March 31, 2006

Diary Friday

Next installment in the Picnic adventure!

Part 1. The audition
Part 2: The callbacks, getting into the play
Part 3: First meeting with the director
Part 4. The calm before the storm ... the time before rehearsals started ... memorizing lines, etc.

And suddenly - it was time. Rehearsals began. The whole TS-dating drama noticeably recedes - the second I start rehearsals. And I can hear a new tone come into my voice. It might be just me that notices it - because I know myself well - but I can see that things were almost immediately different for me, and I jumpstarted myself up to another level.

OCTOBER 14

Here I am in the Theatre (second rehearsal). We're taking a break now. Diary, I am so excited. I love everybody in this play. I have learned more in the past few days than I have in my whole 4 years in Drama class. God, I'm loving it. I have to go into detail, but later. I love it! I have rehearsals Mon, Tues, Wed 6 - 11. And I have a COSTUME FITTING tomorrow at 3:00!!

Later: Okay, I don't think I'm gonna have time for a diary. Yesterday, I had a rehearsal 10 to 5 and today we had a rehearsal 10 to 5 - but I don't care. I am having the time of my life. These rehearsals are so intense. I am so tired. But I LOVE IT.

And the people - they're the best part. Oh, I want to get into details, but I can't. I don't have time. [And then I proceed to go into detail anyway]

Okay, I have to tell you all their names. Lenny is playing Bomber. Joe C. is playing Howard. Jennifer C. is playing Irma. Joanne F. is playing Rosemary. Joanna F. is playing Madge. Eric is playing Hal. Linda Murphy - Mrs. Potts. Tina T. - Christine. Brett is playing Alan (he is my absolute favorite). Liz is playing Flo. [Liz!!! She's one of my best friends to this day. Amazing!!]

They are all so great. I don't feel like a leper at all. I am a member of this cast. I have quite a lot to learn, but they don't judge me. It's so relaxed!

Brett is hysterical. Some of his facial expressions!

I'm just looking forward to getting to know them, be friends with them. Brett is only a junior too - so he'll be there next year. From the first time I saw him at auditions, I liked him. He was nice to me from the start.

God, I am so grateful that I am getting a chance to act in this play.

And I love Liz and Eric and Jennifer and Joanna (who plays my sister).

I am learning so much. And my part is WONDERFUL. I don't know how many times I have read the script!

Yesterday and today were heaven. I was scared to death yesterday for the first rehearsal. Lately, it's been surprising me how shy I really am. I am really desperately shy and horrendously awkward socially. The more awkward I get, the shyer I get, and vice versa. So anyways, yesterday's rehearsal was in G Studio. I got there - everyone else had come (not Kimber yet) and Michelle (Kimber's assistant) introduced me to everyone. Everyone else knew each other so she sort of said, "Everyone - this is Sheila O'Malley -" and she introduced everybody to me. Everybody just smiling really nicely at me and saying, "hi, Sheila" - who cares if I'm in high school! I can't help that.

Yesterday was just - it was all so new but so much fun. We all sat in a semi-circle in front of Kimber. I learned so much: get into DETAILS. Kimber said today, "A mediocre actor enters the stage from the wings. A good actor comes from somewhere." So every time a character would go off stage, he'd say, "Where are you going?" All these questions, things to think about, discussions about the period when the play took place (1952), discussions about Kansas - the small-town where the play takes place.

Diary - I have a large part. Millie is a big part. I can't believe it! I didn't realize it until I yellowed in my lines.

Most of why I love it so much is cause of the PEOPLE. It was like- blow me away. I felt so welcome, just totally at ease at once. I have this feeling that Brett and Eric will be very prominent people in my future entries. I swear, after high school, guys like them are culture shock! [Eric went on to become a little bit famous. He was a regular on "Caroline in the City" - he was on "Frasier" - and every time I'd see him on television, I would remember how kind he was to me, back then ... how friendly, sweet, and nice. He's good good people.]

One bad thing: it's gonna be hard to be in this play with them. I get crushes so easily.

Brett is such a riot. He plays Alan - Alan is my only real friend in the play so Brett, when we'd come back from breaks or whatever - he'd grab me around the shoulders, or pat my knee if I was sitting, and say, "Hey, buddy!" He is so funny - I just watch him having a conversation with someone and his facial expressions are enough for me to just lose it. I mean, it's not like I'm gonna ask Brett to the Sadie Hawkins or anything, but I just - with the whole cast, actually - it's so neat - we're already friends. I really like them all.

Yesterday after rehearsal I started to walk home. I was just a little ways down the road and I heard this car beeping behind me - I turned around and it was Brett, in his brown car - he called out the window, "Do you need a ride somewhere?" I called to Brett, "Where are you going?" So he told me and it went past my house, so I said okay. I got in. He turned down the radio so we could talk.

He's a wicked wicked nice person.

I asked him abouit his high school and everything. He was asking me about my school - He has this wide mischievous smile. I said something like, "Well, my school is really small, so everybody knows I'm in this play." He smiled at me. "Yeah?" "I mean, I went to auditions just like - scared to death ..." And he grinned at me and said, "I was watching you audition thinking: Man, she's got balls." I said it would be all right to drop me off at the end of South Road, but he went, "Oh no - I'll take you home." So he did.

He's so nice. Everyone is. Like on Saturday, everyone was making plans to go out to lunch together - I was sitting alone - I suddenly felt rather out of it, and Joanna turned to me, "Come on with us, Sheila!" So I went out to Del Mor's with them all - It makes me feel warm inside. Hoepful. Happy. Just really good. Rehearsals make me feel really good. Knowing these people and knowing Kimber make me feel good.

And - just working on Millie, asking questions, dissecting lines, learning techniques that never occurred to me before.

Today was just as good, if not better. Today was when I sort of got to know them a little - Kimber is so great. So kind and intelligent. I am learning massively much.


OCTOBER 16


Yesterday was a joke. I started crying about everything. I think it hit me how much I'm doing right now. It's unbelievable. It just totally enveloped me. I was frazzled. I had to be in 2 places at once. I couldn't get a ride from one place to the other. Picnic, Hans Christian Andersen, Antigone (our drama class play whose dates coincide with some of my Picnic performances - great) - the retreat, homework, work, my birthday - I had a costume measurement at 3 after school - and had no way to get there. Finally Kate - my friend, my wonderful friend, offered to drive me up since she had driven to school anyway. Okay, that calmed me down but then - Mrs. M wouldn't let me go! She said that she would do my scene first to let me go. But then she did the Ugly Duckling skit first. Diary, it was horrendous - I was backstage, going, "Why won't she let me go?" And it was creeping to 2:35, 2:40 - It was infuriating. Mrs. M started getting into interpretation with the other skit - why couldn't she have let go then - I know my lines - I was practically crying backstage. Nothing was going right. My life was crazy hectic and shitty. All I wanted to do was run from the room and LEAVE.

Finally, we did our skit - I admit, I was rushing the lines - but it was 10 of 3. I don't need work on interpretation, and if I do - she hasn't told me.

On our way up to the theatre, we hit every red light in our path, and we were behind this man who drove (literally) the damn speed limit. It was just one of those times I couldn't take it all - the only thing to do at a time like that is drop everything and take a breath. But I couldn't. I had to RUN into the theatre. As I ran up to the front door, Eric came out and grinned at me. "Why here so early, kid?" (He calls me kid. Oddly enough, it doesn't bug me. I like it. It's a fond way of saying it.) I cried, "I'm very late!" and ran inside. Then I could NOT find the costume shop. I tore all over the damn building. I wanted to scream.

Finally, I got it over with, went home, and lay down. I had rehearsal that night at 6:45.

Diary, I'm doing a talk at the retreat. [The relgious retreat I was going to be "on staff" for - I was SO excited about it.] When Betsy told me, I just stood there, and my talk is MASKS - I can't wait. I was praying really hard about it - especially with everything going on. I don't want everything to become unfun. I can't let the retreat become a burden. I want to be able to forget about my craziness while I'm there - I want it to be great. It's a Godsent coming right in the middle of November.

Last night's rehearsal totally calmed me. I walked out of it feeling peaceful through and through. And happy. I found an inner calm that I have to maintain. I mean, no matter how much crazier my life gets - if I keep an inner peace, a balance ... At the 8:00 this Sunday [That would be the 8 pm mass at our church] Kate and I were sitting in the balcony, and suddenly - my God - it hit me - eternity. Heaven. God. I'm too much of a bland human being to even try to comprehend what forever is. I felt just a little bit of the massiveness of forever - eternity. I just sat there thinking, "Oh ... dear Lord ... oh ... dear Lord ..."

My life will never go haywire if I remember that. Oh, life is confusing, and eternity is even more so - but I know it's so!

After rehearsal last night, I went outside to wait for my dad. It was about 10:00. There were billions of stars, and it was chilly, and beautiful, and perfectly quiet. I sat outside alone, and I was so happy. I felt so calm. My day was royally an awful terrible day. But rehearsal made me calm.

I have a crush on Brett. But it's not like it matters to me. I have crushes on people constantly that I don't even think about. Like Keith, or Andy. But they don't matter. Or - not that they don't matter - but the crushes I have on them don't take over my life. That's what it is with Brett. He is hysterical and nice and relaxed and makes me feel at home, and is just a really nice guy. (I don't think that sentence was parallel.) I have met so many neat people - who accept me. When I arrive at rehearsal, everyone hails me, "Hey, Sheila!" I am included, you know? I mean, half the time I don't know what they're talking about [hahahahahahaha] - but I don't mind listening. I'm not shy with them either. I am completely happy with all of them!

I just came home from rehearsal - and our next rehearsal we're gonna block it. We'll get to move around!

I came into the theatre yesterday and Liz skipped over to me and hugged me. "Hello, Millie!" Brett always just calls me "buddy", "pal". I sat next to Brett during Monday's rehearsal. We all have notebooks up there to take notes. Rehearsals are so interesting. We read through the scenes in monotone. That is so hard. It's so hard not to inflect and interpret. [This is part of the Meisner method. Start off with the script in monotone. Read the lines in complete monotone - until you finally HAVE to break free and express the feeling in the voice. Kimber trained us in the Meisner method.] I'm finding that when we drop the monotone - the acting and interpretation and the feeling of the lines come easier. The trick is that during the monotone, you keep your voice dead - but inside - keep the inside alive. Kimber says that that way you feel so much more - You don't start interpreting the lines only one way. And while I'm doing monotone - I can feel that - I feel every nerve I have straining against the monotone. I feel things without worrying about how I say the words. It's a neat feeling but it's still hard.

At rehearsal, I am happy. During the first rehearsal, we were all sitting and running through the script, and suddenly - out of nowhere - I almost started crying. I just started thinking:

GOD I AM SO HAPPY.

My day is very long. It starts at 6 am and ends at 11:30 or midnight. But oh! I am smiling as I write!! School is making me hyper this year. I hate it. School now holds nothing for me. I mean, my reasons for going to school are: Kate, J, Beth, Mere, Betsy, Anne, Steph -- But what I look forward to is outside of school. TS [hmmm. Member him?? He has been noticeably absent all of a sudden!!] and REHEARSALS. I haven't talked to TS since last Saturday - I talked to him on the phone. Just dumb stuff. It was nice to hear his voice though. Sadie Hawkins is Friday. I decided against asking him. I actually thought about it. My first reason: I do not like the Sadies anyway. I think it's queer. And juvenile. Why should I ask him to something I wouldn't have fun at anyway? I mean - that's crazy. I'll ask him to something we both can have fun at. Also - after TS and I left DW (hee hee) we went and visited Matt in his frat. My first time in a frat. I was tres nervous). Wow, did those people scare me. I still don't know why. I think, looking at the people strolling by - I suddenly was thinking: "These boys are no boys. They are men." I mean, Matt is sweet - he's so - all of TS' friends just - I don't know. TS and I went into Matt's room but Matt wasn't there, so we sat down to wait. TS wanted to give his script to Matt - then when Matt came in, he hailed us both. "Hey! Sheila! How are you?" Acceptance that I was there. My self-image really sucks. I immediately think that everyone'll be like, "Sheila? A boyfriend?" Matt was nice to me. He and TS are so cute together - they're so close. And Matt is excited about the movie too. I don't think I said a word the whole time we were there, but just listening to the two of them - God. I felt infantile. Meek and inexperienced and totally naive. TS drinks. If I let it bother me - I'd go around being bothered at everyone. In fact, I'm not against it for myself - I want to know what it's like. But - at the frat - I just felt so young. Not youthful and chipper [Don't ever say the word "chipper" again, Sheila, okay?] but young and stupid. Matt told TS where he can get a fake ID. They were talking about a friend of theirs who grows marijuana and sells it - Then this guy strolled by with nothing on but a towel. TS leaned over to me and grabbed my head to put his hands over my eyes.

That frat really freaked me out. It just hit me that those guys are men and what the hell am I doing? None of them will want me. I was talking toBetsy about it - about how inexperienced I felt - and she said, "There's always one thing you can say: No. And don't worry about TS. He's not a user." I've been feeling so scared about going with someone - I said, "Betsy, I know I'm not ready for any of that" and Betsy said, "TS knows that." When she said that, it made me feel so much better!!

And then I think about Brett, and I feel confused - like "How can I have a crush on someone else NOW?" I feel guilty. I mean, nothing has really happened between TS and I except conversation - but I can't help it. Diary, I'm only 16. I just don't think I'm ready for a COMMITMENT. No. I know I'm not ready. I've never even gone out with anyone - how do I know what or who I want? Commitment - at this point, even if TS and I were set - I would have a crush on Eric, and a crush on Brett - and how can I help it? Why should I help it? Kate said to me, after I told her some story about reherasal, "I'd be wondering about you if you didn't have a crush on those guys!"

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (30)

The Books: "The Great Railway Bazaar" (Paul Theroux)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

the.great.railway.bazaar.001.jpgNext book on the shelf is The Great Railway Bazaar : By Train Through Asia by Paul Theroux. First published in 1975 - this is the story of Paul Theroux going by train from London to Vietnam - and then home again by the Trans-Siberian Express. It's the kind of trip I would love to take, as odd and extended as it would be. Ryzsard Kapuscinski did a similar thing ... and Colin Thubron (who I love, and whose books I will get to shortly!!) did as well ... submitting to the hardships of travel by train ... submitting to the monotony - It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. Especially when you're traveling through the USSR by train.

I'll post a bit from the last leg of his journey, as he travels "home" through Russia. Now remember - this is the early 1970s.

From The Great Railway Bazaar : By Train Through Asia by Paul Theroux.

Afterward, whenever I thought of the Trans-Siberian Express, I saw stainless-steel bowls of borscht spilling in the dining car of the Rossiya as it rounded a bend on its way to Moscow, and at the curve a clear sight from the window of our green and black steam locomotive -- from Skovorodino onward its eruptions of steamy smoke diffused the sunlight and drifted into the forest so that the birches smoldered and the magpies made for the sky. I saw the gold-tipped pines at sunset and the snow lying softly around clumps of brown grass like cream poured over the ground; the yacht-like snowplows at Zima; the ocherous flare of the floodlit factory chimneys at Irkutsk; the sight of Marinsk in early morning, black cranes and black buildings and escaping figures casting long shadows on the tracks as they ran toward the lighted station -- something terrible in that combination of cold, dark, and little people tripping over Siberian tracks; the ice chest of frost between the cars; the protrusion of Lenin's white forehead at every stop; and the passengers imprisoned in Hard Class: fur hats, fur leggings, blue gym suits, crying children, and such a powerful smell of sardines, body odor, cabbage, and stale tobacco that even at the five-minute stops the Russians jumped onto the snowy platform to risk pneumonia for a breath of fresh air; the bad food; the stupid economies; and the men and women ("No distinction is made with regard to sex in assigning compartments" -- Intourist brochure), strangers to each other, who shared the same compartment and sat jon opposite bunks, mustached male mirroring mustached female from their grubby nightcaps and the blankets they wore as shawls, down to their hefty ankles stuck in crushed slippers. Most of all, I thought of it as an experience in which time had the trick distortions of a dream: the Rossiya ran on Moscow time, and after a lunch of cold yellow potatoes, a soup of fat lumps called solyanka, and a carafe of port that tasted like cough syrup, I would ask the time and be told it was four o'clock in the morning.

The Rossiya was not like the Vostok; it was new. The sleeping cars of East German make were steel syringes, insulated in grey plastic and heated by coal-fired boilers attached to furnace and samovar that gave the front end of each carriage the look of a cartoon atom smasher. The provodnik often forgot to stoke the furnace, and then the carriage took on a chill that somehow induced nightmares in me while at the same time denying me sleep. The other passengers in Soft were either suspicious, drunk, or unpleasant: a Goldi and his White Russian wife and small leathery child who rode in a nest of boots and blankets, two aggrieved Canadians who ranted to the two Australian librarians about the insolence of the provodnik, an elderly Russian lady who did the whole trip wearing the same frilly nightgown, a Georgian who looked as if he had problems at the other end, and several alcoholics who played noisy games of dominoes in their pajamas. Conversation was hopeless, sleep was alarming, and the perversity of the clocks confounded my appetite. That first day I wrote in my diary Despair makes me hungry.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 30, 2006

RIP, John McGahern

I gasped when I heard the news: great Irish novelist John McGahern has passed away. Thanks, peteb, for letting me know - I hadn't heard, and I'm kind of emotional about it right now. Here's a post over at Slugger, with a bunch of great links. And the first comment in the thread brought tears to my eyes. Because I feel the same way. I wrote about it here a bit. (The rest of the comments in the post over at Slugger are great too - people remembering McGahern, sharing their thoughts and memories about him.)

I have my father to thank for introducing me to John McGahern. My dad always had such great things to say about McGahern - and for some reason, it took me a while to get around to reading him. I read Amongst Women and ... it basically flattened me. Almost as much as Ian McEwan's Atonement. It hurt me to read it. The story, that FATHER ... just that character ... It was a painful to book to read. Masterful. It's not that it's a brilliant plot, or a gripping tale, it's not even that the characters are so memorable - except for the father. That father will live on in my memory forever. It's the way McGahern brings us, inevitably, step by step through that story - it's how he desribes the silence in that house, it's his observations ... of how this family works ... the tiny moments that make up conversations ... You just can SEE it all in how he writes. It's a little window into a completely three-dimensional world. McGahern does not paint his characters with broad strokes. They're very subtle, complex, human beings. But - That father in Amongst Women is introduced to us with two or three sentences ... and entire WORLDS open up before us. We know this man. We know this man. And - we just ACHE for him. We would be so fearful if he were our father, he's - cold - he withholds love - he is walled up in his own agony ... everyone tiptoes around him, etc. ... but ... looking in on him from the outside ... all you can see is his pain. His loss. God, it's fantastic. I'm crying as I write this - sorry, I'm a bit undone right now.

McGahern almost seems invisible in this process - his writing is so good, so seamless, it seems almost to be flowing directly from an experience ... The book does not appear to be invented at all. It just IS. It IS the experience that it describes. So few writers are able to do that, so few writers are able to make us forget THEM ... and guide us straight into a story.

We are fully immersed in that house. With those sisters. The wife. And that father. Even thinking about that character makes me weep. Which I am doing right now. It's all tied up with my own father ... and the father-daughter dynamic ... and also the IRISH father-daughter dynamic - which is very specific, and ... archetypal ... and I can't describe it. ... But McGahern can and does.

A truly great novelist. A master of the form.

John Banville, another favorite of my father, had this to say about McGahern: "Amongst Women,' which was his masterpiece -- if there was any justice at all, it should have won the Booker Prize. It would have given him the international recognition that he didn't have. The literary world we live in now is so glittery. His novels were so quiet, perhaps they didn't travel well. But they will."

That came from the NY Times obituary here.

His fame is localized. He is famous to Irish people, and to people who love fiction. Amongst Women routinely makes it into lists like: Top 50 Best Irish Novels (or Top 100) or what have you ... but I would put it on my list of Top 50 Best Novels, period.

From a commenter on Sinéad Gleeson's blog-post about it:

Amongst Women. I read it when I was fourteen. It is sublime. It is the foundation stone for everything I have read and written and thought about since then.

I can’t believe this, Sinead. It is so desperately sad. He had been ill but he had recovered, had really fought it. We saw him at Christmas and he was in great form.

There won’t be his like again.

Rest in peace, Mr. McGahern.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (2)

The Books: "Happy Isles of Oceania : Paddling the Pacific" (Paul Theroux)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

519cJTrc8vL._AA240_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Happy Isles of Oceania : Paddling the Pacific by Paul Theroux. So crazy Paul Thoreux starts in Australia, and then is flown to the Solomon Islands. He then takes out his trusty canoe, and begins to paddle from island to island ... just like the ancients did. Sometimes, because he is a modern man, the distance is too far - and he takes a boat or a tiny plane to the next island. But he goes through them all - Solomon, Trobriands, Vanuatu, the Cook Islands, Tahiti ... He even finds a deserted island and camps there for a couple of days. Just to see what it is like. As with all of Thoreux's books ... he's voraciously curious about things ... but he also doesn't seem to meet than many people he likes. He's brutal at times. He couldn't stand the Samoans, for example. A lot of his writing in this vein reminds me of Mark Twain's travelogues. The freedom with which Mark Twain made fun of people, or passed judgment. He doesn't care.

A lot of this stuff is endlessly fascinating to me - it's history I am not familiar with, except for the fact that I know it happened. People got in huge boats, a gazillion years ago, and paddled THOUSANDS of miles to inhabit other islands. How, why, what the feck ... it boggles the mind. But the intricacies of that history - and all the different peoples ... is not something I've ever studied. So I was very interested in it.

Theroux ends his journey with a jaunt to Easter Island. Far-out, isolated. He takes a plane to get there - he cannot paddle his canoe the distance, obviously - but the fact that he cannot makes him understand the truly astonishing level of accomplishment of those who did.

I'll post an excerpt from the Easter Island section.

From Happy Isles of Oceania : Paddling the Pacific by Paul Theroux.

It takes an hour to fly from Rarotonga to Tahiti, and five and a half from Tahiti to Easter Island. But connections in Oceania are seldom neat. I had two days to kill in Rarotonga, and three days in Papeete before I could head to this little island, the easternmost outpost of Polynesia.

My traveling time must be compared with that of the original migrants to Easter Island. They might have sailed from Rapa -- now called Rapa Iti -- in the Austral Islands, 2,500 mils away. Or it might have been from Mangareva in the Gambier Group. In any case, the journey in double-hulled canoes took them 120 days. This was sometime in the seventh century (though some archaeologists have dated it earlier). On the other side of the world the Prophet Mohammed was fleeing to Medina (in the year 622), the start of the Moslem Era. The Dark Ages had taken hold of Europe. The glorious Tang Dynasty had begun in China. In the Pacific, people were on the move, for this was the most active period of Polynesian expansion, which one Pacific historian has called 'the greatest feat of maritime colonization in human history."

Before I left Tahiti I had called on the airline representative. He was Chilean. We conversed in Spanish. He spoke no other tongue.

"The plane is half full, maybe more," he said.

"All those people are going to Easter Island!"

"No. Only four passengers are getting off there. The rest are going to Santiago."

"Will the weather be cold on Easter Island?"

"Sometimes. Especially at night." He flapped his hand, equivocating. "You have a sweater? That's good."

"What about rain?"

"It can rain at any time. And wind. You will have some wind. But not too much." He smiled at the ceiling and he blinked for effect as he chanted, "Sun. Cloud. Sun. Cloud."

He was trying to encourage me.

"Now the hotels are interesting," he said. "I know you don't have one. You never have one before you go. But at the airport, the island people will look at you and offer their houses to you. You will see them and talk to them. That way you can find the most economical one."

He then searched for my reservation.

"Your name is not on the passenger list," he said. "But come tomorrow. If you don't have a ticket we will sell you one. There is space. There are always seats to Easter Island."

That was my preparation for the journey - that and a vast tome entitled The Ethnology of Easter Island, by Alfred Metraux, and the writings of other archaeologists, and much colorful and misleading information by the enthusiastic Thor Heyerdahl, who is regarded by many Pacific historians and archaeologists as of minimal consequence to serious archaeology. Scientifically, his books have as little value as those of Erich von Daniken, who theorized that the Easter Island moai were carved by people from outer space.

I found a place to stay, a guest house, and agreed on a price -- $65 a day, which included three meals a day. I planned to camp, too -- no one seemed bothered, as they had on other islands, by the threat of my pitching a tent.

Stretching my legs after arriving, I walked to the Easter Island Museum. It was one mute room on a hillside at the edge of town. There are some carvings, and some dusty skulls with drawings scratched on the craniums, and artifacts, but no dates have been assigned to anything in the room. There are old photographs of melancholy islanders and hearty missionaries. There are ill-assorted implements -- axes, clubs, knives. One exhibit shows how the moai had carefully fitted eyes, most of them goggling -- the sclera of the eye made of white coral, the iris of red scoria, and the pupil a disc of obsidian, which gave the statues a great staring gaze.

Many of the moai had been ritually blinded by the islanders themselves. The archaeologist JoAnne Van Tilburg mentions how "specific, probably ritual damage was done to only certain parts of the figures, in particular the heads, eyes, and occasionally the right arms."

That first day, I ran into an island woman who was secretary of the Rapa Nui Corporation for the Preservation of Culture, known locally as Mata Nui o Hotu Matua o Kahu Kahu o Hera ("The Ancestral Group of Hotu Matua of the Obscure Land"). She confirmed various stories that I had read about the island.

Hotu Matua was the leader of the first migration to Easter Island. Descended from ancestral gods, this first king had mana, great spritual power, and is credited with the founding of this civilization. Much of the early history is conjecture -- there are so-called wooden rongo-rongo tablets, with strange figurative script incised on them, but no one has ever been able to decipher them. In spite of this, most of the stories regarding Hotu Matua agree on the salient points. That he sailed from an island (Marae-renga, perhaps Rapa) in the west commanding two ninety-foot canoes. That he brought with him "hundreds and hundreds" of people. That some of these people were nobles (ariki) and others skilled men and women (maori) -- warriors, planters, carvers -- and still others commoners. That the captain of the second canoe was a noble named Tuu-ko-ihu. That on board these canoes they had "the fowl, the cat, the turtle, the dog, the banana plant, the paper mulberry, the hibiscus, the ti, the sandalwood, the gourd, the yam," and five more varieties of banana plant. (Later generations gave Hotu Matua credit for introducing animals which early explorers introduced, such as pigs and chickens.)

After sailing for two months in the open sea, the voyagers came upon the island and they sailed completely around it, looking for a place to land. After their tropical home, this windy treeless island must have seemed a forbidding place: then, as now, black cliffs being beaten by surf. They found the island's only bay, its only sandy beach. They went ashore there and named the bay Anakena, their word for the month of August. It was an island of seabirds and grass. There were no mammals. The craters of the volcanoes were filled with totora reeds.

Another happy incident, which occurs in all versions of this first-arrival story, is that shortly after Hotu Matua's canoe reached the shore of the island, one of Hotu Matua's wives, named Vakai, gave birth to a baby boy, Tuu-ma-heke, who became the island's second king. The cutting of the infant's navel cord caused the place to be called Pito-o-te-henua, "Navel of the Land".

The woman who was telling me these stories said that she was a teacher of the Rapa Nui language. But was there such a language? She claimed there was, but linguists said that the original tongue had been lost, and that the language spoken on Easter Island now was the Tahitian the Christian missionaries had brought -- because that was the language of their Bible and hymn book. Because this Tahitian had many similarities to the old Rapa Nui it had displaced it. Easter Islanders were identified as Polynesians when they boarded Cook's ship in 1774. As soon as they spoke, Cook recognized that their language was similar to Tahitian.

Looking for a place to launch my boat, I walked down the main road of the town, a dirt track called in the local language Navel of the World Street, past grubby little bungalows -- they had the shape and dimensions of sheds: flat roofs, single walls -- to Hanga Roa harbor.

It was not like any harbor I had ever seen, and it explained why if you totalled the time all the early explorers spent ashore on Easter Island, it would amount to very little. Few of the nineteenth-century explorers, Metraux says, "stayed on the island for more than a few minutes." Some of the explorers, having made the 2,500-mile run from Tahiti (and it was nearly as far from South America) were unable to go ashore -- too windy, too dangerous, too surfy. In 1808, for example, Captain Amasa Delano of Duxbury, Massachusetts (and of Melville's story "Benito Cereno"), arrived at the island and sailed around it, but could not set foot on the island, because of the heavy surf off Hanga Roa.

Some ships did land, to the sorrow of the islanders. In 1804, the men on an American ship, the Nancy, kidnapped twelve men and ten women from the island after a fight -- the intention was to use these captives as slave laborers at a seal colony on Mas Afuera, a rock halfway to Chile. When the islanders were allowed on deck after three days at sea, they jumped off the ship and began swimming in the direction of their island, and all drowned. Whaling ships plying the southern oceans often abducted Easter Island girls, for their sexual pleasure.

"In 1822 the skipper of an American whaling ship paused at Easter Island long enough to kidnap a group of girls who were thrown overboard the following day and obliged to swim back to the island," Metraux writes. "One of the officers, simply for amusement, shot a native with his gun."

After more raids of this sort the islanders became hostile to any foreigners. But the foreigners persisted, either fighting them or employing more devious means to subvert the islanders, using gifts as bait, as in this raid in 1868: "The raiders threw to the ground gifts which they thought most likely to attract the inhabitants and ... when the islanders were on their knees scrambling for the gifts, they tied their hands behind their backs and carried them off to the whaling ship." The king, Kaimakoi, was kidnapped with his son and most of the island's maori (experts). These and later captives were sent to work, digging on guano islands, where they all died.

The history of Easter Island in the nineteenth century is a long sad story of foreign raiding parties (mainly American and Spanish), of slavery and plunder, leading to famine, venereal disease, smallpox outbreaks, and ultimately the ruin of the culture -- the place was at last demoralized and depopulated. In 1900 there were only 214 people living on Easter Island, eighty-four of them children. A hundred years of foreign ships had turned Easter Island into a barren rock.

The island had flourished by being cut off, and then it became a victim of its remoteness. Since the earliest times, it had never been easy to land on it, but it was so far from any other port, and in such a rough patch of ocean, that every ship approaching it took advantage of it in some way -- looking for water or food, for women, for slaves.

How was it possible for even a small ship to land here? In fact it had never been managed. No more than a scooped-out area, with boulders lining the shore and surf pounding beside the breakwater, the harbor was a horror, and it was difficult even to imagine a ship easily lying at anchor offshore, with a whaleboat plying back and forth with supplies. Problem one was mooring a ship in the wild ocean off Hanga Roa; problem two was getting the whaleboat through the surf to shore and, since there was nowhere to land, steadying it long enough to unload it.

I saw that I could paddle through the surf zone. But it was usually easier to get out than to paddle in. The danger here was that the surf was breaking on large rocks at the harbor entrance. Even if I surfed in I might be broken to smithereens on the rocks.

The most ominous sight for a potential kayaker was that of Rapa Nui boys surfing into the harbor on big breaking waves. This surfing, locally known as ngaru, had been a sport here since the earliest times, and was the only game that had survived all these years. They had abandoned the ancient games of spinning tops, flying kites, and going to the top of volcanoes and sliding down "tracks on which they had urinated to make the path more slipper." But surfing had been sueful in the early innocent days of foreign ships anchoring off Hanga Roa in a heavy sea. Surprising th eseamen, the islanders swam out to the ship, using "swimming supports" -- a plank or a rush mat. Some of the islanders were observeds surfing back to shore afterwards, riding the waves using the planks as surfboards.

In the Rapa Nui language there was a complete set of surfing terminology, which described the board, the surfer's waiting for the wave, allowing the wave to crest, and settling on the wave; what in current surfing jargon woudl be the banana or the pig board (or sausage board), the pickup and takeoff, the cutback on the hump, hotdogging, hanging ten, and walking the plank. In the old days there had been surfing contests and some men, real Rapa Nui beachies, had gone far from shore to surf a long distance on the large ocean swells.

But the sight of surfers convinced me that this was not a good area to paddle from -- and it was the harbor!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (3)

March 29, 2006

Hitler and Stalin: The roots of evil

Watching it now on the History Channel. Thoughts to come. I'm sure you're THRILLED!!

-- Stalin had a 'warfare psychology' ... an 'enemy complex'

-- a lot of the experts are people who try to retrospectively psychoanalyze these people. I have some doubts about this ... for many reasons ... but there's no doubt that it is an interesting speculation. Not to use it as an 'abuse excuse' - let us NEVER go down that road ... but I think to NOT ask these questions is a huge mistake. It means that we localize evil people like Hitler and Stalin as anomalies ... just crazy anomalies ... and I think we ignore their psychology at our peril

-- Cliche, yes, but Hitler and Stalin were both short, and were BUMMED about it.

-- Stalin was only five foot four. He wore platform shoes. I forget this about him.

-- Hitler was a bad student.

-- Both were on the road to be priests.

-- Both had artistic dreams ... painting and poetry (Hitler and Stalin, respectively). It was a self-pitying impulse in them, however ... and also a way to rebel against their parents. Stalin's poetry: starting out as floridly romantic and lush ... and descending towards nihilistic narcissistic claptrap. Hitler, the same with his art. No validation anywhere. No validation for their art. How did they internalize these rejections?

-- No love from parents.

-- Again: I'm just liveblogging. But also: i want to make clear that just by typing this I am not saying "Oh, Stalin's father beat him ... poor Stalin!" Anyone who knows me should know that I would never say that, but it's hard to tell ... people have poor reading comprehension and also a kneejerk know-it-all response to stuff like this.

-- What is it that creates a serial killer? Not that they should be EXCUSED for thier actions ... but what are the factors that go towards creating a Charlie Manson? Or a Ted Bundy? Are there any similarities? What can we glean from their beginnings?

-- I happen to believe that the more we understand, the better off we are.

-- Through observation it has been shown that many serial killers start off by killing animals, when they are children. This is USEFUL information, in terms of perhaps helping a child who is screaming for help. There are patterns ... maybe a serial killer could be stopped in his infancy, if it is noticed by his parents, or a teacher, or a neighbor, that he is compulsively torturing cats ...

-- I have abhorrence towards applying this philosophy towards genocidal dictators ... but I do see the point of it. I really do.

-- Stalin was "a loner, a very bitter and unpleasant person" - says Prof. Ted Friegurt. "He never took part in social activities. He was always apart, and bitter, and nasty."

-- Stalin caught Lenin's eye ... He wanted to rise to the top of this new communist party.

-- Hitler still searching for himself, trying to be a painter. (Reminds me of Eddie Izzard's re-enactment of this: "I ... can't get the flowers right in this painting ... I must now kill EVERYONE IN THE WORLD ...")


-- Hitler only painted landscapes. Never people. Hmmmm. Rejected to go to some academy of art in Vienna ... because of this whole can't-paint-people thing. So bitter by rejection that he blamed it on the Jews on the board of the acadmy.

-- He was destroyed by his mother's death. Lost the ability to function.

-- World War I ... "In his army service, Hitler was the happiest of any time he was in his life ... Sanctioned killing gave him an outlet to his murderous rage ..." said by some expert.

-- Hitler began to feel that he was 'chosen' for some great role in history.

-- Stalin loved humiliating his sons. Contempt. (I've seen some of the letters he wrote about his sons ... no love there. Total coldness.)

-- The mysterious death of Stalin's second wife Nadya. Nobody agrees how she kicked the bucket. Either she killed herself, or Stalin himself killed her. Or one of his minions did.

-- Omigod, little home movie of Eva Braun in a dirndl skirt and little apron, swinging around a pole. Never seen her in action before. She was a plump milk-fed girl. Hitler thought she was "the ideal German woman: cuddly, cute, and naive."

-- "I am the mistress of the greatest man in Germany" ... excerpt from Eva Braun's diary.

-- "Anyone who read Mein Kampf should have known where this all would read ..." So says the son of Hitler's personal aide ... sorry, didn't catch his name.

-- Live footage of Stalin. Jeez, amazing.

-- Oh man. Footage of Kirov giving a speech. Kirov. Stalin's beloved friend. But he was too popular. The murder of Kirov ascribed to Stalin's enemies in the party ... BUT it was engineered by Stalin. It was used as an excuse to begin the Great Terror. Think of the coldness. The calculation. There's some footage of Stalin at Kirov's coffin. Holy shit. The murder of Kirov used as an excuse to kill literally millions. There's Stalin, being all sad at Kirov's coffin. I am gobsmacked.

-- Members of Stalin's Politburo were so afraid of him that everyone was afraid to stop clapping for him ... the ovations went on and on and on (famous anecdotes about this) ... Finally, they figured out that they would ring a BELL to signal to people "stop clapping" so that no one would EVER be the first one to stop applauding.

-- The re-touching of photos ... Photo historian David King has assembled the largest collection of photos from the Soviet era - he studies the photos - and studies the re-touching - what he calls "a second death" - a total elimination of a human being - as though he never existed. Let's get HIM out of the photo. He was never there!!

-- King noticed that some of the re-touchings were more violent than others. Some people were just splashed wtih India ink in photos - others had their faces hacked at with razor blades. King speculates, "I think that the more violent of the re-touchings were a way to prove that you were a good Stalinist." Chilling.

-- Hitler's destruction of the village of Dollershem ... used the village as a shooting range ... Ruined churches, hollow walls ... Apparently, the hospital there had the birth certificate of his father in the archives. Evidence of his possible Jewish blood. An entire town destroyed, people killed ... to avoid the reality of his past. Surrounded by enemies ... he chose to be a predator.

-- Hitler launched Operation Barbarossa. Invasion of Russia. Footage of surrendering Russian troops. Hands in the air.


-- Stalin kind of flails about for a couple of weeks ... as though he can't believe this has happened. Finally, he "pulls himself together".

-- Now the showdown in Stalingrad.

-- If a soldier retreated from Stalingrad ... he would be shot ... and his family (of course) would be subject to retribution. Catastrophe, all around.

-- Defeat at Stalingrad. Hitler became dependent on amphetamines. Showed signs of drug toxicity - leading to more paranoia. Symptoms of Parkinson's disease. Interview with Hitler's damn BUTLER about his tremors. whoo boy!

-- In the famed bunker: the charred bodies of Eva and Hitler ... and on a desk a folder of Hitler's paintings of pastoral Austria. The Russians, when they burst in, found it.

-- Stalin paraded German prisoners of war through Red Square, to whip up the public rage.

-- The whole "accused doctor" trials in Russia. Which was mainly anti-Semitism, cloaked in some bullshit. Jewish people moved, en masse, out into Siberia.

-- Stalin's dying moment as described by his daughter. Right before he went ... he raised his stumpy left arm, with a pointed finger ... as though he was accusing and damning all those he left behind.

-- evil, cruelty, the murder of millions ... Hitler and Stalin: demonic twins of history!!


And so there you have it. My liveblog of the History Channel special on Hitler and Stalin!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (17)

Ann Marie and I met before we met, actually ...

In honor of my dear friend Ann Marie's birthday - here is an enormous post. There's a lot here that has nothing to do with Ann Marie ... but it's the extenuating circumstances ... and the fact that she was THERE as all of this stuff began. We didn't even know each other yet ... but the fact that she was THERE always seemed very very significant to me.

It was a big night, the night when we met before we actually met. Later, when we became friends, we would describe such a night as "cosmic tumblers clicking down" - but that is just me getting ahead of myself. The future unfurled from that one night ... only I, being in the present moment, could have had no idea about that. I met people that night who would end up changing my life. But it took months - and sometimes years - for the whole thing to play itself out. An extraordinary night. My first night "out" in Chicago.

I moved to Chicago in late January, having fled from LA as though I had committed a crime there. Yes, the Westfalia gave me some problems. And yes, when I left at the airport, I saw a black-paper-cut-out silhouette, a harbinger of doom to come. Things were not good, to say the least. But was that any reason for me to literally sell all of my possessions, except for my books, and RUN to Chicago?? Well, frankly, yes.

I arrived in Chicago during a snowstorm. I was going to stay with my friend Jackie until I could get on my feet again. I had one bag of clothes, and a sleeping bag. I am a cliche. I arrived in Chicago with ONE BAG and a hundred bucks to my name. My books were all in storage in LA, until I could send for them. All I had was jeans, a couple sweaters, a toothbrush, and some underwear. That was all I needed. It was a momentous moment. The first time in my adult life that I actually CHOSE something. At least that's how I see it. Up until then, everything had happened by default. But Chicago I CHOSE. I was in a state of heartbreak, my first relationship having crashed and burned. Jackie's apartment was a place of healing, and a place of RIOTOUS laughter. I could relax there. When I was ready, when I had saved up enough, I could get my own place. This was all a very good plan.

Except that we both got bronchitis almost immediately upon my arrival.

Jackie and I lay in her apartment, as the snow swirled down outside, and just SUFFERED. Jackie kept murmuring, putting her hand on her throat, "I have flaming tiki torches in there ..."

We suffered the tiki-torch torment for a MONTH. Neither of us had health insurance, of course, so we just battered it back with cold meds from Walgreens, and orange juice, and vitamins. (Uhm - Xenu?) There were times when it felt like we would never be well. We had a Sunday night ritual: we would watch Life Goes On, our favorite show. We LIVED that show. It was the season of Chad Lowe (marvelous work from him!!) and when Becca really came into her own. We LOVED it. We lay on her couch, enduring the tiki torches in our throats, and watched the show, croaking out our comments.

That was my introduction to Chicago. I was single for the first time in 3 and a half years. I was dealing with an awful breakup - my now ex-boyfriend calling Jackie's house to talk about how sad he was, how much he missed me - dealing with the fact that a new life was now beginning for me. So of course I got TOTALLY sick, which put off the inevitable moment of: "Whoo-hoo, I'm single, I'm young, let's go out and meet some MEN!"

Finally ... finally ... after being sick for the entire month of February ... Jackie and I started getting better. Slowly but surely. We were chastened by our shared illness, we were terrified of having the tiki torches return ... so we took it really slowly. I signed up with a temp agency, and immediately started getting work. I would put on my one skirt, and my one nice sweater, and go off to some office in the Loop and answer phones. I had only been to Chicago once before for less than 24 hours. I had moved there pretty much on a HUNCH. I had good friends there ... but I just had a HUNCH about Chicago. That I would love it.

Manuevering the Loop, strolling into these plush offices, answering phones ... completely new surroundings ... a completely new LIFE ... it was such a vivid and surreal time. I was still sick - the effects of bronchitis holding onto me with a death-grip ... but getting better every day. I saved every penny I made. Then came the coup. My ex-boyfriend sold the Westfalia and sent me half of the money. Which - well. It was so nice, and to this day I feel like I owe him one. That chunk of cash (and it was only, like, 300 bucks - the Westfalia was BEAT UP from our cross-country journey) made it possible for me to move into my own place. Finding an apartment in Chicago was easy, easy, easy. I found a studio (in the building where Jackie used to live ... I had stayed with her when we drove through Chicago on our way out west) - and moved in. I had no furniture, people. None. I slept on the floor IN MY SLEEPING BAG. I had no pots, no pans, no tables, no towels, no drapes, no NOTHING. It took me a couple months to furnish the place. I was in no rush. What did I care? I had my own place! My very first own apartment!! I had my priorities straight. I signed my lease, and immediately (at least that's how I remember it - as immediately) downtown to the Animal Rescue League to get a cat. It was my dream to have my own cat. The cat I ended up getting deserves a post all his own - which I should do someday. I named him Sammy - he was already an adult. I can barely write about him without feeling all emotional. Anyway, I had to come pick him up the following day so he could have all his shots and stuff like that. But then I took him home - in a little crate - sitting on the L train, with poor Sammy mewling piteously from within the box.

And then there we were ... in my dark little studio a block away from Lake Michigan ... with no furniture ... just a sleeping bag and my suitcase ... and Sammy tiptoeing around the joint, staring around him with wide green eyes radiating alarm. Could it be??? thought Sammy. Could it be that I have come home to stay?????? I would wake up in the middle of the night, lying on the floor in my sleeping bag, to see Sammy perched on my pillow, right beside my head, staring into my face with huge glimmering eyes. hahahahaha He was at point-blank range. Just STARING at me. He had obviously had a hard life. Someone had messed with him before I got there. I would be like, "It's okay, Sammy ... you don't have to get into that crate again ... You get to stay here." (Sammy thinks: Uhm ... in an empty apartment? Uhm ... thanks???)

Anyway, sorry - this is supposed to be a post about my friend Ann Marie ... and how we met before we met ... but all of this stuff comes to my mind when I think about that first night. It was a momentous time for me. I was going on instinct ... for the first time in my adult life. Not since I was 8 years old did I just sit down, think: "Hmmm. What do I want to do right now?" and then go ahead and DO it.

I started auditioning. I got cast in something right away. This was another thing that would end up being momentous - and, if you trace it back, if you look at all the connecting links ... that experience in that show is what eventually, years later, would get me to move to New York.

I don't know ... something was definitely going ON with me in those first months in Chicago, albeit at an unconscious level. I was tapping into something. The cosmic? Perhaps. I didn't FEEL like it ... but looking at the end results, I know now that I definitely was.

Jackie had moved to Chicago a year before, and had been taking improv classes at Improv Olympic, which, at that point, was just a start-up - not the monolith that it is now. It didn't have its own theatre, like it does now - it had a space above the Wrigleyside Bar. Jackie kept telling me how fun the shows were, and how - when we got better - when the damn savages carrying the TIKI TORCHES in our throats strolled back into the jungle from whence they came - we should go to a show. "So many cute guys, Sheila! It's so much fun!!"

So finally, in mid-March, we were ready. We were healed enough to feel that a night out, and a couple of drinks, would not plummet us back into illness.

Not to be weird, but I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we didn't go to the improv show THAT night, but went another night. I sometimes actually SHIVER at the prospect. If I hadn't met Phil, then I wouldn't have gone out on that one date with Phil, where he took me to see Pat McCurdy ... If I hadn't gone to that one show, then I would not have heard of Pat McCurdy which meant that I would not have gone BACK to his show months later ... which then meant that I would not have met Ann Marie again ... and eventually become best friends with her ... and eventually perform at Milwaukee Summer Fest with Pat AND Ann Marie AND Phil ... and ... and ... and ... There are SO many things that were made possible from that first night out in Chicago (a couple things I haven't even mentioned yet), and I literally SHIVER to think of how close I came to having these beautiful things not happen. It's more cosmic than I am even saying, because some things are sacred to me, and not something I choose to share. But this random meeting, with this beautiful nice smiling man named Phil, made SO many other things possible - that I literally feel like I will be in his debt forever!! If Jackie and I had decided to go to the improv show the NEXT night - then maybe Phil would not have been there, which meant that Ann Marie would not have been there ... which ... God forbid. Literally my whole LIFE would be different now ... in more ways than I can even describe. Creepy. To be able to locate a moment when, almost casually, and without your knowing, your entire future is in the balance. I mean, who knows ... maybe I would have discovered Pat McCurdy all on my own ... and maybe I would have befriended Ann Marie ANYway, even without the Phil connection ... but ... the chances are slim.

I'm getting ahead of myself again, but it's hard not to ... when thinking about that amazing night ... when I met not one, not two, but THREE people who would end up changing my life SIGNIFICANTLY. And not immediately, either ... it would take some time for all of those cosmic tumblers to even START clicking ... but the future was set into motion that night.

Jackie and I, giddy at our newfound HEALTH, primped ourselves into oblivion. It was like we had just discovered the joy of lipstick. It was like we had just discovered the FREEDOM of blow drying our hair. We were going OUT! We were leaving the sick den! We were going to ... revel in our own health!!! We were going to ... omigod ... have a beer. Everything had a novelty to it. We had been sick for so long. I had not experienced the nightlife of Chicago. I had not been single in so long. The night was RIPE with possibility!

So off we went to the Wrigleyside - a place I will always have such affection for. So much happened there. But this night was the first. And the way the whole night played out ... was pretty much the way it ALWAYS was there. It was a place of adventure.

Jackie and I sat in the audience, and just had so much fun that we were nearly hysterical. We had been released from a prison of illness. We were out of our minds. My cold beer was literally the best thing I had ever tasted in my life. I sipped it nervously at first, teeny tiny sips ... fearful that at the first HINT of alcohol, the savages would come tearing out of the jungle, brandishing a conflagration of raging tiki torches ... but everything seemed okay. My body was able to handle the intake of a bit of alcohol. Life was good!!

Now, a couple of things I remember - they seemed random at the time, but in reality? They were all part of the cosmic tumblers clicking down. Maybe tapping into the cosmic requires a bit of unselfconsciousness, trust, and a LACK of awareness that ANYTHING cosmic might be going on. By that I mean: people who walk around saying, "It's meant to be!" or "Everything has a reason!!" (or "I can feel that this is the year I will meet my soulmate!!") may actually be cutting OFF their access to the cosmic - because they are so insistent on seeing everything as cosmic. Bear with me. There are only 2 or 3 people who read me (uhm -David?) who I think will know JUST what I am talking about. Sometimes those who parrot "It's meant to be" endlessly are not really thinking about what they are saying. Is it really meant to be? Does EVERYTHING happen for a reason? Tell that to Anne Frank. Oh, but wait - you CAN'T tell that to Anne Frank - CAUSE SHE WAS KILLED. Sorry, the "everything happens for a reason" attitude makes me cranky if it is the parroted response to any event, any where. It connotes intellectual laziness, more often than not - an unwillingness to really think about things, and contemplate the fact that shit sometimes JUST HAPPENS. Okay - so you see where I'm coming from? I'm not an anarchist, and I do believe that there are patterns ... we just need to get up high enough to see the patterns ... and very few people can do that. So I was not sitting in that improv club, thinking: "Everything happens for a reason!!" It is only in retrospect, looking back, that I think: "Holy God, something was really going ON that night!"

So here's what I remember.

I remember being very taken with one of the performers. Immediately. He was sooooooo funny, and had a great energy - a huge infectious smile. Very talented guy. He was on one improv team, and before they performed, he sat out at a table in the audience with a couple friends. Every time I looked over there, I saw all of them just HOWLING with laughter. I liked him. I liked how he laughed. Turns out, his name was Phil.

I felt like I was being released from prison, and not just because of the bronchitis. I had been tear-soaked for MONTHS because of my long-drawn-out breakup ... I hadn't been able to even THINK about how fun it would be to be single again! But suddenly, sitting there in the Wrigleyside, I started to feel this shimmer ... this shimmer of excitement ... Like: back in the mating dance again. If I'm interested in that guy over there ... then I just need to subtly send him signals I'm interested. I couldn't do that when I was in a relationship!!

I was not aware that I was sending signals - but apparently he wasn't the only one who picked up on the pheromonal flashing. Uhm ... many others became aware of me. And I swear: I was just sitting at my table with Jackie, having a beer. But ...

Now there is so much else that is weird here - but I won't tell all yet. All in good time.

Here's what happened, and I just so happen to have my journal entry from that moment (member this, Ann Marie??) I've put in initials for one person (M.) - which will become pertinent later. Jackie, since she was taking classes there, knew all of the performers - at least by sight - The same guys performed every week. She pointed them out. "And that's Phil ... and over there is M., the hottie of the improv club ..." Okay, ya got that? Onward to my pheromonal flashes FROM THE AUDIENCE.

The improv had to do with telekinesis and reptilian creatures taking over the earth. The man with telekinesis ended up in a disco. It is so pathetic that there are NO woman in the company. M., I guess, felt that the situation needed to be rectified, because he stood there in his bow-legged stance, and said in his booming bass voice: "BUT ... but ... there were no women at this club! So ..." and then suddenly - oh God - he looked down at me - Me - in the front row and said, "SO HE FORGED OUT TO FIND ONE!" And then the telekinetic individual (whose real name was Ian, I think) jumped off the stage and came SMACK over to me and promptly began trying to use his telekinetic powers on me. I was thrilled yet horrified. Did they plan this? It felt planned to me, as in: "Let's get that orange-haired chick in the front row."

M. watched the telekinetic guy try to press his brain waves into mine for a fruitless minute, and then he became Narrator Man again. "And wasn't it interesting? She - a woman - resisted him. When everyone else succumbed, she was immune to his powers." M. then screamed at the top of his lungs: "SO HE AND HIS FRIENDS FORCED HER TO DANCE WITH THEM!" The entire cast swooped off the stage, surrounded me, lifted me up out of my seat as though we were at a seance, and they carried me up on stage whooping like banshees. Disco music started blaring around us, all of the guys formed a circle around me and disco-danced AT me like maniacs, shrieking the lyrics right in my face. Suddenly I was in the middle of a telekinetically-influenced all-male disco. The audience was going crazy. Finally, they released me and let me go sit back down.

I suddenly got this weird feeling that they were all very aware of me. I just knew that, for whatever reason, I had been discussed. I felt like I was being watched.

This may sound like the thought process of a very vain girl - but it turns out I was right - which I found out later from multiple sources. There was a male pow-wow backstage - "Who is that redhead in the front row? Does anyone know her? Where did she come from? Let's get her." I KNEW it. I could feel it. I had been ambushed.

After the show, everyone trooped downstairs to hang out in the bar of the Wrigleyside. General drunken mayhem ensued. Again, I felt like I was being watched. M. sat at the bar - and I just felt like he was aware of me. Now that's insane - but pheromones are strong and ... I could feel that even though he WASN'T LOOKING AT ME ... he knew exactly where I was at all times. It seemed a little bit crazy that I would think that but I wasn't used to being single anymore - I wasn't used to knowing what kind of signals I was giving out.

And then of course there was Phil. The smiling handsome man I had been so taken with.

Here's what I wrote in my journal:

I peeked over at Phil who had gone over to the two girls who had been in the audience, obviously good friends of his. He had a cigarette stuck behind one ear and a friendly happy smile ... We ensconced ourselves by the jukebox and with my radar detectors I saw Phil. I saw M.. And I remember feeling, or knowing, that some of the guys were as aware of me as I was of them. I had no idea why this would be. Funny, though: I got none of those I-am-aware-of-you vibes from Phil. He was hanging with the 2 girls who had come, drinking beer.

Jackie eventually went off to the bathroom and I sat alone, listening to music, looking around, feeling very conspicuous. And my eyes happened to fall on Phil at the very moment he decided to charge over and talk to me. I thought: "He must be on his way to the bathroom. He wouldn't be coming over to talk to me." But then there he was, leaning across my bar, demanding of me, "WHO ARE YOU?"

I banged my fist on the bar and demanded back, "WHY does everyone in this improv group seem to know who I am? What did I DO?"

He said, "I don't know, man - who are you? Do you take classes here?" He called me "man" - why was I charmed by that? I don't know why but I was.

This, to quote a very famous film, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. We began it by shouting at one another. "WHO ARE YOU?" "WHAT DID I DO?"

Cosmic tumblers click click clicking ...

Jackie ended up going home - and I was left to fend for myself. But ... Phil was so nice, and so much fun to talk to ... that I felt okay letting her go. I didn't need my wing-girl, I was okay.

The next cosmic tumbler is coming up ... click clicking down ...

Phil started interrogating me. It was SO much fun, very flirty, lots of laughter - I was a young woman, but I felt like I hadn't flirted in eons, and I had forgotten the joy of it. "Where are you from? Are you from Chicago? Who are you? What's your deal? WHO ARE YOU?" Laughter. Phil's a beautiful person. He really put me at ease. So anyway, I started answering his questions - telling him I had just moved to Chicago from LA. We started bantering about LA. The freeways, the cars, etc. etc.

Onward with the journal:

At one point I sensed a presence behind me, turned, and M. had sat down next to me and was leering at me. At us. Phil gave M. an enormous grin. There was all kinds of significant telegraphing going on in their eyes.

Phil said, "M., this is Sheila. We are talking about LA."
M. said, "I hate California."
I said, "I hate it too."
Then M. said to me, "Hey, that was totally unplanned, what happened tonight."
"Yeah, right."
"No, really!"

Over the course of the evening it became the joke that to get rid of M., Phil and I would launch into a vigorous discussion of LA freeways. I think Phil really was trying to say to M., "Get lost." Finally, Phil looked straight at me, shutting M. out, and said, "And the 10 West goes straight into that Santa Monica sunset!" M. took the hint, and walked away, but he kept trying to join our conversation. Phil would, in the middle of us talking about something else, start bellowing about the Pacific Coast Highway and then M. would cringe and cower like the Wicked Witch of the West and wince away, laughing. Phil and I would sit in expectant silence as M. sauntered toward us yet again, and then simultaneously start babbling into each other's faces at point blank range. 'Well, when the 5 becomes the 101 ..." "Oh yeah, that 101, huh ..."

Oh man, I can so see that whole SCENE. And it just makes me laugh. I can so see now, in retrospect, what was going on there. Because here's the second cosmic tumbler: M. was obviously trying to butt in on Phil's pick-up moment, and thankfully the two guys were man enough to make a joke about it.

