. It is the latest thing), jeans, metallic red socks, and my white plastic sunglasses.

Betsy and Mere came too. We got there late, so the lights were already off, and we had to fumble around for seats. We actually had to split up. J. and I sat together. The other 3 sat in 2 rows behind us.

That movie – was absolutely hysterical.

J. and I were losing it. We were laughing SO LOUD and SO HARD. There was a couple beside us who were so embarrassing. I mean, they may as well have had all of their clothes off. J. and I silently judged them harshly. But still – that damn Marshmellow Man as tall as a building … J. and I were out of control. Especially that moment where they all see the Stay-Puf Marshmallow Man appear for the first time, barreling down the boulevard – and they all slowly look at Dan Akroyd – who says, ashamed, “I couldn’t help it … I tried to keep my mind clear … but that was the first thing that popped into my head…” J. and I LOST IT.

After the movie, the sun had just set and the sky was glowing, so we all decided to go for another walk on the beach. Nick was there, Eric wasn’t … a whole crowd of kids from the sophomore (now junior) class was there, at the movie. We all went down to the beach and took off our shoes.

The sky was a soft pink and blue – gorgeous – it was getting dim … twilight … As we all ran down onto the sand, it really hit me, for the first time for real, that it is SUMMER. And I don’t have to study anything for over 2 months. It was exhilarating.

We all started dancing madly down at the shore – I was tap-dancing in the waves – we all went absolutely crazy – dancing, running, singing, screaming – We shouted to each other, “1! 2! 3!” – and would take long runs, and all kick our heels in the air at the same time. Mere could do two heel-kicks to everybody else’s one.

After being a total tired ugly zombie for a week, or a month, (or, actually, the whole year) I felt so invigorated. Not pretty, though. I really look pretty awful right now. I have bags under my eyes. I look very old and tired. [16 years old. Yup..

But still! I felt so alive, dancing on that dusky beach. It was a clear night, too, so all the stars were coming out. We walked in the waves. The surf was huge and crashing.

I felt so great – so free – like a senior in high school should.

The whole sophomore crowd had joined us. We all walked. Starry summer sky.

And then – suddenly – out of nowhere – Betsy ran into the water, with her clothes on, and dove in.

We all were screeching at the top of our lungs, watching her diving through the waves, fully clothed. She was totally soaked! And laughing her head off! We all were!

As we walked back, Betsy, Mere and I walked together, and Kate and J. were far behind.

It really was dark by that time, the sky was full of stars and it looked massive – huge – eternal. I felt like I was spinning and dizzy when I stared up at it.

It was just really nice, wading along on the beach, finals over, school over, in my dad’s big comfy shirt, cold water, gorgeous sky, feeling good inside, with my friends.

June 23


Oh LORD! T. just asked me out to a movie! I’m going on a date with him!!

I’m not making it a huge romantic thing, but STILL. He called me up. He asked me.

My mom answered – it was for me, so she came to get me. I picked up the phone, and he went, “Hey, Sheila Junior! I almost just asked your mom for a date!”

That made me laugh.

We’re going to see “Top Secret”. Please God, don’t let it be obscene. Don’t let there be any naked love scenes, because I think I would die of embarrassment.

He said on the phone, “I know this is really junior high-ish and everything, but …”

I loved that. His humor about himself asking me out on a date.

I called J. the second I hung up with him, and said, “T just called me and asked me out to the movies.” She screamed, “Oh, I can’t wait to go write it down in my diary!”

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Melancholia

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“I Spy”, by Siobhan O’Malley

My super-talented sister Siobhan O’Malley has three albums out, and her song “I Spy” (which I love to blast as I drive to the beach – hell, as I drive anywhere) is featured in an adorable stop-animation spot for Linda & Harriett, a paper goods and design company out of Brooklyn. Check it out. It’s so cool. I’m wicked proud.

You can buy her stuff on iTunes.

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Donya (2003): “You Have Exhumed My Life.”

When we first see real estate mogul, Hadj Reza Enayat (Mohamad Reza Sharifinia) he is collapsed in a chair, his swollen feet being washed by his whining wife (Gohar Kheirandish). Hadj is a grotesque person, in our first impression. He sneezes repeatedly. His feet are disgusting. And he appears to have no sympathy for his wife’s concerns, despite the fact that yes, she is a rather annoying sniggling creature. His plan, to sell their giant house and break it up into apartments, and then move himself and his wife into one of the flats in an apartment building he owns, has caused his wife much distress. She loves the house. Why would he deny her the happiness of living there? She begs for an answer and he sneezes in her face. The scene is played comedically. The characters are stock, and the situation is familiar to anyone who has been married for a long time, and who knows long-married couples.

It took me a couple of viewings to click in to what was going on in Donya, the 2003 Iranian film directed by Manuchehr Mosayyeri, and starring Hedye Tehrani in the title role (an actress I have written about quite a bit: Fireworks Wednesday, Party, Siavash, Shirin, Hemlock.) Because she is the lead, and because she is so beautiful, humorous, and likable, my feelings were naturally swayed to her point of view. And Hadj seemed grotesque to me, a bully and a hypocrite. Clearly the film couldn’t be asking me to sympathize with him, could it? This is one of those instances when a film requires you to imagine watching it in the country in which it was made, and imagine the issues with which a local audience would already be familiar. This was how I watched Donya the second time through, and an entirely different film emerged. It was still comedic, and despite Hadj’s sometimes horrible behavior, he emerged as the clear sympathetic lead, and she the conniving dame out of film noir. There are still complexities in evidence, but there can be no doubt that we are meant to weep for him at the end when he says, “You have exhumed my life.” My initial response to it was, “Well, you’re horrible, Hadj, you are a sexist pig, a violent father, a conniving lying bully, one of those horrible people who makes a huge show of being pious and then doesn’t live in a holy manner, so you deserve to have your life exhumed.” And Donya seemed pleasant, for the most part, and yet determined to not let Iran and its silly prudish rules control her (the character has spent most of her life abroad).

In general, I don’t watch Iranian films to “learn about their culture”, although that is often a byproduct. I watch them because they make good movies, and I love the style and depth that even a soap opera/noir like Donya brings to the table. I know all the main players, in terms of actors, and it’s fun to see them pop up in different projects. I have gotten to know them, like a repertory company. Iranian film couldn’t be shallow if it tried. So I enjoy watching films from a culture that is a questioning, bold, and intellectual one. Besides, “learning about another culture” is for academics. Iranian film tackles love and marriage and crime and class and family, just like any other film industry in any other country. Human beings all worry about the same things, and we all go insane when we fall in love.

That being said, Donya presented a challenge, and a welcome challenge. Once I changed the filter, and saw Hadj as the clear lead, I could see the fun that the film was poking at Tehrani’s character, Donya. I had to think like an Iranian, to put it poorly. Once I sat through it the second time, Hadj emerged as a pathetic and human character, ridiculous, yes, but doing his best. Yes, he’s a bully and a religious hypocrite, but that is where the humor comes in. Look at how unscrupulously he behaves towards his wife, and yet there he is massaging his prayer beads at every moment and berating his son for “playing around” with a girl. I imagine Hadj would seem hilarious to current Iranian audiences, and a very familiar kind of character: the conservative religious guy being befuddled and bamboozled by modernism. He’s not treated in Donya as a serious menace to society. He got the name “Hadj” even though he never made the trip to Mecca, something that his wife throws back in his face during a terrible argument. He wants to seem pious, but it’s all for show. He’s pathetic, but not in a tragic or malevolent way. (Side note: actor Sharifinia has been around for a long time, and came out as a big supporter of Ahmadinejad in 2009, which led to Iranians berating him on his Facebook page which then had to be taken down.)

So let’s get down to specifics. It’s a soap opera, as well as a swirling family drama. Hadj and his wife have two grown children, a college-age son (played by the wonderful Soroosh Goodarzi, a familiar actor to Iranian film fans; he was heartbreaking as the sickly brother in Party), and a married daughter. Hadj runs a successful real estate business, and one day a forthright and confident single woman (Hedye Tehrani) comes into his office to complain. One of his agents proposed marriage to her while showing some houses. “Are you running a marriage service?” she snaps at Hadj, who, from the first moment he looks at her, falls deeply in love (this is signified by a blast of dramatic strings, a theme repeated throughout the film whenever he looks at her – it’s quite funny).

Donya is there to complain and he can’t help but condescend to her, due to his patriarchal position. “Sister, let’s talk about this -” he soothes, and she retorts, “I’m not your sister, I’m not your mother, I’m not your daughter, I’m a client and I don’t want to be proposed to when I’m looking at houses.” To conciliate her, he takes her out to look at his properties. At first, boldly, he takes her to see his own house, the house he actually lives in, but then has Donya peel away when he sees his wife coming out the front door. As was established in the first scene, Hadj wants to move out of his house and sell it, but his wife objects. So we see immediately that Hadj is acting in opposition to his wife. Donya, who is at the wheel, argues with him for the rest of the scene about why he won’t go back and show her that house. That is the house she wants. To placate her yet again, he takes her to an apartment building he owns and shows her the palatial apartment (“with Jacuzzi”, he informs her) on the 5th floor. Donya strolls around, looking in cupboards, and keeps saying to Hadj in a wheedling voice, “But I want that house, Hadj.” In a very funny moment, she goes into an empty bedroom and opens the closet door, only to see a man and a young woman hiding there, terrified.

