How can I not write about AVATAR?

There's a movie out right now called Avatar. If you didn't know that, read a newspaper or magazine every now and again, for crying out loud. Having heard good things from people in my life who are decent judges of film, I went to see this new flick with some friends on New Year's Day. In 3-D, if you were wondering.

Holy Schnikey! Oh my goodness! Wonder! Tears! Joy!

The thing simply blew me away. There was a moment when I found my jaw dropped, and tears flowing at the beauty of the fictitious planet Pandora. I was impressed and stunned by all kinds of brilliantly breathtaking attributes of this planet. The flora and fauna of Pandora were bright and intricately detailed, and you could actually see them and felt like you could touch them.

I could rant and rave for a while, but I don't want to spoil anything or prattle on repeating your own experience of this movie. On the other hand, note that I am writing about a movie. This, I assure you, is a rare occurrence. As my sister said to me in surprise at my approval of Avatar, "You don't usually love movies." (That's her nice way of saying that I usually pick them apart. Oops.) Why I'm excited about Avatar goes beyond the movie itself. In the last couple of days, I realized when I say I loved Avatar, I'm really saying I'm thrilled out of my mind about the creative possibilities that it has opened.

The last year or so has changed my mind about the created product. Though I grew up reading, watching television and movies, listening to music and reproducing it on the piano, I never really understood the point. And let's face it: while I'm creative, I'm also ridiculously practical, and so part of me felt guilty about the fact that I spent copious amounts of time creating and "consuming" the creations of others. I was confounded by the job description of my friend Linnea, an intelligent-times-ten and absurdly glorious artist:

"I make something totaly useless, yet absolutely necessary."

Huh? What? Useless and necessary can go together? In time, and with the steady encouragement of another artist friend, I am coming to agree with Linnea. I don't have any complex rational proofs or anything, but for me it comes down to this: When I read Tolkien or Lewis, when I listen to Debussy, and when I watched Avatar for the first time, something deep inside of me comes alive. This little creature--maybe it is Imagination, or Beauty--may remain confined in the little box of my life where I am reading or listening or watching, but it is more likely to continue to wiggle about in my head after it has been awakened. And soon, it stays with me throughout my day, and lends to the most common experience a sense of wonder and possibility.

The other thing about the products of artists is that they give you a glimpse inside the artist. An artist finds a way to create, outside of their imaginations, what exists inside their imagination. Having a very active imagination myself, and also having tried my hand at creation many a time, I can safely say that this is very tricky. Bringing a whole person into being using only words? Forming a crispy onion skin with the strokes of a pencil and the round root vegetable on flat paper? Flooding a cathedral with water using notes on a piano? It's HARD! It's time-consuming and imperfect and sometimes costly. Yet, when it is done, there is something that never was before.

This is why I loved Avatar. I know millions of dollars were put into its creation, at least hundreds of people contributed to it, and it still remains a cliche story with an anti-war agenda. I don't care. Avatar changes the game, because it made a world that doesn't exist, with its own culture and biology, in more clarity than I've ever seen. And it's beautiful. More!

L'Chayim!

This was the loveliest New Year celebration I have had so far.

My friend Kristen and me threw a feast for some friends, based on the principles of the Jewish New Year celebration, Rosh Hashana. We were inspired by a chapter in a cookbook revolving around this theme, captivated by the idea of symbolizing with food what you wish to see in the new year. This directly contrasts with how many of us approach New Year's Eve--with regrets, disappointments, and other letdowns of the past year (and usually, of the Eve itself, which rarely lives up to our expectations). Two New-Year's cynics, we determined to follow the Jewish tradition of taking in only what is light and sweet.

Thus, New Year's Eve day was spent on the 4th floor of the Boiler Room, which is an art co-op, in the company of occasional helpers, doing what I love best: essentially, building friendship while doing useful and beauty-producing things. Amazing to me was the joy to be found in the simple things even in the process, like the thin ring of bright green in between the pale place where a potato had been peeled and the brown skin, the pliability of challah dough, the brilliance and bursting of pomegranate jewels. All of the preparation eventually led up to a most stunning little dinner by candlelight with phenomenal individuals. We passed around apples to dip in honey, speaking over one another a blessing of hope, joy, abundance, victory, and fullness. We ingested abundance as spinach and leek tart, prosperity as honey-roasted carrot coins, mashed potatoes, lemon roast chicken, and sweet, rich challah bread fillled our bellies. And as a final benediction for the new year, we had honey cake with pomegranate seeds to symbolize sweetness and the new fruit, and a toast of milk and honey, as the assurance that we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Then, as a sense of celebration set in, this naturally flowed into a dance party nearly free of inhibition; our movements literally went from angry robots to ballerinas to sea creatures. Which, after all the rich food, did take out some of the lightweight boys in attendance.

Following the feast and a mild clean-up, some of us headed to a house show in the neighborhood. The old house was dark inside and thick with a not-unpleasant, manly smoke smell. Standing atop a trunk, overlooking the dreads and beards and beads, we enjoyed the talents of a crust-punk trio from Seattle, who through banjo/accordion/guitar/screamo taught about the evils of consumerism. Pure delight, and a nice adventure. As was the dwindling bonfire out back made from treated wood, not quite able to warm my stockinged legs. Yet the camaraderie was warm and so we stayed until quite chilled through.