But had I known what the cosmic tumbler had in store for me ...

I speak of him now as "M", he comes up a lot here. And THAT is how we met. He had seen me from backstage - and decided to "meet" me, by making me part of the improv show ... but then Phil, a friend of his, "got to me first" (M.'s exact words).

If anyone able to see the future had whispered to me in that moment: "This man is going to end up being one of the most important men in your life ... EVER ... As a matter of fact, not too long from now, you will leave him 40 haikus in 40 days on his answer machine ... " I would have thought ... huh?? What????? How would THAT happen??

It began that night. Magnets. He and I were magnets. And it SHOWED that night ... even though Phil "got to me first".

Eventually, that summer - maybe June or July - my path crossed M.'s yet again. And this time there was no Phil around to block the way, and he got my phone number with extreme efficiency and finesse. Actually, that's not true. He bumbled, and mumbled, and ignored me, and finally asked JACKIE for my phone number, because he thought that he would scare me away. I busted him whispering to Jackie - and overheard him say, "I really like your friend ..." and I was like, "What are we, in 8th grade? I will give you my phone number RIGHT NOW." He called me the next day. Long before he would climb in my window "just to say hi", or stand in my alley to talk to me - looking up at me, leaning out over my window-sill, we went on a couple of dates - the third date I posted here, because it always struck me as just such a funny glimpse at the two of us in a specific moment in time - before we knew each other, before we trusted, before we knew that this thing was going to just keep going. The date was complete and utter anarchy - and would have driven a more conventional girl absolutely INSANE. Like: why aren't we progressing in a normal manner? What does it mean? What ARE we to each other? But when I met M., I didn't want conventional. I had had enough of conventional. And ... voila. There he was. Our third date, as insane as it was, set the tone for all other dates to follow. This went on for YEARS. In a funny way, I think M. knows me better than anyone. He knows everything.

But there he is - immortalized in that first diary entry of my first night out in Chicago ... trying to butt in while ANOTHER guy is hitting on me.

Truly amazing.

Back to the journal entry of my first night out in Chicago - which then moves on to the THIRD cosmic tumbler (again: I had no premonition that ANY of this would be part of a cosmic tumbler. I was just flirting with Phil. I thought M. was sexy - damn sexy, and I was flattered that he was trying to hit on me, to no avail - but it was Phil who had caught my fancy first. No foreshadowing here.)

Phil said to me, "Hey, you wanna come meet all my friends?" Well, of course I did. So with this huge sweeping "follow me" gesture, he paraded me about and took me over to the two girls who had come to see the show. They were so friendly. Phil screamed, "EVERYONE! THIS IS SHEILA!" And there was none of that female behavior of taking stock of me overtly. They both beamed at me and said, "Hi, Sheila!"

Within three minutes, the three of us were laughing about the condom dispensers in the women's bathroom, and the condoms bearing the name SAVAGE LOVE. We all watched the softball game on TV.

One of those girls would turn out to be Ann Marie - only we wouldn't REALLY meet until MONTHS later - when I went back to a Pat show, and we started conversing in line for the girls' bathroom. We did not put it together that we had actually met each other before until some time after that ... and of course, when we remembered it - all we could do was SCREAM in each other's faces: 'THAT WAS YOU??? I REMEMBER YOU!!" I so remembered her smiling face grinning up at me, when Phil introduced me. The woman has spectacular dimples, and I remembered them. I also remembered how open and welcoming she was to me - this random girl their friend was blatantly hitting on. She didn't give me hostile competitive vibes, she was so nice, so friendly, and a really cool woman - that was apparent immediately.

Phil did end up getting my phone number - he followed me outside to get it. He gave me a quick little kiss and brandished my phone number at me, "I WILL be using this!" Such a sweetheart.

Little did I know that he and Ann Marie had had a BET over who could get someone's phone number first that night. bwahahahahahahahahaha Of course, all of this only became clear months and months later as well. Phil had obviously liked the looks of me ... but he was DETERMINED to seal the deal with me (ie: get my digits) so that he could win the bet. Hence the single-mindedness. The guy could charm the bonnet off an Amish woman, I'll tell you that.

So so funny, though ... to remember that moment of introduction. Meanwhile, I was all just an unwitting part of a BET that Phil and Ann Marie had with each other ... but I had no idea that months later, I would meet Ann Marie and within moments it was as though we had known each other all our lives. It was truly as though we SHOULD have been friends in high school ... we clicked on THAT level.

But who could see the future that crazy snowy night at the Wrigleyside? Who could peek forward and see what would happen? That Phil and I would segue into friends. That Phil would introduce me to Pat McCurdy. That Pat McCurdy would end up writing a song for me and putting me on one of his CDs. That Pat would hire Phil, Ann Marie, our other friend Kenny and me to perform with him in front of THOUSANDS of beer-soaked music fans. That Ann Marie and I would end up becoming dear dear friends. Like lifelong friends. I mean ... how often does THAT happen once you become an adult? And that M. and I would have enough insane adventures to fill a small public library. That a couple of years later, I would literally be sobbing on the phone with M., because I was leaving Chicago to move to New York, and I had a fever of 103, and I was afraid I wouldn't get to see him before I left.

Who could predict our future intimacy from our first encounters?

M. says: "That wasn't planned tonight, by the way."
"Yeah, right."
"No, really!"

Flash-forward 4 years.

Me, sobbing, "I am going to be ROBBED of seeing you before I go!"
M., calm, manly, "You just get well. Don't worry. We'll see ea---"
Me, sobbing, insistent, "ROBBED. I am going to be ROBBED."
Long pause.
M. continued, calm, unruffled, "You focus on getting well, Sheila. I'll be here. Don't worry."

What?? From his goofball awkward flirting the first night to that?

Time-travel moments like that blow me away, and this first night out in Chicago provide a ton of them.

Phil shouting, "EVERYONE? THIS IS SHEILA!"
Ann Marie grinning up at me. "Hi!"

Flash-forward a year and a half to THIS magic Mary Mack moment.

Or flash-forward 8 years to our trip to Ireland.

Or flash-forward a couple of years to the time she showed up at my apartment in Chicago, with BARE FEET, so freaked out because a pigeon had flown through her window and basically attacked her like a rabid dog. Ann Marie had shrieked, fled the scene, and drove immediately to my house. The two of us then returned to her apartment, and snuck through her apartment wielding brooms and mops as weapons - as though we were Inspector Clouseau waiting for Cato to strike.

Or flash-forward 2 years to our unbeLIEVable experience in Milwaukee, when we performed on the big Miller Oasis stage at Milwaukee Summer Fest. I mean - WHAT? That literally had to be the funnest 4 days of my life.

The laughter that she and I have experienced ... has been almost dangerous to us, medically. There was one day in particular which we now refer to as our "Beowulf day" because it was so EPIC in scope ... when it literally felt like we had melded into one person. We could not stop laughing for, I am not lying, EIGHT HOURS. I felt my entire personality dissolve. I could not get it back together. We even had to go out that night - with 2 friends of hers who were in from out of town, I believe - and Ann and I were so ravaged by our day-long fit of laughter that we were barely fit to be in public. Ann informed the two guys bluntly, "We share one brain. Watch this." Then she turned to me, BORED her eyes into my head, and said, "What am I thinking about?" I am shaking with laughter now, remembering her face. Her eyes were absolutely insane. Like - YOU try laughing for eight hours straight and see how insane YOU feel!

Our experiences have been many. I have called her at two in the morning, because the heartache was so searingly awful. She has called me at two in the morning, with her own nightmares.

We have seen a man turn into a dinosaur. We have two-stepped with cowboys. We have danced jigs in small pubs in Dublin. We have co-hosted karaeoke parties in random Chicago suburbs. We have pretended we were other people. We have watched Lady Elaine do air guitar. We have propelled ourselves into the blazing star repeatedly.

Ann Marie used to shout at M.: "I AM IN YOUR LIFE!" He would shout back: "YOU ARE NOT IN MY LIFE." A small joke between the two of them. Funny to think about, in the context of that very first night.

I could go on.

She and I would get dressed up to go out, and she would glance at her own outfit, look at mine, and say, "Good. We've got that good girl/bad girl thing going on."

I could go on!

The conversations about Anne of Green Gables! She's read them all! Multiple times!!

I could go on!!

We ACTUALLY met, as in, the beginning of our friendship, standing in line for the girls bathroom at Lounge Ax. But it could not be more perfect that we met on that night at the Wrigleyside - before we actually met. There was always something a little bit cosmic about she and I together. We fit so well together as friends that it was always a little bit uncanny ... We just CLICKED. And perhaps we needed a bit of time to get used to the idea.

To get REALLY cosmic here, it's like the universe pushed Jackie and I to go to the Wrigleyside that night - even though we still kinda felt too sick to be out and about. And the universe then presented me with three people who were destined to be MAJOR players in the course of my life. But nothing came of it that night. Phil and I did not become friends that night. That happened much later. M. and I did not start going out that night. That happened much later. Ann Marie and I did not become friends that night. That would happen much later. But there they all were. There they all were. In one place, at one time. My very first night out in Chicago. My very first night out as a single person. I met them ALL that night. And then walked away ... having no idea what had just happened.

But the cosmic tumblers had gone to work. In their invisible silent way - setting into motion the events that would eventually bring us all - yes ALL - back together again.

Very rarely do cosmic tumblers reveal themselves, very rarely do you hear them click ... click ... clicking down ...

It was only much later that I would look back on that first night at the Wrigleyside, and think: "Hmmm. Now that is biZARRE."

M., by the way, was mainly undaunted by the fact that Phil had obviously set his sights on me. The cocky bastard didn't give up - for that entire first night. He never made a nuisance of himself - (I thought he was damn sexy, anyway ... so having him vy for my attention was so flattering I thought I would have cardiac arrest every time I noticed it going on.) As long as Phil and I weren't boyfriend/girlfriend, as long as I was still up for grabs, M. would let me know he was interested.

In his own ... really retarded way.

We all watched the softball game on TV. At one point, I felt this tapping on my back, incessant, not hard or poking - just touch, touch, touch - like a pulsing neon light. For some reason, I totally assimilated it without turning around to see who was doing the tapping. My attitude was more along the lines of: "Hm. Someone's poking my back. Hm." Finally, I turned around and it was M., who, when I didn't turn around right away to see who the fuck was TOUCHING ME, decided to see how long I would just stand there allowing him to poke me, as though there were nothing out of the ordinary about it. I came to my senses immediately, and then we both started LAUGHING about how I just stood there, nonchalantly drinking my beer, watching TV, letting him poke me in the back.

I am laughing out loud.

To me, he was just a random hot guy who was messing around with me, making me laugh, and being as GOOFY as possible ... which was his way of sending me a pheromonal smoke-signal: "Pick me over Phil!"

I chose Phil. At least to go out on a date with him. But ... who did I end up with? For years? M.

Gotta love the boy's persistence. He couldn't see the future either. I was just a "new girl" on the scene, and he wanted me, so he hit on me. But I guess on some level, on the level where things make sense, on the level of cosmic tumblers ... I believe that he and I were flirting with the larger pattern, the cosmic one, in our brief encounters that night. We just weren't ready to really go there. It wasn't time yet.

Ann Marie smiled up at me, with her beautiful face, her shining eyes, her gorgeous hair - the girl is a knockout - and I felt her warmth, I felt her openness to me, her non-competitive thing - I felt her friendliness, and I was very much drawn to her. She and I were flirting with the larger pattern, the cosmic one, in our brief encounters that night. But it wasn't time for us to become friends yet.

And so I thank God for Phil. The man who took me out on a date to see Pat McCurdy play. And from there ... all things followed.

Without Phil, I would never have met Ann, and I just can't picture that. I can't picture never having have met her. The thought is truly baffling ... and I am telling you: I SHIVER when I think how close the call was. Jackie and I were both still sick. We could easily have stayed in that night. Now perhaps a person who TRULY believes in cosmic-patterns, and "meant to be" would say, immediately, "If it was meant to be that you and she would be friends ... you would have met ANYWAY. Somehow!"

I don't know if I believe that.

Is ANYTHING inevitable, all on its own? Besides death, I mean? Death is coming, whether we want it to or not.

I do believe that I was destined to meet Ann Marie - it's just that it took a couple of different meetings to seal the deal. My life is unimaginable without her in it. Truly ... difficult to even picture it. She was so much a part of my experience in Chicago that I can't separate her from ANY of it. (uhm ... she and I parked in a car outside M.'s house, analyzing the quality of the light we saw in the window to discern whether or not he was there ... "That looks to me like a light left on accidentally when someone leaves the house ... Like, I don't think he's home." Uhm - girls. Does the LIGHT actually LOOK different in different circumstances? No matter. That was the kind of friend she was.)

Her angry face berating the loser post-frat guys who refused to move out of the apartment Mitchell and I were moving into. We showed up on the morning of the move-in, a pouring rainy morning, with a Uhaul truck full of stuff ... to find three stumbling hungover guys who HADN'T EVEN PACKED YET. Mitchell and I were stunned, silent ... The hungover guys tried to bond with us, drunkenly, like: "hahahaha, you know how it is .." Ann Marie peeked around a corner (she had been stalking through the apartment, staring around her in outrage) - and said, "No, you know what? We're really pissed right now." Wipe that smirk off your face!

She was that kind of friend. She would enter into your experience so willingly, if she was your friend. She would live it with you. If you felt the need to propel yourself into a blazing star, she would leap in there with you.

Friends like that are priceless.

Happy birthday, Ann Marie. My life would not be the same without you in it. And I'm so glad those cosmic tumblers were so busy at work that first night out ... making sure our paths crossed ... and then ... (with a little help from Phil) making sure our paths crossed AGAIN. Like the universe was repeating itself, saying to us: "Look, girls, you are going to LOVE each other. We tried to set it up back in March at the Wrigleyside ... but you didn't really run with it ... So ... here you are again, 'randomly' next to one another in line for the bathroom at Lounge Ax. You don't remember it yet - but you have met before ... and TRUST ME. You are going to LOVE each other. You are gonna have to TRUST US on this one. We don't do this often, but we're giving you a second chance right now. So GO. RUN WITH IT."

And we did.

The universe breathed a sigh of relief. "FINALLY. They got the hint. Okay ... we can check that one off the list. Take 'Get Ann Marie and Sheila to become friends' off the list, mkay? NEXT!"

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Today in history: March 29, 1848

Ice jam on the Niagara.

Just after midnight, the thunderous sound of water surging over the great falls at Niagara came to a halt. The eery silence persisted throughout the day and into the next evening until the waters of Lake Erie broke through the blockage and resumed their course down the river and over the falls.

Absolutely aMAZING!!

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The Books: "Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Cape Town" (Paul Theroux)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

41VC6WAPCSL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Dark Star Safari : Overland from Cairo to Capetown by Paul Theroux.

I love Theroux's "travel" books. I love his novels, too, but I have a specific affection for his many many "travel" books. I put quotations around the word travel, because really - they don't actually qualify as your basic travelogue in any way, shape, or form. They have to be the crankiest travel books of all time. Sometimes he is outright MEAN to the countries he visits. He just does. not. care. Reminds of me Anne Tyler's book The Accidental Tourist. Theroux has curiosity about other places, but I don't think he really likes people all that much. His books are great reading, and I highly recommend them.

His latest travel book (came out a couple years ago) is called Dark Star Safari. He travels overland from Egypt to South Africa. At some points, the only mode of getting from one place to another is via dugout canoe. Or on foot.

He had lived in Africa for a while in the late 1960s, I believe, as a teacher, and had great affection for the place. The 1960s were a time of heady optimism in Africa, the shackles of colonialism being shrugged off - people had great hopes. Theroux returns to the place where he taught - somewhere in the Great Rift Valley, I believe - and is not only shocked at how little development there has been, but angry. It is an indictment of the entire "aid" community. A lot of the rest of the book is rather light-hearted - I love his visit to Harar, this city outside Addis Ababa where the poet Rimbaud went to live. Theroux just wants to see the place, wants to see the medieval walled town that still has a leper colony huddled outside the wall. Hyenas roam the street. Rimbaud's house is still standing - and Theroux goes to visit it. It's VERY interesting. But a lot of the rest of the book is breathlessly angry. I like breathlessly angry. Especially if you're a good writer, and Theroux is fantastic.

The excerpt I've chosen is his journey into Zimbabwe. It's sentences like this one that make Theroux a really special writer. He says about Mugabe: "Really, there was no deadlier combination than bookworm and megalomaniac." Good Lord, the truth in that unexpected statement!

Here he is, on a bus going into Zimbabwe.

From Dark Star Safari : Overland from Cairo to Capetown by Paul Theroux.

Sitting on the Harare bus, traveling the road through Zimbabwe's eastern highlands, the farming country from Mutare to Marondera, I had an intimation of distress and made a note at the back of the book I was reading: Not many cars. It was a beautiful land of tilled fields and browsing cattle and farmhouses, yet it seemed oddly empty, as though a plague had struck. Much of what I saw could have been the set of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, for here and there were perambulating Africans, and I got glimpses of Spam-colored settlers. Apart from these few individuals, the place seemed curiously unpeopled and inert.

The book in my lap, which I'd bought in Mutare, helped me understand a little of what was happening. It was African Tears: The Zimbabwe Land Invasions, written by Catherine Buckle, a woman who had been robbed in installments. Her Marondera farm had been snatched from her in piecemeal and violent intrusions over a six-month period.

"It's a one-man problem," many white Zimbabweans explained to me. Depending on whom I talked to, they said variously, "The president is out of his mind" or "He's lost it" or "He's off his chump." Even the kindly winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, the Reverend Desmond Tutu, had said, "The man is bonkers."

The Robert Mugabe rumors, which I dutifully collected, depicted the poor thing as demented as a result of having been tortured in a white-run prison: long periods in solitary, lots of abuse, cattle prods electrifying his privates, and the ultimate insult -- his goolies had been crimped. Another rumor had him in an advanced stage of syphilis; his brain was on fire. "He was trained by the Chinese, you know," many people said. And: "We knew something was up when he started calling himself 'comrade'." He had reverted, too -- did not make a decision without consulting his witch doctors. His disgust with gays was well known: "They are dogs and should be treated like dogs." He had banned the standard school exams in Zimbabwe, "to break with the colonial past." Some rumors were fairly simple: he had a lifelong hatred of whites, and it was his ambition to drive them out of the country. Of the British prime minister he said, "I don't want him sticking his pink nose in our affairs." Noting all this, I kept thinking of what Gertrude Rubadiri had told me: "We called him 'bookworm'." Really, there was no deadlier combination than bookworm and megalomaniac.

Harare did not look like a ruin. Even in its bankruptcy, Harare was to my mind the most pleasant African city I had seen so far -- the safest, the tidiest, the least polluted, the most orderly. After traffic-clogged Cairo, overheated Khartoum, crumbling tin-roofed Addis, crime-ridden Nairobi, disorderly Kampala, demoralized Dar es Salaam, ragged Lilongwe, desperate Blantyre, and battle-scarred and bombed-out Beira, Harare looked pretty and clean, the picture of tranquility, the countryside an Eden.

Much of Harare's apparent peacefulness was due to the extreme tension in the city, for its order was also a sort of lifelessness, the unnatural silence of someone holding his breath. I had the premonition that something was about to happen, within months or a year perhaps, and this was a prelude of silence and inaction before an enormous collapse, a violent election, social disorder, even civil war. It was wrong to mistake this calm for obedience and belief, since it was more likely the natural reserve of people who had already been through serious upheavals. British rule had ended abruptly when a white minority proclaimed a unilateral declaration of independence in 1965. Britain imposed sanctions thereafter, and a ten-year guerrilla war ended with the black majority taking power in 1980, and then began twenty years of Comrade Bob.

Years of sanctions had made Zimbabweans resilent and self-sufficient. Zimbabwe was at its core an independent and proud place, a country that had a manufacturing industry. There was hardly any gasoline or diesel fuel for sale, but most other necessities were available. Even in these hard times, Zimbabweans were still making things -- paper products, clothing, household furniture, shoes; they had dairies, bakieries, breweries, meat-processing plants, and canneries. There were many good hotels, though most of them were empty.

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March 28, 2006

Seamus on Yeats, Anne on Maud Gonne ... general Irish revelry

Beautiful and interesting piece on William Butler Yeats by Seamus Heaney. Peteb sent it to me a whlie back but I am just getting to it now.

Some great observations:

Conquest, difficulty, labour: these terms indicate the nature of Yeats's creative disposition. From the start, he was enamoured of Blake's conviction that energy is eternal delight, yet the development of his own thought brought him more and more to the conclusion that conflict was the inescapable condition of being human. So, as his art matured and the articulation of his beliefs became more clarified and forceful, Yeats's poems typically conveyed a sensation of certitude achieved by great effort and of contradictions quelled. Poems in which the defiant self is pitted against hostile or disabling conditions - "An Irish Airman Foresees his Death", "September 1913", "Meditations in Time of Civil War"- are complemented by poems that read like discharges of pure, self-possessed energy, poems from which the accidental circumstances have been excluded so that all that remains is the melody and stamina of resurgent spirit - "The Cold Heaven", "Byzantium", "Long-legged Fly".

I had such a good time, this past fall, reading the complete works of Yeats - sitting backstage in my dressing room, I had a lot of time back there during other scenes - and I would sit at the makeup mirror, dressed in my costume, as the show went on out on stage, and read. It's really cool to read all the early stuff - because then the later poems just shine all the more.

I was very very interested to read Heaney's words on Maud Gonne, in terms of her effect on Yeats' life (and, more importantly - his creativity):

And all the while, of course, there was Maud Gonne, "high and solitary and most stern" according to one of the poems about her, "foremost among those I would hear praised" according to another, and "the troubling of my life" according to a famous sentence in his Autobiographies. The passion she inspired - and as readers we experience it more as creative power than erotic need - made her a figure of primary poetic radiance, a Dublin Beatrice, an archetype as much as a daily presence. Nevertheless, Yeats's poetry, his politics and his involvement with the occult received an extra charge of intensity from her day to day reality in his life, and when she appeared in the title role of his subversive play Cathleen Ni Houlihan (1902), another kind of maturity was achieved.

This makes me think of Anne's post about Maud Gonne quite a while back (it took me some searching to find it!!) - but it gives a really interesting glimpse of this woman, the great unrequited love of Yeats' life. I read some funny quote somewhere (can't remember where) that said: "Any biography of Yeats would have to have in every chapter the following words: 'And he proposed marriage yet again to Maud Gonne'." Poor man! But oh - the creative energies it unleashed!

Anyway, go read the whole thing. It's goosebump-inducing for me - to read Heaney's words. He expresses so well what I feel, yet in a much more articulate way.

Posted by sheila Permalink

I caved

(To who, Sheila? Were there outside pressures? I think not. Just admit it. You caved to your own obsessive mindset that wants, nay - NEEDS - to create little compartmentalized areas for all of your obsessions to hang out. Fine.)

I created a category for Stalin, and put all the silly posts I've written in there. More to come, more to come.

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The Books: "The Gulag Archipelago" (Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

515906VVK1L._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956 by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

Not much I can say - it's a little bit overwhelming. Here's some background on Solzhenitsyn. Imprisoned in Stalin's gulag - the "gulag archipelago" - from 1945 to 1953. This is his book about how the "gulag" worked - but not just the camps themselves - the whole system. He explains, painstakingly, how the interrogations worked - how it was that people confessed in droves to things they did not do - why it was seen as an honor to turn in your family and friends - There are a couple of separate chapters on all of the sensational show-trials and what each one MEANT. Because, of course, the trials were not real. They were completely orchestrated, nothing unplanned about them at all - so we can look at them as symbolic of certain things. Solzhenitsyn's writing is extremely readable - very personable, almost like a diary. This book is HORRIBLE. He goes to the heart of the lunacy, and stays there. Not only does he stay there, but he explains it. He lived it. Russia denounced him for years. His international fame grew to the point that he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1970. Russia denounced the Nobel Prize. Of course. Typical. He never said what Russia wanted him to say. He still doesn't, come to think of it. A complicated man, someone I admire very much ... I think that The Gulag Archipelago is one of the most important books not only of the 20th century, but ever. It goes a long long way towards explaining the WHYS - and he does it in a way that really resonates with me. It's not just about political policies, or party politics, or power struggles - He talks a lot about psychology. The psychological pressure of the interrogations (which is immortalized so terrifyingly in Arthur Koestler's novel Darkness at Noon) - I always put myself in the positions of these people, I can't help myself. Maybe it's just natural curiosity, or maybe that's the part of me that's an actress, that doesn't just want to know facts - but wants to enter into the experience of others. And I can't help but try to imagine myself in those interrogation rooms, being questioned - and ... what on EARTH would have to happen in there to make me betray my friends? My boyfriend? My family? I can't IMAGINE. It's painful to think about, and yet somehow I can't help it. I try to imagine what circumstances would have to exist in order for this to occur. You get my point. That's the way my mind goes. It's horrible to contemplate, of course - it's not a pleasant daydream - but psychologically, it is one of the main things that interests me about this whole period in Russian history. The fabricated confessions. PILES of them. Glorifying that little shit who turned in his parents as kulaks. People rushing to betray their friends. Again, like I've said before - a looking-glass world. Betrayal became a virtue. It became a civic duty. How did that occur? Books like Darkness at Noon, The Great Terror by Robert Conquest, and Gulag Archipelago make great strides in answering that question.

Solzhenitsyn wrote about his own imprisonment - and what it was like - in the holding cells, and then in the forced labor camps. But he also describes the lead-up, the mass arrests, the rounds of show trials through the years, the insane year of 1937 - I'll excerpt a bit from the section on the trials.

Hard to find an excerpt. This one will do. If you haven't read this book - I can't recommend it highly enough. I went into it thinking it was going to be dry and informative ... I have no idea why I thought that. This book is the OPPOSITE of dry. You'll see in the excerpt below. He has a couple of parenthetical snarky comments - he makes fun of what's happening - you'll see how he does it. It's very very readable. All parentheticals are his. All italics are his. He even puts exclamation points in parentheses, to show how ... gobsmackingly AMAZING it all was - amazing as in 'audacious'. I love his observations on the word "Center".

From The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956 by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.

The Case of the "Tactical Center" -- August 16-20, 1920

In this case there were twenty-eight defendants present, plus additional defendants who were being tried in absentia because they weren't around.

At the very beginning of his impassioned speech, in a voice not yet grown hoarse and in phrases illumined by class analysis, the supreme accuser informs us that in addition to the landowners and the capitalists "there existed and there continues to exist one additional social stratum, the social characteristics of which have long since been under consideration by the representatives of revolutionary socialism. [In other words: to be or not to be?] This stratum is the so-called 'intelligentsia. In this trial, we shall be concerned with the judgment of history on the activity of the Russian intelligentsia" and with the verdict of the Revolution on it.

The narrow limits of our investigation prevent our comprehending exactly the particular manner in which the representatives of revolutionary socialism were taking under consideration the fate of the so-called intelligentsia and what specifically they were planning for it. However, we take comfort in the fact that these materials have been published, that they are accessible to everyone, and that they can be assembled in any required detail. Therefore, solely to understand the over-all atmosphere of the Republic, we shall recall the opinion of the Chairman of the Council of People's Commisars in the years when all these tribunal sessions were going on.

In a letter to Gorky on September 15, 1919 -- which we have already cited - Vladimir Ilyich Lenin replied to Gorky's attempts to intercede in the arrests of members of the intelligentsia, among them, evidently, some of the defendants in this trial, and, commenting on the bulk of the Russian intelligentsia of those years (the "close-to-the-Cadets-intelligentsia"), he wrote: "In actual fact they are not [the nation's] brains, but shit." On another occasion he said to Gorky: "If we break too many pots, it will be its [the intelligentsia's] fault." If the intelligentsia wants justice, why doesn't it come over to us? "I've gotten one bullet from the intelligentsia myself." (In other words, from Kaplan.)

On the basis of these feelings, he expressed his mistrust and hostility toward the intelligentsia: rotten-liberal; "pious"; "the slovenliness so customary among 'educated' people"; he believed the intelligentsia was always shortsighted, that it had betrayed the cause of the workers. (But when had the intelligentsia ever sworn loyalty to the cause of the workers, the dictatorship of the workers?)

This mockery of the intelligentsia, this contempt for the intelligentsia, was subsequently adopted with enthusiasm by the publicists and newspapers of the twenties and was absorbed into the current of day-to-day life. And in the end, the members of the intelligentsia accepted it too, cursing their eternal thoughtlessness, their eternal duality, their eternal spinelessness, and their hopeless lagging behind the times.

And this was just! The voice of the accusing power, echoed and re-echoed beneath the vaults of the Verkhtrib, returning us to the defendants' bench.

"This social stratum ... has, during recent years, undergone the trial of universal re-evaluation." Yes, yes, re-evaluation, as was so often said at the time. And how did that re-evaluation occur? Here's how: "The Russian intelligentsia which entered the crucible of the Revolution with slogans of power for the people [so it had something to it after all!] emerged from it an ally of the black [not even White!] generals, and a hired [!] and obedient agent of European imperialism. The intelligentsia trampled on its own banners [as in the army, yes?] and covered them with mud."

How, indeed, can we not cry out our hearts in repentance? How can we not lacerate our chests with our fingernails?

And the only reason why "there is no need to deal out the death blow to its individual representatives" is that "this social group has outlived its time."

Here, at the start of the twentieth century! What power of foresight! Oh, scientific revolutionaries! (However, the intelligentsia had to be finished off anyway. Throughout the twenties they kept finishing them off and finishing them off.)

We examine with hostility the twenty-eight individual allies of the black generals, the hirelings of European imperialism. And we are especially aroused by the stench of the word Center. Now we see a Tactical Center, now a National Center, and now a Right Center. (And in our recollection of the trials of two decades, Centers keep creeping in all the time, Centers and Centers, Engineers' Centers, Menshevik Centers, Trotskyite-Zinovievite Centers, Rightist-Bukharinite Centers, but all of them are crushed, all crushed, and that is the only reason you and I are still alive.) Wherever there is a Center, of course, the hand of imperialism can be found.

True, we feel a measure of relief when we learn that the Tactical Center on this occasion was not an organization; that it did not have (1) statutes; (2) a program; (3) membership dues. So, what did it have? Here's what: They used to meet! (Goose-pimples up and down the back!) And when they met, they undertook to familiarize themselves with one another's point of view! (Icy chills!)

The charges were extremely serious and were supported by the evidence. There were two (2) pieces of evidence to corroborate the charges against twenty-eight accused individuals. These were two letters from people who were not present in court because they were abroad: Myakotin and Fyodorov. They were absent, but until the October Revolution they had been members of the same committee as those who were present, a circumstance that gavde us the right to equate those who were absent with those who were present. And their letters dealt with their disagreements with Denikin on certain trivial questions: the peasant question (we are not told what these differences were, but they were evidently advising Denikin to give the land to the peasants); the Jewish question (they were evidently advising him not to return to the previous restrictions); the federated nationalities questoin (enough said: clear); the question of the structure of the government (democracy rather than dictatorship); and similar matters. And what conclusion did this evidence suggest? Very simple. It proved the fact of correspondence, and it also proved the agreement, the unanimity, of those present with Denikin! (Grrr! Grrrr!)

But there were also direct accusations against those present: that they had exchanged information with acquaintances who lived in outlying areas (Kiev, for example) which were not under the control of the central Soviet authorities! In other words, this used to be Russia, let's say, but then in the interests of world revolution we ceded this one piece to Germany. And people continued to exchange letters. How are you doing there, Ivan Ivanich? Here's how things are going with us. N.M. Kishkin, a member of the Central Committee of the Cadets, was so brazen as to try to justify himself right fromt he defendants' bench. "A man doesn't want to be blind. He tries to find out everything he can about what's going on everywhere."

To find out everything about what's going on everywhere? He doesn't want to be blind? Well, all one can say is that the accused correctly described their actions as treason, treason to Soviet power!

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March 27, 2006

Babysitting

.... by Patrick Hughes.

Nanoseconds after hearing the parents’ car leave the driveway, I’d bellow “KUNG FU!!!” at the top of my lungs and me and the kids would commence to lightly kicking each other in the face for an hour or two, until they were either exhausted or unconscious, and I could just chuck ‘em in bed and commence to the good stuff: the sweet spot between beddy-bye and parental return where I made good money gorging on snacks, hunting for the porno stash, and soaking up that sweet, sweet cable TV with no adult oversight.

But here's the whole thing.

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Lazy

Meme from Tanya.

Ten FAVORITES

TV show: At the moment The Sopranos.
Flower: Roses
Alcohol: scotch
Movie: Empire Strikes Back
Color: Green
Sport: Baseball
Phrase: "Y'know what? You're gonna have to stop." (Mitchell - David - you remember this moment!!)
Mall: Wakefield Mall, always and forever
Music: iPod! Whoo-hoo! Right now: Nirvana Unplugged.
Food: Mexican

Seven FACTS

Height: 5'5
Hair color: Red
Hair length: short
Hair style: Straight
Eye color: grey
Shoe size: it depends.
Personality: It also depends.

Six LIFE

How's life? Right now it's good
Whats your mood right now? Looking forward to a couple different things
What are you doing right now as we speak? typing
What are you doing over the weekend? Mitchell and Alex are both in town. Mitchell is staying with me. Also Lawrence of Arabia is playing at the Ziegfeld - I think I need to go see it on the huge screen.
What do you want to do with your life? Geez, lay off, will ya?
Where are you right now? Floating thru cyber-space

Seven LOVELIFE

Have you ever been in love? Yeah
Do you believe in love? Believe in it? I have experienced love, therefore I know it is a reality - it has nothing to do with "belief". I bet the person who made up that question "believes" in soulmates, too, and we all know how I feel about THAT.
Have you ever had your heart broken? Yes
Have you ever broken someones heart? Yes
Have you ever fallen for your best friend? No - or, well, briefly. But I got over it quickly and we just became best friends.
Are you planning on getting married? Sure, whatever. I'd like to get married.
Are you afraid of committment? Sure.

Ten RANDOMS

One thing sitting next to you. iPod
Do you like the color purple? Sure
How many cds do you own? 100? Not that many.
What is your most prized posession? at the moment, my iPod. But also all my books. And the letter Cashel wrote to me about the lightning storm he saw
Who's your closest relative? Uhm - my whole family?
If you could go anywhere? Iran. Central Asia. The 'stans.

Seven HAVEYOUEVERS

Have you ever been caught sneaking out? Of what?
Have you ever skinny dipped? Yes.
Have you ever done something you regret? Yes (but not the skinny dipping)
Have you ever bungee jumped? No
Have you ever been on a house boat? Uhm - no. Not that I can recall.
Have you ever finished an entire jaw breaker? Yes
Have you ever wanted someone so badly it hurt? Yes

Ten AREYOUS

Are you missing someone right now? Yes. A whole bunch of people.
Are you in love with anyone? Not really
Are you happy? Mostly
Are you talking to anyone right now? No
Are you thirsty? Yes
Are you bored? Getting there
Are you German? No
Are you Irish? Yes
Are your parents still married? Yes
Are you crushing on someone? Yes

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10 second Oscars

GO NOW and read Alex's post.

I am so gonna have to be a copycat and do my own list.

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The Books: "Night Train to Turkistan" (Stuart Stevens)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51DHEESMHZL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Night Train to Turkistan: Modern Adventures Along China's Ancient Silk Road by Stuart Stevens. This is a typical kooky travelogue book - I enjoyed it. Four people, 3 guys and one girl, travel across China into the wild west of the country. Stuart Stevens, the author, had read and loved Peter Fleming's book about following the Silk Road to Kashgar - and he wanted to follow in his footsteps. It isn't really historical - it's more about the people they meet, the food they eat, and the cultural shock of - oh, traveling on a bus in China, or trying to find gas, etc. etc. Only one of their group, Mark Salzman (author of Iron and Silk) had ever been to China before. It's a funny book. Not deep or anything. And getting permission to even DO this trip from the Chinese government was hellish - and if I recall correctly, they didn't ask for complete permission - they just went - and each step of the way out west, wrangled with the authorities to go further. The bureaucratic bullshit makes up a lot of the book - that was their main experience of China itself. Being dogged by 'guides', buried in paperwork, etc.

They reach Turpan, and hit some blocks in terms of going further. One of their group, David, decides he has had it, and wants to return not only to Beijing but to America. But ... they are so far away ... how will he return? You can't just hop on a plane from Turpan ... it's in the middle of nowhere ... But David feels he literally must get the feck OUT. He speaks no Chinese. He decides to take the bus back to Beijing. Everyone, especially Mark who has been to China before, tries to talk him out of it. But David is firm. No more for him.

The first sentence of the book gives you some idea of the tone of the whole thing:

From the beginning it was a silly idea, without the slightest utilitarian purpose or merit.

hahaha

From Night Train to Turkistan: Modern Adventures Along China's Ancient Silk Road by Stuart Stevens.

We ate in the market that night. The free market in Turpan was the largest, most vigorous I'd seen in China, row after row of stands attended by Uighurs who flamboyantly hawked their goods. They wore round skullcaps circled with bands of fur and tall boots made of hardened felt. At a boot stand, Mark and I tried, with little success, to learn what process was employed to stiffen the felt. Also, I asked if it would be possible to have a pair made for my size twelve feet. The boots had no soles or treads other than the rounded felt; the Uighers who wore them walked with a curious sway, as if they were crossing a pitching deck in a moderate storm. The boots were reputed to be very warm, though what made them such eluded explanation.

We ate noodles with shards of mutton and hot pepper for dinner. The preparation was an elaborate process. On a thick piece of wood, dough was flattened by a young Uigher girl, her older sister stretched the dough into noodles with an exaggerated accordion motion, swinging her arms theatrically. Their mother did the actual cooking, first frying the bright red hunks of lamb in deep oil at the bottom of a soot-blackened wok, then adding the noodles, onions, and peppers.

There was a whole section of the market dedicated to noodle stands. The chefs stood beside their coal-burning stoves yelling and touting their noodles. Behind the cooking area, each of the stalls had rows of long benches, like a Turkistan version of a German beer garden. Modern tape players serenaded diners with high-pitched music.

Turpan in early evening was a place of sharp, surprising images. The sun setting over the desert threw a golden haze over the dusty streets and alleys. Wild-looking Muslim children played in the dirt, striking homemade tops with rough whips. Irrigation canals lined the streets.

Off the main streets, away from the Han troops and the revolutionary statue at the city center, it was quite easy to forget that you were in China. The blue-eyed Muslim men and women didn't wear Mao suits or surgical masks, and didn't spit on the street.

This was a feeling that lasted exactly as long as you could delay dealing with the other China, the official China of permission and reports; the China of CITS and Public Security bureaus.

"We would like very much to arrange your itinerary," the CITS manager told me when I arrived in her office to make arrangements. "But there is a problem with fuel."

"What kind of problem?"

"There is none on road."

I pulled out my worn map. "You mean all along this road," I traced the loop around the Takla Makan, "there is no gas?"

She nodded, seemingly relieved that I had understood so quickly.

"But how do people get from one town to another?"

"Bicycles. Many bicycles in China."

"They bicycle across hundreds of kilometers of desert? And how do they get food and medicine? Here in Hotan," I pointed to the town at the bottom of the desert road, "they make carpets famous all over the world. How do they get these carpets out of Hotan? On a bicycle?"

"Oh no. Trucks. Trucks, of course."

"But if there's gas for trucks, why isn't there gas for your jeeps?" I pointed toward the new Japanese jeeps parked out front.

"Different kind of gas," she said quickly, "for trucks and jeeps."

"You mean diesel? But you have diesel jeeps?"

"But they are Japanese diesel. The trucks are Chinese. Japanese and Chinese use different kind of diesel."

What struck me as so odd about this encounter was that I knew this woman was intelligent. And educated.

David left that afternoon. Mark went with him in the taxi on the hour-long trip across the desert to Daheyon. He returned looking heartbroken.

"It was a nightmare. I left him standing beside the tracks with his handful of phrases. The station was jammed. It's five nights to Beijing ..."

I was in no hurry to leave Turpan. Each morning I woke up to the sound of braying donkeys -- there were many donkeys in Turpan -- and had breakfast in the EXCURSIONS room. Uighurs like coffee, and the EXCURSIONS room offered the best I'd had in China, along with twists of fried dough. Afterward, I would walk around town while the sun rose. This happened around ten o'clock ...

Each morning the rising sun burned away the thick ground fog, gradually revealing a series of dramatic images: the veiled woman hurrying into a walled entrance way; the minarets of the mosque floating disembodied atop the sea of fog; a stream of donkey carts loaded with sugarcane heading to the bazaar. And always there were the old men with spiked grey beards, arms folded into their coats, leaning against mud walls. They struck me, without exception, as angry.

The men were a reminder that, though it looked peaceful enough, Turpan had a past of celebrated violence. When Dr. Albert Regal, a Russian botanist/spy, escaped from house arrest in Turpan in 1879, his guards were executed according to local custom described in Foreign Devils on the Silk Road:

The victim was incarcerated in a specially built cage known as a kapas. His head, firmly secured, stuck out of the top, while his feet rested on a board. The latter was gradually lowered, day by day, until on about the eighth day his neck finally broke.
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March 26, 2006

Potatoes are in the past

Cashel had to give a talk in his class about his ancestors and where his family came from. The whole class has to do this project.

He interviewed my parents on the phone (multiple times - he had to call back and FOLLOW UP on a couple of points he wasn't clear on - hahahaha) - and wrote down the answers to his questions about our ancestors ("Where did we come from in Ireland?" "Why did we come to America?" "What did our ancestors do in Ireland?" Etc.).

Then he had to give a talk to the class.

Uhm, what I wouldn't give to have a video tape of the whole thing???

Apparently, he did really well. He gave his talk. And he closed with a bang: He passed out raw potatoes to the entire class. Each student got one. Nothing like a PROP to make history come to life! THIS IS WHAT MY ANCESTORS ATE. EVERY STINKIN' DAY.

hahahahahaha

Go, Cash-man. Good job, little man.

I tried to talk to him about it on the phone today but he wasn't really interested in re-living it. You know ... His whole vibe was: "that's the PAST, Auntie Sheila. I gave the talk THREE DAYS AGO."

I got monosyllabic answers to my questions.

"So how did it go?"
"Good."
"Was it fun?"
"Yes."
"Did people laugh at the potatoes?"
"Yes."

Cashel's got his priorities straight. Live in the PRESENT. But Auntie Sheila, with her pestering questions about an event from ANCIENT HISTORY needs a little work on hers.

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Why do I love Curly?

This is why I love Curly.

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Geek moments

-- I cannot even describe how happy it makes me that on my daily run I pass the spot (sort of) where the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr took place. There's a big bust of my dead boyfriend and a plaque memorializing the duel. Of course I'm not happy he had such an untimely end ... but ... GOD. EVERY. STINKIN. TIME. I run by there I have a moment of ... dammit, I am so happy I live where I live. How perfect is that? I live surrounded by the ghosts of Alexander Hamilton. I am a geek, and this thrills me.

-- The other night when David came over we were talking about a project his daughter was working on for school. It had to do with Paul Revere's famous etching of the Boston Massacre. David was helping her with her homework - and I guess she didn't have her school book with her - where the copy of the etching was reproduced. David was fascinated by the whole story - the Boston Massacre, and the story of the etching, etc. - and David said something like, "I haven't seen the etching, though". I calmly got up off my bed, walked to Bookshelf #6, pulled out David McCullough's biography of John Adams - I just knew it would be in there, because John Adams defended the British soldiers in the eventual trial ... I flipped to the pictures, and voila. There it was. Handed the book over to David - who GREEDILY looked at it, and read the caption. I am a massive geek, and also: I am so my father's daughter. This is the advantage of having a huge library, of keeping your books around you at all times. I loved that moment. To be able to behave as a reference librarian for a friend of mine who was interested in a certain topic.

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Happy birthday - to Tennessee Williams

This is an edited post of something I wrote last year on his birthday. When I say 'edit' I mean I added MORE to it. hahaha

"You're always having to compete with yourself. They always say, 'It's not as good as Streetcar or Cat'. Of course it's not. At 69, you don't write the kind of play you write at 30. You haven't got the kind of energy you used to have."

-- Tennessee Williams

tennessee.bmp

Tennessee Williams said the following about Streetcar, and his main point of that entire play:

There are no 'good' or 'bad' people. Some are a little better or a little worse but all are activated more by misunderstanding than malice. A blindness to what is going on in each other's hearts. Stanley sees Blanche not as a desperate, driven creature backed into a last corner to make a last desperate stand - but as a calculating bitch with 'round heels'.... Nobody sees anybody truly but all through the flaws of their own egos. That is the way we all see each other in life.

I have been in his plays, I have worked on his plays in scene classes, I have written extensively about his plays, my bookshelves are lined with books filled with references to this most extraordinary man.

Tennessee Williams wrote the following elegiac essay about Laurette Taylor (who created the role of Amanda so memorably in Glass Menagerie and made him star) for The New York Times after news of her death in 1949:

I do not altogether trust the emotionalism that is commonly indulged in over the death of an artist, not because it is necessarily lacking in sincerity but because it may come too easily. In what I say now about Laurette Taylor I restrict myself to those things which I have felt continually about her as apart from any which this unhappy occasion produces.

Of course the first is that I consider her the greatest artist of her profession that I have known. The second is that I loved her as a person. In a way the second is more remarkable. I have seldom encountered any argument about her preeminent stature as an actress. But for me to love her was remarkable because I have always been so awkward and diffident around actors that it has made a barrier between us almost all but insuperable.

In the case of Laurette Taylor, I cannot say that I ever got over the awkwardness and the awe which originally were present, but she would not allow it to stand between us. The great warmth of her heart burned through and we became close friends.

I am afraid it is the only close friendship I have ever had with a player...

It is our immeasurable loss that Laurette Taylor's performances were not preserved on the modern screen. The same is true of Duse and Bernhardt, with whom her name belongs. Their glory survives in the testimony and inspiration of those who saw them. Too many people have been too deeply moved by the gift of Laurette Taylor for that to disappear from us.

In this unfathomable experience of ours there are sometimes hints of something that lies outside the flesh and its mortality. I suppose these intuitions come to many people in their religious vocations, but I have sensed them more clearly in the work of artists and most clearly of all in the art of Laurette Taylor. There was a radiance about her art which I can compare only to the greatest lines of poetry, and which gave me the same shock of revelation as if the air about us had been momentarily broken through by light from some clear space beyond us.

The last word that I received from her was a telegram which reached me early this fall. It was immediately after the road company of our play had opened in Pittsburgh. The notices spoke warmly of Pauline Lord's performance in the part of Amanda. "I have just read the Pittsburgh notices," Laurette wired me. "What did I tell you, my boy? You don't need me."

I feel now - as I have always felt - that a whole career of writing for the theatre is rewarded enough by having created one good part for a great actress.

Having created a part for Laurette Taylor is a reward I find sufficient for all the effort that went before and any that may come after.

It was a two-sided deal there. Her performance launched him into stardom. And his creation of Amanda revitalized her career just in time for her to capitalize on it. She would be dead in a couple of years. She had had a great career early in her life, and went on a 10 year binge following the death of her husband. Laurette Taylor was "washed up". Until ...

And now, she's a legend, her performance in Glass Menagerie is legendary. "What did I tell you, my boy, you don't need me..." Ha. That's what you think, Laurette! But in a way, she was completely right. The play is better than any one performance. The play didn't depend on Laurette Taylor's genius, although thank God she found the vehicle. The star of the play is actually the play itself, and Laurette Taylor knew that. The star of the play was this new voice of Tennessee Williams. And so no, Tennessee didn't "need" her. And about Tennessee saying: "I consider her the greatest artist of her profession that I have known." Anyone who knows anything about theatre would be hard-pressed to disagree. I haven't even SEEN the woman act, obviously, but I don't need to. I will take the hundreds and hundreds of eyewitness' word for it. In the same way that I know, in my heart, that Eleanora Duse was one of the "greatest artists of her profession" as well. I don't need to have seen her live.

Here's a treat for all you Tennessee and Laurette fans. Here is one of the original reviews of Glass Menagerie, after its premiere on an icy winter night in Chicago. This review focuses on the miracle that was Laurette Taylor's performance.

January 14, 1945

MEMO FROM CHICAGO By Lloyd Lewis

CHICAGO - As this is written there exists doubt as to whether Eddie Dowling has anything more satisfying than an artistic success in his new production, "The Glass Menagerie", at the Civic Theatre, but there is no doubt whatsoever that he has brought back Laurette Taylor as a great character actress.

Not since she did "Peg o'My Heart," exactly thirty years ago, has she been so talked and written about.

In "The Glass Menagerie," which is a tenuous and moody tragedy from the pen of Tennessee Williams, she plays a decaying Delta belle overfond of haranguing her two children, one a warehouse worker (Mr. Dowling) and the other a morbidly bashful maiden (Julie Haydon), upon their duty to rise above the drabness of life in a St. Louis alley flat. Fumbling around the dolorous precincts of her home in a slipshod Mother Hubbard, she is forever reciting the plantation glories of her youth, how seventeen young gentlemen callers were forever complimenting her among the magnolias, and how she could have had this or that grandson instead of the captivating plebeian drunk who took her only to desert her and leave her to current St. Louis blues.

When Miss Taylor mumbles in magnificent realism she is still enough of a vocal wizard to be intelligible to her audiences, and when she pouts, nags or struts in pathetic bursts of romantic memory she is superb as a pantomime. Her descents into hysteria are masterpieces of understatement, dramatic in that they force her audience to do the acting for her.

She accomplishes her tour de force of acting without a single gesture which could be charged with showmanship. Some of her most telling lines are fumbling mutterings delivered over her shoulder. And in a scene wherein she prods her son into bringing home somebody, anybody, who might possibly marry his psychopathic sister before he himself wanders off, as his mother knows he will, into the big, blue and tipsy yonder, she gives a performance that could fit into the best of the Abbey Theatre's Irish plays.

One moment she is a ridiculous pretender and the next only a poor old woman dreading so soon to be dead because her helpless daughter will then be alone. When a 'caller' is eventually dragooned and brought to the house for dinner, Miss Taylor's appearance in an ancient taffety and high-toned manners is a delicate feat in the creation of that narrow line between the absurd and the sad.

Oh. Oh. For a time machine.

Here's a picture of Tennessee Williams out on his beloved Key West in 1980:

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Make voyages. Attempt them. That's all there is.

-- Tennessee Williams, "Camino Real"

I'm deeply attached to the works of Tennessee Williams. Too many stories to even tell. I realized things about myself - and my life - through working on Miss Alma in Summer and Smoke - that pretty much forever changed me. My journal entries from that time are ... hard to describe. I went into it a little bit here. Sheila and Alma had completely merged. It's one of the only times that's ever happened. Funny: I love to post my Diary Friday excerpts from high school days, because haw haw haw we can all sort of chuckle at the exuberance and silliness of youth. But I would very much hesitate to post those Sheila/Alma entries - which were, first of all, much more recent - but also - I don't know if I would ever want to expose that side of myself here. That is the real Artist Sheila. I couldn't bear to have anyone roll their eyes or chuckle at HER. NOBODY can tell me that Alma is "just" a character in a play. She LIVES, she breathes. I certainly felt possessed by her.

When people who knew him talk about Tennessee Williams, they always mention his laugh. Apparently, he had this wild high-pitched out-of-control Mozartian giggle, completely infectious to anyone near him. His plays may have had tragic elements, but that was how he worked out his own tragic upbringing, his sister's lobotomy, etc. He himself was not an openly tragic or introverted figure. He put all of his grief and sadness into his plays. The man was deeply sensitive - like all of his female characters. But if this seems like he was a bleak or depressive personality, that's incorrect. He always balked, too, when reviewers would characterize all of his female characters as "desperate". He didn't agree with that assessment at all. He saw each and every one of them as survivors - women trying to break through and live a happy and meaningful life. Other people assigned the meaning "desperate" to them, but Tennessee always hated that. Here's part of an essay he wrote for The New York Times in 1948 where he addresses this whole "desperate character" thing - In this essay he uses Miss Alma in "Summer and Smoke" as the jumping-off point:

All at once, I found myself hammed in by three women in basic black who had been to the Saturday matinee and had apparently thought of nothing since except the problems of Alma Winemiller, the heroine of "Summer and Smoke". When you are eating, a great deal can be accomplished by having a mouth full of food and by making gutteral noises instead of speech when confronted with questions such as, What is the theme of your play? What happens to the characters after the play is over? What is your next play about and how do you happen to know so much about women? On that last one you can spit the food out if it really begins to choke you.

For a writer who is not intentionally obscure, and never, in his opinion, obscure at all, I do get asked a hell of a lot of questions which I can't answer. I have never been able to say what was the theme of my play and I don't think I have ever been conscious of writing with a theme in mind. I am always surprised when, after a play has opened, I read in the papers what the play is about, that it was about a decayed Southern belle trying to get a man for her crippled daughter, or that it was about a boozie floozie on the skids, or that a backwoods sheik in a losing battle with three village vamps.

Don't misunderstand me. I am thankful for these highly condensed and stimulating analyses, but it would never have occurred to me that that was the story I was trying to tell. Usually when asked about a theme I look vague and say, "It is a play about life." What could be simpler, and yet more pretentious? You can easily extend that a little and say it is a tragedy of incomprehension. That also means life. Or you can say it is a tragedy of Puritanism. That is life in America. Or you can say that it is a play that considers the "problem of evil". But why not just say "life"?

To return to the women in the alcove. On this particular occasion the question that floored me was, "Why do you always write about frustrated women?"

To say that floored me is to put it mildly, because I would say that frustrated is almost exactly what the women I write about are not. What was frustrated about Amanda Wingfield? Circumstances, yes! But spirit? See Helen Hayes in London's "Glass Menagerie" if you still think Amanda was a frustrated spirit! No, there is nothing interesting about frustration, per se. I could not write a line about it for the simple reason that I can't write a line about anything that bores me.

Was Blance of "A Streetcar Named Desire" frustrated? About as frustrated as a beast of the jungle! And Alma Winemiller? What is frustrated about loving with such white hot intensity that it alters the whole direction of your life, and removes you from the parlor of the Episcopal rectory to a secret room above Moon Lake Casino?

I came across this essay when I was working on Alma Winemiller - and I can't tell you how much of an "A-ha!" moment it gave me. If I felt drawn towards portraying her as sexually FRUSTRATED, or emotionally FRUSTRATED ... I remembered Tennessee's words. I remembered the truth of them. Do not play the frustration. How boring. Play the OBJECTIVE, play the DESIRE, play what you WANT with all your heart ... Let the CIRCUMSTANCES of the play frustrate you ... but never ever take your eye off your objective. And THAT is where the tragedy lies.

Brilliant. So so helpful to any actress who works on ANY of his great parts to keep in mind.

I love that drive in him - the drive to pour all of the darkness and fear from his background into his work - he was a man driven to do so - it was therapeutic for him, yes, but never just therapy. Art that is just therapy is usually bad art. Or - perhaps not bad - but it will not stand the test of time. Tennessee worked on his craft, and always cared more about the PLAY than about the personal demons exorcised by said play. Read his letters, his journals, his instructions to directors ... the level of detail there is astonishing. Really inspiring to me. To be such a great artist, but to also have such an understanding of craft, and structure.

"Nothing's more determined than a cat on a tin roof - is there? Is there, baby?"

-- from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

The lead of the last play I did was the lead in Tennessee Williams' last play - Something Cloudy Something Clear - done here in NYC at Cocteau Rep. Williams died soon after the play went up. Craig shared with me his memories of working with Tennessee. Precious.

Everyone talks about his "laugh". Actors and actresses who were in his plays talk about hearing his laugh from out in the audience. It was a generous laugh, a laugh full of joy. If an actor or actress was doing well, he had no problem with letting them know, with enjoying their performances openly. (Other playwrights are not so kind. It seems as though other playwrights have this thought process: "No actor could EVER live up to the perfection that resides in my mind. My play is perfect as is ... it's the ACTORS who are messing it up!!" Playwrights like that, usually, are big bores, and don't have a lot of talent. Like: okay, you want perfection? Build a feckin' statue, and don't hire live actors. Mkay? That way your precious words will be safe from contamination. Ahem. I have a ton of stories.) But Tennessee, while kind of intimidated by actors, he never knew what to say to them ... LOVED them when they were wonderful. He did not consciously withhold approval - like so many do. If someone sucked, he had no problem with sending a note to the director saying: "Please have her realize that she needs to be light and funny on that one line - she is dragging down the entire scene with her dismal line readings..." hahaha He would never say such a thing to the actor's face - he let the director do his job - but if he was pleased? He would sit out in the audience, and just HOWL with laughter. He loved being an audience member. So many people in the theatre, because the theatre is their job and livelihood - forget how to just be an audience member.

Here, to me, is a quintessential Tennessee Williams statement.

An interviewer asked him: "What is your definition of happiness?"

He replied, "Insensitivity, I guess."

His experience of "happiness" as being, in its essence, "insensitive" came from his background. Those who were "sensitive" were crushed and shattered by cruelty, by life itself. His sister Rose was institutionalized and lobotomized. This was something Tennessee never really recovered from. (But he didn't really HAVE to recover from it, I guess. All of his feelings about it went into his work. If he had "recovered", or "worked it out" in his mind, then he might not have written Glass Menagerie, Summer and Smoke, et al.) He was a perpetual outsider. He was on the run from his past. He was able to "get out" of the past ... his sister Rose was not. The guilt of that never left him. The guilt of being "the one" who was able to live in the real world dogged him at every turn. If one was "happy", if one was able to manuever thru a world that lobotomized some of its most sensitive members, then "happiness" required some kind of a hard outer shell - a shell that Tennessee himself lacked, that other "sensitives" (his word) lacked. He did not begrudge people their happiness ... he just didn't understand it. He couldn't get "in there", ever. Again, this is kind of a blessing, at least as far as we are concerned - merely because that sort of baffled response to how on earth to LIVE in this world ... is the emotional place from which he wrote all of his plays.

He WAS Blanche. He WAS Tom in Glass Menagerie. He WAS Alma. He WAS Maggie. All of these people, these "sensitives", trying to make their way through, trying to bear up under disappointments and cruelty ... trying to SURVIVE.

Again and again, Williams reiterated that he never wrote about victims. He didn't see any of these people as victims. He saw them as survivors. Beautiful triumphant survivors. I love that about him.

Oh, you weak, beautiful people who give up with such grace. What you need is someone to take hold of you - gently, with love, and hand your life back to you.

-- Tennessee Williams

The Blache DuBois', the Laura Wingfields, the Miss Almas ... these are sensitive people, deeply wounded people, on the edge of shattering - just like his sister Rose did. Of course blatant casual "happiness" would be seen as insensitive through their eyes.

All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.

-- Tennessee Williams


Tennessee Williams is one of my own personal heroes, for more reasons than one, and I am aware (on a pretty much daily basis) of how grateful I am to him for his plays. In the same way that I am pretty much always conscious of being grateful that there was a Shakespeare, and that we have his works with us today. I still read Tennessee Williams plays now, over and over, reading them countless times, never ever getting tired of them, never ever feeling like all my questions are answered.

Some mystery should be left in the revelation of character in a play, just as a great deal of mystery is always left in the revelation of character in life, even in one's own character to himself.

-- Tennessee Williams


And I'll leave you with another really telling and beautiful anecdote, this one from Elia Kazan. I LOVE this, because it says to me, in no uncertain terms, why Tennessee Williams is a god among playwrights - and why he is so unusual. Nobody else can touch him, really. I love Arthur Miller's plays, but there's always a social conscience in them which can get preachy and tiresome if it's not controlled. Death of a Salesman has a perfect balance, but his later plays have the feeling of pamphlets.

Tennessee Williams has none of that. There is no "social conscience" in his plays. There is no deeper social criticism going on. Perhaps the only "criticism" that Tennessee consistently levels at "society" is the way it treats the "sensitives".

I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.

-- Tennessee Williams

Here's the setup for the excerpt I want to post (which has to do with the rehearsals and also the opening of Streetcar Named Desire):

Jessica Tandy, who originated Blanche on Broadway, was already a celebrated actress. Marlon Brando was practically unknown. Kazan noticed which way the wind was blowing during rehearsals, and it concerned him on many levels.

Basically what was happening was that Marlon Brando was acting Jessica Tandy off the stage. Without breaking a sweat, Brando stole the show right out from under her. Jessica Tandy fought to keep her ground (which, actually, is perfect for the theme of the show and for the character of Blanche Dubois), but Kazan's main concern was that Blanche would turn into a laughable character and lose the sympathy of the audience. Kazan was worried that the audience, because of Brando's undeniable stage presence, and the electricity of his acting, would completely side with Stanley, and not have any sympathy for Blanche at all. This, Kazan felt, would be a disaster. Stanley rapes Blanche. This event must be seen as horrifyingly wrong, not as Blanche getting what she deserves. But Brando's power took over the play, it was a runaway train, it wasn't a matter of him playing Stanley as sympathetic - he wasn't. It was just that he was a force to be reckoned with, a powerhouse - you couldn't take your eyes off him. Jessica Tandy barely registered, when she was beside him.

Here's a photo from that production: Brando, Kim Hunter, and Tandy:

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And so Kazan feared, as rehearsals went on, that the balance of the play was off.

Here's what Kazan wrote about all of this in his marvelous autobiography.

It is Tennessee Williams' "advice" to Kazan at the end that really packs a punch:

But what had been intimated in our final rehearsals in New York was happening. The audiences adored Brando. When he derided Blanche, they responded with approving laughter. Was the play becoming the Marlon Brando Show? I didn't bring up the problem, because I didn't know the solution. I especially didn't want the actors to know that I was concerned. What could I say to Brando? Be less good? Or to Jessie? Get better? ...

Louis B. Mayer sought me out to congratulate me and assure me that we'd all make a fortune ... He urged me to make the author do one critically important bit of rewriting to make sure that once that "awful woman" who'd come to break up that "fine young couple's happy home" was packed off to an institution, the audience would believe that the young couple would live happily ever after. It never occurred to him that Tennessee's primary sympathy was with Blanche, nor did I enlighten him ... His misguided reaction added to my concern. I had to ask myself: Was I satisfied to have the performance belong to Marlon Brando? Was that what I'd intended? What did I intend? I looked to the author. He seemed satisfied. Only I -- and perhaps Hume [Cronyn, Tandy's husband] -- knew that something was going wrong ...

What astonished me was that the author wasn't concerned about the audience's favoring Marlon. That puzzled me because Tennessee was my final authority, the person I had to please. I still hadn't brought up the problem, I was waiting for him to do it. I got my answer ... because of something that happened in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, across the hall from my suite, where Tennessee and Pancho were staying. [Pancho was Tennessee's boyfriend - or maybe it was more of a f*** buddy situation. Pancho was a huge presence in Tennessee's life. They had a really volatile relationship.] One night I heard a fearsome commotion from across the hall, curses in Spanish, threats to kill, the sound of breaking china ... and a crash ... As I rushed out into the corridor, Tennessee burst through his door, looking terrified, and dashed into my room. Pancho followed, but when I blocked my door, he turned to the elevator still cursing, and was gone. Tennessee slept on the twin bed in my room that night. The next morning, Pancho had not returned.

I noticed that Wiilliams wasn't angry at Pancho, not even disapproving -- in fact, when he spoke about the incident, he admired Pancho for his outburst. At breakfast, I brought up my worry about Jessie and Marlon. "She'll get better," Tennessee said, and then we had our only discussion about the direction of his play. "Blanche is not an angel without a flaw," he said, "and Stanley's not evil. I know you're used to clearly stated themes, but this play should not be loaded one way or the other. Don't try to simplify things." Then he added, "I was making fun of Pancho, and he blew up." He laughed. I remembered the letter he'd written me before we started rehearsals, remembered how, in that letter, he'd cautioned me against tipping the moral scales against Stanley, that in the interests of fidelity I must not present Stanley as a "black-dyed villain". "What should I do?" I asked. "Nothing," he said. "Don't take sides or try to present a moral. When you begin to arrange the action to make a thematic point, the fidelity to life will suffer. Go on working as you are. Marlon is a genius, but she's a worker and she will get better. And better."

So extraordinary. It brings tears to my eyes, and it's wonderful advice, advice that any artist would do well to follow. "Don't take sides ..." "fidelity to life ..."

Here is the review of the premiere of Streetcar Named Desire, in New York City, December 3, 1947.

December 4, 1947

FIRST NIGHT AT THE THEATRE by Brooks Atkinson

Tennessee Williams has brought us a superb drama, "A Streetcar Named Desire," which was acted at the Ethel Barrymore last evening. And Jessica Tandy gives a superb performance as a rueful heroine whose misery Mr. Williams is tenderly recording. This must be one of the most perfect marriages of acting and playwriting. For the acting and playwriting are perfectly blended in a limpid performance, and it is impossible to tell where Miss Tandy begins to give form and warmth to the mood Mr. Williams has created.

Like "The Glass Menagerie," the new play is a quietly woven study of intangibles. But to this observer it shows deeper insight and represents a great step forward toward clarity. And it reveals Mr. Williams as a genuinely poetic playwright whose knowledge of people is honest and thorough and whose sympathy is profoundly human.

"A Streetcar Named Desire" is history of a gently reared Mississippi young woman who invents an artificial world to mask the hideousness of the world she has to inhabit. She comes to live with her sister, who is married to a rough-and-ready mechanic and inhabits two dreary rooms in a squalid neighborhood. Blanche - for that is her name - has delusions of grandeur, talks like an intellectual snob, buoys herself up with gaudy dreams, spends most of her time primping, covers things that are dingy with things that are bright and flees reality.

To her brother-in-law she is an unforgiveable liar. But it is soon apparent to the theatregoer that in Mr. Williams' eyes she is one of the dispossessed whose experience has unfitted her for reality; and although his attitude toward her is merciful, he does not spare her or the playgoer. For the events of "Streetcar" lead to a painful conclusion which he does not try to avoid. Although Blanche cannot face the truth, Mr. Williams does in the most imaginative and perceptive play he has written.

Since he is no literal dramatist and writes in none of the conventional forms, he presents theatre with many problems. Under Elia Kazan's sensitive but concrete direction, the theatre solved them admirably. Jo Mielziner has provided a beautifully lighted single setting that lightly sketches the house and the neighborhood. In this shadowy environment the performance is a work of great beauty.

Miss Tandy has a remarkably long part to play. She is hardly ever off the stage, and when she is on stage she is almost constantly talking -- chattering, dreaming aloud, wondering, building enchantments out of words. Miss Tandy is a trim, agile actress with a lovely voice and quick intelligence. Her performance is almost incredibly true. For it does seem almost incredible that she can convey it with so many shades and impulses that are accurate, revealing and true.

The rest of the acting is also of very high quality indeed. Marlon Brando as the quick-tempered, scornful, violent mechanic; Karl Malden as a stupid but wondering suitor; Kim Hunter as the patient though troubled sister -- all act not only with color and style but with insight.

By the usual Broadway standards, "Streetcar Named Desire" is too long; not all those words are essential. But Mr. Williams is entitled to his own independence. For he has not forgotten that human beings are the basic subject of art. Out of poetic imagination and ordinary compassion he has spun a poignant and luminous story.

I have tears in my eyes.

We are lucky in this country that we have produced such a playwright. We are lucky to have all of his plays in the canon. I can't imagine my life without them.

Happy birthday, Tom.

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Tennessee Williams said the following, in a 1981 interview - only a couple of years before he passed away:

"I'm very conscious of my decline in popularity, but I don't permit it to stop me because I have the example of so many playwrights before me. I know the dreadful notices Ibsen got. And O'Neill -- he had to die to make 'Moon' successful. And to me it has been providential to be an artist, a great act of providence that I was able to turn my borderline psychosis into creativity -- my sister Rose did not manage this. So I keep writing. I am sometimes pleased with what I do -- for me, that's enough."

Words to live by. I try to do the same.

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The Books: "Berlin Diary : The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934-1941" (William L. Shirer)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

511APJ9JWWL._OU01_SS130_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Berlin Diary : The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934-1941 by William Shirer. Last Shirer book I have - this one is, well, what the title says: his diary from those particular years. He was a newlywed, living in Germany. He traveled all over Europe, as a journalist, and broadcaster - chasing down stories. And he happened to be stationed in Berlin during the rise of Adolf Hitler. He had a front-row seat. If you're into that front-row seat stuff, this is a wonderful book. I'm glad I made it thru Rise and Fall of Third Reich - it's background, it's necessary, it's important ... but I prefer Berlin Diary, just in terms of a reading experience. It's his first-hand impressions of what he saw going on in Germany at that time.

I am going to post a rather innocuous excerpt - I just like it because I like his writing. He broadcast his stories over the radio - he was THE voice of World War II for most Americans. And here is an entry in his diary when he describes what that broadcasting process is like - in Berlin at that time. I especially found the whole censor thing really interesting.

From Berlin Diary : The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934-1941 by William Shirer.

BERLIN, March 4 [1940]

Last night, by request, I broadcast a piece about the actual routine of broadcasting from here in war-time. Had never stopped to think of it before. Some extracts, for the record: The daily broadcast at six forty-five p.m., New York time, means our talking from here at a quarter to one on the following morning. If I could get gasoline for my car I could drive to the studio in twelve minujtes. As it is, I have a ten-minute walk down the completely blacked-out Wilhelmstrasse to the subway. It is a rare night that I do not collide with a lamp-post, a fire-hydrant, or a projecitng stairway, or flop headlong into a pile of snow. Safely in the subway, I have a half hour's ride to the Rundfunk House. As half of the route is above ground, the train is plunged in darkness for fifteen minutes. My pockets are stuffed full of passes. If I cannot find the right one I must wait in the vestibule on arriving at the station and fill out a paper permitting me to enter. Finally arrived, I go to an office and write up my script. Two offices down I can hear Lord Haw-Haw attacking his typewriter with gusto or shouting in his nasal voice against "that plutocrat Chamberlain". A half-hour before my broadcast I must have my script in the hands of the censors. Follows a half-hour battle with them. If they leave enough to make it worth while to do the broadcast, as they usually do, I must then, in order to reach the studio and microphone, dash through winding corridors in the Broadcasting House, down many stairs, and out into a pitch-dark vacant lot in the middle of which are hidden steps -- the lot being terraced -- being careful not to bump into several sheds lurking in the way or to fall into a snow-drift. In the course of this journey through the lot, I must get past at least three steel-helmeted S.S. guards whom I cannot see in the darkness, but who I know are armed with sawed-off automatic rifles and have orders to shoot anyone not halting at their challenge. They must see my pass. I search for it with frozen fingers, and if I'm lucky and find it, I arrive at the studio in time and not too much out of broath, though not always in the sweetest of tempers. If the censors keep me, or the guards keep me, I arrive late, out of breath, sore and sour. I suppose listeners wonder why we pant so often through our talks.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 25, 2006

Snapshots

-- Cold low grey sky. Lovin' it.

-- Is it weird that I am continuously in love with my apartment now? My love for it grows. I spent the day puttering.

-- My friend Allison is coming over tonight. I'm excited. She's bringing Capote. She's never been to my apartment, so I can't wait to ... yet again ... have a GUEST!!!

-- Read the first chapter of Master and Margarita - keeping with the Stalinist theme in Chez Sheila ... and found the first chapter to be one of the most terrifying things I have ever read. It reminds me of some of the scariest of Poe's stories. It's EERIE. You can tell by the first chapter that this is not just a good book, but an important book. A scary book. A book that NOBODY at that time would have wanted to read. Too threatening. Good for him. I will add it to my growing list of books I am juggling.

-- And my last snapshot is just a thought: You know, I have baby dreams like every other woman. I dream of finding a mate, I dream of getting married, and I also dream of having a baby. It is a dear dream of mine - my future child. But until a couple of days ago, I did not realize that that was only PART of my dream. I was missing a VERY IMPORTANT ELEMENT of that procreation dream. What element, you ask? Here it is, the missing piece of the dear dream: In the very last days of my pregnancy - it is my dream to go hang out at a Yahoo Corporate event, and be jostled by a bunch of camera-wielding web-geeks. I yearn, as my ballooning uterus presses on my bladder more and more with every passing minute, to NOT spend my days decorating the nursery, or talking on the phone obsessively with my sisters, my mom, my friends who have had kids ... I don't yearn to buy little outfits, I don't yearn to coo over little toys that the wee baby will one day play with, I don't yearn to lose myself in anticipation for the big event. I yearn to be shuffled out onto a stage far from my home like a prized turkey, and make stupid "Hi, how are you" conversation with people I care NOTHING about, people who take pictures of me with their cell phones and post them all over the Internet, people who gawk at me like I'm a freak-show. THAT is what I call a relaxing third trimester moment. No better time than the last couple weeks before I deliver to go to a huge corporate event on the arm of my grinning chimp-monkey NOT-HUSBAND Xenu-loving dark-lord jagoff.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (7)

Uhm ... what??

UPDATE: Apparently, what I see is an illusion. Or else - I am the only one who is seeing it. I don't know why. I have no explanation. All I know is:

I have no idea how this happened but I noticed that I was getting a lot of traffic from Google Images or something - I don't know how it all works, whatever - but I have just realized that if you Google for images of Edie Sedgwick:

The picture of me as Edie Sedgwick for Halloween (and Mitchell as Andy Warhol) is SOMEHOW on the very first damn page of results.

How on EARTH would that happen?? When there are so many other images of the ACTUAL Edie Sedgwick out there? I don't get it. So so bizarre - is it because of the traffic my blog gets? I mean, that Halloween post wasn't wildly popular or anything - nobody links to it - It's a picture of ME ON HALLOWEEN, for God's sake - why would anyone but me and ... my personal friends care about that shite? I don't understand how Google images work I guess - and I don't really care either - It just makes me laugh ... People go onto the Internet for pictures of her, and they come across THAT. Which was basically a JOKE between Mitchell and I. And they don't even have to dig to come across that ridiculous photo - it's right there on the first page.

hahaha I feel famous in a completely inappropriate and plagiaristic way.

So I need to make an announcement to the THRONGS of people looking for pictures of Edie: I am NOT, in fact, ACTUALLY Edie Sedgwick.

hahahaha I don't get it. But I do enjoy it.

I keep looking at that Google Results Page, and bursting into laughter at the sight.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (36)

Happy birthday to Flannery O'Connor

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She was born today, in Savannah, Georgia in 1925.

Man, what to say, what to say ... I think she's one of our greatest American authors. Not just a great Southern writer, although she is that, one of the all-time best, in the pantheon!! - but one of the greatest American writers. Phenomenal. Mostly known for her short stories, although she did write a couple novels.

I also, personally, feel that her TITLES are beyond fantastic. She's not afraid to GO THERE in her titles. I don't know how else to describe it. Her titles are not "safe". They have a Biblical feel to them. The Violent Bear It Away. The Life You Save May Be Your Own. Everything That Rises Must Converge. I looooove her titles.

Here is a great site devoted to her. I didn't know that her first published efforts were actually cartoons, in her high school newspaper. She tried to get her cartoons published in The New Yorker - and that went nowhere, none of them were accepted - so she started to focus on writing. She applied to the Iowa Writer's Workshop - and got in. Once there, though, she was kind of on the outside of things - she hadn't read "the big authors" who were in vogue at the time. Her writing idols were Nathaniel Hawthorne and Edgar Allan Poe - seen as 'old-fashioned', and perhaps too Gothic or melodramatic. Classic, sure, but way out of style in this new modern era of Ezra Pound, and James Joyce, and Fitzgerald. So she wasn't really born "in the right time", if you think about it - but she turned that to her advantage. She didn't try to change her influences, or write like other people - and while she was at the workshop, her short stories pretty much blew everyone away. I love that her idols were Hawthorne and Poe - those dark dark writers, those masters of small-town pain and paranoia ... You can so feel it in her writing, although her style is very much her own. Her style is so distinctive that you could recognize a paragraph of her prose without knowing who it was. She's like Hemingway. So - she was a shy girl, the only one in the workshop with a Southern accent, whose writing was so good that she got a contract to write her first novel (Wise Blood - now that is one HELL of a first novel!!)

Right around this time, she got very very ill with lupus (that's why she has the crutches in the photo above). Her father had died from lupus. She was always tired, always dragging through her days - but she had good discipline, and kept up a writing schedule, despite her exhaustion.

I just read her first novel Wise Blood ... and it's shocking to read even NOW. I can't even imagine the impact it had when it came out. Her writing reminds me of Diane Arbus' photographs. Her books are filled with grotesque Gothic characters - blinded crazy preachers, child brides, women with wooden legs, outcasts from society - But her tone is never sensational or sentimental.

If you haven't read her stuff, I really can't recommend her highly enough. I came to her late - and it was really at the pressure of Maria, and my sister Jean, that made me finally give her a go. After reading the first two or three paragraphs of Wise Blood, I was feckin' hooked. I knew: Okay. I must now plow thru this entire book RIGHT NOW. She's that good.

Here's the beginning of that novel:

Hazel Motes sat at a forward angle on the green plush train seat, looking one minute at the window as if he might want to jump out of it, and the next down the aisle at the other end of the car. The train was racing through tree tops that fell away at intervals and showed the sun standing, very red, on the edge of the farthest woods. Nearer, the plowed fields curved and faded and the few hogs nosing in the furrows looked like large spotted stones. Mrs. Wally Bee Hitchcock, who was facing Motes in this section, said that she thought the early evening like this was the prettiest time of day and she asked him if he didn't think so, too. She was a fat woman with pink collars and cuffs and pear-shaped legs that slanted off the train seat and didn't reach the floor.

He looked at her a second and, without answering, leaned forward and stared down the length of the car again. She turned to see what was back there but all she saw was a child peering around one of the sections and, farther up at the end of the car, the porter opening the closet where the sheets were kept.

"I guess you're going home," she said, turning back to him again. He didn't look, to her, much over twenty, but he had a stiff black broad-brimmed hat on his lap, a hat that an elderly country preacher would wear. His suit was a glaring blue and the price tag was still stapled on the sleeve of it.

There's something really ... WRONG ... here. You can tell ... something is OFF with Hazel Motes ... but Flannery doesn't let us inside his head. It's all in what she doesn't say, and what she chooses to share with us. It's a fantastic opening scene.

Check her out if you haven't read any of her stuff - her short story collections are all well worth reading. She's an American classic.

Flannery O'Connor died at the age of 40.

I came across this quote from Flannery O'Connor, and I just loooove it, it makes me laugh. I'll close this post with it:

"Everywhere I go, I'm asked if I think the universities stifle writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them."

hahahahaha

Happy birthday, Flannery!!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (8)

The Books: "NIGHTMARE YEARS : 1930 - 1940" (William L. Shirer)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

4046577-m.jpgNext book on the shelf is NIGHTMARE YEARS : 1930 - 1940 by William Shirer. A first-person memoir of Shirer's time living in Nazi Germany, and covering not just Germany but what was going on in all of Europe at that time. It actually starts with a fascinating story of his time in wild-west Afghanistan - he's very good at this first-person perspective stuff. But the main thrust of the book is his impressions of Germany at that time - interesting, because he was a journalist, and so had some "access" to the leaders. The leaders, naturally, were liars, and you could never get a clear answer from them - but Shirer's impression of the FEELING in the streets of Berlin, the changing tides, the rising fanaticism - is chilling.

And I've gotta say that the photos he has included in this book are fantastic. Especially of the Anschluss. Terrifying photos of the crowds greeting Hitler, the weeping women, the frenzy, there are some photos where everyone is in a blur, because they are struggling to get closer to Hitler - as though they're seeing the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show.

I'll excerpt a bit from the year 1934. Shirer goes to a massive Nazi party rally in Nuremberg.

NIGHTMARE YEARS : 1930 - 1940 by William Shirer.

In Nuremberg, on September 4 [1934], ten days after my arrival in Nazi Germany, I saw Adolf Hitler for the first time.

Like a Roman emperor he rode into the medieval town at sundown, past solid phalanxes of wildly cheering Germans who packed the narrow streets that once had been the gathering place of Hans Sachs and the Meistersinger. Thousands of swastika flags blotted out the Gothic beauties of the city's architecture, the facades of the old houses, the gabled roofs. The streets, hardly wider than alleys, were a sea of brown and black uniforms.

I got my first glimpse of Hitler, as he drove by our hotel to his headquarters at the Deutscher Hof, a favorite old hotel of his, which had been newly remodeled for him. He fumbled his cap, which he held in his left hand, as he stood in his car acknowledging the delirious welcome with somewhat feeble Nazi salutes with his right arm. Probably he was pacing himself, knowing that he would be raising that right arm in salute thousands of times before the week was over. He was clad in a rather worn gabardine trench coat, very much like the weatherbeaten ones we foreign correspondents wore in those days. His face, which was rather flabby, had no particular expression -- I expected it to be much stronger -- and I wondered what there was in his almost modest bearing, in his rather common look, that unleashed such hysterical acclaim in the mob, whose men, women, and children were so wild in their joy at seeing him, their faces contorted in a way I had never seen before, ever.

The frenzy of the crowds fascinated me that evening even more than my first glimpse of the dictator. I had seen vast throngs in India moved by the sight of Gandhi and in Rome by Mussolini. But this German horde was different in a way I could not yet comprehend. Later that evening, I got caught up in a mob of these frenzied people, who jammed the moat in front of Hitler's hotel. They were swaying back and forth, like the Holy Rollers I had once seen in the back country of Arkansas and Louisiana, with the same crazed expression on their faces. They were shouting in unison: "We want our Fuhrer!" When he appeared on the balcony for a moment and waved, they went mad. Several women swooned. Some, men and women, were trampled as the crowd surged toward the hotel to get a closer look at their Messiah. For such he appeared to be to them.

By the close of the next evening, after the events of the first day of the party rally had come to an end, I had "begun to comprehend," I boasted in my diary, "some of the reasons for Hitler's astonishing success." Borrowing from the Roman Church, I noted, he was restoring pageantry to the drab lives of Germans. The morning's opening meeting in the huge Luitpold Hall on the outskirts of Nuremberg was more than a colorful show. It had something of the mysterious and religious fervor of an Easter or a Christmas Mass in a great Gothic cathedral.

The hall was a sea of brightly colored flags. Suddenly the band stopped playing. There was a hush over the thirty thousand people packed in the immense arena. Then the band struck up the 'Badenwiler March," a rather catchy tune and played only, I learned, when the Leader made his big entrances. Hitler appeared in the back of the auditorium, dressed in a brown party uniform, and followed by his aides, Hermann Goring, Joseph Goebbels, Rudolf Hess and Heinrich Himmler, all in brown uniforms except for Himmler, who wore the black garb of the S.S. He strode slowly down the wide center aisle while thirty thousand pairs of eyes were turned toward him and as many hands were raised in salute. It was a ritual, I was told, that had been followed at the opening of big party meetings for years.

As soon as the Nazi chiefs were seated on the huge platform a large symphony orchestra played Beethoven's stirring Egmont Overture. Great klieg lights played on the stage. Behind Hitler and his entourage of a hundred party officials and a scattering of army and navy officers was draped the swastika "blood flag," which had been carried through the streets of Munich by a Nazi column when the shooting began during Hitler's ill-fated Beer Hall Putsch of 1923. Behind this emblem, holy to the Nazis, stood some five hundred S.A. standards. When the music was over, Rudolf Hess, deputy to the Fuhrer and at that time his closest confidant, rose and slowly read the names of the Nazi "martyrs" -- Brownshirts who had been killed in the streets in the struggle for power. He read out the roll call of the dead slowly and solemnly and there was a hush over th ehall, the members of the vast audience bowing their heads in reverence.

In was in such a hushed atmosphere that Hitler sprang his Proclamation to the People, which the Nazi press office had tipped us off the evening before would be the most important pronouncement ever made by the Fuhrer. Everyone had expected him to read it himself. Instead, to save his voice for seven speeches he was scheduled to make during the week, he had it read by Gauleiter Adolf Wagner of Bavaria, who, curiously, had a voice and manner so like Hitler's that some of the correspondents who were listening on the radio back at the hotel thought it was the Fuhrer himself.

The words of that proclamation I never forgot. They kept coming back to me in the ensuring years, a reminder of the way history turns out differently than some, even the mightiest have planned.

The German form of life is definitely determined for the next thousand years! For us, the nervous nineteenth century has finally ended. There will be no revolution in Germany for the next one thousand years!

So the Third Reich was to last a thousand years! The words stunned me. But they provoked the brown mass in the great hall into a frenzy. The thirty thousand leaped to their feet and wildly cheered and clapped.

It cannot be, I protested to myself, as the crowd continued to roar, that this evil thing, demeaning to a great people, could last for a thousand years -- or even for a hundred. But I had a sinking feeling that it would last a long time. Hitler's grip on the German people was much greater than I had expected.

The throng was up on its feet, cheering again, when the Fuhrer came, as was inevitable, to his customary outburst against communism.

"Germany has done everything possible to assure world peace. If war comes to Europe it will come only because of Communist chaos."

He was back at it again when he spoke at a so-called "Kultur" meeting in the afternoon. "Only brainless dwarfs," he stormed, "cannot realize that Germany has been the breakwater against the Communist floods, which would have drowned Europe and its culture."

It was not difficult for him to convince the German people of this and, in time, many in England and France, even in America. Much later, when Hitler had embarked on his aggressive war against the rest of Europe, Charles Lindbergh would use similar words to express his belief that Germany, Hitler's Germany, "held today the intangible eastern border of European civilization."

Beyond that eastern border lay Bolshevism, in the minds of Hitler, as well as Lindbergh, and his followers the destroyers of the civilization of Europe. But it was beginning to dawn on me, caught up in the Nazi delirium of Nuremberg, that European civilization, at least in Germany, might not survive Hitler's dictatorship.

I had not yet quite realized that in order to keep the German people stirred up Hitler needed enemies to blame for all that had gone wrong before and for all that threatened the new, awakened, authoritarian Reich. Besides the Bolsheviks there were the Jews! Twice that opening day he thundered against them. The chaos from which he had rescued the country, he said, had been the work of "Jewish intellectualism".

"The alien life and form of ideas," he said, "injected into and forced on nations by Jewish intellectualism, which is racially without a basis, led to an alien, rootless state and internationally to complete chaos in cultural life."

He had saved Europe, he boasted, not only from the Bolsheviks but from the Jews, and he wanted his listeners to remember it and be grateful.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 24, 2006

Stalin: Taming the Intelligentsia

Note from me: I will probably continue to edit and add to this post - I dashed it off in a FEVER! I am continuing to pick at it - so if it continues to change as you look at it, that's why. Sorry - normally I don't post this way, but whatevs.

So I have now moved into "cannot put it down" mode with Stalin. It's like approaching a dark hypnotic evil mirror - I swear, that's how I experience this guy. Not a mirror as in: I am just like him, or I see my own reflection there (Sheesh, I hope not!) ... but a mirror as in: opposites, inversion, everything backwards. I cannot cop out and say: "THE MAN WAS NOT HUMAN" because you know what? He was. He was a human being ... and he cannot be written off as a "lunatic" - which is why I find him so scary. And interesting. I yearn to understand the motivations of someone so hidden, so calculating, so ... so ... ruthless.

And here's the deal - for me, what is interesting here is the contemplation itself. I don't need to come up with an answer - a label. To me, first of all, that diminishes the subject itself - which is rather enormous, and many-tentacled. To narrow the whole horror down to: A-HA! His mother beat him! And THAT is why he was so inhuman!! would be ridiculous. But a lot of people seem to want to talk about Stalin in that way. (Nobody here, by the way - I really get a lot out of the conversations we all have about Stalin.)

His unexplainability (??) is frightening. I get that. But to search for one label, a label that would make him small, explain-able, understand-able to people like you or me, cut him down to size, I think would be missing the point. Or at least, it can't be the WHOLE story.

It's almost like - well, here's a guess:

Lenin and his Old Bolshevik pals had a lot of grand ideas. They thought they knew what they wanted. And who knows, maybe a lot of them DID want that. Maybe it wasn't just a cynical power-grab - I am sure many of them were true believers. In a very short time, of course, all of that changed - and they literally just had to believe whatever Stalin told them to believe - (there's that famous quote by some dude saying, "You must be willing to change your opinion in 24 hours notice if the Party tells you to ..." woah.) They thought that it would be good to have a society based on certain principles, and they really wanted it to exist. Perhaps they didn't think about the HOWS of it ... like: HOW to destroy the peasants, HOW to get everyone on collective farms ... I don't know. The whole thing seems like such a crappy idea to me anyway that it feels like you would just have to be unbeLIEVably naive and abstract and - er - privileged - to EVER think that it would work ... at least without massive bloodshed. It's hard to get into their mindset. But from how I see it, their mindset was very abstract, lofty, and they probably used the word "should" a lot.

"And once that happens ... then such and such should follow ..."

All naive assumptions embodied in that "should". Anyone who believes in a utopia (in the past or the future) probably uses the word "should" a lot. You know why? Cause they don't understand human nature. They wish that pesky human nature would just ... behave itself, goldurnit!!! Why can't everyone behave the way they SHOULD behave??

Back to our Old Bolsheviks and their lofty ideas: Again, I am really not sure how much of them truly BELIEVED this shit, but here's my guess: They thought that after a certain point, the peasant would just somehow ... gradually ... disappear ... and the farmers would ... somehow ... gradually ... move onto the kholkhozes ... as they "should" ... and the proletariat would rise ... as Marx had predicted ... and ... somehow ... this would all happen in the proper order ... because that's the way it "should" happen, according to socialist theory - which was dogma!

When push came to shove, the only one who had the guts - the only one who literally had the STOMACH to do what needed to be done - to actually carry out these theories to their logical conclusions was Stalin. ("Okay - you want to destroy the peasant and the Russian village? How 'bout a big ol' honkin' FAMINE? How 'bout that?? How 'bout we starve millions and millions of people to death - and then watch how gratefully they scurry into the kholkhozes - how 'bout THAT?") - Now I'm not sure about that - and these guys were all pretty much cruel people, and ruthless in their minds towards "class enemies" - but being "ruthless in your mind" is different from actually have the GUTS to DO it.

To stand firm and strong while millions of people die? Literally begging for their lives? Entire populations of people starving, screaming for help? To stand firm. To refuse to bend. To stick to the plan.

That takes GUTS. That takes ... well, it's almost like it requires that you not HAVE something (like guts) but LACK something (like compassion). In order to not only allow a famine to occur, but to organize it and make SURE it occurs ... you really have to be seriously lacking in certain emotional departments.

But perhaps Stalin was so untouchable - not just because of the Party apparatus that he created - but because psychologically he had the upper hand and he knew it. What he did with collectivization and industrialization was ACTUALLY what all of those intellectuals had been bickering about and chatting about for years on end. His actions were the end result of all their intellectual blithering. He didn't TALK. He DID. Perhaps this, along with the terror of being killed, silenced many people because they realized, way too late, that what they had been chatting about naively for so many years, was, in actuality, the worst kind of totalitarianism. I don't know ... I don't know how many of them had the presence of mind to even look at it that way. It seems that most of them, by that point, were pretty craven-souled opportunistic fellows - the idealists being run out of the country. Stalin surrounded himself with groveling Yes-Men who would do whatever they had to do to save their own hides. Even if it meant killing millions of people in the Ukraine.

I wanted to post yet another long excerpt from the book - the excerpt actually has nothing to do with the famine - I got sidetracked, as I so often do with the dark mirror that is Stalin ... I found this FASCINATING, and also terrifying.

Stalin turned his attention to Russian artists.

Check this out - especially the anecdote about Mikhail Bulgakov. It's kinda terrifying. But I do love the image of all of these persecuted intellectuals bascially crank calling each other. I love Radzinsky's writing style. Again, he's a playwright - and I can tell. He goes right straight to the psychological horror at work here.

From "Stalin"

All this time, from 1929 on, a campaign against "ideological distortions" proceeded in parallel with the trials of wreckers. The intelligentsia was being taught caution in its use of the printed word. The slightest departure from the official view risked an accusation of perverting Marxism-Leninism, or worse.

Biologists, philosophers, educationists, and economists were all assailed. All branches of learning reported the discovery of "distortions". The "pseudo-academics", as they were now called, obediently did penance at public meetings.

Stalin was gradually eliminating shame. Fear is stronger than shame.

The cruel years that had gone before now looked like a reign of freedom. Quite recently, in 1926, the Moscow Arts Theatre had been allowed to put on Mikhail Bulgakov's Days of the Turbins. It was a fantastic success. Spectators watched in amazement a play which portrayed White officers (the enemy) not as the usual monsters but as likable, decent people. The production infuriated writers who were members of the Party. But the play proved to have one seemingly inexplicable devotee and defender. The Boss went to see it time and time again. Was this really odd? Not at all. The play dramatized the wreckage of the old empire. And Stalin, as he settled accounts with the leaders of October, could already see the empire of the future.

Still, he did not believe in playing favorites. In 1929, while he was taming the intelligentsia, the Arts Theatre accepted a new play from Bulgakov. Flight was about the end of the White army and its exodus from Russia. The heroes were the same, the ideas were the same as those of Days of the Turbins. But times had changed. The Boss had the play discussed in the Politburo. The body which governed the whole state was called on to examine a play which had not yet been shown. In his empire that sort of thing would be the norm. He knew that nothing was more important than ideology. He had taken to heart Lenin's dictum "the slightest relaxation in ideology will lead to loss of power by the Party." The Politburo accepted the recommendation of the commission it had set up that "staging of this play be deemed inexpedient". The verdict of P. Kerzhentsev, director of the Central Committee's Department of Agitation and Propaganda, is appended to the minutes: "The author's bias is quite clear: he is making excuses for people who are our enemies." As if at a word of command, the newspapers, each and every one, set about destroying Bulgakov. Agitprop did its job, and The Days of the Turbins was taken off. The experienced Kerzhentsev obviously intended to seek out the rightists in the arts.

The Boss, however, had other plans for Bulgakov.

My father was friends with Yuri Karlovich Olesha. They had both attended the Richelieu High School in Odessa. In the twenties and thirties Olesha was one of the most fashionable writers. But after that ... well, he was never imprisoned; they merely stopped publishing him. He spent his time jotting down mundane aphorisms, drinking heavily, and, when truly drunk, throwing his scraps of paper into the wastebasket. In the fifties the whole street would turn round to look at the man with the disheveled mane of grey hair, the dirty scarf around his neck, and the aquiline nose.

He often visited my father to ask him for money, and they would talk for hours. On one such occasion he told my father how Bulgakov, driven into a corner, decided to write a letter to Stalin. The idea was put into his head by a dubious character widely believed to be an informer. Bulgakov had no money at all, and had tried in vain to find work with the Arts Theatre. He nerved himself to write a desperate letter asking Stalin to let him go abroad. This was suicide when so many intellectuals were standing trial. As Olesha told the story: "It all happened in April. It was April 1 and we all played April fool jokes on each other. I knew about this letter, so I rang him up and said, with some sort of accent, 'Comrade Stalin wishes to speak to you.' He recognized my voice, told me to go to hell, and lay down (he always had a nap after dinner). But then the phone rang again. A voice at the other end said, 'Comrade Stalin will speak to you now.' He swore and hung up, thinking that I just wouldn't leave him alone. The phone rang again immediately, and he heard Stalin's secretary say sternly, 'Don't hang up. I hope you understand me.' Another voice, with a Georgian accent, cut in. 'What's the matter, are we getting on your nerves?' After Bulgakov had got over his embarrassment and greetings had been exchanged, Stalin said, 'I hear you're asking to be sent abroad.' Bulgakov, of course, answered as expected, that 'a Russian writer cannot work outside his Motherland,' and so on. 'You are right. I also believe that you want to work for the Arts Theatre?' 'I should like to, yes, but ... they've turned me down.' 'I think they'll agree.' With that he hung up. And almost immediately there was a call from the theatre asking Bulgakov to start work there."

So Bulgakov wrote Moliere, a play about a king who was Moliere's only protector against a spiteful court camarilla. Kerzhentsev -- who else? -- instantly denounced the author to the Central Committee. "What is the author's political intention? Bulgakov ... sets out to show the fate of a writer whose ideology is at odds with the political order, and whose plays are banned. Only the king stands up for Moliere and defends him against his persecutors ... Moliere has such lines as 'all my life I've been licking his (the king's) spurs with only one thought: don't trample on nme. Maybe I haven't flattered you enough, maybe I haven't crawled enough?' The scene concludes with Moliere's exclaiming, 'I hate arbitrary tyranny' (we amended 'arbitrary' to 'the king's'). The idea around which the author builds his play is sufficiently clear."

The Boss agreed with Kerzhentsev's recommendation to take the play out of the repertoire. But he remembered that only the king had helped Moliere and took note of Moliere's readiness, much as he hated tyranny, to serve his only protector, the king.

In 1936 the old Bolshevik Kerzhentsev would be shot. But Bulgakov survived.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (17)

It's raining ... on Pickler's prom night ...

Her dress ... is a me-ess ...

WOW.

hahahahahaha I love life sometimes. Today has been all about fashion, apparently, on my blog. So I will add this to the pot!

(Sigh. I actually have a conscience and now I feel like I'm being too mean to this poor girl. Like ... so what ... leave her alone. Oh well. I'll stop now.)


thanks, Jess, for the dee-lish link.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (37)

Speaking of the tragedy of pedal pushers

This is a beautiful post.

First of all: that dress: YUM!!

But I adore the sentiment she is expressing here. I so hear what she is saying.

I also like her list of misguided outfits she once wore.

Example:

Gray miniskirt worn with seafoam green cotton camp shirt, seafoam green ankle socks, and gray jazz shoes. Matching gray hoop earrings. Okay, this was in 1983, but there is still a psychic scar from this level of coordination. It was like my clothes had a Stalin-era work plan.

Go read the whole thing.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (6)

Diary Friday

So I'll continue on with the "autumn of Picnic", for those of you who enjoy consistency.

Part 1. The audition

Part 2. The callbacks, and getting in

Part 3.
Boyfriend mania. First meeting with the director.

I can't help it - I'm gonna keep including the stuff I wrote surrounding the whole Picnic experience - because it was such a full rich time - and I was trying to juggle so much - I couldn't JUST focus on the play. I was a senior in high school, I had to get good grades, I had a boyfriend (who HUGGED ME ON THE 7TH DATE - OH. MY. GOD.), and I also was going to be "on staff" at a religious retreat - which I was sooooooooo excited about. I had gone on this retreat myself, with my friends, and it had been amazing - and then I got asked to be "on staff". Rehearsals hadn't started yet - but they were coming. I'd be rehearsing every night. How I was going to manage to do all of this was ... freaking me out. In a huge way.

These couple of entries are from the respite period before rehearsals started and my whole life changed. I had NO idea what was coming.

I was all stressed out about grades, and my boyfriend, and how I would juggle it all ...

But the play I had just gotten cast in was a big unknown. I knew it would be a lot of work. But it wasn't real to me yet. I knew no one in the cast. I didn't know the director. I was leaping off the cliff into a totally new experience. And once I was THERE, once the whole thing started - a TON of stuff just shuffled naturally into place.

I couldn't know that at the time I was writing these entries below, though. I was just anxious and worried and harassed. Trying to stay calm.

And whatever, I'm including a loooong description of one of my dates with the boyfriend - because I had COMPLETELY forgotten it until literally this morning- and at the time, it was just an absolutely HUGE experience ... I hadn't seen Casablanca yet - but it was like I suddenly found myself in Rick's Cafe ... you'll see what I mean. I laughed out loud reading the whole experience and how BLOWN AWAY BY IT I WAS. Diary Friday fans, you will probably recall that my unrequited love during my junior year was the ever-present "DW". Right? Well, "DW" makes an appearance here. "DW" had been a senior when I was a junior - so he had graduated and moved on to college - after completely SHATTERING me when he turned down my invitation to go to my prom. It was really my first experience with true heartache. Awful!!

Too funny - I'm a grown woman, and I've had a ton of crazy things happen to me - much crazier than what I describe in this journal entry - but ... because I was so NEW to the whole "dating" world at that point, so new to basically everything ... my astonishment at the experience just emanated off the page this morning when I read it - and my jaw dropped. I was like: "Holy shit ... I totally forgot about this!!!" I re-lived it, through my own 17-year-old eyes. I love it when that happens.

Okay. Onward.

OCTOBER 8

Mere and I went shopping in Fall River. I bought some rhinestone clip-on earrings and Tom Cruise dark glasses. [bwahahahaha Tom Cruise!! "Risky Business" had just come out. Little did I know that Xenu had already captured his soul by this point.] I also bought some weird shoes. We had fun. I also memorized my Millie lines on the way up and back.

On Sautrday, I went over Kate's. She lives right on a lake. I couldn't stand the beauty of where she lives. All the leaves are flaming red or yellow and they float on the lake. Then, Kate and I sat on two rocks at the shore and fed two swans. Oh Diary, their beauty brought tears to my eyes. They were close enough to touch [But you didn't touch them ... did you? Timothy Treadwell?] Their necks and white white feathers. Kate and I sat silently for about a half-hour just watching them. One of them sort of stretched its neck way out and flapped out her feathers - almost lifting off the lake. I held my breath. Kate and I could hardly move. Their beauty hurt me. And they were so close to us and so incredibly beautiful and white. I could have watched them forever. They were eating the bread crumbs right at my feet. I've never been that close to a swan before. I never felt so one with nature. I felt a part of them.

I wonder how the swans saw us. What we looked like to them.

When that one swan stretched her whole body out and flapped her wings - I thought I was gonna die. I felt shivers all over me.

I felt so close to God. I can't tell you how much I can't WAIT for our retreat. Lisa T. - one of my favorite people in the world is ON STAFF! When I told Kate that, she started screaming, we both started crying and hugging.

Betsy is Rector. I hope that I can be to someone what others were for me. Ted. Sue. I'm praying - I want to be a channel of God's peace for someone else. I can't wait! Also - it's gonna be in the middle of November - a November that's going to be so crazy that I'm trying to block it out. I wish I could cancel my birthday. [hahahaha] I almost can't bear the anticipation and just the thought of what it's gonna be like. To be on staff with Kate - I really need it.

I had a great time at Kate's. We just talked quietly on the shore about the swans and God and stuff. [hahahahaha]

Sometimes I feel like that Simon and Garfunkle song - The 6 O'Clock News - horrendous news being reported as Silent Night is sung in the background - that there are so many awful awful awful things going on today that are so unfair and terrible, but lying somewhere below it - we have to believe that there is good. Why does the bad always overshadow the good? I have to have faith. I mean - of course I have questions, and sometimes I even wonder, "What if we're wrong? What if -- we are wrong?" But I don't believe it. I have faith. And I'm so glad I'm being given a chance to share this with others - the way people have shared it with me. I can't wait. It's gonna be incredible. What a birthday present.

Oh, and monumental news:

I weigh 120!! [hahahahahahahahahaha No segue. Faith, God's love, weight loss ... it's all part of the same thing] I practically haven't eaten since those auditions. I'm not hungry anymore. I don't have time for breakfast and I never eat my sandwich at lunch. [Uhm, eating disorder?] And Diary - it's not like it's only a difference numerically on the scale - I can see it. I look better. When I wear my purple pedal pushers [bwahahahahahahahahaha] - I've been so used to (for so long) being mildly unsatisfied with my weight. I look okay now!

OCTOBER 9

Oh God. November. SATs, Drama Club play, retreat (much work), and - Picnic - plus getting good grades before grades close for seniors. I have to do it all. I can't drop any of it.

Then there is also TS. That is what is making me so miserable. I'm just so worried all the time. All the time. I can't even think about it. I don't know how anyone can just naturally have a boyfriend. And have it not be a big deal. [I still don't] I mean, I don't think I could just casually have a boyfriend. I don't know if it's good or bad. It's not like I'm thinking "Oh, I hope it all just settles itself, so that then we're just 'going out' and it will be one less thing to worry about." I don't think that. It is more to think about. It is the heaviest load I am carrying right now.

OCTOBER 11

I can't believe my life. I cannot believe what my life is. Why -- what is this? All I can do is laugh. Things just happen to me. This is crazy. My life is unbelievable. I must rave like this. Wait til you hear. Why do these things keep happening to me?

I'm calmer than I was last night so let me just tell the night like it was and you will definitely know when I come to the unbelievable part. It's so unbelievable that I can't even think of what to say.

I walked up to the Union. I felt really cool. With my Tom Cruise glasses on. [Girl, one day it will SO not be appropriate to think that anything about Tom Cruise is "cool" - I know it's hard to contemplate, but try to imagine yourself into the future ... You're not gonna believe what happens to that Risky Business boy!!] It's idiotic I know, but the glasses are already one of my favorite possessions. Besides all my diaries, I mean. They make me look like a hood. [A hood in purple pedal pushers?]

The fall colors this year - autumn is so beautiful - all the orange or red - it was raining yellow leaves yesterday. TS and I were talking about this once. TS said, "I honestly think that people feel most at home in the time they were born." We're both November people! I think that's right. I can't wait till it gets cold and I can wear my sweaters and my mittens.

It started to get dusky as I walked, so I took off my glasses. [hahahaha I love how often I'm mentioning them.] I wasn't even really nervous about the date - like I usually am - I was just looking forward to seeing him again.

I got to the Union - all these people were milling around waiting for the bus so I was just looking around - then I saw him sitting on this bench a ways away. We both saw each other, and I started over. He lay down on the bench to make me think I was late. Some people nearby saw this, and started laughing. Right then - as I started over to him, and this guy and girl saw him lie back, then looked at me, smiling at me as I trotted over to him - right then I got this strange outside-of-myself feeling - like being seen as being with TS - That does happen to me a lot.

We had an hour until the movie so we went into the Union and sat in the lounge. He brought his second draft of his script - he finished it! He wanted me to read it. So we sat there for an hour. I read the script. He read the TV section and pretended that he wasn't watching me as I read it. The script is so funny. I'd think so if I didn't know that TS had written it. Some of it made me laugh out loud. When I finished it, we sat and talked about his plans for filming. He said to me, "When is your play gonna be put on?" I said, "End of November." and he said, "Oh - maybe you'll want to auditoin for this." I will! Does he want me to be in it? Me? [Sheila, stop doing that. He's not better than you. Stop making yourself less than him. Thanks.]

Then we started over to the nursing building. [hahahaha what??? I think that that was where the "film noir" series was happening - I believe that that was what we were going to see ...] It was dark by this time. The campus is so pretty. The movie was so good! I want to see it again! Uncle Harry. It was really good. Not so melodramatic as The Letter either - and funny too. A happy ending!

I was sitting next to him thinking: How do people go out with each other? I know it's stupid. I did watch the movie but I was still aware of him. His big hands on his knees, his glasses glinting in the dark. I was aware of his breathing, for Pete's sake! His chest rising and falling - I was just aware of him. I'm so confused. It's so much fun being with TS - but especially since that night when he hugged me - I just don't know what I'm feeling. I really don't. I wish there was someway that I could know. How can you ever be sure that what you're doing is true to how you feel? I mean - when he was hugging me - I suddenly felt like I loved him with every fiber of my being - and I do - but what does it all mean? Do I know what I'm doing? Am I behaving in a way that is true to how I actually feel? I wonder if I'm actually just not ready. Will I ever be ready? Will it come to me in a revelation someday, "Yes, Sheila. It is right."

Okay - so the movie finished. We decided to walk back to my house - it was only 8:30 or so. We talked. He told me about some of Matt's film projects - There were stories that were so funny that at times I had to just stop and let myself laugh. So funny. We were sort of just wandering around campus talking - and we were on some back street, down low in a valley - it was dark - these two guys were walking down the sidewalk towards us - so TS and I sort of stepped around them, but then one of those guys said, "Hey! TS!" TS stopped, looked at them, and said, "Hey!" I stopped, turned around, and saw that it was DW.

We have just reached the unbelievable part, by the way.

Yes. It was DW. Do you believe this? What are the chances of that happening? My heart honestly stopped beating. I could NOT MOVE. I was honestly just standing there, staring at DW, thinking:

"I cannot believe this."

It wasn't even traumatic or anything - just unbelievable - and in a way - very very funny. All I can say about the whole thing is: I can't believe it. I think about it and I just want to LAUGH!

Okay. It was DW and DO (He also went to SK - he and DW were bosom buddies). I can't believe my stupid life. Why do I keep wanting to laugh? Okay, so I saw that it was him. A photograph of me at that moment would have been entitled:

"Sheila O'Malley has turned to stone."

There he was. There stood DW. And TS. And I was with TS. There are no words to express how I felt. I just stood there, as the two of them shook hands, and said, "Hi! How are you? How've you been?" Nobody looked at me yet. I finally just said, "Hi, DW." He looked down at me - (what was he thinking??) - and then took a second look - a closer one - and said, "Sheila?" in this really surprised way. Then he said, really slowly, in this long drawn-out way, "God. You look ... different ........... You belong in college. You look like you're in college." [hmmmmmm] I stood there just smiling like a dopey jerk - but it still so thrilled me - to look at him again - to see his face again - having him look at me, see me, say my name like that. I mean, my heart aches - but he was impressed with what I looked like - the way he recognized me - like - "Sheila?"

And also - just the fact that I was with TS. It was just too funny to even be real - but I felt so on top of things. How can I expalin it except to say that it was unbelievable and hysterical? I'm so glad that I'm YOUNG. I feel very youthful right now - not juvenile - just very energetic, young, and full of hope. There was something about standing there, between those two men, everyone being all nice, and shaking hands, but with all this stuff going on underneath - that made me feel very young.

So the four of us stood there and talked for about 15 minutes. What was DW thinking? [I can tell you exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking: "Damn. She was a little girl when she had a crush on me. And now she's skinny, she's hanging out with a 19 year old guy, and she looks like she's in college!! Hmmmm ... I am now seeing Sheila in a whole new light!"] Whenever we looked in each other's eyes - it's like we know - because a lot has happened. A lot happened between us.

TS talked to DO and I talked to DW - I don't think TS knows about DW and me. Oh brother, I feel so twisted up inside. I liked DW so much, and for so long, that I could easily start it up again. I'm not through liking him yet. [And I think, strangely enough, Sheila - just reading your description here: he'd be open to it now!! He wasn't when you were 16 and he was 18 ... but you could get him now! But that was never my destiny. With me, the timing is allllways off.] Even while I was standing there next to TS, my whole soul was screeching: "DW!!!" I felt so awful and confused.

DW asked me, "So how's old SK doing?" I rolled my eyes and he grinned. "You can't wait to get out, right?" I asked him how he liked college. He said so sincerely, "I love it so much, Sheila. You'll love it, too." He asked about the band. I told him that April was President. I couldn't stand it. I was standing there talking with him again, looking at him, seeing him.. Once again - no wonder I loved him. He is so so nice. Just a nice nice person. I felt like I could talk to him forever. We always had good conversations.

And just the whole thing that - I was with TS. I was with TS. And DW was looking at us, taking it all in. I wish I was a mindreader. I wonder what was going on in his head. DW asked me if "there were any dramatic productions in the making". I told him about Hans Christian Andersen - Then (oooh, I'm a sly devil) I said, "I'm in one here, too." And he said, "No kidding! Good for you! Which one?" So I told him about Picnic (first rehearsal Saturday) - and he said, "Well, I'll have to come see it." [And you know what? He did. Unbelievable. Showed up unannounced, by himself, and waited for me after the show. I'm still amazed by this.]

Oh Diary. If only he had ceased to exist. This is hard. Now I can't stop thinking about him.

Seeing him last night - it's always hard when I run into him - but last night, I felt happy.


OCTOBER 12


I'm so glad this week is over. I'm out of it and I'm very ugly and depressed.

First rehearsal tomorrow. I'm shakin' in my boots.

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The Books: "Rise And Fall Of The Third Reich" (William L. Shirer)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

0449219771.01.LZZZZZZZ.jpgNext book on the shelf is Rise And Fall Of The Third Reich by William Shirer.

So deciding on an excerpt here was daunting. There's so much in this book - and - I can't even believe, in retrospect, that I finished it. It can be a total GRIND. It's a hard book - thick, fat, with a gazillion footnotes, and - at least in my copy - pretty small print. I have bad eyes. The small print is a challenge. But I'm really glad I read it.

I have two other of Shirer's books which I actually prefer - I'll excerpt those next - The Nightmare Years (his experiences as a journalist in the 20s) and his Berlin Diary - his own personal journal describing living in Berlin with his wife in the early 30s, as he saw all of this stuff begin to happen. Berlin Diary is amazing. But I'm a sucker for first-person stories, anyway.

But Rise and Fall is obviously the book he will be remembered for. It's a massive heavy accomplishment - kind of astonishing when you think of the MOUNDS of paperwork the Nazis left behind.

From Rise And Fall Of The Third Reich by William Shirer.

With Mussolini in the bag, Hitler turned his attention elsewhere. In August 1936 he had appointed Ribbentrop as German ambassador in London in an effort to explore the possibility of a settlement with England -- on his own terms. Incompetent and lazy, vain as a peacock, arrogant and without humor, Ribbentrop was the worst possible choice for such a post, as Goering realized. "When I criticized Ribbentrop's qualifications to handle British problems," he later declared, "the Fuehrer pointed out to me that Ribbentrop knew 'Lord So and So' and 'Minister So and So.' To which I replied, 'Yes, but the difficult is that they know Ribbentrop.'"

It is true that Ribbentrop, unattractive a figure though he was, was not without influential friends in London. Mrs. Simpson, the friend of the King, was believed in Berlin to be one of these. But Ribbentrop's initial efforts in his new post were discouraging and in November he flew back to Berlin to conclude some non-British business he had been dabbling in. On November 25 he signed the Anti-Comintern Pact with Japan, in which, he told the correspondents (of whom this writer was one) without batting an eye, Germany and Japan had joined together to defend Western civilization. On the surface this pact seemed to nothing more than a propaganda trick by which Germany and Japan could win world support by exploiting the universal dislike for Communism and the general distrust of the Comintern. But in this treaty too there was a secret protocol, specifically directed against Russia. In case of an unprovoked attack by the Soviet Union against Germany and Japan, the two nations agreed to consult on what measures to take "to safeguard their common interests" and also to "take no measures which would tend to ease the situation of the Soviet Union", It was also agreed that neither nation would make any political treaties with Russia contrary to the spirit of the agreement without mutual consent.

It would not be very long before Germany broke the agreement and accused Japan -- unjustifiably -- of not observing it. But the pact did serve a certain propaganda purpose among the world's gullible and it brought together for the first time the three have-not and aggressive nations. Italy signed it the following year.

On January 30, 1937, Hitler addressed the Reichstag proclaiming "the withdrawal of the German signature" from the Versailles Treaty, an empty but typical gesture, since the treaty was by now dead as a doornail -- and reviewing with pride the record of his four years in office. He could be pardoned for his pride, for it was an impressive record in both domestic and foreign affairs. He had, as we have seen, abolished unemployment, created a boom in business, built up a powerful Army, Navy, and Air Force, provided them with considerable armaments and the promise of more on a massive scale. He had single-handedly broken the fetters of Versailles and bluffed his way into occupying the Rhineland. Completely isolated at first, he had found a loyal ally in Mussolini and another in Franco, and he had detached Poland from France. Most important of all, perhaps, he had released the dynamic energy of the German people, reawakening their confidence in the nation and their sense of its mission as a great and expanding world power.

Everyone could see the contrast between this thriving, martial, boldly led new Germany and the decadent democracies in the West, whose confusions and vacillations seemed to increase with each new month of the calendar.

Though they were alarmed, Britian and France had not lifted a finger to prevent Hitler from violating the peace treaty by rearming Germany and reoccupying the Rhineland; they had been able to stop Mussolini in Abyssinia. And now, as the year 1937 began, they were cutting a sorry figure by their futil gestures to prevent Germany and Italy from determining the outcome of the Spanish Civil War. Everyone knew what Italy and Germany were doing in Spain to assure Franco's victory. Yet the governments of London and Paris continued for years to engage in empty diplomatic negotiations with Berlin and Rome to assure "nonintervention' in Spain. It was a sport which seems to have amused the German Dictator and which certainly increased his contempt for the stumbling political leaders of France and Britain -- "Little worms," he would shortly call them on a historic occasion when he again humbled the two Western democracies with the greatest of ease.

Neither Great Britain and France, their governments and their peoples, nor the majority of the German people seemed to realize as 1937 began that almost all that Hitler had done in his first four years was a preparation for war. This writer can testify from personal observation that right up to September 1, 1939, the German people were convinced that Hitler would get what he wanted -- and what they wanted -- without recourse to war. But among the elite who were running Germany, or serving it in the key positions, there could have been no doubt what Hitler's objective was. As the four-year "trial" period of Nazi rule, as Hitler called it, approached an end, Goering, who in September 1936 had been put in charge of the Four-Year Plan, bluntly stated what was coming in a secret speech to industrialists and high officials in Berlin.

The battle we are now approaching [he said] demands a colossal measure of production capacity. No limit on rearmament can be visualized. The only alternatives are victory or destruction ... We live in a time when the final battle is in sight. We are already on the threshold of mobilization and we are already at war. All that is lacking is the actual shooting.

Goering's warning was given on December 17, 1936. Within eleven months, as we shall shortly see, Hitler made his fateful and inalterable decision to go to war.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 23, 2006

Message to Kellie Pickler:

If you are going to play the dumb blonde and hope that THAT will get you more votes, because you obviously can't sing your way to the top, and judging from the sort of sad baffled look on your face last night you KNOW THIS - I have some suggestions, because you are a terrible actress:

1. Most people termed "dumb blondes" are actually quite smart and know exactly what they are doing. So-called dumb blondes PROFIT from other people UNDERESTIMATING them. I am thinking of Dolly Parton. Marilyn Monroe. Smart cookies. There are, of course, many TRULY STUPID people who are also blondes ... and maybe you are one of them, hon! Looks so! But here's the deal; You're too dumb to play a dumb blonde. Your performance instincts are ... very lacking. Your little "what's a ballsy" nonsense last night tells me that the jig is UP, sweetheart.

2. Acting 101: If you INSIST on giving yourself a line like, "What's a ballsy?" - first of all: there is such a thing called underplaying. VERY important concept, if you want to consistently get laughs. When you give yourself a dumb and improbable line like "What's a ballsy" - the best thing to do is to play it TOTALLY straight, almost deadpan. You might have gotten a laugh on it. Marilyn Monroe sure would have. Marilyn Monroe was given some of the stupidest text in the world ... and she made it work. Sadly, though, unlike you - she had brains. Those who are not naturally gifted (read: You) sometimes do a little thing called TRAINING - because, whaddya know, not everything is just GIVEN to us in this life jsut because WE WANT IT and we have cute blonde hairdos - so these lesser talented people TRAIN ... so that they can:

a. learn to walk on stage without looking like a gravity experiement
b. learn to loosen up in front of the camera so they don't look like a frozen-eyed dim bulb
c. relax enough so that they can bring their natural persona out more fully. This takes training, girl - not for someone like Mandisa or Chris or Taylor who seem completely relaxed in front of an audience - but you? You need work. Don't let anyone tell you different.

I have no idea what your natural persona is, Pickler, but I'll tell you this. The way you said YOUR OWN LINE from your OWN HEAD "What's a ballsy" shows that you have lost control of your own situation. There wasn't a generous laugh response to it - the way there was for other "Oh my God, I'm so dumb" lines. People were like ... Huh? It didn't work. You've pushed past the point of our tolerance for you.

An analogy, Kellie: You know how little kids sometimes get out of control when something goes well for them? And then very quickly they descend into tears and tragedy? At least this is my observation. For example: A little 7 year old kid makes a joke in front of a bunch of adults - and whaddya know - it is a HUGE hit with the adult set and eveyrone HOWLS with laughter. The kid then becomes GIDDY with his own success - and makes another joke - which maybe isn't quite so good ... and then, filled with shame and 7-year-old self-loathing at having LOST the love so freely given just MOMENTS before ... the child quickly resorts to poop and fart jokes, which do NOT go over well, and maybe Mom or Dad says, "Hon ... that's not appropriate" ... which then leaves the child in a swirling wilderness of pain - so the child publicly bursts into tears, and then has to be ushered out of the room by Mom or Dad. Oh, to fly so high so quickly, and then to have such a tragic descent! I have seen it happen, I tell ya.

Dear Kellie: Your "what's a ballsy" moment was the equivalent of a kid shouting out a poop joke at an adult dinner party, trying to re-create the glorious success of the moment before when everyone had loved him!

Maybe two shows ago, you were being congratulated for this act - people were spontaneously bursting into laughter at your ADORABLE comments about your "eyelashes", and that wide-eyed innocence you have! People lapped that crap up!! I always thought you were a bit of a phony, but that's neither here nor there ... People loved it!! They were charmed by you! Good for you! I thought that maybe you, like Marilyn or Dolly, were in CONTROL of what you were doing.

Last night ... you were giddy with your own success ... and perhaps you were feeling not so hot about what was going on ... perhaps you sensed that the tide was turning against you ... There was maybe something lukewarm in the judges response? As compared to what they said to Chris or Mandisa?

You sat there, and I saw this sort of frozen crestfallen thing on your face ... a 7-year-old expression frankly - like: where is the love???

So to try to get the love back, you created this cockamamie moment - where Ryan said, "Simon thought it was ballsy" - and you said, laughing as you said it, "What's a ballsy?"

No laugh.

Uh oh.

Your charm has already worn thin. You seemed not like a "dumb blonde" who knew what she was doing. But just a dumb person, with a bad haircut, and a frozen crestfallen face. Who didn't know what she was doing. Who has no idea how to be IN FRONT OF PEOPLE, and to let her own self shine through.

The jig's up, baby.

To quote sarahk, who, believe it or not, is much meaner than I am:

"What's a ballsy?" Give me a big fat break, you phony inbred backwoods imbecile. Now she’s not even trying to fake it properly. What kind of complete retard hears someone call her an adjective and says, “What’s a ballsy?"

I can't stand phonies. I don't care about people who maybe can't sing, or who have a lot of work to do - but I can't stand phonies. And she is one.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (84)

Great great idea:

Here's a blogger who loved the Babysitters' Club book series growing up - and has decided to re-read all of the books (there are quite a few!!) - and blog about her responses to the books now. Her entire blog is focused on this endeavor. Great idea!!

I never read that series - they started coming out when I was a bit too old to get into them - but if I recall correctly, my younger sisters looooooooved them.

So I have been having just a FABULOUS time re-reading some of these posts.

What a great idea for a blog. I have to read every single one of her posts now.

Some choice quotes below - but I imagine if any of you out there read and loved that series, you will have a BLAST reading through her posts. I love the ADULT analysis of the childhood favorites. So funny!!


From this post:

Sometimes, although not nearly as much as when I’m watching the John Hughes oeuvre, I wonder where the parents in Stoneybrook are. Not necessarily the parents of the BSC’s charges, but the parents of the BSC members. I know that they show up for advice, or to punish the BSC members for not doing their homework. But when something serious is going on, where are they? Seriously.

And from this post - this made me laugh out loud:

Jessi volunteers to help with a six week ballet class for “underprivileged” kids. One of the other volunteers is Mary, who is also in Jessi’s regular ballet classes. When all the volunteers go out for fast food (yeah, right, ballet students going out for fast food after class…my ass), Mary doesn’t eat, she just pushes her food around. She also obsesses about her body in the locker room, if that’s what it’s called in ballet. Well, Jessi gets to worrying, especially after Mary collapses in class. After checking in with the BSC, she decides to confront Mary about her anorexia. Well, of course, Mary denies it; what, has Jessi never seen that tv movie starring Tracey Gold? Or that one after school special? Or Center Stage? Then Jessi talks to big, scary French ballet teacher…and all is well in the world of ballet, you know the one that encourages healthy bodies and even healthier body image.

And this:

So, why do these bitches get mad at their friends for changing their looks? Not just in this one, but also in the-not-yet-recapped Mary Anne’s Makeover. Apparently, when you start to look even a little different, you are a traitorous bitch.

hahahaha

Or this:

Not too much to say about this book. In it, Dawn gets a crush on an older boy (sixteen with his own car) and loses all sense of self. I never read this series for realism, so this one kinda blew…if I wanted to see girls turn into doormats for stupid boys, I’d watch mtv or lifetime or Degrassi.


I am in love with this new blog. I love the comments, too - people who read and loved and remembered the books all weighing in. Awesome. It's called BSC Headquarters. Go check it out.


(via Book Slut)

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (23)

Today in history: March 23, 1775

liberty.bmp

Patrick Henry made his famous "give me liberty or give me death" speech at St. John’s Church in Richmond, Virginia. The speech changed people's lives, ignited them.

Benson Bobrick writes in his book Angel in the Whirlwind (this is about a speech Henry made a decade earlier) - You get the sense in the following excerpt of Henry's power as a public speaker - the consciousness with where he chose to PAUSE ... and then how he concluded his thought, as the cries of "treason" rose around him - genius:

On May 29, 1765, Patrick Henry rose in the Virginia House of Burgesses to introduce a series of momentous resolutions which he had hastily drafted on a blank leaf of an old law book…Henry accompanied these resolutions with a fiery speech given the next day in which he concluded, "Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell and George the Third"—amid cries of "Treason" that arose from all sides of the room – "and George the Third," he continued artfully, "may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it!"

Thomas Jefferson, then a student at the College of William and Mary, was standing in the doorway and heard Henry speak. "I well remember the cry of treason," Jefferson wrote afterward, "the pause of Mr. Henry at the name of George III, and the presence of mind with which he closed his sentence, and baffled the charge vociferated."…To Jefferson it seemed as if Henry "spoke as Homer wrote".

Paul Johnson, in his wonderful book, History of the American People, writes of the "Give me liberty or give me death" speech:

A common American political consciousness was taking shape, and delegates began to speak with a distinctive national voice. At the end of it, Patrick Henry marked this change in his customary dramatic manner: 'The distinctions between Virginians and New Englanders are no more. I am not a Virginian but an American.' Not everyone agreed with him, as yet, and the Continental Congress, as it called itself, voted by colonies rather than as individual Americans. But this body, essentially based on Franklin's earlier proposals, perpetuated its existence by agreeing to meet again in May 1775. Before that could happen, on February 5, 1775, parliament in London declared Massachusetts, identified as the most unruly and contumacious of the colonies, to be in a state of rebellion, thus authorizing the lawful authorities to use what force they thought fit. The fighting had begun. Hence when the Virginia burgesses met in convention to instruct their delegates to the Second Continental Congress, Henry saw his chance to bring home to all the revolutionary drama of the moment.

Henry was a born ham actor, in a great age of acting - the Age of Garrick. The British parliament was full of actors, notably [William] Pitt himself ('He acted even when he was dying') and the young [Edmund] Burke, who was not above drawing a dagger, and hurling it on the ground to make a point. But Henry excelled them all. He proposed to the burgesses that Virginia should raise a militia and be ready to do battle. What was Virginia waiting for? Massachusetts was fighting. 'Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we her idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have?'

Then Henry got to his knees, in the posture of a manacled slave, intoning in a low but rising voice: 'Is life so dear, our peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God!' He then bent to the earth with his hands still crossed, for a few seconds, and suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting, 'Give me liberty!' and flung wide his arms, paused, lowered his arms, clenched his right hand as if holding a dagger at his breast, and said in sepulchral tones: 'Or give me death!' He then beat his breast, with his hand holding the imaginary dagger.

There was silence, broken by a man listening at the open window, who shouted: "Let me be buried on this spot!'

Henry had made his point.

It's interesting - there's a great description of acting: "Acting is like a sculpture carved in snow." Obviously, that phrase came from the time of stage acting. Movies now can capture the "sculpture" before it melts. But that quote always makes me think of Patrick Henry. Nobody alive today can ever see his oratorical skills. There are no video tapes, tape recordings. We just have to take the word of those who were THERE. So while no "record" exists, and his speeches were, indeed, "carved in snow" ... a whiff of the power of them comes down to us regardless.

Click below to read, in full, Patrick Henry's speech that he made on this day in 1775:

Patrick Henry's Speech, St. John's Church, Richmond, Virginia, March 23, 1775

No man, Mr. President, thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed the House. But different men often see the same subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen if, entertaining as I do opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak forth my sentiments freely and without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. The question before the House is one of awful moment to this country. For my own part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery; and in proportion to the magnitude of the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate. It is only in this way that we can hope to arrive at truth, and fulfill the great responsibility which we hold to God and our country. Should I keep back my opinions at such a time, through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.

Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free-- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending--if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained--we must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (15)

The Books: "Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran" (Elaine Sciolino)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51CNQFNJ34L._SS500_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran by Elaine Sciolino. Elaine Sciolino is a senior correspondent for The New York Times and has been covering Iran and the Middle East for years. I really like this book - with a couple of caveats. She's a wonderful writer - and makes me feel like I am THERE. If you read my blog, then you know my fascination with all things Persian, and my yearning to go there someday. A book like hers makes me feel like I am there. I think she's a bit soft on the regime - I've read that critique of her before - she was good friends with Khatami - and I think that might have colored her response to some of the more disturbing things in that country. So that kind of bugs me. But some of the images she shares in this book have stayed with me a long time - these crazy house parties in suburbs of Teheran - the women showing up in billowing black chadors - entering separate doors from the men - Then once they're inside, off come the chadors, and everyone's wearing teeny sundresses and platform sandals, all the guys in Western dress - and there's booze and dancing all night. Then, when it's time to go home - on go the full chadors, men and women leave separately - and it's as though it never happened. How do the citizens navigate such a situation? It's a strange thing when most of the citizenry is involved in just trying to FOOL their own government ... the government being a big nasty moralistic prude. And the young kids are just trying to have a bit of fun, and "fool Daddy", by sneaking out of the house, and raiding the secret liquor stash. Like - what happened to this pure Islamic Republic? People are OVER it. At least as described in Sciolino's book.

The way she describes the city of Shiraz makes me yearn to go there. Argh. I just don't know if it'll ever happen.

Like I said, I don't think Sciolino is completely reliable - but one of the things I get from her writing, is how much she loves that country, and how much she loves the people she has met there. That passion comes through in this book.

By the way, I was in an elevator with two guys. They were obviously co-workers. They were talking about something, and one guy said to the other, "So - you're obviously a born-and-bred New Yorker, huh?" The other guy said, "Actually - no ... I was born in Iran." I could feel that word just LAND in the elevator. The guy who had asked the question said, "Really! That's ... interesting!" (He really did sound interested.) I wondered what was going through the completely Americanized Iranian man ... if he knows that saying he is from THAT COUNTRY will ... somehow make people feel differently about him? If he's hesitate to share it?? I heard a bit of hesitation in the voice before he said, 'Actually, no ..." The guy who had asked the question said, "So when did you come here?" And it was not at all a surprise (of course) when the Iranian said, "My family came here in 1979."

The exodus.

I'm going to post a bit of an excerpt about Qom, the theological center south of Teheran, where Khomeini got his start. It's Mullah Central down there.

From Persian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran by Elaine Sciolino.

Qom, a gloomy, dusty thousand-year-old city on the edge of Iran's great salt desert, is only ninety miles from Tehran. It might as well be nine thousand. Its main industry is producing mullahs, much as the industry of Vatican City is training priests. And like the Vatican, Qom is a sheltered, unhurried religious refuge, where clerics can debate without attention to time and without fear of interference from the state. In the Islamic Republic, Qom has assumed another role as well: it is the idea factory for a regime that seeks to regulate daily life with all the worldly tools of a modern state even as it tries to bring its people closer to God. That is the principal reason Montazeri was allowed to continue spreading his ideas, even after he had been stripped of power and liberty.

Before the revolution, Qom was a desolate place known as a center for study and worship and a producer of fine silk carpets and of sohan, a caramel and pistachio brittle. The more the Shah consolidated his own power, the less attention he paid to Qom, a guidebook published by his Ministry of Information and Tourism devoted just three paragraphs to the city.

Ayatollah Khomeini changed all that. His appeal was exceptionally strong in Qom, where he had lived and preached for years before he was sent into exile. In January 1978, a crowd there demonstrated against the Shah in the ayatollah's name. According to some reports, clerics and Islamic militants set up street barricades, smashed buses, halted trains, and attacked banks and shops; they were not silenced even after the police opened fire. Many Iranians came to regard what became a two-and-half-hour shooting spree as the opening shots of the revolution. Afterward, the regime bused thousands of factory workers and low-level government employees to Qom for a counterdemonstration in support of the Shah. But the violent crackdowns sparked a cycle of mourning - and more demonstrations and violence - every forty days until, a year later, the Shah fled the country and Khomeini returned.

The first time I visited Qom I witnessed the slaughtering of a camel. It was a bright, cool, sunny day in February 1979, just a few days after the revolution, and the sacrifice was made to honor Khomeini's triumphant return after an absence of more than fourteen years. His followers made a path of red carnations for him, filled the walls with his portraits, and strung revolutionary posters and banners between minarets and lampposts not only in Persian, but also in Arabic, English, French, and German (for the benefit of foreign journalist, I presumed). Khomeini had ordered that no camels were to be killed in his honor, but his followers paid no heed. The giant beast was forced on its side by a handful of men. One man swiftly slit the camel's throat with a sword. Blood spurted high into the air. The crowd praised God and smeared their hands and faces with the blood. That day, Khomeini sat in the front seat of a white Chevrolet ambulance; members of the foreign media were put on a long flatbed truck. We made our way through a shrieking crowd of clerics who chanted slogans on megaphones, soldiers who had stuck carnations in their rifles, and hundreds of thousands of people who kept running to catch up. In my chador, I slipped at one point and grabbed the arm of a young bearded Iranian assigned to help us. "Don't touch me like that!" he said. "You are in Qom."

Yes, I was in Qom.

It was in Qom that Khomeini set up his government just days after the victory of the revolution. In thoseheady early days, Qom seemed like the center of the universe to its residents. No longer a religious backwater, it became very much like an eighteenth-century European court where people came and went and pleaded and waited for favors. Government officials made pilgrimages by helicopter from Tehran, often several times a week, to consult Khomeini. Courtiers and security guards shielded the ayatollah from most of the supplicants. Every day thousands of people crowded behind green metal barricades at the end of the street where Khomeini lived to get a glimpse of him, usually no more than a one-minute wave from his window. Among the throng one day was a woman who told me she had come with her blind daughter all the way from Isfahan to get Khomeini's blessing, and a widow with seven children who said she had come from Mashad to ask for an increase in her pension.

After the revolution, the city emerged as an even more important Shiite pilgrimage site and the country's most authoritative center of learning. "Islam has no borders," Khomeini said, so the seminaries attracted religious scholars and students from around the world as the exportation of Iran's revolution became one of the pillars of the new Islamic system. The religious teachers of Qom were assigned the task of indoctrinating foreign students with tales about the Islamic revolution and how to duplicate it back home. During the war with Iraq, the ranks of the seminaries swelled, in part because clerical students were exempt from military service. By the turn of the century, tens of thousands of students were enrolled in the Qom theological seminaries alone.

Over the years, I have made the drive from Tehran to Qom more times than I can count: with a group of American tourists, with officials from the Ministry of Islamic Guidance, with a nephew of Ayatollah Khomeini, with Nazila. The trip has gone faster since a six-lane highway was built. But I still don't feel as if I fully understand the place. Even for many Iranians, Qom seems alien. Religion dominates the culture and the clerics don't like outsiders. I have worked for a long time with secular Iranian women who hate to go there because of the way the clerics look at them. A foreigner can be spotted from miles away. I keep going back to Qom because I hope that each visit will reveal more. And indeed, it is different every time.

The distinction between what is public and what is private is drawn more starkly in Qom than in the rest of Iran; the curtain of privacy is far more tightly drawn around the clergy, making it especially difficult for an outsider to get inside. Hotels generally don't welcome women traveling on their own, and restaurants are hard to find. Qom has only one main avenue; everything important is within walking distance - the central shrine, the seminaries, even a new Islamic computer center where Koranic teachings and interpretations are on the Internet. Even so, an outsider cannot navigate without a guide. To get anything accomplished, you have to be invited; someone who belongs has to lead you down the narrow streets and do the introductions. It is especially difficult to make appointments in advance. The trick is to start out from Tehran at about 6:00 a.m., arrive at eight, and work until noon. That's when most clerics pray, eat, and nap. Most of the city shuts down until about 5:00 p.m., when work begins again.

The centerpiece of Qom is the grand, gold-domed shrine that houses the tomb of Massoumeh, the sister of Imam Reza, the eighth Imam, who died in the ninth century. Thousands of pilgrims come every day to say prayers, beg for favors, and leave wads of bills as donations. They solemnly finger the silver cage that houses Massoumeh's tomb and then touch their faces, as if her aura will somehow rub off on them.

There is an air of informality in the shrine, as in mosques, that doesn't exist in most churches and synogogues. The religious complex, like others throughout Iran, is more than simply a place of prayer; it is also a place of political mobilization. During the war with Iraq, the clerics set up enlistment centers for teenage volunteers and donation centers here where people could contribute their gold jewelry and coins to the war effort. The shrine is also a place for socializing, for getting out of the house. Women sit on the carpets and eat picnic lunches with their children. And the courtyard is known as a meeting place where the Shiite Muslim practice of sigheh, or temporary marriage, can be arranged by a lonely pilgrim and a woman who needs money.

Qom is a very different place than it was at the beginning of the revolution. It boasts recreational parks and movie theatres. Most of the bookstores sell only religious books, but I have also found English-language volumes: King Lear, Paul Kennedy's The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers, and a wide assortment of Persian-English dictionaries. Clerics drive motorbikes and some women even dare to go out on the streets in scarves and long coats, rather than black chadors.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 22, 2006

"I hope you can help me locate a recipe I lost in the floodwaters of Katrina..."

This article about the demand for cookbooks in New Orleans - made me a bit misty-eyed.

"I am trying to locate 'Aunt May's Eggplant Fritters' published in the Times-Picayune more than 15 years ago. . . . I lost it in my Lakeview home. All of my family members who had this recipe lost it, too. If anyone has this recipe, I would be very grateful if they would pass it on."

Gulp!!!

Just go read the whole thing. Beautiful article. The image of a woman literally hugging The Joy of Cooking to her ... is ... KILLING ME. Tradition ... the importance of tradition ...

sniffle.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (14)

American Idol thoughts

I did not watch the whole thing - I got home in time to see only a couple people.

Brief thoughts, with apologies to all:

Katherine McPhee: horrible dress. Adorable hair. I hated how she stalked around the stage. It seemed totally random. She ignored Barry Manilow's advice about keeping a specific person in mind to sing to. It seemed very GENERAL. Which is horrible, when you're a performer. Good performers have many different qualities that make them good - but one thing they ALL have is they are SPECIFIC. To all the singers on the show, except for Mandisa: THINK ABOUT WHO YOU ARE SINGING TO. God - this is where they really show their amateurishness. BUT on the good side: the chick has some major pipes. That's a professional voice. I actually could see her performing on Broadway. Her voice is a Broadway voice. I wish she would let loose with it a bit more - and really LOSE herself in the song. She's way too self-conscious, and too much preening for the audience. Forget the audience. Look at the great singers in their heyday: Bette Midler, Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland ... Yes, they are great performers ... but when they are in a song, the entire world goes away, and we see their private inner world - dreams, hopes, longings ... They let us IN there. That's why they are legends. Katherine: stop preening. It's amateurish. Stop strutting around randomly. This is stagecraft 101. If you make a gesture on stage - make sure you have a damn good reason. Otherwise, you look like a puppet. You wanna be a professional? Start taking your art seriously. I'm serious. She's got the best voice on the show. But somehow ... it's not GETTING to me.

Taylor: Sorry, Taylor fans, I thought his performance was a mess. I agreed with Simon. First of all: horrible and lazy song choice. It didn't show off his voice - which is a fantastic voice. I love his voice. Also, the dancing around - I feel sometimes like the atmosphere in that room is artificial (hahaha YA THINK???) and they forget what it feels like to actually have to WORK on an audience. In my opinion, Taylor's getting lazy. Come on, dude - challenge yourself. Go there. Paula and Randy are right - you already ARE a star. But I was bored bored bored by your performance last night.

Lisa: Uhm - she made no impression. She's adorable, and I love her passion ... but I think her voice is unattractive, and again, she looks like a raging amateur.

Kevin: I want to put a frog in his bed. Or booby-trap his locker. I'm sick of this kid.

Elliot: LOVE this guy's voice. But ... it's empty. Weird. Alex and I had a big conversation once about Lorna Luft - we were listening to a tape of her singing - and you can HEAR Lorna's mother in her voice - I mean, God - we all should be blessed with such pipes - but something's missing. It's an empty experience listening to her. It is JUST a good voice. Now Lorna's sister - ahem - Liza Minelli - is the opposite. I think that, actually, Lorna has, technically, the better voice. But Liza is a fantastic performer. She just GOES there. It is NEVER an empty experience listening to Liza. Elliot strikes me like Lorna Luft. Which ... would mortify him. Although I'm sure he doesn't even know who Lorna Luft is. He doesn't connect with the lyrics, or the audience. However: I do love the sound of his voice. He makes it all sound easy.

