Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Went and saw Diary of a Wimpy Kid for my review assignment for Magazine writing.

Things to know about the movie:

Movie was mostly like the book which was funny.
The book will always win over movie though.
They added a random girl character that was supposed to be a love interest for our wimpy kid, which ended up being stupid and a waste of time because she does nothing but hangout with dyed hair and speak in way too advanced sentences for a seventh grader. Fregley was AWESOME. I laughed at everything he said. Who wouldn't? He was a freckled mess of awkwardness that they gave the best lines to.
2nd best scene (besides the ones with Fregley) The drama teacher made all the kids sing her favorite song to try out for the musical which was the Wizard of Oz. It happened to be "Total Eclipse of the Heart" Amazing. love 80's and having a montage of middle schoolers singing different parts was way too much fun.

3rd best scene. They added a random mother son dance (not in the book) Rowley and his mom dance to a Beastie Boys song. Enough said.

Losing it

I lost my way somewhere between two jobs and not having enough time to write. It's a strange feeling to loose control. Next thing I knew, I dug myself a hole that I didn't want to climb out of. Instead, I sat at the bottom, looked up at the sky and mimicked living shuffling through my day like a ghost. So, here I am. Trying to slowly figure things out. Since I have not been writing, here are other people's words that express how I feel. I hope doing this will become a bridge to my own voice right now.



The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy