Lust for Life

It’s funny how as the pace of life speeds up, we as humans slow down to compensate. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, or if it simply complicates the process; but as so many haggard old men and jaded adults tell me: “It is what it is.”

Moving so slowly myself, it’s near impossible for me not to notice this cycle of cause and effect. Over the past two weeks or so everything has become a whirlwind of activity and pine and turkey and driving and Santas. After spending nearly a week straight in my van touring Virginia, haggard seems like a very good word.

Of course we move slower; when faced with a whirlpool or cliff face, you tend to cling onto whatever piece of stable ground is in sight. You don’t want to fall, you don’t want to die. Even humans who have nothing to live for tend to actively avoid situations where their sanity and wellbeing will be tested. We like safe, we like known... even if we don’t know why.

Amid all this transitioning and insanity, around the time when Thanksgiving was transitioning into Advent, Quentin Tarantino began to come up a lot. I really have no idea why. Perhaps it was the release of his 20th anniversary box set containing all his films, or maybe he was just coming up in conversation more naturally... but I suddenly found myself holding conversations about him with my girlfriend, Leslie, and my old film buddy from college, Jeremy.

With Leslie, I expounded on Tarantino’s unique flavor of dialog and tone, and how similar it is in many respects to Flannery O’Connor (which Leslie had just been sharing with me). They both have a very strong ear for conversation and ethnic colloquialisms, and both add sudden spurts of violence to their stories to punctuate themes and ideas.

With Jeremy, I reminisced about the time we had gone to see Tarantino’s WWII epic, Inglourious Basterds in theaters together, not realizing that we were witnessing film history. The movie singlehandedly launched Austrian actor Christoph Waltz’s career, and once again threw Tarantino’s hat in the ring with such filmmakers as James Cameron, the Coen brothers, Peter Jackson and Pete Doctor. Of course, neither of us could ever forget that opening scene.

It was a given that since he came up more in conversation, the films I began to watch in my free time (which I tend to have to much of as of late) we mostly his. I began with Death Proof, then worked my way through Kill Bill and Reservoir Dogs, leading up to his masterpieces: the afore mentioned Inglourious Basterds and, of course, Pulp Fiction.

At this point, I realize that a lot of you are wondering where I am going with this, and perhaps even a few are offended by my love for such a “twisted” man as Tarantino. Allow me to explain: As I began to rewatch his films, I also started looking up interviews on Youtube and watching mini-documentaries where he talked about his work. The wild look in his eye might disturb some even more than the gratuitous violence of his films; it suggests that he is either constantly huffing cocaine, or that he had a serious case of untreated ADHD. Whatever the case may be, the wild look in his eye and gregarious gesticulation of his hands always punctuate whatever he says. The man is larger than life, but more than that.... he LOVES life.

And then it hit me, say whatever you want about his films, I want to be more like pointy jawed, foulmouthed, interrupting crazy man. Why, you ask? Because I would bet good money that there is not a day of the year where he wakes up disappointed or clinging to that last bit of solidity the day before. I would bet that each morning when he walks up, he says something to the effect of:

“Hot DAMN it feels good to be alive! Booyah! I get to make movies and hang out with awesome people and it’s totally ******* awesome! You know? I think I’m going to get myself a tasty beverage to wake up!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and despite the fact that he may be a sub-par filmmaker, I firmly believe that it is his boundless enthusiasm which inspires those that surround him to do their best.

It reminds me of my history and math professors in college. They might not have been the best in the world, and I was most definitely not the best student, but the energy that they exuded in class infected my being. I excelled in those classes, not because the professor cracked a whip over my back, but because he loved what he did.

Anyone can be “good” at what they do, not everyone can LOVE what they do. Take for example the Apostle Peter. Poor Peter was pretty much just bad at life, he backstabbed his friends, he sliced off people’s ears and just made a general fool of himself... but there was something in him that Jesus saw that many others probably did not have: the Love. After Christ’s death and resurrection, Peter became the most vocal and prolific of all the Apostles (save for Paul, who came later). He offended, healed, preached, and probably drank and sang his way through life, never abating from the cause of Christ. Even his final request to be crucified upside down was for the Love. He loved Yahweh, and it showed.

How many of us live mediocre lives of mediocre excitement? Far too many, I would hazard a guess. The trite, cliched piece of inspiration might come in the form of: “Be the best you you can be.” But that is truly a chiasm from hell.

Instead, do it for the Love. It will make you jump out of bed, plaster a smile on your big dumb face, and cause everyone you meet to wonder what the hell has gotten into you. And you can tell them firmly that it is not hell, it is the Love. You did it for the Love.

