Reality Checkers

Published by Iris in Inspired by, Movies, Random Thoughts,
Published on 09/21/07 at 11:11:46 am using 175 words.

When does something become real to you? The minute it happens, the moment it’s felt? The second it’s uttered? Or sometime later, when you lay it out to someone? And what is it about that certain someone that injects reality – the feeling of reality – into something already real? How strong a connection does that require? How much of a need to share? How much complicity, respect, admiration? How much influence does such a person exert over you? Are you still able to be yourself before such a person? Or does your ’self’ become slightly changed (compromised, if you will) for their benefit? Are your instincts relegated to mere whispers – barely audible ones?

(Originally written on April 1st, 2007)

And it always feels good to tell you the truth. Because if I can’t share it with you, it’s almost like it didn’t happen.

(Say anything…)

Nothing is real until I tell it to Abby.

(The Firm)

Say Anything...

Jeanne Tripplehorn as Abby McDeere

Dedicated to the perennial dream of breaking free…

Published by Iris in Inspired by, Movies, Random Thoughts, Screen Shots,
Published on 09/15/07 at 11:17:57 am using 867 words.

Ocean Ants

You and I are a lot alike. You… whoever you are. The way we zero in on the ant speech even though we are ants ourselves. We are ants a little bit, aren’t we? We grab the ant quote almost as a lifeline or a shot at redemption - a last chance without the finality that the title conveys. As though loving it would set the seeping process in motion, would steep us in that beautiful rose-colored Utopia of people bumping into each other (and bravely going against the pre-established norms of what’s expected behavior) by asking to ‘do that again’; then sitting down as if by a campfire and sharing their ideas (a little bit of their most private selves) with complete strangers. Opening up space and making room for the ‘confrontation between their souls.’

Sort of what I’m attempting here. Even though, from this distance, it’s not nearly as brave.

Hey, could we do that again? I know we haven’t met but… I don’t want to be an ant, you know? I mean, it’s like, we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another continuously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. “Here’s your change.” “Paper or plastic?” “Credit or debit?” “You want ketchup with that?” I don’t want a straw. I want real human moments. I wanna see you. I want you to see me. I don’t wanna give that up. I don’t want to be an ant, you know?

(Waking Life)

Full story »

Milkshakes (Poem from Before Sunrise)

Published by Iris in Movies, Memorable Scenes,
Published on 09/12/07 at 08:21:15 pm using 142 words.

Before Sunrise

Daydream delusion
Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Lodged in life
Like two branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you. You’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

You can find an audio version on the poet’s website.

May 3, 1995

Published on 09/10/07 at 09:37:35 am using 148 words.

Jeff Buckley

I never met Jeff. But I did come in contact with him. A distant sort of contact disguised as a close encounter. He grazed my shoulder on his way to the makeshift stage at Tower Records in Westwood. I was getting my period and he had a zit on his upper chest close to the collar bone. He was beautiful beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Delicate like a bird you could spend eternity looking at and listening to. And I did that. I looked at him… and listened to him… for as long as I could.

See my autographed jewel case insert signed by Jeff Buckley in part II of this blog post

Currently shattering window panes with a rendition of…
Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye/Grace

Works of Art, we are...

Published by Iris in Inspired by, Memory Lane, People,
Published on 09/10/07 at 09:15:14 am using 339 words.

The flower that died a long way from home

In many respects you’re as much a work of art to me now as you once wrote I was to you. A painting to me… you are. Something I’m free to look at but not to approach. You make me glance, stop, squint to try and catch the details and contemplate. If I were to take a step forward to try and look closer, I’d be matched by a man in a suit. I’d be told to keep quiet and respect the boundaries. Let’s face it, being a work of art is not necessarily a good thing. It’s isolating. Art appreciation comes with a pre-established distance. It denies you the fun of dirty hands, of inappropriateness, of miscalculation, of improvisation, the fun of art making. I see you from that kind of pre-established distance. And from where I stand, respecting the line on the floor, there’s a great deal of life to your life. Or so it appears in the stills. You’d make a good postcard, too – to be kept in a notebook and forgotten about, allowed to yellow and one day be found, remembered and admired. Not a postcard to be sent anywhere or to anyone.
This is what I’d write on the back of it:

Your forearms resting on your knees. The touching friendship between your slightly swollen hands. One, seemingly taking care of the other, holding it up. Bulging veins in and on them leading to your knuckles like covered streams. The ocean going through your head, your head southwestern bound, your eyes on some invisible ant. Your feet on ’slow sand’… firm enough sand or so it looks to me. More sand than you could fit into an hourglass. That hood as an awning to that tiny smile that keeps a secret. The secret of your beauty, perhaps? That mix of sadness and glad resignation.

An Impromptu State of Iris Address

Published on 09/09/07 at 01:04:10 am using 504 words.

E.U. - Photograph by Iris W. Hirideyo

My little refuge…

…where I’m surrounded by multiplicity. Multiple movie posters, a claustrophobic moving about behind a counter; a strange sort of being… a mindless going back and forth… in multiple black aprons that manage to never once graze one another; multiple overlapping voices I can never distinguish. Untraceable sounds like people devoid of accents; multiple chairs in their black and white starkness; multiple cups I’ve gone through in multiple afternoons; multiple little clear spoons I use to stir and then rest on multiple saucers; multiple words I count myself lucky to know; multiple pages I insist on filling with gibberish for I gibber in writing. I’m trying my feet at multiplicity, at going against my usual choices and my usual self, at trying to be what I haven’t been thus far, before a complete switch is effected, at being both the one I’ve always been and this new person I’d like to become at the same time. The noises in this place, the electronic spewing of paper by the cash register, the dragging of chairs, those voices I merely deduce to be voices… they’re all a beautiful quietness to me. I don’t know what ‘Águas de Março’ is about but it is playing and it contributes to that quietness. Everything I don’t know adds its 2¢ because it fuses easily with everything else… no questions asked. It adds layers to the silence. It mingles effortlessly. It disappears in the crowd. It has no power of individuality. It’s the extra who’s just glad to be there. My eyes find the poster for Babel and I wonder about the extras of my life. How many people I haven’t met and will never meet. I wonder what their stories are. What chapters they’re in. How many characters they’re juggling. Multiplicity. That couple twenty feet away. That’s a whole other story, a whole other galaxy. Those two people whose voices are muffled by the time they reach me. Twenty feet… Twenty paces I know I won’t bother to take in favor of being an ant. I also wonder how many people I have defied fate in meeting. Sadly a smaller but still significant number, a number to take pride in… The black and white starkness of the chairs gives me a raised eyebrow look and leads me to wonder… rubs its truth in. Couldn’t everything be black and white? Simpler? Am I actively choosing here? If I’m not, how would I rate as a chooser? And if I am, how are my choices stacking up?

(July 30, 2007)

Espressos with cream - Photograph by Iris W. Hirideyo

That’s what you want, Gussie. Not what Henry wants. You chose it. Henry chose something else a long time ago.

He didn’t choose it. It just happened.

That’s the way we choose, Gussie. We let it happen.

(Violets are blue)

Playing Devil’s Advocate on the subject of Being Oneself (Yup, feeling devilish…)

Published on 09/08/07 at 12:04:28 pm using 484 words.

(What’s the single most popular piece of advice offered in this day and age? You know! That one-size-fits-all little pearl, applicable to a host of different circumstances…
“Just be yourself!” Ever heard that one? I’d say in all likelihood…
Well, let’s get to the bottom of this being yourself, shall we?
I unearthed the following journal entry written a few years ago… Brace yourself!)

Photograph by Susan Burnstine

Living is a constant selling of oneself. It is the way by which one becomes liked. And being liked is a commodity like any other. A commodity very much like education in that it can never be lost once obtained. People’s opinions are said to be unimportant in a balance against one’s true self.

And above all else: To thine own self be true


But in fact what must be taken into account besides or rather, over politically correct considerations and fairy tale-ish half truths, is the fact that no one’s true self is completely likable. Flaws are ever present, inherent components of any human being and hardly ever well received. So, what to do with them?

There will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

(The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

Diminish them as you would a skin blemish, I say. Use concealer if need be. Your true self in all its splendor of high-lights and low-darks is not always the best of friends.

I’ve always been myself, you know? Even when I was ill. Only now, I seem myself. And that’s the important thing. I have remembered how to seem.

(The Madness of King George)

And those described as friends who may or may not live up to the title but on whose opinions one’s image in this world – one’s reputation, if you will – hinges, THEY will be quick to point and sneer and diminish if given the opportunity. Hiding is oftentimes in order. Selling is oftentimes the only resort.

Just remember that you’re not just reading the news, you’re narrating it. Everybody has to sell a little. You’re selling them this idea of you, y’know, you’re sort of saying ‘Trust me, I’m… credible.’ So when you feel yourself just reading… Stop! Start selling a little.

(Broadcast News)

So what does all that selling and hiding mean? Where does it get us? What does it make us? I say it makes us inexhaustible, bottomless wells of new truths that sprout daily.

…people themselves alter so much that there is something new to be observed in them forever.

(Pride & Prejudice - Jane Austen)


The time to make up your mind about people is never.

(The Philadelphia Story)

And that’s just as it should be, isn’t it?

Currently shattering window panes with a rendition of…
Incubus - Drive/


Published by Iris in Random Thoughts, Cathartic Writing,
Published on 09/08/07 at 10:38:37 am using 114 words.

Maybe is a word that doesn’t sit too well.

It slouches.

When things start to take a certain shape you recognize as sturdy, ‘maybe’ becomes the earthquake that tells you you’re not on steady ground, that even though you have your feet firmly planted on that ground, even though gravity tacitly promises to keep doing its part, you’re still susceptible to be thrown about – to end up worlds away from where you had in mind…

(Originally written on May 14, 2007)

Currently shattering window panes with a rendition of…
Jack Johnson - Flake/Brushfire tales