It is Hadj’s son and his girlfriend. Donya is startled to find them there, but not more startled than the two love birds. The young man pleads with Donya in a whisper, “Please don’t say anything! He’s my father! Please!” and then goes back into the closet with the girl. Tehrani’s face is eloquent in the aftermath. It looks like she wants to burst into laughter. It made me like her. What made me like her even more was that she stalked out of the empty bedroom and confronted Hadj about all the roaches she saw in that other room, and says she wants to leave immediately. She acts as cover for the trapped lovers.

Events accelerate. Hadj, in an act of great piety and generosity, buys his wife tickets to the Shiite shrines in Karbala and Syria, for a holiday for a month. “You deserve it, you deserve to get away,” he says. She weeps in gratitude. Then there is a hilarious shot of his wife going to pray on the patio, as Hadj lies on the couch fanning himself. A perfect tableau of absurdity.

The second his wife is out of the picture, Hadj acts. He moves out of the family home and into the apartment building, where Donya has conceded and now lives on the 5th floor. He hires a contractor to start the renovations on his old house. And … he starts to fall more openly in love with Donya. She and he are neighbors now. She shows up at his door on occasion (with the same blast of dramatic strings that occurred on their first meeting). Her energy with him is no longer imperious, as it was in their first meeting. She treats him fondly, she seems to find him humorous, even touching on occasion.

There is one scene where Hadj has his son drilling in some curtain rods in their flat, but it’s at night, and Donya is disturbed from her meditation practice. She comes down to complain. She says, “The racket down here is disturbing my TM.” Hadj has no idea what she is talking about, but he turns around and starts yelling at his son, “What are doing drilling at this time of night? What is your problem?” He says to his son later, “What was she talking about? MTV?”

Donya is a modern woman. She was married abroad but got a divorce. “It’s hard to live with a sissy,” she tells Hadj. Her husband tried to control her, made her quit school, kept her under lock and key. While it may seem that Hadj, with his scruffy beard, omnipresent prayer beads, and traditional clothing, would represent everything she abhors about her culture, Donya appears to see beneath the surface to the essentially kindly man underneath. But there is more to Donya than meets the eye. For example, she strolls into the elevator in their building, lets the doors close, and then hits the alarm. She starts screaming in an overblown melodramatic way to get Hadj’s attention. She shouts to him that she has been “stuck in here for five hours” and she is “suffocating”. Hadj is panicked, racing up and down stairs trying to save her.

What is Donya up to? As the month goes on, she asks Hadj for help in buying furniture. The two start to hang out. They go out to dinner. They talk about their lives. She tells him he would look so much better if he shaved his beard. Hadj has a moment of soul-searching staring at himself in the mirror. He then shaves off his beard. He is clearly having a mid-life crisis. She also tells him that he should dye his hair. He does. When he shows up to work with jet black hair, no beard, and a dyed-black mustache, his colleagues all stop, frozen, staring at him. Nobody says anything. He walks away and they all look at each other, and one murmurs, “What has happened?” It’s hilarious.

I suppose it’s always funny to see a blowsy middle-aged man try to re-capture his youth. It’s a familiar trope in any culture. The transformation is radical. Suddenly there is Hadj taking tennis lessons, as Donya watches from the sidelines, eating ice cream as they stroll down the sidewalk, and, yes, running a race with her in a shadowy leafy lane, laughing like carefree kids. Suddenly Hadj is wearing track suits and backwards baseball caps. Hadj, your wife is returning in a couple of weeks. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?? Your wife is not going to be down with this, I can tell you that right now.

The entire relationship is kept a secret from his children, and there is one tense scene when his family visits his apartment unexpectedly, and Donya is there, and he locks her in the bathroom telling her to not come out. Later she says to him, “Shame on you.” He bows his head in contrition. Meanwhile, there is the Romeo and Juliet situation of his son and his girlfriend, both students at the dental college in Tehran, and conducting a secret relationship. The two are good friends. But Hadj does not approve of spontaneous love relationships (unless it involves HIM), and has arranged for his son to marry a cousin. Unfortunately, the cousin is 13 years old. Hadj’s son pleads with his father, “I need to share interests with someone.” Hadj does not accept this line of talk. “You live with someone, you end up sharing interests.” Hadj’s son and his girlfriend have tortured secret conversations, and hide out in empty apartments owned by his father.

Donya runs into Hadj’s son in the apartment complex on occasion and jokes with him, “So you’re the empty closet man!” She ends up getting involved in the son’s life, and befriends the son’s girlfriend. Donya wants to help the two be together. “Do you love him?” Donya asks the girlfriend. The girlfriend’s eyes fill with tears. Donya hosts a co-ed party at her apartment for Hadj’s son, his girlfriend, and all of their friends, with blasting music and birthday cake. Naturally, the cops arrive. This kind of thing can’t go on in Tehran.

Hadj throws the son out. He asks Donya to be his second wife. Donya says that his first wife needs to be okay with it. Hadj tells her he will handle everything. He presents her with a marriage certificate and a rose at a romantic dinner. He now wears Western-style suits, has no beard, and looks vaguely like Saddam Hussein. Threatened by modern values in the context of his family, he starts to push his own boundaries when confronted with a modern woman who goes in for “TM”, has her own money, and stands up for herself. This is what lust can do, obviously: people often act insane when they are in the grips of lust. Hadj is so traditional that he cannot have an affair. They must make this legitimate. Unfortunately, he still cannot tell his family. He still hides Donya in the bathroom when the family comes over. And, in a confrontation in the stairwell, he slaps Donya across the face. The stress of Freedom is too much for this limited man. He reverts to type.

But Donya. What’s up with Donya? What about her stunt in the elevator? What about her continued insistence that she wants to move into “that house”? She couldn’t just befriend this man in order to get the real estate deal she wants. Because that would be horrible of her. But … is there another explanation? She seems fond of Hadj, and pleased when he begins to transform himself for her. She feels she can handle him, certainly, because it is obvious his feelings for her. Men are weak when they have feelings for you, they are easily manipulated. A mere month before, Hadj was lying on the couch like a pasha, fingering his prayer beads and fanning himself, as his pious wife prayed 2 feet away. There is no way that the tension of his transformation could hold. Something is going to snap. Does Donya realize what she has created?

The brilliance of Hedye Tehrani is that she does not protect herself as an actress in her roles. She is fearless about being judged for her characters’ perhaps sketchy motivations. I have written about her before in this context. Often stunningly beautiful people have an overwhelming desire to be liked, and this is understandable, because beauty like that has its own pressures. Tehrani is not interested in that kind of career. She plays complex characters, often with a deep depressive streak (she has played numerous suicidal women). She can be cold. She can be judgmental. She does not suffer fools. She is usually the smartest person in any room. Because of her beauty, she can get away with a lot. She knows it. Tehrani has a warmth and humor that radiates off the screen, but here her motivations seem suspect from the beginning. I thought of Barbara Stanwyck’s cold calculating Phyllis Dietrichson in Double Indemnity and Lana Turner’s Cora Smith in The Postman Always Rings Twice. These are women willing to use men in the most brutal of ways in order to get what they want. And what they want is often freedom, to be unfettered, to be released from the prison of their circumstances.

In this context, beauty is a deadly camouflage.

Although Donya is obviously poked fun at (her “TM” comment, the fact that every time we see her by herself in her apartment she is blasting Sade, or Trisha Yearwood), Tehrani plays her so sympathetically that it is difficult to assign malice to her behavior. This is one of the tricks of Donya (and there is a surprise ending), and one of the ways in which it works so well. Hadj is rather awful, and we all should be glad that he is not our father or our husband, but Donya? Donya is treacherous.

It is a great testament to Tehrani’s talent that we are as disoriented by her as Hadj is. That’s as it should be. Stanwyck and Turner created characters that seduced not only their gullible leading men but their audiences. They are nearly impossible to resist, and the tension comes from feeling worried for the naive male paramours, worried that they can’t see what is really going on.

It is also a testament to Sharifinia’s talent that he can make Hadj a lovable buffoon, as opposed to a villain. When he slaps Donya, revealing his true nature, it’s not that we forgive him. It’s that we saw it coming, we knew he wouldn’t be able to be a modern man, after all. The tension is too taut, the change too great. He is an unhappy person. He finds his wife annoying (as do we, in the audience). But he has sucked it up and then lords it over his son, telling him he should be willing to make the same sacrifices he did. The younger generation isn’t playing the game that way. They want personal happiness, they want choice. This enrages Hadj, not because he is evil and controlling, but because he was denied personal happiness from his culture’s rules, and who do these young people think they are, demanding more than he was allowed? He doesn’t just lust for Donya. He falls in love with her. He has never loved anyone, as he confesses to Donya. He got married young and never had the chance to experience what he is now feeling. As repulsive as the situation may be, it is understandable. Sharifinia plays it tragically as well as comedically. After a giant blowout where he throws his son out of the house, Hadj wanders around the apartment (filled with boxes being unpacked), and, in despair, sits on one of the boxes, which turns out to be empty and Hadj collapses into it. I rewound the moment 3 times because it was so funny.

His behavior is despicable, and on some level he knows it. He cannot keep the facade up forever. His wife is coming home in a couple of days. His two kids are now suspecting that something is going on with their dad. What’s with the hair dye? Why is he dancing around the kitchen singing to himself as he fries some eggs? To quote Hadj’s colleagues: “What has happened?” This is a very tight family, tension notwithstanding. Despite the fact that their religion allows a man to take a second wife, you know that it is going to be seen as a giant betrayal. The family unit will not survive it. There is a subtle critique of the traditional ways in that tension.

Donya was a huge hit in Iran and was billed as a comedy. It is a perfect example of an Iranian film that would never make it to our shores, because it’s not art-house enough, it’s not by a world-famous auteur like Kiarostami, it’s not political enough or angry enough. This is an inside job. Donya is Iranians talking to Iranians about the issues that they find funny, pressing, entertaining. It’s a fine film, tense, hilarious, and heartbreaking in the end. And interesting in every frame.

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Distortion


Catherine Deneuve in Roman Polanski’s “Repulsion”

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Rebecca West Commonplace Book, Part 1

During my enforced time off, and my enforced time with no Internet or TV (and, intermittently, no power), I read Selected Letters of Rebecca West, a giant volume I have been putting off tackling. Why I cannot imagine. I tore through it. Every page has something quotable and juicy on it. Here is a long post about Rebecca West. She is an idol of mine. She was a clear thinker, and for that she got shit her whole life. While she was ideological, and an early feminist and Socialist, she was able to see when those movements went off the rails, and so she would call them out on it. In many circles, she was never forgiven. Her feminism had to do with economic, political, and social power. When feminism began focusing only on sex, and on venereal disease, and on chastity, etc., she found it silly. Sex was fun, she loved it, and while she definitely thought that women’s economic power in many ways was tied to sex, the focus solely on that seemed to her to be misguided. The same thing with the Left (which is why Warren Beatty sought her out to be a “witness” in Reds.) Similar to George Orwell, Rebecca West was a card-carrying member of the radical Left in the 20s and 30s, but – as was the case with Orwell – she couldn’t not see the problems, she couldn’t not say what she thought was the problem. And she was punished for it. To this day, she still has a “right wing” or “reactionary” reputation. This just goes to show you the degradation of the Left’s ideology, and how in the 1930s, with the growing sense of Hitler’s menace as well as the horrors of the Soviet Union, the Left began to splinter. I mean, this is what happens with political movements. I think we are seeing that with the Right now. In many ways, it is a healthy political development. Because a Monolith of Agreement is fascism. Rebecca West experienced the blowback of that, and continued to be misquoted and misrepresented for the rest of her life. It’s so clear, when you read her, where she is coming from, however. It’s just that when you require a Monolith of Agreement, someone who has a more nuanced view, or is able to see the point of the “other side”, or who doesn’t swallow the Monolith whole, is seen as hugely threatening. George Orwell experienced this as well (Christopher Hitchens’ book has a whole chapter on how he is still misunderstood, and neither the hard Left nor the hard Right know what to do with him. That’s their loss.)

There is also the little matter of her sex. Because she was a woman, and because she wrote in such bracing confident prose (like a man, if you will, although I am angry even having to give credence to that stereotype), people were affronted by her – merely because she didn’t act the way a woman was supposed to act. Women are supposed to concede ground. If there’s one thing we are expected to do, it is that. But “conceding ground” is not only bad philosophy, it often leads to bad writing. Men are not expected to be conciliatory. Women are. For her entire life, she was condescended to and belittled. mainly because she was so formidable. (Humorously, in her Paris Review interview in the 80s, she expressed bafflement that she was so irritating to so many and said, “I don’t think I’m so formidable.”) But she was clearly a better writer than most of the men huff-puffing in annoyance at her. She saw farther, she saw clearer. You are never ever congratulated for such things. Many of her more ideological colleagues have since been discredited, since they were so clearly just working for the Cause, and so they had blinders on. Rebecca West couldn’t have worn blinders if she tried.

