It's a stupidly beautiful day -- cloudless sky, sea calm as a mill pond -- and our last one here. "I could stay here for a month" says J as we drink our tea on the deck and stare out across the bay. He's wearing a red beanie, a brown t-shirt with a turquoise peace sign on it. His face has relaxed since he's been here, smoothing out the tiny lines around his eyes. He's a happy boy. He's Mario Testino with his three cameras and his video equipment. He whips them out over lunch, snapping our every bite, driving N crazy. He has finally started to relax.
We have laughed for an entire weekend and now DWS is off to the airport and back to rainy England. What a lovely treat to spend a sunny weekend with a good old friend, messing about in boats. Sunday was waterskiing day, punctuated with a lunch of mussels and karbonadekaker at Bla Brygge in Hvasser and everyone, including Dom, skiied or boarded. The girls ran around in their bikinis and wetsuits like California surf girls and Noony took my breath away with his leaping across the wake catching yards of air.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Uncle Tom
I've realized that fascinating stories exist much closer to home than one would imagine and sometimes searching further afield is a waste of time. We trooped up the rocky path to my aunt's house for supper last night. It was a very pretty evening, calm blue seas, a few white sailing boats in the bay, a sky tinged pink, and she'd laid a blue and white table on the terrace where my grandmother used to grow flame-colored nasturtiums. Oystein was trying out his new Weber and was effortlessly flipping marinated lamb, pork and spiced sausages on the grill while we were given the familiar gin & mix (Gordon's, dry vermouth, sweet vermouth, ice, lemon), which was quite delicious as I don't think I've had one since I was about 19 and my grandfather made them in his milky glass jug. The table seemed to underscore our island life - white benches with navy blue cushions, a blue and white checked cloth, blue plates, white candles - and the øyene stretched impossibly far, almost all the way to Sweden. I was lucky enough to be seated next to my aunt at dinner and after a couple of glasses of red wine, the family secrets started to be spilled. Not secrets exactly but it's interesting how with each year one's understanding of the series of events in your family history becomes deeper, and one's awareness of the minutiae more acute. My aunt's almost perfect English became more fluent too. As a sidenote, I could kiss my children and Ramsey for behaving so beautifully. I am so very proud of them. At one moment there was a lull at the other end of the table and my aunt's boyfriend of twenty-five years (and to call him boyfriend is far too slight a word for it, but life partner sounds so dorkey) was looking out to sea, Miss Mink looked at me and I mouthed the words "talk to Bjarne" and the very next moment I could see her leaning in towards her host and saying sweetly "so, what have you been up to this summer?" I could have died with pride.
(J is playing a game with me and I know he's doing it. It's a form of chicken except without the car racing part. He has put the kettle on and it has most definitely boiled and now it's a waiting game to see who's going to get out of our nice warm bed to get the tea. It's so cold and wet and miserable today I think I could stay in bed all day. I guess I lost.)
My uncle, my mother's brother, was by all accounts the intellectual heavyweight of the family. He read Danish philosophy, loved Zola, Bromfeld, Lessing, Gide, loved to sail and ski. He really was the blue-eyed boy. In high school he dated a beautiul girl, Berit, who was considered by his parents to be beneath him and he was encouraged to find a girl of his own class. It was always expected that he would follow in his father's footsteps and go into medicine and so he was shipped off to medical school in Basil and dropped out after two or three years. He met Nini Anker Dessen, an artist from a good family ("the Anker name is like royalty, better than royalty perhaps" said my aunt) and married her at an elaborate ceremony followed by a white tie wedding breakfast. It was quite the society story of that summer (maybe 1964? I should ask Mamma this). Nini dutifully gave birth to a beautiful blonde baby boy -- Tom-baba I think I called him, who died at age three or maybe younger. The marriage then fell apart. Up until now the story was that the tragedy of the child's death is what tore them apart, but I now discover that it was his drinking and the crazy behaviour it encouraged in him (climbing out of windows and hanging of sides of buildings, etc.) that made her leave him. After that his whole life crashed around him. Funded fully by my ever-loving grandparents, he became a professional alcoholic, did very little but inherit houses and fortunes from rich maiden aunts, and managed to piss his way through some extremely valuable antique chairs. He still skied sometimes, showed up for family dinners at Christmas, was lovely with children and was utterly hero-worshiped by my brother and I (he once sailed us across the fjord with a string of about twelve bottle of beer towing gently behind us, with maybe two cokes for us tied on or good measure). In 2005 he called my aunt to let her know he would not make it for dinner at Easter, and a month later, May 5, 2005, he died of what appeared to be a heart attack. Interestingly, his liver was in fine shape and never showed any signs of distress. Next to his bed my aunt found a framed picture of his high school sweetheart, Berit, and a pile of his favorite, obscure and dusty books. On the wall was a drawing by Nini, a self-portrait, nude, nursing TomBaba. Everything else had been lost or sold to feed his habit.
