October 31, 2005
Cashel Stuff
Unfurling below you is a Cashel Greatest Hits. There's so much more to say ... a million more things in that archive ... I just pulled out some of my personal favorites.
Any of the Aunties who are reading this ... please add your own favorites.
Happy birthday, Cashel!!
Saucy goblet nothing foul
From June, 2004
My 6 year old nephew Cashel was in town this weekend with his mother. Cashel used to live in Park Slope. While Cashel lived there, he befriended a boy named "Jack". Jack has taken on mythical qualities to all of us O'Malleys, primarily because of Cashel's undying love for Jack. They are soul mates. They are six.
They met when they were 4, and now Cashel lives far away - and yet the friendship has flourished. They have long-winded telephone conversations once a week. I said to Cashel, "I bet you guys are gonna be friends when you're grown-ups." He gave me this unbelievable look - perplexed, kind of amused, but also very confused ... trying to picture the two of them as adults. He couldn't see it. I said, "And you'll go visit Jack where he works or something, and you'll play like you're Jedi knights all over his office." Cashel thought this was a supremely hilarious image, and shook with hysterical laughter.
I'm a big hit with the 6 year old set.
I met Jack at one of Cashel's birthday parties. Jack was dressed as a Jedi knight. The primary bond between Jack and Cashel is Star Wars.
Cashel stated to my parents once, bluntly, "The first time I met Jack, I could see the twinkle of Star Wars in his eyes."
How one does not laugh when a 5 year old says something like that to you ... I simply do not know.
I love Jack. I love Jack because Cashel loves Jack.
When my sister and I drove up to see Cashel this past fall, there was a huge snowstorm in New England. I mentioned it to Cashel: "It was snowing in New York when I left!"
Cashel gasped. And then said, under his breath, "I hope Jack's okay."
Bwahaha. I said, "Oh, I'm sure he's okay."
For Cashel, it is ALL ABOUT JACK.
This past weekend, Cashel spent with Jack. On Saturday and Sunday (while I was quite ill, by the way - still not better) I kept imagining the rapture going on in Park Slope, the Star Wars orgies, the game-playing ... It made me happy to think of.
Monday morning, Siobhan made brunch for us at her apartment. It was me, Cashel's mom, Cashel and Siobhan. Still sick, I woke up early, got my act together, and traveled through the cool grey morning out to Queens. Siobhan's neighborhood is quiet, homey, and overwhelmingly green. Flags at half-mast everywhere because of Memorial Day. I kept seeing little kids in band uniforms, and little majorette girls ... traipsing off for a parade somewhere. I heard snippets of bagpipe music.
I was so excited to see the Cash-Man. How I miss seeing that little boy all the time.
My mother told me that she and Cashel had taken a walk around the neighborhood on Friday night, it was dark, they had flashlights. Cashel, who is verbose, to say the least, talked the entire time, the chattery mouse-voice coming through the darkness.
At one point he said, a propos of nothing, "Bullies aren't really bullies. They're really just cowards."
Smarty pants! MY heart cracked in two. I knew he was mouthing something that either his mother or his father had said to him, to help him make sense of playground politics.
"Bullies aren't really bullies, Cash. They're really just cowards."
Anything you say to Cash, he is liable to latch onto, make his own, and then say it right back to you. He is a knowledge and philosophy hog.
Siobhan cooked pancakes, bacon, made coffee. Cash has a scruffy short haircut that looks great. It took him a bit to warm up.
"So what did you and Jack do?"
Long silence, as he concentrated on eating a strawberry, eyes averted.
"Cash?"
Chew, chew, chew, eyes roaming the walls.
"Hello? Cash? What did you and Jack do?"
But the truth eventually came out. They saw 3 movies: Samarai Jack, Return of the Jedi - and one other, can't remember.
"And what else did you guys do?"
The casual off-handed answer? "We played."
Ah, children. God bless them. They "played".
So we ate breakfast, we all chatted, it was great fun, I have to hold myself back from attacking Cashel every other second, hugging him, kissing him, etc. It is very difficult. The good thing about a 6 year old, though, is that he will not completely object if you just reach over to him, and pull him on your lap. Such closeness can still be tolerated.
But really - the entire morning was completely enlivened by the Drama of the Refrigerator Magnets. This is what gave our brunch its special and memorable flavor.
Siobhan has those Magnetic Poetry magnets - the "Shakespeare" version. They are spread out all over the side of her fridge. Random snippets of silly verse - One was "I Like My Lady Belch" - stuff like that. Cashel noticed all of the magnets and said, "Heyyy, what's this?"
Then stood there, in his little jeans and striped shirt, looking up, and reading as many words as he could.
Because it was Shakespeare, you can imagine what Cashel's little boy voice sounded like.
"Henceforth."
"Methinks." (He said it correctly, too - which just cracked me UP - emphasis on the second syllable)
He just thought the whole thing was so funny for some reason, so fascinating. Like all the O'Malleys, he loves language.
I loved his pronunciation of "Melancholy".
Again, I have a hard time not attacking Cashel every other second, squeezing him so tight he begs for mercy.
So Cashel began messing around with the magnets, putting together random phrases - before he finally composed what amounts to a messy sonnet - which makes absolutely no sense - and which Cashel is probably still laughing about.
Every nonsensical thing he composed gave him such merriment.
He particularly found this phrase HYSTERICAL:
"saucy goblet nothing foul".
Actually, I think that's pretty funny, too, and believe the phrase could be used in all kinds of circumstances.
"How are you doing today?"
"Oh, you know. Saucy goblet nothing foul."
"Goodness, I just stepped on your foot. I beg your pardon."
"Saucy goblet, nothing foul, no problem."
Cashel kept saying it, over and over, his voice disintegrating into giggles. "Saucy goblet nothing foul..."
Love his laugh. It's the best sound in the world. No contest.
But here is Cashel's masterpiece, which he declaimed, over and over and over again that morning:
"dream & ly said mischance
let winter above light
peasant merry tempt to speak
thus curse could like you
lazy warrant and ed almost
give me manner strike his
poison deceive wherefore 'st
every fair hither hast to
must"
Now one word: If you do not find that poem to be one of the funniest things you have ever read in your life, Cashel will have no use for you.
To Cashel, his creation was HIGH COMEDY.
Clearly, there are myriad interpretations one could glean from this work. Siobhan came up with a very good dramatic reading of the last line - put a comma or a dash in between "hast to" and "must". So that, like with Shakespeare, the thought, the intention of the line is in the punctuation. One doesn't "hast to" do something, one "MUST" do something.
Cashel, though, would read the thing aloud, barely able to get through it because of his laughter, and then would state - every single time he finished it - "It doesn't make any sense!!"
That, to him, was the funniest part of it!
Actually, that's not quite the case. To Cashel, the absolute pinnacle of comedy was contained in the two words "lazy warrant".
For whatever reason, he thought that was SO FUNNY and would start to laugh about it 5 words before it came, because he could feel the comedy approaching.
"Lazy warrant".
We made a joke about how Cashel could use that as an insult on the playground (to throw at the bullies, who are not really bullies, they are just cowards.) Then when Cashel is taken to the principal's office or someone tries to tell on him, nobody will even understand what the insult means.
"Cashel called me a Lazy Warrant!"
Cashel thought this was such a funny image. "Nobody would know what it meant if I called them that!! 'You lazy warrant'!" he cried, followed by a huge burst of laughter at the thought.
I know I wouldn't like to be called a Lazy Warrant.
We then made up a game. I would call him a "saucy goblet", and his cutting rejoinder would be "Lazy warrant!"
"You saucy goblet."
"You lazy warrant!"
"You saucy goblet!"
"You lazy warrant!"
Cashel sat in the back seat of the car, as they drove off, seat belt on, looking so LITTLE, completely engrossed in his Star Wars magazine, and unaware that his two emotional Aunties were having a hard time saying good-bye.
We called at him, "You saucy goblet!"
I could see him call back "Lazy Warrant" obediently, but his mind was already elsewhere, on his magazine, but I could see his mouth form the words, "Lazy Warrant" - Couldn't hear his voice because the window was up, but it was so cute just the same.
Always does my heart good to see that little saucy goblet.
Nature and storms
March 2005
So this morning I had a loooooong teleconference with Cashel, about the book he has basically commissioned me to write. The book "on nature and storms". It started out with a heart-crack moment, because we sort of did the chit-chat thing (which I'm not good at, and neither is he). "Hi, how are you?" "Fine. Good." Dead-ends galore. Cashel's voice sounded tiny and almost monotone. There were MANY awkward pauses. Then Cashel said, in a completely different voice altogether, kind of alert and serious, "Auntie Sheila, I really hope that you will think about writing that book on nature and storms."
And with that, we were off and running. Cashel and I talked about nature and storms for 45 minutes. We planned out our book. We brainstormed. I wrote down everything he said.
Here, briefly, is what Cashel wants:
There will be two distinct sections of the book. One on STORMS. And one on NATURE. These are not one and the same and must be separated out.
We took on the "storms" part first. We started listing all the different kinds of "storms". We include "natural disasters" under this category, by the way.
Here is the list - My contributions were "hurricane", "blizzard" and "volcano eruption". All else came from Cashel:
Hurricane
Drought
Lightning
Tsunami
Flood
Earthquake
Blizzard
Mud slide
Typhoon
Volcano
Then came the NATURE discussion. Now, to me ... where I was going with the whole "nature" thing was to get into all the different elements in nature: animals, mountains, ocean, stuff like that. I was very quickly made to realize that that was not what Cashel had in mind at all.
Here is where the conversation got really deep.
I said, "Okay. So now we move on to 'Nature'. I am thinking we should have different sections in the book for - like - the beach. Or flowers. Or redwood trees."
Cashel interrupted me, and his voice dripped with scorn and irritation. "Auntie Sheila, no, not trees and flowers. Not THAT. They're not DANGEROUS."
I slowly realized that the book was actually going to be a list of dangers, throughout the planet.
"Oh ... okay ... so just dangerous stuff in nature, then?"
I felt confused. Because to me, all the dangerous stuff in nature we had already covered (typhoon, earthquake, etc.) Oh, how narrow-minded and unimaginative I am. Cashel, in an extended monologue, set me straight.
He said, "Yes - like SICKNESSES."
"Sicknesses?"
"Sicknesses can be VERY dangerous!" (Again, the irritation in his voice. I was slow on the uptake.)
"Yes, Cash-man. You're right. They can be very dangerous."
"Like tuberculosis." Cashel rattled this one off.
I wrote down, under my "Nature" heading the word: "Tuberculosis."
"Yup. Tuberculosis." (Where the hell did he get that??)
Then came this monologue from Cashel: "And here's another one. You go to China, okay? And you pick up a virus in China. Then you come home, and you get a cold, and then BOOM." (He shouted "Boom") "You're dead. Your white blood cells can't fend the virus off."
I literally wanted Cashel to keep talking in this vein FOREVER.
I said, "Right. White blood cells are very important. So what other sicknesses?"
Cashel began to brainstorm. He said, "Heart attack." I wrote it down. He clarified for me, his stupid auntie, "Basically any kind of sickness caused by NATURE."
Then, out of nowhere, Cashel said in a serious voice, "I think the most dangerous thing in nature is ourselves."
I felt that go right through me. I felt his essence, his little serious essence. It was a deep moment.
I said, "Ourselves, Cashman?"
"Yes. Mankind. Mankind is the most dangerous thing in nature."
"I think you're onto something there."
"Wars. Look at all the wars."
"I know."
There really wasn't much else to say, along those lines ... I wanted so badly to be in his presence at that moment, his little sensitive blond-headed presence, and hang out with him, and read with him, and watch movies, and stuff. He's an incredible person, he really is.
Then, after the digression into the inherently dangerous nature of mankind, we got back to our list of sicknesses.
Cashel said, "Heart burn. Also humungous fungus." There was a long pause, and then Cashel said portentously, "There's a fungus among us."
I burst into laughter, and I heard Cashel laughing silently on the other end. I only knew he was laughing (in that shaking-like-a-bowlful-of-jelly way that he was) because of the occasional gasps for breath. Other than that? Silence.
We ended the list of "sicknesses caused by nature" with the deadliest of them all:
"Onion breath."
I certainly have my work cut out for me. A book including typhoons and onion breath. I can't wait to get started.
Smarty-pants
From Feb. 2005
Cashel's latest passion is turning books into movies. In his head. He's very big on adapting stuff for the screen. He has a lot of ideas. And the movies he makes in his head are, I must inform you, completely real. He has a resume. He says stuff like, "In my next movie ..." What are you, Quentin Tarantino?? Books are being adapted into movies - all in Cashel's 7-year-old head. He even has cast lists planned out. I'm sure Marty Feldman would have been thrilled to know that he would have been asked to be in every single one of Cashel's book-to-movie adaptations.
Recently, though, Cashel has been feeling a bit uninspired. None of the books he's been reading seem adaptation-appropriate. There's no spark. Cashel knows good material when he sees it ... and lately? In the 7-year-old reading world? The well has run dry.
He shared his concerns about this to his dad (my brother). They had a serious discussion about it. Cashel talked about wanting to adapt more books into movies (I'm sorry, I just have to interject this: I THINK THIS IS SO ADORABLE. Cashel ... "adapting" books into movies and feeling bad because he doesn't have a new project.)
So he asked my brother: did he have any ideas? Did he read any books when HE was a kid that would make a good movie?
My brother started brainstorming with Cashel, remembering his childhood books, telling him the plots, seeing if it would be a good movie. Finally he said: "I remember reading a book when I was little about a boy who could move stuff with his brain."
Cashel pondered this. Seriously. Silently. Then asked: "He could move stuff with his brain?"
Brendan said, "Yeah, like - he would think to himself: Let me move the pencil across the table. And just by thinking about it, the pencil would move."
Silence from Cashel. DEEP thinking going on.
Brendan went on, "And not only could this kid move stuff with his brain - but he could also read other people's minds. He could tell what you were thinking."
Long long silence. Cashel listening, pondering.
Then Cashel spoke. And this is what he said: "So ... he was telekinetic and telepathic?"
In the world of superheroes ...
one can only assume (and demand) that there is ALWAYS room for one more.
There BETTER be, because my nephew Cashel recently had a dream where he was a superhero. A new and improved superhero. A superhero the world has never heard of before ... and in my opinion, the world is the lesser for it.
Cashel had a dream that he was a superhero with long limbs - limbs that could elongate and reach out ... stretching across the acres ...
What is the name of this new superhero? Brought to life in Cashel's subconscious mind?
Stretchy Colorado.
Yes, folks. There's a new superhero on the scene and his name is:
Stretchy Colorado.
Yes, folks. There's a new superhero on the scene and his name is:
STRETCHY COLORADO.
I can think of MANY ways that good old "Stretchy Colorado" could be of use to our society. Thank goodness he has finally arrived.
Cashel's bored
From Nov. 30, 2004
Recently, Cashel was at my parents house. My dad was sitting on the couch, watching TV, and Cashel was catapulting about the room, in his normal fashion, shooting imaginary laser guns, and battling off dark-force Jedi knights. But then he turned, and looked at the TV.
My dad was flicking through the channels, surfing, and he stopped, briefly, on one channel - probably the History Channel, or PBS or something ... On the TV-screen, there was a Renaissance-era painting of a man ... and there was a voice-over droning on ... That was ALL that was seen before my dad flipped onwards.
Cashel, seeing just that one snippet, rolled his eyes, and said in a bored over-it voice, "The Medici popes."
Then he went back into Jedi land.
Cashel is BORED and OVER the Medici Popes. Just so you know.
bananas
August, 2004
Cashel (my nephew) sent my mother a birthday card. A home-made birthday card, with an envelope he filled out himself. Cashel (who is 6) wrote my parents address (in thick blue magic-marker) on lines drawn on by Cashel's mother, obviously. To keep his crazily large handwriting in check. Most of the letters and numbers are backwards. And yet it still arrived!!! The return address, written on the back of the envelope, is also punctuated by backwards characters - and he has written his name thusly: CASH.
That's it. No last name. It's positively heart-crackingly hysterical.
But the card!!
Okay, so here's what it is:
On the front of it is a spectacular Cashel drawing. When I first saw it, all I could do was fall into silence, contemplating the image: It's obviously a banana, coming out of its peel. The 2 sides of the banana peel are curling down, as though they are arms - about to be placed on the banana's hips. This is all very apparent. The banana itself, emerging from the peel, is obviously in profile - The banana is looking to the side, and he is wearing purple sunglasses (seen in profile. Cashel's very good at perspective like that - you can see the side of the glasses hooked around the banana's "ear"). It's quite a pose. Yellow arms curling down to the sides, banana-head in profile, staring off at some indeterminate horizon, purple sunglasses cockily in place.
This is my mother's birthday card.
But then, you open it up - and there is Cashel's handwriting, sprawled across the inside. Does he say, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA"? No. There is no mention of "birthday", there is no "happy", there is no "love, Cashel", there is no "dear Grandma".
All it says on the inside of the card is this:
THE BANNANA SRGT. IS SAYING HE'S TOUGH.
Heh heh heh heh
We could not stop saying this phrase over the weekend. "Hey, listen. Don't argue. The banana sergeant is saying he's tough, and that's final."
Of course, once you read the inside, you then have to flip back and stare at the drawing again. Only then do you realize that yes, indeed, THAT is what is happening with that banana. I would not have realized that the banana was a "sergeant", but I could tell quite clearly that he was a tough-guy. The banana arms coming down, the cocky profile, the sunglasses - of course! The banana srgt. (love the abbreviation) is "saying he's tough".
WHAT?
Cashel's manners
From August 2004:
I was sitting on the dock, reading one of my toooo many books.
Jean and Cashel were in the water, Cashel had on his goggles, and Jean was lying on "the floatie".
A game began, and here is how it went:
Jean was speaking in a hoity-toity English accent, about how lovely the day was, how much she adored the blue sky, how it was almost tea-time, and Cashel would sneak up and splash her, or try to upend the floatie, causing GREAT distress in hoity-toity land.
Jean would flail about in the water, spluttering, making random exclamations: "How has this happened ... oh my GOODness ... Dear ME" as Cashel writhed about in laughter.
The game evolved. Jean became the actual QUEEN of England, and the "floatie" was actually the QEII. Because Cashel is insane, he knows what that is. "You're on an ocean liner, Auntie Jean - that's an ocean liner, okay??"
So Jean lay on the deck of the ocean liner, as Queen Elizabeth, musing about the loveliness of her hoity-toity British day, until along came ramrod Cashel, to sink the QEII.
Queen Elizabeth flailed about in the 2-foot-deep water, in her bikini, making random shocked exclamations, and at one point, Queen Elizabeth, clinging to the edge of the floatie, trying to save her own life, stated, "I deCLARE. Where are your manners???"
6 year old Cashel, enormous goggles on his small blonde head, screamed - in utter glee:
"I'M AN AMERICAN! I don't HAVE any manners!!!!"
Cashel highlights
From March, 2004:
Cashel - my dear little white-haired boy. In his cute little corduroys.
Okay, so here are some of the highlights:
-- I was up at 7 am one morning, and so was Cashel and his mother. Outside, the snow was falling. NPR was playing, coffee was brewing. I made Cashel some EXTREMELY complicated toast, made to his order. I had to "put the butter on where I can see it" (he likes the butter to be in chunks, not evenly melted) - then I had to sprinkle said butter-chunks with sugar - and then sprinkle over that a light frosting of cinnamon. Following the cinnamon, I had to spread it all out evenly, over the toast. And then after that, I had to go take a damn nap because putting together that toast-concoction under his watching eyes was far too much for me.
-- Second of all, during our 7 am morning-time together, there was some interview with Edmund Hillary on NPR, but it was basically background. Cashel and I were discussing Batman, among other things. But suddenly, we heard the words "Shackleton" come out of the radio. Cashel stopped, alert. Then he informed me bluntly, "Ernest Shackleton's boats got crushed in the ice because they were wood and they hadn't invented steel boats yet."
I hadn't yet had my first cup of joe. I struggled to deal with this. I said, trying to add my two cents, "Yeah, I've seen the pictures of the boat being crushed!"
I saw this hit Cashel, he pondered it seriously, and then stated, putting two and two together, "So cameras were invented then." As opposed to steel boats. Smarty-pants.
I said, "Yes. Cameras were invented then. But they weren't like your mom's, small enough to fit in her pocket. They were huge."
Cashel looked thoughtful. He was trying to work out, for himself, the timeline of technological innovation involved in Ernest Shackleton's failed journey. Then a look of enormous worry floated over his face, and he looked up at me, piercingly, "But nobody was on the boat when it got crushed."
"Oh no. They were all off, standing on the ice, watching."
Phew. Cashel was quite concerned about the fate of Shackleton's crew.
-- Somehow, over the weekend, I found myself describing the concept of the Big Bang to Cashel. I figure it's not too advanced for a boy who understands the innovation of steel, in terms of exploratory trips to the Antarctic.
It was so hilarious, because as I tried to describe it, I could see him just freaking out, with the awe of it all, trying to comprehend it. "And so everything in the universe, Cashel, EVERYTHING - even planets like Jupiter and everything - was all crushed together into a tiny tiny ball - about this big - " He gawked at the tiny-ness I showed him. "And even though it was so tiny, the ball was so heavy that if you dropped it, it would make a huge hole in the earth and fall right through--" Cashel BURST out laughing, in excitement, in fear. "And then - the pressure got too much in that small ball - and it EXPLODED - and in .546789234567 seconds the entire universe was created."
Cashel sat in stunned silence, contemplating this amazing thing. Then he stated in a ponderous important voice, "And that was the Dawn of Time."
-- Around the time of the Big Bang conversation - well, actually, after I described the Big Bang to him, it became a theme of the weekend. Jean and I were driving with Cashel and his friend in the backseat, and I could hear Cashel describing the Big Bang to his friend, using my exact words. It's scary, that power!! Anyway - Cashel had his own elaborations on the Big Bang theme, which he proceeded to share, eloquently, with his friend.
"And at first - everything was very bad - and going crazy - and the Old Gods were making everything go very bad - but then came the New Gods - the Titans - and they cleaned everything up - it was the Titans who came along and made the bad Old Gods go away..."
(Cashel's friend must have been like: "Is this what the whole afternoon is going to be like?")
Cashel kept going on his explanation: "Before the Titans came, everything was chouse." This was an unknown word - The "ch" was said the way you would say "checkers", and the "ouse" was said like "house". "Chouse."
Jean and I heard that word, glanced at each other, and then Jean said, "Everything was what, honey?"
Cashel said, "You know. Chouse. Like - everything is bad, and going crazy."
It dawned on us: Chaos.
The kid is reading Edith Hamilton's mythology, he is 6 years old, he saw the word "chaos", he calls it "chouse", but he knows it means when everything is going out of control.
We were pretty much blown away by that.
Jean said, "Chaos. That's how you say that word. Chaos. But you're right - it means everything going crazy and bad."
Cashel was not embarrassed at having gotten the word wrong - he immediately corrected it - saying it carefully - "Chaos. The Titans got rid of the Chaos."
HEART-CRACK.
-- We went to go see Cashel compete in something called "the Pinewood Derby". It's a Cub Scout thing. (Cashel's only a Tiger Cub, but they're still involved). I was never a Cub Scout so I have never heard of such a thing. I was stuck in Brownie purgatory, making stupid duffel bags, and grumbling about how there was no fun, no ceremony in Brownies. What the pinewood derby is is: All the little boys get these pinewood cars, they have to be 5 ounces each - you put wheels on them - you paint them however you want - and then they have a day of races.
There's almost too much to even describe in this experience. I sat in the stalls at a little grade school with my sister, Cashel's mother, Cashel's grandfather - and watched the pinewood derby. Watching Cashel in action, watching how he was socially - reveling in all of these little precious obnoxious little souls - It was potent, and a bit overwhelming.
We were all collectively nervous about Cashel's car. We don't know anything about making cars. We don't know how to paint a car, etc., but we all worked on it the night before, and I have to say - it looked pretty damn cool.
And Cashel made it to the semi-finals. The first time his car won a race, Cashel's mom shrieked out, "YEEEOWWW!!!" in an embarrassing display of partisanship which we all found totally hysterical. This was not a crowd really given to overt displays of enthusiasm.
Cashel, to be honest, couldn't really have cared less. All of the other little kids had to be CONSTANTLY reminded not to run when they were near the track. Cashel never needed the reminder. He strolled about the gym like he was John Wayne. He never hurries. It was hilarious - we were watching him saunter around like a cowboy. At one point, he seemed on the verge of getting upset, as he was walking to his place at the end of the track, and he called out, randomly, to no one in particular, "I'M SUCH A SLOW POKE!"
He walks to the beat of his own drummer.
The Cub Scout leaders KILLED ME. These men were amazing. They took their jobs seriously - but not too seriously. These grown men, in Boy Scouts uniforms, making sure everything got done, quieting everyone down with a signal (two fingers up in the air - they never called out, "QUIET" - you had to pay attention, and if you saw the signal, you had to put up YOUR fingers, until the whole room caught on, and quiet descended - I liked that, because it kept everyone on their toes. You were all a part of something, it takes cooperation to make a room of small Cub Scouts and Tiger Cubs be quiet - and they all cooperated when they saw the sign.)
Cashel lost when he got to the semi-finals. He shed some tears when he sat back down with us, tears of disappointment, but he soon rebounded. He is a brave little man.
I'm overwhelmed, at times, by his courage. He's been through so much, so much "chouse". He's a good little man.
-- Other things discussed and done over the weekend:
-- Major talks about Cro-Magnon man. Cashel informing us that "the husbands" went out and hunted the Wooly Mammoths. I loved that. "The husbands." As though there were little Cro-Magnon marriage ceremonies. Cashel is highly knowledgeable about Cro-Magnon man.
-- He discovered that I have an irrational fear of spiders. He took full advantage of it. He made a pipe-cleaner spider and kept placing it on my notebook, beside my cup, it kept turning up where I least expected it.
-- We all watched Toy Story 2 (for the 8 billionith time) and had a great time, laughing like maniacs. Mr. Potato Head was KILLING US. His wife packing his bag before they left on their journey to save Woody, she saying, "I'm going to pack your angry eyes..."
-- Jean spearheaded a project to make Mr. Potato Heads using real potatoes. A group trip to Wal-Mart ensued. Much fun was had by all.
-- We took turns reading out loud to him at night. His little giggles beside me, as I read Uncle Wiggly.
-- I love how he is still little enough to submit to sitting on our laps. He loves that. I read to him with him on my lap. I will MISS that when he gets too old!!
-- As I hugged him good-bye I said, "We're definitely coming up again!" He said, "Next weekend?" Heart-crack.
Emotional courage
From Dec. 2004
I have been the primary Lego assembler over this Christmas holiday. The house is now filled with my creations. Quite elaborate. Cashel and I have had fun putting them together.
This morning ...
... Cashel was, of course, up before any of us. He was wide-eyed and alert, playing up and down the hallway with his Luke Skywalker and Han Solo action figures, as though he had been up for hours.
I got up at the fiery crack of 10:30 am. I made some toast. I poured a cup of coffee. I got my 56 pound "Ring trilogy", and went to sit in the living room, for a glorious bacchanal of reading and caffeine. And QUIET.
On the edges of my consciousness, I became aware that Cashel was talking about taking apart one of the Lego constructions - so that he could have the fun of re-assembling it.
He was blabbing to my parents. "I think I want to take the Harry Potter room apart and then put it back together again ..."
My parents: "Good idea, Cash! Good for you!"
Cashel then said, calling out to me, as he set himself up at the dining room table, "Auntie Sheila - I'm gonna take this apart ... "
I knew he was telling me because I was "the one", in terms of Legos. Did he need my help? Did he want my aid? Was he okay?
Then Cashel said, "But I don't need your help, Auntie Sheila. Don't worry. I can do it. You can have some time alone."
You can have some time alone.
The sensitivity of that ... the selflessness of that ... to even notice that I wanted "some time alone" ... and to inform me that he could do it on his own ...
My heart literally cracked into a million pieces at his emotional courage.
And - of course - the second he said those words, I had no more desire for any "time alone" whatsoever! - I had to put my book down, put the toast down, and go and play Legos with Cashel.
I'd rather hang out with him than read about Hobbits any day.
Cashel Chomsky
Nephew Cashel bluntly told my brother Brendan (his dad), "I have informed a new language. Which is part Chinese, part French, part Italian, part English, part German, and part sign language. It's called Papahcoahlo." (Or something like that. The name of the language sounded distinctly Hawaiian, and Cashel had "informed" this language out of all other languages, including sign language.)
The thing that impressed Brendan the most was Cashel's word choice: "I have informed a new language."
Brendan's response to me about this was: "Woah. Okay, Chomsky."
One if by land
I read this piece on the radio a couple years ago.
Cashel and I colored for a while as we waited for the pizza to arrive. Cashel commanded me to draw a house. So I did. Cashel was basically the architect and the interior designer. Telling me what he wanted to see.
"Put a playroom in the attic."
"But Auntie Sheila -- where are the stairs??"
I drew the bathroom, and the mere sight of the toilet caused Cashel to dissolve into mirth. Yes. Toilets are hilarious.
I drew a spiral staircase which blew Cashel away. "That's so COOL." Then I drew the living room. I said, "I think there needs to be a picture on the wall. Or a portrait. Whose picture should be on the wall, you think?"
Cashel said bluntly, "Einstein."
Okay, then. Einstein. So I drew this little cartoon of Einstein, with the crazy hair coming up, and Cashel said seriously, with all of his knowledge, "That really looks like Einstein."
We ate our pizza together, talking about stuff. Star Wars, Ben Franklin. Cashel informed me, "Ben Franklin discovered lightning."
Cashel is a wealth of information. Randomly, he told my parents that Vincent Van Gogh never sold a painting while he was alive, but that after he died, he became famous.
I read him a story. It was from the book of "Disney stories" which I had given him for his birthday. He loves it. He pulled it out of the bookshelf, and I said, "Oh! I gave that to you!" Cashel said, a little bit annoyed, "I know that."
He had me read the story of the little mouse who hung out with Ben Franklin, and basically (in the world of Disney) was the inspiration for all of Ben Franklin's famous moments. Cashel would shoot questions at me. "Why is Ben Franklin's hair white?" "Well ... he's old now. But also, in those days, men wore powdered wigs. I think." Cashel's little serious face, listening, sponging this all up. Probably the next day he informed his friends that men in the olden days wore powdered wigs. He's that kind of listener, that kind of learner.
Then he put on his Obi Wan Kenobi costume which Grandma Peggy made him for Christmas. A long hooded brown cloak ... and he hooked his light saber into his waist, and galloped off down the hall. Making me laugh. A mini Jedi knight.
I had him pick out three stories to read before bedtime. He sat beside me, curled up into me, looking at the pictures as I read to him. The last one we read was Longfellow's poem "Paul Revere's Ride". This poem was a favorite of ours, when we were kids. My dad would read it to us, and even now, when I read the words, I hear them in my father's voice. A magical poem. Really. The way my dad read it to us (along with Longfellow's help) made us SEE it. The clock tower, the moon, the darkness ... the sense of anticipation, of secrecy, of urgency. It was thrilling. So I love that this is being passed on to Cashel! I've never read the poem outloud before ... so I had one of those strange moments of the space-time continuum bending ... me stepping into my father's shoes, Cashel 5 years old beside me, feeling the ghost of my own 5 year old self listening.
I also remember how Brendan and I used to chime in gleefully: "ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF BY SEA!" And Cashel did the same thing. I paused before that moment in the poem, glanced down at him, and he screamed it out.
There was also a subtlety of understanding in Cashel ... I read this section:
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
And Cashel exclaimed, in a sort of "Uh-oh" tone, "They're comin' by sea!!" Now the words don't actually SAY that, but he remembered the "one if by land two if by sea" signal, and puts it all together. That's my boy!
I remembered the first lines from memory:
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
Again, those are just words on the page. But to me, they are filled with the echoes of my father's voice. I have tears in my eyes.
Cashel and I, as we went through the poem, had to stop many times for discussions.
There was one illustration of all the minute-men, hiding behind the stone walls, with a troop of Redcoats marching along, walking straight into the ambush. Cashel pointed at it, and stated firmly, "That's the civil war."
"Nope. Nope. That is actually a picture from the American Revolutionary War."
Cashel pondered this. Taking it in. Then: "The minute-men were in the civil war." But less certain.
"Nope. The minute-men were soldiers in the American Revolution. Do you know why they called them that?"
"Why?"
"Cause they were just farmers, and regular people ... but they could be ready to go into battle in a minute."
Again, a long silence. As Cashel filed this away for safekeeping. He forgets nothing.
"So ... Auntie Sheila ... what is the difference between the Revolutionary War and the Civil War?"
Woah. Okay. This will be a test. How to describe all of that in 5-year-old language. I mean, frankly, Cashel is not like a five-year-old at all. But still. Everything must be boiled down into its simplest components.
"Well. America used to be a part of England, and the American Revolutionary War was when America decided that it wanted to be free ... and Americans basically told the Brits to go home." Uh-oh. Brits? This is an inflammatory term. I corrected myself. "America told Great Britain that it wanted to be its own country. And the Civil War ... " Hmmm. How to begin ... what to say ... I know it was about more than slavery, but I decided to only focus on that one aspect. Economic theory would be too abstract. "In those days, Cashel, black people were slaves. And it was very very wrong. Can you understand that?"
He nodded. His little serious face.
"And the people in the South wanted to keep their slaves, and the people in the North said to the people in the South that they had to give up their slaves because it was wrong. And they ended up going to war. And eventually all the slaves were free."
Cashel accepted this explanation silently. Then he pointed back to the Paul Revere poem. "Read." he commanded.
A Halloween photo album
Costumes through the years. This is an old post. After the enormous post about Cashel's birth, I can't get it up for anything else. I'm done with original content for a while - it takes a lot outta me.
Okay. So Halloween.
Here goes.
Here's a photo of my brother and I. I am a bunny rabbit. He, obviously, is a clown. The height of his hat is taller than his actual body. My mom made both of those costumes.
Here I am as a flapper. This is during my junior high years, my Eight is Enough pariah years. My best friend and I were obsessed with the 1920s. We loved flappers. We had seen Bugsy Malone. We were HOOKED. So we dressed up as flappers. Sadly, though, the neighborhood mothers, opening the doors to trick-or-treaters - all assumed that we were hookers. I don't know. I think it's PERFECTLY obvious that I am a flapper!!! This was my last year trick-or-treating.
Now we move on to college, when it becomes cool to dress up again. Here I am at a party with my college boyfriend. I was a blind mute French beggar. The sign around my neck says "J'ai faime!"
My boyfriend didn't wear a costume. JUST KIDDING.
He dressed up as a nerd.
Here we are at the start of the party, costumes intact, the illusion complete.
And here we are a couple hours and many beers later.
Costumes not so pristine now. I love that picture.
At that same party - my friends Jackie and Mitchell dressed up as Jackie's grandparents - who were FAMOUS to all of us. Chester and Millie. It was like one word. Chester and Millie, Chester and Millie. They died within days of one another. Truly devoted to each other. Anyway, as a tribute - Jackie and Mitchell dressed up (or should I say channeled) Millie and Chester. Here they are.
This is one of my favorite pictures of all time. Look at Mitchell's EYES! He is completely in character. I am also particularly amused by Jackie's mouth. Like: what is Millie saying to Chester? Is she calming him down? I hope so, cause he looks a little worried.
A year later, Mitchell and I joined forces and dressed up as Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick. Again, the expression on Mitchell's face in this photo KILLS me. He looks so bored, so arrogant, so OVER it.
A couple years after that - while we were living in Chicago - Mitchell and I got invited to a Halloween party. The whole Woody Allen-Soon Yi thing had just exploded, so we dressed up as Woody Allen and Mia Farrow. Please note that:
1. Mitchell is carrying Crime and Punishment
2. He is using photos of Geisha girls as a bookmark
A couple years ago, I was invited to a Halloween party where we had to dress up as someone who was actually dead. A person from history, what have you.
I am going to hell.
Here's the side view. More hellatious fires licking at my heels.
I think my favorite costume I ever came up with, though, was when I was Squeaky Fromme. I don't have any pictures of it. I was living in San Francisco at the time. But I thought that was my funnest costume ever.
The Books: "In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel
So. Now we're moving into Williams' work from the mid to late 1960s... During this time, he broke away almost completely from realistic forms, and his plays get weirder and weirder, and more abstract. The language loses its accessibility, although it still has moments of sheer poetry. He is now going inward ... He also was drinking and drugging heavily in the 60s. He lost his sharpness. Full-length works of the kind of complexity he was capable of at the beginning of the 1960s (Iguana) were no longer in his reach in the mid to late 60s. He also stopped creating memorable characters. He started describing directly his own personal experience (with aging, with art, with sex) - He had ALWAYS been a very personal playwright - but he had dressed up his personal concerns and fears and hopes with 3-dimensional vivid characters. They were STORIES. He wrote PLAYS. Not tone-poems on aging and art and gay sex. The plays in the 1960s are tone poems. They're almost never performed nowadays.
Still some lovely stuff in here, though.
In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel premiered off-Broadway in 1969. Clive Barnes, reviewer for the New York Times, had this to say:
Some psychiatrists have, I think, a treatment known as an abreaction, where the patient is encouraged to reenact his deepest fears. Some novelists have been known to write a novel about a novelist unable to write a novel. Yet such devices, while doubtless salutary in the case of the patient and at least useful in the case of the novelist, can be justified as art only by their human insights. And the actual human insights in this new play are regrettably obvious and shallow.Beyond the actual anecdote of a death in Tokyo, Mr. Williams seems to be hinting -- and usually very broadly hinting, almost nudging in fact -- at the nature of an artist. The nature indeed of himself, for the message here is surely nothing if not personal. The man and his wife are apparently the two sides of the artist. The man is the spiritual, and the woman, feckless creature, is the carnal. One is always betraying the other, until -- and this is the final fear flapping its wings at the window pane -- the spirit dies.
Luckily the spirit has not died. Mr. Williams can take heart. There are more flashes of genius here than in any of his later plays. Mixed with the feeble jokes -- such as a Japanese who comically confuses "public conveyance" with "public convenience" -- and all the hesitations of style the play is heir to, there is gold, gossamer and fire here, and there are bursting sharp exchanges of dialogue that recall "The Glass Menagerie" in their suddenly poignant pertinence.
Mark, a painter, has gone off the deep end. He is with his wife Miriam in Tokyo. He is already on the edge, from alcohol, and inner suffering. While in Tokyo, he basically feels like he discovers color. It is a painful discovery and he goes mad. He goes mad from being THE FIRST to ever TRULY discover color. He locks himself in his hotel room, spreads canvas on the floor, sprays paint at the canvases with a spray gun, and rolls around in it. He is a mess.
Miriam is a hot number, although no longer young. She sits in the bar of the Tokyo hotel, and she wants OUT. She wants out of her marriage to nutso Color Boy upstairs. She is sick of his dependence on her. She cables Leonard in New York - Leonard, who is Mark's art-dealer - to tell him that Mark has lost it - and "please come to Tokyo immediately to deal with your client, because I no longer can."
The whole thing takes place in the bar. Miriam and Mark have various scenes. She tries to tell him she's leaving him. He can't accept that. He arrives in the bar covered in paint. She is mortified. He has the shakes because of his nervous breakdown. They no longer make love. They have long conversations (arguments) about art, and painting and color ...
Then Leonard arrives. Leonard understands. Leonard understands that Mark has lost it. He tries to convince Miriam to stay with her husband ... chastising her for her abandonment. Miriam is firm. No. She is DONE.
The play ends with Mark dying.
I am going to excerpt the small last scene between Leonard and Miriam - the one that closes the play - because it has my favorite writing in the play. Barnes is right, there are sudden flashes of transcendence in Williams' writing in this play - most of the writing is hesitations, stop-starting - no finished sentences ... but then suddenly: whoosh. You hear that Williams voice.
Anyway. Here's the scene! Mark has just died. Staggered out of the hotel bar, and died.
EXCERPT FROM In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel
LEONARD. Miriam, he's.
MIRIAM. I know. -- A long ten minutes.
LEONARD. The concierge is making the. Arrangements.
MIRIAM. Released!
LEONARD. -- Yes, he's released from.
MIRIAM. I meant that I am released.
LEONARD. If that's you feeling, it's one that shouldn't be spoken even to me. -- How do you know I won't repeat what you said? We live in a gossipy world. I might, accidentally, but.
MIRIAM. I'm sure that you will repeat but it doesn't concern me aat all.
LEONARD. I think we should leave this room, and.
MIRIAM. I've never been to a mortuary and I'm not going to visit one now.
LEONARD. Let's get out of the bar and sit in the garden. The Barman hears and understands the savage things you're saying. [She lights a cigarette] Miriam.
MIRIAM. Leonard. [The wind chimes are heard] -- There's an edge, a limit to the circle of light. The circle is narrow. And protective. We have to stay inside. It's our existence and our protection. The protection of our existence. It's our home if we have one.
LEONARD. Not to be trusted always.
MIRIAM. You know and I know it's dangerous not to stay in it. There's no reason to take a voluntary step outside of the. Do you understand that? [He nods] Miriam Conley is not going to step outside the circle of light. It's dangerous, I don't dare to or care to. This well-defined circle of light is our defense against. Outside of it there's dimness that increases to darkness: never my territory. It's never been at all attractive to me. When someone at a party says, "Let's all go to the new club or something street, or even out of the country," I say, "Wonderful. Let's go." With Mark? No! Mark was bored with this party before it started. But oh I go. Do I go! The circle of light stays with me. Until. Until can be held off but not forever eluded. You've seen how fatal it is to step out of the.
LEONARD. I'm not sure I know what you mean.
MIRIAM. Animation. Liveliness. People at a smart restaurant talking gaily together. Interested in jewelry, clothes, shopping, shows. Leonard, you know it's imperative for us to stay inside of. As for the others. You know and I know incurably ill people, especially those with dreaded diseases such as. And people gone mad that need an acre of pacifying meadows, trees around them. [The tinkling chimes are heard] A few perfunctory visits is all that they can expect and all that they'll receive. Ask God if you don't believe me. It's like they'd violated a law that's.
LEONARD. Inviolable.
MIRIAM. Yes. Double yes. The circle of light won't be and can't be extended to include them. The final black needle is their visitor, Leonard.
LEONARD. Take this handkerchief and pretend to cry.
MIRIAM. I'll pretend to do nothing.
LEONARD. Let me tell you something that. When my grandmother died, after an agony of several hours, my mother called a correct undertaker, and then said to us, "She put up a good fight. Now come downstairs and I will make us some cocoa and some cinnamon toast." We were children, but even so I thought the suggestion was shockingly inappropriate to the agony and death of her mother. Completed a minute before.
MIRIAM. She was in the circle that attends us faithfully as long as our bodies don't betray us and our minds don't make excursions of a nature that's incompatible with the.
LEONARD. Well.
MIRIAM. He was removed so quickly. If I should say that the circle of light is the approving look of God it would be romantic which I refuse to be. The program for today should not be changed except for the.
LEONARD. Absence of Mark.
MIRIAM. Mark that made the mistake of deliberately moving out of the.
LEONARD. Yes, Mark's absence.
MIRIAM. Of the man who has made a crossing that neither of us but each of us. I will bow my head to the table as an appearance of being stricken with. Then when we go to the street, put your arm about me as if I were overcome with the expected emotion.
LEONARD. Have you got everything, dear?
MIRIAM. It would be strange but possible if later I discovered that I cared for him deeply in spite of. He thought that he could create his own circle of light.
LEONARD. Miriam, what are your actual plans?
MIRIAM. I have no plans. I have nowhere to go.
[With abrupt violence, she wrenches the bracelets from her arms and flings them to her feet. The stage darkens.]
CURTAIN
October 30, 2005
The day
The clock was ticking. It had been ticking for months. The anticipation was enormous. As the day approached, it was as though the upcoming event washed away all other thoughts and concerns in my mind, and in the collective mind of my whole family. We flat out could not wait. We could not talk of anything else.
The baby was coming! The baby was coming! We didn't know if it was a boy or a girl ... but we knew that it was coming, and we loved it to death already.
This is a post about what I remember about that day. And it involves the day before (it always does, doesn't it?) But it's really about that day. THE day. Certainly one of the most important days of my life, because it was the day that Cashel was born. Cashel, whose birthday is tomorrow.
I was in my third year of grad school. It was a vigorous and energetic time. I was living in Hoboken with my dear friend Jen. It was the late 1990s and my sister-in-law, the one who was carrying the most IMPORTANT BABY WHO WOULD EVER BE BORN, had gotten me a freelance gig my first year in New York, to make extra cash while I was slogging away in grad school. This was the dot com era, and there was major money to be made for doing ... basically ridiculous meaningless things. She got me a freelance gig, doing Rainman programming for AOL, and it paid 30 bucks an hour. I made friends doing that insane gig that I still have today.
Our dot com was somehow affiliated with New Line Cinema so we had our insane offices (with mannequins dressed in school girl slut clothes, and no overhead lights, and dart boards, and beanbag chairs) attached to New Line corporate. You would walk up the spiral staircase into New Line proper, and there you were surrounded by cubicles, and fluorescent lights, and white boards, and perky girls in form-fitting suits and alligator pumps. But down that spiral staircase? You were full-on in wacko dot com world. We were barely presentable. If "corporate" was coming down to visit, we'd really have to clean up the joint, and take the cigarette out of the mannequin's hand, etc., so the place would look presentable.
I used to work beside a guy named Pat, who was a surfer, a writer, a music-lover, and kind of brilliant in a very chaotic way. He was an online personality. He was born to be an online personality. He had nutso hair that was a different color each week, and he was doing literally MEANINGLESS things online on a daily basis, hosting chats, writing articles about stuff that he found interesting, and he made shitloads of money. He was a crazy Irishman. He's now married to a no-nonsense tough Irish chick who grew up with 8 older brothers. Imagine. 8 older brothers. She's hot, too. Her brothers were always beating guys up because they felt the dude had fucked with their little sister. She finally had to be like, "Guys, STOP BEATING UP MY BOYFRIENDS." hahahaha She is PERFECT for Pat, because she knows how to handle men. No gamey shit with that one. No nagging gamey shit. She's straight up cool. The two of them together are hysterical. When I knew him, though, during the dot com mania, he was single.
Pat and I were friends. We sat side by side, at our respective computers, and he would reach out with his left hand and play with my ear lobe as we worked. He never asked permission. It was just something we did.
Upstairs was corporate America. Downstairs was Pat, with jet black hair standing up straight, or blonde streaked surfer dude locks, or totally bald having shaved it all off in a drunken frenzy. Downstairs was Pat touching my ear lobe as he typed with his other hand. I never said, "Uhm ... what's up with my ear lobe?" I can't remember the first day he did it, but I didn't slap him away, and so the ear lobe play went on for months, as darts flew towards the dartboard behind our head, as people sat around us working at their computers, with huge headphones on listening to music, as people lay in the beanbag chairs eating Krispy Kremes and having "integration meetings" ... and we all were working on ... what, exactly?
None of the companies I originally worked for are in existence today. What a crazy time.
I told you this would be a post about what I remember.
When I think about "that day" - all of this stuff surrounds it. Dim lights, crazy offices, free-spirited funky dot com people, and Pat playing with my earlobe as he ran online chats. I worked 20 hours a week, I think ... taking the subway to 59th Street from my school in the Village. And I had a full course load.
I would spend my weekends out in Park Slope with my brother and his wife ... and her belly was growing ... and we would feel the baby kicking ... and the baby was so REAL to us ... I had a relationship with the baby from the moment they told us she was pregnant, of course. It was real. I didn't know who it was in there, but I couldn't WAIT to find out. But meanwhile ... during the pregnancy ... I had a huge huge love for the creature in there. I loved it so much.
The C-section was scheduled, finally, for October 31. Calendars were marked throughout the O'Malley and Sullivan family. That was THE day.
Maybe 4 or 5 days before Halloween, I was at my freelance job, getting my earlobe stroked by Pat the surfer, doing my work. hahaha I called my voice mail service on this particular day to get my messages.
And - like a bolt from the blue - I heard an all-too-familiar voice. A voice that made my heart burst out of my chest. A man I once loved. I still loved him. But it was over. We were across the country from one another. He had my number, but never called it. It was over. It was over in the biggest way possible. But there he was calling me, telling me that he would be in New York for one day only to do a show ... I could barely understand the message because I was out of my mind at the sound of his voice. The earlobe-stroking stopped as Pat looked over at me, curious as to my response. I was saying into the phone as I listened, "Oh my God. Oh my God." Surfer Pat mouthing at me, "What? Who is it?" All I heard was that HE would be in town for one day. And he was calling me to let me know that and to let me know the hotel he would be staying in. I was a wreck. I was instantly a wreck. I had to listen to the message again because I had barely understood a word. I wrote down the address of the hotel. He also gave me his itinerary, he had to be here at this time, and there at that time, he would be checking in at that time ... and his voice was so jaunty and cheerful (I am sure he knew I would freak out, but he wanted to just make it sound friendly and cheerful, and A-okay ... he was always great with me that way) ... "So ... I know you're ... like, a really busy ACTRESS and everything ..." (making fun of me) "but ... if you're around ... well ... that's where I'll be ..."
I made Pat the surfer listen to the message. He listened to it with no response, and then flatly said, "The dude's in love with you," as he turned back to his computer screen.
So.
October 30. HE would be in town on October 30.
It was so bewildering to me, so emotional, so intense ... because my main focus of that autumn had been the upcoming birth. I had not heard from HIM in months. I didn't expect to. It was over. But now ... he would be here. In only a couple of days.
I had class the morning of October 30. Classics. Shakespeare, Marlowe, yadda yadda. My outfit had been painstakingly chosen, with much help from my roommate. I wore a tight houndstooth skirt, and high brown heels - very retro - a fitted brown sweater. The outfit was very 1940s leading lady.
No man has ever had such an effect on me as this man had. Once I'm actually WITH him I am always relaxed - but the anticipation has always driven me insane. I would forget about it for a second, and then remember and feel this swooshing vertigo take over. Literally vertigo. I couldn't eat. I drank water like it was going out of style. HE was coming!
I went to my class on October 30. I had a great class. And then I walked out into the blinding autumn morning, and headed uptown to go meet him at his hotel.
I walked into the hotel lobby. It was a very chi-chi small hotel, with deathly slippery marble floors ... and I remember this perfectly; they must have been having a Halloween party in a private room or something ... because I remember I walked into the lobby, and I was having cardiac arrest ... we had no meeting place ... I didn't know where he would be, he didn't know if I would show up, I hadn't responded because he hadn't given me a phone number (and I didn't have his number, long story) ... so it was either going to happen or it wasn't ... so I walked into the lobby, and he could have been ANYWHERE ... and I remember these workmen walked by, carrying this enormous Halloween decoration ... it was so big it took 3 guys to carry it ... and it was all silvery and covered in pearls, and there were long streaming silver ribbons, and sparkley gems covering it ... It was completely psychedelic. It didn't look like a Halloween decoration at all. Random. And once the workmen passed by, there he was. He had entered the room somehow shielded by the massive pearl-encrusted extravaganza, and once it was gone - there he was. It was as though the silver-glitter thingamabob was a curtain or something - going up - signifying the start of the theatrical event that would obviously be our day together.
He saw me. I saw him. And it was as dramatic a moment as you would imagine. We were never sentimental, we were never gushy - I don't think we ever had a gushy moment together ... we're both too Irish and wise-cracky for that ... but it was full. A full moment of greeting after a long long time apart.
Within 10 minutes it was as though we had never been apart. However, everything was different now. We knew that. We didn't speak of it, we didn't have to.
He was up for anything. He had hours free until he had to his show. He said, "I kinda wanna see your school. I want to see where you spend all your time. Show me the coffee shops where you go. So I can picture it."
And so that's what we did.
I took him downtown and I "showed him my school". I took him into my classrooms, I introduced him to my acting teacher, I showed him my coffee shop ... It was ridiculous. He walked into the coffee shop which was completely generic - you would find such a coffee shop in any town anywhere ... and he walked into it, stared around him, taking it in, and then nodded, to himself. Like: "Okay. Got it." Like he had memorized it for safe keeping.
We walked and walked and walked. We talked. He made me laugh so hard I cried. Some things I won't share. They're too precious. The sun was shining, it was Indian summer, everyone was out, the NYU students, the locals ... it was a day when you suddenly were happy to be alive. It was also as though New York City put on its best outfit ... just for my guest. So he could see it in all its glory.
I remember we went to Washington Square Park. We watched the street performers. We sat on a stone bench, and soaked up the atmosphere. Time stood still with him. It stretched out. It couldn't have only been 5 hours that I was with him. That CANNOT be right.
We had no deep conversations. We didn't have to. We talked about books and music and stuff. Beautiful.
A drug dealer wearing a Rasta hat came up to us. He was stoned out of his mind and very friendly. "Smokes, smokes?" he offered.
The two of us smiled at him regretfully. "No thanks." we said together.
He shrugged, sadly, then took another look at us. He stated, "You two are in love."
We froze. Neither of us knew what to say or do. We didn't respond. We sat there, consumed with awkwardness. It was weird. He was like this wise Rasta sage who came over and spoke the SUBTEXT of what was happening. He saw it.
We both kind of awkwardly said, "Oh ... well ... you know ...."
Rasta guy said, seriously, not looking at me, but looking at my companion, "She's the only woman for you, my friend."
We both laughed (so awkwardly, though - very fake) and my friend kind of awkwardly put his arm around me. It was an act. We didn't, obviously, feel like going into our situation, and why we actually were NOT the only ones for each other ... but we kind of put on the act ... so he would go away. His arm around me was like a stiff automaton.
Rasta guy walked away, and then called back at us, "Today is a day for lovers, you know!"
And he was gone.
And my friend and I didn't speak to each other for 5 minutes after that. We ALWAYS know how to talk to each other. But suddenly, in the wake of the Rasta truth, we were awkward, quiet, and kind of ... itchy and restless ... We sat there silently, we didn't know where to look (certainly not at each other), we drank our sodas, looking around us, nibbling on pretzels ... It was a cliche. We both might as well have started whistling, staring up at the sky "nonchalantly". Suddenly, for the first time the whole day, I tried to think of something to say. We were like awkward teenagers.
The Rasta's words sort of sat there with us for a good 5 minutes until ...
"Wanna go see The Bottom Line?" I asked.
He leapt up, all excited and not awkward anymore. "Yes!!"
We walked around the city for a couple more hours. I showed him stuff. We staggered around laughing. He asked quesitons. I answered. I asked questions. He answered.
It was exquisite. I had missed him so much. I didn't realize until that gold and blue October day how much.
We said goodbye on a corner near his hotel. We were suddenly very formal with each other. We had a stiff hug (we're not huggers. We can't touch casually, AT ALL. Still can't. Even now when we see each other, we can't just have a friendly normal hug. Nope. No way. Not because of animosity but ... well, you'll just have to figure it out yourselves, people.) - "Good to see you!" "Oh, it was so great to see you in your element!" "Have a great show!" blah blah blah.
And he was off. And I was off.
I walked back to school, and it was as though I had this anvil, or anchor, suddenly pulling me down into the deep, into the cold blue deep. Literally, the second I turned away from him I could feel myself fall. And it was a far fall. My heart. My heart was heavy.
I couldn't bear it.
My love for him. My love for him was something else, I'll tell ya.
I came back to Hoboken that night ... the day before THE DAY ... and cried myself to sleep. I lay in bed, howling to the moon. How hard it was to let him go ... how much I love that man ... how much I love that man ... how much I love that man ... how hard it was to let him go ...
I was proud of myself, though, that I had kept it together during our time that day. There were no meltdowns. He didn't have any either. We kept it together. We had a nice time. We enjoyed each other's company. We kept it light. We made jokes. We laughed, we didn't ruin it. I was proud of both of us for that.
I woke up the next morning. It was THE DAY. That was all that was in my mind.
My eyes were puffed out of my head, and my heart still felt like a leaden anvil in my chest ... a sick and dead feeling in my stomach ... the whole world gone grey now that he is gone again ... and yet ... today is the day. The day I have been waiting for for NINE MONTHS.
I made my way to the crazy New Line office, with its mannequins wearing kilts and biker boots ... and the constant dart games going on ... and all the nutso talented people working there ... I sat at my computer, wearing my sunglasses INSIDE because my eyes were so messed up from crying. I had a couple of hours there before I headed down to the hospital where I would be there for the birth.
I do remember (weird what you remember) going to work that morning and looking forward to Pat playing with my earlobe. I had taken the earlobe thing for granted, it was a normal part of my everyday life (please, don't ask me why. You think Surfer Pat was crazy? I'm crazy, too.) I needed a nice tender friendly touch that day. And there he was. Why it was cool - now that I'm thinking about it - (and i have never sat down to analyze the Surfer Pat earlobe thing): it wasn't sexual. It wasn't a come-on. It started as an affectionate joke thing, and it kind of just stayed in that realm. We were buddies. He's the kind of guy I get along with really well. Big, loud, politically incorrect, funny, unselfconscious, kind of nuts, loves women, would kick the ass of ANYONE who messed with his sister or his girlfriend, goofy, not afraid to be a goofball ... He was that guy. He liked me. We made each other laugh.
So I sat there, on THE DAY, with my heart somewhere down around Houston Street, doing my Rainman programming for 30 bucks an hour, drinking up the touch of Pat's hand on my earlobe, with tears rolling down my face. Pat never mentioned the tears. He was too much of a gentleman for that.
Then.
It was time.
The moment we all had been waiting for. For nine months.
I left the office. It was 5 o'clock at night. I was kind of hysterical, truth be told. I hadn't fully segued yet. I was still crying about the man. I would stop and get out of the line of foot traffic, and just do some deep breathing, and try to calm down.
Believe it or not, I had completely forgotten it was Halloween. The REALLY important event of that day was the birth. So I emerged onto the street, and I remember watching a witch walk by me, with a tall pointed hat, and then I remember watching a guy walk by me, fully dressed as an Oompa Loompa, with bright orange face. I was so out of it, so hysterical, that I didn't know what was going on for a second. Why is there a witch on the sidewalk ... oh my God, why is there an Oompa Loompa?
I remember, too, that it was sunset, and the sky was a bright PINK. A crayola pink. With no other colors blended in, no soft wash of lavenders or lilacs ... no. Just a flat Pepto Bismol pink sky. With witches and Oompa Loompas coming at me.
Of course I remembered in a second that it was Halloween, but I didn't really get into it. I was too self-consumed, too upset. I started walking down one of the Avenues - I had time to walk - I didn't feel fit to get onto the subway. I was too hysterical. And the sky was a glaring pink, and goblins and ghouls filled the streets. It was truly fantastic. Everything was so WEIRD. NOTHING was normal. People in masks, ghosts, wizards, warlocks, vampires, Medusas ... strolling up 6th Avenue under the pink sky.
Truth be told, I kind of felt like I was losing my mind for about 20 minutes.
By the time I reached Beth Israel Hospital, the segue was finished. I was out of tragic mode, and into celebration mode. The goblins and ghouls had helped, turns out. Nothing was normal. And so it was COMPLETLEY fine that I was crying as I walked down the street. I cried as I walked. And the goblins passed me by, not noticing. I was in public. But I was totally in private.
It wasn't ALL out by the time I reached the hospital, but let's just say the first wave was out. I was completely wrung dry by the time I reached Beth Israel ... but I had no idea ... I had no idea how much feeling I would eventually have when that child arrived. I mean, I was excited, and I had SOME idea, but until it happens ... you just can't know what that joy will feel like. It's not even like joy. It's so BIG.
I made my way to the maternity ward, and ... slowly ... as I took the elevator up ... I shed the day before like an old snake skin ... I let it go ... and I accepted the day I was actually in. It was the day.
The substance of things hoped for.
My heart was no longer an anvil sitting on the corner of Houston and Sullivan Street. It pounded against my rib cage, adrenaline, impatient, excited ... It was time ... it was time ...
My parents were there in the waiting room. Maria's parents were there in the waiting room. I joined them. There were other families waiting there, too. We got very involved in their stories. We shared our stories. We waited. We paced. We talked about nothing. We made chit-chat. We were completely in the moment. ALL we were doing was WAITING.
I'm very emotional right now. Tears are in my eyes.
We loved this baby so much. We couldn't wait to meet ... him? Her?
I feel so so blessed that I was able to be there.
The other family, whose daughter had had a labor of 24 hours or something and then had to have an emergency C-section, was anxious and exhausted ... and I think it rubbed off on us. I held onto my dad's hand as we waited. The anticipation was unbelievable.
And then ...
The moment came.
Brendan, in his doctor's scrubs, came out of the delivery room wheeling a little tub ... We all LEAPT to our feet. The moment was indescribable. I can't do it justice.
In the tub ... was a small cocoon. A white cocoon of a human being. With HUGE eyeballs staring out of it. HUGE STARING EYEBALLS.
Brendan whispered, excitedly, "It's a boy!"
Oh, we had never heard such miraculous words. Never! The burst of emotion that followed ... it was operatic. I saw Maria's mother turn to Maria's father and throw her arms around him in a total abandonment of joy. My parents hugged each other, hugged my brother, hugged Maria's parents, I was hugging Brendan, with tears streaming down my face ... different tears now ... glad tears ... The joy I felt was fierce. It was a stabbing knife of life-affirming joy. The anxious family, waiting for word of their daughter, got caught up in our joy, and hugged each other, hugged us. And we all just kept peeking at the small white cocoon ... this PERSON ... this person we had all been waiting for, and loving so hard for 9 months ...
this wee still white-swaddled being with HUGE STARING EYEBALLS ...
who was now ... undeniably ...
HERE.
The Books: "The Night of the Iguana" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is The Night of the Iguana
With Night of the Iguana, produced on Broadway in 1961, Williams is back in familiar territory - after his strange departure TO THE SUBURBS the year before.
Night of the Iguana is a powerful feckin' play, and, I believe, one of Williams' best. It has a hallucinatory quality - everyone is on the edge - everyone is at the end of their ropes ... and, like all of his great plays, the setting is a character in the play. You can't imagine Streetcar
Absolutely. It is THERE.
I think this is one of his best. It's hypnotic. I've read it a gazillion times, and am always discovering new things.
I would imagine that this play is nearly impossible to do well. I've actually never seen a production of it, and I would like to - because there are so many elements in it which MUST occur - and which, to put it mildly, could drive any production designer to distraction.
A couple of the things that have to happen:
-- there needs to be a heavy rainfall, on stage. The rain has to be lit up by the moonlight so it looks like a sheer silver curtain. Good luck, production designer.
-- there has to be a live iguana on stage. It has to break free of its captors and run around the stage ... and then it has to be caught and tied up.
Not to mention the acting challenges. I think the lead male - the Reverend Shannon - has to be one of Williams' most difficult parts. I cannot imagine an actor pulling it off. There is so much going on, so many layers - and he has to be riiiiiiight on the verge of a mental crackup - on the verge but not there yet ... and he's weaning himself from alcohol, and he also is haunted by a spooky mask of death (that he calls "the spook") - he climbs into bed and it's there, he lies on the hammock and it's above him - There are so many more layers, too - and all of them have to be going on simultaneously. You can't just play "oooh, I'm haunted by the spook" on the lines where you say, "The spook is with me again". Or, you can, but that's bad acting. Shannon is haunted by the spook AT ALL TIMES ... whether he references it or not. He is shaking from withdrawal from alcohol AT ALL TIMES ... whether he discusses his "thirst" or not. It's a lot of balls to keep in the air. The Reverend Shannon is a great great character - one of Williams' best.
One of the lead females, Maxine Faulk, was played by Bette Davis in the original production - and it sounds like it was almost written for her, tailored to her natural tendencies. She has a habit of barking out a laugh at random moments: "Hah!" And listen to Tennessee's description of her: "She is a stout swarthy woman in her middle forties -- affable and rapaciously lusty ... Maxine always laughs with a harsh, loud bark, opening her mouth like a seal expecting a fish to be thrown to it". It's an amazing role for her. Would love to have seen it.
Plot:
It takes place on top of a jungle-covered mountain in Mexico. It's 1940. So World War II is going on. Maxine Faulk runs an inn on top of this mountain - with the jungle pretty much encroaching onto her property on a daily basis. Her husband died a week before the play begins. She had a deep respect for him, but they did not have a sexual relationship - and she's a lusty woman, and that didn't work for her. She goes skinny-dipping with the young Mexican boys who are her kitchen staff.
The only people staying at her inn are a group of Germans - who constantly listen to the radio, listen to the accounts of London in flames, and then cheer happily for their Fuhrer. They are meant to be psychedelic presences - they are not realistic. They troop behind in the background of other scenes, singing marching songs, all wearing bathing suits, and holding huge rubber horses - on their way down to the beach. Bizarre. Nazis on the run. They speak solely in German and occasionally you hear the words "Goering" or "Fuhrer" - Everyone else pretty much ignores them.
Reverend Shannon, someone who goes a long way back with Maxine, arrives at the top of the mountain at the very beginning of the play. He is a de-frocked priest who now runs tours through Mexico. But the company who hired him is always extremely upset with him, because instead of taking the little church groups he is in charge of to see the tourist sites - he drags them into the poverty-struck areas, makes them eat the local food, they all get dysentery ... And there is also the small problem that he has a penchant for seducing the youngest girl on every tour. He likes teenage girls. Which is, of course, why he is DE-frocked priest. There's also a little problem that he despises God. He despises God and he loves teenage girls. Not a good mix for a priest. He's also a raging alcoholic, and has had multiple nervous breakdowns. He's in the middle of one when he arrives at the top of the mountain. He and Maxine go way back ... he comes to her place whenever he needs to "relax" - which means lie in a hammock and drink rum, and have no responsibilities. Sadly, though, he is in the middle of conducting a tour - and he forces the busload of Baptist women to sit at the bottom of the mountain while he climbs up it to go see his friend. He has kept the ignition key in his pocket. He is insisting that the entire tour stay at Maxine's inn for the next couple of days. This causes a huge brou-haha - because Maxine's inn is primitive. It's not in a city. It's bug-infested. Also; the Reverend Shannon seduced the youngest girl on the tour bus, as always - a 17 year old music prodigy traveling with her stuffy Baptist music teacher. So basically Shannon is in big BIG trouble. Add on to this the fact that he is constantly haunted by a grinning face of death ... and you've got a man on the edge of an abyss.
Maxine, in her own way, has a thing for Shannon. She pretty much wants him to stay on at her inn, lie in her hammock, and fuck her. She needs sex. She knows that he is a sex-pot (although of course consumed with guilt about it ... also, she is about 25 years too old for him - but she figures that he is a desperate man, and will take what he can get). He arrives - in a state of panic and frenzy - you can hear the shouts of the pissed-off tourists at the bottom of the mountain - he's out of his mind ... Maxine just laughs her big laugh, and keeps trying to make him drink. "Have a rum coco ..." He keeps refusing.
Two other people arrive ... looking for lodgings ... a 40 year old spinster named Hannah and her ancient deathly-ill grandfather, called Nonno. The two of them are basically hustlers - with a genteel edge. They travel the world and hustle people out of their money. Hannah is a watercolorist. She will set herself up in some chi-chi restaurant, or square, or cafe - and paint people for money. And Nonno was once a minor poet 15 years before. He is now on the verge of death ... is losing his sight, can't see, is losing his memory ... and every night he dictates lines of what he says will be "his last poem" to his granddaughter. He has been working on the same poem for 15 years.
Hannah is a professional virgin. Chaste. But not innocent. She knows how to get what she needs. She knows her grandfather will never leave Maxine's mountaintop. He is going to die. She doesn't have the money to pay the bill - and Maxine is less than friendly to her - mainly because from the moment they met, Hannah and Shannon felt connected to one another. They've never met before ... but there is immediately some deep strain of sympathy between the two characters and Maxine will have NONE of that. Shannon will be HERS or NO ONE'S.
I'll excerpt the scene where Maxine pretty much lays down the law with Hannah. See if you can hear Bette Davis saying Maxine's lines. I know I can.
EXCERPT FROM The Night of the Iguana
[Maxine has pushed one of those gay little brass and glass liquor carts around the corner of the verandah. It is laden with an ice bucket, coconuts and a variety of liquors. She hums gaily to herself as she pushes the cart close to the table]
MAXINE. Cocktails, anybody?
HANNAH. No, thank you, Mrs. Faulk, I don't think we care for any.
SHANNON. People don't drink cocktails between the fish and the entree, Maxine honey.
MAXINE. Grampa needs a toddy to wake him up. Old folks need a toddy to pick 'em up. [She shouts into the old man's ear] Grampa! How about a toddy? [Her hips are thrust out at Shannon]
SHANNON. Maxine, your ass -- excuse me, Miss Jelkes -- your hips, Maxine, are too fat for this veranda.
MAXINE. Hah! Mexicans like 'em, if I can judge by the pokes and pinches I get in the busses to town. And so do the Germans. Ev'ry time I go near Herr Fahrenkopf he gives me a pinch or a goose.
SHANNON. Then go near him again for another goose.
MAXINE. Hah! I'm mixing Grampa a Manhattan with two cherries in it so he'll live through dinner.
SHANNON. Go on back to your Nazis, I'll mix the Manhattan for him. [He goes to the liquor cart]
MAXINE. [to Hannah] How about you, honey, a little soda with lime juice?
HANNAH. Nothing for me, thank you.
SHANNON. Don't make nervous people more nervous, Maxine.
MAXINE. You better let me mix that toddy for Grampa, you're making a mess of it, Shannon.
[With a snort of fury, he thrusts the liquor cart like a battering ram at her belly. Some of the bottles fall off it; she thrusts it right back at him]
HANNAH. Mrs. Faulk, Mr. Shannon, this is childish, please stop it!
[The Germans are attracted by the disturbance. They cluster around, laughing delightedly. Shannon and Maxine seize opposite ends of the rolling liquor cart and thrust it toward each other, both grinning fiercely as gladiators in mortal combat. The GHermans shriek with laughter and chatter in German]
HANNAH. Mr. Shannon, stop it! [She appeals to the Germans] Bitte! Nehmen Sie die Spirtuosen weg. Bitte, nehmen Sie die weg.
[Shannon has wrested the cart from Maxine and pushed it at the Germans. They scream delightedly. The cart crashes into the wall of the verandah. Shannon leaps down the steps and runs into the foliage. Birds scream in the rain forest. Then sudden quiet returns to the verandah as the Germans go back to their own table]
MAXINE. Crazy, black Irish Protestant son of a ... Protestant!
HANNAH. Mrs. Faulk, he's putting up a struggle not to drink.
MAXINE. Don't interfere. You're an interfering woman.
HANNAH. Mr. Shannon is dangerously ... disturbed.
MAXINE. I know how to handle him, honey -- you just met him today. Here's Grampa's Manhattan cocktail with two cherries in it.
HANNAH. Please don't call him Grampa.
MAXINE. Shannon calls him Grampa.
HANNAH. [taking the drink] He doesn't make it sound so condescending, but you do. My grandfather is a gentleman in the true sense of the word, he is a gentle man.
MAXINE. What are you?
HANNAH. I am his granddaughter.
MAXINE. Is that all you are?
HANNAH. I think it's enough to be.
MAXINE. Yeah, but you're also a deadbeat, using that dying old man for a front to get in places without the cash to pay even one day in advance. Why, you're dragging him around with you like Mexican beggars carry around a sick baby to put the touch on the tourists.
HANNAH. I told you I had no money.
MAXINE. Yes, and I told you that I was a widow -- recent. In such a financial hole they might as well have buried me with my husband.
[Shannon reappears from the jungle foliage but remains unnoticed by Hannah and Maxine]
HANNAH. [with forced calm] Tomorrow morning, at daybreak, I will go in town. I will set up my easel in the plaza and peddle my water colors and sketch tourists. I am not a weak person, my failure here isn't typical of me.
MAXINE. I'm not a weak person either.
HANNAH. No. By no means, no. Your strength is awe-inspiring.
MAXINE. You're goddam right about that, but how do you think you'll get to Acapulco without the cabfare or even the busfare there?
HANNAH. I will go on shanks' mare, Mrs. Faulk -- islanders are good walkers. And if you doubt my word for it, if you really think I came here as a deadbeat, then I will put my grandfather back in his wheelchair and push him back down this hill to the road and all the way back into town.
MAXINE. Ten miles, with a storm coming up?
HANNAH. Yes, I would -- I will. [She is dominating Maxine in this exchange. Both stand beside the table. Nonno's head is drooping back into sleep]
MAXINE. I wouldn't let you.
HANNAH. But you've made it clear that you don't want us to stay here for one night even.
MAXINE. The storm would blow that old man out of his wheelchair like a dead leaf.
HANNAH. He would prefer that to staying where he's not welcome, and I would prefer it for him, and for myself, Mrs. Faulk. [She turns to the Mexican boys] Where is his wheelchair? Where is my grandfather's wheelchair?
[This exchange has roused the old man. He struggles up from his chair, confused, strikes the floor with his cane and starts declaiming a poem]
NONNO:
Love's an old remembered son
A drunken fiddler plays,
Stumbling crazily along
Crooked sideways.
When his heart is mad with music
He will play the --
HANNAH. Nonno, not now, Nonno! He thought someone asked for a poem. [She gets him back into the chair. Hannah and Maxine are still unaware of Shannon]
MAXINE. Calm down, honey.
HANNAH. I'm perfectly calm, Mrs. Faulk.
MAXINE. I'm not. That's the trouble.
HANNAH. I understand that, Mrs. Faulk. You lost your husband just lately. I think you probably miss him more than you know.
MAXINE. No, the trouble is Shannon.
HANNAH. You mean his nervous tate and his ...?
MAXINE. No, I just mean Shannon. I want you to lay off him, honey. You're not for Shannon and Shannon isn't for you.
HANNAH. Mrs. Faulk, I'm a New England spinster who is pushing forty.
MAXINE. I got the vibrations between you -- I'm very good at catching vibrations between people -- and there sure was a vibration between you and Shannon the moment you got here. That, just that, believe me, nothing but that has made this ... misunderstanding between us. So if you just don't mess with Shannon, you and your Grampa can stay on here as long as you want to, honey.
HANNAH. Oh, Mrs. Faulk, do I look like a vamp?
MAXINE. They come in all types. I've had all types of them here.
[Shannon comes over to the table]
SHANNON. Maxine, I told you don't make nervous people more nervous, but you wouldn't listen.
MAXINE. What you need is a drink.
SHANNON. Let me decide about that.
HANNAH. Won't you sit down with us, Mr. Shannon, and eat something? Please. You'll feel better.
SHANNON. I'm not hungry right now.
HANNAH. Well, just sit down with us, won't you?
[Shannon sits down with Hannah]
MAXINE. [warningly to Hannah] O.K. O.K. ...
NONNO. [rousing a bit and mumbling] Wonderful ... wonderful place here ...
[Maxine retires from the table and wheels the liquor cart over to the German party]
SHANNON. Would you have gone through with it?
HANNAH. Haven't you ever played poker, Mr. Shannon?
SHANNON. You mean you were bluffing?
HANNAH. Let's say I was drawing to an inside straight. [The wind rises and sweeps up the hill like a great waking sigh from the ocean] It is going to storm. I hope your ladies aren't still out in that, that ... glass-bottomed boat, observing the, uh submarine ... marvels.
SHANNON. That's because you don't know these ladies. However, they're back from the boat trip. They're down at the cantina, dancing together to the jukebox and hatching new plans to get me kicked out of Blake Tours.
HANNAH. What would you do if you ...
SHANNON. Got the sack? Go back to the Church or take the long swim to China. [Hannah removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She discovers only two left in the pack and decides to save them for later. She returns the pack to her pocket] May I have one of your cigarettes, Miss Jelkes? [She offers him the pack. He takes it from her and crumples it and throws it off the verandah] Never smoke those, they're made out of tobacco from cigarette stubs that beggars pick up off sidewalks and out of gutters in Mexico City. [he produces a tin of English cigarettes] Have these -- Benson and Hedges, imported, in an airtight tin, my luxury in my life.
HANNAH. Why -- thank you, I will, since you have thrown mine away.
SHANNON. I'm going to tell you something about yourself. You are a lady, a real one and a great one.
HANNAH. What have I done to merit that compliment from you?
SHANNON. It isn't a compliment, it's just a report on what I've noticed about you at a time when it's hard for me to notice anything outside myself. You took out those Mexican cigarettes, you found you just had two left, you can't afford to buy a new pack of even that cheap brand, so you put them away for later. Right?
HANNAH. Mercilessly accurate, Mr. Shannon.
SHANNON. But when I asked you for one, you offered it to me without a sign of reluctance.
HANNAH. Aren't you making a big point out of a small matter?
SHANNON. Just the opposite, honey, I'm making a small point out of a very large matter. [Shannon has put a cigarette in his lips but has no matches. Hannah has some and she lights his cigarette for him] How'd you learn how to light a match in the wind?
HANNAH. Oh, I've learned lots of useful little things like that. I wish I'd learned some big ones.
SHANNON. Such as what?
HANNAH. How to help you, Mr. Shannon ....
SHANNON. Now I know why I came here!
HANNAH. To meet someone who can light a match in the wind?
SHANNON. [looking down at the table, his voice choking] To meet someone who wants to help me, Miss Jelkes ... [He makes a quick embarrassed turn in the chair, as if to avoid her seeing that he has tears in his eyes. She regards him steadily and tenderly, as she would her grandfather]
HANNAH. Has it been so long since anyone has wanted to help you, or have you just ...
SHANNON. Have I -- what?
HANNAH. Just been so much involved with a struggle in yourself that you haven't noticed when people have wanted to help you, the little they can? I know people torture each other many times like devils, but sometimes they do see and know each other, you know, and then, if they're decent, they do want to help eacah other all that they can. Now will you please help me? Take care of Nonno while I remove my water colors from the annex verandah because the storm is coming up by leaps and bounds now.
[He gives a quick jerky nod, dropping his face briefly into the cup of his hands. She murmurs "Thank you" and springs up, starting along the verandah. Halfway across, as the storm closes in upon the hilltop with a thunderclap and a sound of rain coming, Hannah turns to look back at the table. Shannon has risen and gone around the table to Nonno]
SHANNON. Grampa? Nonno? Let's get up before the rain hits us, Grampa.
NONNO. What? What?
[Shannon gets the old man out of his chair and shepherds him to the back of the verandah as Hannah rushes toward the annex. The Mexican boys hastily clear the table, fold it up and lean it against the wall. Shannon and Nonno turn and face toward the storm, like brave men facing a firing squad. Maxine is excitedly giving orders to the boys]
MAXINE. Pronto, pronto, muchachos! Pronto, pronto! Llevaros todas las cosas! Pronto, pronto! Recoje los platos! Apurate con elmantel!
PEDRO. Nos estamos dando prisa!
PANCHO. Que el chubasco lave los platos!
[The German party look on the storm as a Wagnerian climax. They rise from their table as the boys come to clear it, and start singing exultantly. The storm, with its white convulsions of light, is like a giant white bird attacking the hilltop of the Costa Verde. Hannah reappears with her water colors clutched at her chest]
SHANNON. Got them?
HANNAH. Yes, just in time. Here is your God, Mr. Shannon.
SHANNON. [quietly] Yes, I see him, I hear him, I know him. And if he doesn't know that I know him, let him strike me dead with a bolt of his lightning.
[He moves away from the wall to the edge of the verandah as a fine silver sheet of rain descends off the sloping roof, catching the light and dimming the figures behind it. Now everything is silver, delicately lustrous. Shannon extetnds his hands under the rainfall, turning them in it as if to cool them. Then he cups them to catch the water in his palms and bathes his forehead with it. The rainfall increases. The sound of the marimba band at the beach cantina is brought up the hill by the wind. Shannon lowers his hands from his burning forehead and stretches them out through the rain's silver sheet as if he were reaching for something outside and beyond himself. Then nothing is visible but those reaching-out hands. A pure white flash of lightning reveals Hannah and Nonno against the wall, behind Shannon, and the electric globe suspended from the roof goes out, the power extinguished by the storm. A clear shaft of light stays on Shannon's reaching out hands till the stage curtain has fallen, slowly.]
October 29, 2005
Today in history: October 29, 1929
Otherwise known as Black Tuesday.
HUGE post below the fold.
October 29, 1929, a compilation.
"Sooner or later a crash is coming, and it may be terrific."-- Roger Babson, September 5, 1929, speaking before his Annual National Business Conference
Ouch.
All speculative bubbles go through four stages, each with its own internal logic. The first stage, which is sometimes referred to as the "displacement", starts when something changes people's expectations about the future -- a shift in government policy, a discovery, a fabulous new invention. A few well-informed souls try to cash in on the displacement by investing in the new vehicle of speculation, but most investors stay on the sidelines. The early investors make extremely high returns, and this attracts the attention of others. Next comes the boom stage, when prices are rising sharply and skepticism gives way to greed. The sight of easy money being made lures people into the market, which keeps prices rising, which, in turn, attracts more investors. Eventually, those upstanding citizens who haven't joined in the festivities feel left out. Not just left out. They feel like fools. If their daughter's boyfriend, who does nothing all day but sit around and play with his computer, can make fifty thousand dollars on his America Online stock, why can't they? Boom passes into euphoria. Established rules of investing, and often more common sense, are dispensed with. Prices lose all connection with reality. Investors know this situation can't last forever, and they vie to cash in before the bubble bursts. As Charles Kindleberger, an MIT economic historian, wrote in his book Manias, Panics, and Crashes: A History of Financial Crisis, "Speculation tends to detach itself from really valuable objects and turns to delusive ones. A larger and larger group of people seeks to become rich without a real understanding of the processes involved. Not surprisingly, swindlers and catchpenny schemes flourish." Finally, inevitably, comes the bust. Sometimes there is a clear reason for the break; sometimes, the market implodes of its own accord. Either way, prices plummet, speculators and companies go bankrupt, and the economy heads into recession. A few months later, everybody looks back in amazement, asking: "How did that happen?"-- John Cassidy, "Dot.con"
Until the beginning of 1928, even a man of conservative mind could believe that the prices of common stock were catching up with the increase in corporation earnings, the prospect for further increases, the peace and tranquility of the times, and the certainty that the Administration then firmly in power in Washington would take no more than necessary of any earnings in taxes. Early in 1928, the nature of the boom changed. The mass escape into make-believe, so much a part of the true speculative orgy, started in earnest.-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash"
"There is no cause for alarm. The high tide of prosperity will continue."-- Andrew W. Mellon, late September, 1929
Some of those in positions of authority wanted the boom to continue. They were making money out of it, and they may have had an intimation of the personal disaster which awaited them when the boom came to an end. But there were also some who saw, however dimly, that a wild speculation was in progress and that something should be done. For these people, however, every proposal to act raised the same intractable problem. The consequences of successful action seemed almost as terrible as the consequences of inaction, and they could be more horrible for those who took the action.A bubble can easily be punctured. But to incise it with a needle so that it subsides gradually is a task of no small delicacy. Among those who sensed what was happening in early 1929, there was some hope but no confidence that the boom could be made to subside. The real choice was between an immediate and deliberately engineered collapse and a more serious disaster later on. Someone would certainly be blamed for the ultimate collapse when it came.
-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash
The rich man's chauffeur drove with his ears laid back to catch the news of an impending move in Bethlehem Steel; he held fifty shares himself on a twenty-point margin. The window-cleaner at the broker's office paused to watch the ticker, for he was thinking of converting his laboriously accumulated savings into a few shares of Simmons. Edwin Lefevre (an articulate reporter on the market at this time who could claim considerable personal experience) told of a broker's valet who made nearly a quarter of a million in the market, of a trained nurse who cleaned up thirty thousand following the tips given her by grateful patients; and of a Wyoming cattleman, thirty miles from the nearest railroad, who bought or sold a thousand shares a day.-- Frederick Lewis Allen, "Only Yesterday", a history of the 1920s, published in 1932
Thursday, October 24, is the first of the days which history -- such as it is on the subject -- identifies with the panic of 1929. Measured by disorder, fright, and confusion, it deserves to be so regarded. That day 12,894,650 shares changed hands, many of them at prices which shattered the dreams and the hopes of those who had owned them. Of all the mysteries of the stock exchange there is none so impenetrable as why there should be a buyer for everyone who seeks to sell. October 24, 1929, showed that what is mysterious is not inevitable. Often there were no buyers, and only after wide vertical declines could anyone be induced to bid.The panic did not last all day. It was a phenomenon of the morning hours. The market opening itself was unspectacular, and for a while prices were firm. Volume, however, was very large, and soon prices began to sag. Once again the ticker dropped behind. Prices fell further and faster, and the ticker lagged more and more. By eleven o'clock the market had degenerated into a wild, mad scramble to sell. In the crowded boardrooms across the country the ticker told of a frightful collapse. But the selected quotations coming in over the bond ticker also showed that current values went far below the ancient history of the tape. The uncertainty led more and more people to try to sell. Others, no longer able to respond to margin calls, were sold out. By eleven-thirty the market had surrendered to blind, relentless fear. This, indeed, was panic.
Outside the Exchange in Broad Street a weird roar could be heard. A crowd gathered. Police Commissioner Grover Whalen became aware that something was happening and dispatched a special police detail to Wall Street to insure the peace. More people came and waited, though apparently no one knew for what. A workman appeared atop one of the high buildings to accomplish some repairs, and the multitude assumed he was a would-be suicide and waited impatiently for him to jump. Crowds also formed around the branch offices of brokerage firms throughout the city and, indeed, throughout the country. Word of what was happening, or what was thought to be happening, was passed out by those who were within sight of the board or the Trans-Lux. An observer thought that people's expressions showed "not so much suffering as a sort of horrified incredulity." Rumor after rumor swept Wall Street and these outlyinhg wakes. Stocks were now selling for nothing. The Chicago and Buffalo Exchanges had closed.
-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash"
We were crowded in the cabin
Watching figures on the Board;
It was midnight on the ocean
And a tempest loudly roared."We are lost!" the Captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs."I've got a tip," he faltered,
"Straight by wireless from the aunt
Of a fellow who's related
To a cousin of Durant."At these awful words we shuddered,
And the stoutest bull grew sick
While the brokers cried, "More margin!"
And the ticker ceased to tick.But the captain's little daughter
Said, "I do not understand --
Isn't Morgan on the ocean
Just the same as on the land?"-- anonymous poem, published in "The Literary Digest", August 31, 1929
On Sunday [October 27] there were sermons suggesting that a certain measure of divine retribution had been visited on the Republic and that it had not been entirely unmerited. People had lost sight of spiritual values in their single-minded pursuit of riches. Now they had had their lesson.Almost everyone believed that the heavenly knuckle-rapping was over and that speculation could be now resumed in earnest. The papers were full of the prospects for next week's market.
Stocks, it was agreed, were again cheap and accordingly there would be a heavy rush to buy. Numerous stories from brokerage houses, some of them possibly inspired, told of a fabulous volume of buying orders which was piling up in anticipation of the opening of the market. In a concerted advertising campaign in Monday's papers, stock market firms urged the wisdom of picking up these bargains promptly. "We believe," said one house, "that the investor who purchases securities at this time with the discrimination that is always a condition of prudent investing, may do so with utmost confidence." On Monday the real disaster began.
-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash"
On September 3, 1929, by common consent, the great bull market of the nineteen twenties came to an end. Economics, as always, vouchsafes us few dramatic turning points. Its events are invariably fuzzy or even indeterminate. On some days that followed -- a few only -- some averages were actually higher. However, never again did the market manifest its old confidence. The later peaks were not peaks but brief interruptions of a downward trend.-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash"
The singular feature of the great crash of 1929 was that the worst continued to worsen. What looked one day like the end proved on the next day to have been only the beginning. Nothing could have been more ingeniously designed to maximize the suffering, and also to insure that as few as possible escaped the common misfortune. The fortunate speculator who had funds to answer the first margin call presently got another and equally urgent one, and if he met that there would still be another. In the end all the money he had was extracted from him and lost ...The Coolidge bull market was a remarkable phenomenon. The ruthlessness of its liquidation was, in its own way, equally remarkable.
-- John Kenneth Galbraith, "The Great Crash"
Transcript from Senate Hearings, April - June, 1932:Senator Couzens: Did Goldman, Sachs and Company organize the Goldman Sachs Trading Corporation?
Mr. Sachs: Yes, sir.
Senator Couzens: And it sold its stock to the public?
Mr. Sachs: A portion of it. The firm invested originally in 10 per cent of the entire issue for the sum of $10,000,000.
Senator Couzens: And the other 90 percent was sold to the public?
Mr. Sachs: Yes, sir.
Senator Couzens: At what price?
Mr. Sachs: 104. That is the old stock ... the stock was split two for one.
Senator Couzens: And what is the price of the stock now?
Mr. Sachs: Approximately 13/4.
Until 1928, stock exchange prices had merely kept pace with actual industrial performance. From the beginning of 1928 the element of unreality, of fantasy indeed, began to grow. As Bagehot put it, "People are most credulous when they are most happy." People bought and sold in blissful ignorance. In 1927 the number of shares changing hands, at 567,990,875, broke all records. The figure then rose to 920,550,032.Two new and sinister elements emerged: a vast increase in margin-trading and a rash of hastily cobbled-together investment trusts. Traditionally, stocks were valued at about ten times earnings. During the boom, as prices of stocks rose, divident yields fell. With high margin-trading, earnings on shares (or dividend yields), running at only 1 or 2 percent, were far less than the interest of 8-12 percent on loans used to buy them. This meant that any profits were on capital gains alone. Over the past 125 years of American history, divident yields have averaged 4.5 percent. The figures show that, whenever the divident yield sinks to as low as 2 percent, a crack in the market and a subsequent slump is on the way. That had been true of the last two bear markets before 1929 came, and investors or market analysts who studied historical performance, the only sure guide to prudence, should have spotted this. There were indeed some glaring warnings. Radio Corporation of America, which had never paid a divident at all, and whose earnings on shares were thus zero, nonetheless rose from 85 to 420 points in 1928. That was pure speculation, calculated on the assumption that capital gains would continue to be made indefinitely, a manifest absurdity. By 1929 some stocks were selling at fifty times earnings. As one expert put it, "The Market was discounting not merely the future but the hereafter."
-- Paul Johnson, "A History of the American People"
Among the speculators' favorites during the 1920s were issues like Wright Aeronautics, Boeing, and, especially, Radio Company of America (or Radio, as it was then known), which was the most glamorous and fastest-growing corporation of the 1920s. Commercial radio was a revolutionary medium that shrunk the country like nothing before it, and Radio was the major player in the industry; it both manufactured radio sets and provided the programming they transmitted. In 1921 it's stock hit a low of 11/2. Thereafter, it climbed steadily until 1927, when it headed for the stratosphere. In April 1929, Radio hit a high, after adjusting for stock splits, of 570. During the stunning ascent, old-timers shook their heads in disbelief. Despite its rapid growth, Radio had never paid a cent in dividents, and many of its shareholders were professional gamblers. In October 1929, the stock lost 75 percent of its value. It recovered a bit during 1930, but then collapsed again, and remained collapsed for the rest of the decade. Despite the strong growth of commercial radio, RCA's stock didn't recover its April 1929 level until 1964 -- thirty-five years later.-- John Cassidy, "Dot.Con"
On Monday, October 21, for the first time, the ticker-tape could not keep pace with the news of falls and never caught up. In the confusion the panic intensified (the first margin calls had gone out on the Saturday before) and speculators began to realize they might lose their savings and even their homes. On Thursday, October 24 shares dropped vertically with no one buying, speculators were sold out as they failed to respond to margin calls, crowds gathered on Broad Street outside the New York Stock Exchange, and by the end of the day eleven men well known in Wall Street had committed suicide. Next week came Black Tuesday, the 29th, and the first selling of sound stocks in order to provide desperately needed liquidity.Business downturns serve essential purposes. They have to be sharp. But they need not be long because they are self-adjusting. All they require on the part of governments, the business community, and the public is patience. The 1920 recession had adjusted itself, helped by Harding's government cuts, in less than a year. There was no reason why the 1929 fall should have taken longer, for the American economy was fundamentally sound, as Coolidge had said. On November 13, at the end of the immediate four-week panic, the index was at 224, down from its peak at 452. There was nothing wrong in that. It had been only 245 in December 1928 after a year of steep rises. The panic merely knocked out the speculative element, leaving sound stock at about their right value in relation to earnings. If the recession had been allowed to adjust itself, as it would have done by the end of 1930 on any earlier analogy, confidence would have returned and the world slump need not have occurred. Instead the market went on down, slowly but inexorably, ceasing to reflect economic realities -- its true function -- and instead became an engine of doom, carrying into the pit the entire nation and, with it, the world.
-- Paul Johnson, "A History of the American People"
So long sad times
Go long bad times
We are rid of you at last
Howdy gay times
Cloudy gray times
You are now a thing of the pastHappy days are here again
The skies above are clear again
So let's sing a song of cheer again
Happy days are here againAltogether shout it now
There's no one
Who can doubt it now
So let's tell the world about it now
Happy days are here againYour cares and troubles are gone
There'll be no more from now on
From now on ...Happy days are here again
The skies above are clear again
So, Let's sing a song of cheer againHappy times
Happy nights
Happy days
Are here again!-- recorded in late 1929 - it became the #1 hit of 1930. In the new context of 1930 the song lyrics DRIP with sarcasm.
Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (9)
fight call
So every night before our rehearsal, we have what is known as a 'fight call'. Where the actors run through all the fights in the play - but not with any acting, or anything - they just run through the fully choreographed moves. Like it's a dance. Or a tricky trapeze maneuver. Our fight choreographer is incredible. He's also doing The Color Purple right now - which is about to open on Broadway - so he is one busy busy man. We had one rehearsal devoted to the fights. Just move to move to move ... He showed up with everything plotted out, based on his multiple readings of the script, nothing done on the fly here, he had it all written out on a piece of paper, who does what, who goes where, and each move was numbered. So when they would go back to run stuff again, he refers to the number: "We need to run 3 again - that punch was a little sloppy ..." And everyone moves back into position, as if on rewind. It's FASCINATING. The fights need to be choreographed so specifically so that no one gets hurt, obviously. And you have to run the fights a ton of times with NO ACTING - because when you start acting - you start to have emotions - of rage, and fear - an adrenaline rush - and that can make you more sloppy when executing the moves. You have to run it plainly, and with no emotion - as though it were a dance move you were practicing. You have to be able to eventually have the rage that you would have - in the middle of a fight - but still be able to go from number to number to number through the choreography. That takes a lot of practice. If you get a bit sloppy and grab someone by the shoulders as opposed to by the biceps - that could mess everything up. People could get hurt. If your timing is off, and you are one foot to the left of where you are supposed to be ... then the sequencing and placement is off ... and someone eventually could get hurt. Fights (on stage) need to be CLEAN. But they need to LOOK messy. It's a bit different in films. Fights need to actually be realler in films, because of the medium. Also - because you have multiple takes - you can work it out and then just go for it - once - full-out - and then you're done with it. But on stage, if you have a long run - you have to be able to run the damn thing over and over, ad nauseum, you have to be a bit more calculated. It's fascinating to watch actors work on this, and it's fascinating to watch our wonderful choreographer coach them through it. (I'm not in any of the fights - but I still show up for fight call, because I love to watch it.) And now - the fights are starting to come alive. They are able to do them "at speed". During the fight call, they are not run "at speed", which means - as fast as it will happen during the performance. It can't look like fight choreography, it has to look real. We've all seen shows where the fights look embarrassing, and fake. But for fight call, they are slowed down - and the actors "mark it" - meaning they go through the choreography from number to number to number, with no acting. Just the fight moves. One of the actors in the show has been chosen as "fight captain" - because our fight choreographer will obviously not be there throughout our run, and we have to have a fight call before every performance. Things inevitably get sloppy during the run of a play ... and with fights, you need to keep them crisp, and specific. So someone needs to keep an eye on the fights - and our fight captain was coached by the fight choreographer in how to look for certain things, what to keep his eye on ...
And then, during our run-thrus, of course, the fights are run "at speed". They are no longer isolated pieces of choreography - they are a part of the plot. They happen within the context of the play. There is acting going on. People are attacking one another. Punches flown, people choking each other, what have you. And now, they're saying their lines as well, they're not just doing choreography - they're pursuing their objectives, and playing the scene. What is thrilling is that you can STILL see them going from number to number to number through the choreography - but because they have worked it so hard in isolation, worked each move so specifically, and so repeatedly - you no longer can see the specific numbers of the choreography moves standing out. The fights flow together.
And this is a credit to our fight choreographer. The fights look REAL.
There's one moment where one of the actors picks up an actress - who has been struggling with him - and he scoops her up in his arms and drags her struggling towards the car. She is flailing about, fighting back at him, and he is being a caveman, basically, dragging her off. Last night I got goose bumps watching it. Because I could see that they were being faithful to the choreography - there was NOTHING in their movements that was spontaneous. But it LOOKED spontaneous.
Fantastic.
A bold statement
I think that Barbara Stanwyck is the best American actress we have ever had.
Hands down.
Her work is uniformly exquisite. It gets me right in the throat. It's complex, layered, powerful, funny, trampy, heartfelt, and ultimately TOTALLY mysterious ... You never get to the bottom of her. She never gives it all away. She holds something back. She holds THE thing back, whatever it is. And it is that one held-back thing, never defined, never spoken, never pinned down, that makes a truly great enduring actress.
She has no equal.
October 28, 2005
Today in history: October 28, 1886
The Statue of Liberty was unveiled to the public.
A description of that day from Writers Almanac:
The day of the dedication was cold and rainy, but huge crowds came out for the celebration anyway. The hotels were full throughout New York City, and many of the tourists who arrived for the occasion were French. The sculptor Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi was alone in the statue's crown, waiting for the signal to drop the veil. A boy down below was supposed to wave a white handkerchief at the end of the big speech. The boy accidentally waved his handkerchief before the speech was over and Bartholdi let the curtain drop, revealing the huge copper lady. A salvo of gunshots rang out from all the ships in the harbor. The speaker, who had been boring everybody, just sat down.
Happy birthday, O Lady of the Harbor!
[picture taken from the observation deck of the World Trade Center]
Yeah. Riiiiiiiight. Okay.
Alex has had the nerve to say to me on occasion: "I'm not really a writer."
Genius
I mean ... the images that those words call up ... it is so spot ON!
Diary Friday
I hesitate to even post this in its entirety because ... I read it and literally cringed with embarrassment. Especially the whole last section. hahahaha HOWEVER. It is cathartic, I find, to post this stuff ... and it seems like other people get a lot out of my - uhm - self-exposure. People can say, "Oh my God, I see myself in that ..." or "I felt that way too!" So I will take the fall for the rest of you, how's that??
Okay, so this is from my junior year in high school. (Diary Friday archive here)
Try to follow the roller coaster of moods. It's dizzying.
COLUMBUS DAY - No school
I'm starting to perk up. I mean, it really is up to me, you know. I got up at 9 today, took a shower, dressed in my new sweats and sweatshirt and came up to my room and did aerobics. [You took a shower first?? Okay, so there's your problem right there ...] It sort of gets the blood going - instead of curling up in a corner by the window and just looking out at the sky. [I honestly don't remember ever "curling up in a corner by the window and just looking out at the sky". Methinks I was exaggerating for effect.] That's my major problem. I let myself get so so so so depressed and I wallow in it. I mean, I don't enjoy it but I don't do anything to get out of it. Why am I like this? Does Cris D. ever get depressed?? [This is hysterical, in retrospect. My friends will know why. "Cris D" comes up a lot in these journals. She was the goddess of the high school, and actually a friend of mine because we both were in the Drama Club.]
All in all, I'm feeling pretty good. On Saturday I met Beth at Kingston Pizza. We ate and talked. She passed a few compliments on to me, from others - and it made me feel good. She's good that way. Like Cindy C. - this girl on my bus - I really like her - I don't think I could ever be her best friend, but we sit together on the way home and talk about General Hospital and boys. I used to not tell her anything because I was afraid she had an enormous gossipy mouth. I like her - and I don't think she blabs. We were talking about the Sadie Hawkins dance and she asked me if I was asking anyone. (Cindy always has a boyfriend.) And I said, "Nope. I've asked guys for 2 years in a row and they always say No. So no, thank you!" She leaned toward me. "Who'd you ask?" I murmured, "Oh ... Toby Kimball ..." [HAHAHAHA That name!! I had completely forgotten about him until this very moment and I have no memory of asking him to the Sadie Hawkins dance.] "and last year I asked ..." (with a roll of the eyes) "JW." And she gave me this scorning look and said, "Well ... John ... I mean ... Don't worry about him. He's too stuck on himself for anyone else." Which is more or less true. [I love how Cindy was like this wise-talking woman of the world at ... what ... 15?] She was a very comforting sort of person. I mean, I doubt that she has ever spent a Saturday night at home, by herself, like I do, but she doesn't automatically suspect that a guy could never like me like other people do. She didn't think it was out of the question that a guy could say Yes to me. She got frustrated - said, "Sheila, if you ask someone, they'll say yes! Of course they will!" I said, "Cindy, no. I have been rejected twice now. I won't do it again. You ... sorry, Cindy, but it seems like you've never been rejected." She bolted up, her eyes wide. She shouted at me: "SHEILA! That's NOT true! I've been turned down! Believe me! Like the time when ---" Long pause. "Wait a minute. Maybe I haven't been." I burst out laughing. So did she when she realized what she sounded like.
We've got really nice popular kids at our school. Like Erin F., class officer. On the field trip, MW (really unpopular kid, computer whiz) sat alone at McDonalds - and I remember watching Erin leaving all her popular friends to sit with him. And it wasn't like she was making fun of him. She was sincere. [I saw Erin at my high school reunion and we talked about how much we wished MW had come. They were friends - she thought he was one of the coolest kids in our school. And I'm telling you: the abuse that that kid took in junior high was shattering. I saw it. People were merciless to him. Merciless. Awful.]
So anyway, back to me and Beth. Bet said that Cindy said to her, "Sheila O'Malley is the most huggable person in SK." That is so nice. She was a really comfy person to confide in.
The cast list is going up tomorrow. Oh, I hope Mere gets in ! [Mere, sorry to bring up the disappointing memory of the show that never was ...] That would be SO COOL to see her as THE LEAD in the school play! Of course I hope I get in too - but it would be a dream come true if we both got in together. [Actually, the words "dream come true" has FOUR underlines beneath it. I just am unable to get that effect with my computer. ]
I am not going to think about J "The Truck" W [apparently, this JW person had a nickname of "The Truck".] Did you know he hasn't been asked to the Sadies yet? I am never going to ask anyone to that stupid dance ever again. [And I didn't. I'm no fool.] You know, I honestly wonder: God, why do you give some people popularity, boyfriends, and leave other people nothing? I mean, maybe there is a time for everything - to be born, to plant, to harvest, to sacrifice, to die - [I am LAUGHING OUT LOUD right now. "To plant"??? "To harvest"??? Harvest what? You don't live in an agrarian society, Sheila ... what the hell are you talking about? Also: "to sacrifice", "to die"???? WHAT? How about "there is a time for happiness, for celebration, to get married ..." No. In my world view, you are born, you plant, you then harvest, you sacrifice, and then you die. JESUS. No wonder I got depressed.] When will my time come???? I have waited a long time. I am almost 16. [hahahaha. Little did I know that I would still be waiting 20 years later. Uh-oh. Now I really am depressed.] I have no experience. I have never been on a date. No one has ever looked at me, and decided to go after me, pursue me. No one has ever "liked" me in that way. Kate says, "Sheila, think of all the guys that you have liked and they never knew. For as many times you've done that, there's a shy guy out there who has liked you but hasn't told you." I don't think it's totally the problem of the guys - I mean, it CAN'T be just them! What am I doing wrong?? What is it about me? I think about JW a lot - and how much I felt for him. Maybe - this is a huge maybe cause I've never even talked to the bum - but maybe JW somehow knew how MUCH I really felt and that sort of scared him. [I really don't think that was it, sweetheart, sorry to say. What it really was was that he literally did not know who you were.]
I'm just trying to make sense of this whole she-bang. Cause I can't figure it out! It's sort of scary. I mean, if anything had happened between JW and me - if he had said yes or whatever - I feel like I would have done anything! At the time I honestly didn't know where I was because I liked him so massively. But I can't figure him out. I want to know: what am I doing wrong? Honestly! I mean, I'm not doing ANYTHING. Maybe that's my trouble.
God, I get so frustrated sometimes!
2:35 It is freezing today and really windy. The air is crisp and cold. I spent the afternoon curled up on the couch ["just looking at the sky??"] with a glass of Coke and Wrinkle in Time. [Okay, that makes me want to cry. My love for that book will never die.]
I feel sick to my stomach whenever I think about the cast list. I'm not gonna get in. I KNOW IT!
3:15 - Here's my French composition. I got an A! [I copied it as best I could - My handwriting is so damn teeny that I cannot tell what word is what at times. I could kind of make sense of the story told in the composition - and I actually remember that night very well!]
J'aime mes amies. Quand je suis avec mes amies, je m'amuse merveilleusement toujours. Je me souvienes d'une belle nuit en hiver quand Jayne W, Meredith W et Dolores T sont venues chez moi pour aller au Edwards Cinema avec moi pour voir Les Raideurs d'Arche Perdu. [HAHAHAHAHAHA] La route au cinema était fantastique - rirant, parlant, et glissant sur la rue glaciale. Nous sommes allées au Tarte Italienne de Kingston. Nous avons mangé trop de tarte Italienne! Quand nous sommes allées au cinema. Les couleurs du ciel etaient du la rose et du la lavende. Le clair de lune et incelait sur la neige. Il existe le sentiment spécial entre nous. Jayne et moi adorons Harrison Ford mais Mere et Dolores ne l'aimons pas, donc, pendant le filme entire, pendant que Jayne et moi nous nous evanouions. Mere et Dolores nous ont ris. Après le filme, nous avons attendu mes parents. Il a beaucoup neige et naturallement nous avons commencé une grande bataille criant de neige. Mon frère Brendan et son ami Brian nous ont joint. Nos habits sont devenues trempès. Quel combat hysterique!
I smell the popcorn downstairs. Bye.
DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN BY ROLLER COASTER EMOTIONS? I HONESTLY DON'T KNOW HOW MY BRAIN WORKS! I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH MY STUPID SELF!
6:25 Just had a great conversation with JL. How comforting to talk to someone who feels the way I do. We talked the entire time about sex. We laughed about how, while working in the library [we were both "pages" at the local public library] we would sneak back to peek at The Joy of Sex. We talked for so long about our fears, and our hopes. I'm a fish out of water. I swear, until I looked at that book - I thought sex was simple and beautiful - but they've got all these positions - and they tell you what to wear - It makes me feel like a real prude, but I really don't think I am! I think that the people who wrote that book are weirdos. [hahahahaha Funny how tame that book seems now. It's the tamest sex book in the world, frankly.] But what if they aren't the weirdos? What if they represent the whole population? How can people have been doing that for so long and I've never known? J and I were talking about our wedding night. I mean, if sex is that, and if my husband looks like that bearded ikky man in Joy of Sex - then I will not ever be able to concentrate on the walk down the aisle. I will be thinking: "Oh God, dear God, please help me through tonight!" I don't want my wedding night to be humiliating. That doesn't seem like a good start to marriage. [Strange that I would choose to post this today - in light of the Tennessee Williams excerpt below.] I want my future husband to be a virgin too. I don't want it to be like I'm just learning from him because that would be just Ew. J and I were laughing about that so hard! "Wait a minute here! Where did all your experience come from! I want their phone numbers, eye color, vital statistics!" Seriously, though, I get really scared. I mean - birth control? I don't know anything. I don't know anything about anything. That's one good thing about maybe having sex before the wedding night. Then there wouldn't be so much pressure. Sex just seems kind of massive to me. I've read articles where it says - wait a minute - let me find the article. OK: "Sexual sharing between two people who care about each other, who know their bodies and how to give and receive sexual pleasure, generally n eeds no chemical enhancement." "When you choose freely and responsibly to share sexually with another, you will not need chemicals to enhance your pleasure and joy." [Okay, again, I am laughing out loud. What the hell kind of article was I reading?? "How to wean yourself off of heroin and have an intimate relationship"? What the HELL is going on with the "chemical" talk? How would that have been relevant to a 16 year old virgin person? hahahahahaha] "A virginal female who has been sufficiently aroused, physically and emotionally, generally offers no great physical or nervous resistance." Hmmmm. We'll see about that. I know I want it to be on my wedding night. I want it to be special. I mean, I watch Hill Street Blues - in every episode there's a sex scene between Furillo and Joyce Davenport - and they finally get married - but whatever. Their wedding night after all that sex must have been like - nothing! They've been doing it for 3 years already! [Furillo and Joyce Davenport. Man. What a blast from the past]
Where is my future man right now? What is he like? What does he think about?
I swear, I have a huge problem. I NEVER stop thinking about boys.
Cast list up tomorrow.
[hahahaha "I never stop thinking about boys. Cast list up tomorrow." Uhm, Sheila ... does the cast list have anything to do with boys? No. So ... you actually DO think about other things. Anyway - that's the end of the roller coaster ride! That's a doozy of a journal entry. Hope you enjoyed it.]
The Books: "Period of Adjustment" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is The Period of Adjustment
This play was produced in 1960 - and it was directed by the legendary producer from the Group Theatre - Cheryl Crawford. I feel disloyal saying this - but I'm not wacky about this play. I wonder if he needed a hit at this point in his life. I wonder if he was going for a commercial success. That's what it feels like, to me, a bit - and it doesn't work. Williams has to write for himself, write out of himself - or it seems hollow. I feel strange, like I'm one of the critics saying to him, "Why don't you write another Streetcar??" but that's not what I mean at all. I love his later experimental work, I love his forays into non-realistic settings ... But Period of Adjustment is none of that. It's a realistic two-act "serious comedy" - and it just seems like Williams was trying to please middle America. Or the Broadway audiences. He was looking to have broad appeal.
Does not work for an artist like him to care about that stuff. If you care about stuff like "middle America" (what the hell is that, anyway? It's kind of a myth - but let's just call it: broad appeal, mass appeal) then plays like Streetcar
Tennessee Williams was an outcast. He described himself that way, and uses that word quite pointedly in many of his plays. He chose to live that way. He chose to, and he had to. He was gay, he was an artist. He could have hidden his gayness, he could have given up the art and been a steno clerk. He didn't. He went the other way. His sympathy is NOT with the "everyman". His sympathy is always with those on the fringe. Those on the edge. Those about to fall off the edge. Etc. His sensibility lies THERE, in flop-houses, and casinos, and 2-dollar hotels. Those are the people that make him come alive - as a playwright.
Period of Adjustment takes place in a suburb. A SUBURB. This is the only Williams play that takes place in a middle-class suburb, and it just doesn't really ... It's not that it doesn't work. There are truly beautiful moments in this play, and a couple of really great characters created. It's just that that kind of locale does not set Williams' imagination and creativity free. He's a deep-South rural or small-town playwright. Nature is ever-present in all of his plays. It's almost another character - the heat, the mugginess, the sounds of the country night, the sunset ... He puts all of these things into all of his plays. It's part of the atmosphere, part of what lets the audience into the world of the play.
Anyhoo. Period of Adjustment stands out so clearly from all the rest of his plays - and I do wonder at why he wrote it. It doesn't FEEL like a Williams play, except for a few of the themes explored (men and women trying to connect, and sex - a "frigid" woman on the verge of sexual hysteria, etc. Those are classic Williams calling-cards, but the rest?
Stuff that doesn't "feel" like Williams:
-- It takes place in a suburb.
-- Two of the main characters are veterans from the Korean War - and they talk about it all the time. This wasn't Williams' real style. He wasn't Odets. He wasn't Miller. He wasn't writing about "the issues of the day". At least not so directly.
-- THERE IS A TELEVISION in the house where the play takes place. Hahahaha Man, just goes to show you how much the world had changed. The television plays a pretty big part in the whole play, it's turned on occasionally, you can hear the dialogue of whatever show is on ... There's a fascination with the television, and also there's an attempt to look at the symbolic ramifications of "a television in every household". What will that mean?? But still: imagine Stella and Stanley sitting down to watch TV. I mean ... I guess they WOULD ... but still, it's hard to imagine. They don't do that. They are from another universe - the universe of the FIRST half of the 20th century. No TVs there. At night Stanley plays poker, or he takes Stella bowling. Or they have sex. They don't sit around and watch TV. But ANYWAY: in the house in Period of Adjustment, there is a television.
You can tell that, with these three elements (suburb, Korean war, television) - Williams is grappling with some new concepts, grappling with the new American culture - the 1950s American culture. Again, he's an outcast. That culture wanted no part of him. That culture STILL wants no part of outcasts. But because he's an outcast, he can't really get inside the world of the suburb, the two-car garage, the neat little mini-bar, and etc. etc. This is just my judgment. Tennessee Williams remains outside this play. He can't "get in" there. He couldn't in real life, and he can't in his art.
The plot is creaky and mechanical - the symbolism overdone. Isabel and George are newlyweds. They show up on Ralph's doorstep on Christmas Eve - the day after they got married. Ralph and George are old war buddies from Korea. Ralph's wife actually just left him - and she took their son with her. Ralph is perturbed because his wife apparently has turned their son into a "sissy". This embarrasses him. (Another Williams calling card). Ralph and his wife's marriage was going down the toilet. Ralph had basically married her because her father was going to set him up in business- which he did. Ralph was never really attracted to his wife - so their sex life was no great shakes, either - although his wife, a homely woman, apparently LOVED sex. She just "took to it". hahaha Ralph has done well for himself. Except for the fact that he lives in a house which is built over a hollow cavern in the earth, and every year the ground sinks about a foot. (Uhm - symbolism alert!!) So throughout the play, occasionally you hear this deep earth rumble - and a picture will fall off the wall - or the glasses will shake ... This is the house sinking. George and Isabel have not gotten off to a ringing start. As a matter of fact, George basically dumps Isabel on Ralph's doorstep (she has never met Ralph) - and drives off into the night. For a drink? To abandon her? We don't know why. Isabel is a wreck. She and George had a disastrous wedding night. She is a virgin, and her father made her so terrified of the opposite sex that she was completely unprepared for that side of marriage - even though she was a nurse, and she also loves George. And George, on the wedding night, instead of being patient with her, tried to just "take her" - and she flipped OUT. So now they have arrived in a full-blown crisis on Ralph's doorstep. It is Xmas Eve. Ralph's wife has just walked out on him. By the end of the play, though - Ralph's wife has come back. The two of them circle each other like old war horses, and realize that there is a lot of affection between the two of them. He actually loves her. And Isabel and George work it out. Happy ending!! What? In a Williams play? Where am I?
Ralph, I do have to say, after all my bitching about this play, is a lovely character. He's kind of coarse, but what you really get from him is that he is a realistic man, and he is someone you would feel COMPLETELY comfortable going to with your problems. You could even cry on his shoulder. He would make you feel better. He would get you laughing. He would fix you a drink, keep things light ... and let you be in the crisis the whole time.
So I'll excerpt a bit from the first scene - which is Isabel being dropped off at Ralph's house ... without her husband ... not knowing Ralph at all ... and Ralph trying to make her feel welcome, comfortable, all that ... until he finally realizes that Isabel is in the middle of some kind of a meltdown. There's a couple of LOVELY moments when the two of them connect ... they're my favorite moments in the play. Look for the one in the following scene where she confesses to him why she became a nurse - her fantasies about being a Florence Nightingale ... watch how he not only "gets it" - but joins in the fantasy with her. It's a beautiful moment - warm and human.
EXCERPT FROM The Period of Adjustment
ISABEL. My philosophy professor at the Baptist college I went to, he said one day, "We are all of us born, live and die in the shadow of a giant question mark that refers to three questions: Where do we come from? Why? And where, oh where, are we going?
RALPH. When did you say you got married?
ISABEl. Yesterday. Yesterday morning.
RALPH. That lately? Well, he'll be back before you say -- Joe Blow.
[He appreciates her neat figure again]
ISABEL. What?
RALPH. Nothing.
ISABEL. Well!
RALPH. D'you like Christmas music?
ISABEL. Everything but "White Christmas".
[As she extends her palms to the imaginary fireplace, Ralph is standing a little behind her, still looking her up and down with solemn appreciation]
RALPH. Aw, y'don't like "White Christmas"?
ISABEL. The radio in that car is practically the only thing in it that works! We had it on all the time. [She gives a tired laugh] Conversation was impossible, even if there had been a desire to talk! It kept playing "White Christmas" because it was snowing I guess all the way down here, yesterday and -- today ...
RALPH. A radio in a funeral limosine?
ISABEL. I guess they just played it on the way back from the graveyard. Anyway, once I reached over and turned the volume down. He didn't say anyting, he just reached over and turned the volume back up. Isn't it funny how a little thing like that can be so insulting to you? Then I started crying and still haven't stopped! I pretended to be looking out the car window till it got dark.
RALPH. You're just going through a little period of adjustment to each other.
ISABEL. What do you do with a bride left on your doorstep, Mr. Bates?
RALPH. Well, I, ha ha! -- never had that experience!
ISABEL. Before? Well, now you're faced with it, I hope you know how to handle it. You know why I know he's left me? He only took in my bags, he left his own in the car, he brought in all of mine except my little blue zipper overnight bag, that he kept for some reason. Perhaps he intends to pick up another female companion who could use its contents.
RALPH. Little lady, you're in a bad state of nerves.
ISABEL. Have you ever been so tired that you don't know what you're doing or saying?
RALPH. Yes. Often.
ISABEL. That's my condition, so make allowances for it. Yes, indeed, that sure is a mighty far drugstore ...
[She wanders back to the window, and parts the curtains to peer out]
RALPH. He seems gone twice as long because you're thinking about it.
ISABEL. I don't know why I should care except for mym overnight bag with my toilet articles in it.
RALPH. [obliquely investigating] Where did you spend last night?
ISABEL. [vaguely] Where did we spend last night?
RALPH. Yeah. Where did you stop for the night?
ISABEL. [rubbing her forehead and sighing with perplexity] In a, in a -- oh, a tourist camp called the -- Old Man River Motel? Yes, the Old Man River Motel.
RALPH. That's a mistake. The first night ought to be spent in a real fine place regardless of what it cost you. It's so important to get off on the right foot. [He has freshened his drink and come around to the front of the bar. She has gone back to the window at the sound of a car] If you get off on the wrong foot, it can take a long time to correct it. [She nods in slow confirmation of this opinion] Um-hmmmm. Walls are built up between people a hell of a damn sight faster than -- broken down ... Y'want me to give you my word that he's coming back? I will, I'll give you my word. Hey. [He snaps his fingers] Had he bought me a Christmas present? If not, that's what he's doing. That explains where he went to. [There is a pause. She sits sadly by the fireplace] What went wrong last night?
ISABEL. Let's not talk about that.
RALPH. I don't mean to pry into such a private, intimate thing, but --
ISABEL. No, let's don't! I'll just put it this way and perhaps you will understand me. In spite of my being a student nurse, till discharged -- my experience has been limited, Mr. Bates. Perhaps it's because I grew up in a small town, an only child, too protected. I wasn't allowed to date till my last year at High and then my father insisted on meeting the boys I went out with and laid down pretty strict rules, such as when to bring me home from parties and so forth. If he smelled liquor on the breath of a boy? At the door? That boy would not enter the door! And that little rule ruled out a goodly number.
RALPH. I bet it did. They should've ate peanuts befo' they called for you, honey. [He chuckles, reflectively poking at the fire] That's what we done at the Sisters of Mercy Orphans' Home in Mobile.
ISABEL. [touched] Oh. Were you an orphan, Mr. Bates?
RALPH. Yes, I had that advantage.
[He slides off the high stool again to poke at the fire. She picks up the antique bellows and fans the flames, crouching beside him.]
ISABEL. So you were an orphan! People that grow up orphans, don't they value love more?
RALPH. Well, let's put it this way. They get it less easy. To get it, they have to give it: so yeah, they do value it more.
[He slides back onto the bar stool. She crouches at the fireplace to fan the fire with the bellows. The flickering light brightens their shy tender faces]
ISABEL. But it's also an advantage to have a parent like my daddy. [She's again very close to tears] Very strict but devoted. Opposed me going into the nursing profession but I had my heart set on it, I thought I had a vocation, I saw myself as a Florence Nightingale nurse. A lamp in her hand? Establishin' clinics in the -- upper Amazon country ... [She laughs a little ruefully] Yais, I had heroic daydreams about myself as a dedicated young nurse working side by side with a --
[She pauses shyly]
RALPH. With a dedicated young doctor?
ISABEL. No, the doctor would be older, well, not too old, but -- older. I saw myself passing among the pallets, you know, the straw mats, administering to the plague victims in the jungle, exposing myself to contagion ...
[She exhibits a bit of humor here]
RALPH. Catchin' it?
ISABEL. Yais, contractin' it eventually m'self ...
RALPH. What were the symptoms of it?
ISABEL. A slight blemish appearing on the -- hands? [She gives him a darting smile]
RALPH. [joining in the fantasy with her] Which you'd wear gloves to conceal?
ISABEL. Yais, rubber gloves all the time.
RALPH. A crusty-lookin' blemish or more like a fungus?
[They laugh together]
ISABEL. I don't think I -- yais, I did, I imagined it being like scaa-ales! Like silver fish scales appearing on my hands and then progressing gradually to the wrists and fo'-arms ...
RALPH. And the young doctor discovering you were concealing this condition?
ISABEL. The youngish middle-aged doctor, Mr. Bates! Yais, discovering I had contracted the plague myself and then a big scene in which she says, Oh, no, you musn't touch me but he seizes her passionately in his arms, of course, and -- exposes himself to contagion.
[Ralph chuckles heartily getting off stool to poke at the fire again. She joins him on the floor to fan the flames with the bellows]
ISABEL. And love is stronger than death. You get the picture?
RALPH. Yep, I've seen the picture.
ISABEL. We've had a good laugh together. You're a magician, Ralph, to make me laugh tonight in my present situation. George and I never laugh, we never laugh together. Oh, he makes JOKES, YAIS! But we never have a really genuine laugh together and that's a bad sign, I think, because I don't think a married couple can go through life without laughs together any more than they can without tears.
RALPH. Nope. [He removes his shoes] Take your slippers off, honey.
ISABEL. I have the funniest sensation in the back of my head, like --
RALPH. Like a tight rope was coming unknotted?
ISABEL. Exactly! Like a tight rope was being unknotted!
[He removes her slippers and puts them on the hearth, crosses into the bedroom and comes out with a pair of fluffy pink bedroom slippers. He crouches beside her and feels the sole of her stocking]
RALPH. Yep, damp. Take those damp stockings off.
ISABEL. [unconsciously following the suggestion] Does George have a sense of humor? In your opinion? Has he got the ability to laugh at himself and at life and at -- human situations? Outside of off-color jokes? In your opinion, Mr. Bates?
RALPH. [taking the damp stockings from her and hanging them over the footlights] Yes. We had some good laughs together, me an' -- "Gawge", ha ha ...
ISABEL. We never had any together.
RALPH. That's the solemnity of romantic love, little lady, I mean like Romeo and Juliet was not exactly a joke book, ha ha ha.
ISABEL. "The solemnity of romantic love"! -- I wouldn't expect an old war buddy of George's to use an expression like that.
RALPH. Lemme put these on your feet, little lady. [She sighs and extends her feet and he slips the soft fleecy pink slippers on them] But you know something? I'm gonna tell you something which isn't out of the joke books either. You got a wonderful boy in your hands, on your hands, they don't make them any better than him and I mean it. [He does.]
ISABEL. I appreciate your loyalty to an old war buddy.
RALPH. Naw, naw, it's not just that.
ISABEL. But if they don't make them any better than George Haverstick, they ought to stop making them, they ought to cease production! [She utters a sort of wild, sad laugh which stops as abruptly as it started. Suddenly she observes the bedroom slippers on her feet] What's these, where did they come from?
RALPH. Honey, I just put them on you. Didn't you know?
ISABEL. No! -- How strange! -- I didn't. I wasn't at all aware of it ... [They are both a little embarrassed] Where is your wife, Mr. Bates?
RALPH. Honey, I told you she quit me and went home to her folks.
ISABEL. Oh, excuse me, I remember. You told me ...
[Suddenly the blazing logs make a sharp cracking noise; a spark apprently has spit out of the grate onto Isabel's skirt. She gasps and springs up, retreating from the fireplace, and Ralph jumps off the bar stool to brush at her skirt. Under the material of the Angora wool skirt is the equal and warmer softness of her young body. Ralph is abrtuptly embarrassed, coughs, turns back to the fireplace and picks up copper tongs to shift the position of the crackling logs.
This is a moment between them that must be done just right to avoid misinterpretation. Ralph would never make a play for the bride of a buddy. What should come out of the moment is not a suggestion that he will or might but that Dotty's body never felt that way. He remembers bodies that did. What comes out of Isabel's reaction is a warm understanding of his warm understanding; just that, nothing more, at all.]
ISABEL. Thank you. This Angora wool is, is -- highly inflammable stuff, at least I would -- think it -- might be.
RALPH. Yeah, and I don't want "Gawge" to come back here and find a toasted marshmallow bride ... by my fireplace.
October 27, 2005
You know what?
I never ever ever EVER get tired of looking through this.
It NEVER gets old.
Don't just look at the pictures - read the commentary - I have too many favorite parts to mention. I think my personal favorite, the one that has withstood the test of time, is # 3.
I look at that gallery probably once a week.
There's really no way ...
... to prepare any of you for the following images.
I just have to link to it.
And you just have to leap right in, no questions asked.
You ready?
Here it is:
(via Anne)
Happy birthday: "Let it not come by word of mouth"
Today is Sylvia Plath's birthday - it feels a bit strange to say "Happy birthday" to ... uhm ... someone who was so ultimately unhappy, and someone who took her own life ... But I saw that it was her birthday today and I had to say something.
That's a sketch she did of her own hands.
I haven't yet written a real piece on Sylvia Plath - because I know when I finaly get to it, it'll be a doozy. It'll take me hours of research, and compiling quotes, and snippets, and poems, and yadda yadda. I need to have the time to invest. That's just the deal with certain topics - and Sylvia Plath is one of them.
In honor of the birthday of this eventually astonishing poet (she didn't start out that way, although she was certainly precocious - but NONE of her early work could prepare you for what her work became in the last 2 years of her life - it's like another PERSON came out of her ....) - I have dug up some wonderful old photographs of her. I put them below the excerpt because there are quite a few of them. She was a chameleon. She was an all-American girl. She was a bleached blonde beach-blanket-bingo girl. She was an intense prodigy. She was a depressive who had survived a suicide attempt her junior year in college. She was the woman who married the big brash outdoorsman, and suddenly found herself fishing, and hunting, and tromping through the woods in galoshes. Who was she? I have no idea. But you can take a look at all the photographs and see how startling are the transformations. This is not just about the passage of time, and someone looking different as they grew older ... this really seems to be about a shedding of selves (like she writes in Lady Lazarus, in one of my favorite lines: "my selves dissolving, old whores petticoats") - I look at the picture of the bodacious blonde at the beach, and then I look at the picture of her with her two kids (taken a month or so before she committed suicide) - and it's hard to believe it's the same person. Perhaps there's something similar in the smile - there's something phony in both smiles, to my eye. Anyway, I find it fascinating - perusing the photos of Sylvia Plath.
Not nearly as fascinating as her poems themselves which have never lost their power - no matter how times I have read them.
I have gone through a bunch of Plath phases - and I am sure I will go through more. I continue to re-visit her work, every couple of years ... and re-read all those 1960-1963 poems again - sometimes in order - sometimes muddling it up - and every single time, even though I always have different responses, and sometimes one poem suddenly seems THE BEST when a couple years before it was another poem that was obviously HER BEST - but anyway, every single time I read those poems from her last 3 years, they take my breath away. They're no picnic - they are bleak bleak bleak - especially if you read them chronologically. If you read them chronologically - you can feel herself get manic - in October of 62 - and she starts cranking out 2, 3, sometimes 4 poems a day. These were not pot-boilers, folks. These poems are now taught in colleges. These are the poems that would make her name. She wasn't just scribbling out insane manic fantasies - these are highly intricate, passionate, unbeLIEVable poems. Obviously manic - when you see how many she was putting out a day ... and then there is a brief falling away for a month - December ... she was still writing, but obviously it was the calm before the storm. Then January and February 1963 came along - and I believe it was the coldest winter London had ever had - and her pipes froze - and she had no help, and two young babies - and things started getting worse and worse in her mind. And her art kicked in yet again - with ferocity and power. She would write these poems at 4 in the morning - her only time to herself. So you can feel the wheels start cranking again - in January, February - she wrote some of her best poems then. They are more frightening, however, than the October poems. She is staring at death, she is beginning to embrace the idea of death ... Death is always a factor in Plath's poems, but it takes on a new form in those last couple of poems. It is no longer just a fantasy, death is no longer a dream-lover in the night ... she is now making plans. The rage of October (which gave us such poems as Daddy, and Poppies in October, and the entire fanTASTIC bee-keeping sequence) is now gone. And you can feel a chilling resolve creep into her work. She is getting ready to go.
I have interspersed the photos of Plath I found with some of my favorite of her poems.
I still need to do a big old Plath fest one day - I have too much to say about her, and need to get my thoughts together better.
In honor of her birthday, here's one that she actually wrote about her upcoming birthday - in 1962. She wrote this poem, now one of her most well-known, on Sept. 30 1962 ... right before the blast of creativity and rage that would fuel her through that painful next month. Sylvia always had a fatalistic thing with birthdays:
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
The moon and the yew tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence
Little Fugue
The yew's black fingers wag:
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal the blind, and are ignored.
I like black statements.
The featurelessness of that cloud, now!
White as an eye all over!
The eye of the blind pianist
At my table on the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
I couldn't stop looking.
He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps--a tumult of keys.
Empty and silly as plates,
So the blind smile.
I envy big noises,
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.
Deafness is something else.
Such a dark funnel, my father!
I see your voice
Black and leafy, as in my childhood.
A yew hedge of orders,
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I am guilty of nothing.
The yew my Christ, then.
Is it not as tortured?
And you, during the Great War
In the California delicatessen
Lopping off the sausages!
They colour my sleep,
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
There was a silence!
Great silence of another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.
Now similar clouds
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I am lame in the memory.
I remember a blue eye,
A briefcase of tangerines.
This was a man, then!
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.
I survive the while,
Arranging my morning.
These are my fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are a marriage of dress, of that pallor.
The Bee Meeting (this is one of the poems in her famous "bee sequence" - which she cranked out at 1 or 2 a day, during October of 1962.)
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers ---
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am exhausted, I am exhausted ---
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.
Fever 103 (another Oct. 1962 poem)
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ---
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ---
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ---
To Paradise.
The Couriers (written in Nov. 1962)
The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling
All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one -
Love, love, my season.
I think the following poem is the saddest she ever wrote. Now who can ever say what is in the mind of another - and it is always a dangerous thing to read too much into these poems (at least in a biographical way). They are, after all, art. But I believe that one of the reasons she killed herself is to spare her children a mother whose face was "a ceiling without a star". Not that that excuses her actions. But she wrote this poem in January of 1963, 2 weeks before she put her head in the oven. I find this poem nearly unreadable in its sadness. Yet - wonderful writing as well.
Child
Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
And this is the last poem that Sylvia Plath completed. It's chilling, yes, but standing alone - as a poem - I think there's a lot to talk about here, a lot of stuff - not just biographical.
And I'm sorry - but the line "her blacks crackle and drag" is ... I mean, I can't describe it. It's just fantastic genius-level imagery, that's all. Goosebumps. The last two lines give me goosebumps. So scary. "Her blacks crackle and drag." (And yes ... let me just throw a shout-out to Paul Westerberg - who has also recognized the genius imagery in that line.) It's scary. "Crackle"? "Drag?" All kinds of very frightening images come to mind in those two simple words ... and the internal rhyme of "blacks" and "crackle" make it seem even more eerie. I'm not a literary critic but I will NEVER be done reading this last poem. She completed it on February 4, 1963. She killed herself on February 11.
Edge
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.
October 26, 2005
Missing my wings
As a child, I was a Brownie. All of my friends were Brownies. It was part of being a kid. My memories of Brownie meetings and Brownie activities are rather dim. I have other memories from those long-ago days, very vivid ones, stuff that has to do with sitting on the hot bulkhead eating a popsicle, and running through the sprinkler in the backyard - wearing a swimming cap - why? - and the smell of the mud in the woods where Jen and Katy and I would play and make up games, and the sound of the screen door slamming on summer nights, and the time I crashed my bike into a mailbox and got a huge cut, and skating with Andrew in the pond in the woods and how he would steal my hat and I would chase him - we were 11 - but even now, as an adult, I can't think of anything more romantic than cavorting across the ice in the middle of the woods - ON ICE SKATES - trying to get my hat back ... I have a lot of vivid sensoral memories from childhood, but very little remains in my head about "being a Brownie".
What does remain is how it all ended.
At the end of my sojourn as a Brownie there came a moment which I think of now as my first loss of innocence, my first real disappointment. I can laugh at it now, whatever, I can turn it into a cute story, but it absolutely crushed me when I was 8 years old. It was the first time that a dearly-held illusion of mine was shattered. It wouldn't be the last, but like Cat Stevens wrote so eloquently: "The first cut is the deepest." I suppose I should be grateful that it came from something as benign as a Brownie meeting, and not something more ominous. But whatever, this is my blog, my story, and this is the story of my first encounter with the inevitable disappointments of life.
You don't lose your innocence all at once. It's a gradual process. Bits and pieces are chipped away, as you go through your life. This story is about that first piece ... being chipped away.
So here, briefly, are the memories of Brownie-hood before "the Fall" -
-- I remember having meetings in the big cafeteria ("caf")/gymnasium at South Road School - which was called "the Multi-Purpose Room". In retrospect, I just love that name. It really tells it like it is. "Okay, so we're all going to go watch a play now in the Multi-Purpose Room!" "Let's go eat in the Multi-Purpose Room." "It's rainy today - so we have gym in the Multi-Purpose Room!" And of course: "After school Brownie meeting - Multi purpose room." All of us little Brownies sat in a circle as the troupe leaders (who were mothers of my friends) led the meeting. It's hilarious to think: I have friends now, old old friends, from college, etc., who have kids of their own, and are now Brownie troupe leaders. Those women seemed so OLD to me! They were younger than I am now. I remember too that the mothers who led Brownies (and this is neither here nor there - I'm not making a judgment - it just happened to be that way in my little troupe) were the kinds of women who had bleached done hair, Lee Press-on nails, and were tanned, year-round. They were also the kinds of women who didn't go to the big public beach - like my family did, and most other people did - but were members of "beach clubs", where they rented "cabanas". It was a foreign world, I tell ya. They smoked long thin cigarettes and when I played with their daughters at their houses, sometimes they would put out bowls of candy for us. CANDY. A far cry from the Saltines and popsicles available at my house. To use my mother's terminology - these women were "jazzy". Again, this is neither here nor there, this is just a post about what I remember, and that's one of the things that I remember.
Other things:
-- I remember marching in the Parade, and feeling so proud of my little brown uniform, my little beanie hat. I particularly loved holding the flag - Oh, my heart swelled with importance. I tripped on my shoelaces, however, and fell while holding the flag. But you know what? I loved telling that story when I met up with my parents at the end of the parade route. I turned it into a rollicking good tale. I was good at that: turning moments of adversity into jokes - where the joke was on me. I loved (and still love) jokes where the joke is on me.
-- I remember being absolutely entranced with the "Brownie book" - which I don't think they use anymore. Probably because it had too much of a pagan slant and religious parents would object. I mean, fine, whatever floats your boat, but please: I came from a religious family, but I always appreciated a good fairy tale. The book tells the story of the Brownies, with illustrations - I can still see those illustrations in my mind. They were so evocative. The Brownies were small fairies who would creep out into the moonlight around a magical pool in the middle of the woods - and dance and sing their Brownie songs ... Well, that for me was the ENTIRE appeal of being a Brownie. I wanted to be part of that pixie fellowship. I could see the silver moonlight, I could hear the rustling of the leaves, I loved the darkness, the cool dew, the feeling of a secret special ritual ... I was totally in the Brownies for THAT.
Little did I know that, in actuality, being a Brownie had nothing to do with shimmering moonlit nights and pagan rituals around a mirrored pool. It was more about gluing interminable amounts of spray-painted macaroni onto random pieces of cardboard.
I was never into prose, especially in terms of life-style, even back then. I always preferred poetry. The romance of the moonlit woods. I wanted life itself to be poetic. I suppose I still do. There's a beautiful moment in Postcards from the Edge when Meryl Streep says, in a moment of revelation, "I want life to be art." Count me in. I wanted to crawl into the illustrations of my Brownie book. I wanted the poetry, the possibility of something magical happening.
I accepted the "prose" nature of being a Brownie, mainly because that was what you did. I didn't really question it. I didn't really enjoy Brownies, truth be told, but everyone was in Brownies. So I had to be there. But our meetings in the Multi-Purpose Room were a pale ghost of the extravaganzas that went on in my imagination, secret meetings in the middle of the night, out in the woods.
But all lukewarm things must end, and it was time to move on and become a Girl Scout.
The moment when we would become Girl Scouts was referred to as "flying up". The troupe leaders also talked about how we would "get wings". There would be a "flying up ceremony".
All of this was never explained to us in literal terms. Or if there ever was a literal explanation of what "flying up" actually meant - I was out that day. I took it all completely literally - since no one explained to me that the whole thing was basically just an elaborate metaphor for a "graduation" ceremony. This "flying up" thing, to me, resonated and shimmered with magic. "The flying up ceremony"....It sounded so ... fantastical. So exciting! What did it mean? What would happen at the ceremony? What were the "wings" we were going to get? It all was so mysterious.
I truly believed that somehow - during the ceremony - I would "fly up". To where was still unknown, but I would "fly up". There were "wings" that I would get that would help me to do this.
Some sort of transformation was going to take place. THAT was clear.
I pictured the wings in my mind and I imagined that they would be elaborate huge constructions - wings that would make Icarus envious. They would HAVE to be big if they were going to carry us up off the ground. I imagined them into reality in my brain. I worked it all out. What I imagined was real to me - not something that I HOPED would happen, but something that WOULD happen. I got very specific in my imaginings. Some of the wings (we each would get two, one to fit over each arm) were made of actual feathers, soft as down. But there were other wings made of sparkles, and glitter. It would only be revealed on the day of the "flying up ceremony" what kind of wings each of us would get. I wondered if mine would be the feathered kind. I thought that I would prefer big feathery wings to the glittery ones - but I told myself that I wouldn't mind either way. I made a promise to myself that I would be happy with whatever pair of wings I got, even though I preferred feathers. I talked myself down from disappointment beforehand. "It'll be okay if the wings I get are glittery. It won't matter." It is amazing to me, in looking back, how realistic I was with myself, in the days leading up to the "flying up ceremony", preparing myself for the disappointment ... It's like somewhere I knew. I knew that disappointment was going to inevitable ... with the kind of soaring hope I harbored in my heart ... No way could the "substance of things hoped for" ever live up to what was in my mind.
The fantasies about the wings went even further. (And this element, to me, is the most interesting thing about the entire memory) Not only did I imagine what the wings would look like, the wings which would help us "fly up" to be Girl Scouts during the "flying up ceremony" - but I also imagined what the wings would be like a couple months after the ceremony, crushed in the bottom of my closet, once the novelty of them wore off. That, to me, was THE most pleasing fantasy of all: to be "over" the wings, to be lackadaisacal about what was going to prove to be a transcendent experience. "What are those feathery things in my closet? Ah, those are nothing ... no big deal ... just my wings from my flying-up ceremony ... No big deal ..." I LOVED that fantasy. Even more than dreaming about the upcoming "flying up ceremony" - I LOVED fantasizing about being "over" the wings, and seeing them crushed in a heap in the bottom of my closet.
So the big day comes. The day when all the Brownies will "fly up".
The ceremony was held in the Multi-Purpose Room. I had wondered to myself: How will we get high enough up, so that we will actually be able to fly? I had thought, Well, maybe they will stack some of the lunch tables on top of each other, and then put them on the stage ... Maybe that will be high up enough for when we put on our wings ...
Again: This all may sound incredibly silly. But nobody had ever actually told me what the ceremony was going to be, none of those jazzy tanned mothers had ever explained to me that "flying up" was just a metaphor. I was in the world of poetry, you understand. Nobody told me the whole thing would be prose.
I suppose I was eager, even then, even as a little girl, for transformation. For transcendence. I look back on that little girl ... and see myself now. No change. No difference at all. I've just got a few more miles on me, that's all.
I wasn't sure how the Powers-that-Be were going to handle the challenge of getting all us Brownies up to a good height so that we wouldn't fall like stones when we leapt - but I was sure that SOMEONE would figure it out.
I was a bit ... stunned ... to see how few people were in attendance. I believe my mother was there ... and a couple of other mothers ... but it seemed to be a VERY thin crowd for such an extraordinary ceremony of transformation.
The reality did not match the magnitude in my mind. It was very disheartening.
I'll just say this, for those of you who were never Brownies, I'll tell you what the real thing is: The "flying up ceremony" is when each Brownie gets a small badge, a badge of two outstretched wings, pinned onto their sash. This wing-badge means: You are now a Girl Scout.
That's IT. That's all it was.
It had never been said to me: "You will get a wing-badge, and then you will make the Girl Scout vow, and then you will be a Girl Scout, and that is what the flying-up ceremony is all about."
They spoke in shorthand. "So, girls, when you fly up ..." "During the flying up ceremony..." "After you get your wings..." They assumed we knew the terms. I didn't have an older sister who would have clued me in a bit earlier. I was moving into unchartered waters.
And there I was, making up elaborate fantasies of Icarus wings, tables stacked on top of each other, little girls flying through the air of the Multi-Purpose Room, convincing myself that it would be okay if my wings were glittery and not feathery, and then looking forward to the day when said wings were crushed in a heap in my closet.
The ceremony began.
In a flash, when the first girl "flew up" and became a Girl Scout - the veil was pulled back from my eyes irrevocably. I saw the teeny wing-badge, I heard her say the Girl Scout vow, and then I saw her step aside to let the next person go - and I realized that that was it. That was it. That was all the "flying-up ceremony" was going to be.
Furtively, I glanced around the Multi-Purpose Room, hoping to see a big cardboard box ... I remember looking for that box ... the box that contained the REAL wings ... that they had ordered from some magical Brownie warehouse ...
but already I knew it wasn't there.
It was never there.
I went through my "flying up ceremony" with a huge smile on my face - I acted like I was really happy about my little wing-badge. I didn't want to show how much my heart had just cracked, how unbelievably disappointed I was, how grey the entire world suddenly became.
I hid my heart from everyone. I was immediately very ashamed of my fantasies. I was ashamed of my fantasies AS I said the Girl Scout vow. I felt stupid. Like - of course, everybody else knew what the "flying up ceremony" was going to be. I was the only one who didn't know. I was the only one who was devastated. Everybody else was giggling, and excited to be a Girl Scout. Inside - inside - I was crying with disappointment. I thought about the crushed wings in my closet, and felt a piercing mixture of longing, despair, and shame.
Where are my wings??? Where are my REAL wings?
There weren't going to be any wings, feathery or glittery. There would never be wings crumpled up in my closet.
There would be no transformation.
Oh, and here's a Coda:
The disillusion was complete. I only made it as a Girl Scout for a couple of months. I quit the day after we spent an entire meeting making duffel bags.
There ain't no poetry in duffel bags.
I was GONE.
It's not often that you have a photo of yourself at the very moment a dream dies.
You'd never know from looking at the picture that that is what is going on.
Good game face. Too good.
Overheard in New York
I just have to pull this one out of the Wed. one-liners - I LOVE THIS:
Chick on cell: Oh my lord, I am walking down the street wearing all black, talking on my cell, gesturing with my pumpkin spice latte, and freaking out about whether I want to marry my investment banker boyfriend. Kill me now. Shoot me and send me back to Mexico. Seriously. I think I need to go live with my grandmother and take care of the goats or something.--19th & Irving
HAHAHAHAHA Love that girl. She has a moment of self-awareness and it is her saving grace. That is classic.
Another "overheard" snippet (from this compilation) that kind of blew me away is:
Bag lady: Man, don't you know Sherlock Holmes was a Presbyterian? Dang.--34th & 7th
I mean - WHAT??? I SO want to know the context of that last one, how they got onto that topic, etc. That is genius.
