My brother's dog

My brother's dog died last week. Going over to his house is really different now. It's always been sort of awkward there--my dad in a wheelchair and my brother always overly emotional (angry) about everything. They disagree a lot, they don't talk to each other much, they complain about each other to me when we're alone, they don't know how to communicate...

The dog helped. She was a nice buffer between me and the angry atmosphere. Having her around reminded me of my childhood when my brother was similarly angry all the time, and so was my dad--that or nonemotional, completely blank--and my mother mostly checked out or disappointed with one of us. The dog was always my refuge. I would go to my room with the dog and we'd hang out. I'd tell stories or just pet him (Toby) or her (Ginger). When my parents would go out, the dog became even more important. My brother enjoyed tormenting me (mostly verbally) and the dog (mostly physically). So we'd hide in my room with the unlockable door closed.

At my brother's new place here with my dad, the atmosphere is like my childhood home--tense, depressing, and unpredictable. The dog, however, was a constant. She knew when it was my day to come over and would greet me at the door my brother would leave unlocked, so as not to have to bother with letting me in or saying hello. She would be there in between the tasks I did for my father to give me a bit of solace from the tedium. She would be there to share my dinner as my father and brother stared vacantly into the TV.

Now there is no one to calm my me between the minor outbursts at their house. Now there is no one to greet me at the door. Now there is only a food bowl, which I bought her for Christmas, with food still in it that she never ate.

I didn't cry. I got a little weepy, but I couldn't let myself get worked up over it. I think I didn't let myself cry so I wouldn't have to be upset about all the reasons I needed that dog over there. If I let myself cry I'd have to admit how much I'm afraid of my brother's anger still to this day and I'd have to admit how much I hate the way he treats my father and on and on and on.

Instead what I'm doing is looking for a new dog for them.

Sin City

A visually awesome film. From the opening sequence with the blaze of green eyes to the way the rain falls at an angle to the skittering of the cars across the pavement, a truly great piece of filmmaking.

That being said, an extremely gruesome film. Up until Marv and the parole officer are imprisoned, I was fine. But once she shows him the stump of an arm she has left and reveals what has happened to her fingers, I had a bit of a sickness in my stomach for the rest of the movie. I think I could have even handled the heads on the wall if I hadn't had to envision what happened to her hand.

The best story of the three was by far the Bruce Willis old-man-dies, young-woman-lives story. Despite the disgusting aspects of "Junior" and the walloping of Willis' head, the segment had some touching moments. One of these was when Nancy leaves his hospital room after she has explained she has been threatened to secrecy and says she loves him. I also was able to forgive the extreme May-December romance because of the backstory. Hartigan admits he's old enough to be her grandfather and he resists her to the end, but part of him loves her as deeply as she loves him. She's had years to think about what he risked for her and of his heroics, it's no wonder she loves him more than she could love any other man. And the end of his tale shows his utter love and devotion to her.

I want to say this was a great film, but I still need to think about it some more. I need to balance out my disgust with my awe and see which comes out on top. I think if I were ten years younger and in my Pulp Fiction days, I would think this was utterly amazing. Too civic minded now to think that and to view death and serial killing simply. . . maybe with some time. . .

Finally, a Yam meeting

After having a great week at a Bemidji writers' "camp" last summer, some fellow YA writers and I made a writers' group called the Hairy Yams. We've emailed and I started a blog for them--which they haven't really been to...--but we didn't have any meetings. One was scheduled a few months ago, but everyone backed out.

Well, today it finally happened. We set up the Caribou Coffee meeting spot and four of us got together. It was great to see them all again. Mostly we did some catching up. It was cool, though, because everything seemed to go along really naturally. I liked that about them last summer. It was okay to say just about anything, and they would listen and give feedback. Only one person brought writing. So she read some of it and we discussed it. Next time we're all supposed to bring something to read. So I guess I better get writing. We agreed to meet once a month.

Hopefully that will get me writing at least a few times a month. Go Yams!