(J is playing a game with me and I know he's doing it. It's a form of chicken except without the car racing part. He has put the kettle on and it has most definitely boiled and now it's a waiting game to see who's going to get out of our nice warm bed to get the tea. It's so cold and wet and miserable today I think I could stay in bed all day. I guess I lost.)
My uncle, my mother's brother, was by all accounts the intellectual heavyweight of the family. He read Danish philosophy, loved Zola, Bromfeld, Lessing, Gide, loved to sail and ski. He really was the blue-eyed boy. In high school he dated a beautiul girl, Berit, who was considered by his parents to be beneath him and he was encouraged to find a girl of his own class. It was always expected that he would follow in his father's footsteps and go into medicine and so he was shipped off to medical school in Basil and dropped out after two or three years. He met Nini Anker Dessen, an artist from a good family ("the Anker name is like royalty, better than royalty perhaps" said my aunt) and married her at an elaborate ceremony followed by a white tie wedding breakfast. It was quite the society story of that summer (maybe 1964? I should ask Mamma this). Nini dutifully gave birth to a beautiful blonde baby boy -- Tom-baba I think I called him, who died at age three or maybe younger. The marriage then fell apart. Up until now the story was that the tragedy of the child's death is what tore them apart, but I now discover that it was his drinking and the crazy behaviour it encouraged in him (climbing out of windows and hanging of sides of buildings, etc.) that made her leave him. After that his whole life crashed around him. Funded fully by my ever-loving grandparents, he became a professional alcoholic, did very little but inherit houses and fortunes from rich maiden aunts, and managed to piss his way through some extremely valuable antique chairs. He still skied sometimes, showed up for family dinners at Christmas, was lovely with children and was utterly hero-worshiped by my brother and I (he once sailed us across the fjord with a string of about twelve bottle of beer towing gently behind us, with maybe two cokes for us tied on or good measure). In 2005 he called my aunt to let her know he would not make it for dinner at Easter, and a month later, May 5, 2005, he died of what appeared to be a heart attack. Interestingly, his liver was in fine shape and never showed any signs of distress. Next to his bed my aunt found a framed picture of his high school sweetheart, Berit, and a pile of his favorite, obscure and dusty books. On the wall was a drawing by Nini, a self-portrait, nude, nursing TomBaba. Everything else had been lost or sold to feed his habit.
lashings
I think this image just about says it all. This morning it rained so hard that I was fearful for my life. The sea is grey and melts into the sky. I am wondering about my bushel of laundry on the line and about dear DWS who is about to arrive on a plane from rainy England for a lovely sunny weekend on the Oslo fjord. Maybe we just crack open the aquavit early.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
powder
And then again, this is bliss, listening to Massive Attack, playing solitaire, looking at the pink-lit blue fading sky as the children water-ski across the calm bay, picking at cold bits of cauliflower from the pan, my flip-flopped feet on the table, Salinger near by, hoots eminating from the quiet sea, and knowing that the sounds are of pleasure and that the sounds come from my family. All the bloody weather forecasts were wrong - USA Today, Google, Yahoo, Wunderground, weather.com, Aftenposten, Tonsberg's Blad - today, finally, was the greatest day we've had yet with blown-out blue skies, poodle clouds and a big, blue, blissfully chilly sea which I dived into only after fifteen minutes of what I thought was quite inspired procrastination. I understand now why people love Salinger so. I understand it and I'm somewhat jealous of it and jealous that Wes Anderson stole this Glass family, but thrilled too, for finding it, for loving it, for letting it unfold on a perfect day by the Oslo fjord, even if we had to have smoked pork chops yet again, but this time with garlicky spinach.
The girls and I have found bikes for the morning. 150 kroner for the day as long as they are back by ten. Havna was full of nouveau riche tourists with large penis-shaped boats and a hankering for Henning Olsen ice cream. Mini-golf was full swing if you'll excuse the pun. The girls had soft ice rolled in chocolate powder as a tribute to Lindsay Lohan I thought (the powder, not the ice cream). "I won't set foot in that place" said J, terrifically venomously I thought. It's a harmless vanilla little harbor with a very bad and expensive restaurant. "I'd be embarrassed to put "chef" on my cv had I worked here" said my brother. But still it's the bloody tradition, isn't it? They (the children) will do anything for their greasy chicken in the basket or microwaved baked potato with corn and ham because they've been going there since they were a year old. We decided to forego the restaurant today and I thought the ice cream choice a marvelous one.
It's 10:29 and despite the sound of the waterski boat and the whoops of the children, I must to bed. Adieu, adieu.
The girls and I have found bikes for the morning. 150 kroner for the day as long as they are back by ten. Havna was full of nouveau riche tourists with large penis-shaped boats and a hankering for Henning Olsen ice cream. Mini-golf was full swing if you'll excuse the pun. The girls had soft ice rolled in chocolate powder as a tribute to Lindsay Lohan I thought (the powder, not the ice cream). "I won't set foot in that place" said J, terrifically venomously I thought. It's a harmless vanilla little harbor with a very bad and expensive restaurant. "I'd be embarrassed to put "chef" on my cv had I worked here" said my brother. But still it's the bloody tradition, isn't it? They (the children) will do anything for their greasy chicken in the basket or microwaved baked potato with corn and ham because they've been going there since they were a year old. We decided to forego the restaurant today and I thought the ice cream choice a marvelous one.
It's 10:29 and despite the sound of the waterski boat and the whoops of the children, I must to bed. Adieu, adieu.
Starfish
Poem: "Starfish" by Eleanor Lerman, from Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds. © Sarabande Books, 2005. Reprinted with permission. (With thanks to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac, my lifesaver)
Starfish
This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?
Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.
And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.
Starfish
This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?
Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.
And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Raining
The children are sitting outside under the striped awning while patches of blue sky form around the fairweather clouds around them. It's been touch and go here with the weather. It's rained for two days and yesterday we went to Asgardstrand in our foul weather gear and posed outside Munch's house like good tourists, forgetting of course that it was Monday and most museums are shut on Mondays. But now they are eating toast with thin slices of the sweet brown goat's cheese, and the cardamom buns with raisins, and creamy apricot yogurt. The tablecloth is coated in plastic and covered with cheerful red and white gingham and gay wild strawberries. I have eggs boiling just in case the weather is all right for a picnic. I can hear them rattling in the pan. I've made ten for five of us which is rather excessive but we all seem to become gluttonous when we're out at sea and there are hard boiled eggs and cod's roe kaviar on hand. Underneath the silver birch tree I can see swathes of blue and we shall hold our breath in the hope that this fairweather stays.
I have read many books:
The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy
The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
Grace by Linn Ullmann
The Descendants by Kaui Hemmings Hart
and I am half way into two books:
Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
Franny & Zooey by JD Salinger
Believe me when it's raining, and there is no television or npr or internet, it's quite stunning how many books you can get through. I love the Descendants. I've given it to Jum to read to see if he shares my excitement. Grace is very depressing and I think she tries too hard to write like Hamsun and Hamsun-lite isn't particularly interesting. The dust jacket is full of elaborate praise, however, so maybe I wasn't in empathy mode. Actually, it was pretentious as hell.
I have cleaned the shower and done two loads of laundry and lain sheets and pillowcases and knickers and tshirts on every free surface that doesn't contain a wetsuit or a life jacket.
We shall go to an island even if it means bringing sou'westers. More later.
I have read many books:
The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy
The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
Grace by Linn Ullmann
The Descendants by Kaui Hemmings Hart
and I am half way into two books:
Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
Franny & Zooey by JD Salinger
Believe me when it's raining, and there is no television or npr or internet, it's quite stunning how many books you can get through. I love the Descendants. I've given it to Jum to read to see if he shares my excitement. Grace is very depressing and I think she tries too hard to write like Hamsun and Hamsun-lite isn't particularly interesting. The dust jacket is full of elaborate praise, however, so maybe I wasn't in empathy mode. Actually, it was pretentious as hell.
I have cleaned the shower and done two loads of laundry and lain sheets and pillowcases and knickers and tshirts on every free surface that doesn't contain a wetsuit or a life jacket.
We shall go to an island even if it means bringing sou'westers. More later.
Friday, July 20, 2007
bliss
Marvellously, rather brilliantly in fact, Minks has discovered that the little hut they're staying in has a wireless internet connection, borrowed, no doubt, from the house next door. No need now for complicated modem connections and much moaning over the hogging of the one and only telephone line.
It's grey again today, after promise of brilliant sunshine, and so armed with trusty red iPod, with Outkast, Amy Winehouse, Cat Stevens, The Waterboys, Grieg and Hildegard Von Bingen, I set out to survey this wondrous isle, this magical place. And sure enough, buoyed by the music, the flotilla of greenness showed itself, the oak and clover, wheat and raspberries, and I was quite transported to another time and place. There is something ancient here, something mossy and mysterious and waiting to give up its secrets. Inexplicably I practically hopped from leg to leg, swinging my arms furiously and occasionally twirling after making sure I wasn't being watched because if I appeared loony before, the dancing in circles would be the final straw. Layers of truth peeled away with each forward step.