Unfortunately, I am not pleased with the editing of this volume, giant though it is. Her personal life was quite stormy, and included a 10-year long affair with H.G. Wells (who was married, and West was just one of many), which resulted in a son. It was the defining relationship of her life. She continued to have lovers, many of whom she remained friends with for decades. She married eventually and the marriage lasted until his death. It was a happy marriage although it appears to have also been a sexless marriage, which was a sacrifice for a vibrant sexy woman like Rebecca. But at least he didn’t bother her about her writing, or try to inhibit her career. I think that the editor of this volume finds all this (the personal stuff) far more interesting than West’s political observations. Obviously there is a ton of politics in the book, but not enough. Often in the footnotes, we are given glimpses of what was left out of the letters (“Two pages about the treason trial of William Joyce has been edited out …”) Excuse me, but that is what I want to hear. I don’t care so much about her love life. That is the least interesting part about her. I want to hear about the politics. There are only two or three letters from WWII. Now, granted, letters were being censored at the time, and so perhaps West wasn’t writing as much. But I think the book suffers from its focus on her personal life, and I have hopes that a more comprehensive volume will someday appear. She is one of the greatest political minds we have ever seen. Yes, love and sex is interesting. But not compared to the stature of her career and her work.

The letters are often laugh-out-loud funny. Dame could WRITE. She sounds like a hoot.

Letter to sister Letitia Fairfield, 1909, describing a riot at the polls in Whitley, and a battle between the feminists and the Liberal women (the Liberal party was anti-suffrage for women). Rebecca is just a teenager here.

The Liberal women are ghastly! They stood on the other side of the gate and shouted insults at us the whole time. I had five large Liberal ladies bearing down on me calling me a hooligan and a silly fool and other pretty names. One Liberal man tried to shake me and hurt me, much to their delight; but the police man settled all that. However, our Suffragette, Mrs Brown of New Castle, was knocked down and tramped on by a member of the Woman’s Liberal Federation. They tried to make me stop shouting, “Keep the Liberal out” but of course it was no good. I kept on from 10 till 8! Of course I got my meals all right. Everybody was very nice except the Liberal women – who have a repertoire of vituperation that I cannot believe to be equalled anywhere. They looked exactly like comic postcard Suffragettes. The police were quite all right, so I was always safe. The police warned me not to get up to hear the poll unless I was with plenty of friends, as the w omen would scratch my eyes out! I knew Kenwick was in. Shortt is a most attractive man, and was followed about by bevies of adoring damsels. He lost a good many workmen’s votes on account of a motor he sent round the town – full of his children, with a huge placard, “Vote for Daddy!” They couldn’t stand that. A great number of working men voted for woman’s Suffrage – spoiled their papers or voted Socialist. In most cases, I am told. I haven’t seen an analysis of the votes yet, as I didn’t go up. I was agreeably impressed with Miss Mattel. She’s a dear old soul in spite of the hair.

Letter to Harold Rubinstein, August 28 1912:

I am reading rather an interesting book of short stories – Pride of War by Gustaf Janson – about the Turco-Italian war. You, as a self-centred person [Compliment intended] will understand me when I say that it is only now, for the first time, that I have realized the existence of such a war.

I absolutely love that “Compliment intended.”

Letter to Ford Madox Ford, 1912:

I am remembering your dinnerparty with passion in this dreadful place – I concentrate on it in the middle of lectures on the Decentralisation of Labour till I feel a little happier. It is curious about Miss Sinclair’s sealed air. Don’t you think that ever so many distinguished women with degrees and things have that shut effect? Perhaps it is an effect of the Puritanism of women. Most men have so much more to repent that they must be amusing to justify their existence.

Letter to Dora Marsden and Grace Jardine. Nov. 1912:

The Discussion Circle is quaint. That dandy of cranks, D’Aubergne, is always jumping up demanding that we should all be kind to illegitimate children, as if we all made a habit of seeking out illegitimate infants and insulting them.

From a heartbreaking letter to H.G. Wells, March 1913:

I haven’t anything to give you. You have only a passion for excitement and for comfort. You don’t want any more excitement and I don’t give people comfort. I never nurse them except when they’re very ill. I carry this to excess. On reflection I can imagine that the occasion on which my mother found me most helpful to live with was when I helped her out of a burning house.

Letter to Sylvia Lund, autumn 1915:

I moved from there to another riverside inn which would have been delightful had not the landlord and his daughter escaped out of a Conrad novel. The father was an apish man with a monosyllabic manner who had come from South Africa, his daughter was beautiful and passionate – that is, she used to wander about the hotel caressing her opulent figure, which is what I have always suspected Conrad heroines of doing. And at night they used to have fierce sharp monosyllabic quarrels. One evening I was standing on the verandah when a voice suddenly came out of the dusk. I quote the remark with diffidence, but it does really seem to me to be one of the most marvellous remarks ever made. “If it were not for the great love of God in my heart I would strangle the damn bitch.”

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1916:

Here is everybody getting out nice fat books and I sit at home with a hacking cough and a kind of morbid infiltration of the brain with discontent that prevents me from working. I hate domesticity. I don’t want to stay here and I don’t want to go to Westcliffe; I can’t imagine any circumstances in which it would be really amusing to order 2 ounces of Lady Betty wool for socks for Anthony, or to try to get a fawn-coloured mail-cart. I want to live an unfettered and adventurous life like a Bashibagonk, and spend all my money on buying clothes in Bond Street. Anthony looks very nice in his blue lambs-wool coat, and I feel sure that in him I have laid up treasure for the hereafter (i.e. dinners at the Carlton in 1936) but what I want now is ROMANCE. Something with a white face and a slight natural wave in the dark hair and a large grey touring-car is what I really need. Are these a girl’s natural aspirations when she is faced with last quarter’s unpaid gas bill [– it isn’t that I can’t pay it but to pay for gas!], or have I a wanton temperament?

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1916:

It’s good to be conceited – I don’t mind a bit.

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1917, written during air raids:

Talking of these nasty foreigners I cannot agree with you about Tolstoy. I wish I could. Twice have I read War and Peace and found nothing but stuffed Tolstoys, and such lots and lots of them. And plainly Anna Karenina was written simply to convince Tolstoy that there was nothing in this expensive and troublesome business of adultery and oh Gawd, oh Gawd, Kitty! And about Resurrection I cannot speak, but only yawn. And those short stories seem to me as fatuous as the fables of La Fontaine. But Dostoevsky –! The serenity of The Brothers Karamazov, the mental power of The Possessed, the art of The Raw Youth! Isn’t it awful to think that nothing can ever decide this dispute?

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1917: West sold a novel, and spent the check on “the most expensive hat I have ever bought in my life.”

The hat was a direct consequence of the Italian disaster. All these war horrors instead of making me ascetic make me turn furiously to sensuous delights. Such a pleasure to think that if all the world’s gone wrong that hat at least is right. And after [and during] the air raids I don’t pray or speculate on the World State but drench myself in scent and eat chocolates. Perhaps it’s only a reaction against an unusually abstinent life – I’ve never had any amusing trimmings to life – but I think there is an impulse to reassure oneself that life’s worth living by simple pleasures.

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1917:

Such a lovely note about [novelist Fryniwyd Tennyson Jesse] in “The Sketch” not long ago. “She is what the world will never believe in, a beautiful girl who is also clever.” (Yes, Sylvia. They said that.) “She has a dear little house in Gordon Place, bought and furnished with her own money.” Thank God, the reputation of our writing woman is cleared ….

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1917:

Miss Stern is a great standby in this life of struggle. To cheer me up she invited me to tea with Violet Hueffer & May Sinclair the other day but it was one of her failures. Violet was talking about C.F. Keary & his death, and said, exactly in the tone appropriate to – “It was so pretty – she’s Irish, you know, so the bridesmaids wore emerald green sashes and there was a harp on the wedding cake” — this different sentence — “You know, he’d died such an author’s death – fell down by the table and dragged over the cloth, so that a bottle of ink fell all over his face!” It was the most macabre, insanely funny thing I have ever heard. Miss Stern & I went into peals of half hysterical laughter. May Sinclair stared at us, “You think that funny? Ought I to laugh? I’m sorry. It doesn’t strike me as funny.” And presently she left coldly. It was strange to see them exhibiting the essences of themselves – Violet saying something that was distraught and inappropriate but wholly memorable, and May being conscientious and genuinely inquiring but hopelessly missing the point of the situation.

Letter to Sylvia Lund, 1917:

[I] do so love estuaries. It’s awful to have a fancy for anything so large and rare.

Letter to S.K. Ratcliffe, Christmas 1917

Talking of Laurence Hope did I tell you got out Stars of the Desert (from the London Library – for reference – ) and found among the leaves a sheet of notepaper inscribed in a fatigued female handwriting “Remember to order beeftea for baby” – potted tragedy.

Letter to Sylvia Lund, July 28, 1918

The National News is an amiable newspaper & I refuse to speak ill of it any more. After all we don’t know its temptations and perhaps it had no mother.

Letter to Sally Melville, from Capri, 1920

This is a heaven upon earth. (But man is very vile.) Faith Mackenzie’s house is built halfway up a limestone cliff, 300 ft. above the water, which usually looks (in this recent rough weather) like dark blue crystal, just above the three famous rocks I Faraglioni. The exact position was used by Turner in his picture of Ulysses and Polyphemus. This place, by the way, completely explains Turner’s pictures. The mountains are limestone, which is light in colour and very smooth, so that it reflects colour with extreme vividness – consequently under any strong light they simply cease to look as if they had any form at all and become masses of different tones of the same colour, losing all suggestion of solidity. Turner’s wildest pictures are really strictly realistic.