I'm still all caught up in my love for the girl with the pumpkin latte. I love her.
The 1960s
Michele has been going strong with her own Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominations - it's been so much fun to read - she polls her readers and eventually comes up with a winner.
The latest category: Best album of the 1960s.
The first album I thought of - perhaps my favorite album of all time - is Rubber Soul. But I, admittedly, do not have a vast database of music in my mind. Rubber Soul is my pick, though.
Go over there and cast a vote!
"Fasten your seatbelts" ...
A post about All About Eve that you do not want to miss. I love it because it makes me see the film in a new way ... it makes me want to see it again. That "fasten your seatbelts" line is so imitated - and so distorted through all the imitations - that when I first saw the film I was amazed at how REAL the moment actually is. The way she says it is not at ALL like all the imitations! I laughed with Mitchell about this once, and said, "The queens have overtaken that line!! It's the queens' fault!" The moment in the film is actually very real - although heightened, of course - but certainly not the bitchy campy flouncing monstrosity that I was expecting!!!
If you've seen the movie, and you are interested in an encyclopedic take on it, go and read Alex's post.
Elephant Love
I love this poem. ("the sympathy in their vast shy hearts" ... I love that line) It's by DH Lawrence, and it's called "The Elephant is Slow to Mate".
The Elephant is Slow to Mate
The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait
for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse
and dash in panic through the brake
of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.
So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.
Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.
They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.
The Books: "Sweet Bird of Youth" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Sweet Bird of Youth
Anyone ever see this film? I think it's one of Paul Newman's better performances. He's really wonderful in it. But everyone's good in it. It's one of those times when pretty much the entire Broadway cast was transplanted into the film. It's all the same - Geraldine Page, Rip Torn, Newman ... That so rarely happens - so in a way, when I see the film I feel like I get a glimpse of what it must have been like to see them all do it live.
The production was in 1959 (sorry - jumping around in chronology - not that anyone cares or notices - but I'm obsessive and I started out with the idea that I would take us through Williams' body of work in chronological order - but then I tragically left one of my books at another location, an undisclosed location - and had to wait until I could retrieve it.) So now we're back on the timeline. Again: NOBODY CARES BUT ME.
Paul Newman plays Chance Wayne - the young stud. Literally. He's a guy who basically makes a "living" off of his looks. He's not a gigolo - at least he doesn't SAY that he is one - but that's pretty much the deal. I mean, Paul Newman played him - so you can get a sense of the level of beauty Williams was talking about here. Chance Wayne is, ultimately, a TRAGIC character. He's the kind of character that is usually female. Williams' plays are full of these on-the-verge-of-aging pretty boys - who have corrupted their souls - who latch on to rich lonely people - who sell their bodies for money - but who have also sold their soul somewhere along the line. Chance has big dreams. He wants to be an actor. He has latched on to one of Tennessee Williams' greatest creations: an aging flamboyant actress who goes by the name of The Princess Kosmonopolis (played by Geraldine Page). She likes to have him around because she likes having sex with him and he makes her feel young. She is desperate. Losing her youth is no joke to her. She cannot accept growing old gracefully. Bit by bit, she is losing her power - not just over men, but over her own career. It's a great portrait of what women go through in show business - how they "disappear" after a certain date. Chance has latched on to her with the hopes that she can help him along in his career. He hates himself for who he has become. He is actually in love with someone else. But his ambition, his dying hope that he will have a meaningful life, that he will be famous, overrides his purer emotions. He's an animal, basically. Both of them are. They are desperate clawing animals - who need each other - but who also DESPISE each other - because of all they are reminded of. The Princess looks at Chance and sees that she is no longer young. And yet ... she cannot let him go, because at the same time he is the only thing that makes her feel young - Also, it can't hurt to have someone who looks like Paul feckin' Newman on your arm! It gives you power. Chance despises her, despises who he is with her, despises being around someone who is so desperate - he refuses to believe that it is the end of the line for him.
Another thing about Chance, and this is his main secret - his main reason for his intense self-loathing - is that he was in love with a girl named Heavenly - a beautiful pure Southern belle. And they slept together (she was a virgin, and only 15 years old) and he gave her a horrible venereal disease. I forget which one. And it was so bad that she was given a full hysterectomy. (Her father refers to it as "a whore's operation".) Chance ruined her life, basically. And he was run out of town by her powerful family. He is DEAD to the town. But in this play ... he has returned to the town ... again, I forget why ... but he is with the Princess ... and they hole themselves up in the hotel in the town, and he tries to get back in good with Heavenly (her family does not make this easy) - and he struggles, every single second, with his shame and self-hatred ... Being back in the town makes him realize how far he has fallen, and just how low he is.
And the Princess is a pot-smoking neurotic frenzied head-case - who pretty much has lost her short-term memory. At any moment, she is bound to look around her and have no idea where she is, who she is with, and how she got there. She is LOSING it.
Chance and the Princess have scene after scene after scene where they fight and make love and bitch at each other and hurt each other ... it's just incredible. Tennessee Williams, man ... I know he was shy around actors. He never quite knew what to say to them, he was a bit afraid of them, and he was also intimidated by what they did - acting remained, essentially, mysterious to him. He never get over it. He thought it was amazing. He didn't understand the craft of actors - and so to watch actors basically transform themselves, and put themselves out there, and expose themselves so brutally - was, to him, nothing less than a miracle. All of that being said, it is obvious, through his writing, how much he LOVED actors. How much he KNEW what they would need. How much he GAVE them to latch onto. He never ever leaves actors hanging. He never leaves things vague. He creates vivid characters, with massive objectives - and then just throws obstacle after obstacle in their paths. And through that comes great drama. I had a great acting teacher once who described good acting as: "trying to achieve your objective despite the obstacles". You may not succeed in reaching your objective - but you have to TRY. This is true of the silliest movie - and of the deepest drama. Hamlet must avenge his father's death. And yet - of course - the universe doesn't make that easy for him. He has to deal with one obstacle after another. Without obstacles, there is no drama. An objective is NOTHING without the obstacle. A lot of times, if the playwriting is weak, then the actor has to make shit up. Like: "Okay, what is my objective in this scene? Uhm ... okay, I will choose that I want to fuck her. That is my objective." And then, if the playright is weak, the actor also has to make up the obstacle: "Okay, I want to fuck her - that is all I want - but ... because of my messed-up past, I can't ever make a move on her. I am afraid. I am paralyzed." Now all that is fine - and an actor who knows how to take care of himself will always give himself tasks like that. If it's not in the script - then you MUST make something up so that it seems real, and you can latch onto the situation. But with Williams (and all the great playwrights) - you don't EVER have to make stuff up. It's there. Just say the words and play the scene. Just GO. Play the damn scene like a bat out of hell. He gives BOTH sides equally strong objectives - (I'm thinking of Summer and Smoke
That same acting teacher I mentioned earlier said once that there are really only two objectives to choose from, when you boil all the choices down: Fight or Fuck. Every scene is either a fight scene or a fuck scene - and you have to figure out which one it is. And if you're not sure - because sometimes it's not clear - (there are "fuck" scenes that feel like "fight" scenes, etc.) - anyway, if you're not sure - then just choose one and play that objective (in a rehearsal, please, not a performance) and see what happens. See if it works. If it doesn't, then try the other one. Usually, with a good playwright it's obvious - and it helps to keep things simple. An objective should never be intellectual. Because that makes for boring acting. And it usually should be life or death. The stakes need to be huge. Again, with weak playwrights you have to turn up the heat under the stakes yourself ... but with someone like Williams, or Shakespeare, or Chekhov - you don't have to. Just figure out your objective - and I have found my teacher's advice to be true: Do you want to fight the other person in the scene or do you want to fuck them? And then go for your objective wiht all your might. The obstacles will keep coming - but keep going for that objective. Exciting stuff.
You can relax when you're in a Williams play. I mean, you better have some talent and all that ... but you don't have to turn yourself inside out, making up for the lacks in the writing. Just relax, say his words, and take the leap.
I'll post an excerpt from Scene Two - when Chance tells Princess about what happened with Heavenly.
EXCERPT FROM Sweet Bird of Youth
CHANCE. -- I was born in this town. I was born in St. Cloud.
PRINCESS. That's a good way to begin to tell your life story. Tell me your life story. I'm interested in it, I really would like to know it. Let's make it your audition, a sort of screen test for you. I can watch you in the mirror while I put my face on. And tell me your life story, and if you hold my attention with your life story, I'll know you have talent, I'll wire my studio on the Coast that I'm still alive and I'm on my way to the Coast with a young man named Chance Wayne that I think is cut out to be a great young star.
CHANCE. Here is the town I was born in, and lived in till ten years ago, in St. Cloud. I was a twelve-pound baby, normal and healthy, but with some kind of quantity "X" in my blood, a wish or a need to be different ... The kids that I grew up with are mostly still here and what they call "settled down," gone into business, married and bringing up children, the little crowd I was in with, that I used to be the star of, was the snobset, the ones with the big names and money. I didn't have either ... [The Princess utters a soft laugh in her dimmed-out area] What I had was ... [The Princess half turns, brush poised in a faint, dusty beam of light]
PRINCESS. BEAUTY! Say it! Say it! What you had was beauty! I had it! I say it, with pride, no matter how sad, being gone, now.
CHANCE. Yes, well ... the others ... [The Princess resumes brushing her hair and the sudden cold beam of light on her goes out again] ... are all now members of the young social set here. The girls are young matrons, bridge-players, and the boys belong to the Junior Chamber of Commerce and some of them, clubs in New Orleans such as Rex and Comus and ride on the Mardi Gras floats. Wonderful? No boring ... I wanted, expected, intended to get, something better ... Yes, and I did, I got it. I did things that fat-headed gang never dreamed of. Hell when they were still freshmen at Tulane or LSU or Ole Miss, I sang in the chorus of the biggest show in New York, in "Oklahoma", and had pictures in LIFE in a cowboy outfit, tossin' a ten-gallon hat in the air! YIP ... EEEEEEE! Ha-ha ... And at the same time pursued my other vocation ... Maybe the only one I was truly meant for, love-making ... slept in the social register of New York! Millionaires' widows and wives and debutante daughters of such famous names as Vanderbrook and Masters and Halloway and Connaught, names mentioned daily in columns, whose credit cards are their faces ... And ...
PRINCESS. What did they pay you?
CHANCE. I gave people more than I took. Middle-aged people I gave back a feeling of youth. Lonely girls? Understanding, appreciation! An absolutely convincing show of affection. Sad people, lost people? Something light and uplifting! Eccentrics? Tolerance, even odd things they long for ... But always just at the point when I might get something back that would solve my own need, which was great, to rise to their level, the memory of my girl would pull me back home to her ... and when I came home for those visits, man oh man how that town buzzed with excitement. I'm telling you, it would blaze with it, and then that thing in Korea came along. I was about to be sucked into the Army so I went into the Navy, because a sailor's uniform suited me better, the uniform was all that suited me, though ...
PRINCESS. Ah-ha!
CHANCE. [mocking her] Ah-ha. I wasn't able to stand the goddam routine, discipline ... I kept thinking, this stops everything. I was twenty-three, that was the peak of my youth and I knew my youth wouldn't last long. By the time I got out, Christ knows, I might be nearly thirty! Who would remember Chance Wayne? In a life like mine, you just can't stop, you know, can't take time out between steps, you've got to keep going right on up from one thing to the other, once you drop out, it leaves you and goes on without you and you're washed up.
PRINCESS. I don't think I know what you're talking about.
CHANCE. I'm talking about the parade. THE parade! The parade! the boys that go places that's the parade I'm talking about, not a parade of swabbies on a wet deck. And so I ran my comb through my hair one morning and noticed that eight or ten hairs had come out, a warning signal of future baldness. My hair was still thick. But would it be five years from now, or even three? When the war would be over, that scared me, that speculation. I started to have bad dreams. Nightmares and cold sweats at night, and I had palpitations, and on my leaves I got drunk and woke up in strange places with faces on the next pillow I had never seen before. My eyes had a wild look in them in the mirror ... I got the idea I wouldn't live through the war, that I wouldn't come back, that all the excitement and glory of being Chance Wayne would go up in smoke at the moment of contact between my brain and a bit of hot steel tha thappened to be in the air at the same time and place that my head was ... that thought didn't comfort me any. Imagine a whole lifetime of dreams and ambitions and hopes dissolving away in one instant, being blacked out like some arithmetic problem washed off a blackboard by a wet sponge, just by some little accident like a bullet, not even aimed at you but just shot off in space, and so I cracked up, my nerves did. I got a medical discharge out of the service and I came home in civvies, then it was when I noticed how different it was, the town and the peopl ein it. Polite? Yes, but not cordial. No headlines in the papers, just an item that measured one inch at the bottom of page five saying that Chance Wayne, the son of Mrs. Emily Wayne of North Front Street had received an honorable discharge from the Navy as the result of illness and was home to recover ... that was when Heavenly became more important to me than anything else ...
PRINCESS. Is Heavenly a girl's name?
CHANCE. Heavenly is the name of my girl in St. Cloud.
PRINCESS. Is Heavenly why we stopped here?
CHANCE. What other reason for stopping here can you think of?
PRINCESS. So ... I'm being used. Why not? Even a dead race horse is used to make glue. Is she pretty?
CHANCE. [handing Princess a snapshot] This is a flashlight photo I took of her, nude, one night on Diamond Key, which is a little sandbar about half a mile off shore which is under water at high tide. This was taken with the tide coming in. The water is just beginning to lap over her body like it desired her like I did and still do and will always, always. [Chance takes back the snapshot] Heavenly was her name. You can see that it fits her. This was her at fifteen.
PRINCESS. Did you have her that early?
CHANCE. I was just two years older, we had each other that early.
PRINCESS. Sheer luck!
CHANCE. Princess, the great difference between in this world is not between the rich and the poor or the good and the evil, the biggest of all differences in this world is between the ones that had or have pleasure in love and those that haven't and hadn't any pleasure in love, but just watched it with envy, sick envy. The spectators and the performers. I don't mean just ordinary pleasure or the kind you can buy, I mean great pleasure, and nothing that's happened to me or to Heavenly since can cancel out the many long nights without sleep when we gave each other such pleasure in love as very few people can look back on in their lives ...
PRINCESS. No question, go on with your story.
CHANCE. Each time I came back to St. Cloud I had her love to come back to ...
PRINCESS. Something permanent in a world of change?
CHANCE. Yes, after each disappointment, eacah failure at something, I'd come back to her like going to a hospital ...
PRINCESS. She put cool bandages on your wounds? Why didn't you marry this Heavenly little physician?
CHANCE. Didn't I tell you that Heavenly is the daughter of Boss Finley, the biggest political wheel in this part of the country? Well, if I didn't I made a serious omission.
PRINCESS. He disapproved?
CHANCE. He figured his daughter rated someone a hundred, a thousand percent better than me, Chance Wayne ... The last time I came back here, she phoned me from the drugstore and told me to swim out to Diamond Key, that she would meet me there. I waited a long time, till almost sunset, and the tide started coming in before I heard the put-put of an outboard motor boat coming out to the sandbar. The sun was behind her, I squinted. She had on a silky wet tank suit and fans of water and mist made rainbows about her ... she stood up in the boat as if she was water-skiing, shouting things at me an' circling around the sandbar, around and around it!
PRINCESS. She didn't come to the sandbar?
CHANCE. No, just circled around it, shouting things at me. I'd swim toward the boat, I would just about reach it and she'd race it away, throwing up misty rainbows, disappearing in rainbows and then circling back and shouting things at me again ...
PRINCESS. What things?
CHANCE. Things like, "Chance, go away." "Don't come back to St. Cloud." "Chance, you're a liar." "Chance, I'm sick of your lies!" "My father's right ab out you!" "Chance, you're no good any more." "Chance, stay away from St. Cloud." The last time around the sandbar she shouted nothing, just waved goodby and turned the boat back to shore.
PRINCESS. Is that the end of the story?
CHANCE. Princess, the end of the story is up to you. You want to help me?
PRINCESS. I want to help you. Believe me, not everybody wants to hurt everybody. I don't want to hurt you, can you believe me?
CHANCE. I can if you prove it to me.
PRINCESS. How can I prove it to you?
CHANCE. I have something in mind.
PRINCESS. Yes, what?
CHANCE. Okay, I'll give you a quick outline of this project I have in mind. Soon as I've talked to my girl and shown her my contract, we go on, you and me. Not far, just to New Orleans, Princess. But no more hiding away, we check in at the Hotel Roosevelt there as Alexandra Del Lago and Chance Wayne. Right away the newspapers call you and give a press conference ...
PRINCESS. Oh?
CHANCE. Yes! The idea briefly, a local contest of talent to find a pair of young people to star as unknowns in a picture you're planning to make to show your faith in YOUTH, Princess. You stage this contest, you invite other judges, but your decision decides it!
PRINCESS. And you and ...
CHANCE. Yes, Heavenly and I win it. We get her out of St. Cloud, we go to the West Coast together.
PRINCESS. And me?
CHANCE. You?
PRINCESS. Have you forgotten, for instance, that any public attention is what I least want in the world?
CHANCE. What better way can you think of to show the public that you're a person with bigger than personal interest?
PRINCESS. Oh, yes, yes, but not true.
CHANCE. You could pretend it was true.
PRINCESS. If I didn't despise pretending!
CHANCE. I understand. Time does it. Hardens people. Time and the world that you've lived in.
PRINCESS. Which you want for yourself. Isn't that what you want? [She looks at him and then goes to the phone. In phone:] Cashier? Hello, Cashier? This is the Princess Kosmonopolis speaking. I'm sending down a young man to cash some travelers' checks for me. [She hangs up]
CHANCE. And I want to borrow your Cadillac for a while ...
PRINCESS. What for, Chance?
CHANCE. [posturing] I'm pretentious. I want to be seen in your car on the streets of St. Cloud. Drive all around town in it, blowing those long silver trumpets and dressed in the fine clothes you bought me ... can I?
PRINCESS. Chance, you're a lost little boy that I really would like to help find himself.
CHANCE. I passed the screen test!
PRINCESS. Come here, kiss me, I love you. [She faces the audience] Did I say that? Did I mean it? [Then to Chance, with arms outstretched] What a child you are ... Come here ... [He ducks under her arms, and escapes to the chair]
CHANCE. I want this big display. Big phony display in your Cadillac around town. And a wad a dough to flash in their faces and the fine clothes you've bought me, on me.
PRINCESS. Did I buy you fine clothes?
CHANCE. [picking up his jacket] The finest. When you stopped being lonely because of my company at the Palm Beach Hotel, you bought me the finest. That's the deal for tonight, to toot those silver horns and drive slowly around in the Cadillac convertible so everybody that thought I was washed up will see me. And I have taken my false or true contract to flash in the faces of various people that called me washed up. All right that's the deal. Tomorrow you'll get the car back and what's left of your money. Tonight's all that counts.
PRINCESS. How do you know that as soon as you walk out of this room I won't call the police?
CHANCE. You wouldn't do that, Princess. [He puts on his jacket] You'll find the car in back of the hotel parking lot, and the left-over dough will be in the glove compartment of the car.
PRINCESS. Where will you be?
CHANCE. With my girl, or nowhere.
PRINCESS. Chance Wayne! This was not necessary, all this. I'm not a phony and I wanted to be your friend.
CHANCE. Go back to sleep. As far as I know you're not a bad person, but you just got into bad company on this occasion.
PRINCESS. I am your friend and I'm not a phony. [Chance turns and goes to the steps] When will I see you?
CHANCE. [at the top of the steps] I don't know -- maybe never.
PRINCESS. Never is a long time, Chance, I'll wait.
[She throws him a kiss]
CHANCE. So long.
[The Princess stands looking after him as the lights dim and the curtain closes]
October 25, 2005
Just for kicks
Sigh. This movie solidified what I felt during Murray's stint on Saturday Night Live ... basically that I LOVED HIM.
I'm not sure ...
... but I think I could be good friends with the person who did this.
Wow.
This is a major fight. I am very impressed with the shit-flinging abilities of both parties. Well done!
Mary Gaitskill
Anne reminds me of how much I admire Mary Gaitskill's writing. Her collection of short stories, Bad Behavior
The film Secretary was based on one of the short stories in that first collection. I'm such a Gaitskill fan that I was afraid to see the film, afraid they would water down that story - which is - ahem - pretty OUT there ... but I was very very pleased to see that they didn't. The film WENT there. Hard to believe that film actually got made, come to think of it. Very very good.
Gaitskill's an incredible writer. I will have to pick up a copy of her latest book.
Here's the review in The Times.
Excerpt:
Gaitskill's work is far more humanistic than a reader given to sunnier fare might first suppose. And her palpable talent puts her among the most eloquent and perceptive contemporary fiction writers. The stories in "Bad Behavior," her 1988 debut, are Chekhovian in their quietude, inviting us to complicate our frameworks for questions of individual and social responsibility. Is the bullied always a victim? Is love always intimate? Why does weakness make us uncomfortable - or excited? A lesser writer might have sentimentalized or valorized the "bad behavior" Gaitskill has continued to make her terrain over the past 17 years; she has instead worked to make us more aware of our own uninterrogated assumptions. Currents of empathy pool beneath the icy surface of her prose - a surface that is itself very beautiful indeed: her sentences are flinty and bright. In a curious way, Gaitskill may be among the more old-fashioned of our writers, a documentarian for a hypersexualized age in which Jenna Jameson's memoir is a best seller and appearances matter more than ever.
True, true. Very well put. She is an old-fashioned writer.
I love this:
A book about superficiality might easily be fueled by fumes. But in Gaitskill's hands "Veronica" is a masterly examination of the relationship between surface and self, culture and fashion, time and memory. Gaitskill has long been interested in what she once called the "great ferocity latent in women," and the best passages in "Veronica" detail the young Alison on the prowl, at once hunter and prey as a young runaway in San Francisco. Gaitskill is enormously gifted at depicting youthful impatience and the dangerous, febrile sensuality that accompanies it, and throughout the book are passages of plainly spectacular beauty.
It's almost like her prose VIBRATES. It's that good.
Lastly, from the review:
Even so, Gaitskill is reaching further into her preoccupations than ever before, and the novel is full of very real pleasures. Her prose has a perfumed clarity. She tacks against the upright dichotomies of our historical moment - dichotomies that shape how we think and who we are but are often more contingent than we know. In "Veronica," as ever, Gaitskill's brand of brainy lyricism, of acid shot through with grace, is unlike anyone else's. And it constitutes some of the most incisive fiction writing around.
Yup. She's damn good. She's also one of those writers that I could recognize - or, I mean - I could recognize her prose, even if I didn't know the author. She's distinctive. But it's not a gimmick, or a trick. It's her style, it's her natural way of expressing herself. It's unmistakable.
World Series
Yeah, I've been watching. I thoroughly enjoyed Bill Simmon's observations. It's so stream-of-consciousness - it's hilarious - but I also find myself just nodding in agreement at so many of his points.
Like this random SPOT ON observation:
The awkward cut to "Prison Break" star Stacy Keach in the stands during the sixth inning ... it's almost like Fox is trying to parody itself at this point. I don't even think ESPN would do something like that. Seriously, can you imagine Mike Patrick pointing out Michael Madsen and the stars from "Tilt" in the stands during a Sunday Night Football game as Paul Maguire chimed in, "I'm gonna tell you something right now, that's a good TV show!"
hahahaha
Also:
The non-controversy of Jermaine Dye's 3-and-2 HBP which may or may not have hit his bat, immediately followed by a truly fantastic baseball moment -- Konerko's grand slam -- followed by Buck immediately calling it a controversy (umm, can I enjoy the grand slam replays?) and 400 replays of the last Dye pitch. OK, this wasn't funny. Not at all. But does everything have to be a controversy? Who's to say Dye wouldn't have walked on the next pitch? Wasn't the story there how Houston switched pitchers in the biggest moment of the game -- against the only legitimately dangerous hitter on the White Sox -- and brought in a guy who immediately gave up a grand slam? No second-guessing at all there?
It did hit his bat, though. But man. That grand slam was something. I don't have a horse in this race, but I felt two things at the same time watching that occur: I felt the THRILL of the White Sox fans, the absolute hysteria ... and I felt the gut-clenching misery of the Astros fans ... grand slam. Wow. Devastating. Exhilarating.
More observations on the general suckiness of the broadcasters:
Speaking of announcers noticing things, I was on the phone with my buddy Gus during the top of the ninth, when the Astros rallied for two to tie the game. Before Jose Vizcaino came up to pinch-hit, Gus points out that we were in "Jose Vizcaino territory" and adds, "Remember, he had the big hit in Game 1 of the 2000 World Series against the Mets." Well, that's a significant piece of information -- you would think that this would come up at some point during the at-bat, with video cued and everything. Nope. So Vizcaino singles to tie the game, and about 3-4 minutes later, McCarver makes the Vizcaino/2000 connection. Interesting.
Watching Joe Buck and McCarver interact - is sometimes so embarrassing that I find myself looking away. To spare them my seeing and perceiving their craven hollowness.
The rain was pouring down in Chicago, it looked like the game might not go on, they cut away to a reporter standing there with a huge umbrella, blithering on about "well, the tarp came out ... then they took the tarp off ... and now we don't know WHAT the hell is going on, guys! Back to you!" Cut back to Joe Buck who literally says something like, "Yes, but your hair looks amazing." Did anyone else hear that? I swear, he said some stupid banter about "gee, your hair looks terrific" to the rain-beleaguered dude standing in the monsoon. It was so STUPID.
I know it gets monotonous - everyone criticizes those guys - but they deserve it.
Today in history: October 25, 1764
John Adams married Abigail Smith. They were married for 54 years. They were partners for 54 years. They moved from colonial Boston, spend most of the American Revolution apart (but they wrote letters - oh MAN did they write letters), they lived in Paris, in London, and also in the brand-new muddy swampy capital of Washington D.C. They retired to Quincy after Adams' term as President.
In a funny way, we should be grateful that these two extraordinary individuals were forced to spend so much time apart - as wrenching as it was for the both of them. Because they left behind their letters ... In the times when they lived in the same house, they obviously did not need to correspond. It's selfish of me to say that, but there you have it. The sacrifices they made, in terms of being together, was - in terms of history - worth it, because of the unprecedented correspondence they left behind.
I've read their letters more times than I can count. Every time I go back to them, I find something new. They are amazing, and if you haven't read them - all I can say is: find yourself a copy of The Book of Abigail and John and go to it. You won't be sorry.
It is a marriage that just breathes off the written page. Adams was a warm, temperamental, emotional guy. He poured his heart out to his wife. There was true intimacy between them. He is revealed, in all his wounded vanity, his pettiness, and also his humor, his bawdiness. It is very unlike Thomas Jefferson who - although human, of course, hahaha - was much more reserved and formal in his correspondence. Jefferson wasn't intimate with ANYONE the way Adams was intimate with his wife.
Again: we are lucky that we have these letters. How much we can learn from them!
Happy anniversary, John and Abigail!!
Excerpts from their letters below:
-- "Is there no way for two friendly souls to converse together, although the bodies are 400 miles off. Yes, by letter. But I want a better communication. I want to hear you think, or to see your thoughts. The conclusion of your letter makes my heart throb more than a cannonade would. You bid me burn your letters. But I must forget you first." -- John Adams to Abigail
-- Years subdue the ardor of passion but in lieu thereof friendship and affection deep-rooted subsists which defies the ravages of time, and whilst the vital flame exists. -- Abigail to John, 1793
-- Your letter is like laudanum. -- John to Abigail
-- You apologize for the length of your letters. They give me more entertainment than all the speeches I hear. There are more good thoughts, fine strokes, and mother wit in them than I hear in the whole week. -- John to Abigail
-- I am warm enough at night, but cannot sleep since I left you." -- John to Abigail
-- "There must be, however, more employment for the press in favor of the government than there has been, or the sour, angry, peevish, fretful, lying paragraphs which assail it on every side will make an impression on many weak and ignorant people." -- John in a letter to Abigail
-- "I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creature, and that power whether vested in many or few is grasping ... The great fish swallow up the small and he who is most strenuous for the rights of the people, when vested with power, is as eager after the prerogatives of government. You tell me of degrees of perfection to which human nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances. -- Abigail Adams, in a letter to John
-- "You had prepared me to entertain a favorable opinion of him, but I thought the half was not told me. Dignity with ease and complacency, the gentleman and the soldier look agreeably blended in him. Modesty marks every line and feature of his face." -- Abigail to John - on first meeting George Washington in 1774
-- The following is from the letter John wrote to Abigail on July 3, 1776 ... after the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 2 - look at the window he provides posterity - look at how openly he expresses himself - THANK YOU, John Adams!!:
"The Delay of this Declaration to this Time, has many great Advantages attending it. – The Hopes of Reconciliation, which were fondly entertained by Multitudes of honest and well meaning tho weak and mistaken People, have been gradually and at last totally extinguished. – Time has been given for the whole People, maturely to consider the great Question of Independence and to ripen their Judgments, dissipate their Fears, and allure their Hopes, by discussing it in News Papers and Pamphletts, by debating it, in Assemblies, Conventions, Committees of Safety and Inspection, in town and County Meetings, as well as in private Conversations, so that the whole People in every Colony of the 13, have now adopted it, as their own Act. – This will cement the Union, and avoid those Heats, and perhaps Convulsions which might have been occasioned, by such a Declaration Six Months ago.
But the Day is past. The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. – I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfire and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.
You will think me transported with Enthusiasm, but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil, and Blood, and Treasure that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet, through all the Gloom, I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means, and that Posterity will triumph in that Day's Transaction, even though We should not rue it, which I trust in God We shall not."
-- Here is a letter John wrote to Abigail on Sept. 30 1764 ... a month before their marriage:
"Oh my dear Girl, I thank Heaven that another Fortnight will restore you to me -- after so long a separation. My soul and Body have both been thrown into Disorder, by your Absence, and a Month of two more would make me the most insufferable Cynick in the World. I see nothing but Faults, Follies, Frailties and Defects in any Body, lately. People have lost all their good Properties or I my Justice or Discernment.
But you have always softened and warmed my Heart, shall restore my Benevolence as well as my Health and Tranquility of mind. You shall polish and refine my sentiments of Life and Manners, banish all the unsocial and ill natured Particles in my Composition, and form me to that happy Temper, that can reconcile a quick Discernment with a perfect Candour."
What he describes here would always be true. He found equilibrium when he was with her. He was able to talk about his problems, hash stuff out, and temper some of his responses. When he was President - she remained back up in Quincy for some time until finally he begged her to come down to Washington. He needed her there. His colleagues and cabinet members also thought: Dammit, get Abigail down here, NOW - because he is LOSING it without her.
-- Letter from Abigail to John - August 19, 1774 - John had left for Philadelphia for the First Continental Congress: "The great anxiety I feel for my Country, for you and for our family renders the day tedious, and the night unpleasant. The Rocks and quick Sands appear upon every Side. What course you can or will take is all wrapt in the Bosom of futurity. Uncertainty and expectation leave the mind great Scope. Did ever any Kingdom or State regain their Liberty, when once it was invaded without Blood shed? I cannot think of it without horror.
Yet we are told that all the Misfortunes of Sparta were occasiond by their too great Sollicitude for present tranquility, and by an excessive love of peace they neglected the means of making it sure and lasting. They ought to have reflected, says Polibius, that as there is nothing more desirable, or advantages than peace, when founded in justice and honour, so there is nothing more shameful and at the same time more pernicious when attained by bad measures, and purchased at the price of liberty...
I want so much to hear from you. I long impatiently to have you upon the Stage of action. The first of September or the month of September may be of as much importance to Great Britan as the Ides of March were to Ceaser."
-- John to Abigail: Hartford May 2d 1775 - on his way down to Philadelphia. Adams is hoping that the disaster growing in Boston will bind the colonies together. That's eventually what happened, but at the time, he wasn't sure if it were a done deal.: "It is Arrogance and Presumption in human Sagacity to pretend to penetrate far into the Designs of Heaven. The most perfect Reverence and Resignation becomes us. But, I can't help depending upon this, that the present dreadfull Calamity of that beloved Town is intended to bind the Colonies together in more indissoluble Bands, and to animate their Exertions, at this great Crisis in the Affairs of Mankind. It has this Effect, in a most remarkable Degree, as far as I have yet seen or heard. It will plead, with all America, with more irresistible Perswasion, than Angells trumpet tongued.
In a Cause which interests the whole Globe, at a Time, when my Friends and Country are in such keen Distress, I am scarecely ever interrupted, in the least Degree, by Apprehensions for my Personal Safety. I am often concerned for you and our dear Babes...
In case of real Danger, of which you cannot fail to have previous Intimations, fly to the Woods with our Children."
Incredible, inspiring - what these people went through - for us, essentially. Abigail even wrote, at one point, "I hope future generations appreciate the sacrifices we made ..."
-- Abigail to John June 16 1775 - Listen to her practicality in the last paragraph. Love her. : "We now expect our Sea coasts ravaged. Perhaps, the very next Letter I write will inform you that I am driven away from our yet quiet cottage. Necessity will oblige Gage to take some desperate steps. We are told for Truth that he is now Eight thousand strong. We live in continual expectation of allarms.
Courage I know we have in abundance, conduct I hope we shall not want, but powder -- where shall we get a sufficient supply? I wish we may not fail there."
-- Abigail to John June 18 1775 - She writes to him the day after the Battle of Bunker Hill begins. She and John lost a dear friend in the Battle.
"The Day; perhaps the decisive Day is come on which the fate of America depends. My bursting Heart must find vent at my pen... Great is our Loss...
The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but the God of Israel is he that giveth strength and power unto his people. Trust in him at all times, ye people pour out your hearts before him. God is a refuge for us. -- Charlstown is laid in ashes. The Battle began upon our intrenchments upon Bunkers Hill, a Saturday morning about 3 o'clock and has not ceased yet and tis now 3 o'clock Sabbeth afternoon...
I cannot compose myself to write any further at present."
-- John to Abigail July 7, 1775: "Your Description of the Distresses of the worthy Inhabitants of Boston, and the other Sea Port Towns, is enough to melt an Heart of Stone. Our Consolation must be this, my dear, that Cities may be rebuilt, and a People reduced to Poverty, may acquire fresh Property: But a Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty once lost is lost forever. When the People once surrender their share in the Legislature, and their Right of defending the Limitations upon the Government, and of resisting every Encroachment upon them, they can never regain it...
I am forever yours ---"
-- John to Abigail Oct. 19 1775: "When I shall come home I know not. We have so much to do, and it is so difficult to do it right, that We must learn Patience. Upon my Word I think, if ever I were to come here again, I must bring you with me. I could live here pleasantly if I had you, with me... What if We should? Let me please myself with the Thought however."
-- JOHN ADAMS, on being Vice President, in a letter to Abigail: "My country in its wisdom contrived for me the most insignificant office that ever the invention of man contrived or his imagination conceived."
-- Abigail Adams wrote the following to John - months before the Declaration of Independence was in existence: "A people may let a King fall, yet still remain a people, but if a King let his people slip from him, he is no longer a King. And as this is most certainly our case, why not proclaim to the world in decisive terms of our own importance."
-- Letter of John Adams, to Abigail: "It has been the will of Heaven that we should be thrown into existence at a period when the greatest philosophers and lawgivers of antiquity would have wished to live ... a period when a coincidence of circumstances without example has afforded to thirteen colonies at once an opportunity of beginning government anew from the foundation and building as they choose. How few of the human race have ever had an opportunity of choosing a system of government for themselves and their children? How few have ever had anything more of choice in government than in climate?"
The Books: "Two-Character Play" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is The Two-Character Play
I'm nervous to even start discussing this play. It's too personal.
Let me just say this: this play has my 'dream role' in it. I have a couple of "dream roles" - and Miss Alma is one, from Williams' Summer and Smoke
I feel like no one likes this play - or GETS it - The only people who GET IT are me and my dear friend Ted - actor, and director. I'm sure there are more of us out there - but that's how it feels to us. We have dreamed of doing a production of this play for YEARS. Nobody cares about this play. It's like we're members of a small two-persona cult.
I will say this: I WILL do a production of this play someday. I WILL. Even if it's just a damn reading in my apartment and only 3 people see it. I don't care.
This play is SO IMPORTANT TO ME.
AHHHHHHHHHHHH HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!
I CAN'T SPEAK ABOUT IT IN ANY NORMAL WAY! IT MEANS TOO MUCH TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wonder if only actors would really 'get' it. It's about life in the theater. It reminds me of one of my favorite movies - Opening Night - by John Cassavetes. If you weren't "in the theatre" you might see that movie and think: Jesus, lady, what is the big deal??? That movie, and this play, describes one of the deepest parts of me ... a part of me that I hesitate even going into here on the blog. Because it's private. It's the artist part of me. The part of me that thinks that art is, hands down, THE MOST important thing on earth. It is THE MOST important endeavor that humans can participate in. It's the cave drawings that let us know what ancient cultures cared about, who they were. It's the crumbling statues of civilizations long gone. How MUCH we learn from those crumbling statues. It is the artists who pass along information ... about the culture from which they sprung ... it is the artists who let us know what concerned the people of their age ... This is what art means to me. This is what Tennessee Williams attempts to delve into in this play.
It is the story of a brother and sister - Felice and Clare. They are the only two characters in the play (duh. look at the title). They are aging actors ... Felice is the playwright, he is also an actor. Clare is the actress. Felice writes plays for the two of them.
But they are both so insane, so out of it, that they cannot keep an acting company going. Everyone keeps quitting on them. Nobody wants to be around them. For a while, they were able to keep afloat but now ... at the opening of this play ... everyone has abandoned them. It is just the two of them now. That's it. They are alone.
Felice and Clare grew up in the South ... and their father was an astrology expert ... and a wacko, frankly. He ended up shooting his wife (their mother) - and then shooting himself - in front of the two of them. They saw this happen.
So now... it is 40 years later ... and they have not moved past it at all. It is like it just happened yesterday - and every moment of their lives they have to re-enact the moment before ... the moment before the murder-suicide. Felice is working on his great masterpiece - a play called "The Two-Character Play" - where they act out what it was like for them in the aftermath of this thing that happened with their parents.
And yet there's a problem. Neither of them ever want to END the play. They act out the play ... avoiding the ending ... they know it's coming ... they know the gun is a prop and it's there ... ready for their father to pick up ... but both of them resist it like there's no tomorrow. So basically the essential problem of the play, the "two-charactre play" - is that they are unable to act it. They are unable to give over to the circumstances - they cannot let go - they can no longer "act".
The play begins with the two of them in a huge cavernous theatre - with remnants of another set there. It's not the set for THEIR play, but another set. The effect should be like Ozymandias ... a world gone away ... the two of them wandering through this destroyed world ... The play opens and Felice sits on this empty stage, working on 'the ending' of his great masterpiece. The play he can't finish. Because if he finishes it ... it means he actually has to accept that his father killed his mother and then killed himself ... He can't accept that alone. He needs Clare to accept it too. But Clare is a LOSER. She is a drug addict and an alcoholic, she staggers around wearing a tiara, acting like a grande dame of the theatre ... she is NO help to Felice, in terms of being in touch with reality.
Anyway. I could go on and on and maybe someday I should.
This is the most important play in the world to me. And nobody's ever even HEARD of it. It's one of my wee goals to DO this play and DO IT RIGHT.
Someday.
I WILL be Clare. I AM Clare!
Anyway. The play is psychedelic, and nuts, and stream-of-conscious ... and the two of them are completely delusional, so I'm just going to start at the beginning. I'll post a couple pages of their first scene.
And let me reiterate:
I MUST DO THIS PLAY. I MUST PLAY CLARE.
This is my declaration of intent.
EXCERPT FROM The Two-Character Play
[At curtain rise, Felice, the male star of an acting company on a tour which has been far more extensive than was expected, comes out of a shadowy area, hesitantly, as if fearful of the light. He has a quality of youth without being young. He is a playwright, as well as player, but you would be likely to take him for apoet with sensibilities perhaps a little deranged. His hair is almost shoulder length, he wears a great coat that hangs nearly to his ankles; it has a somewhat mangy fur collar. It is thrown over his shoulders. We see that he wears a bizarre shirt -- figured with astrological signs -- "period" trousers of soft-woven fabric in slightly varying shades of grey: the total effect is theatrical and a bit narcissan.
He draws a piano stool into the light, sits down to make notes for a monologue on a scratch pad]
FELICE. [slowly, reflectively, writing] To play with fear is to play with fire. [He looks up as if he were silently asking some question of enormous consequence] -- No, worse, much worse, than playing with fire. Fire has limits. It comes to a river or sea and there it stops, it comes to stone or bare earth that it can't leap across and there is stopped, having nothing more to consume. But fear --
[There is the sound of heavy door slamming off stage]
Fox? Is that you, Fox?
[The door slams again]
Impossible! [He runs his hands through his long hair] Fear! The fierce little man with the drum inside the rib cage. Yes, compared to fear grown to panic which has no -- what? -- limits, at least none short of consciousness blowing out and not reviving again, compared to that, no other emotion a living, feeling creature is capable of having, not even love or hate, is comparable in -- what? -- force? -- magnitude?
CLARE. [from off stage] Felice!
FELICE. -- There is the love and the -- substitutions, the surrogate attachments, doomed to brief duration, no matter how -- necessary ... -- You can't, you must never catch hold of and cry out to a person, loved or needed as deeply as if loved -- "Take care of me, I'm frightened, don't know the next step!" The one so loved and needed would hold you in contempt. In the heart of this person -- him-her -- is a little automatic sound apparatus, and it whispers, "Demand! Blackmail! Despicable! Reject it!"
CLARE. [in the wings] Felice!
FELICE. Clare! ... What I have to do now is keep her from getting too panicky to give a good performance ... but she's not easy to fool in spite of her -- condition.
[Clare appears in the Gothic door to the backstage area. There is a ghostly spill of light in the doorway and she has an apparitional look about her. She has, like her brother, a quality of youth without being young, and also like Felice an elegance, perhaps even arrogance, of bearing that seems related to a past theatre of actor-managers and imperious stars. But her condition when she appears is 'stoned' and her grand theatre manner will alternate with something startlingly coarse, the change occurring as abruptly as if fanother personality seized hold of her at these moments. Both of these aspects, the grand and the vulgar, disappear entirely from the part of Clare in "The Performance," when she will have a childlike simplicity, the pure and sad precociousness of a little girl.
A tiara, several stones missing, dangles from her fingers. She gives a slight startling laugh when she notices it, shrugs, and sets it crookedly on her somewhat dishelved and streaked blonde head. She stars to move forward, then gasps and loudly draws back]
Now what?
CLARE. [with an uncertain laugh] I thought I was --
FELICE. Apparitions this evening?
CLARE. No, it was just my -- shadow, it scared me but it was just my shadow, that's all. [She advances unsteadily from the doorway] -- A doctor once told me that you and I were the bravest people he knew. I said, "Why, that's absurd, my brother and I are terrified of our shadows." And he said, "Yes, I know that, and that's why I admire your courage so much ..."
[Felice starts a taped recording of a guitar, then faces downstage]
FELICE. Fear is a monster vast as night --
CLARE. And shadow casting as the sun.
FELICE. It is quicksilver, quick as light --
CLARE. It slides beneath the down-pressed thumb.
FELICE. Last night we locked it from the house.
CLARE. But caught a glimpse of it today.
FELICE. IN a corner, like a mouse.
CLARE. Gnawing all four walls away.
[Felice stops the tape]
CLARE. [straightening her tiara] Well, where are they, the ladies and gentlemen of the press, I'm ready for them if they are ready for me.
FELICE. Fortunately we --
CLARE. Hmmm?
FELICE. -- don't have to face the press before this evening's performance.
CLARE. No press reception? Artists' Managemtn guaranteed, Magnus personally promised, no opening without maximum press coverage on this fucking junket into the boondocks -- Jesus, you know I'm wonderful with the press ... [She laughs hoarsely]
FELICE. You really think so, do you, on all occasions?
CLARE. Know so.
FELICE. Even when you rage against fascism to a honking gaggle of -- crypto-fascists? ... With all sheets to the wind?
CLARE. Yes, sir, especially then. -- You're terrible with the press, you go on and on about "total theatre" and, oh, do they turn off you and onto me ... Cockroach! Huge! [She stamps her foot] Go! -- I read or heard somewhere that cockroaches are immune to radiation and so are destined to be the last organic survivors of the great "Amen" -- after some centuries there's going to be cockroach actors and actresses and cockroach playwrights and -- Artists' Management and -- audiences ... [She gestures toward the audience]
FELICE. Have you got an "upper"?
CLARE. One for emergency, but --
FELICE. I think you'd better drop it.
CLARE. I never drop and upper before the interval. What I need now is just coffee. [She is struggling against her confusion] -- Tell Franz to get me a carton of steaming hot black coffee. I'm very annoyed with Franz. He didn't call me ... [She laughs a little] -- Had you forbidden him to?
[There is no response]
So I'm left to while the long night away in an unheated dressing room in a state theatre of a state unknown -- I have to be told when a performance is canceled! -- or won't perform! [Her tiara slips off. She crouches unsteadily to retrieve it]
FELICE. The performance has not been canceled and I called you, Clare.
CLARE. After I'd called you.
FELICE. I have some new business to give you, so come here.
CLARE. I'll not move another step without some -- Oh, light, finally something almost related to daylight! But it's not coming through a window, it's coming through a --
FELICE. [overlapping] -- There's a small hole in the backstage wall. [He crosses to look out at the audience] They're coming in.
CLARE. Do they seem to be human?
FELICE. No -- Yes! It's nearly curtain time, Clare.
CLARE. Felice! Where is everybody? -- I said, "Where is everybody?"
FELICE. Everybody is somewhere, Clare.
CLARE. Get off your high horse, I've had it! -- Will you answer my question?
FELICE. No cancelation!
CLARE. No show!
FELICE. What then? -- In your contrary opinion?
CLARE. Restoration of -- order!
FELICE. What order?
CLARE. Rational, rational! [Her tiara falls off again]
FELICE. Stop wearing out your voice before the --
CLARE. Felice, I hear gunfire!
FELICE. I don't!
CLARE. [sadly] ... We never hear the same thing at the same time any more, caro ... [She notices a throne-chair, canopied wiht gilded wooden lions on its arms: on the canopy, heraldic devices in gold thread] Why, my God, old Aquitaine Eleanor's throne! I'm going to usurp it a moment -- [She mounts the two steps to the chair and sits down in a stately fashion, as if to hold court]
FELICE. [holding his head] I swear I wouldn't know my head was on me if it wasn't aching like hell.
CLARE. What are you mumbling?
FELICE. An attack of migraine?
CLARE. You'd better take your codeine.
FELICE. I've never found that narcotics improve a performance, if you'll forgive me for that heresy, Clare.
CLARE. -- Is this tour nearly over?
FELICE. It could end tonight if we don't give a brilliant performance, in spite of --
CLARE. Then it's over, caro, all over ... How long were we on the way here? All I remember is that it would be light and then it would be dark and then it would be light and then dark again, and mountains turned to prairies and back to mountains, and I tell you honestly I don't have any idea or suspicion of where we are now.
FELICE. After the performance, Clare, I'll answer any questions you can think of, but I'm not going to hold up thte curtain to answer a single one now!
CLARE. [rising] -- Exhaustion has -- symptoms ...
FELICE. So do alcohol and other depressants less discreetly mentioned.
CLARE. I've only had half a grain of --
FELICE. Washed down with liquor, the effect's synergistic. Dr. Forrester told you that you coul dhave heart arrest -- on stage!
CLARE. Not because of anything in a bottle or box but --
FELICE. [overlapping] What I know is I play with a freaked out, staggering --
CLARE. [overlapping] Well, play with yourself, you long-haired son of a mother!
FELICE. [overlapping] Your voice is thick, slurred, you've picked up -- vulgarisms of -- gutters!
CLARE. [overlapping] What you pick up is stopped at the desk of any decent hotel.
FELICE. [overlapping] Stop it! I can't take any more of your --
CLARE. [overlapping] Truth!
FELICE. [overlapping] Sick, sick -- aberrtations!
[There is a pause.]
CLARE. [like a child] When are we going home?
FELICE. -- Clare, our home is a theatre anywhere that there is one.
CLARE. If this theatre is home, I'd burn it down over my head to be warm a few minutes ... You know I'm so blind I can't go on without crawling unless you --
FELICE. Wait a minute, a moment, I'm still checking props -- bowl of soapwater but only one spool ...
[Clare encounters the Gothic wood figure of a Madonna]
CLARE. -- You know, after last season's disaster, and the one before last, we should have taken a long, meditative rest on some Riviera instead of touring these primitive God-knows-where places.
FELICE. You couldn't stop any more than I could, Clare.
CLARE. If you'd stopped with me, I could have.
FELICE. With no place to return to, we have to go on, you know.
CLARE. And on, till finally -- here. I was so exhausted that I blacked out in a broken-back chair.
FELICE. I'm glad you got some rest.
CLARE. [hoarsely] The mirrors were blind with dust -- my voice is going, my voice is practically gone!
FELICE. --Phone where? Piano top. No. Table. -- Yes, you never come on stage before an opening night performance without giving me the comforting bit of news that your voice is gone and ... [imitating her voice] "I'll have to perform in pantomime tonight."
CLARE. Strike a lucifer for me.
[He strikes a match and she comes unsteadily into the interior set: he gives her a despairing look]
FELICE. -- Why the tiara?
CLARE. [vaguely] It was just in my hand, so I put it on my head.
October 24, 2005
"All I was doing was trying to get home from work."
Rosa Parks has died at age 92. She was "surrounded by a small group of friends and family members."
Rest in peace, dear courageous lady.
Other bloggers' thoughts and reflections on the passing of Rosa Parks:
Embarrassing oblivion
A friend asked me recently, "So have you heard from Irish guy?"
I greeted this with a blank stare. Not only was my expression blank but my entire BRAIN was a blank. Irish guy?
I said, "Uhm ... and what Irish guy would that be?"
She gave me a blank look herself, like I had gone insane. "You know ... Irish guy!"
I sat there, the epitome of oblivion, racking my brains. Racking my brains. Then - in a flash it came to me. The Irish guy she was referring to. The Irish guy I had met my last time in Ireland. The Irish guy I wept over for FOUR DAYS when I returned to America. And when I say "I wept for four days", I MEAN that I wept for four straight days. I was Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give. I would cry myself to sleep. Then pass out. I would then wake up, stare out into my room for a millisecond, and it all would come flooding back, and I would BURST into tears again. I was that weeping girl that you see on the subway. It's funny now, but then? It was wrenching. I filled up half a composition notebook with stories about Irish guy. The Irish guy I met in Glendalough. The Irish guy I went NUTS for.
And now? My response to the question, "Have you heard from the Irish guy?" is to go completely blank and have no idea what she is talking about.
Startling. And kind of embarrassing too. We howled with laughter about it, because I had, of course, bombarded her with the stories about "Irish guy" when I returned from Ireland. She was there for me when I sobbed into the phone about it. (He hadn't emailed me for four days and I literally became a weeping dybbuk of truly shocking proportions. I thrashed about in bed, moaning up into the darkness. hahahaha I mean, it's ABSURD, looking back on it ... but while I was in it? I could. Not. Stop. Crying. COULD. NOT. Like I wrote in the post about this whole thing - Love is merely a madness... I went a little bit mad for a week. Irish Guy, by the way, handled the whole Sheila meltdown trans-Atlanticallly, with humor and grace. But before that? I went INSANE.) Maybe love is like a fever. And when the fever passes, and health returns - you can't remember ever being that sick. You look back on the time of the fever with wonderment. You block it out.
If you had told me, while I was tossing and turning through the wee smas, sobbing up into the night with great wrenching sobs that came up out of my feckin' SOLAR PLEXUS, if you had told me: "Uhm ... Sheila ... 10 months from now, when someone asks you if you've heard from the Irish guy ... you will not know who she is talking about ..." I flat out would not have believed you.
I bet, too, that by next year I won't remember his name.
This has nothing to do with his worth as a human being. He was GREAT and my time with him - at Glendalough - is something I will never ever forget. EVER.
It's just that ...
The fogs of time are already obliterating him ...
Weird.
It's kind of embarrassing. But dammit, I can't hold onto EVERY thing. I've already got the triumvirate to deal with ... I guess there isn't room for one more?
Sorry, Irish guy. You were really awesome.
The Books: "Small Craft Warnings" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Small Craft Warnings
Another one of his plays from the early 70s. I think it's his best title as well. There's something about it that is just so evocative, so symbolically perfect once you read the play ... Small Craft Warnings. Those words are said in the play only once, and in a real throwaway moment ... it's not a big pointed-out thing ... but the more you think about it, the more levels you see to that title. This is a play about those who live on the utter fringe of society - those who have either checked out of life, because they are alcoholics - or those who couldn't adjust to normal life, whether clean and sober or not. All of them: small craft. It's just a perfect title.
It takes place in a bar on the southern California coast. The bar is right on the beach. It's a dive. Maybe it's right off a highway or something - because occasionally, drifters come in - and the owner has a real problem with people who have nowhere to go, and show up at the bar expecting handouts.
The play is not meant to be totally realistic. Each character (and there are only 7, I think) has a moment when all the action around him or her stops - a spotlight falls on them - and they have a monologue spoken directly to the audience. So we see who they are, socially - we see their interactions - we judge who they are, of course, on how they behave - as we judge all people - but then, in a moment of revelation, each one gets to describe what is REALLY going on - and not only that - but what it is LIKE to be them. There's no real plot, only a bare bones of one.
The people in the bar are: Monk, the owner, who lives upstairs. Doc, a raging alcoholic who was kicked out of the medical profession for doing surgeries while drunk. He still practices, though - only now he has to do it in secret. He's a pathetic character. There's Leona and Bill - a "couple" - but really only out of convenience. Leona is a beautician who lives in a trailer - and Bill, a hustler, who pretty much has sex with people for money, has been shacking up with her. Bill is on the verge of losing his looks - he's not able to really sell himself anymore - he's another pathetic character. He is all about his penis. He is obsessed with his penis - Leona describes his relationship to his genitals as "his religion" to someone else during the play - Bill basically expects that everyone else will be obsessed with his penis, too. He is a rapidly fading hustler. Pathetic. He's the male equivalent of the older female floozy. The woman who is a bit too old to be wearing bright red lipstick, and a bit too old to be out flirting with strangers at 3 in the morning. It's okay when you're 22, 23, but ... 50? It starts to get ikky. That's Bill. Leona, during the course of the play, breaks up with Bill - he's a free-loader. Then there's Violet - a slut, basically. But a slut, Tennessee Williams style. She pretty much can't stop crying throughout the entire play. Leona, at one point, refers to her as a 'water plant' - also 'an amorphous creature' - unable to ever put down a root. Violet lives out of her suitcase, and rents a room above an amusement arcade - She hangs out at the arcade and picks up sailors. She's a very very very weird woman. Men walk by her and she literally can't stop herself - she reaches out and grabs their crotch. It's a compulsion - she can't stop herself. It drives Leona insane, especially because Violet knows no boundaries and is always going after Bill's crotch as well. Violet is a MESS. All she does is drink, and cry. She never eats. Then there's Steve - the short-order cook. Another pathetic dude who thinks that he is Violet's boyfriend. It embarrasses him, though - that he is at a point in his life when VIOLET is the best he can do for himself. These people are always in the bar.
During the course of the play, two strangers come in: Quentin and Bobby. Quentin is an older gay man (but Tennessee says that he should not give off an "effeminate" vibe, but more of a "sexless" vibe) - who has picked up the young gorgeous Bobby, who was riding his bike along the highway. Bobby is from Iowa, I believe - and is the only "innocent" one in the play. Quentin is such a jaded old queen - that any real human feeling or real human warmth is not possible for him. He is the epitome of "over it". He has been there, done that, in a COSMIC sense. (I know people like that. They are colossal bores.) But there he is with Bobby, a fresh-faced free-spirited kid - Quentin has picked Bobby up for the express purpose of having sex with him. Bobby is kind of laid-back, and complies. But Quentin has this whole weird older-gay-man psychodrama going on ... and Bobby eventually realizes this and gets the hell away from him. He doesn't want to become a sad old queen. That's really his only option, and he doesn't want to be anything like Quentin. He doesn't even want to be "gay" because of the entire WORLD that inevitably comes along with that label - a world that he sees as sad, lonely, and pathetic.
Meanwhile: Leona once had a brother - a beloved brother - who died of TB. This younger brother was gay - and the second Bobby walks into the place, Leona is stunned at the resemblance. She becomes attached to Bobby. She follows him around. She asks him to live in her trailer with her. She wants to be "a gay man's moll". Bobby resists - he is young - he is not yet at the end of the road, like everybody else in the bar. You only live with Leona in her trailer when you are at the end of the road. Leona basically never recovered from losing her brother. In her mind, he was all that was good and pure and perfect -and when he died, he took the possibility of goodness with him.
I'll post a bit from an exchange between Quentin and Leona - which then leads into Quentin's inner-monologue moment. Just so you can see how the structure of the play works.
And man. What a title. Small Craft Warnings.
EXCERPT FROM Small Craft Warnings
LEONA. Name?
QUENTIN. Quentin ... Miss?
LEONA. Leona. Dawson. And he's?
QUENTIN. Bobby.
LEONA. Bobby, come back to the party. I want you back here, love. Resume your seat. [Resting a hand on the boy's stiff shoulder] You're a literary gent with the suede shit-kickers and a brass-button blazer and a ... [flicks his scarf]
BILL. [leering from bar] Ask him if he's got change for a three-dollar bill.
QUENTIN. Yes, if you have the bill.
LEONA. Ignore the peasants. I don't think that monkey-faced mother will serve us that bourbon ... I never left his bar without leaving a dollar tip on the table, and this is what thanks I get for it, just because it's the death-day of my brother and I showed a little human emotion about it. Now, what's the trouble between you and this kid from Iowa where the tall corn blows, I mean grows?
QUENTIN. I only go for straight trade. But this boy ... look at him! Would you guess he was gay? ... I didn't, I thought he was straight. But I had an unpleasant surprise when he responded to my hand on his knee by putting his hand on mine.
BOBBY. I don't dig the word "gay". To me they mean nothing, those words.
LEONA. Aw, you've got plenty of time to learn the meanings of words and cynical attitudes. Why he's got eyes like my brother's! Have you paid him?
QUENTIN. For disappointment?
LEONA. Don't be a mean-minded mother. Give him a five, a ten. If you picked up what you don't want, it's your mistake and pay for it.
BOBBY. I don't want money from him. I thought he was nice, I liked him.
LEONA. Your mistake, too. [She turns to Quentin] Gimme your wallet.
[Quentin hands her his wallet]
BOBBY. He's disappointed. I don't want anything from him.
LEONA. Don't be a fool. Fools aren't respected, you fool. [She removes a bill from the wallet and stuffs it in the pocket of Bobby's shirt. Bobby starts to return it] Okay, I'll hold it for you till he cuts out of here to make another pickup and remind me to give it back to you when he goes. He wants to pay you, it's part of his sad routine. It's like doing penance ... penitence.
BILL. [loudly] Monk, where's the head?
MONK. None of that here, Bill.
QUENTIN. [with a twist of smile toward Bill] Pity.
LEONA. [turning to Quentin] Do you like being alone except for vicious pickups? The kind you go for? If I understood you correctly? ... Christ, you have terrible eyes, the expression in them! What are you looking at?
QUENTIN. The fish over the bar ...
LEONA. You're changing the subject.
QUENTIN. No, I'm not, not a bit ... Now suppose some night I woke up and I found that fantastic fish ... what is it?
LEONA. Sailfish. What about it?
QUENTIN. Suppose I woke up some midnight and found that peculiar thing swimming around in my bedroom? Up the Canyon?
LEONA. In a fish bowl? Aquarium?
QUENTIN. No, not in a bowl or aquarium: free, unconfined.
LEONA. Impossible.
QUENTIN. Granted. It's impossible. But suppose it occurred just the same, as so many impossible things do occur just the same. Suppose I woke up and discovered it there, swimming round and round in the darkness over my bed, with a faint phosphorescent glow in its big goggle-eyes and its gorgeously iridescent fins and tail making a swishing sound as it circles aorund and about and around and bout right over my head in my bed.
LEONA. Hah!
QUENTIN. Now suppose this admittedly preposterous thing did occur. What do you think I would say?
LEONA. To the fish?
QUENTIN. To myself and the fish.
LEONA. ... I'll be raped by an ape if I can imagine what a person would say in a situation like that.
QUENTIN. I'll tell you what I would say, I would say, "Oh, well ..."
LEONA. ... Just "Oh, well"?
QUENTIN. "Oh, well!" is all I would say before I went back to sleep.
LEONA. What I would say is: "Get the hell out of here, you goggle-eyed monstrosity of a mother," that's what I'd say to it.
MONK. Leona, let's lighten it up.
QUENTIN. You don't see the point of my story?
LEONA. Nope.
QUENTIN. [to Bobby] Do you see the point of my story? [Bobby shakes his head] Well, maybe I don't either.
LEONA. Then why'd you tell it?
QUENTIN. What is the thing that you mustn't lose in this world before you're ready to leave it? The one thing you mustn't lose ever?
LEONA. ... Love?
[Quentin laughs]
BOBBY. Interest?
QUENTIN. That's closer, much closer. Yes, that's almost it. The word that I had in mind is surprise, though. The capacity for being surprised. I've lost the capacity for being surprised, so completely lost it, that if I woke up in my bedroom late some night and saw that fantastic fish swimming right over my head I wouldn't be really surprised.
LEONA. You mean you'd think you were dreaming?
QUENTIN. Oh, no. Wide awake. But not really surprised. [The special spotlight concentrates on him. The bar dims, but an eerie glow should remain on the sailfish over the bar] There's a coarseness, a deadening coarseness, in the experience of most homosexuals. The experiences are quick, and hard, and brutal, and the pattern of them is particularly unchanging. Their act of love is like the jabbing of a hypodermic needle to which they're addicted but which is more and more empty of real interest and surprise. This lack of variation and surprise in their ... "love life" ... [He smiles harshly] ... spreads into other areas of ... "sensibility" ... Yes, once, quite a long while ago, I was often startled by the sense of being alive, of being myself, living! Present on earth, in the flesh, yes, for some completely mysterious reason, a single, separate, intensely conscious being, myself: living! ... Whenever I would feel this ... feeling, this ... shock of ... what? ... self-realization? ... I would be stunned, I would be thunderstruck by it. And by the existence of everything that exists, I'd be lighning-struck with astonishment ... it would do more than astound me, it would give me a feeling of panic, this sudden sense of ... I suppose it was like an epileptic seizure, except that I didn't fall to the ground in convusions; no, I'd be more apt to try to lose myself in a crowd on a street until the seizure was finished ... They were dangerous seizures. One time I drove into the mountains and smashed the car into a tree, and I'm not sure if I meant to do that, or ... In a forest, you'll sometimes see a giant tree, several hundred years old, that's scarred, that's blazed by lightning, and the wound is almost obscured by the obstinately still living and growing bark. I wonder if such a tree has learned the same lesson that I have, not to feel astonishment any more but just go on, continue for two or three hundred years more? ... This boy I picked up tonight, the kid from the tall corn country, still has the capacity for being surprised by what he sees, hears and feels in this kingdom of earth. All the way up the canyon to my place, he kept saying, I can't believe it, I'm here, I've come to the Pacific, the world's greatest ocean! ... as if nobody, Magellan or Balboa or even the Indians had ever seen it before him, yes, like he'd discovered this ocean, the largest on earth, and so now, because he'd found it himself, it existed, now, for the first time, never before ... And this excitement of his reminded me of my having lost the ability to say: "My God!" instead of just: "Oh, well." I've asked all the questions, shouted them at deaf heaven, till I was hoarse in the voice box and blue in the face, and gotten no answer, not the whisper of one, nothing at all, you see, but the sun coming up each morning and going down that night, and the galaxies of the night sky trooping onstage like chorines, robot chorines: one, two, three, kick, one, two, three, kick ... Repeat any question too often and what do you get, what's given? ... A big carved rock by a desert, a ... monumental symbol of wornout passion and bewilderment in you, a stupid stone paralyzed sphinx that knows no answers that you don't but comes on like the oracle of all time, waiting on her belly to give out some outcries of universal wisom, and if she woke up some midnight at the edge of the desert and saw that fantastic fish swimming over her head ... y'know what she'd say, too? She'd say: "Oh, well" ... and go back to sleep for another five thousand years. [He turns back; and the bar is relighted. He returns to the table.]
October 23, 2005
The Books: "Kingdom of Earth (The Seven Descents of Myrtle)" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Kingdom of Earth (The Seven Descents of Myrtle)
This play was produced on Broadway in 1971, I think - early 1970s. Estelle Parsons was the star, she played Myrtle. There are seven scenes in the play - each one describing another level of "descent" for the main character of Myrtle. Again, any playwright who wants to learn about how to craft a play would do well to just study the works of Tennessee Williams. He just knows how to do it. He sets up the plot, he presents the characters, and then he just keeps turning up the fire. It's all about keeping the pressure on, keeping the stakes high - every scene is between two people, battling for their lives. Or battling for their perspective on life to be paramount, to win. And to lose? Is unthinkable. These are all elements of great playwriting, in my opinion.
The plot here is this:
Myrtle, a blowsy ex-show girl with a loud obnoxious voice, has just married Lot - a man she has known for only 24 hours. Lot takes her home to his family place - which is now being run by Chicken, his half-brother who is suspected of being half-black. In the world Williams is describing - rural Mississippi in 1960 - this makes a huge difference in Chicken's life. He is an outcast. Women spit on him when he tries to pick them up. Yadda yadda. But anyway. That's a side issue. Lot takes Myrtle home to his family house - only he hasn't warned her that Chicken lives there, that Chicken is determined to inherit the house when Lot dies - which will probably be soon. Lot only has one working lung, he is dying of TB, and should kick the bucket at any moment. Myrtle has been informed of NONE of this. She thinks her new husband just needs a rest. She doesn't know anything about a half-brother with a claim on the family house.
More character stuff:
Lot's mother recently died. And Lot is a frail boy with a big ol' mother complex. He takes Myrtle into his house, and all he does is talk about his mother - how she washed the chandelier, how she knew about style and what to wear, etc etc. Myrtle is turned off by this grown man's attachment to his dead mother. She assures him that she is NOT his mother, but his wife. And she will do the best she can to be the lady of the house, but she will NOT be his mother.
Lot is obviously gay. On their wedding night - just a couple hours earlier - he was impotent with Myrtle. Myrtle tries to reassure him that it's okay, no big deal, they will try again ... but Lot knows better. At the end of the play - Lot, in a ritualistic manner, slowly puts on all of his mother's clothes while Myrtle is out of the room. He puts on her dress, her pumps, her little hat ... he puts on lipstick ... he picks up her old-lady purse with the mother-of-pearl clasp ... and then basically falls down on the floor, and dies. A strange image ... a strange ritual ... Lot's only love of his life was his mother.
But through the rest of the play, all Lot does is sit in a rocking chair, smoking cigarettes (using a long ivory cigarette holder) and smiling off into the distanct with a "Mona Lisa smile". Myrtle is loud, brash, kind of common - immediately starts washing her underwear in the sink, and hanging up the undies to dry around the room - all stuff that kind of insults Lot's very fey and delicate view of the world, and aesthetics, and how women should be. All women should be just like his mother - a woman who wore little hats with veils, and had purses with mother-of-pearl clasps, etc. But he married Myrtle - an earthly ex-show girl with a loud harsh voice.
You kind of fall in love with Myrtle, even though she is loud and a bit oblivious. She says at the end of the play that she has a "warm nature" and that is true. She wants to take care of Lot. She informs him that the "deepest chord" in her is the "maternal streak" she has. You wouldn't think that would be the case, but it is obviously true. She just wants to feed him right, and keep him warm, and make sure he gets better. She has no idea that he is about to die.
Chicken is the polar opposite of Lot. It is the two sides of masculinity - that Williams was always exploring. Lot isn't just "gay". He is a fairy. I don't mean to be insulting - but that's what Williams wrote. He is an ineffectual, impotent, cross-dressing, mother-dominated fairy. You kind of despise him, actually. Not for those reasons, really - but because he is dishonest, and cold. You understand why he is ... the entire play is Lot sitting in a chair, contemplating the open door of death. He knows that's where he must go, and he just needs to finish up his affairs in the "kingdom of earth" before he takes that first step. But I admit: There are some parts with Lot where I want to slap his face, slap the smirk off his face, and tell him to be a man. This is what Williams wants us to feel. We have sympathy for him - but - no. It's more that we PITY him. We pity anyone who is at death's door. Our sympathy, and our compassion, ALL go with Myrtle. We see the world through her eyes - and we see that a woman like her, a hot-blooded woman, needs a "real man" - even though she is afraid of the prospect, because she is afraid of losing control. The course of the play, the "seven descents of Myrtle" is her eventually relinquishing control. And it is THIS which allows her to be a "real woman". This is another of Williams' themes - that he explored to the fullest in Summer and Smoke. The image of femininity that Lot reveres in the memory of his dead mother is one of prissy refinement. A love of nice things, of beautiful accessories, of propriety. Tennessee Williams always saw that this was DEATH to a woman expressing her true nature - he saw it in his own domineering prissy mother, and he saw it in the downfall of his sister Rose - a warm-blooded warm-natured woman who had passionate feelings, and ended up being institutionalized and lobotomized because she had no legitimate outlet. You either become a priss or you become a whore. Williams saw that as the unfair choices women had to make - and was constantly trying to explore ways that women could integrate, could have BOTH and still be respectable members of society. In the world he grew up in, that was not a possibility. He saw that as a tragedy. All of this could be seen as an extended metaphor for his homosexuality - and sure, that's part of it. But I prefer to not just see his plays as biographical explorations. I see them as works of art, with themes he found compelling and important. He loved women, and he loved men - big gruff rough men. He understood the helplessness and attraction women felt when confronted by a certain kind of man - the kind of man that cannot be dominated (the Stanley Kowalskis, the John Buchanans) - wild rough masculine men. In order to succumb to such a man - women, who were raised to be little prisses - had to abandon their senses of pride and propriety. That is what Stella had to do in order to accept her marriage to Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire
But in the end, we also realize that Lot had yet another secret up his sleeve - and that he's actually a kind of hero. We don't have to LIKE our heroes personally - but it certainly should be recognized that Lot IS a hero.
Lot's brother Chicken is an outcast. He lives and works at the family farm - which has been left to him (because it was understood that Lot was not long for this earth). The family farm is all he has. Chicken lives like an animal. He is a big rough gruff working man - who wipes his dirty hands on his clothes - who eats with his mouth open - who has put nudie pictures all over the kitchen - and who despises his fairy brother. When Lot walks in the door with his brand-new wife, Chicken is merciless about it. He knows Lot isn't a 'real man' - but what Chicken fears is that because Lot is now married - his claim on the house could be challenged if Lot dies. Maybe Myrtle will now become "the lady of the house" - and he would be kicked to the curb. So Chicken begins a course of intimidation and humiliation - to cut Myrtle down to size, to not let her get any funny ideas.
He is an uncivilized animal.
And yet ... naturally ... he is also a powerfully sexual magnetic guy ... and Myrtle, living with her impotent TB-infected transvestite husband ... is drawn to him. Yet she is also disgusted by him, and his filthy manners.
BUT - and here is Williams' genius - Myrtle and Chicken are actually, when you get right down to it, kindred spirits. They are from the same world. Lot is already moving into the land of the spiritual, he is not of this earth. But Myrtle and Chicken are undeniably of this earth. Myrtle tries to maintain her dignity, tries to resist Chicken - but Chicken, from the first time he laid eyes on her, knows that she is "like him". He goes after her. She is terrified of him.
Eventually, of course, she succumbs. While Lot sits upstairs, smoking, smiling off into the distance.
Now here is where Lot is a hero: He knew all along that he could never be a proper husband to Myrtle. He knew he was impotent, and he knew he did not have long for this earth.
But somewhere he also knew: that his hated half-brother Chicken needed a mate. So on some level - he has brought Myrtle back - as a present to his outcast brother.
