I have completely lost it. Bruised, battered, beat, and busted down, I've created such a fortress around me that I don't even let kindness in, that is if I even see it at all. But when I do see it, you can be sure it feels odd, and I even shut myself off to it because I'm so numb to giving or receiving kindness.
Depressingly, this seemed normal in the 00s and demanded a specific type of vigilance. As well as trying to look perfect for every date, there was also the effort of trying to be perfect: bright and funny and engaging and fragrant, but also vaguely unavailable. Endearingly kooky was OK; but I didn't want to come across as weird. Misery and anger were off limits. I never risked showing I cared. No wonder love had failed to launch.
On the small screen, Wood specialises in vulnerability the kind of characters who survive life despite having a layer of skin missing. You watch in the nail-biting hope that their courage will be enough to see them through and that the people they meet will be kind. It makes sense that Film Club, Wood's first foray into writing (with Ralph Davis), is built round another variation on this theme.
When we were supposed to be on holiday but weren't, I kept feeling a tug towards finding the positive: I can book a replacement trip; At least we have travel insurance; This'll give me something to write about. But I never felt better, just a bit depressed. And then I would bump up against the reality that this holiday really was gone: my husband's surgery required frequent agonising dressing changes, and there is a limited time window for an enjoyable break on the Belgian coast.
In his book The Narrative Brain: The Stories Our Neurons Tell, he points out that most of the Grimm brothers' fairy tales center on the vulnerability of their heroes. This vulnerability is often borne out of an earlier trauma-abandonment or orphanhood, for example-which leaves its character hypervigilant to danger and presumably with a certain level of cunning at recognizing and responding to that threat.
For some men, anger is the emotion they are most familiar with. Ask one of these men how he feels and you are likely to get a puzzled expression, unless, of course, he is angry, in which case he is often quite clear about how he feels. Some families have adapted strategies over the years to either avoid or manage men's unacknowledged anger.
Constructed from antique paper and the thorns of wild roses, Owen's sculptures suggest fortresses, reliquaries, and dreamlike towers. Their tapering forms strain upward, yet their surfaces are creased, stitched, and scarred, holding a quiet gravity. In Owen's hands, stability feels precarious, and foundations seem half-remembered, the scarred surfaces of her forms suggesting both skin and structure. Hidden recesses suggest stories of touch, damage, and sacred encounter.
Rising from my seat at the front table, a familiar acid burn crawls up my throat. It's that failure lump I've carried for the past 16 months. Today is somber. My late wife Jane's celebration of life. She died just over a month ago after a 15‑month battle with leukemia. More than 250 friends and family members fill the room, waiting for me to deliver her eulogy.
I felt like I was asking her if she wanted to make out. The Big Lebowski-the 1998 Coen-brothers movie about bowling, pot, and mistaken identity-is one of my favorites, and I was nervous about introducing it to her. I like to use Lebowski quotes as a way to assert myself while, like Jeff Bridges's character, "the Dude," not taking things too seriously.
There is something graceful, practically effortless about how the band's contrasting elements-Elizabeth Stokes's beautifully delicate vocals, Jonathan Pearce's fuzzy, catchy riffs, Tristan Deck's driving drums, and all four members' shimmering harmonies-come together to create power pop gems that simultaneously feel modern and like they'd be topping the college rock radio charts in 1989. The level of musicianship is so high, so consistent, that four albums in, you could almost take the quality of a Beths album for granted.
When we perform in a way that is inauthentic, we communicate information to others that does not accurately reflect how we actually feel. For example, we may say "work is good" and "I had a wonderful weekend with my family" when we actually mean "work is overwhelming" and "I felt really sad this weekend."
Every person experiences loss during their lifetime. Sometimes, these are devastating disappointments or disillusionments. If one can bounce back without cynicism or loss of trust, it fosters deeper connections.
"Something I had only shared with Whitney, my therapist, and my family was that when I was a little boy, I was raped. And when I was finally honest with that emotion and that memory, everything made sense, the validation I needed."
