Movie Review: Struck by Lightning

I first heard of this movie when Angela Kinsey (Angela from the Office) tweeted this photo. Many of the actors from the Office have done some great independent and smaller films, including The Giant Mechanical Man with Jenna Fischer, and Dan in Real Life with our beloved Steve. I was honestly expecting Angela's part to be a bit bigger, while also not expecting to see so many other familiar faces. Struck by Lightening stars Glee's Chris Colfer, with Rebel Wilson (Fat Amy) playing his awkward best friend. The films is written by Colfer, and it is also a book. Though the book did come out before the film, sources are mixed in providing info on whether the the movie was based on the book or vise versa.

Colfer plays Carson Phillips, an intelligent, snarky, high school outcast who dreams of going to Northwestern and writing for the New Yorker. Right away, I was excited about the high school and writing/literary aspects of this movie. It honestly surpassed all my expectations.

Carson's father left prior to the beginning of the plot, leaving Carson's mother in a downward spiral of  constantly drinking, sleeping on the coach, and too many prescriptions to count. Carson's relationship is generally sarcastic, but he always says he loves her before he leaves the house, even when she had just been talking about how she should have aborted him when she had the chance.

Everyone at school hates Carson. He runs a newspaper that has apathetic members, highlighting him as the sole student with any passion. When his ticket to college is to create a literary journal, he decides to get students to write for him in the only way possible, blackmail.

He targets the royalty and outcasts of the school as he takes down the head cheerleader, king drama kid,  the stereotypical pothead, and the head of the yearbook. Through this forced writing, these students find voices that they didn't even know they had.

The strangest part of this movie is that the main character literally gets struck by lightning and dies within the first ten minutes of the movie, and he's narrating and recalling the past events throughout the movie. Allison Janney, who plays Carson's mother, is probably the best display of quality acting in this movie when she finds out that her son had died towards the end of the film.

Though Carson has died, we get a sense that he left behind many changes. Through his constant rebellion against and questioning of his fellow students' actions, he was able to reveal to them what is actually important in life. He shows them that they have a voice and that they really are capable of great things.

Despite the few small cheesy parts of this movie, I enjoyed the comedy and the overall messages. It was able to portray coming of age in high school, individuality, and finding one's voice without the added nuisance of heavy sex scenes or really dirty humor. I would definitely recommend this one.

Wait Time

Gare de Bordeaux-St-Jean, Bordeaux, France.

"Beloved, our great and pressing need today is to give ourselves to waiting upon God, because waiting time is never wasted time." - Ian Hamilton


So this is it. The moment we've all been waiting for. Years, and weeks, and minutes, and seconds have led to this. So much hard work has led to this.

 I peer over my toes down to the tracks. I know there are other people on the platform, but it doesn't seem like it. I know there are other people here, just like me, but it doesn't seem like it. There are others waiting, but it truly seems like I am the only one. It seems like I'm alone in this.

There's a huge clock on the wall. It ticks. I know when the train's supposed to arrive. I know when I'm supposed to leave on it. I know all the things that I have planned and replanned and then planned again. I've memorized it. I've mapped it out and changed it a million times. It's part of me now, and this train's late.

Everything I've done, all my efforts, and thoughts, and premeditations are slowly diminished with every minute that this train is late. Every second that ticks by on the smallest hand is a spindly crack in my carefully laid plans. Crack, after crack, after crack, after crack. Tick tock.

Slowly, in step and time with the littlest hand, every result of me getting on this train falls away.

My plans. Tick.
My ideas. Tock.
My goals. Tick.
My life. Tock.


I eventually turn from the clock. I sit on the bench. I wait.

The next train is not direct, making some stops on the way. I'll sit in random cities while others board and get off. I'll stare out the window at a place I've never really wanted to be. I'll be there for ten minutes, the train station being my only experience of a place where many live, a place that many call home. Then the train will leave. The train will arrive.

But for now, I've been benched. For now, I wait.

I watch people walk past. I stop the tiny gears in my head that are trying to recalculate all my plans based on this recent restriction. My destination will be there when I arrive. And long after I eventually leave it.

Wait time is a teaching term. It's used to describe the time the teacher waits after posing a question. An ideal wait time ranges between 5-9 seconds. Wait time is a tool. Wait time is used by a teacher to measure the knowledge of his or her students. Wait time is hard to perfect when you know exactly where you're going and how you're going to do it. No one learns without wait time. It's a time of concentrated stress for the student when they are required to come up with an answer. The students have to trust their knowledge in order to find an answer. The teacher has to trust the students so he or she doesn't look like a fool, waiting for an answering, standing in front of many sets of eyes.

No one learns without wait time.
Wait time requires trust.

Half and Half

I've never really liked half and half.
My morning is brew is dark,
black, and true.
Adding half of anything
will leave me wanting.
A clear, dark cup
is what I need.

Half of you speaks
to me, while the other
half sits in the corner.
And I've never been one
to ignore the whole.

Only half of your smile beams.
Half the words you say fall
to the floor.
One strange hand and one
so familiar.
I've never been one
to ignore the whole.

Places and Things

Silence and Solitude

To give thanks in solitude is enough. Thanksgiving has wings and goes where it must go. Your prayer knows much more about it than you do.

- Victor Hugo

Returning to solitude is a bumpy road. It's the drive home from the airport after a great vacation. It's unlocking the door to your apartment, stirring the dust, and finding the rotting food in the fridge. It's coming back to the place where you know you belong, but have no initial desire to be. After you throw your bags on the bed, vowing to unpack later, and set yourself on the couch, the first things to be noticed are the sounds. 

These are the sounds you live with every day. You never notice them. They are the definition of familiarity, and they are also the definition of complete comfort. 

The clock on the wall ticks an hour behind, forgotten in the shuffle of daylight savings. The cars on the street and the many languages that pass on the sidewalk below create an ebb and flow as they pass by. When one fades, another will come. The creaks of the tenants above, below, and beside intermittently interrupt this silence that has been so long ignored that it has become foreign. 

This is the silence that forces us to face ourselves and who we are. 

This is the silence that is so often filled with the noise of the world in attempt to avoid the moment when we look, we see, and we are unable to bear the reflection before us. 

We are always the ones who allow this silence to be strangled. Its breath choked away, we move on. This is the act of ignoring what is required of us.

Solitude and silence require much. They are greedy twins with grasping fingers, clawing at the remnants of our time, priorities, and strength. These two demand strength. They demand bravery. They absolutely demand courage. 

They command us to look at ourselves, 

                                                                         and keep looking,

                                                                                                                   despite what we see.           

They command us to forgive ourselves, 

                                                                        and keep forgiving,

                                                                                                                  despite our capacity forgive.

They absolutely command us to love ourselves,

                                                                            and keep loving,

                                                                                                                  despite our ability to love.

Returning to solitude is a bumpy, strenuous, and completely necessary road home.