Chicken (who you start out DESPISING and by the end of the play - you actually really like him) has a great monologue at the very end, where he explains himself:
I'll tell you how I look at life in my life, or in any man's life. There's nothing in the world, in the whole kingdom of earth, that can compare with one thing, and that one thing is what's able to happen between a man and a woman, just that thing, nothing more, is perfect. The rest is crap, all of the rest is almost nothing but crap. Just that one thing's good, and if you never had nothing else but that, no property, no success in the world, but still had that, why, then I say this life would still be worth something, and you beteter believe it. Yes, you could come home to a house like a shack, in blazing heat, and look for water and find not a drop to drink, and look for food and find not a single crumb of it. But if on the bed you seen you a woman waiting, maybe not very young or good-looking even, and she looked up at you and said to you, "Daddy, I want it," why, then I say you got a square deal out of life, and whoever don't think so has just not had the right woman. That's how I look at it, that's how I see it now, in this kingdom of earth.
So Lot does die, but not before he presents Chicken with a mate. A woman who eventually gets over her fear of Chicken and realizes her immense attraction to him.
It's a wonderful play. Oh, and just to add to the stakes: It is hurricane season, and the town is being flooded as the course of the play goes on. Everyone has evacuated - except for the 3 characters in the play. The play ends with Chicken and Myrtle running to climb up on the roof, because the levee has broken and the flood is now coming. Lot lies dead on the parlor floor, dressed in his mother's clothes.
In the world of Tennessee Williams, this is a happy ending.
I'll excerpt from the opening scene - when Lot and Myrtle arrive at the house. Chicken has locked himself in the kitchen. Myrtle doesn't even know of his existence yet.
EXCERPT FROM Kingdom of Earth (The Seven Descents of Myrtle)
MYRTLE. -- Well, this is an elegant parlor, an elegant little parlor.
LOT. My mother did all she could to give some quality to the place, but my father -- [deep breath] -- He was a man that liked to sit in a kitchen and wouldn't let Mother build a dining room onto the house. When he died, howling like a wild beast, Mother was free to transform this place or tear it down to the ground, but life was cruel to Mother. It gave her no time to carry out her plans. Outlived my father by shortly less than one year.
MYRTLE. -- Sad ...
LOT. -- Yes. -- Tragic.
MYRTLE. -- Hmmmm. A parlor with gold chairs is -- like a dream!
LOT. The chandelier is crystal but the pendants are dusty, they've got to be all taken down, one by one, dipped in hot soapy water. Then rinsed in a bowl of clear water, then dried off with soft tissue paper and hung back up. [Chicken grins savagely in the kitchen] Mother and I used to do it, she never allowed the colored girl to touch a thing in this parlor or even come in it. Beautiful things can only be safely cared for by people that know and love them. The day before she died, do you know what she did? [Myrtle shakes her head, staring curiously at her exotic young husband] -- She removed each crystal pendant from the little brass hook it hung on, passed it down to me, to be soaped and rinsed and dried, and then replaced on its little brass hook.
MYRTLE. Baby, you got a mother complex, as they call it, and I'm gonna make you forget it. You hear me?
LOT. You;ve got a voice that no one in a room with you could help but hear when you speak.
MYRTLE. That's awright. When I speak I want to be heard. Now, baby, this mother complex, I'm gonna get that out of you, Lot, cause I'm not just your wife, I'm also your mother, and I'm not daid, I'm livin'. A-course I don't mean I'm gonna replace her in your heart, but -- [She draws up one of the little gilded chairs close to the one on which he is seated]
LOT. Don't sit on Mother's gold chairs. They break too easy.
MYRTLE. You are sittin' on one.
LOT. I'm lighter than you.
MYRTLE. Well! I stand corrected! -- Mr. Skin and Bones! -- Do I have to stay on my feet in this parlor or can I sit on the sofa?
LOT. Yes, sit on the sofa. [Slight pause. His head droops forward and his violet-lidded eyes close] -- The little animal has to make a home of its own ...
MYRTLE. I didn't catch the remark.
LOT. -- What?
MYRTLE. You said something about an animal.
LOT. I'm too tired to know what I'm saying.
MYRTLE. Are you too tired to hear what I'm saying?
LOT. What are you saying?
MYRTLE. I'm saying that all my electric equipment is sitting out there under the leaky roof of your car.
LOT. -- Oh. -- Yes ....
MYRTLE. Didn' you tell me you had niggers here working fo' you?
LOT. There's a house girl named Clara and her unmarried husband.
MYRTLE. How do you call this unmarried couple of niggers when you want something done?
LOT. You -- [deep breath] -- have to step outside and ring a bell for 'em.
MYRTLE. Where is this bell you ring for 'em?
LOT. The bell is -- [deep breath] -- in the kitchen.
MYRTLE. Well, kitchen, here I come! [During the above, Chicken has opened the kitchen door to hear the talk in the parlor. Now he closes it and locks it silently] The unmarried nigra couple're gonna step pretty lively fo' Mrs. Lot Ravenstock. [She charges to the kitchen door behind which Chicken is lurking. Lot sways and falls off the chair, staggers to the sofa. Myrtle finds the door locked, rattles the knob and calls out --] Who is in there? Who is in this kitchen? -- Somebody's in there! [She presses her ear to the door. Chicken breathes loudly as if he'd been fighting. Myrtle rattles the knob again and a key falls to the floor inside the ktichen. Myrtle is startled and subdued. She returns to the parlor as if a little frightened] -- If that's a dawg in there, why don't it bark?
LOT. -- Dawg?
MYRTLE. That kitchen door was locked or it was stuck mighty tight. And I swear I heard something breathing right behind it, like a big dawg was in there. Will you wake up an' lissen t'what I tell you?
LOT. [in a hoarse whisper] I thought he was hiding in there.
MYRTLE. Who? What?
LOT. -- Chicken.
MYRTLE. Chicken? Hiding? A chicken, you say, is hiding in the kitchen? What are you tawkin about? -- No chicken breathes that loud that I ever met!
LOT. Myrtle, when I say Chicken I don't mean the kind of chicken with feathers. I mean my half brother Chicken who runs this place for me.
MYRTLE. I'll be switched! This is a piece of news!
LOT. Keep your voice down, please. I got some things to tell you about the situation on this place.
MYRTLE. -- Maybe you should've told me about it before?
LOT. Yes, maybe. But anyhow ... now ...
MYRTLE. You are making me nervous. You mean your brother is hiding in that kitchen while we are sitting in here half frozen?
LOT. Cain't you talk quiet?
MYRTLE. Not when I am upset. If he is in there, why don't you call him out?
LOT. He'll come out after awhile. The sight of a woman walking in this house must have give him a little something to think about in that kitchen, is what I figure.
MYRTLE. Well, all I can say is -- "Well!"
LOT. -- That's what I figure.
MYRTLE. And that's why you're shaking all over.
LOT. I'm shaking because I am cold with no fire anywhere in this house except in the kitchen. And it's locked up. With him in it.
MYRTLE. This makes about as much sense as a Chinese crossword puzzle to me. Can you explain why this half brother of yours would be hiding in the kitchen when we come home, pretending not to be here or -- God knows what?!
LOT. Everything can't be explained to you all at once here, Myrtle. Will you try to remember something? Will you just try to get something in your haid?
MYRTLE. What?
LOT. This place is mine. You are my wife. You are now the lady of the house. Is that understood?
MYRTLE. Then why --?
LOT. Sh! Will you? Please? Keep your voice down to something under a shout?
MYRTLE. But --
LOT. Will you? Will you PLEASE?
MYRTLE. Awright. [sniffs] Now I got the shivers, too. -- If he's in the kitchen, why don't he come out?
LOT. He won't come out till he's ready. Be patient. Do you like sherry wine?
MYRTLE. I don't think I ever had any.
LOT. Some of Miss Lottie's sherry's still left in this ole cutglass decanter.
MYRTLE. [absently] Aw. Good. Good ...
LOT. [in his thin, breathless voice] This is Bohemian glass, these here wineglasses, are.
MYRTLE. -- What d'ya know ...
LOT. Ev'ry afternoon about this time, Miss Lottie would take a glass of this Spanish sherry with a raw egg in it to keep her strength up. It would always revive her, even when she was down to eighty-two pounds, her afternoon sherry and eggs, she called it her sherry flip, would pick her right up and she'd be bright an' lively.
MYRTLE. -- Imagine me thinkin' that that was a dawg in there. Yeah, I thought that huffing I heard in there was a big old dawg in the kitchen, locked up in there, I didn't -- ha ha! -- suspect that it was -- ha ha! -- your -- brother ... [He begins to cough; it shakes him like a dead leaf, the cough, and he leans panting against the wall staring at Myrtle with pale stricken eyes. She gathers him close in her arms ...] Why, baby! Precious love! -- That's an awful cough! -- I wonder if you could be comin' down with th' flu?
[Lot coughs -- stops. Chicken's frozen attitude by the door was released by the sound of Lot's paroxysm of coughing. He crosses to a cupboard, takes out a jug and takes a long, long drink]
LOT. -- A place with no woman sure does all go to pieces.
MYRTLE. Well, now they's a woman here.
LOT. That's right: we'll make some changes.
MYRTLE. You bet we will. And bright and early tomorrow, the first thing we do after breakfast, we'll, we'll, we'll -- we'll get out that ole stepladder and wash those whatch-ma-call-ems and make them shine like the chandelier in Leow's State on Main Street in Memphis! And we will -- oh, we'll do a whole lot of things as soon as this weather clears up. And soon it's going to be summer. You know that, sugar? It's going to be summer real soon and --
LOT. Yeah, it'll be summer, the afternoons'll be long and hot and yellow, the damp'll dry out of the walls and --
MYRTLE. I'M GONNA MAKE YOU REST! And build you up. You hear me? I'm gonna make you recover your lost strength, baby -- you and me are gonna have us a baby, and if it's a boy we're going to call it Lot, and if it's a girl we're gonna name her Lottie.
LOT. [his eyes falling shut] If beds could talk what stories they could tell ...
MYRTLE. Baby, last night don't count. You was too nervous. I'll tell you something I know that might surprise you. A man is twice as nervous as a woman, and you are twice as nervous as a man.
LOT. Do you mean I'm not a man?
MYRTLE. I mean you're superior to a man. [She hugs him to her and sings --]
"Cuddle up a little closer, baby mine.
Cuddle up and say you'll be my clinging vine!"
Mmmm, Sugar! Last night you touched the deepest chord in my nature, which is the maternal chord in me. Do you know, do you realize what a beautiful thing you are?
LOT. I realize that I resemble my mother.
MYRTLE. To me you resemble just you. The first, the most, the only refined man in my life. Skin, eyes, hair any girl would be jealous of. A mouth like a flower. Kiss me! [He submits to a kiss] Mmmm, I could kiss you forever!
LOT. I wouldn't be able to breathe.
MYRTLE. You're refined and elegant as this parlor.
LOT. I want you to promise me something. If Chicken asks you, and when he gets drunk he will ask you --
MYRTLE. Chicken will ask me nothing that I won't answer in aces and spades.
LOT. There's something you mustn't answer if he asks you.
MYRTLE. What thing is that, baby?
LOT. If I'm a --
MYRTLE. If you're a what?
LOT. Strong lover. -- Tell him I satisfy you.
MYRTLE. Oh, now, baby, there'd be no lie about that. Y' know, they's a lot more to this sex business than two people jumpin' up an' down on each other's eggs. You know that, or you ought to.
LOT. I'm going to satisfy you when I get my strength back, and meanwhile -- make out like I do. Completely. Already. I mean when talking to Chicken.
MYRTLE. Aw, Chicken again, a man that huffs like a dawg an' hides in the kitchen, do you think I'd talk about us to him, about our love with each other? All I want from that man is that he opens the kitchen door so I can go in there and grab hold of that bell and ring the clapper off it for that girl that works here, that Clara. I'll make her step, all right, and step quick, too. The first thing she's gotta do is haul in all that electric equipment in the car, before it gits damp an' rusts on me.
LOT. Myrtle, I told you that when there's danger of flood, the colored help on a place cut out for high ground. Till the danger's over.
MYRTLE. Then what're we doin' on low ground instid of high ground?
LOT. To protect our property from possible flood damage. This is your house, your home. Aren't you concerned with protecting it for us?
MYRTLE. My house, my home! I never suspected, how much havin' property of my own could mean to me will all of a sudden I have some. Home, home, land, a little dream of a parlor, elegant as you, refined as you are.
[During this talk, Chicken has his ear pressed to the kitchen door, fiercely muttering phrases from the talk]
LOT. -- Chicken calls me a sissy.
MYRTLE. Well, he better not call you no sissy when Myrtle's around. I'll fix his wagon up good, I mean I WILL!
LOT. SHH! -- Myrtle, you've got an uncontrollable voice. He's listening to us. -- You think you could handle Chicken?
MYRTLE. Want to make a bet on it? I've yet to meet the man that I couldn't handle.
LOT. You ain't met Chicken.
MYRTLE. I'm gonna meet him! -- Whin he comes outa that kitchen ...
LOT. He will, soon, now. It's gettin' dark outside, and I heard him set the jug down on the kitchen table.
MYRTLE. Awright, I'm ready for him, anytime he comes out, I'm ready to meet him, and one thing I want to git straight. Who's going to be running this place, me or this Chicken?
LOT. This place is mine. You're my wife.
MYRTLE. That's what I wanted to know. Then I'm in charge here.
LOT. You're taking the place of Miss Lottie. She ran the house and you'll run it.
MYRTLE. Good. Then that's understood.
LOT. It better be understood. Cause Chicken is not my brother, we're just half brothers and the place went to me. It's mine.
MYRTLE. Did you have diff'rent daddies?
LOT. No, we had diff'rent mothers. Very diff'rent mothers! [Chicken snorts like a wild horse] He's coming out now! [Chicken emerges slowly from the kitchen and starts up the dark narrow hall]
MYRTLE. Let's go meet him.
LOT. No. Wait here. Sit right. And remember that you're the lady of the house.
[Chicken pauses, listening in the dim hall]
MYRTLE. It don't seem natural to me. [Lot removes an ivory cigarette holder from a coat pocket, puts a cigarette in it and lights it. His hands are shaky. Myrtle says nervously:] -- A parlor with gold chairs is like a dream!
LOT. -- A woman in the house is like a dream.
October 22, 2005
The Books: "The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore
Produced in 1963 - this haunting play shows the direction Tennessee Williams began to take as he got older. He moved further and further away from traditional drama, traditional plots - and began to experiment with other theatrical elements. I love his stuff in the 60s - even as it gets more and more phantasmagoric, and fantastic. The writing is still solid. But Tennessee Williams was not the kind of writer to just keep trying to repeat himself. He did not become a caricature of his earlier self. So refreshing. I admire his journey as an artist so much - because of many things, but mainly because of his insistence on growth. He INSISTED on it. It was not easy. He was not always applauded for it. His plays in the 60s and 70s were greeted with baffled silence broken up by occasional questions along the lines of: "Why don't you write another Streetcar?" To him the answer was simple. He was younger when he wrote Streetcar, he had different concerns, different energy ... and it was natural that that energy would change as the years went on.
Anyway. I've always admired him because he didn't sit back on his laurels. He said once: "I write. Sometimes I like what I write. That is enough." Incredible.
So this play. Tallulah Bankhead starred as Mrs. Goforth (uhm - you can see, just by her name, that he is moving into more obvious symbolic territory). And Tab Hunter starred as Christopher Flanders (another symbolic name - since this character, whenever and wherever he shows up, is usually a harbinger of impending death).
Mrs. Goforth is an old rich widow (married 4 times) - a former Ziegfeld girl - a woman with a legendary past (in her own mind, anyway) - kind of a famous party girl, once upon a time. She is now dying (only she will not admit it) - and she lives on top of a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean. She has her entire house wired with microphones, because she is dictating her memoirs - into the thin air - and wants to make sure that whatever room she is in, whatever time she wakes up, the microphones will be there to pick up her detailed exquisite memories. She has a fantasy that her book will be better than Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. Basically: deep down she knows she's dying, and she is terrified. Her memoir MUST be complete before she goes. But none of this is admitted to herself. She just staggers around her mansion, in her old Ziegfeld costumes and jewelry, shouting out her memories into thin air - to be transcribed later - she pops codeine, she coughs until she bleeds, and she maintains a fantasy that she suffers from bursitis.
Great character. Paranoid, inappropriate, an aging floozy who stalks around her bedroom naked - demanding that whoever is in there with her (a servant, whoever) compliment her body. She's a nut. But of course, you have tremendous sympathy for her - because of how Williams writes her. She's running from her demons. Williams had a deep abiding love for anyone tormented by demons - because he was as well.
Then one random day - a drifter beatnik poet climbs up the mountainside to see her. He arrives unannounced, uninvited. This is Christopher Flanders. He's kind of a creepy fellow. He has a nose for death. Especially old dying rich women. He seems to show up right before they go ... sometimes becoming their last lover ... and then many of them (of course) re-adjust their wills, leaving everything to him ... causing enormous family brou-hahas, etc. Chris is not well-liked, obviously. He shows up and people start to get worried. He has a nose for death.
The journey of this play (only 6 scenes long) is Mrs. Goforth's gradual realization that she is dying - and her gradual acceptance of that fact. She could not accept it without the presence of Chris. He is a patient (kind of creepy) presence ... who refuses to leave until his "job" is done.
Williams was probably really depressed when he wrote this play. It's very creepy. A real end-of-the-road play.
I'll print an excerpt from one of the long scenes between Mrs. Goforth and Chris. He is starving, he's been walking through Italy on foot, and Mrs. Goforth is pretty much refusing to feed him - unless he plays along with her game. She is trying to figure out what he's about, and he's trying to figure out what she's about.
EXCERPT FROM The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore
CHRIS. How does it feel, Mrs. Goforth, to be a legend in your own lifetime?
MRS. GOFORTH. [pleased] If that's a serious question, I'll give it a serious answer. A legend in my own lifetime, yes, I reckon I am. Well, I had certain advantages, endowments to start with: a face people naturally noticed and a figure that was not just sensational, but very durable, too. Some women my age, or younger, 've got breasts that look like a couple of mules hangin' their heads over the top rail of a fence. [touches her bosom] This is natural, not padded, not supported, and nothing's ever been lifted. Hell, I was born between a swamp and the wrong side of the tracks in One Street, Georgia, but not even that could stop me in my tracks, wrong side or right side, or no side. Hit show-bix at fifteen when a carnival show, I mean the manager of it, saw me and dug me on that one street in One Street, Georgia. I was billed at the Dixie Doxy, was just supposed to move my anatomy, but was smart enough to keep my tongue moving, too, and the verbal comments I made on my anatomical motions while in motion were a public delight. So I breezed through show-biz like a tornado, rising from one-week "gigs" in the sticks to star billing in the Follies while still in m'teens, ho ho ... and I was still in my teens when I married Harlan Goforth, a marriage into the Social Register and Dun and Bradstreet's, both. Was barely out of my teens when I became his widow. Scared to make out a will, he died intestate, so everything went to me.
CHRIS. Marvelous. Amazing.
MRS. GOFORTH. That's right. All my life was and still is, except here, lately I'm a little run down, like a race horse that's been entered in just one race too many, even for me ... How do you feel about being a legend in your own lifetime? Huh?
CHRIS. Oh, me! I don't feel like a -- mythological -- griffin with gold wings, but this strong fresh wind's reviving me like I'd had a -- terrific breakfast!
MRS. GOFORTH. Griffin, what's a grffin?
CHRIS. A force in life that's almost stronger than death. [He springs up and turns to the booming sea] The sea's full of white race horses today. May I -- would you mind if I -- suggested a program for us? A picnic on the beach, rest on the rocks in the sun till nearly sundown, then we'd come back up here revitalized for whatever the lovely evening has to offer?
MRS. GOFORTH. What do you think it would have to offer?
CHRIS. Dinner on the terrace with the sea still booming? How is that for a program? Say, with music, a couple of tarantella dancers brought up from the village, and --
[Rudy appears on the terrace]
RUDY. Mrs. Goforth, I've taken care of that for you. They're going -- on the way out.
MRS. GOFORTH. No trouble?
RUDY. Oh yeah, sure, they want to see the Signora.
MRS. GOFORTH. No, no, no. I won't see them! [But "they" are appearing upstage: the members of her kitchen staff, who have been discharged] Here they come, hold them back! [She staggers up, turns her back on them. They cry out to her in Italian. Rudy rushes upstage and herds them violently off. A wave crashes.]
CHRIS. [quietly] Boom. What was their --?
MRS. GOFORTH. What?
CHRIS. -- transgression?
MRS. GOFORTH. They'd been robbing me blind. He caught them at it. We had -- an inventory and discovered that -- they'd been robbing me blind like I was -- blind ...
CHRIS. [his back to her, speaking as if to himself] When a wave breaks down there, it looks as delicate as a white lace fan, but I bet if it hit you, it would knock you against the rocks and break your bones ...
MRS. GOFORTH. What?
CHRIS. I said it's so wonderful here, after yesterday in Naples ...
MRS. GOFORTH. What was wrong with yesterday in Naples? Were you picked up for vagrancy in Naples?
CHRIS. I wasn't picked up for anything in Naples.
MRS. GOFORTH. That's worse than being picked up for vagrancy, baby.
[She chuckles, he grins agreeably]
CHRIS. Mrs. Goforth, I'm going to tell you the truth.
MRS. GOFORTH. The truth is all you could tell me that I'd believe -- so tell me the truth, Mr. Flanders.
CHRIS. I'll go back a little further than Naples, Mrs. Goforth. I'd drawn out all my savings to come over here this summer on a Jugoslavian freighter than landed at Genoa.
MRS. GOFORTH. You're leading up to financial troubles, aren't you?
CHRIS. Not so much that as -- something harder, much harder, for me to deal with, a state of -- Well, let me put it this way. Everybody has a sense of reality of some kind or other, some kind of sense of things being real or not real in his, his -- particular -- world ...
MRS. GOFORTH. I know what you mean. Go on.
CHRIS. I've lost it lately, this sense of reality in my particular world. We don't all live in the same world, you know, Mrs. Goforth. Oh, we all see the same things -- sea, sun, sky, human faces and inhuman faces, but -- they're different in here! [touches his forehead] And one person's sense of reality can be another person's sense of -- well, of madness! -- chaos! -- and, and --
MRS. GOFORTH. Go on. I'm still with you.
CHRIS. And when one person's sense of reality, or loss of some of reality, disturbs another one's sense of reality -- I know how mixed up this --
MRS. GOFORTH. Not a bit, clear as a bell, so keep on, y'haven't lost my attention.
CHRIS. Being able to talk: wonderful! When one person's sense of reality seems too -- disturbingly different from another person's, uh --
MRS. GOFORTH. Sense of reality. Continue.
CHRIS. Well, he's -- avoided! Not welcome! It's -- that simple ... And -- yesterday in Naples, I suddenly realized that I was in that situation. [He turns to the booming sea and says "Boom".] I found out that I was now a -- leper!
MRS. GOFORTH. Leopard?
CHRIS. Leper! -- Boom! [She ignores the "Boom".] Yes, you see, they hang labels, tags of false identification on people that disturb their own sense of reality too much, like the bells that used to be hung on the necks of -- lepers! -- Boom! The lady I'd come over to visit, who lives in a castle on the top of Ravello, sent me a wire to Naples. I walked to Naples on foot to pick it up, and picked it up at American Express in naples, and what it said was: "Not yet, not ready for you, dear -- Angel of -- Death ..."
[She regards him a bit uncomfortably. He smiles very warmly at her. She relaxes]
MRS. GOFORTH. Ridiculous!
CHRIS. Yes, and inconvenient since I'd --
MRS. GOFORTH. Invested all your remaining capital in this standing invitation that had stopped standing, collapsed, ho, ho, ho!
CHRIS. -- Yes ...
MRS. GOFORTH. Who's this bitch at Ravello?
CHRIS. I'd rather forget her name, now.
MRS. GOFORTH. But you see you young people, well, you reasonably young people who used to be younger, you get in the habit of being sort of -- professional house guests, and as you get a bit older, and who doesn't get a bit older, some more than just a bit older, you're still professional house guests, and --
CHRIS. Yes?
MRS. GOFORTH. Oh, you have charm, all of you, you still have your good looks and charm and you all do something creative, such as writing but not writing, and painting but not painting, and that goes fine for a time but --
CHRIS. You've made your point, Mrs. Goforth.
MRS. GOFORTH. No, not yet, quite yet. Your case is special. You've gotten a special nickname, "dear Angel of Death". And it's lucky for you I couldn't be less superstitious, deliberately walk under ladders, think a black cat's as lucky as a white cat, am only against the human cats of this world, of which there's no small number. So! What're you looking around for, Angel of Death, as they call you?
CHRIS. I would love to have some buttered toast with my coffee.
MRS. GOFORTH. Oh, no toast with my coffee, buttered, unbuttered -- no toast. For breakfast I have only black coffee. Anything solid takes the edge off my energy, and it's the time after breakfast when I do my best work.
CHRIS. What are you working on?
MRS. GOFORTH. My memories, my memoirs, night and day, to meet the publisher's deadlines. The pressure has brought on a sort of nervous breakdown, and I'm enjoying every minute of it because it has taken the form of making me absolutely frank and honest wiht people, comparatively. But now much more so. No more pretenses at all ...
CHRIS. It's wonderful.
MRS. GOFORTH. What?
CHRIS. That you and I have happened to meet at just this time, because I have reached the same point in my life as you say you have come to in yours.
MRS. GOFORTH. [suspiciously] What? Which? Point?
CHRIS. The point you mentioned, the point of no more pretenses.
MRS. GOFORTH. You say you've reached that point, too? [Chris nods, smiling warmly] Hmmmm. [The sound is skeptical and so is the look she gives him]
CHRIS. It's true, I have, Mrs. Goforth.
MRS. GOFORTH. I don't mean to call you a liar or even a phantasist, but I don't see how you could afford to arrive at the point of no more pretense, Chris.
CHRIS. I probably couldn't afford to arrive at that point any more than I could afford to travel this summer.
MRS. GOFORTH. Hmmm. I see. But you traveled?
CHRIS. Yes, mostly on foot, Mrs. Goforth -- since -- Genoa.
MRS. GOFORTH. [rising and walking near the balustrade] One of the reasons I took this place here is because it's supposed to be inaccessible except from the sea. Between here and the highway there's just a goatpath, hardly possible to get down, and I thought impossible to get up. Hmmm. Yes. Well. But you got yourself up.
CHRIS. [pouring the last of the coffee] I had to. I had to get up it.
MRS. GOFORTH. [turning back to him] Let's play the truth game. Do you know the truth game?
CHRIS. Yes, but I don't like it. I've always made excuses to get out of it when it's played at partied because I think the truth is too delicate and, well, dangerous a thing to be played with at parties, Mrs. Goforth. It's nitroglycerin, it has to be handled with the -- the carefulest care, or somebody hurts somebody and gets hurt back and the party turns to a -- devastating explosion, people crying, people screaming, people even fighting and throwing things at each other. I've seen it happen, and there's no truth in it -- that's true.
MRS. GOFORTH. But you say you've reached the same point that I have this summer, the point of no more pretenses, so why can't we play the truth game together, huh, Chris?
CHRIS. Why don't we put it off till -- say, after -- supper?
MRS. GOFORTH. You play it better on a full stomach, do you?
CHRIS. Yes, you have to be physically fortified for it as well as -- morally fortified for it.
MRS. GOFORTH. And you'd like to stay for supper? You don't have any other engagement for supper?
CHRIS. I have no engagements of any kind now, Mrs. Goforth.
MRS. GOFORTH. Well, I don't know about supper. Sometimes I don't want any.
CHRIS. How about after --?
MRS. GOFORTH. -- What?
CHRIS. After lunch?
MRS. GOFORTH. Oh, sometimes I don't have lunch either.
CHRIS. You're not on a healthful regime. You know, the spirit has to live in the body, and so you have to keep the body in a state of repair because it's the home of the -- spirit ...
MRS. GOFORTH. Hmmmm. Are you talking about your spirit and body, or mine?
CHRIS. Yours.
MRS. GOFORTH. Our long-ago meeting between us, and you expect me to believe you care more about my spirit and body than your own, Mr. Flanders?
CHRIS. Mrs. Goforth, some people, some people, most of them, get panicky when they're not cared for by somebody, but I get panicky when I have no one to care for.
MRS. GOFORTH. Oh, you seem to be setting yourself up as a -- as a saint of some kind ...
CHRIS. All I said is I need somebody to care for.
October 21, 2005
Why I changed my entire personality when I met The Rock
Well, The Rock has just opened in the movie Doom and the reviews are universally dreadful. Not only they are dreadful - but the time wasted watching the movie seems to be making the reviewers ANGRY. Example.
As long-time readers know, I had "a moment" with The Rock which was forced upon me by my dear friend and partner in crime Mitchell. I did not WANT to "have a moment" with The Rock ... but I was FORCED to. Just want to make that clear.
Story below. It's a re-post. It bears repeating.
A couple years ago, The Rock hosted Saturday Night Live. If I recall correctly, AC/DC was the musical guest.
I know a couple of the people in the cast of SNL in a rather peripheral way from Chicago. We all share very good friends, from the old days of improv comedy (ahem. Mainly M..) I used to watch Tina Fey (now the head writer) perform improv, years ago, in a teeny raucous club in Wrigleyville, with all of my friends.
Mitchell is very close to one of the cast members - and she got us tickets to the show.
Mitchell and I did not sit in the regular audience. We were ushered into the plush VIP room at the back of the theatre. This room has a glass window looking out on the stage, tons of TV screens, and a table of drinks for all. It's like being in the important-people boxes in baseball stadiums. So Mitchell and I were crammed in back there, having some cocktails, hanging out with the other VIPs, having a great time.
The show was fun - and The Rock was actually quite good. Willing to laugh at himself, poke fun at his image, all that.
Afterwards, we met up with our friend in the cavernous backstage hallway, and she took us down the street to the cast party.
The SNL cast party is a rotating affair, held in a different venue every week. Fans somehow get wind of where the party will be, and line the block, waiting for the cast to arrive. It's invitation-only, obviously. I had my first kind of red-carpet experience, as Mitchell and I walked through the gauntlet with our friend, throngs on either side, as she signed autographs, people yelled out to her, and frantically scanned OUR faces to see if we were important.
As you can imagine, it was a riot. We had a blast.
There was a huge dinner served. I can't help it, but I have to name-drop. It's not my fault. It's just that they all were there.
I talked with Molly Shannon for a bit. I LOVED her. She was very sweet, very neurotic, concerned that I was having a good time and felt welcome. We also had a couple of friends in common. "Have you heard from so-and-so recently?" she asked me. Nice woman.
Colin Quinn's manners were repulsive. Can't stand that guy. I don't care if he reads this.
I fell so in love with Will Ferrell that even though we also have friends in common and it would have been natural to say, "Hi ... I am actually friends with Window Boy ... yadda yadda ..." I couldn't say one word to him. He seemed so nice, so relaxed - chatting with Mitchell, laughing, normal - but I feared I would blurt out, "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!", like Holly Hunter in Raising Arizona, and make some huge embarrassing scene at the Saturday Night Live cast party.
Lorne Michaels and all the big-wigs sat over at the important table, wining and dining their guest of the evening The Rock.
I could not have cared LESS about The Rock.
I was too busy quivering in my stilettos about Will Ferrell. And taking Colin Quinn's sleazy arm off my shoulders.
Mitchell and I were two peas in a pod. We star-watched, but we also just had a blast with each other. It was great.
Finally - Mitchell told me that he works with two 17-year-old kids, both of whom LOOOOOOOOOVE The Rock, and he had promised them that he would try to get The Rock's autograph. However - in the scenario in which we now found ourselves - it was quite a daunting proposal. The Rock was sitting next to Lorne Freakin' Michaels, eating shrimp, sipping a glass of wine ... and it was clearly a crowd where everybody there (except for Mitchell and I) was famous. Asking for autographs was kind of not cool. No, not KIND OF "not cool" - but BLATANTLY un-cool. When you're the only non-famous person at a party of celebrities - you really need to keep that autograph-seeker and celebrity-watcher energy in check. It's just not cool.
But there was the FACT of the two 17 year olds. So Mitchell somehow roped me into going over to the VIP table and asking for The Rock's autograph.
It took 20 minutes of convincing for me to agree to do this. I'm not a big autograph-hunter, anyway. I respect the privacy of the stars I see on the street, or that I encounter at the Actors Studio ... I saw Gena Rowlands once on the street - I wouldn't ask her for her autograph. It's not my style. I don't judge people who DO ask for autographs. Just saying it is not my style.
Mitchell was determined to get this man's autograph, though, and he justified to me why I had to be the one to ask: "It won't work if I do it! It'll be weird - cause I'm a guy - and he'll feel weird about it ... Just go over there and be all girlie, and flirty and he'll LOVE it - he won't mind giving you an autograph at all!"
My natural temperament is the opposite of girlie and flirty. I am also (all evidence to the contrary) very shy. I resisted this with all my might.
"No! I don't want to! I'm too embarrassed!"
(If it had been Ewan McGregor, I would have had no problem. I would have made for DAMN sure that I somehow "bumped into him" at the party. But - to debase myself for The Rock???)
Finally.... what the hell ... Mitchell's pleading got through. How could I disappoint those two 17 year old kids? How excited they would be!!!! I would be a hero!
So.
I basically decided to just not act like myself at ALL, in order to get through the experience unscathed. I put on a completely different personality, in order to deflect my embarrassment. I could not go over there, and just be Sheila, because then I would ONLY be aware of my embarrassment, and my shyness, and my not wanting to intrude on his privacy. The man was having a nice dinner after a hard night's work! And he was sitting next to Lorne Michaels! The only way I could survive would be to put on another personality, the kind of personality that doesn't care about intruding on someone's privacy, the kind of personality that is OBLIVIOUS to embarrassment.
It was a small acting exercise I gave myself: Do not, under any circumstances, be yourself in the next 5 minutes.
My personality-transformation occurred on my stroll over to The Rock's table.
All intellect and cerebral worrying disappeared during that walk. All shyness and ANY capability of embarrassment dissolved. My walk changed. It became a sultry un-worried stalk through the tables. I didn't care. I was carefree, nonchalant, unintimdated! I even adjusted my blouse so that the cleavage would be more apparent. This is a shameful admission. But it is true. The girl I became on the walk towards The Rock would not hide her assets. I secretly hoped that perhaps he might notice the cleavage and focus on that - as opposed to his annoyance that I was interrupting him at a VIP party.
I cannot defend myself. My behavior is indefensible. I know. But I'm just telling it to you like it happened: I whored myself for an autograph from The Rock. For two kids I had never met.
It's terrible.
Stridently ignoring my own personality, I sultrily leaned down next to him, interrupting his chat with Mr. Michaels. What? Me interrupt someone? I would NEVER do that. Ahhhh .... but I was not ME, remember? But man. I so should not have been there. I cannot even tell you how much this was NOT the kind of party where you do stuff like this. But I remained oblivious. I gave him a flirty oblivious smile. He glanced at me blankly, like: "What the hell do you want?"
I said, in a whispery giggly voice completely not my own: "Oh God, I'm so excited to meet you ... I'm friends with some one in the cast..." (I hoped that that would convince him that the cleavage leaning in on him actually BELONGED at this party.) I went on, needing to get it over with as quickly as possible: "You were SO GREAT tonight." (I blush to report that I actually GUSHED. I GUSHED about The Rock's performance.)
He nodded, calmly. Like a dignified Scorpion king. "Thank you very much."
"My two young cousins promised me I would ask for your autograph. Would you mind???" (Yes, I spoke those exclamation marks. My voice remained breathy. I probably sounded asthmatic, but I was going for sexy)
Truth be told: He kind of didn't want to give me the autograph - it made him uncomfortable in that setting. Lorne Michaels glanced up at me, with this blank look on his face, like: "Who are you? Are you supposed to be in here?"
But I remained oblivious (on the outside) to how much I was disturbing him - and it was that very oblivion which made him give in. My plan worked. If I had actually been acting like myself - well, first of all, I never would have gone over there at all. And second of all, if I had been acting like myself, and had seen the look of discomfort on his face, I would have immediately said, "Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you - Never mind!!" But because I put on this "I am oblivious" act, he had no choice but to sign an autograph for me, just to get rid of me.
Once he was done with me, I raced back to my table, completely abandoning my slow sultry walk. I basically SCURRIED back to Mitchell, and gave the autograph to him. Mitchell had been watching the entire thing from across the room, just HOWLING at my debasement. I sat back down and proceeded to writhe in embarrassment at the entire affair. I did an imitation of the blank expression on Lorne Michaels' face. Mitchell made me "do" my voice, and my laugh, 20 times. "Do it again. Do it again!" We talked about it obsessively.
I kept saying: "Oh God, Lorne Michaels had NO idea who I was ... And the guy SO did not want to give me the autograph!! ... I re-arranged my CLEAVAGE to get an autograph from THE ROCK - HOW AWFUL!!"
Hopefully the autograph made those two kids happy for about 2.5 seconds.
Sci-fi movies
Got this from Dan. I agree that the list seems quite incomplete. Go check out his additions. I was especially thrilled to see that he had added Muppets from Space ... awesome!
Okay. So I guess you have to bold the movies you've seen.
And then wait for ... something magical to happen, I suppose.
The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension!
Akira
Alien
Aliens
Alphaville
Back to the Future
Blade Runner
Brazil
Bride of Frankenstein
Brother From Another Planet
A Clockwork Orange
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
Contact
The Damned
Destination Moon
The Day The Earth Stood Still
Delicatessen
Escape From New York
ET: The Extraterrestrial
Flash Gordon: Space Soldiers (serial)
The Fly (1985 version)
Forbidden Planet
Ghost in the Shell
Gojira/Godzilla
The Incredibles
Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956 version)
Jurassic Park
Mad Max 2/The Road Warrior
The Matrix
Metropolis
On the Beach
Planet of the Apes (1968 version)
Robocop
Sleeper
Solaris (1972 version)
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back
The Stepford Wives
Superman
Terminator 2: Judgement Day
The Thing From Another World
Things to Come
Tron
12 Monkeys
28 Days Later
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
2001: A Space Odyssey
La Voyage Dans la Lune
War of the Worlds (1953 version)
Re-cut
Okay. This is a minute observation - and I have no idea what it means - but I have a guess - and it's something I noticed, so here goes.
About 2 weeks ago, I noticed ads on television for a new film called Stay. It is obviously a thriller of some kind - the ads showed an increasingly desperate Ryan Gosling (he also probably should be on my list of future Oscar winners - I should do a post about him some day - that kid can ACT) - but there's Ryan Gosling trying to convince people that his father is dead, but he's alive, and yadda yadda. At one point, in the ad, there's a close-up on Ryan Gosling's eyes - and slowly - the screen image changes - to a close-up of another man's eyes. They looked vaguely familiar. I thought that maybe they were Peter Sarsgaard's eyes.
Whatever. No biggie.
A new thriller starring Ryan Gosling. Cool!
Then - about a week ago - the ads changed. Suddenly - we see that it is Ewan feckin' McGregor's eyes - and suddenly - in the new ads - Ryan Gosling does NOT appear to be the star - but Ewan McGregor appears to be the star. It wasn't Peter Sarsgaard's eyes (however you spell his name - sorry) - it was McGregor's. I should have known! You could see that little mole that McGregor has on his forehead ... Now it is obvious whose eyes it is in that close-up.
ANYHOO. Suddenly, my interest level in this film ratcheted up 100%. Nothing against Ryan Gosling - even though I have thought he was fantastic in pretty much anything he's in (anyone see Murder by Numbers? Honestly. His performance in that - as a cocky disaffected Columbine-esque high school student - is star-making. Truly. That was my first moment of awareness of Ruan Gosling, and I was blown away) - however: he is not enough of a draw yet to get me to go see a film. He's still building his career, he's still a newbie in many ways. Maybe not to the Tiger Beat crowd ... perhaps that's his main demographic at this point? Not sure.
But I just found it interesting how they completely re-cut the ads - after a week of saturating the landscape with the Ryan Gosling version - to make it now seem like a Ewan McGregor vehicle - which is FAR more compelling to me (and probably to many others like me).
I always wonder about that - they are obviously testing the waters - seeing who their audience is, who will be interested in this movie. Okay, so let's float out the Ryan Gosling version ...
I wonder if "support" or "buzz" or "excitement" for that version was tepid ... I know it was for me. It looked like a standard thriller to me, starring an up-and-coming Hollywood star - nothing to write home about. But Ewan McGregor? I'll go see him in anything. I would sit in an ugly flourescent-lit office and watch him read the telephone book outloud. He's a HUGE star.
But ... and here's my theory ... Hollywood doesn't quiiiiiiite know what it has in Ewan McGregor. This has always been the case - and the fact that "Hollywood" would float out a version of the ad NOT featuring Ewan McGregor is proof of that, to me. I'm trying to imagine the same thing happening to another star of his caliber and visibility - and having a hard time picturing it. Would they ever create a version of an ad for a Johnny Depp movie and NOT feature Johnny Depp? In my view, Ewan McGregor is one of the best actors working today ... but "Hollywood", or the money-making people in Hollywood - don't trust his level of stardom - don't quiiiiite trust his appeal. They don't "get it". They don't "get" that there are those of us out here (and I am so not alone) who will go to see Ewan McGregor do anything - in the same way that others will go see Johnny Depp do anything. McGregor has that kind of loyal fan base. But ... he's not easy to pin down, or control ... Gosling obviously has a team of people working for him - he's everywhere - he's got publicists, a marketing team, a powerful agent ... but sorry - you cannot force stardom. It must be developed. It will happen for Gosling, I am sure of it - he's on that path - but he's not there yet.
The ads just were not compelling when it looked like a "Gosling vehicle".
But now - and I've read a couple of reviews where it is obvious that the main thrust of the film is actually the journey of the McGregor character - they have switched ploys, and have finally caved in to the obvious fact that McGregor is a ginormous star, and there are those of us out there - NOT the Tiger Beat crowd - who love him, and will go see him do anything.
I still don't think that McGregor really gets the props he deserves (to quote Eminem there). Yes, he gets millions of dollars per film. Go Ewan! He's in the Star Wars movies. Blah blah blah
But really? Hollywood is a bit baffled by him. They cannot control him. He became a star without their help ... he became a star with Trainspotting ... and Hollywood always finds that kind of stardom a weeeeeeee bit baffling - not to mention unforgivable.
North Country
David Edelstein shows yet again why he is one of my favorite film critics with this hilarious review of North Country - which he actually likes in spots. But the WAY he writes ....
In interviews, Theron and her director, Niki Caro, have said that the original screenplay (by Michael Seitzman) was a little too black-and-white, and that they tried to introduce "shades of gray." I can only infer that said shades are moments when some of the men—after hissing the c-word and pushing over a Port-A-Potty with one of Josey's co-workers (Michelle Monaghan) in it, who emerges screaming and sobbing and covered in liquid shit—are shown, for a second or two, with a look of shame. But those looks are fleeting. There is, after all, harassment to be done.
And:
North Country is powerful and then some. I came out shaking, dabbing at my eyes, and vowing never again to write the c-word in shit on the walls of a women's room.
hahahahahahaha
I do like his observation on Charlize Theron's acting. I've always been kind of a fan of hers. He says:
Theron remains a fascinating actress, with those soft blue eyes and cheeks and that hard, unfussy delivery. She sobs a lot in this picture, but the tears never seem forced—they almost erupt from her eyes in spite of her resolve, with flashes of anger in their wake.
But I think I'll take a pass on this film.
Edelstein writes:
Josey's plight would make Oliver Twist say, "What a rough life."
hahahahahahaha
Diary Friday
More from my junior year of high school - the year I will always remember as 'the year of the unrequited crush on David'. Oh man. The crush. It sounds so benign - "I have a crush on someone!" ... but ... it's called a CRUSH for a reason. Ouch!!! In this one, I sound like I am having a full-blown manic episode. I was laughing out loud re-reading parts of it - especially how being kicked out of study hall for being too noisy is labeled, by me, as "tragedy stuck". Oh, for a time when my entire social life revolved around study hall! I had forgotten a lot of this, but it all came rushing back when I read it this morning.
(Here's the Diary Friday archive)
FEBRUARY
This has been one of those topsy-turvy days. As I went to French, I actually felt my heart pounding and throbbing away. Dave was walking aways behind him. I couldn't even seem to think -- or plan -- My mind was not functioning! I was the first one in French. Naturally David was next. He came in, walked past me and said, "Bon Jour!" My heart pounded. HE SPOKE TO ME FIRST! [Sheila, unless I'm not mistaken, you just said that you were the only other one in the room ... so ... you know .... the fact that "he spoke to you first" might not have quiiiiiiiite the meaning you think it has ... I'm just sayin'. Actually, I think I MIGHT be trying to say that I didn't have to initiate the conversation - HE was the one who 'spoke first' - meaning he had an interest in talking with me. I think that was where that came from. ] So I said, "Bon jour!" back - my mind was whirling as I thought desperately of something to say! I don't want him to think I hate him or I'm snobby because half the time he talks to me, I just sit there and smile. I'm such a dopey dope!! [Okay. That right there just made me want to cry, thinking back on it. The self-hatred. Okay, so onward]
Then Dave said something else to me but I couldn't hear it! It was something about "So there's a meeting today ..." But I didn't hear what of! AND STUPID ME -- I didn't ask!
At that moment the room started filling up. J. saw us talking -- if you can call it that, I mean. I swear, I said one thing to him. What is my problem? [You don't have a problem. You are shy and you are madly in love with him and so you get tongue-tied. Stop giving yourself such a hard time, please.] It is encouraging that he spoke first but come ON, Sheila! He's gonna give up if he doesn't get anything back!
Well, Mr. Hodge didn't come in today so Mr. Woj sent us to study -- YIPPEE! I was thinking: Yay! An entire period free with Davide!
I waited for J. and Kate outside French. Dave strolled by me. J. came out and practically screeched at me: "Go, Sheila! Run!" I've got such great friends. J. and I were laughing about that in study. J. giggled. "You make me sound like this tyrant!"
Well -- I did run, but then I stopped and just walked along behind him.
Then tragedy struck.
Mrs. Wood (the bitchy library overseer -- talk about tyrants!!) kicked J., Kate and I out, saying we had been too noisy during study. Ridiculous! Mr. Crothers' 4th period class was in there and NICK and ERIC both were in there. [These 2 guys were the crushes my friends J. and Kate had... so it seemed as though everything was convening perfectly .... until Mrs. Wood kicked us out, that is. We were always getting kicked out of study hall.] It was so weird -- I can't even talk about it. I was standing behind tall Dave -- oh DAVE!!!!!! [My entire junior year journal is filled with random outbursts like that, random SHRIEKS of his name.] -- in line to sign in. Eric and Nick are walking by the three of us, swooping along to find materials and here's stupid Mrs. Wood telling us to leave! We pleaded with her, but she was such a bitch. We walked down the stairs, all muttering stuff like "Fuck YOU, bitch" about it, so frustrated.
We went down to the caf where it was so noisy and crowded. Impossible to study. I was sitting down with my back to the door. And about 15 minutes later, J. hissed: "Don't look now--" "What? ... WHAT? ... HIM?" J. nodded and I sighed. "Okay! I'm happy!"
After a while, Kate and J. went back up to the library to "look for quotes" - hoping that that bitch would let them back in - [hahahahahahahaha We were so mad!!] - so I was sitting all alone trying to look as though I were doing my Math. I sat sideways, of course. I had a perfect view of him. I could look straight down the caf - right at him - his head bent over his books - leaning on his elbow with his hand on the back of his neck. Throughout the entire period he didn't look up. He's so diligent. (Sigh) Obviously I do not have the same effect on him as he does on me.
When the bell rang, I sprang up and practically tore down the caf so I could walk near him. Turned out, I was walking right diagonally behind him, and I admit - I just stared stared STARED at him. His hair and skin and eyes and the way he holds his books -- Oh God. I hope I haven't blown this. I'm such a dork!!!!
And tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Which means a flower day and bowling. [hahahahahahahahahahahaha]
Well. I'll make it a good day.
Kate said to me in Drama, "I think you're going to have an excellent day tomorrow." I said, "Why?" And she shrugged and smiled. "I just have a hunch." What? He would never send me a flower. Could I send him one? [Just the thought of those "flower days" makes me want to vomit. They were always heartbreaking. I never "got a flower" sent to me.] Well -- bowling usually means a good day. [Ah, the simplicity of life at 16! When I can say, with all sincerity, that "bowling usually means a good day." I should go bowling every day!] What if we talk more -- Of course we will -- I'm confident! But why was Kate so sly? Hmmmm. In Drama, she came over to me and reached out to fix my clasp on my pearls. (It was in front) Before she did, she said, "Did you make a wish?" [I love Kate.] And I nodded, saying, "Duh - I wondah what it could be ..." She was laughing really hard.
We had tryouts today for our show. She sang "Turn Back O Man" from Godspell [I remember her performance of that so vividly!] She really got into it. It's really jazzy - and Mae West-ish - she was flipping her hair around, doing kicks and jazzy movements - God she was so so good. [She was.] Betsy and I did our duet - and I tried out alone - singing "Getting Tall" from Nine - a cute little song. I sat in a chair on the apron and sang the sweet little thing. I'm just over my cold, so I feel pretty good about my voice - it came out clear and loud and true, not cackley and scratchy. I did okay, I think. Then I decided to try McCavity from Cats. [!!! Cashel just "got cast" as McCavity!] At first I started too high. So I started again. It was weak from the start, and I knew it the minute I opened my mouth. About 5 lines into it, I stopped, and said, "This is dying." and hopped off the stage. I was laughing so hard in my seat - I said to the class, "Please forget I ever did that, okay?" I admit - it was awful, and also pretty hysterical. I think I'll try again tomorrow.
Well, here I am at the end of another diary. And it's only about 2 months. I write so much and my writing is so small too. This book shall be dubbed the DD -- (David Diary) Sorry if it's droning or monotonous. I know it sounds as though there are no other facets in my life at the time -- but really -- in all truth -- there aren't many other aspects that outshine this one. And I'm glad!!! When I started this diary, I would flip through the blank pages and wonder what would fill them. I'd even tentatively wonder if by the end Dave and I would be "set". Well, that dream is shattered. I have a feeling the first few entries of my new diary shall be quite the eventful -- if I can help it.
I HOPE SO!!!!!
October 20, 2005
Pride and Prejudice
At the risk of being de-linked by a rageful Emily - here is an AWESOME post in defense of Jane Austen, and in defense of Pride and Prejudice in general. Makes me want to take a look at the book again - it's been a while since I read it.
I have always been extremely annoyed by the co-opting of Jane Austen's name in defense of "chick lit". Not that there's anything wrong with "chick lit", although it is not my cup of tea. Fine. Chick lit. Read it. It's a genre. Enjoy it! But I have always heard a really defensive shrill note in the "we're just doing what Jane Austen did" chorus. No. You're not. Go back and read what Austen actually wrote, and do not try to convince me that it is a 19th century Sex and the City. It is NOT. And if you make that argument, I will find it hard to take you seriously. You can't actually have read and understood Jane Austen and honestly think that it is a precursor to Sex and the City or Devil Wears Prada. Again: nothing wrong with chick lit. But just accept it for what it is and stop trying to pile legitimacy onto what is, essentially, urban romance novels. Stop!!
But anyway. Abigail is MUCH more eloquent when making her points:
The stereotypical chick-lit heroine is the representative of a lost generation--women who, although they have rejected the traditional subservient, domestic role of the female in their actions, have done so almost unconsciously, and are now searching for a new paradigm for their lives. Austen's heroines, in contrast, know their place in the world--as wives and mothers--and are eager to assume it. More importantly, chick-lit is almost universally concerned with the gratification of desires--I want a great job, I want a studly yet sensitive boyfriend, I want a child--whereas Austen's novels, Pride and Prejudice in particular, are morality plays. The reward for becoming a better person, Austen tells us, for shedding the petty selfishness of childhood and emerging into maturity, is a good, stable marriage, the right and privilege of becoming the bedrock of a new generation of Englishmen and -women. This is so far from chick-lit's themes of self-actualization and self-acceptance as to very nearly make the works polar opposites, which is hardly surprising--Austen wrote 200 years ago, when conformity and self-sacrifice were virtues, not vices as they are, for better and worse, today.
The "inverted Jenny"
See those stamps right there? With the upside down airplane? They just were auctioned off for almost 3 million dollars. Reeeeealllly cool story behind the stamps right here.
The 1918 stamp, known to collectors as the Jenny because of the Curtiss JN-4 biplane depicted in the design, was the first American issue for air postage. Its value was set at 24 cents.But of roughly two million printed, 100 bore the topsy-turvy center plane and became known as the Inverted Jenny. They quickly became the stuff of philatelic legend.
More of the story of its increasing value:
A single sheet of 100 with the centers eye-catchingly inverted was sold at a Washington post office in 1918 to a sharp-eyed collector, who quickly resold the entire sheet to a dealer for $15,000. Within a few weeks, the stamps were separated, with most sold off individually for a few hundred dollars each. A few blocks of four were preserved, including the unique block auctioned yesterday, which shows part of the blue printing plate number inverted in the bottom margin. The so-called plate block changed hands in 1954 for $18,250 and was sold again privately in 1971 for an undisclosed sum. In 1989, Christie's auctioned it for $1.1 million.
I know all of this is insane, they're "just stamps" - but to my mind, that is a completely boring argument. Make it if you like, but just know that you're kind of boring. I stand proudly with the obsessive FREAKS of the world who give a shite about weird things like inverted Jennys. I am not a stamp person, by any means - I know nothing about stamps ... I just love people who are NUTS about random things like this.
I also love the pioneer spirit behind the design of that original stamp - meant to invoke the amazing beginning of airmail service (captured to romantic perfection in what has to be one of my favorite movies ever made: Only Angels Have Wings. Now there's a movie where I just yearn to crawl through the television screen and join that world.)
I look at the "inverted Jenny" there on the stamp, and I think of that movie, and the dangerous (yet romantic) frontier world it depicted.
Wilma
Good Lord. Look at this photograph.
CW is, of course, blogging about Hurricane Wilma. Keep scrolling. Stay safe, CW!!
October 19, 2005
A day late
But not a dollar short, because this is not a money-making venture for me.
Just realized that yesterday was my 3rd year anniversary of beginning the blog. I started blogging on October 18, 2002. Here was my first post. I never transported over the stuff from Blog-spot - just didn't care to - but it's all still there.
I gave the blog the URL atswimtwobirds - for obvious and not so obvious reasons. I named it after the great psycedelic nutso Irish Catcher in the Rye novel of the same name, by Flann O'Brien - man of many aliases. It also has deep personal resonance for me, because of my father, and my childhood, and yadda yadda. But then I called the blog Sheila A-Stray's Redheaded Ramblings - an unwieldy title which, again, made sense only to me - or only to someone who is familiar with Irish legends, Irish history, and Seamus Heaney's wonderful epic poem Sweeney Astray. There was much confusion about it ... some people referred to my blog as "Sheila Ashtray", which was unfortunate, but inevitable. I set up the blog for myself - I didn't think about having readers, really - or making the thing comprehensible to anyone but my inner circle. Even they may have been confused by the confluence of at swim-two-birds and redheaded ramblings and A-stray ... So be it! That was my beginning.
Here is the post I wrote on my first anniversary of blogging - I have updated it a bit - but I thought it might be interesting to read, for those of who are new to me, and who ... oh, I don' t know ... might care. For those who feel that theirs IS to reason why ... this post explains it.
Blogging has provided me with an outlet. A space to SHOUT. A space to blab. Whatever. I used to keep intensely detailed journals, which is all well and good. I still journal - but that is an inward pursuit. Journaling is about communicating with my own unconscious, not trying to communicate with anybody else. Blogging has helped me so much, in terms of formulating how I think about things - things I need to learn - issues I need to delve in more. Also - challenging myself to articulate my thoughts, my vague convictions about things, into words. Cold clear words. Awesome practice.
It also has kept me writing. I write every day. In a public way.
Writing every day in a journal is also great - but to write for an audience (even if it's only 30 people) is a different muscle altogether.
I have had a pretty bad last couple of years. From about 1999 on. I won't go into why. But it's not been a good time for me, and I've had a very hard time going on with life, at times. There was a good stretch in 2002 when I was beyond language. That had never happened to me before, and anyone who's ever been seriously depressed will know the state of which I speak. I couldn't write in my journal, I couldn't write emails to friends ... I just had no words for how sad I was, how disappointed I was in things. I lay on my couch for 5 months. I watched movies. I couldn't speak of my sadness, my anger. I was immobilized. Petrified. Meaning: petrifaction. Stone.
And then, one morning in October, 2002 - I suddenly DID what I had been musing about for over a year, since September 11, when I discovered Andrew Sullivan, Little Green Footballs, James Lileks, Asparagirl, A Small Victory, and a host of others - I sat down, got an account with Blog-spot, and created a Blog in the space of one morning.
I don't know why suddenly, on October 18, I decided to get into action. It was not on any To Do List. It was just a vague wish, a vague "I'd like to have one of those" ... And it took me 3 hours (maybe less) to make it into a reality.
In June of 2003, Dean Esmay (bless him! For so many reasons!!) got me off of Blog-spot. And I started having comments - which completely changed my experience of blogging. And it has just accelerated, as the years have gone by. Having comments is really THE thing that has put Blogging (for me, anyway) into this new level. Every day is a conversation ... that I initiate, yes, from the topics I choose - but every day, people show up to basically shoot the shit, chat, give their views, whatever. It is unbelievable. It has made the world seem smaller and much much warmer.
I decided to stop blogging about politics (much to the continued chagrin of DBW and only DBW - hahahaha - love that guy!) - because I wanted this place to be fun, and relaxing, and not just bipartisan - but universal. If that sounds grandiose, then ... well, it is grandiose. I got sick of the bullshit and the arguing - and I wasn't even interested in the arguments anymore. I decided to stop - unless I am REALLY compelled. And right around that same time, this Humphrey Bogart obsession happened. Kicked into gear. That was the first time when I let who I REALLY am onto my blog. This is no lie - there was a huge shift in my energy when I allowed that obsession to blossom ON THE BLOG - and not in my offline journal. It was vulnerable - for me - to let you all in on that - on just HOW obsessed I was - but amazingly (or not so amazingly) - all I found was validation from you all. Everyone participated openly in that ongoing obsession. You fanned the flames of it. It was so joyous! For once, my celebrity "crush" wasn't this shameful secret (ahem - Ralph Macchio) - it was something I could share and celebrate. And not only that, but I found this entire world of Bogie fans out there - people who recommended films to me - who sent films to me (Bill McCabe provided me with a tape of Caine Mutiny, for example) - and to me, the Bogie thing, and the response to it, was a sign: that was where I needed to go now, in terms of this blog. It may seem silly to put so much thought into this - but look. I only have so many hours in the day. I spend time on my blog. I want it to be time I WANT to spend on my blog, writing about what I want to write about, and having a good time doing it.
Once I started to get more readers (after my Wall Street Journal moment in the sun which brought 5 gazillion people to my site - who kept coming back, expecting me to be in a state of outrage at every moment - hahahahaha - They probably WEREN'T expecting that - but I did feel that way sometimes!) - I started feeling a subtle pressure to ... provide what "they" wanted. It's silly - but it happens to all of us. And that's just not me. It's just not me. That "outrage" is real - but it's not all I am. And it's not necessarily where I want to spend the majority of my time. I know it's not an accident that one of the only times I really took off the reins and went OFF on something the Wall Street Journal took notice, and shock-jocks across the country took notice - of course. Being THAT pissed off gets people's attention. And it was FUN, man, I'll tell ya ... those were a FUN couple of days.
But not as fun as I had when I was ranting and raving about every Humphrey Bogart movie I had seen, and how much I loved him ... I found that writing, with that much depth, about acting - and actors - was how I really wanted to spend my time. I turned this blog into a space of acknowledgement - a place where I could pay tribute to all the actors (and artists and writers) who have made a difference in my life. Fun!!!
I've had my struggles. I had a stalker. I had some jagoff email me during one of my Bloomsday extravaganzas: "How can you post on something so trivial while this whole Abu Gharib thing is happening?" I've had people email me stupidly with pleas why I haven't weighed in on John Kerry. Uhm ... cause I don't feel like weighing in on John Kerry? If you would like to PAY me for an op-ed on John Kerry, then by all means send me a proposal ... but other than that? Shut the fuck up! I had one guy blow a gasket because I said I was going to see Kinsey. It was almost like he felt BETRAYED. Like: he assumed I was one way, and my enthusiasm for Kinsey (Lisa - I'm sure you remember this post since you were involved in all your Liam Neeson fan girliness!) made him think I was another. How insane to assume you know someone when you read 3 things that they choose to write on a daily basis, and make assumptions based on those 3 small posts. I was so rude to him in response that he has never returned. Yee-haw. There are wack-jobs on the planet. And many of them frequent my blog. I try to chase them away by being as RUDE as possible to them as SOON as they reveal themselves to be wack-jobs. I have had people get unrequited crushes on me and care too much about what I think about them. I have hesitated before posting really personal stuff, because ... I'm afraid of being made fun of by certain readers who seem to have had a problem with SEGUING from mood to mood. I'm moody. You have to be able to segue here on this blog. I find an inability to segue to be unforgivable. It's one of my quirks. You know. The usual. This is something that happens to anyone who blogs with an audience.
That was my circuitous journey here - to this spot - but it's ongoing. This is a work in progress. I just keep learning about myself - through this blogging thingamajiggie, and I am very grateful for it.
Not to get too melodramatic here - I will try to use as plain language as possible -
The word-less 5 month stretch of 2002, when I could no longer communicate, even with myself - feels like it could never happen again. Not while I have this outlet. The muscle, the communicative muscle, has been FLEXED. And it feels like it is in for me for good. In this way, blogging has done wonders for my mood, my quality of life. My mental health. I am not alone. I don't believe that I could ever feel as isolated as I felt in 2002 again. (Knock wood, man. Knock wood.)
But that's not the only reason it has changed my life. For me, it may be the most important reason - but it's not the sole reason.
I also have discovered this enormous NOISY community - a community that I LOVE - a community that I cherish being a part of. I have made true friends through blogging. Some I have met - some I have not yet met - but they're friends - all of them.
And finding this whole world of voices in the direct wake of Sept. 11 - chattering, babbling, arguing - was like opening up a genie's bottle. Woah. Who knew you all were out there?
It was good to join my voice to the Babel. Good to be there. To be a part of it.
The events of September 11 deeply impacted me, mobilized me, enraged me - as they did most of us. Being able to write it all out, and get into discussions with people - (as opposed to sitting weeping in a coffee shop writing in my journal - see the difference?) is awesome.
Keeping a blog is not all about my own self-improvement - but that is what I am present to at the moment.
Thanks to everybody - all my faithful readers. I love when you comment, I love when you get into discussions - I love that you come here, and thank you! All of you! I can't even list you all - because I would, inevitably, leave somebody off. But just know that I appreciate each and every one of you - whenever you show up.
And thank you as well to all of the people I read. A daily dose of your words enriches my life and expands my brain.
This is a long-winded way of saying Happy Birthday To Me.
Letters
Member that XTC song "Dear God" - that starts with the child singing? I love that song.
Dear god,
Hope you got the letter,
And I pray you can make it better down here.
I don’t mean a big reduction in the price of beer,
But all the people that you made in your image,
See them starving on their feet,
’cause they don’t get enough to eat
From god,
I can’t believe in you....
Anyway - all of this is a prelude to a gorgeous and funny and touching post over at Alex's - featuring letters to God from children.
Beautiful post - have fun. They're great to read!
"In bible times did people really talk that fancy?" is just one example.
The one note from Elliott actually brought a strange lump to my throat.
Richard Jenkins - yee-haw!
James Berardinelli (my main movie-review guy - dude is awesome) has given North Country 3 stars. I kind of don't have any desire to see it even though ANYTHING with Sissy Spacek and Frances McDormand in it is allright by me!!
There's just something about the one clip in the commercials of Charlize Theron saying: "I want to sue the mine, all of them" that just ... doesn't "get me". Her voice doesn't sound right. It doesn't have that same clutch-you-at-your-throat urgency that other films with similar themes (I'm thinking of one of my favorites Silkwood) have. I don't know - Charlize's voice in that one clip sounds very ... actress-y. Can't explain it better than that!
I just have to say that reading his review actually brought a big lump to my throat because he calls out for praise the always fantastic Richard Jenkins - he gives him the best review in the film. I just ... I cannot tell you how thrilled this makes me. It's such a vindication, it just pleases me so so much ...
Richard Jenkins - one of the best character actors working in America - he has been doing solid awesome work for ... 25 years now? He was a member of Trinity Rep in Rhode Island, and I grew up seeing him in various stage productions there. I have met him before, at various theatrical moments in Rhode Island, through the years ... and I couldn't have been more happy for him when I saw him give such WONDERFUL performances in movies like Flirting with Disaster (just the thought of it makes me laugh out loud), the movie The Man Who Wasn't There (which - not sure - but I think I might have been the only person who saw that movie. HE is the reason to see it, and he's not even the lead.) - and, of course, his recurring role as the dead father in 6 Feet Under. This guy is a gem. This guy should be celebrated.
And listen to Berardinelli's words:
But the one I want to single out is character actor Richard Jenkins, who is superb. Jenkins' portrayal of Josey's conflicted father is believable and powerful. Jenkins is one of those actors whose face is more familiar than his name. He has appeared in more than 60 movies and TV productions, and is probably best known for a supporting role in Flirting with Disaster and as a member of the ensemble cast for Six Feet Under. He deserves official recognition for his work in North Country.
It just makes me want to cry. It's so so true.
Charlize Shmarlize. I mean, good for her - she's made quite a nice career for herself - but man, I love it when character actors who have been around forever are rightly praised. It's just AWESOME.
And back to Flirting with Disaster - watching Lily Tomlin talk his character through an acid trip (he's a pretty square US Marshall - and his food was spiked - so he has no idea what's happening to him) - is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life.
Today in History: October 19, 1781
The surrender at Yorktown, which ended the American Revolutionary War. Cornwallis realized that aid would not come in time - and after two days of bombardment - he sent a drummer out into view, who apparently beat the rhythm of: "STOP! LET'S TALK!!!" I love that the two sides would communicate this way - quite amazing. A British officer high in rank came forward - was blindfolded - and taken to George Washington (who was pretty much on his last legs himself).
The surrender document was drawn up, with Washington dictating the terms.
Over 7,000 soldiers surrendered at Yorktown. The war was over. There was still a lot of cleaning up to do, and negotiating, and brou-hahas, etc. - but the war was over.
And here is a story (perhaps a rumor - but I love it nonetheless) of Benjamin Franklin's response to the news of the surrender. He was, of course, in Paris at the time.
Here is, apparently, what happened.
Franklin was in France, and word came to France of the decisive American victory, and the complete surrender to George Washington in Yorktown. Franklin attended a diplomatic dinner shortly thereafter – and, of course, everyone was discussing the defeat of the British, and the victory of America.
The French foreign minister stood, and toasted Louis XVI: "To his Majesty, Louis the Sixteenth, who, like the moon, fills the earth with a soft, benevolent glow."
The British ambassador rose and said, "To George the Third, who, like the sun at noonday, spreads his light and illumines the world."
Franklin rose and countered, "I cannot give you the sun or the moon, but I give you George Washington, General of the armies of the United States, who, like Joshua of old, commanded both the sun and the moon to stand still, and both obeyed."
Awkward
Last night we had what is known as our first "stumble-through". We've worked on each of the scenes in the play separately - and last night, come hell or high water, we put it all together. It was also the night we had to be off book. Ah, the stumble-through. Fascinating and frustrating. It's cool because you get to see the other scenes that you're not in - you also can get a sense of the whole thing - but man. There is so much dialogue in this play. We all have been working our asses off to get off book. As soon as I got cast, I started memorizing my lines, knowing I had a huge task in front of me. Not as huge as some of the other people in the play, who have four times as much to say as I do.
But there we all were, without our scripts in hand, stumbling through the thing in its entirety. Sometimes literally stumbling.
There were moments when we transcended - when you could see the wheels stop turning in the brain, the mind suddenly knew what it was doing, what it was supposed to say next - and we could actually start acting, playing, doing. But then there were other times when we were like 5 retarded robots in the middle of misfiring. Sudden absolutely BLANK expressions would come over our faces - as though all intelligent thought had been washed away - in the middle of a big moment, in the middle of an emotional sequence. Blankness. Then, you have to admit defeat, and you call out, "LINE!" The line comes from the ASM, and then you are back on track. For a while.
There were some funny moments. During an enormous fight between two of the characters (we got one of the best fight choreographers in New York to do the fights for us - pretty cool!!) - one of the witnesses is supposed to have a big emotional moment, say a speech, and then race off for help. She stood there, watching the fight - with absolutely no expression on her face. None. Blank. She watched this strange drifter attack her boyfriend with no expression whatsoever. Whatever. He's just beating the crap out of the guy I love. No worries. What I'm really worried about is ... what the hell am I supposed to say next?? hahahaha
Or in the middle of one of the fights - as the two actors are beating the crap out of each other - (also funny: they couldn't help themselves - they were making sounds like "pow!" and "boom" - totally unconsciously - like little boys having a fake gun battle) - but they're rolling around on the floor, pummeling each other, and shouting out, desperately, "LINE???" hahahahaha
Ohhh, tis an awkward stage, to be sure, to be sure.
I was standing downstage center. One of my big moments. Tears are rolling down my face. You know. I was ACTING. Or at least ... I was. For a brief second. And then in the next moment ... a vast expanse of nothingness as white and cold and empty as Antarctica. In the blink of an eye, I become a big BLANK because I DO NOT KNOW WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO SAY NEXT. I stood there like a retarded clunky awkward robot. My arms felt 5 feet long, and as though there were weights on the ends of my hands. I racked my brains, trying to picture the page in the script in my head ... trying to SEE what the next line was.
Turns out, I was supposed to be all the way over stage left as well - and not downstage center - but apparently: talking, acting, AND moving is FAR too much to ask of me at one time in this stage of my development.
Tonight? We try again. It's always good when you get the stumble-through out of the way because then you can get down to some real work.
the virtuoso
Got this from my E-verse Radio newsletter - thought it was a cool quote:
"Fired by Little Richard. Fired by Ike and Tina Turner. Terminated by numerous now forgotten blues and rock bands. You would think this was the résumé of a second-rate back-up guitar player, but it's the precelebrity track record of no less than the late, great Jimi Hendrix. Often hired and often fired. In the end the reason was always the same: Hendrix's guitar solos that became, as Ike Turner said 'so elaborate they overstepped the bounds.' Yet those flashy, raucous, but elegant electric guitar solos would revolutionize rock music. They became Hendrix's trademark: colorful sounds that painted the anarchistic spirit of the late sixties. Hendrix described the sound he was reaching for as 'electronic church music.' However, while he was relatively unknown, many fellow musicians described his performances -- the sexual gyrations, the gimmicks, such as demolishing his guitar -- as 'too much.' But Hendrix was a guitar virtuoso. His imagination was boundless, and, for better and for worse, by the late 1960s, nothing anybody could imagine was too much."- Darryl Lorenzo Wellington
October 18, 2005
The joys of eavesdropping
In the post below this one - I link to a really cool and evocative "overheard snippet" from Overheard in New York.
The quality of the dialogue - the intelligence of it - reminded me of this old post I wrote from last year. It was October 27 when I wrote the post (shivers - Oct. 27, 2004 ... just LOOKING at that date gives me a thrill!!) - The World Series was nearly over - I had been spending all my time in this one bar in Hoboken watching all the games (and, of course, all of the games were, like, EIGHT HOURS LONG) ... I didn't have television at this point. Anyway.
Here's that old post. I just re-read it now and I can still hear the voices of these two guys, I can still feel what was going on, get the sense of their concerns, their friendship ... I wonder what happened to everybody involved.
The Pros and Cons of Being Smothered
Okay, so ... in waiting for the game to start last night ... (I was at a bar. I am very much looking forward to next week when I don't spend literally HOURS every night in a bar). Two guys were sitting next to me. They were friends, obviously. They both had on backwards baseball caps, and they were chowing down on a plate of buffalo wings. From comments they dropped, I gathered they were Yankee fans, and just couldn't get enthusiastic about the Series.
I admit that I eavesdropped. Blatantly. I had to hold myself back from taking out a pen, then and there, to transcribe the whole thing.