Every morning I wake up in Los Angeles, it is with a sense of dread and yet here, each morning, with the sun spreading itself out over the sea and the little islands, the patter of seagulls on the roof above us, the clinking of the masts, just makes me glad to be alive. We are in skinny little single beds, pulled tight together so that there is a little wooden dip to fall down in the middle. We leave the curtains slightly open so that the light pours in from about a quarter to four. Outside, the ridiculous rain-green of the leaves -- ash, rowan, oak, cherry, silver birch and acid yellow of the moss which creeps up each greypink rock. Strawberries nest in each crevace, tiny fraises du bois, miniscule and red and bursting with strawberry flavor. It really is rather blissful.
Off to the Bla Brygge for lunch - mussels -- yum!
It's grey again today, after promise of brilliant sunshine, and so armed with trusty red iPod, with Outkast, Amy Winehouse, Cat Stevens, The Waterboys, Grieg and Hildegard Von Bingen, I set out to survey this wondrous isle, this magical place. And sure enough, buoyed by the music, the flotilla of greenness showed itself, the oak and clover, wheat and raspberries, and I was quite transported to another time and place. There is something ancient here, something mossy and mysterious and waiting to give up its secrets. Inexplicably I practically hopped from leg to leg, swinging my arms furiously and occasionally twirling after making sure I wasn't being watched because if I appeared loony before, the dancing in circles would be the final straw. Layers of truth peeled away with each forward step.
Every morning I wake up in Los Angeles, it is with a sense of dread and yet here, each morning, with the sun spreading itself out over the sea and the little islands, the patter of seagulls on the roof above us, the clinking of the masts, just makes me glad to be alive. We are in skinny little single beds, pulled tight together so that there is a little wooden dip to fall down in the middle. We leave the curtains slightly open so that the light pours in from about a quarter to four. Outside, the ridiculous rain-green of the leaves -- ash, rowan, oak, cherry, silver birch and acid yellow of the moss which creeps up each greypink rock. Strawberries nest in each crevace, tiny fraises du bois, miniscule and red and bursting with strawberry flavor. It really is rather blissful.
Off to the Bla Brygge for lunch - mussels -- yum!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
first day here
July 18, 2007
It's three o'clock in the morning and the wind is whistling in the wooden eves. The clouds are blowing north and the crack in my curtains has become a picture show of mythical shapes in grey on grey-a picador, a Chinese temple dragon, a witch, a poodle float by. Yesterday was our first on this little island in the Oslo fjord and it rained for most of the day and now we pray for a glimpse of sunny weather to come.
N was really happy last night. He was laughing and unguarded and funny as we played silly games in the howling wind. It was lovely to see him that way.
Jumby and I share two small single beds that have been pushed together. One or both of us is destined to drop through the crack. It's only a matter of time.
Yesterday was so cold that I could hardly bring myself to walk outside and down the steps to the shower even with its promise of warmth. I wore two sweatshirts and a t-shirt and a wool hat. "It's not winter, you know," said Oystein but it felt like it to my thin, tired skin.
I have finished The Memory Keeper's Daughter and I agree that it is a beautiful book but I don't seem to be as over the moon with it as everyone else who has read it. It's a NYT bestseller and apparently a "must for summer reading" from the ever reliable Richard and Judy in England, but I found it just a little arduous and not as mesmerizing as I would like.
There's a faintly pink glow on the horizon which fills me with hope and optimism for the day's weather forecast. Here, I don't wake up feeling grumpy. Why do blue skies bring so much promise?
Here, I miss Jack. The brown slug population, which I'm told by the ever brilliant Oystein was only introduced to Norway twelve years ago, carried by accident in eastern europe produce, have multiplied so much that they have overtaken the black slugs, a rather more elegant breed, in southern Norway. They are quite literally everywhere. I am tempted to walk down the road with a bag of salt to sprinkle over them and watch them sizzle. It's good that their brains aren't just slightly bigger or they'd be running the country, I'm sure. But these slugs and the rain remind me of Jack when he stayed here with us, and made us laugh through all the bad weather. I miss him. I miss the way he would make everything better with his sarcastic wit and easy manner and how he could make J laugh and the children relax through the tense family arguments.
It's three o'clock in the morning and the wind is whistling in the wooden eves. The clouds are blowing north and the crack in my curtains has become a picture show of mythical shapes in grey on grey-a picador, a Chinese temple dragon, a witch, a poodle float by. Yesterday was our first on this little island in the Oslo fjord and it rained for most of the day and now we pray for a glimpse of sunny weather to come.
N was really happy last night. He was laughing and unguarded and funny as we played silly games in the howling wind. It was lovely to see him that way.
Jumby and I share two small single beds that have been pushed together. One or both of us is destined to drop through the crack. It's only a matter of time.
Yesterday was so cold that I could hardly bring myself to walk outside and down the steps to the shower even with its promise of warmth. I wore two sweatshirts and a t-shirt and a wool hat. "It's not winter, you know," said Oystein but it felt like it to my thin, tired skin.
I have finished The Memory Keeper's Daughter and I agree that it is a beautiful book but I don't seem to be as over the moon with it as everyone else who has read it. It's a NYT bestseller and apparently a "must for summer reading" from the ever reliable Richard and Judy in England, but I found it just a little arduous and not as mesmerizing as I would like.
There's a faintly pink glow on the horizon which fills me with hope and optimism for the day's weather forecast. Here, I don't wake up feeling grumpy. Why do blue skies bring so much promise?
Here, I miss Jack. The brown slug population, which I'm told by the ever brilliant Oystein was only introduced to Norway twelve years ago, carried by accident in eastern europe produce, have multiplied so much that they have overtaken the black slugs, a rather more elegant breed, in southern Norway. They are quite literally everywhere. I am tempted to walk down the road with a bag of salt to sprinkle over them and watch them sizzle. It's good that their brains aren't just slightly bigger or they'd be running the country, I'm sure. But these slugs and the rain remind me of Jack when he stayed here with us, and made us laugh through all the bad weather. I miss him. I miss the way he would make everything better with his sarcastic wit and easy manner and how he could make J laugh and the children relax through the tense family arguments.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Our movie starts shooting today!
Hollywood again comes to quaint city
For all-American locale, Havre de Grace is 'perfect'
By Madison Park
BALTIMORE SUN
July 6, 2007
A psychological thriller begins filming next week in Havre de Grace - its Victorian architecture and homespun quality caught the moviemakers' eye.
The movie, titled From Within, is about a small town where it appears that teenagers are committing suicide.
It stars Thomas Dekker, who portrayed Zach on NBC's hit Heroes last season and will play the young John Connor in Fox's new television series, Sarah Connor Chronicles, based on the Terminator series.
Elizabeth Rice, who also stars in the film, has appeared in episodes of ER, Crossing Jordan and portrayed a teenage Natalie Wood in a biographical TV movie. And the director, Phedon Papamichael, is known for his cinematography in Walk the Line, Sideways and Pursuit of Happyness.
Havre de Grace, a city of about 11,000 in Harford County on the mouth of the Susquehanna River as it enters Chesapeake Bay, was chosen over 15 Maryland towns for the movie shoot.
"Havre de Grace fit what we needed the best," said Chris Gibbin, one of the movie's producers. "If you take a look at the town, there's no Starbucks, no McDonald's, no Target - there's no recognizable, national chain."
The film will be shot at locations throughout the city, including Havre de Grace High School, the police station, the Thomas J. Hatem Bridge, the St. James United Cemetery and parts of Washington Street, city officials said.
"The city won't be identified as Havre de Grace, but we will be in the credits," Mayor Wayne Dougherty said. "It's going to be a very exciting time for the city."
Filming is scheduled to start Wednesday and to last five weeks although the production staff will be in town for the next 10 weeks.
Havre de Grace has been in the spotlight before. Young Americans, a short-lived show on the former WB network about teenagers at a New England boarding school with Kate Bosworth and Ian Somerhalder, was shot there in 2000. And the Blenheim Mansion on Bulle Rock Golf Course was among several locations in Harford County used for the 2002 romantic drama Tuck Everlasting.
From Within, which Gibbin described as "more psychological and ... very little blood and guts," is expected to be in theaters next year.
The Maryland Film Office sent the producers photos of roughly 20 Maryland towns, including Havre de Grace, Cumberland and Crisfield.
"The script was set in a small town that visually needed to be pure Americana," said Jack Gerbes, director of the film office, "a town caught in time with a character and charm to it."
After a three-day scouting trip to Havre de Grace, the director and producers decided to film in the city. Financial incentives from the state including tax waivers and rebates also influenced the decision to film in Maryland, Gibbin said.
"It's really a town that's not just for tourists," Gibbin said. "It's hard to find that kind of place anymore. It's on the river, it's very beautiful. It adds up to being kind of perfect."
For all-American locale, Havre de Grace is 'perfect'
By Madison Park
BALTIMORE SUN
July 6, 2007
A psychological thriller begins filming next week in Havre de Grace - its Victorian architecture and homespun quality caught the moviemakers' eye.