Halloween 2012

Iron Man is the decided favorite this year. I watch as several kids of every age, shape and color wander by in brightly colored yellow and red pads, complete with metallic coating. Cars meander along the streets following groups of kids with their mothers. Of course, instead of being creepy stalkers, the various mini-vans and SUVs house nervous fathers, keeping a watchful eye on their respective mates and broodlings. 

My neighbor hails me in a dark and grovelly voice that could only belong to a good ol’ Carolina boy who smokes too much. As if in response to this thought, he lights one up. It makes a sharp pin-prick of orange in the crisp October night. His wife mistakenly thinks that he is talking to her.

“Nothing, hon. Was just talking to the neighbor,” his rich baritone rolls across the yard, easily distinguishable from the laughs of children pervading the night. 

His wife (or possibly teenage daughter, it’s hard to tell) is completely decked out as a witch. Pointed hat, cobwebs, green paint, the whole 9 yards. She is perched beside an 8 foot tall ghost/skeleton, which twinkles with tiny LED lights. They definitely went all out this year, putting the other houses that “decorated” to shame. Various boney objects dot their yard, orange, white and black lights are strung across the porch, and one of the family members is jumping out at older Trick ‘r’ Treaters. I feel like I should give each small child that crosses their yard a round of applause. They EARNED that candy.

The first kids had come up and rang our doorbell a few minutes beforehand. Having never actively participated in Halloween before, let alone the annual ritual of Trick or Treating, I jumped at the chance to play a part. Remembering that I still had a Guy Fawkes mask in my van, I fished it out, secured it to my head and had plopped down on the white plastic chair already on the porch. Here I sit, holding a wicker basket full of chocolate, still as a post.

Another group of kids, chaperoned by several mothers who look more like shepherds than parents, are herded towards me. 

“Is it real?” The question seems to echo through the group, the moms just as curious as the little children. I let them creep closer, still unsure if the masked man holding the candy is friend or foe. Suddenly I realize the irony of the situation: Halloween, the one day a year where parents ENCOURAGE their progeny to accept candy from strangers. 

They are only about two yards away from where I sit now, and I decide the children have proven themselves brave enough. I whip off my mask, revealing that I am nothing more than a bespectacled nerd in a Hollister hoodie. The kids laugh at their own fear, internally berating themselves for being so frightened of something so harmless. Their pace quickens and they eagerly snatch candy from the basket in my hands. The mothers encourage courtesy:

“Say thank you!” Some of the youngsters oblige. Others look at me, take the candy without breaking eye contact and then retreat. All make it away safely with at least one chocolate bar. 

My fingers are getting numb; the last reminder of Hurricane Sandy. It’s unseasonably chilly for October in the OBX, thanks to the storm that thought it could. The cold front will probably linger until the truly cold weather comes in late November. Winter comes early this year.

Under my mask, which is once again secured to my head, my face is nice and warm. Condensation is collecting on the bottom most part by my chin, dripping onto my neck when the mask is covering my face, and trickling into my eye occasionally when I prop the mask up on my head. My glasses have started to fog up as well. 

I experiment with different ways of breathing to cut down the condensation. There are slits for my eyes, nose and mouth, but breathing normally immediately fogs up my glasses and wets my chin. In through mouth, out through nose? This seems to work better, obviously the nose holes allow for most exhaled air than the mouth hole does. In addition to clearing up the condensation, it adds a raspy, somewhat mechanical sound to my breathing... almost like I am some animatronic creation powered by steam which is only meant to LOOK like it’s real.

Another child approaches, a girl, alone save for her mother. They’ve just come from the house next door that could pass for a John Carpenter movie set.

“Are you scared?” the mom queries. The little girl, possibly 5, at most 6, emphatically shakes her head. I grin despite myself. Brave girl. I pull away the mask, revealing my pale cheeks, black rims and smile. She returns the expression and holds out her bag, walking forward, her arms completely parallel to each other and to the ground. She looks like one of those old time zombies... only much more gleeful and innocent.

Putting a small handful of candy in her bag, her mother thanks me.

“Have a nice evening!” I wish her the same, and they begin to make their way back to the street, lit by various colors of halogen bulbs and parents’ flashlights.

“Happy Halloween!” she calls back once more. The little girl waves as she makes her way to the next house. Just a guy in a suit. A nice man who smiled and gave me candy.

The grin stays on my face long after the two are out of sight. It may just be one night, but it’s worth it. The cold fingers, the neighbors with their redneck truck and elaborate decorations, the half empty basket of chocolate. I can forget about the election, the lies, the muckraking, the slander. I can forget about the storm, the lives lost, the damage done, the empty harbors. 

For one night I can interact with my neighbors in a way I never would. For one night I can bring joy and a few scares to little children. For one night I can watch as parents laugh, hold their offspring, and help them overcome their fears. For one night the doom and gloom passes away in the crackling autumn air.

For one night I can forget. And for one night... that’s enough.