I will just list the facts here, as in: here is what they said. I will do my best not to editorialize or interpret. Although I will probably have to add little notes indicating HOW they said certain things, my interpretation of their tone.
For whatever reason, this male-bonding conversation really got to me. It touched me. It seemed quite deep - although, being the type of guys who wear backwards baseball caps and eat a pile of buffalo wings - they aren't going to speak in psycho-babble, or over-analyze themselves, or be touchy-feely. But it was DEEP SHIT, nonetheless.
I had to restrain myself from leaning over and saying, "I have been listening to this whole thing, and I just love both of you. I wish you both well."
From what I could gather, here's the situation:
These guys are old close friends. And one of them has started to date a girl (whom I will refer to as Katie) - and it looks like it's getting pretty serious - and so ... there seemed to be some issues around this. But remember - they're old close friends.
I tuned into their conversation at the point where the friend was saying, "Listen, I really like Katie, but ..."
Try to follow it if you can.
"Listen, I really like Katie, but ... and ... I probably have no right to say this to you ... but ..."
"What?"
"I guess I feel like ... Listen, she's great, okay? I just ..." (long silence - My heart went out to the guy speaking - I thought: Come on, dude, just say what's on your mind. Ooops. I'm editorializing. I'll stop now.) "I just guess I feel like she smothers you sometimes. Like ... there's some smotheration going on."
"Yeah."
"You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, man, I know. I know ... I guess I kinda like it, though." (Silence.) "Like ... it's just so nice hanging out with her. It's so nice ... I can relax with her, you know?"
Then came a conversation about the problems Katie may be having with another friend of theirs - who is a girl. Possibly an ex-girlfriend? I don't know.
Guy dating Katie said, "I've tried to explain to her that ... Heather is just a friend ... and ... we never ... You know. Heather and me never ..."
"Of course not. No, it's like ... Yeah, I get what you're saying."
"Like - she doesn't need to be ... nervous about Heather."
"Right. Like - you're not gonna cheat on her or whatever."
"No. Totally."
"Like I said - that's kind of what I mean. And I like Katie too, I really do - she's a lot of fun - but it's the smotheration thing."
Silence.
Guy dating Katie said, "I know. I know."
"Cool. Just so long as you know."
"Still, though - it's just that - if I have to choose - and I hope it doesn't come to that - but if I have to choose - I choose Katie. Because ... yeah, I know, she kind of smothers, and stuff ... but I'm tellin' ya - it's just so nice being with her."
(I thought to myself: I bet he ends up marrying that girl.)
His friend thought about this for a long time. Then said, quietly, "I'd like to have a girl like that."
Later on ... they came back to the "smotheration" issue.
The friend (the one who was concerned about the smothering) started talking about HIS love-life. Which sounds very frustrating.
He had gone on a couple of dates with one girl. And that day she had emailed him, and all the email said was: "Do you think I'm totally empty inside?"
Jesus. I have a message for women who send emails like that: DON'T.
The guy said to his friend, "What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? 'Do you think I'm totally empty inside?' What? I was going to email her back with a bunch of question marks ... but then I thought - fuck it, I don't even know what the hell she's talking about. I mean ... I've called her a couple times ... but - I don't want to deal with that shit."
Long pause. They both sat there, thinking. Not speaking. Then the same guy said, seriously, "What do you think that means - 'Do you think I'm empty inside'?"
Friend (the one dating Katie said): "Oh who the fuck knows. One of her friends probably said something to her about whatever, and now she's all fucking dramatic about everything."
"Yeah, but what the hell do I have to say about her being empty inside? Jesus. She's nuts."
Then the same guy started talking about a semi-"relationiship" he was having with some other chick named Meg ... and I felt bad for him. (Especially in light of the revealing moment when he said to himself, "I'd like to have a girl like that.") The situation appears to be: he is really into Meg. They have a great time together, whenever they get together. But it's really difficult for them to hook up, there's a lot of phone tag, etc.
He said, "Like ... she's really really busy." (Ha. Like my friend Jackie has said to me before, "No one's ever that busy. If they're into you, they'll call you, they'll make it happen.")
He said, "I respect the fact that she doesn't have a lot of time ... I don't want to push or whatever ... but still ... I guess it's that she's really really independent." (I'm thinking to myself: Oh boy. She's giving him the "I'm really busy and I'm really independent" line?? Poor guy! He deserves better, he definitely does.)
Meanwhile, he's talking to his friend, who is being "smothered" by his girlfriend - but his friend obviously likes it - and doesn't feel "smothered" at all. What his friend feels is taken care of. This girl gives a crap enough to let him know she's interested, she's available, etc. She doesn't leave him out hanging.
Okay. Interpretation over.
Friend kept saying, "And whenever we hang out - it's great, you know? It's totally great. But for the past couple weeks - I haven't been able to see her - but she text-messages me all the time. I got one from her last night ... it's just kind of frustrating ... cause I don't want to be ... like ... I respect the fact she's busy and all that."
(I wanted to lean in and say, "No one is ever that busy. If she's into you, she'd find a way.")
But then came the coolest part:
Katie, the famous "smothering" Katie, arrived. Her boyfriend got up, gave her a big hug, a kiss ... and made her sit on his bar stool. She struck me as a cool woman. She didn't just talk to her boyfriend, she also engaged in conversation with his friend.
And then - the boyfriend left to go make a phone call or something - and Katie and the other guy started talking.
And within 2 or 3 exchanges, he started telling her about this "independent busy" woman. Like ... he may think Katie smothers his friend, but there's also something in her that he can trust. I LOVED that.
Sorry. I am interpreting this like a fiend, I realize. I can't help it!!
Anyway, I heard him saying the same things - only it was a tiny bit different because he was talking to a girl, and not a guy.
"I don't know ... she text messages me and stuff ... and keeps saying she wants to get together ... but ... Do you think that means she doesn't really want to see me?"
Why did I find all of this so touching? I was bored waiting for the game to start. I got very emotionally involved.
Katie took kind of a hard-line. "Pick up the phone and call her. Say to her, 'I want to see you.' Just do it! You say you really like her?"
"Totally. You met her that one night we went to blah blah blah, member?"
"Wait ... which one?" Katie thought and then said, "Oh! Right! Yeah, she was great! Okay, so be persistent. Call her. Do it."
(Go, Katie. You tell 'im.)
Katie and the boyfriend eventually went out to put their car into a parking garage, I believe ... leaving the friend by himself at the bar.
Then the guy left behind dialed someone on the phone. I wasn't paying attention anymore ... the game was almost started.
But then I heard him say, "Meg - hey."
I thought to myself: Meg! Oh! He's calling her right now!! The famously "busy" Meg! Katie's words helped him make the call!
And, BLESS HIM, he leapt right in. "Listen - I'd like to take you out to dinner this week. Would you like to do that?" He listened to her response. "You would? Great ... uh ... how about Thursday? I could pick you up after ..." Meg made some comment. "Great. 7:30 it is."
Good work, my good man. Good work. And I can see why Katie is beloved by her boyfriend, even though she might "smother" him. A common-sense girl, that one.
I don't know why this whole thing moved me so much, why I had to listen to it.
It was a brief glimpse into a friendship, a situation ... and I liked it. I liked them all. I wish them well.
Awesome
My favorite playwrights and writers are people who are able to create dialogue that sounds like this.
The internal logic - yet circuitous at the same time, the implied relationship between the two, the miscommunication - it's all THERE, effortlessly. We don't need to know ANY MORE. Those few words tell the whole story. Cheryl comes to life. Etc. etc.
It kind of reminds me of that old post I wrote about the dialogue I overheard in the bar last year - two guys talking about "smotheration". It was genius dialogue - and it was from real life.
Let me find the post. It was a good one.
Playwrights who have an ear for dialogue like that have my heart forever. They're very rare.
Incredible
It's really amazing how universal all of this is. I suppose it's why the movie Office Space is such a classic. Why are all offices the same??? Because they're run by human beings, I guess, and on some level - we are all the same.
Take this for example:
But at work, the hallway contains other people, and it's a pretty long hallway, so if I see someone coming towards me from the other end, it's a whole thing with waiting for him or her to get close enough and then doing the nod/smile "how ya doin'" combo, unless it's someone I actually know, in which case the two of us have to fit in a "Hey, how's it going?"/"Good, you?"/"Oh, you know" in the three seconds it takes us to pass each other, and then of course we've probably recognized each other way before that, but The Second Law Of Hallway Dynamics states that we have to wait to acknowledge each other until we're within twenty feet of one another, so outside of that radius, each of us has to act like we haven't seen the other one…it's absurd, and yet everyone does it, and I remembered exactly how to do it like I'd just left my last office job the day before. The brisk nod, coupled with the warm but not-showing-teeth smile? The not-quite-out-loud, not-quite-whispered-either "hey"? Like breathing. Kind of scary how easily it came back, really.
That is just so right ON. This is how it is EVERYWHERE.
And don't even get me started on the universality of "The Poo Stall" ....
At least it's universal in the female experience. Not sure if males designate (silently) a "poo stall" - and: what is incredible in her description: it's always THE SAME STALL in ALL OFFICES that is designated "the Poo Stall".
Someone should do an anthropological study on office bathroom behavior.
I know that Curly has begun the process. I've also conducted some market research in this area.
Eudora Welty
A wonderful review of a new biography of this writer.
I love her writing although I haven't gone near it in years. And now - reading this article - I kind of fall in love with her the person:
A culture is known by the stories it tells, and Southern stories are rooted in such connections, place and family and neighbors and friends, in shared memories passed down like recipes. Welty knew that in the South, there is a “we” to the stories. We are all members of the Delta wedding. “A family story is a family possession, not for a moment to be forgotten, not a bit to be dropped or left out—just added to. No good story ever became diminished.” You stay at funerals till the tent comes down. You show up at the family reunion, even if you have to escape from prison to do it. You repeat the stories you share. For Welty, memory was “a living thing,” through which the present can reclaim the losses of the past.I once drove the 700 miles from North Carolina to Jackson to tell Eudora Welty how much I admired her. Writers knew where her house was; she’d lived there a long time. In the end I lost my nerve. I sat in the car across the street for hours, and then I drove back home. Many years later, I met Miss Welty in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and I told her that story. She laughed. “Honey, was that you? I almost called the police on you!”
Then, in a moment of kindness, she taught me the best lesson I ever learned as a writer. She said, “Let your fiction grow out of the land beneath your feet.” It was a lesson no one ever understood more profoundly than she did.
Speaking of Kelly Preston ...
have you checked out Proud Suppressives? heh heh heh heh heh
Finally.
Alex is back online. She's one of my dearest friends and frankly ... her long absence of - uhm - 5 days - was unacceptable to me. I know, I know, her computer crashed, whatEVER. Now she's back. And she's gone OFF on Kelly Preston. I mean, SOMEONE's got to.
October 17, 2005
Ah the joy ...
... of coming to Led Zeppelin late.
Awesome descriptive post.
100 years of illustration
Go to this blog and just scroll through the gorgeousness. Example here. Look at the last illustration in that post - the black and white one of the cowboy. Just marvelous.
It's one of my favorite blogs out there - I love checking in with him from time to time, to see what kind of artwork he has rescued from magazines of the last century and the century before. Beautiful. (I, of course, am fond of his post on Charles Dana Gibson).
A deadly combo ...
in terms of being COMPLETELY IRRESISTIBLE is:
The one two Vh1 punch of:
1. My Fair Brady
2. Breaking Bonaduce
People. Honestly. This is unbelievable. This is absolutely addictive. It MUST be watched.
I cannot turn away. I watched both again last night, agog. I tried to do other things during My Fair Brady ... but finally could NOT focus on anything else. I was SO INVOLVED in Adrienne's family ... I was emotionally invested ... I was angry at Peter Brady for being arrogant ... he deserved the bitch-slap he got ....
And I actually wept a tear during one of the therapy sessions on Breaking Bonaduce.
I know it's ... well, never mind. I won't judge any of this - because if you constantly say "I know it's pathetic, but --" or "I know this is embarrassing, but ..." about certain things - frankly that's not very good writing. Stop apologizing.
So I'll just come flat out and say it.
For what it is - and the genre it is - Breaking Bonaduce is GREAT television. It's not I Love Lucy or All in the Family or whatever - but it's not trying to be. It's reality television. Of the starkest kind. And ... it just ... you cannot look away. It is GREAT television.
Yup. I said 'great'. I'm tellin' ya. If the definition of entertainment (or one of the definitions) is that it should be "riveting", and should hold your attention - oh my God. Breaking Bonaduce is one of the greatest shows I've ever seen.
I am hooked.
And the two shows being back to back ... fuggedaboutit. Count me in.
Can't wait til next week.
D.U.M.B.O.
In terms of vibe and view - D.U.M.B.O. is my favorite neighborhood in the city. (D.U.M.B.O. is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, by the by.) Curly shows why it is, to my taste, almost a poetic neighborhood - in a gritty urban way. The place is just RICH with atmosphere. I was in a reading over there before it became the hip new place - and it was pretty much solely industrial, cobblestone streets, the massive columns of the bridge, the far-off views of Lady Liberty ... but really NOTHING there. Not residential at all. I don't know what the changes have been in the last couple of years - but I LOVED my brief theatrical stint over in D.U.M.B.O. Click-clacking the heels over the cobblestones, hurrying to rehearsal in the big drafty artists' space on the river's edge ... I still think: if I could CHOOSE, and money were no object, I'd live in D.U.M.B.O.
The Inseam latte
Met with the costume designer in her half-hour free before she left for Vegas where she is costuming another show. We met at a Starbucks near Penn Station - which was packed. We had no time to spare. I've never met her. We were like: "Hi! How are you! Okay ... so ... costumes!" We sat down (found seats, amazing) - and DIDN'T order. Nobody had a heart attack about this. We then looked over costume sketches, and photographs, and discussed - hair, shoes, glasses, and jewelry. Accessories, basically. I love it because I've never met this woman, but it doesn't matter. We speak the same language. The language of theatre. I showed her some photographs that struck ME as the way I wanted to go (I had been nervous she would take the character another way - clothes are so important - and I had put my two cents in with the director at the beginning of rehearsal) - so I'm like: "And here ... see where the skirt falls on her calves? That's sort of what I'm thinking ... and definitely sensibile shoes - maybe like this?" Showing photographs - just pieces of people - a shoe here, a scarf there, a skirt there ... She showed me her sketches (we were amazingly in sync - yay!) - and then - right in the middle of the throng of Starbucks patrons - she took my measurements.
Why does this make me laugh ...
It just does. The absurdity of it, and how we just started to do what we needed to do, regardless of how ... uhm ... bizarre it must have seemed, to have one woman measure another woman's inseam in the middle of a midtown Starbucks.
But I'm telling you: it was half an hour and it was so productive I felt like the energy we generated could sustain the power on the island of Manhattan for a good 20 minutes.
Love work. And I love people who are IN my line of work, every aspect of it - people who are serious and committed to their part of the puzzle.
It's the best business in the world.
October 16, 2005
How Eight is Enough changed my life
I am a big fan of celebrity crushes, as I have said here before. I've had them since I've been aware of celebrities and I have not given them up in my old age. I have fine-tuned the "celebrity crush" into a work of ART. I should give seminars about how to do them properly.
My first crush is a toss-up between Ralph Macchio and the hot young actor who was in some TV movie starring Bette Davis - no memory of the title, but he haunted me! (UPDATE Feb. 2009: Yeah. I remember him now. That would be Ben Marley.)
The Macchio crush was more transformational, in terms of my development as a human being, so I'll go with that one.
Now I am talking about pre-Karate Kid Ralph Macchio. Very important distinction. I am talking about his Eight is Enough phase. When he hit it huge with Karate Kid, I felt oddly jealous about it. I felt proprietary towards him. I had been with him BACK THEN. Before it was COOL. I somehow liked it better when he was just my little secret.
Some people don't even remember his brilliant one-season stint on Eight is Enough. Ah, but that is probably because they gave up on the show long before he arrived. Macchio was obviously brought on as "young blood" - to draw in an audience like me - horny love-sick pre-teenagers. The ratings were probably down. Bringing in a troubled young cute teenager was an obvious ploy to jumpstart the show again.
To me, at 12 years old, the older siblings (David, Mary, Susan, Joannie, Nancy, Elizabeth and Tommy) were too sophisticated, too slick, and a little bit ikky, frankly. David, the oldest, was a particularly disturbing individual, I thought. With his pearly whites and his feathered hair, and his jobs, and his independence. He had too much of a fake-tan sleazoid veneer. His teeth didn't fool me. The guy was a creep.
The girls all wore shiny lip gloss, shoulder pads, or frightening workout outfits involving spandex and lilac leotard ensembles ... The push-up bra was not in existence in the Bradford house apparently, so the sisters all had droopy sloopy-shouldered silhouettes that just added to the skeezy vibe.
There were cars pulling in and out of the driveway. There were teenage problems of the 17 and 18 year old variety. I could not relate.
And Bowl-Cut Nicholas was not as cute as everyone thought he was, and I found him plain old nauseating.
I needed something else. Someone who hit my demographic. Someone ... a guy ... who was juuuuuust the age I needed him to be ...
And so along came Jeremy Andretti, played by Ralph Macchio. Jeremy was the orphaned nephew of Abby (played by Betty Buckley, of course. She couldn't ever be "alone in the moonlight" in the Bradford house, sadly. No damn privacy). The Bradford family opened their hearts and their home to the troubled teenager, who got into fights, who was sullen, uncommunicative.. . The first time I laid eyes on him, I was GONE. Put a fork in Sheila. She is DONE. He was everything I found attractive - although I didn't know it then, being only 12. It was this weird awakening, watching Jeremy in action. My heart just fluttered open to this character. He was sensitive, but he covered it up with a tough outer shell. It would take a very special person (me???) to crack that shell. His shyness and his toughness were a killer combo.
I wouldn't realize until later that that shy/tough thing he had going on was in a long long continuum of movie stars who have made careers out of mixing those two qualities together. Tough-yet-sensitive hard-boiled-outer-shell guys. Gary Cooper. James Cagney. Cary Grant in some of his movies. Humphrey Bogart. You name it. Jeremy Andretti needed to be tough - not because he was mean, or callous - but because he felt too much. He was too vulnerable.
I very quickly became addicted to Eight is Enough. I was crushed when Jeremy's storyline was not the feature. I suffered through the ikky slick-lipglossed storylines of the older siblings, and the sickeningly sweet Bowl-Cut storylines, waiting, waiting, week after week ... for Jeremy to take the spotlight.
This crush was a secret. It was so powerful that it actually embarrassed me. It was a runaway train - and this is now a familiar sensation to me, years later. I now know the signs, and I no longer judge myself for who I am, and that I do this, on occasion. I still get embarrassed sometimes, when I get swept away like this, but I figure there are worse things in life than this habit of mine.
I have come to believe that these crushes blossom just when I need them most. I ride the wave until it subsides. The crush arrives usually at a low moment when I need fortitude, when I need a light at the end of the tunnel. The crush helps me to hold on, to hold out hope that someday, someday, the closeness I yearn for will manifest in real life, and not just in re-runs of Eight is Fucking Enough, for God's sake. This is why I revere actors so much. This is what they can give us - potentially. This is what certain actors (and certain performances) have given me. Something to hang on to ... when the going gets rough ...
I discovered Ralph Macchio as Jeremy Andretti when I was at the lowest of the lowest of points. I was in junior high. I didn't really take to adolescence, shall we say. I was a fish out of water in the machinations of 8th grade. I was bruised and battered very quickly from rejection from boys - and not just rejection - but outright laughter in my face, when I would ask them to dance, what have you. (I'm not exaggerating. I was "that girl", the pariah of the school, for one awful year). I was pudgy. My clothes were all wrong. My Xena jeans didn't look the same on me as they did on Cris D., the goddess of junior high. Kids crank called my house and shouted insults about my clothes into my ear. I was probably in a very deep depression and didn't even know it. I found it hard to get out of bed in the morning. I would cry on the way to school. Not a good sign.
In the middle of that howling wilderness, there was one particular episode of Eight is Enough that I can say, without too much exaggeration, changed my life. Not outwardly - but inwardly. I could feel the shift take place. I got my eyes above the muck, basically. I saw further. I was in the gutter - but I got a glimpse of the stars. That kind of thing.
I remember that episode almost shot for shot, and I have not seen it since it was on that first time - in 1980 or whatever it was. So that gives you some idea of its lasting impact.
Here's how the episode opened:
In a movie theatre. We can see that the movie being shown is an old Fred Astaire Ginger Rogers classic. There are the two of them, dancing across the marble floor - - floating, actually - her dress graceful, light - he elegant, lithe ... Then we cut to the audience in the movie theatre, and there is Ralph (Jeremy) - with his beautiful face - watching, totally engrossed. He's eating popcorn, and he is totally into the movie.
And two seats away from him sits a teenage girl, also by herself, also engrossed, also chomping on popcorn.
A sort of rated-G True Romance.
After the film, the two of them somehow strike up a conversation in the lobby and they both rave, unselfconsciously, about their love for Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and how much they love those old movies and how cool it is that the local movie theatre would run them as matinees.
Our first clue of the HOOK of this episode: the two bond over old movies.
The girl reveals that she has just moved to the town, and is a little nervous about starting at the high school on Monday. He is obviously very excited that she is going to be going to his school, he feels a bond with this girl. There's a sweet connection there. They part, with him telling her that he will keep his eye out for her on Monday. Teenage romance shivers in the air!
But what was so deadly for me watching it, what hooked me in so deeply, was that their connection was not based on lust, which I couldn't relate to yet. I wasn't there, developmentally. No: it was a shared interest in something, a common passion. This was devastating.
The episode moves on. They see each other at school. They have sweet encounters in the hall. They meet up "by coincidence" at the next Saturday matinee of a Fred Astaire movie. Only this time, they sit together, side by side, sharing popcorn, occasionally grinning at each other. Having a passion is so much fun when you can share it with someone who "gets" it.
I died a million little deaths watching all of this. I ached! I yearned! I burned up inside like a pubescent Tennessee Williams character. I had so much to give, so much of myself to share but nowhere to put it yet. Holding all of that stuff back actually hurt. It still does. So I put all of it into Ralph Macchio. He could take it.
Then, inevitably, conflict arises. Turns out that Jeremy's interest in Fred Astaire was something he hid from his friends. With his friends, he played video games, watched sports, played football. He could never admit to liking old movies with DANCE NUMBERS in them to his friends. He needed to save face. As long as his little Saturday-matinee romance was kept secret from his friends - he was cool with it.
But alas, Jeremy, life doesn't work out that way, does it?
Of course, one day she came up to him in the cafeteria, where he was sitting with his group of friends. Oh, the hostility of the high school cafeteria! The caste system! The Darwinian brutality! She says to him, in front of his friends, with a big friendly smile - "Hi! What are you doing Saturday? They're playing 'Swingtime'!"
She has now broken a rule. She didn't even know it was a rule. She was like me. I found myself in the world of junior high, with all these rules, all these boundaries of what was acceptable behavior and I most certainly did not get the memo. She didn't know that he was ashamed of that part of himself, that he needed to keep it secret from his buddies.
Of course, he blows her off. Publicly. He makes believe he doesn't even know what she is talking about. It is a complete and utter rejection. His friends snicker. Ruthlessly. She stands up there, by them, alone, shamed. She walks away, mortified, with the taunting voices of his group of friends imitating her girl voice echoing after her, "Swingtime is playing! Swingtime is playing!"
I knew her pain! I had had my feelings snickered at! I had had my intensity scorned!
And yet, watching. I wanted to crawl through the television and yell at her: NO! He does like you! He's just embarrassed! He can't admit to liking those movies in front of his friends! He does like you - and that's why he rejected you!
And so, I ached for him as well. He was choosing cool indifferent nonchalance (and therefore loneliness) over unafraid involvement. Not just with her. But with who he really was. This was a TRAGEDY.
I saw people making those choices all around me every day in junior high. Clipping off the unacceptable parts of themselves to fit in with the pack. It seemed "the thing" to do but I found it enormously painful. I couldn't manage it.
Because Jeremy was really a senstive person beneath the asshole exterior, he felt horrible about how he had treated her. He tries to talk to her in the hallways. She rejects him. He tries again. She ignores him. She is a stony wall, an ice princess. She was a real hard-ass, that one. I didn't think that I could withstand his heartfelt apologies. I would cave. But I learned from watching her: No one should shame you the way he shamed her. Especially if he had opened up in private. His behavior was unacceptable. A girl has to set her own standards for how she wants to be treated and she shouldn't accept anything less. A man needs to be able to stand up to his friends and say, "This is who I am. Deal." It is not okay any other way. My response to this came from my loneliness. From feeling left out. I was so eager for attention from any boy that I would take the SCRAPS from his table ... rather than wait for someone willing to sit down and have a whole meal with me. I watched the girl on Eight is Enough say "no" to his scraps.
This was a mind-blower. Truly. I am still learning that lesson. She would not allow him to compartmentalize her, and only acknowledge her existence on Saturday afternoons.
Finally comes the climax of the episode. After watching it, I lived it over and over and over in my head, I obsessed on it, I fixated on it, I held onto it with fists, knowing that this is something I need to remember.
She was walking along on the sidewalk in front of the school. The campus was crowded with students. His declaration (when it came) needed to be that public. This is a well-known formula, of course, used in countless movies to great success: the public revelation of true emotion, the declaration of love made in front of a crowd. The final expression of commitment is not just made between two people privately, but involves the whole world. It has to. It's like a wedding ceremony: the bond between two human beings is enough of a big deal that it must be made publicly to have any real weight.
Jeremy runs up to her and tries to talk to her. She staunchly keeps walking on, clutching her books to her chest. He walks along beside her, apologizing, ignoring the rejection. He has lost the indifference. Now it matters more to him to tell her the truth and he doesn't care who sees.
She remains impervious, he hurt her too much, and she finally shouts at him, "Leave me alone!!" She marches off without him, leaving him standing there with a crestfallen look on his face. People are staring. The two of them are making a scene. He doesn't care anymore. And now he is the one who has been publicly rejected and shamed.
And in that moment, the transformation occurs. He leaps into the unknown, he tosses himself off the cliff into the fearless abyss. I'm not sure, I have no empirical evidence of this, no quote to back up my theory, but I would warrant a guess that this next moment alone is responsible for Ralph Macchio's enormous success a couple of years later in major motion pictures. If I had been a casting director, and I had seen that scene, I would have thought: "That kid could carry a romantic film." There was a seismic shift during the scene and by the end of it, he became a viable leading man. You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. I'm dead serious. Why else would I remember the scene so clearly 25 years later?
She walks away, with an air of finality. He stands, stunned, silent and then, on impulse, he jumps up on a nearby bench, and blurts out, in tune, at the top of his lungs: "I won't dance! Don't ask me!"
She stops dead in her tracks and slowly looks back at him, shocked. All the watching students start snickering, giggling. He doesn't care. He stays up on the bench, and sings out at top volume: "I won't dance, don't ask me! I won't dance Madame with you! My heart won't let my feet do things that they should do!" He starts to dance around up on the bench, even as the small mocking crowd gathers. She stares up at him, dumbfounded.
He leaps off the bench and dances toward her, still singing: "You know what, you're lovely you know what, you're so lovely! And you know what you do to me!" She's embarrassed, blushing, she doesn't know what to do. She tries to remain impervious, unmoved, and then she gets her nerve back, and turns her back on him, starting to stalk off. (I gasped, watching. The fortitude! The strength of self! To resist!!)
Eventually, of course, his singing and dancing breaks her down. But it's more than that. It's more about his fearlessness in publicly admitting his feelings for her - and even deeper than that: his fearlessness in admitting who he is. Falling in love is not just about declaring yourself to the other person. You also must say, "Here. This is who I am. This is me."
He is now dancing around her, still singing, serenading her, really, in front of the whole school. "When you dance, you're charming and you're gentle -Specially when you do the Continental - But this feeling isn't purely mental -For heaven rest us, I'm not asbestos ... And that's why I won't dance, why should I?" Finally, he takes her in his arms. It is a startling moment. You could feel the gasp in the crowd. He has never touched her before then. And he waltzes her around, awkwardly, goofily, she's laughing now, out loud. and he finishes the song with a flourish, dipping her body over backwards, like an old pro.
The crowd (naturally) bursts into applause.
Oh, the surge of triumph I felt! The beautiful surge of affirmation!
I thought about the episode for days. I actually wrote it out into short story form, so I could elaborate on the feelings of both parties. I wanted to live it.
The message was, obviously, that being yourself, and admitting who you are, not changing yourself for your friends, is far superior to lying in order to save face. This sliced through me like a laser.
Especially, it must be admitted, because it was the boy doing this in that particular story. It was the boy who had to give all that up, and be fearless. In my limited and very painful experience in junior high, boys traveled in packs, were aloof and game-y with me, and acted embarrassed when I asked them to dance. I was always in such a state of uncertainty and pain when it came to the boys I liked. (I know now that boys had their own brand of hard time during those years but that only came with perspective, and getting older. While I was in it, I had none of that. Boys were on another planet. A planet I sooooo wanted to visit. But they didn't want me there.)
The thought that a BOY my age could be interested in me the way Jeremy was interested in her, and that a boy could throw caution to the wind in front of his peers, was so attractive to me, so powerful, that I basically melted into a hot quivering puddle of longing and hope that lasted for MONTHS. It blew my mind.
What it said to me was (outside of the celebrity crush aspect of the whole thing): Don't just look at the surface of things. Don't passively accept the aloofness of the boys you like. They might be afraid, or shy, or don't want to seem goofy to their firends. Differentiate between who they were with their friends and who they were when you got them alone.
But also: it said to me: Do not accept being treated cruelly. Even if he's cute and you like him so much. Do not chip away at yourself. It is forbidden.
It said to me, too, (and here is where it gets global, here is why I still remember it shot for shot):
Hang on.
Just hang on.
There may not be a boy in your life right now who would leap on a park bench for you, but hang on. There will be.
The loneliness you feel right now shall pass. This, too, shall pass.
A tough tough lesson to learn when you are 12 years old.
The girl Jeremy fell for in the episode was not a babe. She had long straight hair and wore long skirts. You didn't have to change who you are to get a boy interested in you (the lesson I learned from Grease). You just had to be yourself, and be true to yourself and continue shining your own particular light with its own particular wattage and someone would see that light eventually and be drawn to it. If you try to change yourself, and fit into what you think is the ideal, if you try to adjust yourself to what you think guys want, then you will not be truthful, and the right kind of guy for you will not be able to find his way to you.
That one episode of Eight is Enough got me through many dark hours in junior high. It burned me up inside, a fire that eventually went out, but a fire I have never forgotten. That one episode helped me not be ashamed of my own individual passions (Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger movies being one of them), to not put pressure on myself to fit into the round hole of the junior high social agenda. Maybe if I stuck to my own path, and kept cultivating my own personality, and expressing my own individual interests, fearlessly, without apology, then a Jeremy type might be in my future.
Keep going, Sheila. You're okay. You're doing okay.
There will be someone out there for you. There will.
I still believe that.
Thanks, Ralph Macchio, for what you gave me in your wonderful performance in that one episode.
And thanks, too, to the creators of Eight is Enough for realizing that eight kids were actually not enough.
Thank you for realizing that you needed one more.
The Books: "Suddenly Last Summer" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time! I am having such a great time re-acquainting myself with all of his plays.
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Suddenly Last Summer
This play is really really gross. Hahaha Topics touched on: lobotomies, cannibalism, insect-eating plants, sickness, decay, the filth of poverty ... that's just a short list. It's a hard play to take - it's a vision of horror. As I'm sure many of you know, Tennessee Williams' sister Rose was institutionalized (her story is such a tragic one - and it's like you can see Tennessee working it all out in his work over the years - Rose is always there in his work - think about The Glass Menagerie
And in Suddenly Last Summer - Tennessee took on the topic of lobotomies head-on, for the first and only time. In the play, Catherine - the young woman threatened with a lobotomy if she doesn't change her story - has to fight for her life - literally - has to fight with the powers that be to first of all believe her incredible story - and also, to let her have horrible memories. To not insist that her brain be cleaned up, cauterized. That's one of the themes of the play: there is horror in this world. Cruelty. Betrayal. Poverty. Let's look at it head on. Let's not escape it. The lobotomy is a potential escape. How wonderful it would be to have those awful memories cut out of the brain!! Yes, but would it? What price do you pay when you choose oblivion and peace?
These questions had particular poignancy for Tennessee Williams.
So. The plot: Mrs. Venable (played by Katharine Hepburn in the film) has this whole elaborate fantasy wrapped about her son Sebastian (who is dead - died recently). The two of them were a pair - they traveled the world together - etc. etc. Until "last summer" - when Mrs. Venable became ill and couldn't go abroad with him - so he took his cousin Catherine instead. And while touring Europe with Catherine, something terrible happened. He was killed in a small town in ... Spain, I think. Catherine told the tale to the police, returned home, told the tale to Mrs. Venable - who promptly put her in an institution, and set the lobotomy wheels in motion. Mrs. Venable, a true fantasist, refuses to believe the tale that Catherine tells. She must have the tale "cut out of her brain". She cannot live without her fantasy of who her son was. Catherine's tale is that Sebastian had been pursued down the street by a roving band of desperate poverty-struck children - and they eventually caught up with him, and tore him to pieces, and devoured him. Literally. They ate Sebastien alive.
So - the basic plot structure of the book is Catherine defending her story to Dr. Sugar (played by Montgomery Clift in the film) - he is the one she needs to convince, because he is a lobotomy expert. He is one of its pioneers. He has been hired by Mrs. Venable to examine Catherine, and see if she is lying. More than anything, Mrs. Venable wants Catherine to stop telling the awful tale, to stop "blabbing".
The other thing that becomes apparent as Catherine tells her tale - is that Sebastien was not the golden-boy that Mrs. Venable remembers - we all remember things the way we want them to. It slowly becomes clear that Sebastien was actually a high-class gay gigolo (Mrs. Venable is completely unaware of this). He would always travel with good-looking women - so that he could attract male attention. Mrs. Venable doesn't realize that Sebastien was just a user - using his own mother - and that once she fell ill, she was no longer any use to him. - but Catherine picks up on it right away. Mrs. Venable insists that Catherine is just a crazy lying slut - that Sebastien wasn't like that at all. He was actually pure - above earthly cares - didn't need the love of anyone other than his own mother. But Catherine knew Sebastien didn't care about her - that she was there like honey for the bees. Let the men come close ... so that Sebastien could then pounce on them.
The whole story is completely grotesque - a bit hard to take ... but there is some startlingly good writing in it. Catherine has one of my favorite monologues in all of Williams' work - the one that starts: "Suddenly last winter I started writing in my journal in the third person".
I'll excerpt a bit from the opening scene - which is between Mrs. Venable and the doctor. In it, Mrs. Venable tells her version of Sebastien - the version that she insists is the true version, the only version that should be allowed to exist.
EXCERPT FROM Suddenly Last Summer
DOCTOR. Don't you want to sit down now?
MRS. VENABLE. Yes, indeed I do, before I fall down. (He assists her into wheelchair) --Are your hind-legs still on you?
DOCTOR. (still concerned over her agitation) --- My what? Oh -- hind-legs! -- Yes ...
MRS. VENABLE. Well, then you're not a donkey, you're certainly not a donkey because I've been talking the hind-legs off a donkey -- several donkeys ... But I had to make it clear to you that the world lost a great deal too when I lost my son last summer ... You would have liked my son, he would have been charmed by you. My son, Sebastian, was not a family snob or a money snob but he was a snob, all right. He was a snob about personal charm in people, he insisted on good looks in people around him, and, oh, he had a perect little court of young and beautiful people around him, always, wherever he was, here in New Orleans or New York or on the Riviera or in Paris and Venice, he always had a little entourage of the beautiful and the talented and the young!
DOCTOR. Your son was young, Mrs. Venable?
MRS. VENABLE. Both of us were young, and stayed young, Doctor.
DOCTOR. Could I see a photograph of your son, Mrs. Venable?
MRS. VENABLE. Yes, indeed you could, Doctor. I'm glad that you asked to see one. I'm going to show you not one photograph but two. Here. Here is my son, Sebastian, in a Renaissance pageboy's costume at a masked ball in Cannes. Here is my son, Sebastian, in the same costume at a masked ball in Venice. These two pictures were taken twenty years apart. Now which is the older one, Doctor?
DOCTOR. This photograph looks older.
MRS. VENABLE. The photograph looks older but not the subject. It takes character to refuse to grow old, Doctor -- successfully to refuse to. It calls for discipline, abstention. One cocktail before dinner, not two, four, six -- a single lean chop and lime juice on a salad in restaurants famed or rich dishes.
(Foxhill comes from the house)
FOXHILL. Mrs. Venable, Miss Holly's mother and brother are ---
(Simultaneously Mrs. Holly and George appear in the window)
GEORGE. Hi, Aunt Vi!
MRS. HOLLY. Violet dear, we're here.
FOXHILL. They're here.
MRS. VENABLE. Wait upstairs in my upstairs living room for me. (to Foxhill) Get them upstairs. I don't want them at that window during this talk. (to the Doctor) Let's get away from the window. (He wheels her away)
DOCTOR. Mrs. Venable? Did your son have a -- well -- what kind of a personal, well, private life did --
MRS. VENABLE. That's a question I wanted you to ask me.
DOCTOR. Why?
MRS. VENABLE. I haven't heard the girl's story except indirectly in a watered-down version, being too ill to go to hear it directly, but I've gathered enough to know that it's a hideous attack on my son's moral character which, being dead, he can't deend himself from. I have to be the defender. Now. Sit down. Listen to me ... (the Doctor sits) ... beore you hear whatever you're going to hear from the girl when she gets here. My son, Sebastian, was chaste. Not c-h-a-s-e-d! Oh, he was chased in that way of spelling it, too, we had to very fleet-footed I can tell you, with his looks and his charm, to keep ahead of pursuers, every kind of pursuer! -- I mean he was c-h-a-s-t-e! -- Chaste ....
DOCTOR. I understood what you meant, Mrs. Venable.
MRS. VENABLE. And you believe me, don't you?
DOCTOR. Yes, but ---
MRS. VENABLE. But what?
DOCTOR. Chastity at -- what age was your son last summer?
MRS. VENABLE. Forty, maybe. We really didn't count birthdays ...
DOCTOR. He lived a celibate life?
MRS. VENABLE. As strictly as if he'd vowed to! This sounds like vanity, Doctor, but really I was actually the only one in his life that satisfied the demands he made of people. Time after time my son would let people go, dismiss them! -- because their, their, their! -- attitude toward him was --
DOCTOR. Not pure as --
MRS. VENABLE. My son, Sebastian, demanded! We were a famous couple. People didn't speak of Sebastian and his mother or Mrs. Venable and her son, they said, "Sebastian and Violet, Violet and Sebastian are staying at the Lido, they're at the Ritz in Madrid, Sebastian and Violet, Violet and Sebastian have taken a house at Biarritz for the season," and every appearance, every time we appeared, attention was centered on us! -- everyone else! Eclipsed! Vanity? Ohhhh, no, Doctor, you can't call it that --
DOCTOR. I didn't call it that.
MRS. VENABLE. -- It wasn't folie de grandeur, it was grandeur.
DOCTOR. I see.
MRS. VENABLE. An attitude toward life that's hardly been known in the world since the great Renaissance princes were crowded out of their palaces and gardens by successful shopkeepers!
DOCTOR. I see.
MRS. VENABLE. Most people's lives -- what are they but trails of debris, each day more debris, more debris, long long trails of debris with nothing to clean it all up but, finally, death ... (We hear lyric music) My son Sebastian and I constructed our days, each day, we would -- carve out each day of our lives like a piece of sculpture. -- Yes, we left behind us a trail of days like a gallery of sculpture! But, last summer -- (Pause. The music continues) I can't forgive him for it, not even now that he's paid for it with his life! -- he let in this -- vandal! This --
DOCTOR. The girl that --?
MRS. VENABLE. That you're going to meet here this afternoon! Yes. He admitted this vandal and with her tongue for a hatchet she's gone about smashing our legend, the memory of --
DOCTOR. Mrs. Venable, what do you think is her reason?
MRS. VENABLE. Lunatics don't have reason!
DOCTOR. I mean what do you think is her -- motive?
MRS. VENABLE. What a question! -- We put the bread in her mouth and the clothes on her back. People that like you for that or even forgive you for it are, are -- hen's teeth, Doctor. The role of the benefactor is worse than thankless, it's the role of a victim, Doctor, a sacrificial victim, yes, they want your blood, Doctor, they want your blood on the altar steps of their outraged, outrageous egos!
DOCTOR. Oh. You mean she resented the --
MRS. VENABLE. Loathed! -- They can't shut her up at St. Mary's.
DOCTOR. I thought she'd been there for months.
MRS. VENABLE. I mean keep her still there. She babbles! They couldn't shut her up in Cabeza de Lobo or at the clinic in Paris -- she babbled, babbled! -- smashing my son's reputation. -- On the Berengaria bringing her back to the States she broke out of the stateroom and babbled, babbled; even at the airport when she was flown down here, she babbled a bit of her story before they could whisk her into an ambulance to St. Mary's. This is a reticule, Doctor. (She raises a cloth bag) A catch-all carry-all bag for an elderly lady which I turned into last summer ... Will you open it or me, my hands are stiff, and fish out some cigarettes and a cigarette holder. (He does)
DOCTOR. I don't have matches.
MRS. VENABLE. I think there's a table-lighter on the table.
DOCTOR. Yes, there is. (He lights it, it flames up high) My Lord, what a torch!
MRS. VENABLE. (with a sudden sweet smile) "So shines a good deed in a naughty world," Doctor -- Sugar ...
(Pause. A bird sings sweetly)
DOCTOR. Mrs. Venable?
MRS. VENABLE. Yes?
DOCTOR. In your letter last week you made some reference to a, to a -- fund of some kind, an endowment fund of --
MRS. VENABLE. I wrote you that my lawyers and bankers and certified public accountants were setting up the Sebastian Venable Memorial Foundation to subsidize the work of young people like you that are pushing out the frontiers of art and science but have a financial problem. You have a financial problem, don't you, Doctor?
DOCTOR. Yes, we do have that problem. My work is such a new and radical thing that people in charge of state funds are naturally a little scared of it and keep us on a small budget, so small that -- We need a separate ward for my patients, I need trained assistants, I'd like to marry a girl I can't afford to marry! -- But there's also the problem of getting right patients, not just -- criminal psychopaths that the State turns over to us for my operation! -- because it's -- well -- risky ... I don't want to turn you against my work at Lion's View but I have to be honest with you. There is a good deal of risk in my operation. Whenever you enter the brain with a foreign object ...
MRS. VENABLE. Yes.
DOCTOR. -- Even a needle-thin knife ...
MRS. VENABLE. Yes.
DOCTOR. -- In a skilled surgeon's fingers ...
MRS. VENABLE. Yes.
DOCTOR. -- There is a good deal of risk involved in -- the operation ...
MRS. VENABLE. You said that it pacifies them, it quiets them down, it suddenly makes them peaceful.
DOCTOR. Yes. It does that, that much we already know, but ---
MRS. VENABLE. What?
DOCTOR. Well, it will be ten years before we can tell if the immediate benefits of the operation will be lasting or -- passing or even if there'd still be -- and this is what haunts me about it! -- any possibility, afterwards, of reconstructing a -- totally sound person, it may be that the person will always be limited afterwards, relieved of acute disturbances, but -- limited, Mrs. Venable.
MRS. VENABLE. Oh, but what a blessing to them, Doctor, to be just peaceful, to be just suddenly -- peaceful ... (A bird sings sweetly in the garden) After all that horror, after those nightmares: just to be able to lift up their eyes and see -- (She looks up and raises a hand to indicate the sky) -- a sky not as black with savage, devouring birds as the sky that we saw in the Encantadas, Doctor.
DOCTOR. -- Mrs. Venable? I can't guarantee that a lobotomy would stop her -- babbling!
MRS. VENABLE. That may be, maybe not, but after the operation, who would believe her, Doctor?
(Pause. Faint jungle music)
DOCTOR. (quietly) My God. (Pause) -- Mrs. Venable, suppose after meeting the girl and observing the girl and hearing the story she babbles -- I still shouldn't feel that her condition's -- intractable enough! to justify the risks of -- suppose I shouldn't feel that non-surgical treatment such as insulin shock and electric shock and --
MRS. VENABLE. SHE'S HAD ALL THAT AT SAINT MARY'S! Nothing else is left for her.
DOCTOR. But if I disagreed with you?
(Pause)
MRS. VENABLE. That's just part of a question: finish the question, Doctor.
DOCTOR. Would you still be interested in my work at Lion's View? I mean would the Sebastian Venable Memorial Foundation still be interested in it?
MRS. VENABLE. Aren't we always more interested in a thing that concerns us personally, Doctor?
DOCTOR. Mrs. Venable!! (Catharine Holly appears between the lace window curtains) You're such an innocent person that it doesn't occur to you, it obviously hasn't even occurred to you that anybody less innocent than you are could possibly interpret that offer of a subsidy as -- well, as sort of a bribe?
MRS. VENABLE. (laughs, throwing her head back) Name it that -- I don't care --. There's just two things to remember. She's a destroyer. My son was a creator! -- Now if my honesty's shocked you -- pick up your little black bag without the subsidy in it, and run away from this garden! -- Nobody's heard our conversation but you and I, Doctor Sugar ...
(Miss Foxhill comes out of the house)
FOXHILL. Mrs. Venable?
MRS. VENABLE. What is it, what do you want, Miss Foxhill?
FOXHILL. Mrs. Venable? Miss Holly is here with --
(Mrs. Venable sees Catherine at the window)
MRS. VENABLE. Oh my God. There she is, in the window! -- I told you I didn't want her to enter my house again, I told you to meet them at the door and lead them around the side of the house to the garden and you didn't listen. I'm not ready to face her. I have to have my five o'clock cocktail first, to fortify me. Take my chair inside. Doctor? Are you still here? I thought you'd run out of the garden. I'm going back through the garden to the other entrance. Doctor? Sugar? You may stay in the garden if you wish to or run out of the garden if you wish to or go in this way if you wish to or do anything that you wish to but I'm going to have my five o'clock daiquiri, frozen! -- before I face her ...
(All during this she has been sailing very slowly off through the garden like a stately vessel at sea with a fair wind in her sails, a pirate's frigate or a treasure-laden galleon. The young Doctor stares at Catherine framed by the lace window curtains. Sister Felicity appears beside her and draws her away from the window. Music: an ominous fanfare. Sister Felicity holds the door open for Catharine as the Doctor starts quickly forward. He starts to pick up his bag but doesn't. Catharine rushes out, they almost collide with each other)
CATHARINE. Excuse me.
DOCTOR. I'm sorry ...
(She looks after him as he goes into the house)
SISTER FELICITY. Sit down and be still till your family come outside.
(DIM OUT)
October 15, 2005
In praise of Kashmir
You know how sometimes you hear a song you've heard a million times, and suddenly - it's like you hear it for the first time, and you can't believe how great it is???
I have just discovered "Kashmir", by Led Zeppelin.
I cannot get past it.
I cannot get past it.
I have it on a constant loop. I keep thinking: "Okay, now I can move on to other music ... or how 'bout the next song on the album ... I can probably move on to the next song ..." only to find that my desire to hear "Kashmir" again is too strong. So I hit Repeat.
My neighbors must be so OVER the Kashmir thing.
I actually have a bunch of Led Zeppelin in my collection ... and you know, whatever, "Kashmir" is part of it, I like it.
But yesterday - suddenly I HEARD it.
That underlying chord thing that they do throughout - I'm not a musician so I don't know how to describe it - you all know what I'm talking about - that theme that they keep coming back to throughout the song - and yet each time they come back to it, it's like it gets deeper, harder, rougher -
This is the part that reaaaaaalllly gets me:
All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land
Trying to find, trying to find out where I've been ......
What he does with his voice on "been" - how he draws it out, going down a sharp, back up to the main note, but always with complete control - argh. Don't know how to describe it. But what he does with his voice there, and what the music is doing beneath his voice - just slices me open like a grapefruit, man. I think it's because that part is one of the "verses" - where they move away from that insistent chord thing going on beneath the whole song - and through the course of his long-held note on "been" - they move back into that theme - it reappears beneath his voice. Day-um, it's just exciting, whatever it is.
This song makes me want to trash a hotel room. Have anonymous liaisons in smoky corners. Do something insane. Get all nuts. It's a primal song. I don't even know what the hell they're talking about, I don't know why it's called Kashmir ... I don't need to know. Frankly I don't care.
I. Can't. Stop. Listening. To. It.
The Books: "Orpheus Descending" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time! I am having such a great time re-acquainting myself with all of his plays.
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Orpheus Descending
Williams' first play (Battle of Angels) was basically a first draft for this later (much later) version. Battle of Angels was produced in 1940, Orpheus Descending had its first production in 1957. It's interesting to read the two plays in tandem, to watch his development as a writer, craftsman. I mean, of course, he developed his craft - but it's really interesting to see how it manifests itself in these two versions of the same play.
The main female character is no longer named Myra. She is now referred to as Lady Torrance - and everyone calls her "Lady". She is still trapped in a loveless marriage, to an awful man who is dying - an awful man who was responsible for her father being burned alive some 10 years before. She despises her husband. Maureen Stapleton played Lady.
And again - into this small Southern town comes an outsider. A virile young man named Val, a drifter. In Orpheus Descending his character is way more developed than in Battle of Angels. In Orpheus, he's kind of a hustler. Or - he was. He's trying to go clean. He wants to join the legitimate world. Lady gives him a chance, and hires him as a clerk in her candy shop.
Lady and Val end up having an affair. Right under her dying husband's nose, basically. The situation is fraught with danger. Nobody trusts or likes Val in the town - and Williams is very clever - he keeps the audience on edge as well. WE aren't sure if we should trust Val. Sure, he's charming, and sexy, and he has a way with words ... but can we trust him?
There's a minor character in the play, though, named Carol Cutrere who kind of haunts me. She has 2, maybe 3 scenes - she's not a lead - although she is referred to all the time. I think she's the best part in the play. I would LOVE to play that part.
She's a member of one of the best families in town. And yet ... well. Something's "off" about her. She is as wild as they come. She is brazen. Corrupt. She has no scruples, no morals. Her family has demanded that she leave town, and has given orders to every shop, every bar, to not serve her. Carol Cutrere can't seem to leave town - so she keeps haunting around the edges of things - trying to enter the drugstore, the candy shop ... just to use the phone, or have a Coke ... As with all of Williams' wanton women - there's something broken inside of her. She's looking for something. She yearns for something. Softness, maybe. Tenderness. The only way she thinks she can get it is by molesting men in the back seats of their cars. She's a tragic character. A GREAT character.
So I'll excerpt a bit of one of her scenes. It's just a perfectly crafted small scene. It tells you everything - without telling it to you straight out. I just LOVE it.
Val makes his first entrance into the play. He enters Lady Torrance's shop. Lady is there, and a bunch of other gossipy women. Carol Cutrere has snuck in to use the phone. Everyone eavesdrops on her conversation. She is talking to her sister, who lives outside the county lines, and I think she's going to go stay with her for a while ... but it's obvious, from how Tennessee writes it ... that her sister doesn't want her to come. Nobody wants Carol Cutrere. She is completely on the outside of society.
So. Anyway. Val enters. The women flutter about him. Eventually, they leave - on errands - and Carol is left there alone with Val. And Carol ... like a moth to the flame ... eventually makes her move. She's one of those women who can't help herself. Not because she's just a gross slut. But because her loneliness is so deep and so wide.
It is important that Carol Cutrere not be like an adult. But like a little girl, wide-eyed, wondrous, trapped in an adult body. She's a child. Very important. Notice how, in the start of the scene, she says, "Boys like you are always fixing something." Boys. There's your clue right there. If she's played as a knowing woman, a calculated floozy - it's completely missing the point.
Oh, and just a tip: The long story Carol tells Val about meeting him at a party and the lady osteopath, etc. etc. ... is true.
EXCERPT FROM Orpheus Descending
[She crosses into the main store, watching Val with the candid curiosity of one child observing another. He pays no attention but concentrates on his belt buckle, which he is repairing with a pocketknife]
CAROL. What're you fixing?
VAL. Belt buckle.
CAROL. Boys like you are always fixing something. Could you fix my slipper?
VAL. What's wrong with your slipper?
CAROL. Why are you pretending not to remember me?
VAL. It's hard to remember someone you never met.
CAROL. Then why'd you look so startled when you saw me?
VAL. Did I?
CAROL. I thought for a moment you'd run back out the door.
VAL. The sight of a woman can make me walk in a hurry but I don't think it's ever made me run. --- You're standing in my light.
CAROL. [moving aside slightly] Oh, excuse me. Better?
VAL. Thanks...
CAROL. Are you afraid I'll snitch?
VAL. Do what?
CAROL. Snitch? I wouldn't; I'm not a snitch. But I can prove that I know you if I have to. It was New Year's Eve in New Orleans.
VAL. I need a small pair of pliers ...
CAROL. You had on that jacket and a snake ring with a ruby eye.
VAL. I never had a snake ring with a ruby eye.
CAROL. A snake ring with an emerald eye?
VAL. I never had a snake ring with any kind of an eye ... [Begins to whistle softly, his face averted]
CAROL. [smiling gently] Then maybe it was a dragon ring with an emerald eye or a diamond or a ruby eye. You told us that it was a gift from a lady osteopath that you'd met somewhere in your travels and that any time you were broke you'd wire this lady osteopath collect, and no matter how far you were or how long it was since you'd seen her, she'd send you a money order for twenty-five dollars with the same sweet message each time. "I love you. When will you come back?" And to prove the story, not that it was difficult to believe it, you took the latest of these sweet messages from your wallet for us to see ... [She throws back her head with soft laughter. He looks away still further and busies himself with the belt buckle] --- We followed you through five places before we made contact with you and I was the one that made contact. I went up to the bar where you were standing and touched your jacket and said, "What stuff is this made of?" and when you said it was snakeskin, I said, "I wish you'd told me before I touched it." And you said something not nice. You said, "Maybe that will learn you to hold back your hands." I was drunk by that time, which was after midnight. Do you remember what I said to you? I said, "What on earth can you do on this earth but catch at whatever comes near you, with both your fingers, until your fingers are broken?" I'd never said that before, or even consciously thought it, but afterwards it seemed like the truest thing that my lips had ever spoken, what on earth can you do but catch at whatever comes near you with both your hands until your fingers are broken ... You gave me a quick, sober look. I think you nodded slightly, and then you picked up your guitar and began to sing. After singing you passed the kitty. Whenever paper money was dropped in the kitty you blew a whistle. My cousin Bertie and I dropped in five dollars, you blew the whistle five times and then sat down at our table for a drink, Schenley's with Seven Up. You showed us all those signatures on your guitar ... Any correction so far?
VAL. Why are you so anxious to prove I know you?
CAROL. Because I want to know you better and better! I'd like to go out jooking with you tonight.
VAL. What's jooking?
CAROL. Oh, don't you know what that is? That's where you get in a car and drink a little and drive a little and stop and dance a little to a juke box and then you drink a little more and drive a little more and stop and dance a little more to a juke box and then you stop dancing and you just drink and drive and then you stop driving and just drink, and then, finally, you stop drinking ...
VAL. --- What do you do then?
CAROL. That depends on the weather and who you're jooking with. If it's a clear night you spread a blanket among the memorial stones on Cypress Hill, which is the local bone orchard, but if it's not a fair night, and this one certainly isn't, why, usually then you go to the Idlewild cabins between here and Sunset on the Dixie Highway ...
VAL. --- That's about what I figured. But I don't go that route. Heavy drinking and smoking the weed and shacking with strangers is okay for kids in their twenties but this is my thirtieth birthday and I'm all through with that route. [Looks up with dark eyes] I'm not young any more.
CAROL. You're young at thirty -- I hope so! I'm twenty-nine!
VAL. Naw, you're not young at thirty if you've been on a goddam party since you were fifteen!
[Picks up his guitar and sings and plays "Heavenly Grass". Carol has taken a pint of bourbon from her trench coat pocket and she passes it to him]
CAROL. Thanks. That's lovely. Many happy returns on your birthday, Snakeskin.
hahahahahaha
Now the outfit is, indeed, funny (I, personally, think the facial expression is even more amusing). But it's the commentary that brings it to a whole new comedic level.
So unless Michael Stipe woke up one morning and said, "today, I am going out dressed as Jessica's grandfather, if he were an academic obsessed with crossing the Delaware," then this is a MISSTEP.
That will only make sense if you read the whole thing.
I can't stop laughing.
October 14, 2005
Booker Prize Brou-haha
It seems like people are literally having nervous breakdowns and going into apoplexy because John Banville won the Booker. I mean - the op-eds I've read are so doom-laden that they sound kind of insane.
Here's John Sutherland's response to the raging controversy.
This guy sounds like he needs to go on medication.
My dad loves John Banville - and therefore, I think it's awesome he won the prize. And I think it's great that literary types are FREAKING OUT about it. One of my favorite things in the world is a good old-fashioned literary dustup!!
Diary Friday
This is a repeat - it's also not from high school. Just felt like re-visiting it again. My encounter with the cab driver earlier this week made me think of this night in the journal entry. It's why I always smile when I hear the opening piano of "The Night the Lights Went out on Broadway". Weird: how an entire memory can come to life in the blink of an eye - like a flower opening in water on speeded-up film. There it is - the memory: the whole thing: smells, sights, feelings ... I remember how awful my food tasted that night. I remember the feel of the stage floor beneath my back. I remember what I was wearing. The whole thing: THERE. In technicolor, every time I hear that song.
I love that. It can be awful, too - if the memory is not a good one. You can get ambushed then ... but this one happens to be a good memory.
This entry is from the summer before I left Chicago. Intense. Burningly intense. It was intense because I was leaving, there was an end in sight, lots of good-byes ... My co-star in this entry is Window-Boy. I didn't call him that in real life - but I don't say his name here on the blog. So I refer to him as Window Boy!
I guess I just like some of the writing in this journal entry. It's a bit scattered and back and forth, but I think it captures the essence of that experience that night.
I realize that I wrote about this guy with a level of minutiae that might be alarming. Or who knows - maybe it's endearing. I have rarely been that fascinated with someone - even though he was pretty much a normal regular guy. I loved writing about him. I loved being with him, but my journals of our times together are ... it's just unbelievable. When did I have the time to write about him like that???
Oh, humorous coda to all of this - I saw him 2 years ago. He was passing through New York and we got together for a drink. Lots of reminiscing, catching up ... And I mentioned the short novel I had written. And that I had based a lot of it on him and me. He gave me this look, grinned and said, "You could probably write a full-length novel about the past 5 minutes."
hahahahaha so true!!!!
July 27
Last night:
Went out with three people from work. Bill, Kerry, Bill – sat outside and drank margaritas. I always knew I'd get on socially with these people. We had a wonderful time, toasting my future, but also talking about their lives, their goals, what's up. My life is bringing up issues for all of them, making them take a look at what they want, so we had a GREAT time, getting drunk, talking about life. Then I went tattoo shopping on Belmont, and they all tagged along. After that, Bill and I walked together – we both live in the same area. We parted at Clark and Addison, and then, on a tequila impulse, I crossed the street to the improv club. The door was locked. I peeked through the window, and saw it was empty but there were some lights on. I knocked on the window. But to no avail. Oh well. I tried. I walked home.
Jim and George are there, getting ready to go out for a drink. I bombarded them with tequila-silliness, and made a laughing stock out of myself. George was laughing right in my face. 5 or 10 minutes after I got home, I was getting ready to leave with Jim and George, and the phone rang. Jim was on the other line with Steven, and a call came in. "Hello? …." He looked over at me. Jim just gave me this look, then said, "Hold on one second." Then went back to the call with Steven, said, "I've gotta go – Okay – bye!" and then handed the phone to me without saying anything. But I knew who it was.
"Hello?"
"Sheila?"
"Yes?"
"Sheila?"
"This is Sheila. Is this Window-Boy?"
"Yes."
"Hi. Where are you?"
"The theatre."
(Now that is totally weird.) "That's so weird cause I was just up there about 15 minutes ago, knocking on the window."
"Really? That is weird."
"I stopped by the theatre, looking for you, like – let me in! Let me in!"
"I didn't hear you. I've been up here playing the piano."
I felt a pinch in my heart. I said, "Can I come up?"
"Yeah, come on up."
"I want you to play for me."
"I will."
So I hung up and began Phase II of my evening.
George and Jim's faces as they said goodbye to me were priceless. I had whirled through their relatively calm space with a burst of manic insane energy, and then boom, I was gone. Out the door.
Walked back up to the club. The door was now open – other people were milling about. I breezed by them and charged in to find my Window-Boy. He was sitting in the downstairs space in one of the low chairs, smoking, reading over some sides. We said hello. I sat on the stage, looked over the sides with him. He told me what the audition was. He had made some changes in the script, his handwriting squiggling in the margins. I think he was glad to see me. We have such funny Dada-esque conversations. They are satisfying to me in a way that other conversations are not. He knows I'm moving to New York, but he doesn't ask details. I don't feel the need to offer them up. There's an honesty in our dynamic. There's no lying. He has never lied to me. And once you start talking honestly, it's easier and easier to keep going. Harder and harder to stop. Lies and denials have no place. It feels unnatural and stilted with him to have it any other way.
Window-Boy came to see Lesbian Bathhouse [Uhm...Yes. I was in a late-night show, which was a huge hit, called Lesbian Bathhouse. Needless to say, it is not on my resume.] – he squeezed in my show between two of his own shows. E for Effort. He said, "I liked your work" with this serious suddenly sincere look on his face. We hugged big and hard. He called me and told me when he could come. I didn't chase him down at all. Very pro-active for one of the least pro-active men I know.
He sat in the audience, over to the side, watching my work like a hawk, empirically, leaning forward, elbows on knees, intent, not laughing much, but paying strict and rigid attention. Cute. It meant a lot to me that he came.
If I had been told, when I met this man, that three years later any of this would still be going on, I would not have believed it. But it has happened, and it doesn't feel out of the ordinary at all.
We've already laughed about him visiting me in NYC. I can just see the 2 of us, wandering around Times Square, having some random Dada-esque time. He told me he's not done much traveling – he traveled through Europe, Italy, etc., in high school with his choir, but not much else. He's only been to Manhattan a few times. He's a real Chicago local.
C. came down with her dog. [Ed: She was the owner and manager of the club.] Window-Boy introduced us. She and I have never really met, strange as that is. She was very cordial. Window-Boy gave her his sides. She would be working with him on them the next day, he wanted her help. She clearly adores him. Respects him. It was interesting to watch them together. I'm always learning new things about him - just by observing. You don't get much out of Window Boy with a direct question. But man. I see a lot. Then C. left, locking the doors behind her. We were alone.
We talked a little bit more about his audition, about the closing night of Hamlet. He lit 3 or 4 candles, turned off all the rest of the lights – it was such a Chicago scene – it was so US – and then he sat down at the piano. He's never played for me before - and last night - he played for me for about an hour. He played like a maniac, vigorously, passionately. A lot of Elton John, Billy Joel – also his own stuff. He played me the first song he ever wrote: "I warn you. It is really corny" – and it was this heart-broken love-sick song. I laughed in his face, as I listened to the words.
But I sang along to the other stuff. I lay down on my back on the black stage, legs splayed out, and sang. Throwing my voice up to the ceiling. In the middle of songs, he kept apologizing for how out of shape his voice was.
I can't even tell you how happy and fulfilled the whole thing made me. It defies description. I felt like my heart expanded. As he played, I moved around. Sometimes I danced, sometimes I stood behind him to watch his fingers, sometimes I sat on a stool and drank a beer, listening.
I'd look across the candlelit space – at him – at the piano – at his head of crazy black hair – and I didn't think anything. I was BEING. My soul was flying out of my body into the universe. I am! I am! I am! I was so in the moment. I was the moment. And I loved him.
Fleeting. Life is so short. I am so conscious of that. Especially now, since my time left in Chicago is so short.
I'll stop what I'm doing – and just breathe it in. Give myself the order: Stop. Listen. Smell. Look. All of this is so fleeting. My life here will be gone in 4 weeks. Appreciate. It's not that hard to do, actually. Nothing is normal now. My future is unknown, and my present has a tangible limit to it. So I am filled with the sense of ending, of good-byes, of last times.
It's so poignant.
I cry pretty much every day. But then again, I laugh pretty much every day too.
I said at one point during the piano-playing frenzy, "My favorite album of Billy Joel's is the Songs in the Attic album."
He said, hands poised and ready, "What songs do you like from that album?"
I said, "The Night the Lights Went Out on Broadway.'"
And he started the intro immediately. It was awesome. That he would know it - that he was so ready to give it to me ... God. It was a great moment. I love that piano at the beginning. We both sang the hell out of that song – and we forgot the lyrics at exactly the same point – and both burst into laughter.
The piano at the club is a battered old grand, with stained keys – and Window-Boy is this crazy guy in my life - with crazy black hair – it was fantastic. One of my favorite nights I have ever had in Chicago.
Window-Boy will be an always person in my life. He won't just drop out of sight and heart and mind, like some of the others. I have known this for a while, but it still amazes me.
A dim candlelit bar, inhabited by me, Window-Boy, and a piano. Happiness: singing with him, him playing the piano – the two of us talking in between songs. I loved lying on my back, and listening to the music.
Window-Boy can be such an innocent. He said to me, so cute, all enthusiastic and wistful, "Last year – did you know that Elton John and Billy Joel toured together? Can you imagine that?? The two of them together? And I missed it! Did you hear about that??"
That was such a highly publicized tour, and it was endearing, him saying, "Did you hear??" like that.
I said, "Uhm … EVERYBODY knew about that tour, Window-Boy."
He shrugged, kind of sheepish, still improvising carelessly on the piano. "Well … not up on the concert scene. You know."
"Yeah. I know."
He got up to go back to the bathroom, after about an hour of singing, playing, talking. And I was alone. Leave me alone nowadays, and I am instantly 100% contemplative, nostalgic, aware.
It got so quiet, like a blanket over the place. I was sitting absolutely still. Only my eyes moved. I looked around, and I saw EVERYTHING. Everything. I saw life. I saw the details of the bar in a microscopic way, but I saw myself – in the context of my LIFE – and how this life is ending and a new one beginning.
I looked from candle to candle to candle – some in red glass holders, others in yellow glass holders – I saw the Hamlet sign – purple – with the T a man, head thrown back, arms spread out – exclamation point – darkened Miller Genuine Draft sign – the black pipes overhead – the silent living piano next to me – Window-Boy down the hall in the bathroom – this person in my life who has afforded me some of the funniest memories, who has really made Chicago this very specific place for me – a panorama. Every beat of my heart I felt, as I looked around – goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye
And it's not like I spend a lot of time in a locked-up improv club with Window-Boy. Last night was the first time. But it is the context I am familiar with. And I will miss the context.
Because it is done. I know it's done.
And every second that went by, I was saying goodbye. And Thank You at the same time.
It was so vivid, so potent. Pain and joy all mixed up together. Feeling impending loss, anticipatory nostalgia, and overwhelming gratitude.
Window-Boy came out of the bathroom to find me sitting there in a daze of tears. He sat back down at the piano. Lit a cigarette. Didn't ask, "What's going on?" He's always okay with me, wherever I'm at. I told him about what had just gone down. What I had just perceived. What I saw.
"I'm going to miss you," I said.
Window-Boy said, in this very simple way, "Oh … I'll always be here."
And he started to play again.
Is he a piece of work or what?
After this, we poured ourselves plastic cups of beer, sat on stools, and talked. We reminisced, we laughed about the first night we met. How he asked Jackie for my phone number – even though I was standing right there. hahaha He still remembered my outfit from that night three years ago. It was great. We never talk like that. But there's this huge good-bye approaching. He feels it too.
Then, we walked down the street to an all-night gyros place to stuff our faces. It was 2 in the morning. We walked by Wrigley Field. It always gives me this feeling – it looks like a Coliseum – especially late at night, when it is dark, and quiet. Looming above the neighborhood like some ruin of an ancient and long-gone time.
Window-Boy had hurt his arm pretty bad during his show that night, and he was being all manly about it, but I could tell he was in pain.
"Your arm?"
He nodded, being very stoic and manly. I switched to his other side and massaged his arm as we walked. He let me do this, which made me realize how bad it was. Normally he’s too gruff and manly for stuff like that.
We got to this DIVE across from The Metro. The skankiest people in the world were there. A toothless man in a baseball cap drinking coffee. Teenagers playing video games. I wanted nothing on the menu. I remember that Window-Boy ordered a "pizza puff" and I burst into laughter. He was so serious when he ordered it too – a little wince on his face from the pain in his arm: “Yeah, can I have a pizza puff?” I don’t even know what a pizza puff IS. Finally, I ordered a fish sandwich. (Not eating wasn't an option. I was hungry.) I also ordered a huge lemonade.
Window-Boy paid. "I got this, kid", he said with huge magnanimity, as though he is some international tycoon.
As we waited for our food, standing at the counter, Window-Boy was silently in agony, rubbing his right shoulder, flexing his hand. I felt for him.
"Oh, how bad is it? Did you pull something?"
He nodded. Manly. "It hurts."
I said to the exhausted greasy man behind the counter, "Do you have any aspirin?"
He gestured at a bunch of packets taped up by the register. "Look, Window-Boy! You want some?"
"2 packets –"
"Here." I ripped it off.
He opened one packet, popped the 2 aspirin in his mouth, and I held my lemonade straw up to his lips. He took the other 2 aspirin as well.
"That should help," I said.
"Well, at least I'll be able to sleep." (He has a cot in the back of the theatre – he sleeps there sometimes.)
We sat at a booth, waiting, talking, drinking lemonade. We got our stuff and headed back to eat at the theatre. As we passed Wrigley Field, we both, I felt, were having the same response to the place. I was staring up at it, quiet. So was he. It was dark and quiet, in the middle of a Chicago summer night. I will miss this. My Wrigley Field.
I didn't leap into his brain, or anything like that – I just felt like he and I were thinking the same thing. And suddenly he said, staring up at it, "It's funny to think … people travel to Chicago – specifically – to see Wrigley Field – to see this – and to me – it's just something that I walk by every day."
I said, "I know just what you mean."
We sat at the bar, in the dark, turned on the TV, and unwrapped our food. We watched "Tap" of all things. Mitchell laughed out loud when I told him that later. “You watched Tap????” We discussed the film, commented on it, or just watched in silence, we ate our food. Sharing, of course. My fish sandwich was supremely and wonderfully awful. Perfect.
It was 3:30 by this point, by the time I was done eating, and I was ready to go home. I mean, I live a 5 minute walk away. It's so close that I literally, even when intoxicated, cannot justify a cab.
I put my arms around Window-Boy, hugged him heartily – it had been a great night – and then I left, locking the door behind me – leaving him alone inside the bar.
My dark-haired crazy friend.
The Books: "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time! I am having such a great time re-acquainting myself with all of his plays.
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
I think Brick is one of Williams' best male creations. He's up there with Stanley, in my opinion. And in a way, he's more ... haunting. Because Stanley just does what he does, and feels very little shame about it - even when he does feel shame, it's more of a manipulative thing, to get back in good with his wife. He has no TRUE sense of shame. Or sin. And a sense of shame and sin is ALL that Brick has. And so he is a man in torment. What a tragic character. I know a guy like Brick. He was one of my dearest old flames. And ... sometimes I think about him and just shake my head. Not in judgment, but in sadness. How can someone commit to drinking like that? As a full-time job? What is it within them? In Brick it is self-disgust. Loathing at his own buried (and unadmitted to himself) homosexuality. The way Williams presents Brick to us is genius. We only know about who Brick used to be through inference and exposition. We hear that he was a college football star. That he was the golden boy of the town. That he was a professional football player for only one season ... that he became a sportscaster for one year ... and then ... something happened. An event. And after that he began to drink himself to death. The depiction of alcoholism that Williams gives us in Brick is so chilling - it's not your typical lush-y drunk, there's no stereotype in it. Brick gets vague, dreamy, and yet at the same time - completely committed to alcohol. It is his only concern. He says that he has to drink until he feels "the click" - and after he feels "the click" - he can get calm and peaceful. And Brick is so matter of fact about it. Maggie, his wife, is trying to talk to him, or argue with him, and he'll down another drink, and get a baffled expression on his face and say, "I should be feeling the click by now ..." It's tragic.