Letter to novelist Louis Golding, 1922:

My family vampires me. There seems no way out save the suicide’s noose. As an alternative I have been learning to ride. This process is extremely perilous because my dramatic instinct makes me look and behave as if I could ride magnificently the minute I put on my riding kit. I force myself to tell the people at any new stables I go to that I can’t ride but in spite of myself I do this in such accents that they don’t believe me and put me on the bloodiest of all their blood hunters. The result of this was that when I went to Exmoor I was bolted with for three miles – but there again my damned dramatic instinct told – for I looked as if I was enjoying it so convincingly that some people who saw me insisted on me following the stagehounds next day because it was over specially dangerous country that they knew I could tackle. (Black terror it was, black terror.) Some day I will stray into the foxhunting country and that will be the death of me. They’ll make me the Master of the Pytchley on sight and I will break my neck over the first gate.

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After the Storm

I drove down to the Shore yesterday. It was an odd-number day so I could fill up my tank. I had to go to my beach. I had to see it. As horrible as it was, I am glad I saw the destruction (which is almost total) with my own eyes. This is one of my favorite places on the planet. I needed to see it, be there with it. If you have seen all of my beach pictures, you will recognize this. I made a point of driving down there the day before the storm. Although I was prepared intellectually, it still was totally horrifying to see it in person. The boardwalk sheared away, sand piled up across the street and down the block, covering the grass – basically the entire beach had moved, pushed through the boardwalk, barreled across the street, and continued to rush down into the neighborhood. The boardwalk is in ruins. The giant sea wall on the road-side, behind the boardwalk, is gone. Houses have disappeared. There are empty lots now. The jetty survived and people were out there fishing, which did my heart good. Lampposts tilt drunkenly on sheared-off pieces of boardwalk. The beautiful benches, each with a donated name plaque on the back, were broken, piled up on mountains of sand, or sitting randomly facing any which direction on the broken pieces of boardwalk. The public restroom, which sat on the boardwalk, where I would change into my bathing suit if I hadn’t already, was completely lifted off the boardwalk and flown backwards into the street. The roof was ripped off. Unbelievably, the pier stretching out into the ocean survived. Nothing else did.

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Thank You To All Who Serve


I took this photo on Veterans Day, 2008, after watching an outdoor concert given by the USMC band in NYC.

“They carried USO stationery and pencils and pens. They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares, signal flares, spools of wire, razor blades, chewing tobacco, liberated joss sticks and statuettes of the smiling Buddha, candles, grease pencils, The Stars and Stripes, fingernail clippers, Psy Ops leaflets, bush hats, bolos, and much more. Twice a week, when the resupply choppers came in, they carried hot chow in green mermite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a two-gallon capacity. Mitchell Sanders carried a set of starched tiger fatigues for special occasions. Henry Dobbins carried Black Flag insecticide. Dave Jensen carried empty sandbags that could be filled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion. Some things they carried in common. Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77 scrambler radio, which weighed 30 pounds with its battery. They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often, they carried each other, the wounded or weak. They carried infections. They carried chess sets, basketballs, Vietnamese-English dictionaries, insignia of rank. Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts, plastic cards imprinted with the Code of Conduct. They carried diseases, among them malaria and dysentery. They carried lice and ringworm and leeches and paddy algae and various rots and molds. They carried the land itself – Vietnam, the place, the soil – a powdery orange-red dust that covered their boots and fatigues and faces. They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity. They moved like mules. By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was just the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost. They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy, and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human sensibility. Their principles were in their feet. Their calculations were biological. They had no sense of strategy or mission. They searched the villages without knowing what to look for, not caring, kicking over jars of rice, frisking children and old men, blowing tunnels, sometimes setting fires and sometimes not, then forming up and moving on to the next village, then other villages, where it would always be the same. They carried their own lives. The pressures were enormous. In the heat of early afternoon, they would remove their helmets and flak jackets, walking bare, which was dangerous but which helped ease the strain. They would often discard things along the route of march. Purely for comfort, they would throw away rations, blow their Claymores and grenades, no matter, because by nightfall the resupply choppers would arrive with more of the same, then a day or two later still more, fresh watermelons and crates of ammunition and sunglasses and woolen sweaters – the resources were stunning – sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored eggs for Easter – it was the great American war chest – the fruits of science, the smokestacks, the canneries, the arsenals at Hartford, the Minnesota forests, the machine shops, the vast fields of corn and wheat – they carried like freight trains; they carried it on their backs and shoulders – and for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry.”

— Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

To all veterans: thank you for your service.

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Maybe Skies Are Clearing

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What a Difference a Week Makes

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