The movie, titled From Within, is about a small town where it appears that teenagers are committing suicide.
It stars Thomas Dekker, who portrayed Zach on NBC's hit Heroes last season and will play the young John Connor in Fox's new television series, Sarah Connor Chronicles, based on the Terminator series.
Elizabeth Rice, who also stars in the film, has appeared in episodes of ER, Crossing Jordan and portrayed a teenage Natalie Wood in a biographical TV movie. And the director, Phedon Papamichael, is known for his cinematography in Walk the Line, Sideways and Pursuit of Happyness.
Havre de Grace, a city of about 11,000 in Harford County on the mouth of the Susquehanna River as it enters Chesapeake Bay, was chosen over 15 Maryland towns for the movie shoot.
"Havre de Grace fit what we needed the best," said Chris Gibbin, one of the movie's producers. "If you take a look at the town, there's no Starbucks, no McDonald's, no Target - there's no recognizable, national chain."
The film will be shot at locations throughout the city, including Havre de Grace High School, the police station, the Thomas J. Hatem Bridge, the St. James United Cemetery and parts of Washington Street, city officials said.
"The city won't be identified as Havre de Grace, but we will be in the credits," Mayor Wayne Dougherty said. "It's going to be a very exciting time for the city."
Filming is scheduled to start Wednesday and to last five weeks although the production staff will be in town for the next 10 weeks.
Havre de Grace has been in the spotlight before. Young Americans, a short-lived show on the former WB network about teenagers at a New England boarding school with Kate Bosworth and Ian Somerhalder, was shot there in 2000. And the Blenheim Mansion on Bulle Rock Golf Course was among several locations in Harford County used for the 2002 romantic drama Tuck Everlasting.
From Within, which Gibbin described as "more psychological and ... very little blood and guts," is expected to be in theaters next year.
The Maryland Film Office sent the producers photos of roughly 20 Maryland towns, including Havre de Grace, Cumberland and Crisfield.
"The script was set in a small town that visually needed to be pure Americana," said Jack Gerbes, director of the film office, "a town caught in time with a character and charm to it."
After a three-day scouting trip to Havre de Grace, the director and producers decided to film in the city. Financial incentives from the state including tax waivers and rebates also influenced the decision to film in Maryland, Gibbin said.
"It's really a town that's not just for tourists," Gibbin said. "It's hard to find that kind of place anymore. It's on the river, it's very beautiful. It adds up to being kind of perfect."
Divine Miss Daphne
My friends (I use the term loosely - I feel as if we're bosom buddies) at gofugyourself.com are making fun of Daphne Guinness in this outfit. I think she looks absolutely eccentrically divine and far more interesting than the usual dull parade of models and starlets in their predictably middle of the road fair.
Only because my dear, old friend Elinor Day asked me to join, I set up a Facebook account and within hours connected with some old friends, like the wonderful Allison Anders. Just as I was feeling comfortable my account disappeared and I was told they'd reset my password. When I tried to log in with the new password, i was told that my account had been de-activated. When I asked what the hell was going on, I got this, from Theodore:
Hi,
Fake names are a violation of our Terms of Use. Facebook
requires users to provide their full first and last names (i.e. no
initials). Impersonating anyone or anything is prohibited.
Nicknames are only permitted if they are a variation of your first or
last name.
If you would like to use this profile again, just get back to us with
your real name and we will reactivate the account for you.
Thanks for your understanding,
Theodore
Customer Support Representative
Facebook
So, yeah, I've got a weird name. I wrote back, furious (of course, I'm furious a lot lately) "Google me." My children think this whole think hilarious of course.
N has agreed to take Minky to see Harry Potter today. She's on cloud nine.
Hi,
Fake names are a violation of our Terms of Use. Facebook
requires users to provide their full first and last names (i.e. no
initials). Impersonating anyone or anything is prohibited.
Nicknames are only permitted if they are a variation of your first or
last name.
If you would like to use this profile again, just get back to us with
your real name and we will reactivate the account for you.
Thanks for your understanding,
Theodore
Customer Support Representative
So, yeah, I've got a weird name. I wrote back, furious (of course, I'm furious a lot lately) "Google me." My children think this whole think hilarious of course.
N has agreed to take Minky to see Harry Potter today. She's on cloud nine.
Cherish
Poem: "Cherish" by Raymond Carver, from All of Us. (c) Knopf.
