The Drive Home

My windows are rolled down, as usual, but the air feels different.  It doesn't yet feel cool and crisp as it does in the autumn.  In fact, the air is still distinctly summerish.  But it's different.  And I don't realize what it is until I catch the faint smells of chlorine, of steak grilling, of sweat, of freshly cut grass.  These are smells of goodbye, smells of people doing last-minute summer activities before autumn comes.  This is what is in the air--the difference that I feel.  It's not quite summer, not quite fall, but some kind of unnamed season that comes in between the two.  It is some kind of unnamed season that blends the two.  The wind blows.  The trees clap their hands.  The world feels alive, yet sleepy, as though it knows a colder, darker time is coming and it must finish its adventures while it still has the vitality to finish them.  Then, it can rest.

And I look up into the sky and fall in love with the colors there as they reflect off the clouds.  The clouds aren't puffy.  They seem to have been stretched out, as if they don't know exactly where they want to be.  So they just scatter everywhere, and the light that falls upon them seems cautious, almost afraid, as if its not sure the clouds are really supposed to be there at all, or if its supposed to shine on them.  The result is that they kiss the clouds with just the most delicate touch of pale, hauntingly beautiful color.

Blue is my favorite color.  I like the blue of the summertime sky when the sun is out and the clouds are full, but my favorite shade of blue doesn't come until the sunset.  Here the blue fades into a darker, deeper hue.  The daytime blue is rich and alive, but the evening blue seems secretive, as if it is hiding some precious and mysterious knowledge.  And once again there is something unnamed.  There is no name for the color that occurs when the sunset's orange blends with the evening blue.  But I know it must exist, for there is a place where the blue ceases to be blue and becomes orange, and where the orange ceases to be orange and becomes blue.  And in that place there is something that is either too faint or too powerful for my eyes to perceive.  Still, I try to see it.

I stop at a stoplight and look at the streetlights as they fail in their attempts to shine more brightly than the sunset before me.  And I think about how in a few short months, I'll be driving home by their artificial illumination alone.  The days will be shorter.  The sun will sleep earlier and wake up later.  The darkness and the coldness is coming, and maybe there will be a time when autumn will blend with winter into another unnamed season.  We'll make that last loaf of pumpkin bread and put away the Indian corn, and we'll pull out the hot cocoa and Christmas decorations.  And in that in between time?  We will reflect.

I pull into my apartment's small parking lot while some familiar song plays on my car's speakers.  I sing along and roll my windows up.  I turn off the engine and the song stops, though I keep singing harmony as if the melody is still playing.  Then I take in a deep breath of the air in my car that is quickly growing stale.  It takes so little time for things to become stale. 

And I'm grateful for moments like these, when I see and hear, smell and feel.  Life is more than sensations, but they are a big part of the experience of life, as are seasons.  Sometimes, there will be stale moments, and sometimes it's even important to walk through those stale moments, clinging to the truths we know even when we are too numb to feel them.  But for the most part, life is meant to be lived.  And right now, I feel very alive.

Ficton Friday: Is This Real Life?

I forgot it was Friday.  I forgot I was supposed to write a blog.  So it's almost 11 pm, but that's still technically Friday, so I guess I'm still okay as long as I get this thing out before midnight!

I was watching a movie tonight (when I was supposed to be writing a blog).  It's probably my second favorite movie.  Shadowlands.  It's a movie based on the later life of C. S. Lewis, when he met and married Joy Gresham.  I love this movie 1) because it's about C. S. Lewis, 2) because it explores a lot of themes I appreciate--like pain, love, life, grief, and honesty (to name a few), 3) because it has amazing lines, amazing acting, amazing directing, and UH-MAY-ZING music, and 4) because it's a really sweet love story. 

But despite the words "This is a True Story" that flash across the screen near the beginning of the film, I realize that it's not really a true story.  Yes, it is based on actual events that happened in the lives of C. S. (Jack) Lewis, his friend and eventual wife, Joy Gresham, and her son, Douglas Gresham.  But it's highly dramatized to the point that "true story" isn't really a fair or accurate description.

I'm pretty much obsessed with C. S. Lewis, and I've read a few biographies (including my favorite one, which was written by Lewis' stepson, Douglas Gresham.  It's called Jack's Life, and I highly highly recommend it).  I know that Joy Gresham wasn't drop dead gorgeous like she was in the movie.  I know that she had two sons instead of just one.  I know a lot of random little details that aren't really that important--like the fact that Jack Lewis couldn't drive a car like he did in the movie, or that the honeymoon trip he took with his wife was much different than what happened in the movie. 

I like biographies about people I'm obsessed with, but otherwise, biography isn't my favorite genre.  Therefore, the only biographies I've really read are about Lewis, Rich Mullins, and Madeline L'Engle.  I have probably skimmed through some others, but I can only afford to have a few unhealthy obsessions with dead people. 

Memoirs, though, are different.  I really like them, if they're well-written.  I think my favorite is Rocket Boys (AKA October Sky).  Homer Hickam (the author of Rocket Boys) isn't all that interesting to me (in fact, I had to google him for his last name), but his story was interesting to me.  It was a "true story," but it wasn't a biography.  It was a memoir.  And memoirs are different because not all of the details have to be accurate.  It's okay to lie a little in the name of good literature.

I do the same thing--not so much with this blog, but I embellish things all the time in my socially awkward blog.  That's not to say I'm completely making stuff up, but I'll often exaggerate or add somewhat fictitious details to "true stories" to make them funnier or more interesting.  Storytelling is not the same thing as lying, and memoir is storytelling.  It's just storytelling that's based on something real. 

And I think that's why I can still appreciate Shadowlands so much.  I know the characters/events are exaggerated or altered from reality.  Watching/Reading a completely (or as close as they could get to it) accurate portrayal of someone's life would be boring (unless you're the sort who likes reading biographies).  There's really just no harm in watching a film or reading a book that's based on real people and real events, even if a lot of what happens to those people and events in the movie/book wasn't real.  I mean, I might be disappointed when I get to heaven and realize that C. S. Lewis and Anthony Hopkins are NOT the same person, but...nah...it probably won't matter at that point.

But I have to say that if I ever become a wildly famous author with a life tragic enough to make a movie out of, I really hope they get someone fabulous to portray me.  I'm thinking a younger version of Julianne Moore.  Because in my "based on a true story" movie, I'm SO going to have red hair.