Ben Gazzara originated the role on Broadway. And Barbara Bel Geddes (love her!!) originated the role of Maggie - which gives you some idea of the difference between Broadway and Hollywood. Barbara Bel Geddes vs. Elizabeth Taylor. I think because Taylor played the role in the film, there's a misunderstanding about Maggie (basically because people get Taylor the actress mixed up with the character). At least there seems to be - in the couple of productions I've seen. Where the actress plays Maggie like some kind of wanton open-legged whore. That's so wrong. Maggie is not a slut. She is the opposite of a slut. But she is indeed "in heat". She's a cat on a hot tin roof. She's about to explode from lack of affection. But slut? Whore? That's such a disgusting interpretation of this character. I think some people, or some critics, still have a problem with women expressing sexual needs, and find Maggie being so bold about it as somehow grotesque. I don't know - a lot of the commentary about "Maggie the Cat" has a veiled sense of disgust towards this poor woman who is so desperate for a little love from her husband. I don't like that. She is a loyal woman, born to be loyal to her husband til death do them part, and that one man is Brick - and he won't touch her - and so, through that deprivation, she slowly goes out of her mind. Just because she wants and needs sex doesn't make her a slut, or a sex bomb. She is a human being, yearning for connection, for love with her husband, for intimacy. He cannot give it to her. She guesses why. She guesses at his deep dark secret. She tries to talk to him about it, with love, with understanding - But he, with his self-hatred, will not let her come close to naming it. The two of them are locked in a kind of battle. She continuously walks around him in her underwear, talking about how she's fertile, how beautiful she finds him ... all hoping that that will spark his interest. Meanwhile, he stands by the liquor cabinet, waiting to feel "the click".
The scene that opens this play - which, with the exception of 1 or 2 interruptions - is a masterpiece. It's just the two of them in their bedroom. Brick has begun to drink. Maggie talks and talks and talks, realizing the rejection in his silence, but she can't stop herself ... because she desires him so much, she loves him so much, she is starving basically - starving - she can't live without touch for much longer.
You feel for Brick - man, do you feel for him - but you feel for Maggie as well. How I would have loved to see Gazzara and Bel Geddes battle it out. Man, oh man, must have been incredible.
I'll post a bit from that enormous first scene. Also, pay close attention to Tennessee Williams' italicized directions - So many times with playwrights that stuff is useless (and actually sometimes harmful to an actor - you want to block that shit out) - but with Williams, you had better listen. It's amazing.
For example, he writes for 2 pages at the beginning of the play about what the set should be like. He has obviously dreamed this place into reality in his mind. Williams is always thinking on 2 levels: the realistic and the metaphoric. He rarely lets the symbols outweigh the reality - but you MUST have both levels going on at the same time to really be doing Williams. This includes set design, sound design, costume ... Williams ends his two page set description with this:
I once saw a reproduction of a faded photograph of the verandah of Robert Louis Stevenson's home on that Samoan Island where he spent his last years, and there was a quality of tender light on weathered wood, such as porch furniture made of bamboo and wicker, exposed to tropical suns and tropical rains, which came to mind when I thought about the set for this play, bringing also to mind the grace and comfort of light, the reassurance it gives, on a late and fair afternoon in summer, the way that no matter what, even dread of death, is gently touched and soothed by it. For the set is the background for a play that deals with human extremities of emotion, and it needs that softness behind it.
Brilliant. Just brilliant. It's that kind of specific duality - the concrete (photograph of Samoan Island) and the poetic ("it needs that softness behind it") is why I cherish Williams.
The awful event that happened, by the way, that made Brick start to drink is this:
He had the "platonic ideal" of male friendship with a fellow football player named Skipper. They were thick as thieves once upon a time. But the way it is discussed - even if Brick can't admit it - you just know there was something sexual between them. Maybe Skipper loved Brick more than Brick loved Skipper - who knows - but Skipper, desperate to prove to himself and the world that he was not "queer" (ugly word) - he seduced Maggie (who is Brick's wife and who - of course - was starving for love at the time). And basically, Skipper found that he could not perform sexually. This was the crushing moment. Skipper basically checked out of life at that moment. So deep was the self-hatred of gay people at that time. There were no ... options ... you would be beyond the pale ... it just wasn't done ... And Skipper couldn't admit it to himself. Skipper died in a car crash. And Brick lost interest in life at that moment.
Skipper hovers over every moment of this play like a ghost. Skipper was Brick's perfect love.
Anyway - here's some of that long first scene. Just a snippet - I'll pick it up in the middle of something, so you just have to leap in. Oh, and lastly: Brick broke his ankle the night before because he was drunk and he went to the track and tried to leap over the hurdles. He is now hobbling around on crutches.
EXCERPT FROM Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
MARGARET. Y'know what happened to poor little Susie McPheeters?
BRICK. [absently] No. What happened to little Susie McPheeters?
MARGARET. Somebody spit tobacco juice in her face.
BRICK. [dreamily] Somebody spit tobacco juice in her face?
MARGARET. That's right, some old drunk leaned out of a window in the Hotel Gayoso and yelled, "Hey, Queen, hey, hey, there, Queenie!" Susie looked up and flashed him a radiant smile and he shot out a squirt of tobacco juice right in poor Susie's face.
BRICK. Well, what d'you know about that.
MARGARET. [gaily] What do I know about it? I was there, I saw it!
BRICK. [absently] Must have been kind of funny.
MARGARET. Susie didn't think so. Had hysterics. Screamed like a banshee. They had to stop th' parade an' remove her from her throne an' go on with ---
[She catches sight of him in the mirror, gasps slightly, wheels about to face him. Count ten]
--- Why are you looking at me like that?
BRICK. [whistling softly, now] Like what, Maggie?
MARGARET. [intensely, fearfully] The way y' were lookin' at me just now, befo' I caught your eye in the mirror and you started t' whistle! I don't know how t' describe it but it froze my blood! -- I've caught you lookin' at me like that so often lately. What are you thinkin' of when you look at me like that?
BRICK. I wasn't conscious of lookin' at you, Maggie.
MARGARET. Well, I was conscious of it! What were you thinkin'?
BRICK. I don't remember thinking of anything, Maggie.
MARGARET. Don't you think I know that --? Don't you ---? Think I know that ---?
BRICK. [coolly] Know what, Maggie?
MARGARET. [struggling for expression] That I've gone through this -- hideous! --- transformation, become --- hard! Frantic!
[Then she adds, almost tenderly:]
--- cruel!! That's what you've been observing in me lately. How could y' help but observe it? That's all right. I'm not -- thin-skinned anymore, can't afford t' be thin-skinned any more.
[She is now recovering her power]
-- But Brick? Brick?
BRICK. Did you say something?
MARGARET. I was goin to say something: that I get -- lonely. Very!
BRICK. Ev'rybody gets that ...
MARGARET. Living with someone you love can be lonelier -- than living entirely alone! -- if the one that y' love doesn't love you ...
[There is a pause. Brick hobbles downstage and asks, without looking at her]
BRICK. Would you like to live alone, Maggie?
MARGARET. No! --- God! --- I wouldn't!
[Another gasping breath. She forcibly controls what must have been an impulse to cry out. We see her deliberately, very forcibly, going all the way back to the world in which you can talk about ordinary matters]
Did you have a nice shower?
BRICK. Uh-huh.
MARGARET. Was the water cool?
BRICK. No.
MARGARET. But it made y' feel fresh, huh?
BRICK. Fresher ...
MARGARET. I know something would make y' feel much fresher!
BRICK. What?
MARGARET. An alcohol rub. Or cologne, a rub with cologne!
BRICK. That's good after a workout but I haven't been workin' out, Maggie.
MARGARET. You've kept in good shape, though.
BRICK. [indifferently] You think so, Maggie?
MARGARET. I always thought drinkin' men lost their looks, but I was plainly mistaken.
BRICK. [wryly] Why, thanks, Maggie.
MARGARET. You're the only drinkin' man I know that it never seems t' put fat on.
BRICK. I'm gettin' softer, Maggie.
MARGARET. Well, sooner or later it's bound to soften you up. It was just beginning to soften Skipper up when --
[She stops short]
I'm sorry. I never could keep my fingers off a sore -- I wish you would lose your looks. If you did it would make the martyrdom of Saint Maggie a little more bearable. But no such goddam luck. I actually believe you've gotten better looking since you've gone on the bottle. Yeah, a person who didn't know you would think you'd never had a tense nerve in your body or a strained muscle.
[There are sounds of croquet on the lawn below; the click of mallets, light voices, near and distant]
Of course, you always had that detached quality as if you were playing a game without much concern over whether you won or lost, and now that you've lost the game, not lost but just quit playing, you have that rare sort of charm that usually only happens in very old or hopelessly sick people, the charm of the defeated. --- You look so cool, so cool, so enviably cool.
[Music is heard]
They're playing croquet. The moon has appeared and it's white, just beginning to turn a little bit yellow ...
You were a wonderful lover ...
Such a wonderful person to go to bed with, and I think mostly because you were really indifferent to it. Isn't that right? Never had any anxiety about it, did it naturally, easily, slowly, with absolute confidence and perfect calm, more like opening a door for a lady or seating her at a table than giving expression to any longing for her. Your indifference made you wonderful at lovemaking -- strange? -- but true ...
You know, if I thought you would never, never, never make love to me again -- I would go downstairs to the kitchn and pick out the longest and sharpest knife I could find and stick it straight into my heart, I swear that I would.
But one thing I don't have is the charm of the defeated, my hat is still in the ring, and I am determined to win!
[There is the sound of croquet mallets hitting croquet balls]
--- What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof? --- I wish I knew ...
Just staying on it, I guess, as long as she can ...
[More croquet sounds]
Later tonight I'm going to tell you I love you an' maybe by that time you'll be drunk enough to believe me. Yes, they're playing croquet ...
Big Daddy is dying of cancer ...
What were you thinking of when I caught you looking at me like that? Were you thinking of Skipper?
[Brick crosses to the bar, takes a quick drink, and rubs his head with a towel]
Laws of silence don't work ...
When something is festering in your memory or your imagination, laws of silence don't work, it's like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn't put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it. It grows and festers in silence, becomes malignant ....
Get dressed, Brick.
[He drops his crutch]
BRICK. I've dropped my crutch.
[He has stopped rubbing his hair dry but still stands hanging onto the towel rack in a white towel-cloth robe]
MARGARET. Lean on me.
BRICK. No, just give me my crutch.
MARGARET. Lean on my shoulder.
BRICK. I don't want to lean on your shoulder, I want my crutch!
[This is spoken like sudden lightning]
Are you going to give me my crutch or do I have to get down on my knees on the floor and ---
MARGARET. Here, here, take it, take it!]
[She has thrust the crutch at him
BRICK. [hobbling out] Thanks ...
MARGARET. We mustn't scream at each other, the walls in this house have ears ...
[He hobbles directly to liquor cabinet to get a new drink]
-- but that's the first time I've heard you raise your voice in a long time, Brick. A crack in the wall? -- Of composure?
-- I think that's a good sign ...
A sign of nerves in a player on the defensive!
[Brick turns and smiles at her coolly over his fresh drink]
BRICK. It just hasn't happened yet, Maggie.
MARGARET. What?
BRICK. The click I get in my head when I've had enough of this stuff to make me peaceful ...
October 13, 2005
defensive fashion
This is so damn funny. Just the whole thing. Read the whole thing.
Somewhere around sentence 3 I started laughing, and I am still laughing.
You see, I'm sure when other Scientologists mistakenly believe you are a super prominent Scientologist, they probably come up to you all the time and start yapping about clams and Thetans and Xenu and blah blah blah blah blah.
It's a rainy day. I'm so busy that even my eyelids are stressed out. I needed that laugh.
October 12, 2005
Sheesh
Finally. I was thoroughly sick of hearing about it.
For months it's been a constant whispering chorus: Will she forgive him??? Will she take him back???? Will he change his ways? Oh my God, they're back together! Oh wow, Sienna is really making him WORK for it ... Oh my God, they broke up again ... will she forgive him???
What is she - 22? This is a typical beginner's mistake, in dating. Swept away by the charm of a man who - obviously - has problems being faithful. In normal life, Sienna might not KNOW that the guy is a "cheater" - because he's not famous - but Jude Law is a KNOWN cheater. Sadie Frost kicked him to the curb because of it. But Sienna, a young waifish girl of indeterminate talent with a hell of a publicist, believed that this was real love. She's young. It's all right. But it just so happens she has to go through it with the tabloids snapping photos of the whole thing. (I wrote a bit about my thoughts on this - during the Bennifer Debacle that took up so much of my life.)
It's not a good sign (for her career I mean) that I am already experiencing Sienna fatigue when I have never seen her in a movie, I don't even know who the hell she is, and the only thing that seems notable about her is that people seem to feel she's a good dresser. Uhm ooookay. Whatever you say, folks!
Sienna, here's a tip: when a man cheats on his wife WITH YOU - odds are he will cheat on you. Even if you do have retro stringy hair and wear flowy genie pants to movie premieres.
Oh whatever. I found the whole thing very tiresome. Perhaps not for the reasons that many of you out there find such things tiresome. I found it tiresome because they aren't big enough stars yet for me to care about their problems.
I found the Brad - Angelina - Jennifer Aniston thing quite fascinating to watch, actually. Why? Because I am a trivial person and I don't have a life of my own. AND - all three of them are HUGE STARS. Interesting!!! It makes it INTERESTING! Wow - how is Jen doing? Did you see the pictures of her in Vanity Fair? How 'bout the spread Brad and Angelina did in W? Wow - wonder what is REALLY going on there?
I find it fascinating. I am not ashamed of it.
But this? Isn't the interest just a bit over the top? Is Jude Law a bigger star than I realize? I don't think so. I know he's very respected, his talent is quite apparent ... but ... this sort of frenzy? It seems a bit much.
And - as of right now - Sienna Miller is a nobody. Despite appearing on the coveted "Young Hollywood" Vanith Fair cover. She's one of those people who appear to be anointed as "the next thing" by the industry. I should do a post on those one day as well. Gretchen Mol is the poster child for this phenomenon. It rarely works out for such people. The public is like: "Uhm ... so ... who is this person??" Anyway, back to Sienna: She's got a lot of projects in the pipeline, including the Edie Sedgwick project (that bitch stole the part I've been gunning for since college!!) - which, as we all know, Katie Holmes famously backed out of after becoming engaged to Chimp-jumping Cult-Boy. No, she can't play edie Sedgwick because Edie was a drug addict and Scientology doesn't approve of drugs. So - that might be Sienna's "big break" - but as of now? What has she done besides wear flowy pants, Annie Hall hats, and show up in grainy photographs looking weepy and stressed out? WHY DO WE CARE?
I care when it's Nicole Kidman staggering on the beach in tears. I care when it's Julia Roberts running through the airport wearing dark glasses. I eat it up when I see paparazzi photos of Jen Aniston having a heart-to-heart on her patio with Courtney Cox. I love all that. Because they are huge stars and I enjoy watching their lives unfold.
I feel like Sienna and Jude are being thrust upon me by tabloid editors and both of their teams of publicists ... and frankly, I'm not ready for it. They're not big enough yet. Come back to me when the two of them are ginormous stars ... and maybe THEN I'll want to stare greedily at grainy photographs of the two of them walking through some random London park - she with huge sunglasses on, he looking like HELL ...
But now?
Fatigue.
Fatigue.
Thank God it's over at last.
(Oh, and please, if you feel like saying, "I don't know why people are interested in celebrities at all" or "I've never read People magazine and I'm damn proud of it" - spare me. This is for people who GET what I'm talking about here.)
The Books: "Camino Real" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time! I am having such a great time re-acquainting myself with all of his plays.
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is Camino Real
Camino Real opened on Broadway in 1953 and completely baffled critics and audiences. Nothing Williams had done up to that point prepared anyone for this departure. It was not a success. Camino Real pre-dates the experimental theatre of the 1960s by over 10 years. His fantastical psychedelic poetic-repetition non-literary play would become all the rage in a mere decade. But in the 1950s, at the height of kitchen-sink realism, it did not find its audience.
However Williams has had the last laugh. Camino Real has ended up withstanding the test of time. The world was ready for such theatrical experiments 10 years later, and now - we're all pretty much used to seeing non-linear deconstructed theatre pieces. It might not be everyone's cup of tea - but at least we know WHAT IT IS.
Camino Real is actually one of my favorites of his (I know I keep saying that, but so be it) - I like to read it not as a play, but as a long poem. It has that feeling to it.
It also contains what is my favorite Tennessee Williams line in all of his plays. I've had dark times when literally this line was a shining candle in the darkness. I held onto it. I have it written on a piece of paper and it's stuck up on my closet door. It means that much to me.
In the play it is said by Byron (yes - THAT Byron):
"Make voyages. Attempt them. There's nothing else."
My relationship to those simple words has changed over the years ... sometimes I cling to the "make voyages" part - and all the wisdom seems to be in THAT part of the line - sometimes all I can do is cling to the "attempt them" part ... and then there are other times when all I can really relate to is the "there's nothing else" part. Taken all together, it is as simple and deep a truth as you can get. It's the meaning of life. To me, anyway. That's IT. That's what it is all about.
It's not about a feeling, or an emotion, or a philosophy. It's about taking action.
Make voyages. Attempt them. There's nothing else.
Still has the power to stop my breath in my throat.
So - briefly - here is the "plot" of Camino Real. In this play, the "Camino Real" is the "end of the road". Literally, and metaphorically. It's the end of the actual road ... and also, it's where people go to die. Many of them fight this knowledge. Surrounding the small outpost is forbidding desert. There is no escape. There is definitely the feel of a powerful STATE in the play ... vaguely totalitarian ... human beings ground to dust in the wheels of the state ...
And gathered at this end of the road is a motley crew of characters - some you would recognize - others are brand-new. For example: Don Quixote arrives. Dazed, raggedy, still journeying ... Casanova is held up there - he is known as Jacques - and he has now pretty much gone to seed - the sad lover growing old ... Byron is there, flamboyant, bombastic, filled with yearning ... All of these kind of iconic characters are hanging out at this dusty frontier town - waiting to either die or escape.
Into this hopeless mix comes an American, named Kilroy.
He was played by Eli Wallach. It's a tremendous part - any actor would be lucky to have such a part. He doesn't "get" what Camino Real is - he doesn't accept the "rules" of the place - that it is "the end" ...
By the end of the play - miraculously - there is some hope. The fountain in the square starts gushing water again - a symbol of plenty, nourishment, life ... people start to wake out of their haze ... start to be able to connect again.
That's what it's all about for Tennessee Williams: loneliness. And the possibility, the heart-breaking possibility of human connection. Like Blanche DuBois' most famous line: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." That's it. In a nutshell.
So. The scene I will excerpt here is between Casanova (known as Jacques) and Marguerite (who was once known as Camille). They are two aging courtesans ... they are two people who trafficked in sex when they were young and were able to ... but now? It's not so easy. It's a desperate connection they make, grasping, frightened - Marguerite is on the edge - she has become a faded ghost of herself -
At one point, a plane arrives. It is called "Fugitivo". It is reminiscent of the one plane out of Casablanca in the movie. The plane lands, and chaos explodes, everyone trying to get on it at once. No one has money. People are desperate. It is a mob scene. People run about, flinging coins at the soldiers, who say: "Only this kind of currency - not that kind ..." People flinging their jewelry at the guards ... "Please! I beg you! Take my jewels and let me on that plane!"
Marguerite tries desperately to get on that plane - she begs, she screams - it's a very difficult scene to read ... They will not take her jewels - and then - with her screaming at the edge of the stage, screaming in agony - you can hear the plane take off.
There will not be another plane for years to come. It was her last chance.
She is near collapse. Casanova comes to her aid, helping her cross the street - she can barely stand.
Marguerite then has what is, arguably, the most important monologue in the entire show. It's the theme. All in one place.
Anyway. Just go with it. The play is really meant to be seen and experienced - not read. Tennessee Williams never really wrote anything in this vein again. He was WAY ahead of his time.
I also love this because the cast list is like a who's who of the Actors Studio. I have now met many of those people - and of course now they are, for the most part, ancient. Vivien Nathan - Mike Gazzo was in this - who a couple of years later would write Hat Full of Rain AT the Studio, through improvisation ... Jo Van Fleet ... Martin Balsam ... In fact, I dated the son of one of the actors who was in the original production of Camino Real. Strange. Of course, the guy I dated wasn't even born in 1953 ... but the man who eventually would be his father was acting on Broadway throughout the 40s and 40s. I know his father now as an old man with a hearing aid. (Still sharp, still with it, teaching acting, etc.) But there he was back then, on Broadway in the 1950s, young, vital, surrounded by all that talent - so awesome!
EXCERPT FROM Camino Real
MARGUERITE. Lost! Lost! Lost! Lost!
[She is still clinging brokenly to the railing of the steps. Jacques descends to her and helps her back up the steps.]
JACQUES. Lean against me, cara. Breathe quietly, now.
MARGUERITE. Lost!
JACQUES. Breathe quietly, quietly, and look up at the sky.
MARGUERITE. Lost ...
JACQUES. These tropical nights are so clear. There's the Southern Cross. Do you see the Southern Cross, Marguerite? [He points through the proscenium. They are now on the bench before the fountain; she is resting in his arms] And there, over there, is Orion, like a fat, golden fish swimming north in the deep clear water, and we are together, breathing quietly together, leaning together, quietly, quietly together, completely, sweetly together, not frightened, now, not alone, but completely quietly together ... [Lady Madrecita, led into the center of the plaza by her son, has begun to sing very softly; the reddish flares dim out and the smoke disappears] All of us have a desperate bird in our hearts, a memory of -- some distant mother with -- wings ...
MARGUERITE. I would have -- left -- without you ...
JACQUES. I know, I know!
MARGUERITE. Then how can you --- still --- ?
JACQUES. Hold you? [Marguerite nods slightly] Because you've taught me that part of love which is tender. I never knew it before. Oh, I had -- mistresses that circled me like moons! I scrambled from one bed chamber to another bed chamber with shirttails always aflame, from girl to girl, like buckets of coal oil poured on a conflagration! But never loved until now with the part of love that's tender ...
MARGUERITE. -- We're used to each other. That's what you think is love ... You'd better leave me now, you'd better go and let me go because there's a cold wind blowing out of the mountains and over the desert and into my heart, and if you stay with me now, I'll say cruel things, I'll wound your vanity, I'll taunt you with the decline of your male vigor!
JACQUES. Why does disappointment make people unkind to each other?
MARGUERITE. Each of us is very much alone.
JACQUES. Only if we distrust each other.
MARGUERITE. We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.
JACQUES. I think our defense is love.
MARGUERITE. Oh Jacques, we're used to each other, we're a pair of captive hawks caught in the same cage, and so we've grown used to each other. That's what passes for love at this dim, shadowy end of the Camino Real ... What are we sure of? Not even of our existence, dear comforting friend! And whom can we ask the questions that torment us? "What is this place?" "Where are we?" -- a fat old man who gives sly hints that only bewilder us more, a fake of a Gypsy squinting at cards and tea leaves. What else are we offered? The never-broken procession of little events that assure us that we and strangers about us are still going on! Where? Why? and the perch that we hold is unstable! We're threatend with eviction, for this is a port of entry and departure, there are no permanent guests! And where else have we to go when we leave here? Bide-a-While? "Ritz Men Only"? Or under that ominous arch into Terra Incognita? We're lonely. We're frightened. We hear the Streetcleaners' piping not far away. So now and then, although we've wounded each other time and again -- we stretch out hands to each other in the dark that we can't escape from -- we huddle together for some dim-communal comfort -- and that's what passes for love on this terminal stretch of the road that used to be royal. What is it, this feeling between us? When you feel my exhausted weight against your shoulder -- when I clasp your anxious old hawk's head to my breast, what is it we feel in whatever is left of our hearts? Something, yes, something -- delicate, unreal, bloodless! The sort of violets that could grow on the moon, or in the crevices of those far away mountains, fertilized by the droppings of carrion birds. Those birds are familiar to us. Their shadows inhabit the plaza. I've heard them flapping their wings like old charwomen beating worn-out carpets with grey brooms ... But tenderness, the violets in the mountains -- can't break the rocks!
JACQUES. The violets in the mountains can break the rocks if you believe in them and allow them to grow!
[The plaza has resumed its usual aspect. Abdullah enters through one of the downstage arches]
ABDULLAH. Get your carnival hats and noisemakers here! Tonight the moon will restore the virginity of my sister!
MARGUERITE. [almost tenderly touching his face] Don't you know that tonight I am going to betray you?
JACQUES. --- Why would you do that?
MARGUERITE. Because I've outlived the tenderness of my heart.
Tear-jerkers
Here's a question from the indispensable I Love Books:
Now I differentiate between two different kinds of crying. Plenty of books have made me mist up, have brought a lump to my throat ... but only a few have made me literally burst into sobs. Those burst-into-sobs books remain almost radio-active to me - those books are books I have only been able to read once. Once was enough. I didn't just find the books sad. No. I found myself REVEALED by those books. I felt called OUT by those books. I sat in my OWN life, in my OWN experience ... and felt a searing pain that was literally unbearable. Now THAT'S a good sad book. No distance between the story and my own revelations.
But that's why I probably won't read those 3 books again. The revelations that came, the searing truth revealed ... it was a once in a lifetime thing. And it hurt. I remember sitting on the floor in my room after finishing one of the books, and literally holding onto my heart, pressing down on my chest, because it HURT. I'm not talking about a metaphor. I am saying that my heart, the organ, actually HURT.
So.
Here is my 2-part answer to the 1-part question.
Books that have made me mist over, tear up, get a lump in my throat, yadda yadda - I will probably add to this
Brothers Karamazov - by Dostoevsky
The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay - Michael Chabon
Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine L'Engle
Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
Angela's Ashes - Frank McCourt
It - Stephen King
Books that have literally made me burst into spontaneous stormy tears. Books that seared into my soul like a hot poker. There are only 3 on the list.
Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
Geek Love - Katherine Dunn
Atonement - Ian McEwan
I actually tried to re-read Atonement recently. I got through the first chapter and had to put it down again. Nope. I can't read it again.
The three things thing
Big Stupid Tommy does the meme. Lots of interesting stuff there to read.
I particularly enjoy:
THREE THINGS I CAN’T DO:2. I can't wrap my mind around this idea of Toby Kieth. I don't think he's a real person. I think's he's a corporate sponsored hologram, a synthetic conglomeration of media archetypes...think part John Wayne, part Hank Williams, Jr., part Patrick Swayze's character in Road House, and I think you've got Toby Kieth
That so perfectly describes my own amorphous (and yet extremely negative) response to Toby Keith ... only I have never been able to put it into words.
hahaha
Nicely done!!
October 11, 2005
Three things
THREE THINGS I DON’T UNDERSTAND:
1. How I put pairs of socks into the washing machine and inevitably when I take the load of laundry out, I am missing socks. I do not get that.
2. Getting pleasure out of being cruel.
3. Why Renee Zellweger is so successful
THREE THINGS ON MY DESK:
1. Old-fashioned wine-bottle-holder from a ship.
2. Photo of Cashel (the castle AND the nephew)
3. A small box of what is known as healing cards. Cards you pick at random - they usually have a small verse of poetry on it, or an inspirational quote - as well as a beautiful watercolor of some kind. These are next to my small container of angel cards. It's good to have that stuff nearby.
THREE THINGS I’M DOING RIGHT NOW:
1. uh ... writing this?
2. breathing
3. blinking my eyes occasionally
THREE THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I DIE:
1. Go to Central Asia
2. Publish a book
3. Have a child
THREE THINGS I CAN DO:
1. Be loyal.
2. Love someone with all my heart.
3. Recite all of the words to "Quite a lotta" from Barnum at top-speed. This is usually done with my sister Jean at random family gatherings. I don't think everyone else finds it as amusing as we do.
THREE WAYS TO DESCRIBE MY PERSONALITY:
1. Restless
2. A good friend, a good listener
3. Funny
THREE THINGS I CAN’T DO:
1. Turn love into hate. If I love you once, I can't just say, "Oh, I hate you now" once the break-up happens. I have hated this about myself, I yearned for hatred, but now I see it's a good thing. I've got a lot of great old flames in my life still. It's cool.
2. Do simple sums without talking out loud and saying things like, "Carry the one ... okay ... now 8 minus 7 is one ..." etc. I can't do simple math problems in my head.
3. See without my glasses or my contact lenses
THREE THINGS I THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO:
1. Tracy Bonham. She has a new album out - I just bought it - she's just great.
2. Lenny Kravitz. I have all his albums. And frankly, so should you.
3. The soundtrack to Ragtime. Amazing.
THREE THINGS I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO EVER:
1. Anyone who has a kneejerk "been there, done that" attitude about the experiences you have in your life. If you come to someone and say, excitedly, "I just found a new apartment!" and their first response is, "Oh, please, wait til you've moved 20 times ... see how excited you are then" - not only do I think you should not listen to that person, but I think you should cut them loose. I can't STAND the "been there, done that" attitude. It is there to stand in judgment of excitement and enthusiasm. I've experienced it in comments on this blog too, on occasion. Because I love to write about things with excitement, passion, going over the moon with my emotions ... some dipshit always comes along and makes a snark. I think my excitement makes them uncomfortable. You know that type? Is it fun to be like that? Is it fun to puncture someone else's balloon? Well if it is: then buh-bye. I do not want you in my life. "Been there, done that" is there to rain on your parade. People who compulsively do this SUCK. They are a blight upon this planet.
2. Homophobic comments.
3. Michael Bolton
THREE THINGS YOU SAY:
1. No. Way.
2. hahahahahahahaha
3. Get out of here!!!
THREE THINGS YOU’D LIKE TO LEARN:
1. Irish dancing
2. Gaelic
3. Figure skating at the Olympic level
THREE BEVERAGES YOU DRINK REGULARLY:
1. Water
2. Orange juice
3. Ginger ale
THREE SHOWS YOU WATCHED WHEN YOU WERE A KID:
1. Little House on the Prairie
2. 3-2-1 Contact
3. Land of the Lost
THREE THINGS YOU WISH PEOPLE WOULD LEARN TO DO:
1. Just LISTEN when someone else is speaking. Don't sit there planning out your rebuttal, don't sit there JUDGING every word coming out, don't listen with the checklist ("Yup - I agree with that ... Oh, don't agree with that ... Yup, agree with that one ...") It's so selfish. You have no idea about the art of conversation. You're a big fat blowhard BORE. Just LISTEN. Sheesh.
2. Say, "You know what? I messed up here. I'm really sorry."
3. Keep your mouth shut when you feel like giving unasked-for advice. Learn that sometimes people just need to talk, and share ... and nobody's saying, "Please ... give me unsolicited advice." Have the sensitivity to understand when your precious words of wisdom are wanted, and when they are not. And if you mess up in that regard? Fucking apologize. Mkay? Sometimes a friend just needs to share her thoughts, feelings, experience ... she's not saying, "Please fix this. Please!!" This is obviously connected to #1 in this particular topic. Just shut up and LISTEN. It's also connected to the nastiness of the "been there/done that" attitude. Oh - so because YOU'VE done it means nobody else gets to have the experience for the first time? Shut up.
Ahhh, that was very cathartic.
(via Princess Dominique)
It would be so empty without him ...
Okay, folks. Not sure what it is about this particular post - but random people out there seem to be under the impression that I actually AM Marshall Mathers. Check out the last couple of comments. I finally closed the post, and deleted about 20 other comments like those ... but now ... they have tracked down my email, and they send me tormented notes - (or - they send Marshall tormented notes ... thinking that I AM him)
"Yo! Don't retire, yo!"
And generally, they all refer to him as "Em". You know, the familiarity of a nickname.
"Yo, Em, heard the news. I am so sad. So sad."
Em. hahaha
I have no idea what is going on - who linked to this post - it's not in my referral log - but somehow - it has spread across the planet that you can actually leave messages for "Em" here.
These letters, by the way, do come from all over the world. One dude wrote to me (or ... he wrote to Marshall Mathers) from Kuwait. "I am from Kuwait ... we love your music ... do not retire!" (To quote Humphrey Bogart: "You know you're famous when they know your name in Karachi.")
Well now it looks like Mr. Mathers is taking a small break, but reports of his "retirement" were hugely exaggerated. You hear that, world? So you can stop writing me tormented letters bemoaning the loss you already feel. Mkay? Eminem ain't going anywhere.
As a matter of fact, he's putting together a greatest hits album.
So calm down, world. Calm the hell DOWN everyone who has written to me from Indiana, from Germany, from France, from Kuwait, from England, from Idaho, from Queens, from Sydney Australia, from India ... (I'm not kidding - these are the countries and states represented in the letter chain).
Mr. Marshall Mathers is not retiring.
Also: I AM NOT EMINEM. I don't know why you think I am ... but I am not!!!
Just cleanin' out my closet here, folks, just cleanin' out my closet!
The Books: "The Rose Tattoo" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time! I am having such a great time re-acquainting myself with all of his plays.
Next Tennessee Williams play on the shelf (and again - I am attempting to go chronologically) is The Rose Tattoo
It premiered in 1950 - and Maureen Stapleton starred as Serafina, in a career-making performance. She apparently was marvelous. Eli Wallach was her co-star ... Sal Mineo had a tiny part. He was just a kid. I love looking at the old cast lists ... to see who shows up.
The Rose Tattoo, for me, stands out in Tennessee Williams' line of plays ... It has a light touch, there are some almost slapstick scenes (when Serafina and Alvaro both can't stop crying, for example) - and also - it has a blatantly happy hopeful ending. Things work out.
Serafina is an Italian widow - who lives in a small town on the Gulf Coast, and is a dressmaker. She has a daughter. She maintains a fantasy of her dead husband in her mind - he was a truck driver - and she puts him on a pedestal. Everything about him was perfect, including his love for her. He had a rose tattoo on his chest. Anyway, she is distraught when he dies ... and goes nearly mad from grief. She wears mourning for 3 years. She blatantly talks to the statue of the Madonna in her house, in a casual conversational tone. She is always looking for signs. She keeps the ashes of her dead husband in an urn on the mantel. Her daughter is 15 and is trying to break free of her mother's clutches.
At the start of the play, two gossipy neighborhood women basically tell Serafina, out of malice, gleeful malice, that her husband was actually NOT faithful to her, and he had been having an affair all along with the town whore who worked at a casino.
This absolutely crushes Serafina's heart, ruins her entire world ... without the fantasy of her perfect husband, then what does her life add up to? She starts to lose her grip. She can't leave her house. She cries uncontrollably. She prays in front of the Madonna statue for hours on end.
Into this environment comes Alvaro - a young truckdriver (Of course - the outsider) - whose truck breaks down. Eli Wallach played this part. You immediately love this guy. He is also Italian. He pretty much falls in love with the much older Serafina immediately. He begins to court her. Which is not an easy prospect, due to the fact that she lives in the past, pretty much, fantasizing about her dead husband and his rose tattoo. Serafina is middle-aged. Alvaro is in his early 20s.
Anyway - the play actually ends with the two of them together. They are mis-matched, but they recognize their own loneliness, and feel comfort when they are together. It's quite hopeful and happy. Their love scenes together are delicious - beautifully written, long scenes - definitely a push-and-pull, like with all good love scenes - there has to be SOME obstacle to people getting what they want. Therein lies the drama.
The excerpt I'll post is from a scene between Serafina and Father De Leo, her priest. Of course she is Catholic. Father De Leo has been trying to help Serafina move through her grief, he doesn't approve of the urn on the mantel, he is shocked by how HUGE her sense of loss is ... Anyway, he stops by early on in the play (before the arrival of Alvaro) because she called him, asking for him. I picked this scene because in it - in Tennessee's very clever way - we get to know exactly who Serafina is. It's all character exposition this scene - which can be so boring or clunky - but it never reads that way when Williams does it. It flows naturally. In this scene, Serafina ends up explaining herself and her emotions to us, the audience. It's very helpful. It's information we NEED to have.
EXCERPT FROM The Rose Tattoo
FATHER DE LEO. Serafina?
SERAFINA. Che, che, che cosa vuole?
FATHER DE LEO. I am thirsty. Will you go in the house and get me some water?
SERAFINA. Go in. Get you some water. The faucet is working -- I can't go in the house.
FATHER DE LEO. Why can't you go in the house?
SERAFINA. The house has a tin roof on it. I got to breathe.
FATHER DE LEO. You can breathe in the house.
SERAFINA. No, I can't breathe in the house. The house has a tin roof on it and I ...
[The Strega has been creeping through the canebrake pretending to search for a chicken]
THE STREGA. Chick, chick, chick, chick, chick? [She crouches to peer under the house]
SERAFINA. What's that? Is that the ...? Yes, the Strega! [She picks up a flower pot containing a dead plant and crosses the yard] Strega! Strega! [The Strega looks up, retreating a little] Yes, you, I mean you! You ain't look for no chick! Getta hell out of my yard! [The Strega retreats, viciously muttering, back into the canebrake. Serafina makes the protective sign of the horns with her fingers. The goat bleats]
FATHER DE LEO. You have no friends, Serafina.
SERAFINA. I don't want friends.
FATHER DE LEO. You are still a young woman. Eligible for -- loving and -- bearing again! I remember you dressed in pale blue silk at Mass one Easter morning, yes, like a lady wearing a -- piece of the -- weather! Oh, how proudly you walked, too proudly! -- But now you crouch and shuffle about barefooted; you live like a convict, dressed in the rags of a convict. You have no companions; women you don't mix with. You ...
SERAFINA. No. I don't mix with them women. [glaring at the women on the embankment] The dummies I got in my house, I mix with them better because they don't make up no lies! -- What kind of women are them? [mimicking fiercely] "Eee, Papa, eeee, baby, eee, me, me, me!" At thirty years old they got no more use for the letto matrimoniale, no. The big bed goes to the basement! They get little beds from Sears Roebuck and sleep on their bellies!
FATHER DE LEO. Attenzione!
SERAFINA. They make the life without glory. Instead of the heart they got the deep-freeze in the house. The men, they don't feel no glory, not in the house with them women; they go to the bars, fight in them, get drunk, get fat, put horns on the women because the women don't give them the love which is glory. --- I did. I give him the glory. To me the big bed was beautiful like a religion. Now I lie on it with dreams, with memories only! But it is still beautiful to me and I don't believe that the man in my heart gave me horns! [The women whisper] What, what are they saying? Does ev'rybody know something that I don't know? -- No, all I want is a sign, a sign from Our Lady, to tell me the lie is a lie! And then I ... [The women laugh on the embankment. Serafina starts fiercely twoard them. They scatter] Squeak, squeak, squawk, squawk! Hens -- like water thrown on them! [There is the sound of mocking laughter]
FATHER DE LEO. People are laughing at you on all the porches.
SERAFINA. I'm laughing, too. Listen to me. I'm laughing! [She breaks into loud, false laughter, first from the porch, then from the foot of the embankment, then crossing in front of the house.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Now ev'rybody is laughing! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
FATHER DE LEO. Zitto ora! -- Think of your daughter.
SERAFINA. [Understanding the word "daughter] You, you think of my daughter! Today you give out the diplomas, today at the high school you give out the prizes, diplomas! You give to my daughter a set of books call the Digest of Knowledgge! What does she know? How to be cheap already? -- Oh, yes, that is what to learn, how to be cheap and how to cheat! -- You know what they do at this high school? They ruin the girls there! They give the spring dance because the girls are man-crazy. And there at that dance my daughter goes with a sailor that has in his ear a gold ring! And pants so tight that a woman ought not to look at him! This morning, this morning she cuts with a knife her wrist if I don't let her go! -- Now all of them gone to some island, they call it a picnic, all of them, gone in a -- boat!
FATHER DE LEO. There was a school picnic, chaperoned by the teachers.
SERAFINA. Oh, lo so, lo so! The man-crazy old-maid teachers! -- They all run wild on the island!
FATHER DE LEO. Serafina delle Rose! [He picks up the chair by the back and hauls it to the porch when she starts to resume her seat] I command you to go in the house.
SERAFINA. Go in the house? I will. I will go in the house if you will answer one question. --- Will you answer one question?
FATHER DE LEO. I will if I know the answer.
SERAFINA. Aw, you know the answer! -- You used to have the confession of my husband.
FATHER DE LEO. Yes, I heard his confessions ...
SERAFINA. [with difficulty] Did he ever speak to you of a woman?
[A child cries out and races across in front of the house. Father De Leo picks up his panama hat. Serafina paces slowly toward him. He starts away from the house]
SERAFINA. [rushing after him] Aspettate! Aspettate un momento!
FATHER DE LEO. [fearfully, not looking at her] Che volete?
SERAFINA. Rispondetemi! [She strikes her breast] Did he speak of a woman to you?
FATHER DE LEO. You know better than to ask me such a question. I don't break the Church laws. The secrets of the confessional are sacred to me. [He walks away]
SERAFINA. [pursuing and clutching his arm] I got to know. You could tell me.
FATHER DE LEO. Let go of me, Serafina!
SERAFINA. Not till you tell me, Father. Father, you tell me, please tell me! Or I will go mad! [in a fierce whisper] I will go back in the house and smash the urn with the ashes -- if you don't tell me! I will go mad with the doubt in my heart and I will smash the urn and scatter the ashes -- of my husband's body!
FATHER DE LEO. What could I tell you? If you would not believe the known facts about him ...
SERAFINA. Known facts, who knows the known facts?
[The neighbor women have heard the argument and begin to crowd around, muttering in shocked whispers at Serafina's lack of respect]
FATHER DE LEO. [frightened] Lasciatemi, lasciatemi stare! -- Oh, Serafina, I am too old for this -- please! -- Everybody is ...
SERAFINA. [in a fierce hissing whisper] Nobody knew my rose of the world but me and now they can lie because the rose ain't living. They want the marble urn broken; they want me to smash it. They want the rose ashes scattered because I had too much glory. They don't want glory like that in nobody's heart. They want -- mouse-squeaking! -- known facts. -- Who knows the known facts? You -- padres -- wear black because of the fact that the facts are known by nobody!
FATHER DE LEO. Oh, Serafine! There are people watching!
SERAFINA. Let them watch something. That will be a change for them. -- It's a long time I wanted to break out like this and now I ...
FATHER DE LEO. I am too old a man; I am not strong enough. I am sixty-seven years old! Must I call for help, now?
SERAFINA. Yes, call! Call for help, but I won't let you go till you tell me!
FATHER DE LEO. You're not a respectable woman.
SERAFINA. No, I'm not a respectable; I'm a woman.
FATHER DE LEO. No, you are not a woman. You are an animal!
SERAFINA. Si, si, animale Sono animale! Animale. Tell them all, shout it all to them, up and down the whole block! The Widow Delle Rose is not respectable, she is not even a woman, she is an animal! She is attacking the priest! She will tear the black suit of him unless he tells her the whores in this town are lying to her!
[The neighbor women have been drawing closer as the argument progresses, and now they come to Father De Leo's rescue and assist him to get away from Serafina, who is on the point of attacking him bodily. He cries out, "Officer! Officer!" but the women drag Serafina from him and lead him away with comforting murmurs]
SERAFINA. [striking her wrists together] Yes, it's me, it's me! Lock me up, lock me, lock me up! Or I will -- smash! -- the marble ... [She throws her head far back and presses her fists to her eyes. Then she rushes crazily to the steps and falls across them]
ASSUNTA. Serafina! Figlia! Figlia! Andiamo a casa!
SERAFINA. Leave me alone, old woman.
[She returns slowly to the porch steps and sinks down on them, sitting like a tired man, her knees spread apart and her head cupped in her hands. The children steal back around the house. A little boy shoots a beanshooter at her. She starts up with a cry. The children scatter, shrieking. She sinks back down on the steps, then leans back, staring up at the sky, her body rocking]
SERAFINA. Oh, Lady, Lady, Lady, give me a sign!
October 10, 2005
The Books: "Summer and Smoke" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play? Summer and Smoke
No way can I talk about this play in any rational or logical way. I am too close to it. I have too much affinity for it. In this play - perhaps not one of Williams' best - I see myself, I see myself in all my flaws, my hopes, my dreams ... It is one of the clearest purest expressions of who I am that was not actually written by me. I worked on this play intensely for about a year - with my acting mentor and another actor (my friend David - a terrific actor). We had the hopes of putting up a production of it which did not come to pass - but the weeks and weeks and weeks we worked on it (the play is basically made up of long long scenes between the two main characters - and we worked on them all) is an experience that enriched my life immeasurably. It was one of those times when not only did I feel like we were actually getting close to what a good teacher of mine called "the pulse of the playwright" - but I also felt like I learned and grew as a person. I started to understand myself better - what motivates me, what holds me back, what my true concerns are ... Miss Alma, the spiritual virginal librarian, her fate intertwined with her childhood friend - Dr. John Buchanan ... a wild man, a bucking horse of a man ... spoke so deeply to me that I can't really describe it. I kept a journal of our Summer and Smoke rehearsals the entire time we worked on it ... and it's incredible reading. I've never worked so hard on a thing in my life. It got INSIDE me. Miss Alma was no longer words on the page ... she actually has a life, she lives and breathes ... and she was the one showing me the way. A total mind-meld.
This is a lot of actor talk. But that's what I think of when I think of Summer and Smoke. I think of immersing myself in that world, in the mind of that woman, for a solid year. I think of how it changed me forever.
She says: "Oh, I suppose I am sick, one of those weak and divided people who slip like shadows among you solid strong ones. But sometimes, out of necessity, we shadowy people take on a strength of our own. I have that now."
The truth in that. For me ....
John says to Alma: "I thought it was just a Puritanical ice that glittered like flame. But now I believe it was flame, mistaken for ice."
This has resoundingly personal implications. That has happened to me before. My flame has been mistaken for ice.
It was just one of those experiences where I couldn't tell where my life ended and the play began. Never had that before. David and I had some truly profound moments together working on that piece. It changed our friendship forever.
I still have hopes that someday I will be able to be in a production of this play. Miss Alma continues to teach me, continues to help me ... She reappears at the darndest times, reminding me of what she learned during her life ... She knows. She understands.
She is one of his most tragic heroines. I am absolutely in love with her. In all her complexity, all her problems ... I feel grateful that I was able to get that close to her.
The story is simple:
Alma is the daughter of a minister. She is a spiritual woman, and was a spiritual girl. A typical Tennessee Williams female character - not really attached to the earth. (Therein lies her problem. Underneath that spirituality is a fire that burns so hot that she eventually is consumed. In the world she lives in - where "good girls" don't feel things like that ... she is doomed to live a life where she is split off from the most vital part of herself.)
John Buchanan is the boy who lives next door to Alma. He grows up to be a doctor. But he is wild. He sleeps with whores, he drinks to excess ... Everyone had very high hopes for him, including his disapproving father ... and while Dr. John is a wonderful doctor - you might say that it is his vocation - his lifestyle scandalizes the small town. He gambles, drinks, whores around ... and yet somehow ... there is still some connection with Alma ... his childhood friend.
It's a classic dichotomy situation:
Alma represents the Spirit. John represents the Earth. It is so apparent that these two, with their different outlooks and lifestyles, are actually made for each other. And not only that - but there is nobody else on earth for either one of them. Alma has loved John all her life. She has a wrenching monologue at the end when she admits this: "I have loved you all the days of my life ..." John takes her out on a couple of dates which are disasters. Something about her - her spirituality, her insistence on seeing that there is good on this planet, that people are redeemable - makes him feel ashamed of himself, and his vile ways. So he takes it out on her. He decides to rub her face in filth. He takes her to a gambling casino for their date, he drives 100 miles an hour, he tries to get her drunk ... but the thing that makes this play so tragic, so heartrendingly tragic ... is that John is not a bad guy. He's not Stanley Kowalski. John is a damaged soul, and he is determined to live up to everyone's horrible opinions of him. Fine, you think I'm a whoring drunkard? Then I will BE a whoring drunkard. Alma tries to convince him that he has a soul ... that his soul is pure ... John will hear none of it.
And yet ... he can't help but be drawn to Alma.
There are these painful scenes of the two of them ... both in their separate houses ... standing at the windows, looking through the curtains at one another ... at 3 o'clock in the morning.
The love they have for each other is tormenting. Unexpressed. And could they ever come together? Could Alma ever let go of her relatively prissy pose (she's very eccentric ... she's an oddball) and accept that underneath all of that is an animal drive for sex? Like we all have? Can she accept that part of herself? And can John accept that above his drive for earthly pleasures is actually a soul? Something more to life than just eating, drinking, fucking?
They have extended scenes together - they are really the only two people in the play - where they battle this out.
The ending never fails to rip my heart out. I still cannot read that last scene ... where they say goodbye ... without tears rolling down my face.
A true unrequited love. On both sides.
The ending is tragic. You can tell, at the end, that Alma is on her way to becoming Blanche DuBois. In the very last scene, Alma - who has had a nervous breakdown (again, with Williams' theme of sexual hysteria) - emerges from her seclusion only to find that John Buchanan, due to a tragic event in his life, has reformed his ways. He is making his way as a doctor, gaining success, and he is now engaged to Nellie, a girl from the town. An unremarkable girl. Nobody special. At the same time - because of this horrible event in his life (he basically was responsible for the murder of his father) - he has realized that Alma, with all her philosophizing about the soul, was onto something all along. He decides that he will continue to strive upward, to reach for a better life, to be a better man ... Alma must realize that her only chance at happiness is now past. There is no other man on earth for her. She has become addicted to sleeping pills. She pops them all the time. She goes down to the park and sits on a bench, in a doped-out haze. A traveling salesman comes and sits down by her. They have a short sweet scene of introduction. And the play ends with Alma picking him up. Alma - the town virgin, the spiritual light of the earth - will now begin to give her body away. She has finally realized that her animal side must have a release ... and yet she had hoped, beyond hope, that it would be with John - that sex with John would not just be an animalistic experience - but something filled with love. Her ideal. Sex must be paired with love. It must be something that would bring her closer to God ... because it has to do with love. Now that she has no chance at love ... there is some inner shift that happens. She decides to take pleasure where she can. She becomes a whore.
They switch places. John strives for spiritual growth. Alma descends into the purely physical. It is too late for either of them to save each other. Kindred spirits always, but destined to be apart.
It's just fucking awful.
I will excerpt the killer last scene between the two of them. Alma comes to Dr. John - unaware that he has become engaged ... and basically offers herself to him sexually. It is an enormous sacrifice to someone like her ... it represents a betrayal of all her deepest held convictions ... but she is now desperate, and completely broken. She laughs hysterically for no reason. She is always on the verge of panic. Dr. John then must inform her that there is no hope ... he has promised himself to another woman. The key here - something that most actors who play Dr. John forget (but that David never forgot) - is that it is as wrenching for him to let her go as it is for her to let him go. He just has better coping skills. But he, too, is saying goodbye to his last chance at real happiness. And he knows it. They both know it.
EXCERPT FROM Summer and Smoke
[A bell tolls the hour of five as Alma comes hesitatntly in to John's office. She wears a russet suit and a matching hat with a plume. The light changes, the sun disappearing behind a cloud, fading from the steeple and the stone angel till the bell stops tolling. Then it brightens again.]
ALMA. No greetings? No greetings at all?
JOHN. Hello, Miss Alma.
ALMA. [speaking with animation to control her panic] How white it is here, such glacial brilliance! [She covers her eyes, laughing]
JOHN. New equipment.
ALMA. Everything new but the chart.
JOHN. The human anatomy's always the same old thing.
ALMA. And such a tiresome one! I've been plagued with sore throats.
JOHN. Everyone has here lately. These Southern homes are all improperly heated. Open grates aren't enough.
ALMA. They burn the front of you while your back is freezing!
JOHN. Then you go into another room and get chilled off.
ALMA. Yes, yes, chilled to the bone.
JOHN. But it never gets quite cold enough to convince the damn fools that a furnace is necessary so they go on building without them.
[There is the sound of wind]
ALMA. Such a strange afternoon.
JOHN. Is it? I haven't been out.
ALMA. The Gulf wind is blowing big, white -- what do they call them? cumulus? -- clouds over! Ha-ha! It seemed determined to take the plume off my hat, like that fox terrier we had once named Jacob, snatched the plume off a hat and dashed around and around the back yard with it like a trophy.
JOHN. I remember Jacob. What happened to him?
ALMA. Oh, Jacob. Jacob was such a mischievous thief. We had to send him out to some friends in the country. Yes, he ended his days as -- a country squire! The tales of his exploits!
JOHN. Sit down, Miss Alma.
ALMA. If I'm disturbing you ...?
JOHN. No -- I called the Rectory when I heard you were sick. Your father told me you wouldn't see a doctor.
ALMA. I needed a rest, that was all ... You were out of town mostly ...
JOHN. I was mostly in Lyon, finishing up Dad's work in the fever clinic.
ALMA. Covering yourself with sudden glory!
JOHN. Redeeming myself with good works.
ALMA. It's rather late to tell you how happy I am, and also how proud. I almost feel as your father might have felt -- if ... And -- are you -- happy now, John?
JOHN. [uncomfortably, not looking at her] I've settled with life on fairly acceptable terms. Isn't that all a reasonable person can ask for?
ALMA. He can ask for much more than that. He can ask for the coming true of his most improbably dreams.
JOHN. It's best not to ask for too much.
ALMA. I disagree with you. I say, ask for all, but be prepared to get nothing! [She springs up and crosses to the window.] No, I haven't been well. I've thought many times of something you told me last summer, that I have a doppelganger. I looked that up and I found that it means another person inside me, another self, and I don't know whether to thank you or not for making me conscious of it! --- I haven't been well ... For a while I thought I was dying, that that was the change that was coming.
JOHN. When did you have that feeling?
ALMA. August. September. But now the Gulf wind has blown that feeling away like a cloud of smoke, and I know now I'm not dying, that it isn't going to turn out to be that simple ...
JOHN. Have you been anxious about your heart again? [He retreats to a professional manner and takes out a silver watch, putting his finger on her wrist]
ALMA. And now the stethoscope? [He removes the stethoscope from the table and starts to loosen her jacket. She looks down at his bent head. Slowly, involuntarily, her gloved hands lift and descend on the crown of his head. He gets up awkwardly. She suddenly leans toward him and presses her mouth to his] Why don't you say something? Has the cat got your tongue?
JOHN. Miss Alma, what can I say?
ALMA. You've gone back to calling me "Miss Alma" again.
JOHN. We never really got past that point with each other.
ALMA. Oh yes, we did. We were so close that we almost breathed together.
JOHN. [with embarrassment] I didn't know that.
ALMA. No? Well, I did. I knew it. [Her hand touches his face tenderly] You shave more carefully now? You don't have those little razor cuts on your chin that you dusted with gardenia talcum ...
JOHN. I shave more carefully now.
ALMA. So that explains it! [Her fingers remain on his face, moving gently up and down it like a blind person reading Braille. He is intensely embarrassed and gently removes her hands from him] Is it -- impossible now?
JOHN. I don't think I know what you mean.
ALMA. You know what I mean, all right! So be honest with me. One time I said "no" to something. You may remember the time, and all that demented howling from the cock-fight. But now I have changed my mind, or the girl who said "no", she doesn't exist anymore, she died last summer -- suffocated in smoke from something on fire inside her. No, she doesn't live now, but she left me her ring -- You see? This one you admired, the topaz ring set in pearls ... And she said to me when she slipped the ring on my finger -- "Remember I died empty-handed, and so make sure that your hands have something in them!" [She drops her gloves. She clasps her head again in her hands] I said, "But what about pride?" -- She said, "Forget about pride whenever it stands between you and what you must have!" [He takes hold of her wrists] And then I said, "But what if he doesn't want me?" I don't know what she said then. I'm not sure whether she said anything or not -- her lips stopped moving -- yes, I think she stopped breathing! [He gently removes her craving hands from his face] No? [He shakes his head in dumb suffering] Then the answer is "no"!
JOHN. [forcing himself to speak] I have a respect for the truth, and I have a respect for you -- so I'd better speak honestly if you want me to speak. [Alma nods slightly] You've won the argument that we had between us.
ALMA. What -- argument?
JOHN. The one about the chart.
ALMA. OH -- the chart!
[She turns from him and wanders across to the chart. She gazes up at it with closed eyes, and her hands clasped in front of her]
JOHN. It shows that we're not just a package of rose leaves, that every interior inch of us is taken up with something ugly and fucntional and no room seems to be left for anything else in there.
ALMA. No ...
JOHN. But I've come around to your way of thinking, that something else is in there, an immaterial something -- as thin as smoke -- which all of those ugly machines combine to produce and that's their whole reason for being. It can't be seen so it can't be shown on the chart. But it's there, just the same, and knowing it's there -- why, then the whole thing -- this -- this unfathomable experience of ours -- takes on a new value, like some -- some wildly romantic work in a laboratory! Don't you see?
[The wind comes up very loud, almost like a chorus of voices. Both of them turn slightly, Alma raising a hand to her plumed head as if she were outdoors]
ALMA. Yes, I see! Now that you no longer want it to be otherwise you're willing to believe that a spiritual bond can exist between us two!
JOHN. Can't you believe that I am sincere about it?
ALMA. Maybe you are. But I don't want to be talked to like some incurably sick patient you have to comfort. [A harsh and strong note comes into her voice] Oh, I suppose I am sick, one of those weak and divided people who slip like shadows among you solid strong ones. But sometimes, out of necessity, we shadowy people take on a strength of our own. I have that now. You needn't try to deceive me.
JOHN. I won't.
ALMA. You needn't try to comfort me. I haven't come here on any but equal terms. You said, let's talk truthfully. Well, let's do! Unsparingly, truthfully, even shamelessly, then! It's no longer a secret that I love you. It never was. I loved you as long ago as the time I asked you to read the stone angel's name with your fingers. Yes, I remember the long afternoons of our childhood, when I had to stay indoors to practice my music -- and heard your playmates calling you, "Johnny, Johnny!" How it went through me, just to hear your name called! And how I -- rushed to the window to watch you jump the porch railing! I stood at a distance, halfway down the block, only to keep in sight of your torn red sweater, racing about the vacant lot you played in. Yes, it had begun that early, this affliction of love, and has never let go of me since, but kept on growing. I've lived next door to you all the days of my life, a weak and divided person who stood in adoring awe of your singleness, of your strength. And that is my story! Now I wish you would tell me -- why didn't it happen between us? Why did I fail? Why did you come almost close enough -- and no closer?
JOHN. Whenever we've gotten together, the three or four times that we have ...
ALMA. As few as that?
JOHN. It's only been three or four times that we've -- come face to face. And each of those times -- we seemed to be trying to find something in each other without knowing what it was that we wanted to find. It wasn't a body hunger though -- I acted as if I thought it might be the night I wasn't a gentleman -- at the Casino -- it wasn't the physical you that I really wanted!
ALMA. I know, you've already ...
JOHN. You didn't have that to give me.
ALMA. Not at the time.
JOHN. You had something else to give.
ALMA. What did I have?
[John strikes a match. Unconsciously he holds his curved palm over the flame of the match to warm it. It is a long kitchen match and it makes a good flame. They both stare at it with a sorrowful understanding that is still perplexed. It is about to burn his fingers. She leans forward and blows it out, then she puts on her gloves]
JOHN. You couldn't name it and I couldn't recognize it. I thought it was just a Puritanical ice that glittered like flame. But now I believe it was flame, mistaken for ice. I still don't understand it, but I know it was there, just as I know that your eyes and your voice are the two most beautiful things I've ever known -- and also the warmest, although they don't seem to be in your body at all ...
ALMA. You talk as if my body had ceased to exist for you, John, in spite of the fact that you've just counted my pulse. Yes, that's it! You tried to avoid it, but you've told me plainly. The tables have turned, yes, the tables have turned with a vengeance! You've come around to my old way of thinking and I to yours like two people exchanging a call on each other at the same time, and each one finding the other one gone out, the door locked against him and no one to answer the bell! [She laughs] I came here to tell you that being a gentleman doesn't seem so important to me any more, but you're telling me I've got to remain a lady. [She laughs rather violently] The tables have turned with a vengeance -- The air in here smells of ether -- It's making me dizzy ...
JOHN. I'll open a window.
ALMA. Please.
JOHN. There now.
ALMA. Thank you, that's better. Do you remember those little white tablets you gave me? I've used them all up and I'd like to have some more.
JOHN. I'll write the prescription for you. [He bends to write. Nellie is in the waiting room. They hear her voice]
ALMA. Someone is waiting in the waiting room, John. One of my vocal pupils. The youngest and prettiest one with the least gift for music. The one that you helped wrap up this handkerchief for me. [She takes it out and touches her eyes with it. The door opens, first a crack. Nellie peers in and giggles. Then she throws the door wide open with a peal of merry laughter. She has holly pinned on her jacket. She rushes up to John and hugs him with childish squeals]
NELLIE. I've been all over town just shouting, shouting!
JOHN. Shouting what?
NELLIE. Glad tidings!
[John looks at Alma over Nellie's shoulder]
JOHN. I thought we weren't going to tell anyone for a while.
NELLIE. I couldn't stop myself. [She wheels about] Oh, Alma, has he told you?
ALMA. [quietly] He didn't need to, Nellie. I guessed ... from the Christmas card with your two names written on it!
[Nellie rushes over to Alma and hugs her. Over Nellie's shoulder Alma looks at John. He makes a thwarted gesture as if he wanted to speak. She smiles desperately and shakes her head. She closes her eyes and bites her lips for a moment. Then she releases Nellie with a laugh of exaggerated gaiety.]
NELLIE. So Alma you were really the first to know!
ALMA. I'm proud of that, Nellie.
NELLIE. See on my finger! This was the present I couldn't tell you about!
ALMA. Oh, what a lovely, lovely solitaire! But solitaire is such a wrong name for it. Solitaire means single and this means two! It's blinding, Nellie! Why it ... hurts my eyes!
[John catches Nellie's arm and pulls her to him. Almost violently Alma lifts her face; it is bathed in tears. She nods gratefully to John for releasing her from Nellie's attention. She picks up her gloves and purse]
JOHN. Excuse her, Miss Alma. Nellie's still such a child.
ALMA. [with a breathless laugh] I've got to run along now.
JOHN. Don't forget your prescription.
ALMA. Oh yes, where's my prescription?
JOHN. On the table.
ALMA. I'll take it to the drug store right away!
[Nellie struggles to free herself from John's embrace, which keeps her from turning to Alma]
NELLIE. Alma, don't go! Johnny, let go of me, Johnny! You're hugging me so tight I can't breathe!
ALMA. Goodbye.
NELLIE. Alma! Alma, you know you're going to sing at the wedding! The very first Sunday in Spring! -- which will be Palm Sunday! "The Voice that Breathed o'er Eden."
[Alma has closed the door. John shuts his eyes tight with a look of torment. He rains kisses on Nellie's forhead and throat and lips. The scene dims out with music]
October 9, 2005
While it's still fresh in my mind ...
I have had many interesting encounters with cab drivers in my life ... for some reason, they just like to talk to me and tell me all their problems. Usually they're from Nigeria or Afghanistan or Bangladesh and within 2 seconds of me getting in the cab, they start to chat me up and tell me how much they miss their homeland, and how their dear mother at home worries about them, and etc. etc. Maybe it's something about my face.
But I need to describe what literally just happened. I will put it down word for word.
I got in a cab. Told him where I was going. At that moment, Billy Joel's "Lights went out on Broadway" came on. I love that song and I have a very specific happy memory attached to that song ... so I guess I visibly showed my happiness, and he saw it through the rear view mirror.
And here is what he proceeded to say to me - in a barely understandable Middle Eastern accent:
"Are you Irish?"
"Uh ... well, of descent anyway. Yes."
"You are a very beautiful woman."
"Uh ... wow ... thanks!"
"You are a very beautiful woman. Very beautiful. You get hurt easily. You are very open. And you have a good heart. You have such a good heart ... that you get along with everybody. You get. Along. With. Everybody!"
Suddenly it was as though I was getting my palms read. I did not say a word. He didn't let me get a word in edgewise.
"You know what your only problem is? Your only problem is your attitude. You get mad very easily. Very easily. And when you get mad? I don't want to talk to you." (Suddenly, the whole thing started striking me as absolutely hysterical ... it was as though he was about to get really mad at me ... as though his fantasy of me was completely real - and he was about to start rattling off his pet peeves about my imaginary personality) "You always want things to go your way." (This one I nearly balked at. That's not true at all. But ... I decided to not interrupt his monologue. It was too fascinating.) "But in spite of all of that ... you are very beautiful, and you are going to have a very interesting life. Even though you get hurt too easily. Everyone who meets you loves you."
As well as random cab drivers it would seem.
I actually got a little verklempt when he started waxing poetic about my good heart.
I don't know what it is about my face ... or who I am ... but this encounter with the cab driver is not an anomaly. Nobody has ever started addressing me and my imaginary personality so directly before ... but I have had times with cab drivers where, when he finally gets me to where I want to go, we sit in the car for a bit longer, chatting about the beauty of Bangladesh or whatever.
It's hysterical.
Michele informs us ...
that today is National Porn Sunday.
And so it is only fitting that Cullen - guest-blogging at Wunderkraut (although, I don't know, his posts have been so great I'm thinking he should set up shop for himself) has a post today dedicated to guitar porn.
I know I'm tempting the Google gods with writing down that word in full, but oh well. Writing down "porn" is nothing compared to the traffic I get to a certian post written 3 years ago about the daughter of a certain grunge rock star who shot himself in the head ... a little girl named for a certain doomed movie star who was given a lobotomy ... I am still bombarded with traffic to that post. My mistake was writing down her name in full. You would not believe how often people Google her name. You would not believe it. Probably 30% of my traffic in full is to that post. Grrrrrrr. Although, there's a good tip. If you want a steady flow of traffic and you don't want to have to work for it: write a piece where that little girl's name is the title of the post. You'll be all set.
Anyway - Cullen's post - about the guitarists who inspire him, who blow him away - is not to be missed. I love it when people write knowledgably and with passion about the things they love. It is always interesting to read.
American Pie
The boys we met in Donnybrook decided to take us to a place called Rio's. I remember as we all emerged from Kiely's, Brian was sort of the ringleader. Jean and I were walking with him. I said, "Where's the accountant?" and Jean said, "Where's the guy with the little glasses?" and Brian said, to an invisible audience, "Oh, listen to ya'! You've got little names for all of us, have ya'?"
We piled into our car that had the bumper taped on with violent red tape, due to a mishap early in our journey. Our car was now literally taped together. There were six of us. It became a clown car. I was on Cahul's lap. Siobhan was BURIED in men in the backseat. A hilarious drive into Dublin with all of us talking at once. Jokes, repartee, laughter, witty comments. Great company, those Irish boys.
Then: Rio's - which is a CHEESE-ball Dublin dance club. It was packed. The pubs close in Dublin at 10, 11 - and after that there are only a couple of places where you can go, so those places are always madhouses. Rio's was one of those places. There was club music blaring, everything was silver, too - mirrored surfaces, so the crowd looked three times as large. When we arrived, the party had reached its peak.
Jean and I stood in line to check our coats (a mistake!). Our passports and tickets home were in her purse, which she also checked. Not too smart.
A small muscled bald man insisted on bonding with Jean while we were in line. He basically fell madly in love with her. Immediately.
Irish men all immediately remember and assimilate your name. They say it back to you right away. It's a beautiful thing. Very good manners. "So ... tell me, Sheila..."
I've said it before and I will say it again: One phrase that I have never heard in Ireland is: "So what was your name again?"
Later in the night, after the fuse blew (I'll get to that in a minute), and the entire dance club was out on the sidewalk, with their pints of Guinness, and Jean and Siobhan and I had bonded with these other guys, suddenly Baldie emerged out of the throng and shouted joyfully at Jean, as though they were dear old friends, who hadn't seen one another in years: "JEAN!!"
Back in the club: Baldie was all about line dancing. He assumed that because we were Americans, we would be able to line-dance. He was dancing with Jean when the power went, twirling her around, and I heard him say something about "the prom". Ha ha. His vision of America: line dancing and proms.
So, we walked into Rio's, checked our coats, we hit the dance floor. Jean, Siobhan, me, and Brian - our tour guide. Cheesy music, cheesy strobe lights, so much fun. Brian dancing was so adorable. He was dancing for himself, totally unself-conscious. Our new friend from Tipperary.
He gained our love back at Kiely's when we were discussing the "ring of Kerry". We were blithering at him, speaking in a chorus: "We really want to do the ring of Kerry - we went there when we were kids - but we don't think we'll have time this trip ..." And Brian said, "Well, to be perfectly honest with ya', it's more like the trapezoid of Kerry." We loved him from that moment on.
We danced for maybe two or three songs when a fuse blew. The music stopped, abruptly, and the entire place was plunged into darkness.
Brian totally owned it. He felt responsible. He was embarrassed. He was trying to show these three crazy American girls a good time and look what happens! He was sort of laughing and apologetic, "This never happens!!" He kept saying that, assuring us: "This never happens!"
My heart cracked! We assured him (through the pitch black) that we were having the best time of our lives. It was an adventure. The whole night was wacked, but once the lights went out, it reached a whole other level of insanity.
Baldie and Jean took to the dance floor in the darkness. There was no music, but they kept line-dancing away. People kept drinking. The noise-level was outrageous. There was a general atmosphere of camaraderie, hilarity, humor.
Finally, someone came along and told us all that we had to evacuate the building.
A mild form of Irish pandemonium ensued.
A throng clustered in line to retrieve our coats, in the pitch dark. The poor coat-check girl blundered around in the black. Everyone continued to smoke and drink and whoop it up IN THE DARK. Jean and I lost track of Siobhan. We also lost track of the crazy group of boys who had taken us to Rio's. Baldie continued to love Jean, completely glued to her side, making witty smart-ass comments. He made us cry with laughter.
That's another observation about Irish men. (Generalizations, sure, but I've had enough experience there to say that this is pretty much true). Baldie had his eye on Jean, true, but he made sure that he charmed the crap out of her 2 sisters as well. Very important.
We were going nowhere in that line. Jammed together in a mad mob. Jean yelled out, "HEY. SOMEONE GRABBED MY ASS." Baldie prepared to get into a fist-fight to defend Jean's honor. Jean promptly got totally paranoid right after her outburst that she had pissed off a group of "Dublin girls".
Finally we reached the coat check area, only to be confronted by an Irish fireman (Lord help us and save us), holding a flashlight, ushering us out a back door.
"But what about our coats?" I said, right in his face. Obnoxious American behavior. He waved me by, unperturbed.
The entire nightclub had poured out onto the street. A fleet of fire trucks lined the block, lights flashing. It was a cold night. No one had coats. Everyone had brought their drinks outside with them. Everyone, that is, except for Jean and I (we still couldn't find Siobhan) -- we still had an American dread of "open containers". The guys we met on the sidewalk were so shocked and bemused that we had left our beers in the club. "They'd have kept you warm, y'know?"
Pandemonium. Firemen running around. Garda running around. One dashed by us and Jean exclaimed, joyfully, "Garda!" Swirling lights. A huge crowd of shivering drunk people. Laughter. Noise. Everyone was bonding.
We all got separated. We had no idea where Siobhan was. I lost Jean. I wandered around looking for my sisters.
Siobhan later described looking for us, finally resorting to yelling my name out into the crowd. "SHEILA!" And some random guy she had never seen before offered, "Oh ... I think I saw her over there."
We howled about this later. Like: everyone knew our names! Of course there were probably 5 other Sheilas in the throng ... but everyone knew about the Americans among them. It was a strictly Irish crowd.
I found Jean finally. We huddled up against each other shivering, be-moaning the fact that our passports and tickets home were trapped in the doomed night club - which, for all we knew was going to explode into a fiery mesh at any moment. We met up with two or three other amusing Irish men on the sidewalk, and we were all about: "Our passports! Our plane tickets!" And one of them said to us, gently, in an "I'm not judging you, but you should know --" tone: "It'd probably be best to not carry those things around with you." So gentle!
Then Siobhan re-appeared. Glamorous Siobhan with her black velvet boa and her long curly hair.