Cherish
From the window I see her bend to the roses
holding close to the bloom so as not to
prick her fingers. With the other hand she clips, pauses and
clips, more alone in the world
than I had known. She won't
look up, not now. She's alone
with roses and with something else I can only think, not
say. I know the names of those bushes
given for our late wedding: Love, Honor, Cherish--
this last the rose she holds out to me suddenly, having
entered the house between glances. I press
my nose to it, draw the sweetness in, let it cling--scent
of promise, of treasure. My hand on her wrist to bring her close,
her eyes green as river-moss. Saying it then, against
what comes: wife, while I can, while my breath, each hurried
petal
can still find her.
Sent by GoodLink (www.good.com)
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Shrine
I didn't really feel like driving all the way to Brentwood for the orthodontist appointment we'd made weeks ago, especially with all the packing and readying to go away we have to do this week for our trip to Norway, and I was grumpy about it, I know, complaining to Minks that all I'd done in the last few days was drive and buy for her. Sometimes I just need to get over myself. "Just don't open the drawer where you know the mess is" says J when I talk about melancholy. "Just don't go there." But we went nonetheless and then I was delighted to discover that La Scala Presto is still there off of San Vicente where it was twenty years ago when Jack, Andy, Eddie, Dominique and I would go to the beach in Santa Monica on Saturday mornings and stop off there for our picnic lunch. We ordered what we always order, salami chopped salads with double tomatoes, arnold palmers, bread and butter. We marvelled at the blonde woman on the table next to us with the blonde hair with bangs, high heels, white blouse and bulging bosoms. Her lips bulged nearly as much as her bosoms, and as she ate, she checked her phone relentlessly. A woman appeared, another blonde in a strapless sundress. Brown. Lots of gold jewelry. A bright smile. It was Goldie Hawn. Minks didn't know who she was until I told her it was Kate Hudson's mother.
Lunch was delicious and put me in better spirits, the melancholy lifting like the morning mist at the beach, and so I suggested we visit the beautiful Self-Realization temple, which is a golden lotus of a building, surrounded by fantastic gardens, at the end of Sunset by the ocean. On the way, after a small detour onto Old Ranch Road to look at the horses, and a good bit of fantasizing about owning a house where your horse could live a stone's throw from your bed, Minks noticed a tree covered in yellow and white paper notes. We turned around on Sunset, pulled over, got out of the car and realized that this was the shrine for N's friend who died on Friday night by wrapping his car around a tree. It wasn't far from Brooktree, near Rustic Canyon. The eucalyptus trees stood in front of some ancient bamboo, as wide as my thigh, which had been snapped in two from the impact of the car. The trees were surrounded by candles, and flowers; iris, rose, white hydrangea, daisies. Many bunches of flowers, some wrapped in paper or cellophane, some laid on the ground, some in vases. An old yellow pad sat by the tree with a black sharpie. His friends had written notes and pinned them up, or written directly on the tree. "Rest in Paradise" it said. "You were the nicest guy I knew." "We will always love you." There were photos too, of the kid with his soccer team, with his arm around his buddies, grinning at the camera. Somebody had drawn a picture. Poems. Minks tore a piece of yellow paper, wrote something on it and pinned it up. We held hands and stared at the tree. A mother in sunglasses parked her SUV and walked over to us, looked at the shrine and started to sob silently. Two dark-haired girls in black dresses came over too and just stared blankly. The funeral was this afternoon. 978 people have signed the Facebook page dedicated to his memory. His sister goes into the 9th grade at Wildwood in September. Cars drove by and honked, as if people knew him. I found myself overwhelmed with sadness. There but for the grace of God go all of us. I can't bear to think about how many young lives that horrendous death may have saved by its example. My heart breaks for those parents. I want to write to them but I'm not sure what to say. It's the first time that anyone N has known has died from anything other than old age. He was seventeen years old and he loved to write, surf and play soccer. He was seventeen and he was loved by many, many people.
Of course, the temple was closed. The gates were locked and so the prayers had to be said in our heads. Instead we stopped at a little bookstore in the Palisades where kids were excitedly planning their midnight adventures to see the newest Harry Potter film which opens tonight. I've always rather disliked the Palisades, but today, it seemed different. Sweet, in fact. A real community with old people and little girls in bookstores, and golden retrievers that pant on the curb, and wiccan ladies drinking herb tea out of to go cups.
I dare not say what is in my head. N must think me crazy as I texted him frantically: Are you ok? Where are you? I love you, darling. Be safe.
Make good memories. That's what the man said.
Lunch was delicious and put me in better spirits, the melancholy lifting like the morning mist at the beach, and so I suggested we visit the beautiful Self-Realization temple, which is a golden lotus of a building, surrounded by fantastic gardens, at the end of Sunset by the ocean. On the way, after a small detour onto Old Ranch Road to look at the horses, and a good bit of fantasizing about owning a house where your horse could live a stone's throw from your bed, Minks noticed a tree covered in yellow and white paper notes. We turned around on Sunset, pulled over, got out of the car and realized that this was the shrine for N's friend who died on Friday night by wrapping his car around a tree. It wasn't far from Brooktree, near Rustic Canyon. The eucalyptus trees stood in front of some ancient bamboo, as wide as my thigh, which had been snapped in two from the impact of the car. The trees were surrounded by candles, and flowers; iris, rose, white hydrangea, daisies. Many bunches of flowers, some wrapped in paper or cellophane, some laid on the ground, some in vases. An old yellow pad sat by the tree with a black sharpie. His friends had written notes and pinned them up, or written directly on the tree. "Rest in Paradise" it said. "You were the nicest guy I knew." "We will always love you." There were photos too, of the kid with his soccer team, with his arm around his buddies, grinning at the camera. Somebody had drawn a picture. Poems. Minks tore a piece of yellow paper, wrote something on it and pinned it up. We held hands and stared at the tree. A mother in sunglasses parked her SUV and walked over to us, looked at the shrine and started to sob silently. Two dark-haired girls in black dresses came over too and just stared blankly. The funeral was this afternoon. 978 people have signed the Facebook page dedicated to his memory. His sister goes into the 9th grade at Wildwood in September. Cars drove by and honked, as if people knew him. I found myself overwhelmed with sadness. There but for the grace of God go all of us. I can't bear to think about how many young lives that horrendous death may have saved by its example. My heart breaks for those parents. I want to write to them but I'm not sure what to say. It's the first time that anyone N has known has died from anything other than old age. He was seventeen years old and he loved to write, surf and play soccer. He was seventeen and he was loved by many, many people.
Of course, the temple was closed. The gates were locked and so the prayers had to be said in our heads. Instead we stopped at a little bookstore in the Palisades where kids were excitedly planning their midnight adventures to see the newest Harry Potter film which opens tonight. I've always rather disliked the Palisades, but today, it seemed different. Sweet, in fact. A real community with old people and little girls in bookstores, and golden retrievers that pant on the curb, and wiccan ladies drinking herb tea out of to go cups.
I dare not say what is in my head. N must think me crazy as I texted him frantically: Are you ok? Where are you? I love you, darling. Be safe.
Make good memories. That's what the man said.
Morning
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?
This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—
maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,
dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,
and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.
-- Billy Collins
-- Billy Collins
Monday, July 09, 2007
Pee
"Can we talk about Norway?" Minks asks as we cruise down Laurel Canyon. "I'm so excited about it" she continues. I ponder this. It's the first time in as long as I can remember that I'm not particularly excited to go, and mostly because the weather forecast predicts rain for most of the three weeks that we're there. I resolved to buy the one dollar yellow rain ponchos from Target. Last night she asked J and I whether anyone in the family could stop their pee midstream, because she couldn't. It's a talent I'll own up to.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
The Richest Man in the World
"Wealth is like an orchard. You have to share the fruit, not the trees."
-- Carlos Slim
-- Carlos Slim
Happy Fourth of July
I think of the Fourth of July and immediately I find myself scouring the marthastewart.com website; that's iconic for you. Hip hip hooray for Independence Day, for strawberries and blueberries and cook-outs and American flags lining the streets feeling for once uncynical. Hip hip hooray for the children sleeping in their beds, for the climbing hydrangea and the purple butterfly bush, the three squirrels on the bird-feeder, and the cascading waterfall. We sit in wait for the one hundred degree day and for once Mr J is not complaining about use of the air conditioner. I plan to make burgers for lunch with potato salad and pickles. We shall listen to Copland and Roffe and the Beach Boys. This evening we venture to Pasadena for a grand party overlooking the Rose Bowl, and those marvellous fireworks.
Hip hip hooray for Alan Johnston, the BBC journalist who has been released today after months in captivity. And a sad thing - Gottfried Von Bismarck, who like to make passes at my boyfriend at Oxford while dressed in fishnets and red lipstick, has died. Apparently from a heroin overdose. The Telegraph describes him as a louche. "Bismarck" I remember him spitting down the phone while ordering a cab one night, "as in the Battleship."
But on to better things perhaps, and the momentary return of innocence that this day brings. It's about children and hope and grilling and lemonade and those marvellous red, white and blue cupcakes with swizzlers in them that Martha makes. She makes paper wind lanterns too. Has a picture on her site of a whole avenue of apple trees covered in them. If I may indulge one cynical thought: how many underpaid interns did it take to create that festive image?
As I'm feeling a bit deprived in the red, white and blue department, I'm going to pop into Ralphs before the whole house wakes up, and stock up on Americana.
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