A drunken convivial group, all hugging one another to keep warm, began singing "American Pie". And -- beautifully -- it caught on. Until the entire crowd from Rio's, lining the sidewalk, joined in ... and we all ... every single one of us ... sang along. Everyone knew every single word. We sang as loud as we could. People danced, people had their arms round each other ... We worked together as a group, all slowing down, as one, during the melancholy last verse.
"I went down to the sacred store
where I'd heard the music years before...."
It is one of my favorite memories of all time: singing American Pie with the large group of Irish revelers, because the fuse had blown. Trying to imagine the same situation at a nightclub in Manhattan ... it's rather unthinkable. I can see the diva fits already ... the bitching and moaning ... would the entire nightclub bond together to sing Don McLean? Somehow I think not.
Jean was so cold that this one guy put his arms around her, hugging her to keep her warm. Baldie was nowhere to be seen. He hugged her for about twenty minutes. Siobhan blatantly took a picture of it. We asked him to take a picture of the three of us, clustered on the stairs. Jean was blithering at him about how the "night flash" worked. Suffice it to say that Jean was obsessed with the "night flash".
The guy's friends were making jokes about "flashing", every time the words "night flash" came out of Jean's mouth (which was many many times.) "Oh, don't say the word 'flash' to him!" "Wait for the nightflash--" "Now you've done it!" "Oh God, she said it again!"
I said as he aimed the camera at us: "Come on! Flash us!" This was a huge hit with the group.
Jean and I stood in front of one of the fire trucks, surrounded by all our new friends. Baldie reappeared, and continued to follow Jean around, making her laugh. That is the way Irish men court women. They keep the ladies laughing. Siobhan took a picture of all of us, and there was something hilarious, too, about Siobhan documenting all of this craziness -- her leaning in, aiming her camera, and pressing the night flash. We also got one of our new guy friends to take a photo of me, Siobhan, Jean, and Baldie in front of the fire truck - It's a great photo, it completely captures the frenzied fun we were having. I'll post it later when I can scan it in.
One of the guys, the guy who had been hugging Jean to keep her warm, said to us ruefully, "My wife just had triplets. She doesn't want to see my face for a while."
We completely lost Brian, Taidhg, Cahul and Steven. They disappeared. But we found other friends.
They finally let people back in to retrieve their coats. Jean was our emissary. She described going back into the darkened night club, she described queuing up yet again for our coats, and then she was told to go out through the dance floor. She made her way through the darkened silver-reflected space, and the entire fire department was sitting on bar stools, lounging about, smoking cigarettes, saying to people: "Hey, how ya' doin'?"
Why is that image so damn funny to me?
While Jean was inside, I somehow hooked up with five other guys. It was that kind of night. I started talking to one hottie wearing a fleece hat. He asked my name. I replied, "Sheila." All of his friends started chanting, in a warm approving chorus, "Sheila! Sheila!" Nodding to one another, like, "Ah, that's a good name."
"So ... Sheila..." said Fleece Hat Hottie. Immediately saying my name back to me, of course.
Of course he assumed I was Irish, and the second I got out more than three words, he stopped me, excited, "You're from the States?"
"Yup."
"Where from?"
"Rhode Island?" (said with a question mark...You just never know. Sometimes people assume you mean "Long Island", which they've heard of ... and then there was the one guy who ran the B&B who, when he heard we were from Rhode Island, asked us, "Is that near Houston?" So you just never can assume.)
Fleece-Hat Hottie leapt right in, eager to show his knowledge. "Okay -- here's how it goes, Sheila, right? You have Rhode Island -- then Cape Cod -- then New York."
"Uhm .... no. That's not how it goes. Cape Cod comes first. So it goes, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, New York --"
He was so intent on me. He took it in. "Ah, yes. Of course. That's how it goes." He had lived on Cape Cod. He had this flirty humorous intent energy.
Jean said it was so funny, coming back out of Rio's, and seeing me surrounded by five men, deep in conversation, as though we had known one another all our lives.
And finally: off we went. My sisters and I, as we pulled away from Rio's, were still laughing, re-living funny moments, roaring about the night flash.
Jean suddenly called out, when we hit an intersection: "Look! It's those guys!"
There were our "night flash" friends crossing the street. The new father of triplets, and the others. We beeped, waving at them, manically, as though they were our DEAR friends. They stopped, turned, squinted into our car. When they saw that it was us, the crazy American girls they had been hugging to keep warm, they got these huge delighted smiles on their faces (oh, my heart ... People!... I love people ...)...Then, as a joke, they made this big show about how cold they were, how they wanted to get into our car to keep warm, they were hugging themselves AT us, implying: "Please keep us warm, because we kept you warm!"
They then caught a glimpse of our red-taped bumper and made huge faces of mock horror and alarm - like: "No, thanks ... we don't want to get into THAT car because you all obviously CANNOT DRIVE!"
All of this done with body language between the group on the sidewalk and the three of us in our car.
Oh my heart. This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die.
Best. commercial. ever.
Thanks for linking to it, Dean - what a trip!! (I bet the Bible literalists despise it. Even more reason to love it!)
However ... here's a link to another great commercial - it literally gives me goosebumps. Especially when she screams. Found it on Oxblog a while back. Adesnik writes:
Apropro of nothing, here is a link to the greatest television commercial of all time, the first one ever for the Macintosh.The voice track is a little hard to understand, so make sure to read the text of the commercial, which is written out in full below the Quick Time window in which the commercial will play.
The commercial is also extraordinary because of its prophetic suggestion that American individualism and technology would ultimately bring down the Soviet empire. Back in 1984, almost no one believed anything that naive, except perhaps for Ronald Reagan.
Watch that commercial. It's extraordinary.
Observation
You know you've had a really intense massage when the masseur calls you the next day to make sure you're all right.
You know how ...
I'm nuts about Cary Grant? I mean really nuts? I mean almost pathetically nuts?
Ahem.
If there were a Cary Grant film festival in New York (why hasn't there been one??) - I would literally clear my schedule.
Well, Anne is nuts about Tony Perkins.
I am loving her thoughts on him.
More! I want more!
The Books: "Streetcar Named Desire" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is: I'm in Tennessee Williams land now, and will be there for quite some time!
Next Tennessee Williams play?
I personally cannot think of Streetcar without immediately thinking of Marlon Brando. It is one of those rare times when an actor so completely "owned" a role that even actors 50 years later, 60 years later, have to deal with the comparison. Perhaps that wouldn't be the case if he hadn't done the film as well - but I'm not so sure. Laurette Taylor did Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie
Stella Adler, who had Marlon Brando in her class, said, "Sending Marlon Brando to acting class was like sending a tiger to jungle school."
He had innate natural ability. He had a nose for bullshit. He was highly intelligent (not book-smart - but people-smart). He understood human behavior. And he was just this slovenly gorgeous kid who didn't really take himself seriously at all. But he had ability.
Here's the obituary I wrote for Marlon Brando when he died. I ramble a bit. And I know I wrote it and all, but I just re-read it just now and felt a lump come to my throat. Well done, Sheila! hahaha I wrote that one from the heart. But again: I start to write about Marlon Brando, and I can't help but start talking about Streetcar. It's a natural progression.
When Streetcar opened - Marlon Brando found himself a star. Not just a "oooh, the latest success" kind of thing, but a massive star. He had created something. It's like he moved apart the Red Sea - on a molecular level. No one had realized that the space was even there - until he TOOK it. It was THAT kind of stardom, and you can count on one hand the people who achieve it. Elvis achieved it. I mean, it's that bizarre, that huge.
Look at this.
I mean ... it still has the power to stun me to silence.
So anyway: It took a while for Marlon to really 'get' what had happened. He did not, as so many actors would have, take the success for his due ... Stanley had infiltrated his head for a while ... he was nothing like Stanley Kowalski, Marlon Brando ... He was actually kind of shy, and tender, and sweet, and liked plain girls who wore glasses - that was his type ... so by "being" Stanley night after night, he had to just plunge himself into it. He slept in the theatre. He started boxing. He didn't even realize he had become a star.
But let me have Marlon describe it. I love this quote. Just love how he describes that moment in his life:
You can't always be a failure. Not and survive. Van Gogh! There's an example of what can happen when a person never receives any recognition. You stop relating: it puts you outside. But I guess success does that, too. You know, it took me a long time before I was aware that that's what I was - a big success. I was so absorbed in myself, my own problems, I never looked around, took account. I used to walk in New York, miles and miles, walk in the streets late at night, and never see anything. I was never sure about acting, whether that was what I really wanted to do; I'm still not. Then, when I was in "Streetcar", and it had been running a couple of months, one night -- dimly, dimly -- I began to hear this roar.
Amazing.
So. All of that Marlon talk out of the way, I'm actually not going to excerpt a scene that Stanley's in. Not the Stella scene, not the "tiger tiger" scene ... as fantastic as they all are.
I want to excerpt a bit from the date that Blanche goes on with Mitch, the sad sweet mother-dominated guy who is Stanley's friend - and who has compassion for Blanche, and really really likes her, actually ... but he has NO idea what he is getting into. None. He is naive in the ways of women. Blanche goes out with him ... and, of course, because she is a Tennessee Williams heroine, creates this elaborate fantasy around him ... she is running scared at this point, her demons are catching up to her ... maybe Mitch could help her out-run them?
Sometimes thinking about what it must be like to be Blanche DuBois makes me feel like crying.
Here's the section of the date when Blanche finally comes clean about what really happened with her marriage. This is a famous famous monologue - most actors I know can say the first couple of lines by heart. Another thing: the censors were all over this section ... and this particular monologue was edited like crazy for the movie version. You can barely tell what the problem was between Blanche and her husband ... something big, though. Even here, Williams had to be very careful ... and not just come out and say, "He was gay!" In a way, though, and I've said this before when talking about old movies - like The Big Sleep, and all the others ... the fact that there was censorship like that made the writers have to be so much more clever and innovative with how they got their point across. They had to load the script with innuendo ... but without ever speaking the actual name of things. I mean: "you just put your lips together and blow"????? You kind of can't miss the implication there - or you can, but that would just mean that you are a dim-witted literal dolt.
I think those old movies are some of the hottest movies I've ever seen - because of the things they DON'T say. I'm not advocating censorship. I'm just congratulating the writers for getting around the limitations in such beautiful unforgettable ways.
Tennessee Williams, who wrote so openly about sex, had to deal with this for most of his career. How to say what he needed to say ... without really saying it ...
In the monologue below, Blanche is clearly saying: "We got married. And we never had sex. I obviously didn't please him. He couldn't get it up when he was with me ... and I felt like such a failure! I couldn't arouse him ... no matter how hard I tried ... The one day, I discovered ...."
I mean, Williams does come right out and say what she discovered. But that part was edited in the movie version ... loaded up with innuendo ... everything becomes inferred, rather than stated openly.
EXCERPT FROM A Streetcar Named Desire
MITCH. Can I ask you a question?
BLANCHE. Yes. What?
MITCH. How old are you?
[She makes a nervous gesture]
BLANCHE. Why do you want to know?
MITCH. I talked to my mother about you and she said, "How old is Blanche?" And I wasn't able to tell her. [There is another pause]
BLANCHE. You talked to your mother about me?
MITCH. Yes.
BLANCHE. Why?
MITCH. I told my mother how nice you were, and I liked you.
BLANCHE. Were you sincere about that?
MITCH. You know I was.
BLANCHE. Why did your mother want to know my age?
MITCH. Mother is sick.
BLANCHE. I'm sorry to hear it. Really?
MITCH. She won't live long. Maybe just a few months.
BLANCHE. Oh.
MITCH. She worries because I'm not settled.
BLANCHE. Oh.
MITCH. She wants me to be settled down before the -- [His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat twice, shuffling nervously around with his hands in and out of his pockets]
BLANCHE. You love her very much, don't you?
MITCH. Yes.
BLANCHE. I think you have a great capacity for devotion. You will be lonely when she passes on, won't you? [Mitch clears his throat and nods] I understand what that is.
MITCH. To be lonely?
BLANCHE. I loved someone, too, and the person I loved I lost.
MITCH. Dead? [She crosses to the window and sits on the sill, looking out. She pours herself another drink] A man?
BLANCHE. He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery -- love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that's how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded. There was something different about the boy, a nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn't like a man's, although he wasn't the least bit effeminate looking -- still -- that thing was there ... He came to me for help. I didn't know that. I didn't find out anything till after our marriage when we'd run away and come back and all I knew was I'd failed him in some mysterious way and wasn't able to give the help he needed but couldn't speak of! He was in the quicksands and clutching at me -- but I wasn't holding him out, I was slipping in with him! I didn't know that. I didn't know anything except I loved him unendurably but without being able to help him or help myself. Then I found out. In the worst of all possible ways. By coming suddenly into a room that I thought was empty -- which wasn't empty, but had two people in it ... the boy I had married and an older man who had been his friend for years ...
[A locomotive is heard approaching outside. She claps her hands to her ears and crouches over. The headlight of the locomotive glares into the room as it thunders past. As the noise recedes she straightens slowly and continues speaking.]
Afterward we pretended that nothing had been discovered. Yes, the three of us drove out to Moon Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.
[Polka music sounds, in a minor key faint with distance]
We danced the Varsouviana! Suddenly, in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran out of the casino. A few moments later -- a shot!
[The polka stops abruptly. Blanche rises stiffly. Then, the polka resumes in a major key]
I ran out -- all did! -- all ran and gathered about the terrible thing at the edge of the lake! I couldn't get near for the crowding. Then somebody caught my arm. "Don't go any closer! Come back! You don't want to see!" See? See what! Then I heard voices say -- Allan! Allan! The Grey boy! He'd stuck the revolver into his mouth, and fired -- so that the back of his head had been -- blown away!
[She sways and covers her face]
It was because -- on the dance floor -- unable to stop myself -- I'd suddenly said -- "I saw! I know! You disgust me ..." And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that's stronger than this -- kitchen -- candle ...
[Mitch gets up awkwardly and moves toward her a little. The polka music increases. Mitch stands beside her]
MITCH. [drawing her slowly into his arms] You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be -- you and me, Blanche?
[She stares at him vacantly for a moment. Then with a soft cry huddles in his embrace. She makes a sobbing effort to speak but the words won't come. He kisses her forehead and her eyes and finally her lips. The polka tune fades out. Her breath is drawn and released in long, grateful sobs]
BLANCHE. Sometimes -- there's God -- so quickly!
[Curtain]
October 8, 2005
A literary day
The rain pours down today. It's still muggy, though, which is highly disappointing. The sidewalk in front of my apartment is littered with fallen chestnuts, hard, shiny, and yet still: muggy warm soup-air. Uhm ... ready for the autumn chill? I'm going nuts.
Two things on the books today besides rehearsing and treadmill: two things I am SO excited for:
First up:
Allison and I are going to The Grolier Club to see the Plath/Hughes exhibit.
For the first time ever!! The papers of Sylvia Plath and the papers of Ted Hughes - in the same place!!! Ooh, bet the angry feminists must HATE that one! "How DARE you let that villain's stuff near our martyred heroine's stuff? This would be like putting a Nazi's memorabilia through the Anne Frank house!" (Or insert any other inappropriate analogy that you can think of) Etc. Loons. It's actually rather amusing. Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath were, contrary to popular belief, just TWO HUMAN BEINGS. Mkay?
Here:
Here's my favorite photo of the two of them (below). Sure, it went horrifically bad much later on ... the relationship was destroyed completely ... but I like to think of them like this, in their earlier days. Working together, supporting each other's work, companions.
They were not living symbols of the oppressor and the oppressed. They did not fit into pre-constructed roles. They were just two people. Talented dedicated poets. In love with each other. For a while. Then he cheated on her, they split up, and she killed herself. Well done you. The mythology built up around them both is kind of astounding - and I admit, as a huge Plath fan, that I bought into the mythology for many years. That's another big post I'd like to do someday - my changing relationship to Sylvia Plath. I've been into her stuff since I was 16, and my relationship to it keeps changing. I feel like now that I've gotten away from the mythology - I am in a much clearer space to really appreciate her poetry, and how astonishing she is in her later work. I mean, it's really amazing. And I've recently gotten into Ted Hughes. I stayed away from him for years because ... you know ... he is the bogey-man to Plath freaks. The evil male. Etc. But I've grown up a bit, and am not at all attached to the mythology anymore. I think he's incredible. But all of that is neither here nor there.
The piece in The Times says:
it is a little bit like sitting down with two highly gifted, impossibly loquacious, relentlessly driven and (admittedly) self-dramatizing people and having them try to speak to you over the heads of the biographers, the moviemakers, the conjecturers and the cliché-spinners. Look at us unmediated, they, or their artifacts, seem to be saying. Make up your own minds about who we were and what we did - if you dare.
I am so so excited for this exhibit - have been looking forward to it for WEEKS - and Allison is my perfect partner-in-crime. A huge Plath fan, someone as obsessive as I am ... she and I went to go see the film Sylvia together when it came out (it's quite fantastic, by the way, although obviously not a barrel of laughs. Originally, I was like: Gwyneth as Sylvia? Oh give me a BREAK. But no. She was absolutely perfect. A wonderful performance. And Daniel Craig is so sexy as Ted Hughes that I can barely think about him directly.)
And after we spend a couple of hours browsing through Syvia and Ted's papers - we are going to go see Capote - which I have heard is fantastic.
The director of the play I'm in right now said that Hoffman is beyond good. It doesn't look like an acting job - it seems as though he has actually inhabited Truman Capote.
Man. I am so excited for that one as well.
Rain. Chestnuts. Sylvia Plath. Ted Hughes. Truman Capote. Treadmill. Already sounds like a great day.
Losing in Ireland
The doors of the crazy Donnybrook pub burst open, letting in at least twenty ravaging guys, coming from the rugby game. I stand beside one of them at the bar, waiting for the harassed bartender to take notice of us. This guy's hand is bleeding, wrapped up in a handkerchief. He has an enormous devilish smile on his face and a cracked tooth. Others have black eyes. Cut lips. They pour liquor down their throats. They smash their mugs onto the bar. They make out with random girls, who laugh, and shove them away. They light each other's cigarettes, and laugh uproariously. Some of them have the colors of the Irish flag painted on their faces.
My sisters and I watch the spectacle of testosterone, huddled in our corner.
A manic conga line forms and cuts a path through the pub.
Jean turns to the little elfish guy named Brian who has become our new best friend. "So I guess Ireland won, huh?" she says as the conga line rages by.
Brian replies casually, "Oh no, we lost."
We gape at him, turning wordlessly to stare at the unmistakably nationalistic ecstasy, ricocheting down the whiskey-soaked conga line. We scan the fanatical expressions on the green, white, and orange faces. We then glance back at Brian, our questions clear on our faces.
He shrugs. "It was a moral victory."
The Books: "The Glass Menagerie" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
The next play on the script shelf is:
Next Tennessee Williams play? His first success, the play that made him a star: The Glass Menagerie
After the flop of his first play, Battle of Angels
Tennessee Williams: "that nice little guy" (That's about the opening in Chicago)
The Glass Menagerie, continued
Happy birthday, Tennessee Williams
The first production of Glass Menagerie (especially in Chicago - before it moved to New York) is one of those events where - dammit - I wish I had a time machine. What I wouldn't give to have been there ...
I will post an excerpt from the scene where Tom tells his mother (Amanda) that they will be having a "gentleman caller" the next evening. The tragedy of the ending of this play hovers and trembles through every line of this scene. Because the high-flying hopes, the wishes, the dreams ... that all go shooting through the ceiling at the expectation of this gentleman caller's visit ... are bound to come back to earth someday. Amanda is a fantasist. Watch how she hears the news, prosaic really, that they will have company for dinner - watch how she hears that news and leaps off the cliff into the abyss of a fantasy. I know people who do that. Hell, I've done it myself. To pretty much disastrous results. But Amanda lives her life that way. It's a runaway train - and Tom can't put on the brakes.
I love the part where Tom tells Amanda the gentleman caller's last name and her immediate response is: "That, of course, means fish. Tomorrow is Friday."
EXCERPT FROM The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams
AMANDA. What are you looking at?
TOM. The moon.
AMANDA. Is there a moon this evening?
TOM. It's rising over Garfinkel's Delicatessen.
AMANDA. So it is! A little silver slipper of a moon. Have you made a wish on it yet?
TOM. Um-hum.
AMANDA. What did you wish for?
TOM. That's a secret.
AMANDA. A secret, huh? Well, I won't tell you mine either. I will be just as mysterious as you.
TOM. I bet I can guess what yours is.
AMANDA. Is my head so transparent?
TOM. You're not a sphinx.
AMANDA. No, I don't have secrets. I'll tell you what I wished for on the moon. Success and happiness for my precious children! I wish for that whenever there's a moon, and when there isn't a moon, I wish for it, too.
TOM. I thought perhaps you wished for a gentleman caller.
AMANDA. Why do you say that?
TOM. Don't you remember asking me to fetch one?
AMANDA. I remember suggesting that it would be nice for your sister if you brought home some nice young man from the warehouse. I think that I've made that suggestion more than once.
TOM. Yes, you have made it repeatedly.
AMANDA. Well?
TOM. We are going to have one.
AMANDA. What?
TOM. A gentleman caller!
[The annunciation is celebrated with music. Amanda rises. Image on screen: A caller with a bouquet]
AMANDA. You mean you have asked some nice young man to come over?
TOM. Yup. I've asked him to dinner.
AMANDA. You really did?
TOM. I did!
AMANDA. You did, and did he -- accept?
TOM. He did!
AMANDA. Well, well -- well, well! That's -- lovely!
TOM. I thought that you would be pleased.
AMANDA. It's definite then?
TOM. Very definite.
AMANDA. Soon?
TOM. Very soon.
AMANDA. For heaven's sake, stop putting on and tell me some things, will you?
TOM. What things do you want me to tell you?
AMANDA. Naturally I would like to know when he's coming!
TOM. He's coming tomorrow.
AMANDA. Tomorrow?
TOM. Yes. Tomorrow.
AMANDA. But, Tom!
TOM. Yes, Mother?
AMANDA. Tomorrow gives me no time!
TOM. Time for what?
AMANDA. Preparation! Why didn't you phone me at once, as soon as you asked him, the minute that he accepted? Then, don't you see, I could have been getting ready!
TOM. You don't have to make any fuss.
AMANDA. Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom, of course I have to make a fuss! I want things nice, not sloppy! Not thrown together. I'll certainly have to do some fast thinking, won't I?
TOM. I don't see why you have to think at all.
AMANDA. You just don't know. We can't have a gentlemancaller in a pigsty! All my wedding silver has to be polished, the monogrammed table linen ought to be laundered! The windows have to be washed and fresh curtains put up. And how about clothes? We have to wear something, don't we?
TOM. Mother, this boy is no one to make a fuss over!
AMANDA. Do you realize he's the first young man we've introduced to your sister? It's terrible, dreadful, disgraceful that poor little sister has never received a single gentleman caller! Tom, come inside! [She opens the screen door]
TOM. What for?
AMANDA. I want to ask you some things.
TOM. If you're going to make such a fuss, I'll call it off, I'll tell him not to come!
AMANDA. You certainly won't do anything of the kind. Nothing offends people worse than broken engagements. It simply means I'll have to work like a Turk! We won't be brilliant, but we will pass inspection. Come on inside. Tom follows her inside, groaning] Sit down.
TOM. Any particular place you would like me to sit?
AMANDA. Thank heavens I've got that new sofa! I'm also making payments on a floor lamp I'll have sent out! And put the chintz covers on, they'll brighten things up! Of course I'd hoped to have these walls re-papered ... What is the young man's name?
TOM. His name is O'Connor.
AMANDA. That, of course, means fish -- tomorrow is Friday! I'll have that salmon loaf -- with Durkee's dressing! What does he do? He works at the warehouse?
TOM. Of course! How else would I --
AMANDA. Tom, he -- doesn't drink?
TOM. Why do you ask me that?
AMANDA. Your father did!
TOM. Don't get started on that!
AMANDA. He does drink, then?
TOM. Not that I know of!
AMANDA. Make sure, be certain! The last thing I want for my daughter's a boy who drinks!
TOM. Aren't you being a little premature? Mr. O'Connor has not yet appeared on the scene!
AMANDA. But will tomorrow. To meet your sister, and what do I know about his character? Nothing! Old maids are better off than wives of drunkards!
TOM. Oh, my God!
AMANDA. Be still!
TOM. [leaning forward to whisper] Lots of fellows meet girls whom they don't marry!
AMANDA. Oh, talk sensibly, Tom -- and don't be sarcastic! [She has gotten a hairbrush]
TOM. What are you doing?
AMANDA. I'm brushing that cowlick down! [She attacks his hair with the brush] What is this young man's position at the warehouse?
TOM. [submitting grimly to the brush and the interrogation] This young man's position is that of a shipping clerk, Mother.
AMANDA. Sounds to me like a fairly responsible job, the sort of a job you would be in if you just had more get-up. What is his salary? Have you any idea?
TOM. I would judge it to be approximately eighty-five dollars a month.
AMANDA. Well -- not princely, but --
TOM. Twenty more than I make.
AMANDA. Yes, how well I know! But for a family man, eighty-five dollars a month is not much more than you can just get by on ...
TOM. Yes, but Mr. O'Connor is not a family man.
AMANDA. He might be, mightn't he? Some time in the future?
TOM. I see. Plans and provisions.
AMANDA. You are the only young man that I know of who ignores the fact that the future becomes the present, the present the past, and the past turns into everlasting regret if you don't plan for it!
TOM. I will think that over and see what I can make of it.
AMANDA. Don't be supercilious with your mother! Tell me some more about this -- what do you call him?
TOM. James D. O'Connor. The D. is for Delaney.
AMANDA. Irish on both sides! Gracious! And doesn't drink?
TOM. Shall I call him up and ask him right this minute?
AMANDA. The only way to find out about those things is to make discreet inquiries at the proper moment. When I was a girl in Blue Mountain and it was suspected that a young man drank, the girl whose attentions he had been receiving, if any girl was, would sometimes speak to the minister of his church, or rather her father would if her father was living, and sort of feel him out on the young man's character. That is the way such things are discreetly handled to keep a young woman from making a tragic mistake!
TOM. Then how did you happen to make a tragic mistake?
AMANDA. That innocent look of your father's had everyone fooled! He smiled -- the world was enchanted! No girl can do worse than put herself at the mercy of a handsome appearance! I hope that Mr. O'Connor is not too good-looking.
TOM. No, he's not too good-looking. He's covered with freckles and hasn't too much of a nose.
AMANDA. He's not right-down homely, though?
TOM. Not right-down homely. Just medium homely, I'd say.
AMANDA. Character's what to look for in a man.
TOM. That's what I've always said, Mother.
AMANDA. You've never said anything of the kind and I suspect you would never give it a thought.
TOM. Don't be so suspicious of me.
AMANDA. At least I hope he's the type that's up and coming.
TOM. I think he really goes in for self-improvement.
AMANDA. What reason have you to think so?
TOM. He goes to night school.
AMANDA. [beaming] Splendid! What does he do, I mean, study?
TOM. Radio engineering and public speaking.
AMANDA. Then he has visions of being advanced in the world! Any young man who studies public speaking is aiming to have an executive job some day! And radio engineering? A thing for the future! Both of these facts are very illuminating. Those are the sort of things that a mother should know concerning any young man who comes to call on her daughter. Seriously or -- not.
TOM. One little warning. He doesn't know about Laura. I didn't let on that we had dark ulterior motives. I just said, why don't you come and have dinner with us? He said okay and that was the whole conversation.
AMANDA. I bet it was! You're eloquent as an oyster. However, he'll know about Laura when he gets here. When he sees how lovely and sweet and pretty she is, he'll thank his lucky stars he was asked to dinner.
TOM. Mother, you mustn't expect too much of Laura.
AMANDA. What do you mean?
TOM. Laura seems all those things to you and me because she's ours and we love her. We don't even notice she's crippled any more.
AMANDA. Don't say cripped! You know that I never allow that word to be used!
TOM. But face facts, Mother. She is and -- that's not all --
AMANDA. What do you mean "not all"?
TOM. Laura is very different from other girls.
AMANDA. I think the difference is all to her advantage.
TOM. Not quite all -- in the eyes of others -- strangers -- she's terribly shy and lives in a world of her own and those things make her seem a little peculiar to people outside the house.
AMANDA. Don't say peculiar.
TOM. Face the facts. She is.
[The dance hall music changes to a tango that has a minor and somewhat ominous tone]
AMANDA. In what way is she peculiar -- may I ask?
TOM. [gently] She lives in a world of her own -- a world of little glass ornaments, Mother ... [He gets up. Amanda remains holding the brush, looking at him, troubled] She plays old phonograph records and -- that's about all -- [He glances at himself in the mirror and crosses to the door]
AMANDA. [sharply] Where are you going?
TOM. I'm going to the movies. [He goes out the screen door]
AMANDA. Not to the movies, every night to the movies! [She follows him quickly to the screen door] I don't believe you always go to the movies! [He is gone. Amanda looks worriedly after him for a moment. Then vitality and optimism return and she turns from the door, crossing to the portieres] Laura! Laura!
[Laura answers from the kitchenette]
LAURA. Yes, Mother.
AMANDA. Let those dishes go and come in front! [Laura appears with a dish towel. Amanda speaks to her gaily] Laura, come here and make a wish on the moon!
[Screen image: The Moon]
LAURA. [entering] Moon -- moon?
AMANDA. A little silver slipper of a moon. Look over your left shoulder, Laura, and make a wish! [Laura looks faintly puzzled as if called out of sleep. Amanda seizese her shoulders and turns her at an angle by the door.] Now! Now, darling, wish!
LAURA. What shall I wish for, Mother?
AMANDA. [her voice trembling and her eyes suddenly filling with tears] Happiness! Good fortune!
[The sound of the violin rises and the stage dims out]
October 7, 2005
Why buy the cow ...
when you get the milk for ... well, you know.
Apparently, Robert Blake bought the cow BECAUSE he got the milk for free. Damn, dude, you're not supposed to just admit that!!!
Blake said: "There aren't many women who will simply sleep with you and get on the bus, if you know what I mean."
Uhm ... actually, I'm not sure I do know what you mean there, pal. The first part sounds rational ... but what bus are you talkin' 'bout there? The relationship bus? The "let's ignore the fact that my new girlfriend is a complete star-fucking psycho" bus? The "oops, I left my gun in the restaurant" bus? What?
But then he clarifies:
"With Bonny, pathetically, a part of me required that, you know, 'Help me make it through the night, and I'll see you later.'"
Wow. I have plenty of parts of me that have pathetic requirements. I could list them, but it would be rather embarrassing. An example would be this mantra that goes through my head when I really really like a guy: "love me love me love me tell me i'm beautiful don't look at anyone else tell me you love me love me love me ..." Ahem. Like I said: pathetic. I try to keep these things under wraps, and would NEVER say any of that stuff out loud ... why bug someone else with my pathetic requirements? Because they're not real - they come out of anxiety and loneliness and being single for too long - and if I just breathe through them, they will pass. Sometimes I lose my way, and forget that the key word in "pathetic requirements" is actually "pathetic" and I need to get a hold of myself.
On a final note: the title to that article I link to about Robert Blake strikes me as so hilarious, in a really dark and disturbing way. hahahaha
How to juggle.
Daily rehearsals.
Red Sox.
Laundry/general home maintenance/groceries
Writing.
Honestly. I am having a problem. The Red Sox are indeed the wild card in this equation. Much juggling has to be done in order to keep on top of all of this. Because of course when you're in a play, you can't just show up for rehearsals cold. You have to do a lot of work before you get there - hours and hours of it. Memorizing lines, research, imagination, etc. etc. Which I have been doing, and which is a lot of fun.
The juggling act continues.
It's funny how the brain must adjust as well. When I'm in rehearsal, I must be 100% there. When I'm watching a Red Sox game, I must be 100% present. When I'm doing laundry ... well, actually, no. I find laundry to be a sort of Zen-ish activity - very meditative. I memorize lines, I zone out in a dream-space ... I can multi-task there.
I enjoy the challenge. I take a couple of minutes before each gear-shift, to let the former concerns go (Okay ... cannot be thinking about the Red Sox while in rehearsal ... breathe ... let it go ... Graffanino! Argh!!!!! Nope. Forget Graffanino. Let it go ... let it go ...) And it works somehow.
Sports Guy
A wonderful profile of Bill Simmons (aka Sports Guy), one of my favorite columnists.
My favorite paragraph:
Along the way Simmons has become sports' moral arbiter. He speaks with the authority of a particularly thoughtful bartender. He inveighs against "sports bigamy"—embracing two rival teams—with no exception even if one marries a fan of a rival team (which, Simmons speculates, is bound to be a loveless marriage anyway). To be admitted to Simmons' universe, you must have a stunningly high level of sports literacy. It is not enough to be familiar with the current players. It is imperative to know—and these are actual examples from recent columns—the starters from the 1984-85 St. John's basketball team, the major and minor figures on the professional wrestling circuit, and the cast of the film The Bad News Bears. But the payoff is an intimate bond with the reader, whether in the frequent "mailbag" feature or the diatribes that he often prints in full. There is not a sports columnist on the planet generous enough, or perhaps secure enough, to share his platform like this.
Absolutely true. Go read the whole thing.
(via Steve Silver)
Go, Siobhan!!!
My sister Siobhan will be running the Chicago marathon this Sunday. It is her first marathon and she has been training for months. Her dedication is something to behold. I wish I could be there to cheer her on at the finish line. But I will be there in spirit.
In honor of that, here's a post I wrote about the Boston Marathon - a rather magical childhood memory.
Go, Siobhan!!!!
My grandparents lived in Wellesley (actually, my grandmother still lives there, in the same house). Wellesley is just about the halfway mark in the Boston marathon. The marathon is always in April, and watching the Boston marathon was part of my childhood experience. A yearly thing, like Thanksgiving, or going to camp.
When we were kids, we made a whole day of the marathon. It was hugely exciting. Some of my "Boston marathon memories" go way back and become fuzzy and dream-like - so I must have been very small. These qualify as "first memories", because they all reside in the senses - not the intellect. Going to my Uncle Jimmy's apartment before heading out to the marathon. I think it was Uncle Jimmy, my godfather. I remember a really thick rug. Cool air-conditioned air. A beanbag chair. Cold ginger ale.
Later memories though: we would convene at my grandparents house. My cousins would also be there, because the Boston Marathon is a big deal. And we LOVED that we got to see all the runners at the halfway point.
My cousins and I would mix Kool-aid in big pictchers, or we would get Gatorade, or we would mix sugar-free Crystal Light-y stuff, and then take a couple packages of Dixie cups from out of my grandmother's cupboards, and traipse down the hill to join the crowds lining the street. Everyone waited for the first runners to appear. You could sense it - the streets stretched back, empty, waiting to be pounded over by the runners.
Feeling suffused with seriousness and purpose, we would pour out Dixie cups of liquid, line them up behind us, and wait, peering up the street, tense, thrilled.
Then - one by one - they would come.
The first runners who pounded by never stopped for a drink. They were about to finish a Marathon in less than 3 hours, and were usually from Ethiopia. These people are barely human, in terms of their endurance. They do not need Gatorade. They are definitely in the lonely realm of the long-distance runner.
We watched them pound by, in awe. It looked like they were on the first mile of the race, as opposed to the 13th. No sign of strain, and intense speed. Amazing.
Then - we could feel it. We just could feel the crowds approaching. The throngs of other runners, the ones way behind the leaders, the pack. We knew that they were going to NEED us. We trembled with the responsibility, which felt awesome to us, as 8 and 9 year old kids.
I remember holding out cups with my wee 9 year old arm, and a thundering sweaty giant would swoop by, snatch it out of my hand, and pour it over his head, his mouth open and gaping, without even stopping.
There was a skill to this hand-off. Definitely. I made a couple of mistakes at first, but I learned quickly. One time I got frightened as this behemoth woolly mammoth in running shorts barreled towards me, arm outstretched, and I leapt back - denying him the Gatorade. Cruelty! But I felt so bad about that one, that I steeled up for the next one, telling myself not to pull back - to just let the cup go gently. I never made the same mistake twice.
You had to keep a very gentle touch on your Dixie cup. No gripping. You didn't want the runner to have to struggle to take the cup away.
You had to be ready to let go.
Hold it very lightly with your fingertips. Keep your body out of the road, only let your arm go into the road. They are looking for you. As they pound down the pavement, they are looking for you. They need you. Make your arm stick out, stand out.
Your job, should you choose to accept it, is to make this drink-exchange as easy as possible for the runner.
You must be invisible. You must merge with the Dixie cup. And then the second they grasp it, you must let go of it. That way, nothing will be spilled.
Oh, my cousins and I spent rapturous hours getting all of this down to a science. We loved this job. We loved being all important, like little Boston Marathon Florence Nightingales. We felt essential to the effort, we knew we were a part of the big day, not just spectators.
I remember the first time we went to the finish line. We had watched the first big batch of runners go by, holding out Dixie cups to them, and then one of our aunts - or maybe it was Uncle Jimmy - piled us all into the car to go watch the finish of the Marathon. Obviously, we would beat the runners there. Being at the finish line (I was about 9 or 10) was a whole other story, and not at all fun. The runners were past the need of liquids. We could not help them. A Dixie cup became meaningless. We saw grown adults (men and women) weeping, being held up by their parents or spouses, we saw people throwing up, we saw people leaned over spitting onto the ground - draped with these silver Mylar jackets - I think that's the name of the body-heat material - So the runners at the finish line, lying on the ground, covered in silver, falling against their friends, being unable to speak, all wearing silver tin-foil cloaks, was a surreal sight. It was like they were silver-clad Martians who just walked off the Mother Ship and were trying to adjust to the earth's atmosphere. We saw people lying on the ground surrounded by doctors, while others staggered around in a dazed way looking like disoriented refugees.
By that point, after 26 miles, people's personalities have broken down. I remember reading some quote somewhere, from someone who has run a ton of marathons: "A marathon is actually 2 races. The first 20 miles, and then the last 6." Having watched marathons at all stages of the race (mile 13, mile 18, mile 10, and then mile 26) I can say, without a doubt, that that is the case. People are still themselves at mile 13. People are no longer themselves at mile 26. (Except for the speed-of-light Ethiopians who didn't need our Dixie cups.)
I saw this phenomenon again when I watched my friend Liz cross the finish line at the New York marathon a couple years ago. I saw her at the halfway mark, and then we went to Central Park to see her cross the finish line. The transformation of human beings, runners we had just seen an hour or so before, was startling. Unbelievable. I'm not just talking physically, although you can see people obviously struggling with pain. It's the other transformation - the psychological transformation - that really struck me. The look in the eyes.
When I was a little kid at the finish line, I thought all of that vomiting and falling-over stuff was terrible. I felt so BAD for everyone. I much preferred standing at the halfway mark with my cousins, watching the giants thundering down towards us, holding out their arms for our Dixie cups of Gatorade.
October 6, 2005
Movie quote to be guessed
(This is all one exchange:)
"I mean, don't you think it's a little bit excessive?"
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. William Blake."
Pause.
"William Blake?"
"William Blake!"
"William Blake???"
"William Blake!!!"
Yay!
Bill McCabe has launched another "Name That Ship" post. Go! Name that ship!
Howl
Emily's post on Allen Ginsberg, and his "Howl", which will turn 50 years old this year.
I must think upon my favorite poet. My first thought is Auden. But I'll give it some more contemplation.
Emily - nice to see you posting again. (No pressure or anything)
Another blogger who is back in the fray, and I'm very excited about it, is my Belfast blogger-friend, who used to blog at "Broom of Anger". She's back, she's still got the broom, she just had another baby, and I'm just really happy that she's back at it.
She's the one who gave me what has to be the funniest set of directions I've ever herad in my life. I called her from Dublin. I would be arriving in Belfast in a couple hours. How to get to her house?
She replied matter of factly: "So you go up that main road, and when you see the mural of the chick with all the guns, you take a right ... and then at your next mural, which is of a bunch of guys with guns, you take a left ..."
Too funny. Totally matter of fact. I made my way to her abode by following the violent murals. Sure. Welcome to Belfast.
Welcome back, woman!!
The Books: "Battle of Angels" (Tennessee Williams)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
Still on the script shelf:
I had to take a slight breather in the "excerpt of the day" thing. (haha. For me, a 'slight breather' means one day) Why? Because I finished with Oscar Wilde and now we have Tennessee Williams coming up. I just needed to gear up for it. I have all of his plays. Many I haven't read in years. But God. He's my favorite. Also, there's a slight case of autism here in that I know WAY too much about his life, and will want to jam all the information in. I know some about Oscar Wilde's life, I know some about Eugene O'Neill's life ... but I have studied Tennessee Williams' life - like a lulnatic ... so I feel a bit nervous about what to leave out, how to move forward. But regardless - here we go! I will also attempt to go in chronological order (without making a fetish out of it).
Tennessee Williams' first produced play was Battle of Angels
Battle of Angels was not a success. As a matter of fact, it flopped - and also whipped the censors into a frenzy. This would not be the last time it happened. Here was a new voice. But the things he wrote about, with such honesty: sexuality, mainly. The censors didn't like that. Especially when it has to do with female sexuality, which he always wrote about. It's a good trick to remember that Tennessee always did put himself into his plays - but always through the female characters. The men he created: Stanley, Brick, Dr. John - these were the kind of men who made HIM swoon. These were the kind of men who made him feel helpless, erotic, in love. It's an interesting dynamic. You feel for Blanche. You do not ridicule her. Tennessee had great great compassion for his female characters, and we see the world through their eyes, mainly.
In Battle of Angels, a young virlile guy named Val (described by Tennessee as: "a fresh and primitive quality, a virile grace and freedom of body, a strong physical appeal") is driving through a small town when his car breaks down. He walks into a dressmaker's shop - obviously a world of women ... and sets everyone a flutter. One of the women actually says to him, "All of the women here are suffering from sexual malnutrition!" Bet the censors loved that one. Women? Sexual malnutrition? What?? That whole vibe: that you can actually suffer from a lack of sex - especially if you are a certain type of female (and not a slut - actually quite opposite - Tennessee is talking about love here) - anyway, that whole vibe predicts the entire plot of Summer and Smoke, one of my favorites of his. "Sexual malnutrition" is actually something that crushes the soul, if you are a sensitive spiritually-minded woman, looking for a mate in life. It warps you. It kills all that is good in your heart. Poor Miss Alma. But I'm getting ahead of myself. (I think this whole "sexual malnutrition" idea which comes up again and again in his plays - think of Maggie the Cat!! her sexual frustration - comes a lot out of the mental breakdown and eventual lobotomy of his sister Rose. There are stories of Rose masturbating in the public room in the institution where she was locked up. Rose was what you hear about: a woman suffering from sexual hysteria. She was a virgin, though. This is not about a woman who actually gets what she needs. It's tragic. No other playwright has really touched on this theme - at least not so often, and so compassionately and well.)
Myra, the female lead, is described by Tennessee as: "a woman who met emotional disaster in her girlhood and whose personality bears traces of the resulting trauma. Frequently sharp and suspicious, she verges on hysteria under slight strain. Her voice is often shrill and her body tense. But when in repose, a girlish softness emerges -- evidence of her capacity for great tenderness." Stuff like that is why you should always read the italicized parts in Tennessee Williams plays. Often, with other playwrights, they're just stage directions, or adverbs, or adjectives - nothing that will help you as an actor. But a character description like that, actually written by Tennessee, is enormously revealing.
Okay. See this is why I had to take a breath before the Williams section of the bookcase. Why? Because I'm a total blowhard.
Onward.
Myra is trapped in a loveless marriage to a dying man named Jabe. She gives Val a job in her store. And of course - the mere presence of a man stirs up a bunch of shit for everyone. Especially such a man. He's not conventional, he's not bound by polite society, he's a man who works with his hands, his body - he's a REAL man.
Here's a brief excerpt. Val has been at the store for a while. This is the end of Act Two, Scene One. Watch how carefully Tennessee has crafted this. There are no accidents here. And while this play certainly is a bit stiff, and a bit stilted - please remember that a mere 2 years later, he would write Glass Menagerie. This is amazing. The leap he took. Yes, Battle of Angels was a flop, and its failure crushed Tennessee. But he learned fromt he mistakes - although that's probably a tad too easy to say, too tepid. He harnessed his energies once again, he focused everything down to a laser, and out came Glass Menagerie - which catapulted him to such success that it still cannot be matched by other playwrights. He hada written an instant classic. People KNEW that Glass Menagerie would be done again and again and again ... that they were seeing the birth of a new voice, a new important voice ... It's so thrilling.
But anyway. Here's the scene. It's between Val - the virle man, and Myra - the damaged sensitive woman.
EXCERPT FROM Battle of Angels
VAL. Myra, did you ever see a red church steeple?
MYRA. [absently] No.
VAL. [chuckling] Neither did I.
MYRA. Jabe's took a turn for the worse. I had to give him morphine.
VAL. So?
MYRA. He must be out of his mind; he says such awful things to me. Accuses me of wanting him to die.
VAL. Don't you?
MYRA. No! Death's terrible, Val. You're alive and everything's open and free, and you can go this way or that way, whichever direction you choose. And then all at once the doors start closing on you, the walls creep in, till finally there's just one way you can go -- the dark way. Everything else is shut off.
VAL. Yes ... [then abruptly] You got the sun at the back of your head. It brings the gold out in your hair!
MYRA. [diverted] Does it?
VAL. Yes, it looks pretty, Myra. [They stand close together. She moves suddenly away with a slight, nervous smile]
MYRA. It's closing time.
VAL. Uh-huh. I'll put these back on the shelves. [He picks up the wedding slipper] She had a small foot.
MYRA. Rosemary Wildberger?
VAL. Naw, naw, that Whiteside bitch.
MYRA. I could wear these slippers.
VAL. They'd be too small.
MYRA. You want to bet? Try them on me.
VAL. [laughing] Okay! [He slips the shoes on her feet] Pinch, don't they?
MYRA. No, they feel marvelous to me!
VAL. [doubting] Aw!
MYRA. They do! [She looks down at them] Silver and white. Why isn't everything made out of silver and white?
VAL. Wouldn't be practical, Myra.
MYRA. Practical? What's that? I never heard of practical before. I wasn't cut out for the mercantile business, Val.
VAL. What was you cut out for? [A derelict Negro, Loon, stops outside the door and begins to play his guitar in the fading warmth of the afternoon sun. At first the music is uncertain and sad; then it lifts suddenly into a gay waltz] What was you cut out for, Myra?
MYRA. [enrapt with the music] Me cut out for? Silver and white! Music! Dancing! The orchard across from Moon Lake! You don't believe me, do you? Well, look at this. You know where I am? I'm on the Peabody Roof! Yes, with silver stars on it! And in my hair I've got lovely Cape jasmine blossoms! I'm whirling; I'm dancing faster and faster! A Hollywood talent scout, a Broadway producer: "Isn't she lovely!" Photographers taking my pictures for the Commercial Appeal and for the Times-Picayune, for all the society columns and for the rotogravure! I'm surrounded by people. Autograph seekers, they want me to sign my name! But I keep on laughing and dancing and scattering stars and lovely Cape jasmine blossoms! [Her raphsodic speech is suddenly interrupted by Jabe's furious knocking on the ceiling. Her elation is instantly crushed out. She stops dancing] I thought he had enough to go to sleep ...
VAL. Why don't you give him enough to ...?
MYRA. Val! I'm a decent woman.
VAL. What's decent? I never heard of that word. I've written a book full of words but I never used that one. Why? Because it's disgusting. Decent is something that's scared like a little white rabbit. I'll give you a better word, Myra.
MYRA. What word is that? [The guitar changes back to its original slow melody]
VAL. Love, Myra. The one I taught the little girl on the bayou.
MYRA. That's an old one.
VAL. You've never heard it before.
MYRA. You're wrong about that, my dear. I heard it mentioned quite often the spring before I got married.
VAL. Who was it mentioned by -- Jabe?
MYRA. No! By a boy named David.
VAL. Oh. David.
MYRA. We used to go every night to the orchard across from Moon Lake. He used to say, "Love! Love! Love!" And so did I, and both of us meant it, I thought. But he quit me that summer for some aristocratic girl, a girl like Cassandra Whiteside! I seen a picture of them dancing together on the Peabody Roof in Memphis. Prominent planter's son and the debutante daughter of ... Of course, after that, what I really wanted was death. But Jabe was the next best thing. A man who could take care of me, although there wasn't much talk about love between us.
VAL. No. There was nothing but hate.
MYRA. No!
VAL. Nothing but hate. Like the cancer, you wish you could kill him.
MYRA. Don't! You scare me. Don't talk that way. [She crosses slowly to the door and Loon sings as the scene dims out]
October 5, 2005
Yearbook cimments
Bill Simmons' column on high school yearbooks made me laugh out loud from start to finish.
I have been kicking myself about my high school yearbook quote for years. Here's what I actually chose:And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through
-- David BowieTranslation: I'm an enormous dork.
And it wasn't just me; almost everyone screws up their high school yearbook quote. It's like a rite of passage. My buddy Jim and I were on the phone this week sifting through our yearbook ... it was like a 100-page car crash. Why in God's name did everyone take it so seriously? Quote after agonized quote from The Police, Rush, Styx, Led Zep, Pink Floyd, Boston, Journey ... you would have thought we were these anguished, miserable, disaffected kids. Please. We were going to prep school!
Maybe the only positive? Looking back, yearbooks are loaded with about as much unintentional comedy as you can pack in a hardcover book. The haircuts. The fashion styles. The quote choices. The dedications. You can't even believe what's happening as you're reading along. For instance, my old friend Adam used a Bananarama quote in our yearbook. Bananarama! You think that doesn't haunt him every day?
hahahaha "You can't even believe what's happening as you're reading along." But definitely read the whole thing. It's hysterical.
I remember my yearbook quote, and it was appropriately wistful, as befitting a lovelorn 17 year old wise beyond her years. Uhm - NOT!! Anyway, it was Oscar Wilde:
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
Ahhhh. That's so deep. I was so DEEP!!
But at least I chose a classic author, a guy who'll be around forever, as opposed to a quote from, say, a Loverboy song.
You wanna be in the show?
Come on baby, let's GO.
-- Loverboy
The suggested quotes Bill Simmons has compiled are just too funny for words - I had a blast reading through them all.
After my rapturous high school reunion this summer, I wrote a big post about flipping through my yearbook. I think we all did that following the reunion.
Here's the post about our yearbook, and the unfortunate typos therein:
Last night, I sat at my desk, and looked through my high school yearbook. I looked at EVERY PAGE. I scrutinized EVERY SIGNATURE. I read all of our little blurbs, wondering what the hell some of the references were.
Pictures of the Homecoming dance ... which I didn't go to. But the dresses! The ruffly frilly dresses of the day. The guys in tuxes. Do high school boys even wear tuxes anymore? Really cute picture of Crissy J. when she was voted Homecoming Queen.
There are so many pictures of my friend Betsy scattered through the entire yearbook that she must have paid off the Yearbook editor or something. hahaha
In the yearbook is literally one of the funniest photos ever taken of me. That is from my moment of cheerleading glory ... words can't describe it ... Whoever caught that moment on film should be given an award. My face in the photo looks absolutely maniacally insane.
Two HILARIOUS typos in the senior blurbs - typos that are now infamous in my group of friends:
-- In Betsy's case, under "Favorite Quote" she had written: "I want to go wild like a blister in the sun." The Violent Femmes were very big in my school. Sadly, when the yearbook came out, the quote read: "I want to go wild like a BUSTER in the sun". Doesn't have quite the same ring.
-- In Beth's case: this takes a bit of set-up. We were in drama class together. One of the things that drove us crazy about our class was that after we would work on a scene, or do a monologue, or whatever - the teacher would invariably look around the room, and say, "Comments?" SHE ALWAYS did that. It drove us nuts. Like: YOURE. THE. TEACHER. What do YOU have to say? No. She always turned it over to the class, with that one word: "Comments?" Ohhh, it went up our asses!! So Beth, in her senior blurb, wrote under "Pet Peeve": "Comments." We thought to ourselves gleefully and maliciously, "Maybe our teacher will see that and realize how much it drove us crazy! hahahaha Revenge!!!!" Sadly, when the yearbook finally came out, Beth's pet peeve had magically turned into "Cimments" - which makes no sense and completely ruined our chances for revenge. Now, though: the word "Cimments" has basically been added to our collective vocabulary. A group email will go around from one of us, explaining: "Okay, so I'm at a crossroads in my life - and I need some advice ... here's the situation ...blah blah blah blah ..." Story is told in detail. And then at the end comes the inevitable question to the group: "Cimments?"
"If you want to see your plays performed the way you wrote them, become president."
Today is the birthday of Vaclav Havel. (Again with the connection to this post below) I first became aware of him in college, when we had to read a couple of his plays. Plays that, naturally, could not be performed in his home country - but made him famous the world over. One of my favorite things Vaclav Havel said (beside the title of this post) is how he managed to live under Communism for so many years, how he handled it. He said he lived by the rule of "as if". "I decided to behave as if I were free."
In honor of his birthday, I will post links to my insanely obsessive essays I wrote about Czechoslovakia, when I was still doing that Country of the Week feature, like some autistic amateur historian.
The Czech Republic: The 20th Century
The Czech Republic: The Spirit of Prague
And lastly, in honor of Vaclav Havel, I will re-post something I wrote about a certain speech he made on January 1, 1990. Still has the power to give me chills, no matter how many times I read it:
Vaclav Havel made a speech on January 1, 1990, immediately following all of the extraordinary changes which had occurred in his country. This speech along with many many others made it into the book I have of "The Greatest Speeches of the 20th Century".
The first time I read it, I was sitting on a crowded subway. By the end, tears were rolling down my face. In retrospect, I think that is hysterical. If anyone noticed I was crying, I am sure they would never have guessed the reason - and would have thought I was insane if they had asked:
"Ma'am, are you all right? Why are you crying? Did your boyfriend break up with you?"
and I had answered:
"Oh ... uh ... no. I'm crying because of Vaclav Havel's speech to the Czech people in 1990."
".....Oh..."
Havel's speech, broadcast on the radio, set the tone for all that was to follow. It is referred to as "the contaminated moral environment" speech. After decades of double-speak, decades of being lied to by their own government, decades of muffling their true sentiments, Vaclav Havel stood up and told the truth. He had been preparing for this moment since the 1960s.
And that's another thing. We, as human beings, can recognize truth when we hear it.
Czeslaw Milosz, another famous dissident, brilliant poet, said in his speech accepting the Nobel Prize: "In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot." This is the atmosphere into which Vaclav Havel spoke, on that momentous day in 1990.
We know when we're being lied to, deceived. Truth is unmistakable, and Havel knew that. And Havel did not let the Czech people off the hook - another reason why the "velvet revolution" was so amazing. It was not about pointing fingers, screaming, "YOU DID THIS TO US". Havel encouraged the Czech people to take responsibility for their destinies, to take responsibility for having endured the tyranny for so long. The "contaminated moral environment" is not only about the Communist regime. He addressed that comment to every Czech person who had tolerated living under tyranny. No passing the buck, no blame. Take responsibility.
Imagine. How many leaders ever speak to their people in such a way? This speech is one of the myriad reasons that Vaclav Havel is one of my political heroes.
Quotes from his extraordinary speech - I edited it a bit - but I am sure you can find the entire text online, or in books:
Havel's speech, Jan. 1990
Our country is not flourishing. The enormous creative and spiritual potential of our nation is not being used sensibly ... We have polluted our soil, our rivers and forests, bequeathed to us by our ancestors, and we have today the most contaminated environment in Europe. Adult people in our country die earlier than in most other European countries.
But all this is still not the main problem. The worst thing is that we live in a contaminated moral environment. We fell morally ill because we became used to saying something different from what we thought. We learned not to believe in anything, to ignore each other, to care only about ourselves. Concepts such as love, friendship, compassion, humility, or forgiveness lost their depth and dimensions, and for many of us they represented only psychological peculiarities, or they resembled gone-astray greetings from ancient times, a little ridiculous ...
The previous regime -- armed with its arrogant and intolerant ideology -- reduced man to a force of production and nature to a tool of production ... It reduced gifted and autonomous people, skillfully working in their own country, to nuts and bolts of some monstrously huge, noisy, and stinking machine, whose real meaning is not clear to anyone ...
When I talk about contaminated moral atmosphere ... I am talking about all of us. We had all become used to the totalitarian system and accepted it as an unchangeable fact and thus helped to perpetuate it. In other words, we are all -- though naturally to differing extremes -- responsible for the operation of the totalitarian machinery; none of us is just its victim: we are all also its co-creators ...
We have to accept this legacy as a sin we committed against ourselves. If we accept it as such, we will understand that it is up to us all, and up to us only, to do something about it. We cannot blame the previous rulers for everything, not only because it would be untrue but also because it could blunt the duty that each of us faces today, namely, the obligation to act independently, freely, reasonably and quickly ... Freedom and democracy include participation and therefore responsibility from us all.
If we realize this, then all the horrors that the new Czechoslovak democracy inherited will cease to appear so terrible. If we realize this, hope will return to our hearts ...
In the effort to rectify matters ... we have something to lean on. The recent period -- and in particular, the last six weeks of our peaceful revolution -- has shown the enormous human, moral, and spiritual potential and civil culture that slumbered in our society under the enforced mask of apathy. Whenever someone categorically claimed that we were this or that, I always objected that society is a very mysterious creature and that it is not wise to trust only the face it presents to you. I am happy that I was not mistaken. Everywhere in the world people wonder where those meek, humiliated, skeptical, and seemingly cynical citizens of Czechoslovakia found the marvelous strength to shake from their shoulders in several weeks and in a decent and peaceful way the totalitarian yoke...
There are free elections and an election campaign ahead of us. Let us not allow this struggle to dirty the so far clean face of our gentle revoltuion ... It is not really important now which party, club, or group will prevail in the elections. The important thing is that the winners will be the best of us, in the moral, civil, political and professional sense, regardless of their political affiliations ...
In conclusion, I would like to say that I want to be a president who will speak less and work more. To be a president who will ... always be present among his fellow citizens and listen to them well.
You may ask what kind of republic I dream of. Let me reply: I dream of a republic independent, free, and democratic, of a republic economically prosperous and yet socially just, in short, of a humane republic which serves the individual and which therefore holds the hope that the individual will serve it in turn. Of a republic of well-rounded people, because without such it is impossible to solve any of our problems, human, economic, ecological, social, or political.
People, your government has returned to you!
Why I love Wendell Berry
Because of poems like this (and it also occurs to me that this poem is a nice companion piece to the post below this one):
The Future
For God's sake, be done
with this jabber of "a better world."
What blasphemy! No "futuristic"
twit or child thereof ever
in embodied light will see
a better world than this, though they
foretell inevitably a worse.
Do something! Go cut the weeds
beside the oblivious road. Pick up
the cans and bottles, old tires,
and dead predictions. No future
can be stuffed into this presence
except by being dead. The day is
clear and bright, and overhead
the sun not yet half finished
with his daily praise.
Lenin's fungi
Time has been unkind to Lenin, whose remains here in Red Square are said to sprout occasional fungi, and whose ideology and party long ago fell to ruins. Now the inevitable question has returned. Should his body be moved?
Ew. Fungi?
But it's an interesting article about the controversy, with some very good quotes.
"Our country has been shaken by strife, but only a few people were held accountable for that in our lifetime," said the aide, Georgi Poltavchenko. "I do not think it is fair that those who initiated the strife remain in the center of our state near the Kremlin."
Uhm, ya think?
Mr. Putin said in 2001 that he did not want to upset the civic order by moving the founder's remains. "Many people in this country associate their lives with the name of Lenin," he said. "To take Lenin out and bury him would say to them that they have worshiped false values, that their lives were lived in vain."
If the shoe fits ...
Sometimes it's the most healing thing in the world to actually admit you have worshiped a "false value", and to make a clean break with the past. We've all done it. Perhaps not to the extent that we worshiped a despot, or a tyrant ... but we've all put our values in the wrong places from time to time. Is it best to deny this, not admit the mistake, and keep the trappings of that "false value" all around you? Or is it better to just say, "You know what? We fucked up. Let's start anew."
Besides, he's sprouting fungi in the middle of Red Square and that is just disgusting.
(via Ann Althouse)
Podsednik. Papelbon.
Surviving Grady makes an interesting point.
And it's even worse when you consider the little-known "Tim Spooneybarger" rule of baseball, which dictates that the team with the player with the coolest name typically wins the World Series [hey, there's a reason we kept Leskanic around last October]. Chicago's got the richly dubbed Scott Podsednik. We're countering with the uniquely christened Jon Papelbon. Podsednik. Papelbon. Podsednik. Papelbon. Podsednik. Papelbon. I dunno, I've said both names aloud for the past three hours, and I think Chicago's got the edge.
I left work. The score was 5 - 0 and it was the first inning. The first fecking inning. I moseyed my way to my gym. I changed. I warmed up. I got on the treadmill. The TVs were all tuned to the game. It was now 12 - 2.
WHAT? I felt like I had been out of TV communication for 20 minutes ... and now it's 12 - 2???
I ran on the treadmill and swore at the television. Out loud.
"God DAMN it, guys, come on ..." Run, run, run .... "Oh, for God's SAKE!" Run, run, run ...
Let's chalk this one up as a disaster and move ON!
Podsednik, Papelbon, Podsednik, Papelbon, Podsednik, Papelbon ....
And this one is for my siblings: DAUBAAACH. Brian DAUUBAAAAACH. Daubach, Daubach, Daubach ... oh, how the announcers loved that name.
Bookstores
So continuing with the theme, here is a lovely story from Anne about a bookstore in Paris "that was covered with vines" .... (no, just kidding)
October 4, 2005
Oscars ... the female version
Here are the actresses who I believe will win Oscars someday. Who knows if they will or if they won't - but these women are definitely Oscar caliber.
-- Reese Witherspoon. Listen, I've been a huge fan of this girl since her movie debut in Man in the Moon when she was 12 years old. Sam Waterston is in the movie, Tess Harper - and Reese, a little kid, walks away with that film. Or maybe I should say: she "strolls" away with the movie because she makes it look so easy. It probably IS easy for her. She has an innate gift. Her acting is intelligent, unexpected, and very very good. But it is really her role as Tracy Flick in Election (shown in the picture above) which cemented my regard for her. I know she's become a ginormous star since then - so now she's appearing in "romantic comedies", yadda yadda, but her performance of Tracy Flick has got to go down in the books as one of the most spot-on psychological portraits I have seen in the movies in a long LONG time. She's not just good. She's a genius in that movie. Oscar-worthy. Mark my words. She needs the role - that will "land", so to speak ... but she is very very deserving. I'm a huge fan.
-- Julianne Moore. She's one of those actresses who doesn't just do mainstream stuff - so a lot of her best work has been in movies that about 20 people saw. Like Safe. People. This is her best work, in my opinion. SEE IT. Her acting in that film blows me away - and it's one of those parts where you honestly can't believe anyone else but Julianne in the role. But that's the deal. She doesn't "play the game" in the typical way, although she is a big star, and everyone wants to work with her. She isn't a mainstream actress. I am very excited to see her current film - can't remember the title - it's been getting wonderful reviews. She's truly a special actress. One of a kind.
-- Kate Winslet She seems pretty much, like Johnny Depp, to be a shoo-in. She's always good, and whenever she acts she appears to get nominated. What I love about Kate Winslet - and this is a very very rare quality - you can count on one hand the actresses who have it: She's the type of actress where you can actually feel her blood start to race, in emotional scenes. You can actually feel her heart speed up. A flush actually covers her cheeks. She is so alive that it is undeniable. She's always had that quality - her actual physical LIFE FORCE comes off the screen. Amazing. I love her.
-- Patricia Clarkson Mitchell and I were actually talking about her the other night, about her work in High Art, where she plays a heroin addict Marlene Dietrich wannabe. Mitchell said, "I swear - I had no idea who she was at the time I saw that film - and I truly believed she was German - I thought she WAS that person, and that they found a ... you know ... performance artist to come in and just play herself. I had no idea she was ACTING." The woman is a complete and utter chameleon. Along the lines of Meryl Streep. She doesn't just change her accent, her clothes, her hair ... she actually seems to change her inner essence - from role to role. She's amazing.
-- Joan Allen I think she's the best actress working today. Mitchell and I had a great discussion about her as well - If she had started doing major films in the 70s and 80s, as opposed to the 90s and 2000s (whatever) - she would probably have 3 or 4 Oscars under her belt by now. Like Meryl Streep does. She's that good. Hollywood doesn't quite know what to do wih Joan Allen (and back in the 70s and 80s - Hollywood DID know what to do with Meryl Streep) ... so Joan Allen doesn't get the projects that she SHOULD. She is literally the A-list, as far as I'm concerned. She's the best. I would love to see her really get "the role" that would cement her position. She's fantastic. Her work actually hurts me. Even in a movie like Pleasantville - she brings such a specific depth of emotion to it - NOBODY plays buried fiery emotion like Joan Allen. NOBODY.
And lastly. I realize this last one is a pipe dream. It will probably never happen. This is a shame. Because the woman is not only a "good actress" - tepid term - but a flat out genius. She doesn't "act". She channels. I'm sorry to sound so hyperbolic and new-agey - but honestly. She's so so so good. And looking at the body of her work, I have to say (and this is a high compliment): I have NO idea who Catherine O'Hara is. Is she like Cookie in Best in Show? Is she like Sheila Albertson in Waiting for Guffman? Who is she? No idea. She appears to have no innate personality that she has to contend with (I'm sure she does - I'm just saying that it is never apparent in her acting). She is a total and utter chameleon. I thought Charlize Theron was good in Monster and all - but whatever. You put crappy makeup on a beautiful woman, make her teeth look bad, give her a scraggly wig - and everyone says "WHAT AN AMAZING ACTRESS!!" Catherine O'Hara does complete transformations - only without all the bells and whistles and fake noses and fake teeth. So I know she'll probably never win one, but I'm putting her on the list as my way of acknowledging her giant gift.
Oscars ... the male version
Here is a list of actors who I believe will win Oscars some day. I'll do the actresses in the next post.
Now - some of these are probably wishful thinking - but it is my way of saying: I think these people are some of the best actors working today - and all they need is the right ROLE. It's the role that wins the Oscar, not the actor. Always remember that!
Anyway. Here's my list:
-- Peter Sarsgaard (he's another guy I need to do a big post about. I think he is absolutely fantastic. I've never seen him repeat himself yet - yet he is always truthful. I think he's amazing. I mean - the difference between the character he plays in Boys Don't Cry - just thinking about that guy gives me a chill - and the guy he plays in Shattered Glass - Huh? Is that the same actor? He's a chameleon. So so good.)
-- Philip Seymour Hoffman (again. I love him in Boogie Nights best, I think ... but he's continuously excellent. There's already Oscar murmurs about his Truman Capote ... but we'll just have to see what happens next year. I can't wait to see it - I'm going Saturday with Allison!)
-- Johnny Depp. (I think he's pretty much a shoo-in. Love the guy. I get sick of his "oh, I'm so over Hollywood so I show up at awards shows with scruffy goatees" poses. Because I believe it is a pose. If you were REALLY 'over Hollywood' you wouldn't show up at all. Right, Johnny? But that's neither here nor there. The guy is wonderful, a truly inventive surprising actor - it's like he can do anything - I think he is bound to win some day)
-- Jack Black. In my opinion, the guy is a mass of talent along the lines of ... Gene Hackman, Dustin Hoffman - he's that good. He's one of my favorite actors working today. Nobody is as fearless as Jack Black. He's awesome, and I think he's Oscar caliber already. If Woody Allen put him in one of his movies - and made him the star - I bet he'd at least get nominated. I thought he should have been nominated for School of Rock, frankly.
-- Jeff feckin' Bridges. I honestly don't know if it will ever happen, but I have just got to put him on the list. He's the best. Literally. He's my favorite actor. He's the type of actor who is so good, and so unassuming about being good - that everyone AROUND him gets nominated ... because HE is the one who makes everything so easy. Only he doesn't get nominated. It's a shame. He's like Cary Grant. Cary Grant wasn't nominated for Philadelphia Story. Kate Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart both were and Jimmy Stewart won. Grant wasn't nominated????? He breezes through that movie, like a demented puckish Cupid - but without his performance - neither of the other two stars would be HALF as effective. Jeff Bridges is like that. He makes it easy for other actors to shine ... and ends up getting ignorred time and time again at awards time. The fact that he was not nominated for Door in the Floor (although I could list probably 10 other roles that I think he should have been nominated for) - is unbelievable. You just honestly don't see acting as good as what he did in Door in the Floor on an everyday basis. It is special. It is heightened. It raises the bar for everyone. And so - naturally - it is ignored. It makes eveyrone else realize: "hmmm, maybe we're not so awesome as we think we are." Anyway: I think Jeff Bridges is the #1 actor in America today - and it is my hope that some day he gets the prize. But even if he doesn't, he'll be in good company. He can hang out with the likes of Cary Grant.
favorite bookstores
I love this post by Annika. She's right - the Upper West Side Barnes & Noble is the best one in the city, in my opinion. I haven't been there in years - it's way out of my way - now I usually go to the B&N in Union Square which is a madhouse. A madhouse of sale tables, calendar racks, and parents with strollers. It just doesn't have the same relatively serious vibe that the Upper West Side one has. I used to live up there, and spent hours of my life in that place.
The Books: "The Importance of Being Earnest " (Oscar Wilde)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
Still on the script shelf:
More Oscar Wilde!
Next play on the shelf is The Importance of Being Earnest
Ah, Earnest. Just the thought of this play makes me laugh. Mistaken identities, misunderstandings, country vs. city ... deception. The men in this play employ deception when it is convenient to them. They all seem to have second identities, secret imaginary friends (Bunbury is Algernon's imaginary invalid friend whom he uses whenever he wants to get out of anything), Jack pretends his name is "Ernest" when he's in the city ... Jack proposes to Gwendolen but she says she would prefer to be married to someone named "Ernest" because it sounds more aristocratic. (The play's all about status, too - class. Jack is too low a status for Gwendolen - at least according to her aunt, Lady Bracknell) Back in the country, we meet little Cecily, who is Jack's 'ward'. Miss Prism is Cecily's governess, and she sings Jack's praises to Cecily, comparing him very favorably to his wicked brother Ernest. Algernon arrives (Jack won't be arriving until the following Monday) and pretends to be this mythical wicked brother Ernest. Unfortunately, Jack arrives early dressed in mourning clothes - claiming that his brother Ernest has died. He is shocked to find Algernon already there - pretending to be his brother. Who is supposed to be dead. He tries to shuffle Algernon back to the city but it is too late - Algernon has already fallen in love with little country-mouse Cecily, and wants to propose to her. When he does propose to Cecily, she takes out her little diary and shows him the evidence that she (just like Gwendolen) has always wanted to marry someone named Ernest. In the middle of all of this, Miss Gwendolen (glamorous city mouse) arrives - in pursuit of Jack - and finds that Cecily - his "ward" - is actually a beautiful young woman. Gwendolen and Cecily have a brilliant biting scene over tea, they're trading barbs, psyching each other out ... and they both realize that they are both engaged to someone named "Ernest Worthing". Has anyone actually ever SEEN Ernest Worthing? Jack and Algernon arrive and try to straighten the situation out - but in the process, they piss both women off. The men agree to be re-christened as Ernest - and this seems to be a good solution to all. Lady Bracknell then shows up and demands to know the marriage plans of everyone. She consents to Algernon marrying Cecily (when she learns of Cecily's fortune). Jack, though, says that he will not consent to Cecily marrying unless he is allowed to marry Gwendolen (Lady Bracknell is still concerned about his lowly birth, etc.). A reverend then arrives and says he is ready for "the christenings". Anyway, through a final twist of fate - it soon is revealed that Miss Prism was actually the same governess who "lost" Lady Bracknell's own nephew 28 years before ... and ... soon after this revelation, it is revealed that Jack, of the so-called lowly status, is actually Algernon's older brother - son of Ernest Montcrieff - who died many years ago. So Jack now really is Ernest. And all's well that ends well. Jack gets Gwendolen, Algernon gets Cecily ... and both men realize (finally) how important it it to be "earnest".
I'll excerpt the scene between Cecily and Gwendolen - and at the end Algernon and Jack both come in ... and the tangled web gets even more tangled. It's way over-done (at least in acting classes. Every 3rd actress in the room works on this scene at one time or another.) - but there's a reason it's worked on all the time. Because it's a classically put-together scene, it can't be improved upon. It's a perfect example of two objectives battling one another. Only secretly. Just as we do in real life.
EXCERPT FROM The Importance of Being Earnest
CECILY. [Advancing to meet her.] Pray let me introduce myself to you. My name is Cecily Cardew.
GWENDOLEN. Cecily Cardew? [Moving to her and shaking hands.] What a very sweet name! Something tells me that we are going to be great friends. I like you already more than I can say. My first impressions of people are never wrong.
CECILY. How nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such a comparatively short time. Pray sit down.
GWENDOLEN. [Still standing up.] I may call you Cecily, may I not?
CECILY. With pleasure!
GWENDOLEN. And you will always call me Gwendolen, won�t you?
CECILY. If you wish.
GWENDOLEN. Then that is all quite settled, is it not?
CECILY. I hope so. [A pause. They both sit down together.]
GWENDOLEN. Perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who I am. My father is Lord Bracknell. You have never heard of papa, I suppose?
CECILY. I don�t think so.
GWENDOLEN. Outside the family circle, papa, I am glad to say, is entirely unknown. I think that is quite as it should be. The home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. And certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? And I don�t like that. It makes men so very attractive. Cecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses?
CECILY. Oh! not at all, Gwendolen. I am very fond of being looked at.
GWENDOLEN. [After examining Cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] You are here on a short visit, I suppose.
CECILY. Oh no! I live here.
GWENDOLEN. [Severely.] Really? Your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of advanced years, resides here also?
CECILY. Oh no! I have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations.
GWENDOLEN. Indeed?
CECILY. My dear guardian, with the assistance of Miss Prism, has the arduous task of looking after me.
GWENDOLEN. Your guardian?
CECILY. Yes, I am Mr. Worthing�s ward.
GWENDOLEN. Oh! It is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. How secretive of him! He grows more interesting hourly. I am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight. [Rising and going to her.] I am very fond of you, Cecily; I have liked you ever since I met you! But I am bound to state that now that I know that you are Mr. Worthing�s ward, I cannot help expressing a wish you were - well, just a little older than you seem to be - and not quite so very alluring in appearance. In fact, if I may speak candidly -
CECILY. Pray do! I think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one should always be quite candid.
GWENDOLEN. Well, to speak with perfect candour, Cecily, I wish that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. Ernest has a strong upright nature. He is the very soul of truth and honour. Disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. But even men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. Modern, no less than Ancient History, supplies us with many most painful examples of what I refer to. If it were not so, indeed, History would be quite unreadable.
CECILY. I beg your pardon, Gwendolen, did you say Ernest?
GWENDOLEN. Yes.
CECILY. Oh, but it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is my guardian. It is his brother - his elder brother.
GWENDOLEN. [Sitting down again.] Ernest never mentioned to me that he had a brother.
CECILY. I am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time.
GWENDOLEN. Ah! that accounts for it. And now that I think of it I have never heard any man mention his brother. The subject seems distasteful to most men. Cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. I was growing almost anxious. It would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? Of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not Mr. Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?
CECILY. Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.
GWENDOLEN. [Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?
CECILY. [Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are engaged to be married.
GWENDOLEN. [Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there must be some slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement will appear in the Morning Post on Saturday at the latest.
CECILY. [Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows diary.]
GWENDOLEN. [Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It is certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of her own.] I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior claim.
CECILY. It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.
GWENDOLEN. [meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a firm hand.
CECILY. [Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are married.
GWENDOLEN. Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one�s mind. It becomes a pleasure.
CECILY. Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask of manners. When I see a spade I call it a spade.
GWENDOLEN. [Satirically.] I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.
[Enter Merriman, followed by the footman. He carries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. Cecily is about to retort. The presence of the servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.]
MERRIMAN. Shall I lay tea here as usual, Miss?
CECILY. [Sternly, in a calm voice.] Yes, as usual. [Merriman begins to clear table and lay cloth. A long pause. Cecily and Gwendolen glare at each other.]
GWENDOLEN. Are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, Miss Cardew?
CECILY. Oh! yes! a great many. From the top of one of the hills quite close one can see five counties.
GWENDOLEN. Five counties! I don�t think I should like that; I hate crowds.
CECILY. [Sweetly.] I suppose that is why you live in town? [Gwendolen bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.]
GWENDOLEN. [Looking round.] Quite a well-kept garden this is, Miss Cardew.
CECILY. So glad you like it, Miss Fairfax.
GWENDOLEN. I had no idea there were any flowers in the country.
CECILY. Oh, flowers are as common here, Miss Fairfax, as people are in London.
GWENDOLEN. Personally I cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. The country always bores me to death.
CECILY. Ah! This is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? I believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. It is almost an epidemic amongst them, I have been told. May I offer you some tea, Miss Fairfax?
GWENDOLEN. [With elaborate politeness.] Thank you. [Aside.] Detestable girl! But I require tea!
CECILY. [Sweetly.] Sugar?
GWENDOLEN. [Superciliously.] No, thank you. Sugar is not fashionable any more. [Cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of sugar into the cup.]
CECILY. [Severely.] Cake or bread and butter?
GWENDOLEN. [In a bored manner.] Bread and butter, please. Cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays.
CECILY. [Cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] Hand that to Miss Fairfax.
[Merriman does so, and goes out with footman. Gwendolen drinks the tea and makes a grimace. Puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. Rises in indignation.]
GWENDOLEN. You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. I am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but I warn you, Miss Cardew, you may go too far.
CECILY. [Rising.] To save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which I would not go.
GWENDOLEN. From the moment I saw you I distrusted you. I felt that you were false and deceitful. I am never deceived in such matters. My first impressions of people are invariably right.
CECILY. It seems to me, Miss Fairfax, that I am trespassing on your valuable time. No doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in the neighbourhood.
[Enter Jack.]
GWENDOLEN. [Catching sight of him.] Ernest! My own Ernest!
JACK. Gwendolen! Darling! [Offers to kiss her.]
GWENDOLEN. [Draws back.] A moment! May I ask if you are engaged to be married to this young lady? [Points to Cecily.]
JACK. [Laughing.] To dear little Cecily! Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your pretty little head?
GWENDOLEN. Thank you. You may! [Offers her cheek.]
CECILY. [Very sweetly.] I knew there must be some misunderstanding, Miss Fairfax. The gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my guardian, Mr. John Worthing.
GWENDOLEN. I beg your pardon?
CECILY. This is Uncle Jack.
GWENDOLEN. [Receding.] Jack! Oh!
[Enter Algernon.]
CECILY. Here is Ernest.
ALGERNON. [Goes straight over to Cecily without noticing any one else.] My own love! [Offers to kiss her.]
CECILY. [Drawing back.] A moment, Ernest! May I ask you - are you engaged to be married to this young lady?
ALGERNON. [Looking round.] To what young lady? Good heavens! Gwendolen!
CECILY. Yes! to good heavens, Gwendolen, I mean to Gwendolen.
ALGERNON. [Laughing.] Of course not! What could have put such an idea into your pretty little head?
CECILY. Thank you. [Presenting her cheek to be kissed.] You may. [Algernon kisses her.]
GWENDOLEN. I felt there was some slight error, Miss Cardew. The gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, Mr. Algernon Moncrieff.
CECILY. [Breaking away from Algernon.] Algernon Moncrieff! Oh! [The two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each other�s waists protection.]
CECILY. Are you called Algernon?
ALGERNON. I cannot deny it.
CECILY. Oh!
GWENDOLEN. Is your name really John?
JACK. [Standing rather proudly.] I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is John. It has been John for years.
CECILY. [To Gwendolen.] A gross deception has been practised on both of us.
GWENDOLEN. My poor wounded Cecily!
CECILY. My sweet wronged Gwendolen!
GWENDOLEN. [Slowly and seriously.] You will call me sister, will you not? [They embrace. Jack and Algernon groan and walk up and down.]
CECILY. [Rather brightly.] There is just one question I would like to be allowed to ask my guardian.
GWENDOLEN. An admirable idea! Mr. Worthing, there is just one question I would like to be permitted to put to you. Where is your brother Ernest? We are both engaged to be married to your brother Ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother Ernest is at present.
JACK. [Slowly and hesitatingly.] Gwendolen - Cecily - it is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. It is the first time in my life that I have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and I am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. However, I will tell you quite frankly that I have no brother Ernest. I have no brother at all. I never had a brother in my life, and I certainly have not the smallest intention of ever having one in the future.
CECILY. [Surprised.] No brother at all?
JACK. [Cheerily.] None!
GWENDOLEN. [Severely.] Had you never a brother of any kind?
JACK. [Pleasantly.] Never. Not even of any kind.
GWENDOLEN. I am afraid it is quite clear, Cecily, that neither of us is engaged to be married to any one.
CECILY. It is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herself in. Is it?
GWENDOLEN. Let us go into the house. They will hardly venture to come after us there.
CECILY. No, men are so cowardly, aren�t they?
[They retire into the house with scornful looks.]
October 3, 2005
Rosh Hashanah at Ground Zero
This is the post you need to read. I first started reading Rossi directly after September 11 - her posts about cooking for the crew in Ground Zero were riveting, awful, healing. You'll see what I mean when I read it.
Tim and Dawn
I haven't written an entire post about the genius that is The Office (the British version) - which I really need to. It's on the list.
Other things on the list:
-- The Rookie and what it has to say about marriage. (That one will be similar to this one - only I will focus more on the male side of the marriage equation. That's gonna be a big post. I need to gear up for it.)
-- the book The Pigman - and what it means to me (this was sparked by a conversation I had with my sister Jean this weekend - she's reading it to her class - so many memories) "The ghost of Aunt Ahra", The Marshmallow Kid, the exploding Egyptian eyeball, etc.
-- Crash - argh. Need to write about that movie.
-- the coffee cup I stole from a diner in Ithaca, New York, and why I did it, and how I still have it
-- and The Office
Ricky Gervais. I mean. The dude is ... I don't care where he got the idea, who he is, if he's never acted before, whatever it is ... he is absolutely a genius. He created, wrote, directed, blah blah blah The Office with his partner in crime Stephen Merchant. Gervais' performance as David Brent reminds me so much (except it's funnier) of William H. Macy in Fargo. The psychological observations he's making ... about this kind of person ... are so spot on, so embarrassing, so perfect - and he executes them with such unselfconsciousness - that you often have to look away in embarrassment. But then you always look back.
Add on to that how FUNNY the whole thing is.
I guess you either get it or you don't. The Office (the Brit version) has become a kind of a litmus test for me. If someone says, "Oh my God, I love The Office and I love Ricky Gervais..." then chances are I'll be able to hang out with that person. It's a sense of humor thing. If someone "gets" that kind of humor - then I will probably relate to them. You know those people who don't find Monty Python funny? Well, call me a snob, whatever, but I do think a wee bit less of such people. Sorry. It's the truth. Or at least I think: Huh. I wonder if I'll get along with them then?? I'm not saying the type of humor in The Office is obscure or esoteric - but it certainly isn't everyone's cup of tea. You need to be able to tolerate a certain amount of discomfort to get into The Office, because the humor is so relentless, kind of brutal, and there's no let-up.
For example.
David Brent is the boss in an office. I don't even know how to begin to describe his personality. He basically just wants to be loved. But this manifests itself in intense narcissism - and ... he is constantly embarrassing himself by trying to be too cool, or be something he's not. He is so so so threatened by anyone who comes in from the outside and seems like they are trying to take his spot. A guy comes in to give a team-building seminar, for example, and David Brent CANNOT let the guy lead the class - because he just needs eveyrone to know that he already knows all the team-building concepts and he could teach the class himself. It's excruciating to watch, but also so so so so so funny.
Then there is the famed office party. Everyone is in costume. This good-looking guy, who is actually David's boss (someone who David is very threatened by) comes as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and does a pretty damn fine imitation of John Travolta for the office. Everyone clapping, cheering, laughing.
David Brent cannot BEAR to be "shown up" like this. He immediately denigrates the dancing ... and says somethign like, "Yeah, that was fine ... but you rehearsed it ... I do a more spontaneous style ... mixing in MC Hammer with blah blah blah ..." It's so transparent that you get embarrassed for him. (But somehow, and this is the genius: You don't despise him. This is not a bad guy. He is not malicious. He just wants to be loved and applauded.)
Anyway - he decides to do an impromptu dance for the office. Immediately following the very successful John Travolta imitation.
Watch how everyone in the office slowly start to get more and more uncomfortable as they realize what is happening .... And the cut-away shots to people looking on ...
It is howlingly funny. And awful.
This is my Desktop wallpaper by the way:
I watched the two-hour Office special which closed the series yesterday (thanks, Allison!!) - and cried - all over again - at Tim and Dawn finally getting together. FINALLY.
i do not know why the last 15 minutes of this series moves me so deeply and strikes me as so damn profound - but it does.
Her face as she approaches Tim, the tears, the intense look in her eyes ... his start of surprise as he realizes what is happening, that she has come back ... their startled body language as they kiss for the first time ... the way he stands still for a second, as the kiss begins, then accepts that it is really happening and moves his hand up to her face ...
It just fills my heart. Makes me sad and happy all at the same time.
Beautifully played.
Breaks my heart. I want to have a moment like that again.
Ha ha
The title of that post I'm linking to is the truest thing I've read all day!!!
Michael Flatley
A very funny review of Michael Flatley's latest dance extravaganza - where he attempts to tell the entire history of Ireland in 2 hours through dance.
I loved Riverdance - I know a lot of Irish people think it's awful, and it probably is, but whatever. I make no apologies. I thought it was great - although when watching the original version from Ireland I do have to turn a blind eye to Flatley's unbelievable cheesiness, his puffy shirts, his atrocious ego, and his enormous self-pleasure which drips off of his every dance gesture. He's a good dancer, but whatever, dude. Please take a chill. I have seen a couple different versions of Riverdance - and I saw the guy who took over for Flatley when Flatley left the show (due to "creative differences" - again: WHATEVER, dude!!!) - but anyway, whoever that guy was - Ian something - was just wonderful. He is what a dancer should be. Humble - and yet able to do the most amazing things with his body. But HUMBLE, ya hear me?? The show does not depend on Michael Flatley, no matter what he might thinks. The show is bigger than Michael Flatley.
Regardless - now apparently he has a new show out - and ... the humor of that review is very subtle, but delicious nonetheless. I actually don't mind Michael Flatley, although I recognize that he is a complete bonehead. Whatever. He's a big cheeze doodle. No skin off my nose.
Favorite quotes from this review:
First onstage following the intermission was a single dancer wearing a flight attendant's uniform. The crowd seemed mildly confused. Was Flatley saluting Irish aviation? Using the airplane as a metaphor for being stranded between two worlds? As we pondered such thoughts, the flight attendant began to peel off her clothes. Flatley was paying tribute to a more recent achievement, thoroughly American: the striptease. The flight attendant shed her clothes to reveal a bikini colored like the American flag—the shedding of her Irish identity?—and then began a regimen of sensual calisthenics. My notes trail off, but I have a memory of the flight attendant ending her presentation downstage, legs splayed and squatting like an offensive lineman.
So Flatley!! So cheesy!!
More:
He debuted in the Riverdance show at the ripe age of 36. Flatley was Riverdance's star and—according to him—its choreographer and chief inspiration, but a row over money and credit led him to quit the show before it began a second run in London. (Flatley's agent, in a memorable diatribe, had requested that his star "be treated and respected as if Michael was Dame Judi Dench.") Within months, Flatley had regrouped and raised his own show, which he humbly titled Lord of the Dance.
hahahaha "which he humbly titled ..." I was taking dance classes at Alvin Ailey at the time of Lord of the Dance, and I remember my teacher, Maxine (unbelievable woman) saying stuff like, "Oh fuck HIM. Lord of the dance? What an ego. Asshole." This tall lengthy gorgeous ballerina woman, fuming, with profanity, about Michael Flatley having the nerve to anoint himself "Lord of the Dance".
More humor:
And yet Flatley is not an American exceptionalist, nor even an Irish one. His is more of a free-range patriotism—a "hooray for everybody!" approach common to Montessori kindergartens. In Celtic Tiger, Viking hordes commingle with Irish peasants. The Brits have their vile moments but are allowed a lusty chorus of "Rule Britannia." Flatley honors Irish independence then declares his unwavering love for America. Oddly, for a show called Celtic Tiger, the finale has Flatley clad in red, white, and blue and performing "I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy."
"hooray for everybody" - YOu know, that is so true - and actually has become more and more true about "Riverdance" as the years have gone by. The original was mostly Irish dancing, with one Spanish folk dancer and then the folk dancers from Russia. By the time it got to Broadway, the main song - about the "river" - has an African beat, and we've got African dancers, African songs sung by solo African singers, we've got dancers from Eastern Europe, we've got the American tap dancers, and native American dancers, and French dancers, and folk dancers from around the multi-colored world ... and we're celebrating EVERYBODY! WHOO-HOO!! Why just celebrate Ireland when you can celebrate EVERYONE?? I don't know. I always just liked the Irish stuff, and thought the multicultural theme of the show was pushing it - although I saw what they were going for (similarities in dance styles across cultures. But whatever. Yawn. Let's see some Irish step-dancing please and don't WORRY about validating every other culture. If you validate Irish dancing, does that mean you INvalidate dances from other cultures? It's that kind of universal exclusiveness that gets kind of tiresome.) Riverdance did not start out that way. The star of the show was the traditional dancing of Ireland - modernized and sexed up a bit. Sorry, other cultures. Do your own show. This one's about Ireland.
But still. Despite that small annoyance, nothing can taint my affection for that show, and my memory of seeing it for the first time. Not even Michael Flatley's puffy cheeze-doodle shirts, on-again off-again Irish accent, painted-on leather pants, and shoes with Lous XIV high heels. Nope. Not even HE can ruin Riverdance for me.
Bryan Curtis, the very funny writer of the piece in Slate, sums it all up with:
There are those of us who would have been happy if he'd shown up in jeans and a tank top and danced for a half hour.
heh heh
This made me laugh out loud:
With his pants casually unbuttoned, Flatley gives off a kind of tortured, middle-aged sexuality, like Bono only with a more uncertain accent. I doubted Flatley's allure until I saw a large, graying woman, seated to my left, clomping her foot like a deranged horse until the Lord of the Dance returned for an encore.
That "tortured middle-aged sexuality" thing is so spot ON!!
Anyway, whatever. I don't begrudge Cheeze-ball his success, even though I think he's kind of silly and a complete and utter egomaniac. More power to him.
A convergence
My mom just had a series of paintings in an art show. I just got the photos of her specific 'wall' and thought I would post a couple of them.
Not only do the photos look great, yay, Mum!! - but on today - of all days - the photos just fill my heart with excitement and awe!! Are we actually here again??? Argh!
All will become clear when you click below.
Congratulations, Mum - wish I could have made the show!
RIP August Wilson
One of our greatest living playwrights has died. That's a huge obituary in the New York Times there ... Great information on the life and work of August Wilson.
As seems fitting, his last play Radio Golf (which just premiered) was the closing chapter in a theatrical cycle he began a decade ago. Amazing. He "finished" his work.
From the obit:
Mr. Wilson did not establish the chronological framework of his cycle until after the work had begun, and he skipped around in time. Although "Radio Golf," the last play to be written, was set in the 1990's, "Gem of the Ocean," which immediately preceded it in production (it came to Broadway in the fall of 2004), was set in the first decade of the 20th century.His first success, "Ma Rainey," which took place in a Chicago recording studio in 1927, depicted the turbulent relationship between a rich but angry blues singer and a brilliant trumpet player who also wants to succeed in the white-dominated world of commercial music. From there Mr. Wilson turned to the 1950's, with "Fences," his most popular play, about a garbageman and former baseball player in the Negro leagues who clashes with his son over the boy's intention to pursue a career in sports. His next play, "Joe Turner's Come and Gone," considered by many to be the finest of his works, was a quasi-mystical drama set in a boardinghouse in 1911. It told of a man newly freed from illegal servitude searching to find the woman who abandoned him.
The other plays in Mr. Wilson's theatrical opus are "The Piano Lesson," set in 1936, in which a brother and sister argue over the fate of the piano that symbolizes the family's anguished past history; "Two Trains Running," concerning an ex-con re-ordering his life in 1969; "Seven Guitars," about a blues musician on the brink of a career breakthrough in 1948; "Jitney," a collage of the everyday doings at a gypsy cab company in 1977; and "King Hedley II," in which another troubled ex-con searches for redemption as the Hill District crumbles under the onslaught of Reaganomics in 1985.
As the cycle developed, Mr. Wilson knit the plays together through overlapping themes and characters. Many of the primary conflicts concern the dueling prerogatives of characters poised between the traumatizing past and the uncertain future. The central character in "Radio Golf" is the grandson of a character in "Gem of the Ocean." The guiding spirit of the cycle came to be Aunt Esther, a woman said to have lived for more than three centuries, who was referred to in several plays and who appeared at last in "Gem." She embodied the continuity of spiritual and moral values that Mr. Wilson felt was crucial to the black experience, uniting the descendants of slaves to their African ancestors.
I found the text of a talk August Wilson gave on writing - and he opens with this gem of a sentence - it makes me love him:
When I discovered the word breakfast, and I discovered that it was two words, I think then I decided I wanted to be a writer.
Ha!
I saw Larry Fishburne in Two Trains Running in LA before it opened in New York. (Roscoe Lee Browne was in it as well - God, he was fantastic!!) But Fishburne was the revelation to me. I always knew he was a good actor, always had been a fan of his (Apocalypse Now was my first encounter with him, and yeah, The Matrix, whatever - but I think my favorite role of his is the renegade chess player in Searching for Bobby Fischer - just thinking about that movie gives me chills!) ... but my admiration for him exploded when I saw him on stage. Yeah, he's a movie star, whatever ... but he looked at HOME on the stage. He was amazing. When it opened on Broadway, the review called Fishburne "the jewel of the production". True, true.
The original review for Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, (which premiered in NYC in the mid 1980s, and which was August Wilson's first success), closes with these lines:
Mr. Wilson can't mend the broken lives he unravels in ''Ma Rainey's Black Bottom.'' But, like his heroine, he makes their suffering into art that forces us to understand and won't allow us to forget.
Yup.
Rest in peace, Mr. Wilson. And thank you.
The Books: "An Ideal Husband" (Oscar Wilde)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
Still on the script shelf:
More Oscar Wilde!
Next play on the shelf is An Ideal Husband
Has anyone seen the film version of this script? With Rupert Everett? (And a host of others) I thought it was a lot of fun. Rupert Everett is the perfect actor to play Wilde. That language sounds perfectly natural coming out of his mouth. Oh, and I experienced the first signs of Minnie Driver fatigue when I saw the film back in 1999. I found her sooooo tiresome, and sooooo pleased with herself in that movie that I thought: Okay. I need her to go away now. I liked her a lot in Circle of Friends and Good Will Hunting but ... Ewan McGregor nailed it when he said about her (in his earlier days, when he was much more volatile with the press, showing up to junkets hungover and then saying anything he felt like to them!!) "Minnie Driver would go to the opening of an envelope." I sensed that over-eagerness for success in her performance in Ideal Husband and it turned me off. Of course you have to be eager for success if you want to be an actor, but you can't let that ambition get into your acting itself - it's grotesque. Anyway, I have strayed far from the path.
In the play, Sir Robert Chiltern, a prestigious member of the House of Commons, and married to Mabel Chiltern, has all of this threatened when Mrs Cheveley arrives in London, and begins showing up here and there. It's all very vicious - because Mrs. Cheveley was actually a schoolgirl enemy of Lady Chiltern - so there are layers upon layers of motive here. Mrs. Cheveley shows up at a party being held at the Chiltern home, and tries to blackmail Sir Robert into supporting a fraudulent scheme to build canals in Argentina. Why does Sir Robert Chiltern agree to her demand? Because she has evidence of not only a shady business deal in his past - but evidence that his entire fortune was made because of that shady business deal. Mrs. Cheveley, whose dead mentor was the other partner in this "business deal", has the letter to prove the crime. Sir Robert is terrified of what the revelation of all of this will do not only to his career but to his marriage (that is the key to the play - the whole marriage part) - and so he submits to her demands. He is trapped. He agrees to support the Argentinian canal project, even though it's widely known to be a scam.
Enter one of the most pivotal roles (played beautifully in the film by Cate Blanchett) - Sir Robert's wife - Lady Childtern. They have the "ideal" marriage. Based on love, mutual respect, shared goals and ideals. (The marriage is wonderfully played in the film. Sir Robert is played by Jeremy Northam. You truly get the sense that there is a deep love between the two). However, there's a deep dishonesty there: Lady Chiltern does not know about her husband's shady past, and the marriage is a house of cards because not only does she need to love her husband, but her entire ideal of marriage is predicated on the fact that she must worship his character - in the private AND the public realm. This is her entire life goal. And she thought she had it. When she learns of the deal that Mrs. Cheverley has roped him into, a deal he had formerly rejected, she insists that he renege on his promise. She doesn't know he is being blackmailed. She does not know the real truth. The vise begins to tighten for him ... He caves to his wife's demands, because, after all, he loves her, but he also loves her worship. He also needs a marriage that is based on seeming unimpeachable in all of his decisions. (Am I being clear here? I am making it sound more complex than it is. It all is vibrantly alive and simple when you see the film) Wilde is making a point here, obviously. When we fall in love with an ideal, when we expect mere human beings to live up to some spotless ideal, we are doomed to fail.
Meanwhile - there are other guests at this same house party and we get involved with them as well. Sir Robert's good friend Lord Goring (played by Rupert Everett) - who is a dandy, a confirmed old bachelor, and a major troublemaker. Along the lines of Puck. A guy who likes to create intrigues, and then snicker in the corner as he watches the fallout. He's got kind of a partner in crime in this, namely Mabel Chiltern (Robert's sister) - played tiresomely by Minnie Driver. There's a whole intrigue with a diamond brooch that they find at the party - a brooch that Lord Goring gave to someone many years ago. Hmmmm. Who left it? Goring gives the brooch to Mabel and asks her to inform him if anyone comes looking for it.
The play's plot moves on inexorably. It's kind of a light-hearted version of Doll's House - with a shady secret business deal threatening not just a specific marriage - but the entire institution of marriage itself. Lord Goring, who knows all, goes to his friend, Sir Robert, and tries to convince him to just come clean to his wife. He also reveals that once upon a time he had been engaged to the now-threatening Mrs. Cheverley. (Typical Wilde. All the different threads of the plot woven, interwoven, tangled up, coincidences abound) In the same meeting at the Chiltern house, Lord Goring goes to Lady Chiltern and gives her some advice, (without giving her husband's secret away). He suggests that she not be so morally inflexible, so unforgiving. Such rigidity is actually very fragile. After Lord Goring leaves, Mrs. Cheverley arrives at the door - saying that she had misplaced her brooch the night before at the party - had anyone found it? During this scene with Lady Chiltern, it is revealed that Lord Chiltern has gone back on his promise to Mrs. Cheverley, and will not support the fraudulent scheme. Mrs. Cheverley (played so sweetly sinister in the film by Julianne Moore) is so enraged by this news that she comes clean with Lady Chiltern, and reveals everything to her about her husband's shady past. Lady Chiltern cannot, and will not, accept her husband as anything less than "ideal" - so she denounces him and refuses to forgive him.
Horrible. It's awful in the movie - you really feel the pain of those two people (the Chilterns). They love each other, no doubt about it, but there's a deep lie at the heart of their relationship - and finally when they both admit to it - their marriage crumbles.
Meanwhile - Lord Goring's father is constantly showing up at Lord Goring's residence demanding when his son will be married. You honestly can't imagine Lord Goring ever being married. He's too sly, too cunning, and way way too cynical to ever fall in love. He's got the flirty thing going with the tiresome Mabel - who is kind of his female equivalent - a troublemaker, kind of above the muck and mire of actual human relationships, too busy snickering about everyone else's problems to actually have problems of her own.
So the plot rolls on. Goring receives a letter at his home from Lady Chiltern asking for his help. The letter is on pink paper. (Important detail) The letter could be mistaken, in appearance and in its cryptic tone, for a love letter. Mrs. Cheverley arrives at Goring's home, and is ushered into the parlor by the butler to wait for Sir Robert. At the same moment, Sir Robert also shows up at Lord Goring's house - to ask Lord Goring for advice. He is unseen (at first) by Mrs. Cheverley, waiting in the parlor. While Mrs. Cheverley waits, she finds the pink letter from Lady Chiltern. A very compromising letter, indeed. Sir Robert eventually discovers Mrs. Cheverley in the parlor, and is immediately convinced that Lord Goring and Mrs. Cheverley have revved up their old affair. He is enraged by this (Lord Goring is his friend, after all - what about loyalty? Why would his friend pick up with a woman who is trying to destroy him??) and storms out of the house.
Lord Goring finally comes in to see Mrs. Cheverley - she confronts him with the pink letter - and offers up a bargain. She offers to exchange the old business letter (evidence of Lord Chiltern's shady deal) for Lord Goring's hand in marriage. She says that she is still in love with him. Lord Goring says no. He say has reduced marriage to a financial transaction, and he can't abide by that, and he also can't stand that she had ruined the marriage of the Chilterns. Then Lord Goring goes to a desk drawer, takes out the brooch, and suddenly goes at her, and attaches it (with some hidden clasp thingie) to her wrist. Mrs. Cheverley is confused by this whole thing - and then Lord Goring comes clean: he knows that Mrs. Cheverley actually stole the brooch from his own cousin years and years ago. He threatens to call the police to arrest her for the old theft. In order to avoid arrest, the trapped Mrs. Cheverley hands over the old incriminating letter. Lord Goring throws it in the fire. While his back is turned - the conniving Mrs. Cheverley pockets the "pink letter" from Lady Chiltern. Her plan? To send it to Sir Robert Chiltern - who will obviously read it as a love letter from his wife to his bachelor best friend.
We are nearing the end now ...
In the last act: We are in Lord Goring's house on Grovesnor Square. Lord Goring proposes marriage to Mabel, his partner in crime. She says yes. (Minnie Driver says "yes" with such smug giggling self-pleased glee that I found her despicable. Ew.) We learn that Sir Robert stood up in the House of Commons and publicly denounced the fraudulent Argentinian canal scheme. It was a desperate ploy to get his wife back, to get back in her high regard. Lady Chiltern appears at the door, and Lord Goring tells her the whole story about how he burned the old letter - but then he tells her that her own letter, on the pink paper, had been stolen by Mrs. Cheverley. She obviously is going to use that as blackmail - because Mrs. Cheverley is now determined to destroy the Chiltern marriage. Sir Robert enters the house, and he is reading the pink letter from Lady Chiltern to Lord Goring - but he mistakes it for a letter of forgiveness to HIM. (It's an ambiguous letter). Because of this "mistake" - the two are able to reconcile.
Lord Goring asks Sir Robert for his sister's hand (Mabel's hand) in marriage. Sir Robert, who knows Lord Goring's reputation as a bachelor better than anyone, says no. Remember: he also believes that Lord Goring is also cavorting about with that conniving bitch Mrs. Cheverley. So he refuses. In light of this misunderstanding, which threatens to derail two lives - Lord Goring's and Mabel's - Lady Chiltern, she of the "ideal" fantasies, finally comes clean. She explains about the pink letter, and what it was really about. This puts to rest the rumor that Lord Goring is going around with Mrs. Cheverley - so Sir Robert finally says: Yes, Lord Goring can marry Mabel. That self-pleased giggling over-eager wench. No, just kidding.
Okay, so did you get all that?
I had forgotten many of the details - and relied on IMDB's plot summary to remind me of the intricacies - but it's actually quite a satisfying morality tale, and it's one of my favorite Oscar Wilde plays.
Too many good scenes with too many epigrams to count!
I will excerpt the scene when Mrs. Cheverley arrives at Lord Goring's house and is shown into the parlor - where she sees the pink letter. Here is the scene between Lord Goring and Mrs. Cheverley. Watch the sparks fly!! Such fun language, such a battle of wits. Sharp-edged, too, one shouldn't forget the sharp edge, and the stakes involved here.
EXCERPT FROM Next play on the shelf is An Ideal Husband
LORD GORING: Mrs. Cheveley! Great heavens! . . . May I ask what you were doing in my drawing-room?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Merely listening. I have a perfect passion for listening through keyholes. One always hears such wonderful things through them.
LORD GORING: Doesn't that sound rather like tempting Providence?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Oh! surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. [(Makes a sign to him to take her cloak off, which he does.)]
LORD GORING: I am glad you have called. I am going to give you some good advice.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Oh! pray don't. One should never give a woman anything that she can't wear in the evening.
LORD GORING: I see you are quite as wilful as you used to be.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Far more! I have greatly improved. I have had more experience.
LORD GORING: Too much experience is a dangerous thing. Pray have a cigarette. Half the pretty women in London smoke cigarettes. Personally I prefer the other half.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Thanks. I never smoke. My dressmaker wouldn't like it, and a woman's first duty in life is to her dressmaker, isn't it? What the second duty is, no one has as yet discovered.
LORD GORING: You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter, haven't you?
MRS. CHEVELEY: To offer it to you on conditions. How did you guess that?
LORD GORING: Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(sitting down.)] Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets.
LORD GORING: What is your price for it?
MRS. CHEVELEY: How absurdly English you are! The English think that a cheque-book can solve every problem in life. Why, my dear Arthur, I have very much more money than you have, and quite as much as Robert Chiltern has got hold of. Money is not what I want.
LORD GORING: What do you want then, Mrs. Cheveley?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Why don't you call me Laura?
LORD GORING: I don't like the name.
MRS. CHEVELEY: You used to adore it.
LORD GORING: Yes: that's why.
[(MRS. CHEVELEY motions to him to sit down beside her. He smiles, and does so.)]
MRS. CHEVELEY: Arthur, you loved me once.
LORD GORING: Yes.
MRS. CHEVELEY: And you asked me to be your wife.
LORD GORING: That was the natural result of my loving you.
MRS. CHEVELEY: And you threw me over because you saw, or said you saw, poor old Lord Mortlake trying to have a violent flirtation with me in the conservatory at Tenby.
LORD GORING: I am under the impression that my lawyer settled that matter with you on certain terms . . . dictated by yourself.
MRS. CHEVELEY: At that time I was poor; you were rich.
LORD GORING: Quite so. That is why you pretended to love me.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(shrugging her shoulders.)] Poor old Lord Mortlake, who had only two topics of conversation, his gout and his wife! I never could quite make out which of the two he was talking about. He used the most horrible language about them both. Well, you were silly, Arthur. Why, Lord Mortlake was never anything more to me than an amusement. One of those utterly tedious amusements one only finds at an English country house on an English country Sunday. I don't think any one at all morally responsible for what he or she does at an English country house.
LORD GORING: Yes. I know lots of people think that.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I loved you, Arthur.
LORD GORING: My dear Mrs. Cheveley, you have always been far too clever to know anything about love.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I did love you. And you loved me. You know you loved me; and love is a very wonderful thing. I suppose that when a man has once loved a woman, he will do anything for her, except continue to love her? [(Puts her hand on his.)]
LORD GORING: [(taking his hand away quietly.)] Yes: except that.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(after a pause.)] I am tired of living abroad. I want to come back to London. I want to have a charming house here. I want to have a salon. If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised. Besides, I have arrived at the romantic stage. When I saw you last night at the Chilterns', I knew you were the only person I had ever cared for, if I ever have cared for anybody, Arthur. And so, on the morning of the day you marry me, I will give you Robert Chiltern's letter. That is my offer. I will give it to you now, if you promise to marry me.
LORD GORING: Now?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(smiling.)] To-morrow.
LORD GORING: Are you really serious?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Yes, quite serious.
LORD GORING: I should make you a very bad husband.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I don't mind bad husbands. I have had two. They amused me immensely.
LORD GORING: You mean that you amused yourself immensely, don't you?
MRS. CHEVELEY: What do you know about my married life?
LORD GORING: Nothing: but I can read it like a book.
MRS. CHEVELEY: What book?
LORD GORING: [(rising.)] The Book of Numbers.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Do you think it is quite charming of you to be so rude to a woman in your own house?
LORD GORING: In the case of very fascinating women, sex is a challenge, not a defence.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I suppose that is meant for a compliment. My dear Arthur, women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are. That is the difference between the two sexes.
LORD GORING: Women are never disarmed by anything, as far as I know them.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(after a pause.)] Then you are going to allow your greatest friend, Robert Chiltern, to be ruined, rather than marry some one who really has considerable attractions left. I thought you would have risen to some great height of self-sacrifice, Arthur. I think you should. And the rest of your life you could spend in contemplating your own perfections.
LORD GORING: Oh! I do that as it is. And self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.
MRS. CHEVELEY: As if anything could demoralise Robert Chiltern! You seem to forget that I know his real character.
LORD GORING: What you know about him is not his real character. It was an act of folly done in his youth, dishonourable, I admit, shameful, I admit, unworthy of him, I admit, and therefore . . . not his true character.
MRS. CHEVELEY: How you men stand up for each other!
LORD GORING: How you women war against each other!
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(bitterly.)] I only war against one woman, against Gertrude Chiltern. I hate her. I hate her now more than ever.
LORD GORING: Because you have brought a real tragedy into her life, I suppose.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(with a sneer.)] Oh, there is only one real tragedy in a woman's life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.
LORD GORING: Lady Chiltern knows nothing of the kind of life to which you are alluding.
MRS. CHEVELEY: A woman whose size in gloves is seven and three-quarters never knows much about anything. You know Gertrude has always worn seven and three-quarters? That is one of the reasons why there was never any moral sympathy between us. . . . Well, Arthur, I suppose this romantic interview may be regarded as at an end. You admit it was romantic, don't you? For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine scheme, I expose him. Voila tout.
LORD GORING: You mustn't do that. It would be vile, horrible, infamous.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(shrugging her shoulders.)] Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little. It is a commercial transaction. That is all. There is no good mixing up sentimentality in it. I offered to sell Robert Chiltern a certain thing. If he won't pay me my price, he will have to pay the world a greater price. There is no more to be said. I must go. Good-bye. Won't you shake hands?
LORD GORING: With you? No. Your transaction with Robert Chiltern may pass as a loathsome commercial transaction of a loathsome commercial age; but you seem to have forgotten that you came here to-night to talk of love, you whose lips desecrated the word love, you to whom the thing is a book closely sealed, went this afternoon to the house of one of the most noble and gentle women in the world to degrade her husband in her eyes, to try and kill her love for him, to put poison in her heart, and bitterness in her life, to break her idol, and, it may be, spoil her soul. That I cannot forgive you. That was horrible. For that there can be no forgiveness.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Arthur, you are unjust to me. Believe me, you are quite unjust to me. I didn't go to taunt Gertrude at all. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind when I entered. I called with Lady Markby simply to ask whether an ornament, a jewel, that I lost somewhere last night, had been found at the Chilterns'. If you don't believe me, you can ask Lady Markby. She will tell you it is true. The scene that occurred happened after Lady Markby had left, and was really forced on me by Gertrude's rudeness and sneers. I called, oh!---a little out of malice if you like---but really to ask if a diamond brooch of mine had been found. That was the origin of the whole thing.
LORD GORING: A diamond snake-brooch with a ruby?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Yes. How do you know?
LORD GORING: Because it is found. In point of fact, I found it myself, and stupidly forgot to tell the butler anything about it as I was leaving. [(Goes over to the writing-table and pulls out the drawers.)] It is in this drawer. No, that one. This is the brooch, isn't it? [(Holds up the brooch.)]
MRS. CHEVELEY: Yes. I am so glad to get it back. It was . . . a present.
LORD GORING: Won't you wear it?
MRS. CHEVELEY: Certainly, if you pin it in. [(LORD GORING suddenly clasps it on her arm.)] Why do you put it on as a bracelet? I never knew it could he worn as a bracelet.
LORD GORING: Really?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(holding out her handsome arm.)] No; but it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it?
LORD GORING: Yes; much better than when I saw it last.
MRS. CHEVELEY: When did you see it last?
LORD GORING: [(calmly.)] Oh, ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(starting.)] What do you mean?
LORD GORING: I mean that you stole that ornament from my cousin, Mary Berkshire, to whom I gave it when she was married. Suspicion fell on a wretched servant, who was sent away in disgrace. I recognised it last night. I determined to say nothing about it till I had found the thief. I have found the thief now, and I have heard her own confession.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(tossing her head.)] It is not true.
LORD GORING: You know it is true. Why, thief is written across your face at this moment.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I will deny the whole affair from beginning to end. I will say that I have never seen this wretched thing, that it was never in my possession.
MRS. CHEVELEY tries to get the bracelet off her arm, but fails. LORD GORING looks on amused. Her thin fingers tear at the jewel to no purpose. A curse breaks from her.
LORD GORING: The drawback of stealing a thing, Mrs. Cheveley, is that one never knows how wonderful the thing that one steals is. You can't get that bracelet off, unless you know where the spring is. And I see you don't know where the spring is. It is rather difficult to find.
MRS. CHEVELEY: You brute! You coward! [(She tries again to unclasp the bracelet, but fails.)]
LORD GORING: Oh! don't use big words. They mean so little.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(again tears at the bracelet in a paroxysm of rage, with inarticulate sounds. Then stops, and looks at LORD GORING.)] What are you going to do?
LORD GORING: I am going to ring for my servant. He is an admirable servant. Always comes in the moment one rings for him. When he comes I will tell him to fetch the police.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(trembling.)] The police? What for?
LORD GORING: To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you. That is what the police are for.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(is now in an agony of physical terror. Her face is distorted. Her mouth awry. A mask has fallen from her. She it, for the moment, dreadful to look at.)] Don't do that. I will do anything you want. Anything in the world you want.
LORD GORING: Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Stop! Stop! Let me have time to think.
LORD GORING: Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.
MRS. CHEVELEY: I have not got it with me. I will give it to you to-morrow.
LORD GORING: You know you are lying. Give it to me at once. [(MRS. CHEVELEY pulls the letter out, and hands it to him. She is horribly pale.)] This is it?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(in a hoarse voice.)] Yes.
LORD GORING: [(takes the letter, examines it, sighs, and burns it with the lamp.)] For so well-dressed a woman, Mrs. Cheveley, you have moments of admirable common sense. I congratulate you.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(catches sight of LADY CHILTERN's letter, the cover of which is just showing from under the blotting-book.)] Please get me a glass of water.
LORD GORING: Certainly. [(Goes to the corner of the room and pours out a glass of water. While his back is turned MRS. CHEVELEY steals LADY CHILTERN's letter. When LORD GORING returns the glass she refuses it with a gesture.)]
MRS. CHEVELEY: Thank you. Will you help me on with my cloak?
LORD GORING: With pleasure. [(Puts her cloak on.)]
MRS. CHEVELEY: Thanks. I am never going to try to harm Robert Chiltern again.
LORD GORING: Fortunately you have not the chance, Mrs. Cheveley.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Well, if even I had the chance, I wouldn't. On the contrary, I am going to render him a great service.
LORD GORING: I am charmed to hear it. It is a reformation.
MRS. CHEVELEY: Yes. I can't bear so upright a gentleman, so honourable an English gentleman, being so shamefully deceived, and so---
LORD GORING: Well?
MRS. CHEVELEY: I find that somehow Gertrude Chiltern's dying speech and confession has strayed into my pocket.
LORD GORING: What do you mean?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(with a bitter note of triumph in her voice.)] I mean that I am going to send Robert Chiltern the love-letter his wife wrote to you to-night.
LORD GORING: Love-letter?
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(laughing.)] `I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude.'
LORD GORING rushes to the bureau and takes up the envelope, finds is empty, and turns round.
LORD GORING: You wretched woman, must you always be thieving? Give me back that letter. I'll take it from you by force. You shall not leave my room till I have got it.
He rushes towards her, but MRS. CHEVELEY at once puts her hand on the electric bell that is on the table. The bell sounds with shrill reverberations, and PHIPPS enters.
MRS. CHEVELEY: [(after a pause.)] Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring!
Goes out followed by PHIPPS. Her face it illumined with evil triumph. There is joy in her eyes. Youth seems to have come back to her. Her last glance is like a swift arrow. LORD GORING bites his lip, and lights his a cigarette.
October 2, 2005
The Books: "A Woman of No Importance" (Oscar Wilde)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
Still on the script shelf:
More Oscar Wilde!
Next play on the shelf is A Woman of No Importance
And here again is the same theme subtext/theme we saw in Lady Windermere's Fan: Men are applauded for their sins, women are punished for theirs. Men can buck convention with their reputations intact - women cannot. Wilde is, believe it or not, subtle in his observations about this phenomenon. (Although I believe he reached his peak in this area with An Ideal Husband - Here you can still see the puppet strings. It's a bit creaky at times)
Most of the play takes place at a house party at a large country estate. Basic plot: 20 years before the action of the play, Mrs. Arbuthnot had a son by an aristocratic lover who then abandoned her. Now - 20 years later- that very same son (Gerald) is offered a high-level diplomatic career by Lord Illingworth - a man who happens to be his father - although neither of them are aware of this fact. Mrs. Arbuthnot, without revealing her secret, begs her son to refuse the opportunity. Why? Because Lord Illingworth, described by others as a "bad man", ruined her youth. The career Illingworth offers Gerald would take him far away from her ... she can't bear to lose her son ... why should the villain Lord Illingworth get to be with her son, when he threw her out with the trash 20 years before? Etc. Gerald is in the dark about all of this, and does not know why his mother objects so harshly to his new career.
Here's a scene between Gerald and Lord Illingworth. It takes place later in the play, after Mrs. Arbuthnot has relented (she has a long fantastic one-on-one scene with Lord Illingworth - great stuff). Lord Illingworth has some great lines. Example: "Talk to every woman as if you loved her, and to every man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you will have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact." Also, here is one of my favorites of his lines:
"To win back my youth, Gerald, there is nothing I wouldn't do - except take exercise, get up early, or be a useful member of the community."
hahahahaha
EXCERPT FROM A Woman of No Importance
SCENE: The Picture Gallery at Hunstanton. Door at back leading on to
terrace. LORD ILLINGWORTH and GERALD, R.C. LORD ILLINGWORTH lolling on a sofa. GERALD in a chair.]
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Thoroughly sensible woman, your mother, Gerald. I knew she would come round in the end.
GERALD. My mother is awfully conscientious, Lord Illingworth, and I know she doesn't think I am educated enough to be your secretary. She is perfectly right, too. I was fearfully idle when I was at school, and I couldn't pass an examination now to save my life.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. My dear Gerald, examinations are of no value whatsoever. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.
GERALD. But I am so ignorant of the world, Lord Illingworth.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Don't be afraid, Gerald. Remember that you've got on your side the most wonderful thing in the world - youth! There is nothing like youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to Life. The old are in life's lumber-room. But youth is the Lord of Life. Youth has a kingdom waiting for it. Every one is born a king, and most people die in exile, like most kings. To win back my youth, Gerald, there is nothing I wouldn't do - except take exercise, get up early, or be a useful member of the community.
GERALD. But you don't call yourself old, Lord Illingworth?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am old enough to be your father, Gerald.
GERALD. I don't remember my father; he died years ago.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. So Lady Hunstanton told me.
GERALD. It is very curious, my mother never talks to me about my father. I sometimes think she must have married beneath her.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [Winces slightly.] Really? [Goes over and puts his hand on GERALD'S shoulder.] You have missed not having a father, I suppose, Gerald?
GERALD. Oh, no; my mother has been so good to me. No one ever had such a mother as I have had.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I am quite sure of that. Still I should imagine that most mothers don't quite understand their sons. Don't realise, I mean, that a son has ambitions, a desire to see life, to make himself a name. After all, Gerald, you couldn't be expected to pass all your life in such a hole as Wrockley, could you?
GERALD. Oh, no! It would be dreadful!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. A mother's love is very touching, of course, but it is often curiously selfish. I mean, there is a good deal of selfishness in it.
GERALD. [Slowly.] I suppose there is.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Your mother is a thoroughly good woman. But good women have such limited views of life, their horizon is so small, their interests are so petty, aren't they?
GERALD. They are awfully interested, certainly, in things we don't care much about.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. I suppose your mother is very religious, and that sort of thing.
GERALD. Oh, yes, she's always going to church.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Ah! she is not modern, and to be modern is the only thing worth being nowadays. You want to be modern, don't you, Gerald? You want to know life as it really is. Not to be put off with any old-fashioned theories about life. Well, what you have to do at present is simply to fit yourself for the best society. A man who can dominate a London dinner-table can dominate the world. The future belongs to the dandy. It is the exquisites who are going to rule.
GERALD. I should like to wear nice things awfully, but I have always been told that a man should not think too much about his clothes.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. People nowadays are so absolutely superficial that they don't understand the philosophy of the superficial. By the way, Gerald, you should learn how to tie your tie better. Sentiment is all very well for the button-hole. But the essential thing for a necktie is style. A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.
GERALD. [Laughing.] I might be able to learn how to tie a tie, Lord Illingworth, but I should never be able to talk as you do. I don't know how to talk.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Oh! talk to every woman as if you loved her, and to every man as if he bored you, and at the end of your first season you will have the reputation of possessing the most perfect social tact.
GERALD. But it is very difficult to get into society isn't it?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. To get into the best society, nowadays, one has either to feed people, amuse people, or shock people - that is all!
GERALD. I suppose society is wonderfully delightful!
LORD ILLINGWORTH. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy. Society is a necessary thing. No man has any real success in this world unless he has got women to back him, and women rule society. If you have not got women on your side you are quite over. You might just as well be a barrister, or a stockbroker, or a journalist at once.
GERALD. It is very difficult to understand women, is it not?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. You should never try to understand them. Women are pictures. Men are problems. If you want to know what a woman really means - which, by the way, is always a dangerous thing to do - look at her, don't listen to her.
GERALD. But women are awfully clever, aren't they?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always tell them so. But, to the philosopher, my dear Gerald, women represent the triumph of matter over mind - just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.
GERALD. How then can women have so much power as you say they have?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. The history of women is the history of the worst form of tyranny the world has ever known. The tyranny of the weak over the strong. It is the only tyranny that lasts.
GERALD. But haven't women got a refining influence?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Nothing refines but the intellect.
GERALD. Still, there are many different kinds of women, aren't there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only two kinds in society: the plain and the coloured.
GERALD. But there are good women in society, aren't there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Far too many.
GERALD. But do you think women shouldn't be good?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never tell them so, they'd all become good at once. Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel, and usually in wild revolt against herself.
GERALD. You have never been married, Lord Illingworth, have you?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Men marry because they are tired; women because they are curious. Both are disappointed.
GERALD. But don't you think one can be happy when one is married?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Perfectly happy. But the happiness of a married man, my dear Gerald, depends on the people he has not married.
GERALD. But if one is in love?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.
GERALD. Love is a very wonderful thing, isn't it?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. When one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself. And one ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance. But a really grande passion is comparatively rare nowadays. It is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes in a country, and the only possible explanation of us Harfords.
GERALD. Harfords, Lord Illingworth?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is my family name. You should study the Peerage, Gerald. It is the one book a young man about town shouldknow thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever done. And now, Gerald, you are going into a perfectly new life with me, and I want you to know how to live. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT appears on terrace behind.] For the world has been made by fools that wise men should live in it!
October 1, 2005
Reading List
Just for the heck of it, here are the books I have read so far this year. I just finished Rose Madder
Underworld
Okay - I won't comment on every book but on that one I had to.
George Washington: A Life
The Adams-Jefferson Letters: The Complete Correspondence Between Thomas Jefferson and Abigail and John Adams
East of Eden
American Sphinx: The Character of Thomas Jefferson
Darkness at Noon
The Prince
The Great Terror: A Reassessment
102 Minutes : The Untold Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers
Crowds and Power
Chechnya: To the Heart of a Conflict
Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How A Lone American Star Defeated the Soviet Chess Machine
The Aran Islands
Charming Billy
A Secret History of the IRA
Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing
Middlemarch (Signet Classics)
Aspects of the Novel
On Writing
If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit
Tracy and Hepburn
Great Expectations
The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror
Miracle At Philadelphia: The Story of the Constitutional Convention May - September 1787
Letters to a Young Contrarian
Reflections on the Revolution in France
The Teammates: A Portrait of a Friendship
Cary Grant: A Biography
Faithful: Two Diehard Boston Red Sox Fans Chronicle the Historic 2004 Season
A Room with a View
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
The 9/11 Commission Report
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Book 5)
The Third Terrorist: The Middle East Connection to the Oklahoma City Bombing
Hard News: Twenty-one Brutal Months at The New York Times and How They Changed the American Media
Rose Madder
Attention - Los Angelenos
My dear friend Alexandra Billings, a phenomenal actress and performer, and also one of the sweetest kindest funniest people I have ever had the pleasure to meet (and her wife Chrisanne is also an incredible human being)- is debuting her one-woman show Before I Disappear in Los Angeles this month and the next. I've seen her in many shows - and this chick is spot-on awesome with almost every choice she makes. You can't take your eyes off of her. She also does such a kick-ass Katherine Hepburn imitation that tears of laughter stream down my face when I see it. I'm bummed I won't be able to make it out for her show - but if you're interested, I highly recommend anyone in the area should check it out. You won't be sorry. She's incredible.
Her opening night was last night (I knew it was coming - because basically she has disappeared off the face of the earth for 2 weeks) - and I can't wait to hear about it!
The changing of the tires
The lovely miss sarahk has a post up about girls changing tires. I, for one, am very glad that I learned how to change a tire - even though I rarely drive these days, living where I do. Her post reminded me of this insane old post of mine about my first time changing a tire. Well, the post is about way more than that ... but of course, as with every story I tell, some small event like changing a tire is surrounded by an entire emotional context. So I thought I'd share the story again.
My first boyfriend and I bought 2 vehicles together but I never felt like the vehicles were mine, in any way/shape/form. I was too young.
The first car we bought together was a used Nissan 300 ZX. It was GOLD, as well. A ridiculous car. It was so low to the ground you basically had to lie down on the pavement to slide your way through the door. We would zip up and down the highways of the Northeast Corridor in our small gold bullet, blasting our GEEKY music, going from 0 to 60 in 2 seconds flat. A dumb car.
Then we started planning for this massive 2-month jaunt across the country. From Philadelphia to San Fran. He and I were not just taking the trip across the country for fun, we were in the process of actually moving out to California - so all of our stuff had been shipped to the new digs in San Fran.
We bought a used Westfalia, had our furniture shipped across the country to meet us in San Fran, and took off. We lived in that van. We cooked in it. We drove it across mountain ranges, through deserts, past slick rock, over bridges, across the plains, through the cornfields of Wisconsin. It is an amazingly hardy vehicle. We would have these "Easy Rider" moments, at some campsite, with a flickering camp fire, and coffee brewing in a pot inside the Westfalia, the blue flame of the stove trembling through the dark. Or sipping scotch in the twilight, out of blue tin mugs.
And then we got to Death Valley and one of our tires exploded. Literally. It exploded into shreds on the hot pavement. We careened off to the side of the road. It was the kind of landscape which glimmers, as though it is water, and I kept thinking I saw liquidy lush green fields up in the distance. My first experience with desert mirages. Boyfriend changed the tire, then we had to buy a new tire which caused us to run out of money a month ahead of time.
So we cut off the rest of the trip, and careened up the coast of California to San Fran.
We lived in San Fran for a bit, and everything was going south fast, and I do not like to think of that time.
But back to the van: I remember that perhaps one of the proudest moments of my ENTIRE LIFE was when I successfully parallel parked that clunky stick-shift van, on one of those precarious hills. It took me 25 minutes, I was in a panic, a sweat, I thought I would lose control and plummet down the hill to my death, that something would snap, that the clutch would go, that complete and utter disaster would ensue. When I finally got that van into its spot, I had a small private moment of pride. I DID it.
A month later, the relationship shattering around us, I moved to Los Angeles (no friends there, no family - not like now when pretty much everyone I know lives in LA - I had no support system, nothing). I took the van with me (all of my stuff was in the van - I had furniture, and filing cabinets, and boxes and boxes of books - all packed up in the van).
It was a confusing chaotic time. I moved to LA, one of my old college flames (pre-first real boyfriend) hooked me up with a friend of his aunt who let me stay at her place for free, while I got my act together (which looked like it was going to be a pretty big job. I was a wreck). She lived in Woodland Hills - a woman I didn't even know - but she let me stay in her house. Woodland Hills was like the 8th circle of hell. I knew nobody in Los Angeles.
I got temp jobs in random offices, and I would show up for work driving the battered Westfalia, filled with my furniture from Philadelphia. I would pull into the parking lot of random office buildings in that dusty beat-up VAN. Quite a spectacle I was.
Meanwhile, I was pretty much having a nervous breakdown, WHILE staying at a stranger's house, who would cook nice little dinners for me, and expect polite chit-chat. This was not like I could hang out by myself and lick my wounds. I was spending all of my time with a stranger, and she would say things like, "So where did you grow up?", just trying to be nice ... but meanwhile, I was carving lines into my wrist late at night, and trying to remember how to breathe. I'd show up at her little dinner table, with a bandage on my wrist, and be like, Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into?
I got my first flat-tire on some shriek-y terrifying freeway. I was headed "home" from my temp job, so I had on my little temp outfit. Heels, tight skirt, white blouse, etc. Boyfriend had always been the "I'll change the tire" type, although I had stood by and handed him tools many a time. Without him, I had to figure it out on my own. I did so - beautifully. I jacked up the damn VAN, it was a VAN!! - on the side of the freeway (I felt so conspicuous - everyone has these little zippy cars, and I was like some reject from a commune, wandering down the 405) - and changed the tire. I felt like the most successful and triumphant woman on the planet.
The next day, I got my second flat-tire. I changed the tire as deftly as an old pro. Although I was near tears the entire time, because everything felt like it was falling apart.
But still. Having changed the tire the day before, this second time was a breeze. I knew just what I was doing. Good feeling.
Two weeks later, I was driving in Woodland Hills, in a state of anxiety and mania that I have rarely been in (thank Christ) in my life. I had called a suicide hotline earlier that day and said, flatly, "I don't think I am going to make it through today." I meant it. I had scars on my wrists. They said, "Come on over to talk to someone." Uhm, you're telling a suicidal girl to get in her car? Okay, Woodland Hills Hotline. If that's how you do things in the Valley.
I obeyed. Got in the van, and started driving. Breathing in, out, in out ... If I could just get to the Crisis Center, I knew I would be okay. And as I approached a stoplight, I put my foot down on the clutch and I felt something pop. It was a very small deep-down snap, within the belly of the van - and immediately I got this cold feeling all over: Oh God. That sounded BAD. This is BAD.
(I was broke. I was living with a strange old woman. I had broken up with my boyfriend. I had no friends.)
Various and sundry insane moments followed. I'll just tell you the facts. My van came to a stop, everything grinding down in a horribly silent way.
-- I abandoned the van at a stoplight, in the middle of the road, somewhere in Woodland Hills, and as I walked away, I kept turning to scream back at the van: "FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU" like an escaped lunatic. I knew I would not have the money to fix whatever BAD thing had just happened. Being without a car in Los Angeles is, of course, unthinkable.
-- Two cops saw me standing in the middle of the crowded street, screaming at my own vehicle. They pulled over and basically made me get into their squad car with them
-- They told me they would call a tow truck. I leaned over the back seat into the front (I am lucky they didn't Taser me) and said, right into their faces, defiantly, "I have NO MONEY. None. NONE." I was yelling at two members of the LAPD.
-- They tried to calm me down. "We'll work something out for you. It'll be fine, ma'am. Do you want some water?"
-- The tow truck arrived. Meanwhile, my abandoned van was causing a ruckus in the traffic. Car horns, logjam, people shouting and carrying on. I stalked over to the tow truck guy, said not a word to him, I was wild-eyed, nuts, in a panic, (not crying) and I just showed him the inside of my empty wallet. I held it open and shoved it up at him, like: Look here, guy, ya ever see anything as empty as this WALLET? What are you gonna fuckin' do with THAT? I had this crazy grin on my face, too, daring him to turn me down, bandaged wrists up in his face. (I don't think I've ever been so publicly out of control as I was during these 20 minutes.)
-- So Tow-Truck man, like the cops, realized I was having a breakdown, treated me calmly, and gave me a tow for free.
-- Dropped the STUPID van off and then had no way to get "home", no way to get back to the strange house with the strange old woman. So I walked home. It was a 45 minute walk.
-- On the way home, suddenly it was as though my brain started working again, it was as though Sheila reappeared to take the reins from this imposter, and I thought: "What. The Hell. Am I DOING???" Sense returned. I could see my life, I could see how unhappy I was, and I could see that I actually could do something about it.
-- I stopped at a pay phone on this interminable walk home, I still remember how the sun was beating down, how I shielded my eyes to see the numbers on the phone, and called my friend Jackie, collect. She was living in Chicago, and having a great time, acting in shows, doing great - and I spontaneously called her (I was sobbing by this point - I think I had been crying nonstop for 2 weeks anyway, so what's the difference) - anyway, she picks up the phone, she hears my voice and gets panicked, and I launch into it: "I'm going to move to Chicago as soon as I can - as soon as I can get the hell out of here ... can I stay with you there until I get back up on my feet again?" I was crying. Jackie started crying, and shouted, "Of course you can! Come!! Come as soon as you can!!" Life-saver. Jackie was a life-saver in that moment.
-- I immediately became a whirlwind of desperate activity. My tears stopped. I was too busy. I sold off most of my stuff. This kindly strange woman let me keep a bunch of furniture and boxes in her garage until I was ready to send for it (who WAS this person?? Her random kindness to me still sort of blows me away.)
-- I had had to reluctantly call the now-EX-boyfriend in San Francisco (who was already dating someone else - hence, the meltdown...) and ask him to pay for the repairs on the van. Which were going to be 600 bucks. Oh, it killed me to ask him - but he agreed to pay for it. He could afford it, he was making massive amounts of money and I was sitting in a room in Woodland Hills, nibbling on Pretzels for dinner.
-- I also had to ask him: "Once the van is fixed - can you put an ad in the paper up there to sell it? And can I use that money for a plane ticket to Chicago?" Ahem - ask for much, Sheila? But that was the only way I could see I could get out of there. I knew it was asking a lot ... but we had been through a lot ... and I would have done the same for him. He and I were both hurting. I don't want to make it seem like he was blase. The breakup was wrenching for both of us. He agreed to put an ad to sell the van in the paper up in San Fran.
-- The van was sold - unseen - and I then was free. I drove up to San Fran to drop off the van, to pick up my money, to buy my plane ticket to Chicago, and get the hell out of dodge. To save my life. Boyfriend and I spent 4 or 5 days in San Francisco before I left, having dinner, reminiscing, breaking into tears, saying goodbye. It was torture. But we needed to do it. Then there was a black-paper silhouette, and then I was gone!!
-- Literally only a month later, I had found my own apartment on the shore of Lake Michigan, a tiny one-room apartment, but my own, my own place. I still had leftovers from the sale of the Westfalia, and used it for the security deposit.
-- It took me about 4 months for my head to stop spinning, and for me to calm down. By then, I had already met M.,, he was one of the first people I met in Chicago, and we launched into our years-long sexy grumpy relaxing undefinable relationship.
The Westfalia was the last car I ever owned, and it was pretty crucial - for all of the reasons I just described. In the end, even though it was a huge pain in the ass, it allowed me to get out of LA as quickly as possible, and enabled me to get an apartment almost immediately.
However, I also should say - that the boyfriend was crucial as well. He didn't want to pay the repairs, but I basically told him he had to. And he did it for me. Without the van being repaired, it never would have been sold, and it would have been much more difficult to move to Chicago.
So I have him to thank as well. Moving to Chicago pretty much changed and saved my life.
Whenever I see pictures of the Westfalia, and my boyfriend and I, cooking over the fire, me with a bandana around my head, he pouring coffee, drying our clothes on a line we had strung up - whatever - I always end up thinking of Chicago. First, I think of me flipping out on that random busy intersection in Woodland Hills, I think of the kindly cops who tried to calm me down, I think of how odd it was that during our whole trip we had no idea that we actually were breaking UP as we drove across the country, we really thought we would be starting a new life together in San Fran, but after the Westfalia tire exploded, it became quite clear what had been going on all along ... But most of all - when I see pictures of that Westfalia I think of my eventual blessed escape to the Windy City.
It was a good van. It really was. It was yar.
The Books: "Lady Windermere's Fan" (Oscar Wilde)
Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:
Still on the script shelf:
So now we move on to Oscar Wilde!! Love love him.
Next play on the shelf is Lady Windermere's Fan
This was the first play of Oscar Wilde's that got produced, and it was an instant success. Lady Windermere (just love the name - he always gives his characters such great almost onomotopoeic names) is a high society lady in Victorian London - who decides to leave her husband. She's only been married for two years - but she believes her husband has been unfaithful. Well, he has ... sort of ... but not really ... The play is a farce, a catlog of misunderstandings ... but, as always with Wilde, he was interested in deeper implications, in terms of the society in which he lived. It was not just a romp, and none of his plays were. You can see that very clearly with An Ideal Husband
I will excerpt the opening scene. Lady Windermere, in the midst of her turmoil in her marriage (which is all based on a misunderstanding - but of course she does not know that), is at home - when Lord Darlington comes to call. Lord Darlington flirted with her at a gathering the night before, and Lady Windermere is annoyed with him about it.
Listen to the language. And look at the criticisms he makes of society - without sacrificing wit. Sudden lines like this: "If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism." I also particularly enjoy this line: "It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." hahaha Oscar Wilde just takes my breath away.
EXCERPT FROM Lady Windermere's Fan
LORD DARLINGTON. How do you do, Lady Windermere?
LADY WINDERMERE. How do you do, Lord Darlington? No, I can't shake hands with you. My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren't they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning.
LORD DARLINGTON. They are quite perfect. [Sees a fan lying on the table.] And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it?
LADY WINDERMERE. Do. Pretty, isn't it! It's got my name on it, and everything. I have only just seen it myself. It's my husband's birthday present to me. You know to-day is my birthday?
LORD DARLINGTON. No? Is it really?
LADY WINDERMERE. Yes, I'm of age to-day. Quite an important day in my life, isn't it? That is why I am giving this party to-night. Do sit down. [Still arranging flowers.]
LORD DARLINGTON. [Sitting down.] I wish I had known it was your birthday, Lady Windermere. I would have covered the whole street in front of your house with flowers for you to walk on. They are made for you. [A short pause.]
LADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington, you annoyed me last night at the Foreign Office. I am afraid you are going to annoy me again.
LORD DARLINGTON. I, Lady Windermere?
[Enter PARKER and FOOTMAN, with tray and tea things.]
LADY WINDERMERE. Put it there, Parker. That will do. [Wipes her hands with her pocket-handkerchief, goes to tea-table, and sits down.] Won't you come over, Lord Darlington?
[Exit PARKER .]
LORD DARLINGTON. I am quite miserable, Lady Windermere. You must tell me what I did. [Sits.]
LADY WINDERMERE. Well, you kept paying me elaborate compliments the whole evening.
LORD DARLINGTON. [Smiling.] Ah, nowadays we are all of us so hard up, that the only pleasant things to pay ARE compliments. They're the only things we CAN pay.
LADY WINDERMERE. [Shaking her head.] No, I am talking very seriously. You mustn't laugh, I am quite serious. I don't like compliments, and I don't see why a man should think he is pleasing a woman enormously when he says to her a whole heap of things that he doesn't mean.
LORD DARLINGTON. Ah, but I did mean them. [Takes tea which she offers him.]
LADY WINDERMERE. [Gravely.] I hope not. I should be sorry to have to quarrel with you, Lord Darlington. I like you very much, you know that. But I shouldn't like you at all if I thought you were what most other men are. Believe me, you are better than most other men, and I sometimes think you pretend to be worse.
LORD DARLINGTON. We all have our little vanities, Lady Windermere.
LADY WINDERMERE. Why do you make that your special one?
LORD DARLINGTON. Oh, nowadays so many conceited people go about Society pretending to be good, that I think it shows rather a sweet and modest disposition to pretend to be bad. Besides, there is this to be said. If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.
LADY WINDERMERE. Don't you WANT the world to take you seriously then, Lord Darlington?
LORD DARLINGTON. No, not the world. Who are the people the world takes seriously? All the dull people one can think of, from the Bishops down to the bores. I should like YOU to take me very seriously, Lady Windermere, YOU more than any one else in life.
LADY WINDERMERE. Why--why me?
LORD DARLINGTON. [After a slight hesitation.] Because I think we might be great friends. Let us be great friends. You may want a friend some day.
LADY WINDERMERE. Why do you say that?
LORD DARLINGTON. Oh!--we all want friends at times.
LADY WINDERMERE. I think we're very good friends already, Lord Darlington. We can always remain so as long as you don't -
LORD DARLINGTON. Don't what?
LADY WINDERMERE. Don't spoil it by saying extravagant silly things to me. You think I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I have something of the Puritan in me. I was brought up like that. I am glad of it. My mother died when I was a mere child. I lived always with Lady Julia, my father's elder sister, you know. She was stern to me, but she taught me what the world is forgetting, the difference that there is between what is right and what is wrong. SHE allowed of no compromise. I allow of none.
LORD DARLINGTON. My dear Lady Windermere!
LADY WINDERMERE. [Leaning back on the sofa.] You look on me as being behind the age.--Well, I am! I should be sorry to be on the same level as an age like this.
LORD DARLINGTON. You think the age very bad?
LADY WINDERMERE. Yes. Nowadays people seem to look on life as a speculation. It is not a speculation. It is a sacrament. Its ideal is Love. Its purification is sacrifice.
LORD DARLINGTON. [Smiling.] Oh, anything is better than being sacrificed!
LADY WINDERMERE. [Leaning forward.] Don't say that.
LORD DARLINGTON. I do say it. I feel it--I know it.
[Enter PARKER]
PARKER. The men want to know if they are to put the carpets on the terrace for to-night, my lady?
LADY WINDERMERE. You don't think it will rain, Lord Darlington, do you?
LORD DARLINGTON. I won't hear of its raining on your birthday!
LADY WINDERMERE. Tell them to do it at once, Parker.
[Exit PARKER]
LORD DARLINGTON. [Still seated.] Do you think then--of course I am only putting an imaginary instance--do you think that in the case of a young married couple, say about two years married, if the husband suddenly becomes the intimate friend of a woman of--well, more than doubtful character--is always calling upon her, lunching with her, and probably paying her bills--do you think that the wife should not console herself?
LADY WINDERMERE. [Frowning] Console herself?
LORD DARLINGTON. Yes, I think she should--I think she has the right.
LADY WINDERMERE. Because the husband is vile--should the wife be vile also?
LORD DARLINGTON. Vileness is a terrible word, Lady Windermere.
LADY WINDERMERE. It is a terrible thing, Lord Darlington.
LORD DARLINGTON. Do you know I am afraid that good people do a great deal of harm in this world. Certainly the greatest harm they do is that they make badness of such extraordinary importance. It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious. I take the side of the charming, and you, Lady Windermere, can't help belonging to them.
LADY WINDERMERE. Now, Lord Darlington. [Rising and crossing.] Don't stir, I am merely going to finish my flowers.
[Goes to table.]
LORD DARLINGTON. [Rising and moving chair.] And I must say I think you are very hard on modern life, Lady Windermere. Of course there is much against it, I admit. Most women, for instance, nowadays, are rather mercenary.
LADY WINDERMERE. Don't talk about such people.
LORD DARLINGTON. Well then, setting aside mercenary people, who, of course, are dreadful, do you think seriously that women who have committed what the world calls a fault should never be forgiven?
LADY WINDERMERE. I think they should never be forgiven.
LORD DARLINGTON. And men? Do you think that there should be the same laws for men as there are for women?
LADY WINDERMERE. Certainly!
LORD DARLINGTON. I think life too complex a thing to be settled by these hard and fast rules.
LADY WINDERMERE. If we had 'these hard and fast rules,' we should find life much more simple.
LORD DARLINGTON. You allow of no exceptions?
LADY WINDERMERE. None!
LORD DARLINGTON. Ah, what a fascinating Puritan you are, Lady Windermere!
LADY WINDERMERE. The adjective was unnecessary, Lord Darlington.
LORD DARLINGTON. I couldn't help it. I can resist everything except temptation.
LADY WINDERMERE. You have the modern affectation of weakness.
LORD DARLINGTON. [Looking at her.] It's only an affectation, Lady Windermere.