Kellie: I'm gonna be brutal, so look out. She looks awful. I hate her hair. She DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO WALK ON STAGE. I thought she was going to fall over at any minute. When she came down the small set of steps, I held my breath. She kept looking down at her feet to make sure she didn't trip. Uhm - maybe a nitpick - but that's the deal. Professionals don't behave that way. Mandisa, to me, already seems like a professional. Like she would just CHARGE down those stairs, and if she tripped?? Oh well, she'd keep singing. Kellie Pickler is in way over her head. I also can't stand her persona. Phony. I'm over her. Also, frankly: I don't think she can sing. Her low notes suck (come on, singers - don't just go for the big orgasmic high notes - that's LAZY. Work on your lower registers. You're not all that good yet. You've got work to do.) And there's something ... vapid about her voice. She didn't know WHAT she was singing about. The song had no depth. (The song itself has depth ... but she didn't bring any depth to it.) Amateur. Go home.

Ace: Sigh. I thought he was terrible. I have no idea why people make such a big deal over his falsetto. I think it's atrocious. I literally winced when he hit that last note. Also, Ace: the big floaty arm movements when you sing do not really serve you or your performance. BUT on the flipside: the guy really does seem like a sweetheart. I actually like him very much.

Paula truly seemed like she was jacked up on coke last night. When Simon kept condescendingly shushing her, I guffawed with laughter. hahahahahaha


SO:

Who do you all think is leaving??

My vote is Lisa, even though I WANT Kevin to go. I think it's her turn to leave. What do you think???

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (222)

Happy birthday - to Billy Collins

Former poet laureate of the United States. Want to see the entire list of poets laureate? Go here. Pretty cool.

One of the things that I love about Billy Collins (besides his poetry, I mean) is that he is a truly POPULAR poet. His books are bestsellers - and BEFORE he was a poet laureate they were. He writes for the "everyman". Now I love poetry of all kind - obscure, experimental, confessional, etc. - but I also love the poets who speak directly into the experience of most people. Billy Collins is one of those poets. A lot of people discount his work because of this - but you know, those people are idiots. The same kinds of people who got MAD at Kurt Cobain for becoming successful and making some money. There's nothing WRONG with being successful. But also there's a deeper issue here: Poets used to be much more important, and poetry was something most people enjoyed. Kids had to memorize poems in class. Poetry was not seen as elitist. Now I think a lot of the people who call poetry elite basically just don't like "fancy book larnin" and they label anything challenging or outside their experience as "elitist" - so we can discount their opinion. Or I can, and I do. Happily. But I think a lot of it, too, is that with the birth of confessional poetry in the 50s and 60s - many poets STOPPED talking to the universal. They delved totally into the personal. Hence - we have many INCOMPREHENSIBLE poems filling the - er - air waves - and ... nobody can relate.

Blue stockings
Oh my heart
A glass window, my codeine tablets
Chickadee monkey
Flippity floppity
Oh say can you see
I am dying


hahahahaha I mean, whatever. Now ... am I supposed to RELATE to that? Uhm - no.

These are the artistic children of such geniuses as Allen Ginsberg, Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton - true masters of their craft. Yes, they wrote about theie own lives, and mental illness - but nobody could EVER say that they were not good at their work. You may not like that type of poetry - a lot of people don't (I happen to adore it) ... but everyone imitating them now just ... they only go for the CONFESSIONAL part of the equation, and forget about the - er ... ART.

Again, though, I want to make myself clear in light of the whole "I'm not much for fancy book-larnin'" type: I don't like art only when I can RELATE to it. I'm not only looking for MYSELF in a poem. I like words, I like language, I like writers. But the fragmented BAD writing which makes up most of modern poetry is kind of disheartening - and it's no wonder that people aren't into poetry anymore. Bring back the Dead White Male contingent, please!

Anyway: because Billy Collins is so POPULAR, he is not as respected. Which is just a sign of the times, I suppose. I happen to love his stuff. He's a good writer. Perhaps not as complex as I normally enjoy, and not as howling-at-the-moon-with-despair as I enjoy and relate to - but he's a fine writer, and it was quite a triumph, I thought, when he was asked to be Poet Laureate. It was fabulous!!

I also love his web site. I love it because whoever put it together obviously has never put together a website before and I find something charmingly naive about that. There are no real links on that first page. It's strange ... then when you get to the Link Index, I am so charmed by this sentence:

BOOK BILLY FOR YOUR NEXT EVENT
Mr. Collins is available for real live appearances

I just ... To me, that completely encapsulates who Billy Collins is. Accessible. Friendly. He makes "real live appearances" ... It's so human, so simple. I love it.

Anyway, I highly recommend you checking out his work if you haven't already - and as a way of saying Happy Birthday, I'll post the poem that he wrote following September 11 - when he was Poet Laureate. I've posted it before.

Never ever fails to tear at my heart.

The Names

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.


Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (7)

The Books: "10 Days That Shook the World" (John Reed)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51DZQH1CRSL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is 10 Days That Shook the World by John Reed.

Before I get to this rollicking effective fabulously-written piece of propaganda, I have to get something out of the way:

You know how some bloggers are always arguing with an imaginary confrontational audience? In the posts? Their writing goes like this:

"Now I realize that most of you will find this offensive ..." "I am willing to bet that 90% of you will be angry at what I'm about to say ..." Everything must be prefaced, or couched, or framed ... They are overly aware of the readers' response. Or they even flat-out get INTO it with the imaginary audience: "Don't tell me that there isn't a such and such for the so and so ... I am fully aware of all of the implications, thank you very much." Like - they start up an argument, and then keep arguing - even though no one's there. This is not along the lines of someone taking a point and defending it, or expressing why they are angry about this or that - this is being overly conscious of the readership. I honestly try not to do that. It's bad writing. I mean, you learn that in high school English. Pick a point and argue it. Imagine putting all of that stuff into a high school term paper. "I know that you, my teacher, may find my argument immature, but you just need to sit back and listen to where I'm coming from when I say that the green light across Gatsby's bay symbolizes the lost hopes of the Jazz Age. I know it's controversial, and I know you probably don't agree, but just hear me out." Uhm - horrible. You'd get an F. In my view - argue about that stuff in the COMMENTS - but I try to keep it out of the post itself. Because this is about me expressing myself - and all of that apologetic stuff or defensive stuff weakens the writing. It's hard not to succumb to it - but sometimes I cave - because I just KNOW that someone's gonna say THIS, and I need to address that BEFORE they say it - etc. Beth once pointed it out to me - in a very very nice private email - saying she thought it was a shame when I did that, I should just write what I want to write, and not preface everything with some argument with an imaginary reader. I really appreciated her email, I really did. Now if I find myself going that way, I edit it out. As much as I can. Because she's right. I find bloggers who do that habitually kinda unreadable ... I like the bloggers who just flat out say what they want to say, and just share their opinions wihtout hemming and hawing to their "readers".

Anyway, all of this DOES have a point!!

And in another post about the Russian Revolution - where John Reed's book came up - I argued with imaginary readers - and it makes my point, so what the hell, I'll quote myself:

I've read John Reed's 10 Days that shook the world, and it's a brilliant piece of propaganda - one of the best. It is, of course, propaganda - and you can argue that it's a dangerous piece of work, whatever - that argument bores me, frankly. I want to read anything I can get my hands on - and that is a first-hand account of the October Revolution. He was the one who "sold" the Revolution to the outside world. Whatever you think of his beliefs (and again - I find myself rolling my eyes when I read it - the enthusiasm! The belief that the whole world would rise up in a red wave! Etc.) - the dude can write. Don't bitch about me about what I should or should not read. That's another form of totalitarianism. I recognize Reed's work as propaganda for the cause. I read it anyway. So don't foam at the mouth, mkay? I love first-person accounts of any historical event - biased or no. I like to feel like I am THERE.

That "don't bitch to me" and "so don't foam at the mouth, mkay?" is what I'm talking about. It's a struggle to not put comments like that in - but like I said - Beth was right. My point is well made in the above paragraph without the "don't foam at the mouth". I mean, I know that I have readers who WOULD foam at the mouth - but - er - why is that my problem? There are going to be people who just think I'm an idiot - and who read me in order to CORRECT me. I despise those people, but again: why is that my problem? I am not going to address my posts TO those people. hahahaha It's so weird, when I step back from it. This has only occurred in the last year or so when I've gotten so many more readers than I had before. So - it's been a balancing act, and kind of a fun challenge.

I didn't set down to write all this this morning, but I do know that when I saw the next book on the shelf, I felt a bit apprehensive - like: Oh God. As though people would be mad at me for even having it on my shelf. How was I going to FRAME this?

Good Lord. Who cares?? I ain't gonna frame SHIT.

So. John Reed. Who, strangely enough, did NOT look like Warren Beatty (hahaha) was a journalist. Here's some good information about him. A fascinating life. The value of his book is, for me, the first-person account of the events of those "10 days" - his writing is phenomenal. He was swept away by the enthusiasm of what was happening, so obviously he was duped - as many were duped - but his writing!! The descriptions!! You get the smells, the sights, the brief personality portraits, the "foul blue cigarette smoke" in the air, the smell of unwashed people, the frigid wind ... Fabulous.

Here is an excerpt from his description of November 7, 1917. The bulletin that Kameniev hands to John Reed is stunning, I think. Good Lord. They stated their intentions up front and ... God. You just know that MILLIONS died carrying the plan out. "transform into a state monopoly" ... wow, guys!! Great idea!! Good luck with that! (It's funny that this book came up a day after I wrote this.)

Oh, and one thing: John Reed uses ellipses a lot. I've not taken anything out in the excerpt below - the ellipses are already in the text.

From 10 Days That Shook the World by John Reed.

The massive facade of Smolny blazed with lights as we drove up, and from every street converged upon it streams of hurrying shapes dim in the gloom. Automobiiles and motorcycles came and went; an enormous elephant-coloured armored automobile, with two red flags flying from the turret, lumbered out with screaming siren. It was cold, and at the outer gate the Red Guards had built themselves a bonfire. At the inner gate, too, there was a blaze, by the light of which the sentries slowly spelled out our passes and looked us up and down. The canvas covers had been taken off the four rapid-fire guns on each side of the doorway, and the ammunition-belts hung snakelike from their breeches. A dun herd of armoured cars stood under the trees in the court-yard, engines going. The long, bare, dimly-illuminated halls roared with the thunder of feet, calling, shouting ... There was an atmosphere of recklessness. A crowd came pouring down the staircase, workers in black blouses and round black fur hats, many of them with guns slung over their shoulders, soldiers in rough dirt-coloured coats and grey fur shapki pinched flat, a leader or so -- Lunatcharsky, Kameniev -- hurrying along in the centre of a group all talking at once, with harassed anxious faces, and bulging portfolios under their arms. The extraordinary meeting of the Petrograd Soviet was over. I stopped Kameniev -- a quick-moving little man, with a wide, vivacious face set close to his shoulders. Without preface he read in rapid French a copy of the resolution just passed:

The Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldier's Deputies, saluting the victorious Revolution of the Petrograd proletariat and garrison, particularly emphasises the unity, organisation, discipline, and complete cooperation shown by the masses in this rising; rarely has less blood been spilled, and rarely has an insurrection succeeded so well.

The Soviet expresses its firm conviction that the Workers' and Peasants' Government which, as the government of the Soviets, will be created by the Revolution, and which will assure the industrial proletariat of the support of the entire mass of poor peasants, will march firmly toward Socialism, the only means by which the country can be spared the miseries and unheard-of horrors of war.

The new Workers' and Peasants' Government will propose immediately a just and democratic peace to all the belligerent countries.

It will suppress immediately the great landed property, and transfer the land to the peasants. It will establish workmen's control over production and distribution of manufactured products, and will set up a general control over the banks, which it will transform into a state monopoly.

The Petrograd Soviet of Workers' and Soldier's Deputies calls upon the workers and the peasants of Russia to support with all their energy and all their devotion the Proletarian Revolution. The Soviet expresses its conviction that the city workers, allies of the poor peasants, will assure complete revolutionary order, indispensable to the victory of Socialism. The Soviet is convinced that the proletariat of the countries of Western Europe will aid us in conducting the cause of Socialism to a real and lasting victory.

"You consider it won then?"

He lifted his shoulders. "There is much to do. Horribly much. It is just beginning ..."

On the landing I met Riazanov, vice-president of the Trade Unions, looking black and biting his grey beard. "It's insane! Insane!" he shouted. "The European working-class won't move! All Russia --" He waved his hand distractedly and ran off. Riazanov and Kameniev had both opposed the insurrection, and felt the lash of Lenin's terrible tongue ...

It had been a momentous session. In the name of the Military Revolutionary Committee Trotsky had declared that the Provisional Government no longer existed.

"The characteristic of bourgeois government," he said, "is to deceive the people. We, the Soviets of Workers', Soldiers', and Peasants' Deputies, are going to try an experiment unique in history; we are going to found a power which will have no other aim but to satisfy the needs of the soldiers, workers, and peasants."

Lenin had appeared, welcomed with a mighty ovation, prophesying world-wide Social Revolution ... And Zinoviev crying, "This day we have paid our debt to the international proletariat, and struck a terrible blow at the war, a terrible body-blow at all the imperialists and particularly at Wilhelm the Executioner ..."

Then Trotsky, that telegrams had been sent to the front announcing the victorious insurrection, but no reply had come. Troops were said to be marching against Petrograd -- a delegation must be sent to tell them the truth.

Cries, "You are anticipating the will of the All-Russian Congress of Soviets!"

Trotsky, colly, "The will of the All-Russian Congress of Soviets has been anticipated by the rising of the Petrograd workers and soldiers!"

So we came into the great meeting-hall, pushing through the clamourous mob at the door. In the rows of seats, under the white chandeliers, packed immovably in the aisles and on the sides, perched on every window-sill, and even the edge of the platform, the representatives of the workesr and soldiers of all Russia waited in anxious silence or wild exultation the ringing of the chairman's bell. There was no heat in the hall but the stifling heat of unwashed human bodies. A foul blue cloud of cigarette smoke rose from the mass and hung in the thick air. Occasionally some one in authority mounted the tribune and asked the comrades not to smoke; then everybody, smokers and all, took up the cry "Don't smoke, comrades!" and went on smoking. Petrovsky, Anarchist delegate from the Obukhov factory, made a seat for me beside him. Unshaven and filthy, he was reeling from three nights' sleepless work on the Military Revolutionary Committee.

On the platform sat the leaders of the old Tsay-ee-kah -- for the last time dominating the turbulent Soviets, which they had ruled from the first days, and which were now risen against them. It was the end of the first period of the Russian revolution, which these men had attempted to guide in careful ways ... The three greatest of them were not there: Kerensky, flying to the front through country towns all doubtfully heaving up; Teheidze, the old eagle, who had contemptuously retired to his own Georgian mountains, there to sicken with consumption; and the high-souled Tseretelli, also mortally stricken, who, nevertheless, would return and pour out his beautiful eloquence for a lost cause. Gotz sat there, Dan, Lieber, Bogdanov, Broido, Fillipovsky, -- white-faced, hollow-eyed and indignant. Below them the second siezd of the All-Russian Soviets boiled and swirled, and over their heads the Military Revolutionary Committee functioned white-hot, holding in its hands the threads of insurrection and striking with a long arm ... It was 10:40 P.M.

Dan, a mild-faced, baldish figure in a shapeless military surgeon's uniform, was ringing the bell. Silence fell sharply, intense, broken by the scuffling and disputing of the people at the door ...

"We have the power in our hands," he began sadly, stopped for a moment, and then went on in a low voice. "Comrades! The Congress of Soviets is meeting in such unusual circumstances and in such an extraordinary moment that you will understand why the Tsay-ee-kah considers it unnecessary to address you with a political speech. This will become much clearer to you if you will recollect that I am a memeber of the Tsay-ee-kah, and that at this very moment our party comrades are in the Winter Palace under bombardment, sacrificing themselves to execute the duty put on them by the Tsay-ee-kah." (Confused uproar.)

"I declare the first session of the Second Congress of Soviets of Workers' and Soldiers' Deputies open!"

The election of the presidium took place amid stir and moving about. Avanessov announced that by agreement of the Bolskeviki, Left Socialist Revolutionaries and Menshiviki Internationalists, it was decided to base the presidium upon proportionality. Several Mensheviki leaped to their feet protesting. A bearded solider shouted at them, "Remember what you did to us Bolsheviki when we were the minority!" Result -- 14 Bolsheviki, 7 Socialist Revolutionaries, 3 Mensheviki and 1 Internationalist (Gorky's group). Hendelmann, for the right and centre Socialist Revolutionaries siad that they refused to take part in the presidium; the same from Kintchuk, for the Mensheviki; and from the Mensheviki Internationalists, that until the verification of certain circumstances, they too could not enter the presidium. Scattering applause and hoots. One voice, "Renegades, you call yourselves Socialists!" A representative of the Ukrainian delegates demanded, and received, a place. Then the old Tsay-ee-kah stepped down, and in their places appeared Trotsky, Kameniev, Lunatcharsky, Madame Kollentai, Nogin ... The hall rose, thundering. How far they had soared, these Bolsheviki, from a despised and hunted sect leses than four months ago, to this supreme place, the helm of great Russia in full tide of insurrection!

The order of the day, said Kameniev, was first, Organization of Power; second, War and Peace; and third, the Constituent Assembly. Lozovsky, rising, announced that upon agreement of the bureaus of all factions, it was proposed to hear and discuss the report of the Petrograd Soviet, then to give the floor to members of the Tsay-ee-kah and the different parties, and finally to pass to the order of the day.

But suddenly a new sound made itself heard, deeper than the tumult of the crowd, persistent, disquieting -- the dull shock of guns. People looked anxiously toward the clouded windows, and a sort of fever came over them. Martov, demanding the floor, croaked hoarsely, "The civil war is beginning, comrades! The first question must be a peaceful settlement of the crisis. On principle and from a political standpoint we must urgently discuss a means of averting civil war. Our brothers are being shot down in the streets! At this moment, when before the opening of the Congress of Soviets the question of Power is being settled by means of a military plot organized by one of the revolutionary parties--" for a moment he could not make himself heard above the noise, "All of the revolutionary parties must face the fact! The first vopros (question) before the Congress is the question of Power, and this question is already being settled by force of arms in the streets! ... We must create a power which will be recognized by the whole democracy. If the Congress wishes to be the voice of the revolutionary democracy it must not sit with folded hands before the developing civil war, the result of which may be a dangerous outburst of counter-revolution ... The possibility of a peaceful outcome lies in the formation of a united democratic authority ... We must elect a delegation to negotiate with the other Socialist parties and organizations ..."

Always the methodical muffled boom of cannon through the windows, and the delegates, screaming at each other ... So, with the crash of artillery, in the dark, with hatred, and fear, and reckless daring, new Russia was being born.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (9)

March 21, 2006

Domestic bliss and neurosis

On Saturday, I had my friend Jen over. This next weekend I'm having my friend Allison over. The following week, Mitchell arrives and he will be staying with me for a bit. And at the end of April, I'm having a dinner party for all O'Malley cousins and aunts and uncles and siblings in the area. Well, and some are driving in from OTHER areas. Should be interesting, considering the SIZE of my apartment. And the fact that I only have 4 chairs. Oh well. And I want to have another girlfriend-sleepover party with my friends from Rhode Island. When Mere's foot heals!!!

Anyway. Simone (the cross-dressing red-glittery-lipsticked palm-reader who accosted all of us last Monday after my show) kept saying to me, "Home ... you need to make your house a home ... have people over ..." etc.

This was already the way the wind was blowing - but it's really happening now. Every time I have had my friends down from Rhode Island - it is always SUCH a joy to ... have people over, man. I just love it. New York is much more of a "Let's meet out at a restaurant" type of culture. It's just easier - since everyone is usually sprawled all over the city - and it's easier to pick some central location, where everyone can catch their trains home, etc. And fuggedaboutit if you live in Joisey. Even if my house is closer to the city than most spots in Brooklyn. It's still just easier, in general, to meet in the city. But the joy of having people come over ... let them into my world ... return the favor (because all of them have hosted me on numerous occasions) is SUCH an intense joy for me that I get all excited about it.

If you're not like me then you will have NO idea what I'm talking about - but if you ARE like me, then maybe you'll get it. I'm a hermit. And I'm a loner. I get into habits. Habits of hibernation. Like - I disappear off the face of the earth. My apartment is a private little castle, dedicated to my obsessions. I get shy about letting people in there. My books. My movies. My writing. It's MY place. And ... I've been shy about having people over. It's a very VERY big deal for me to have company. It doesn't have to do with the STATE of my house or anything like that. It's an adorable and cozy apartment. It's very ME. It expresses who I am. It's not like I have old food smeared on the floor, and empty gin bottles piled up in the sink. hahahaha It's just I'm in a habit of ... NEVER having people "drop by".

But over the last couple months, I've sensed that a lot of this needs to change. I need to open my house to my friends, my family - more. It gives me so much joy when Beth, Betsy, Mere (and once: Ceileidh!) come over, and stay. And use my kitchen, and give me compliments on the coziness of it ... and make themselves comfortable. I love it and I need to do it more. I need to get some air in there. It will do me good, and ... somehow I sense it will change me. In a way that I need to change. My social self has pretty much receded in recent years. For various reasons. I've had some disappointments in life that I have taken too much to heart. I have retreated.

And I've realized that my apartment - the space where I live - is a metaphor for larger things. My whole life. WHO. I. AM. What breakthroughs would be possible for me if I just throw open those doors?

So I've done that.

I'm neurotic about my apartment - but that's only because I'm usually the only one who sees it ... so I get self-conscious about it. Basically what it comes down to is ... I'm self-conscious about who I am. That's all. And I'm determined to work on that. So what that every inch of wall space is taken up by books? So what?? I can work on this self-consciousness on my own, intellectually, and I have - but I've also found that just having people over, and opening up my life to them (my dear friends) ... is highly relaxing and gratifying. I start to look around and see things in a different way. I lose the self-consciousness. I look at my curtains and realize, yet again, how beautiful they are. I look at how the lamplight falls on my pale yellow walls and get a deeper appreciation of how pretty it is. I look at my hard wood floors and go: "Damn. That's so nice looking!" My reticence dissolves. It becomes a place where I can actually CELEBRATE who I am. Because the place so expresses me perfectly.

Letting people in to my space - and being the hostess - and having food for my guests - and all that stuff - is, for me, like giving gifts on Christmas. This is my space. This is who I am. It's a nice place. It's very me. It's a gift I can give to others. There are some people who are like that with their homes. Their doors are always open. You will always find a space at their dinner table. They LOVE to be the hosts. It gives them great great joy - those are always the funnest houses to visit. I'm learning. That's the kind of relationship I want to have with my space. And it's hard for me. I am sooooooo private. And did I mention neurotic? But by holding back, by WITHholding my living space ... I'm withholding who I am. It's been so much fun to just ... throw that mindset away!!

Jen - who helped me feng shui the joint up - hasn't been to my apartment since then, even though we live 5 minutes away from each other. I mean, granted, we're both busy, our lives are nuts, yadda yadda ... but God, it was so NICE to have her over. She walked in this past weekend - and just wandered around for a while - taking it all in. She's a dear dear friend - she gets how my whole apartment-thing is a pretty big deal to me. She gets it. She had a comment for EVERYTHING. "Oh! That bookcase looks great there!" Etc. We were roommates for 9 years ... so she was exclaiming over certain objects. "Oh! I remember that knick-knack!! Oh man ... I miss having all your BOOKS around!" It took her half an hour to take everything in. This is why I love this girl. I've got tears in my eyes right now. She looked at everything. She complimented me on all my plants. One of the plants she gave me - 9 years ago - it was a teeny fragile stalk - and it is now a huge tree. Well - huge? It's almost as tall as I am. But it was literally 3 inches long when she gave it to me. I sat back, and watched her walk around, looking at stuff - and I started to see the place through her eyes. She's very sensitive to space, to how things are set up ... when I needed to rearrange everything, she's the one I called. She's just got a great eye for it. I do not. So to watch her walk around, nodding happily, saying, "I love it here ... it has a really good energy, Sheila ... I love it ..." meant so much to me.

It's funny. I'm a grown woman. But having guests is still a novelty to me ... and I still find it thrilling.

Coming out of my shell. That's what's happening, in more ways than one. Coming out of my shell.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (28)

Fungus in Red Square

Member this whole story?

lenindead.jpg

About Lenin sprouting fungus in the middle of Red Square? The whole embalmed leader thing has always fascinated me on a very abstract level. It's so creepy, and - so labor-intensive - like - people's entire JOBS had to do with keeping that body from decaying - I am creeped out by it, and yet I kind of can't look away. It somehow dovetails with my whole cult-fascination thing. The turning of a man into a god. But not really a god. It's more of an empty SYMBOL. A symbol that got emptier and emptier with every passing year. And yet still - the charade was kept up. Embalming him like that did not turn him into a god - it turned him into an OBJECT. There's something very openly cynical about the whole thing - or so it has always seemed to me.

In this book I'm reading now - Stalin - the entire event of Lenin's death - and the power struggle that went on then - and Lenin's dying gasps of breath - and his warnings about Stalin's "rudeness" - and all of that - is painted in GRAPHIC detail. It's terrifying. Lenin had helped to consolidate Stalin's power. Or ... "Koba", as he was known then. And Lenin realized (too late) that it was not good for one man to have so much control. YA THINK??? Dipshit. I can't stand all those guys, I really can't. hahahaha But again: Lenin's deathbed realization came too late.

The whole back and forth between the dying Lenin and the strategizing Stalin is absolutely gripping - It's been told a gazillion times before, and nobody told it better than Robert Conquest - but still: different writers bring different talents to oft-told stories, and Radzinsky is a wonderful writer. He, like Conquest, tries to go into the mystery of it - the mystery of Stalin.

Both come to the same conclusion - but I'll use an excerpt from Radzinsky's book which I have right here. This is a quote from one of Radzinsky's anonymous informants - which kind of just sums it all up:

"Bolshevik documents are peculiar in that wherever they say 'peaceful demonstration' they most probably mean 'armed uprising.' The general rule is that 'yes' almost invariably means 'no'. Somebody has called this an 'in-depth' language - a false-bottomed language, in which words have two or three meanings. Add to this that Stalin was a grand master. To understand the reasons for his moves you must look at the result. Only then will certain things become clear."

Think about that: To understand the reasons for his moves you must look at the result.

Conquest had been saying that for years. And scoffed at, scorned, ridiculed - we all know of his vindication now.

But think about that. To understand the reasons for his moves you must look at the result.

It is only in the RESULTS that we can even begin to "grok" Stalin. There aren't too many people (especially leaders) you can say that about. Most people have more egotistical or narcissistic personalities - and so therefore must leave behind evidence of what they see as their genius. They write letters, they leave behind journals, they jabber to their friends, they make big speeches, they make huge glaring errors, they flail about publicly - we can think of many leaders who behave this way. Their egos are over-involved, they are openly power-hungry, and they have a need (which often leads to their downfall) to have any "result" be attributed to them. They want people to be able to point to a result and say: "THAT. THAT happened because of HIM." You get that? It has to do with wanting glory. Whether we agree with the morality of the result or not is irrelevant. We're talking here about a personality type. Stalin had the opposite thing going on. He never wanted people to be able to point to anything and say, "THAT. THAT happened because of HIM." Never. He wanted to be invisible, ubiquitous, everywhere, omnipresent, and yet in a position where he could deny everything. In his early days in the Party, people who met him never could really get a line on him - he seemed to make the OPPOSITE of an impression. People would say he seemed like a "blob", or like a "lump" ... He inverted. He became anti-matter. He was NOT THERE. But behind the scenes? Look out. You could not see his fingerprints on anything. You just need to look at the results.

Now this, to me, is one of those unending mysteries - and which is why I have 10 books about Stalin on my shelf, and why I will continue to buy up books about this time period.

Because of the eternal fascination of this sentence: To understand the reasons for his moves you must look at the result.

Radzinsky and Conquest use some of the same overriding language - Conquest, in his masterpiece The Great Terror - says over and over again, about Trotsky, or Zinoviev, or even Lenin: "He did not understand Stalin yet." It is as though these "colleagues" of Stalin had all the signs - but they misinterpreted them. Or ... such cold calculatedness is actually very difficult for normal people to grasp. You think: There HAS to be something else going on here! Or ... it was put off as just Stalin being "rude". If he just had better manners, maybe he would be a more effective leader. I mean, honestly - this is the looking glass world of nutso-land that these people were living in. Stalin was rude??? Uhm. Yeah. I'll say. But again: it took most people a while to "understand" Stalin. In the begining, the Bolsheviks valued others for their cruelty and their ability to focus ruthlessly on one goal. They were revolutionaries. They thought Robespierre was to be emulated. They knew blood would be shed. They felt that blood HAD to be shed. Stalin was valued for his cruelty ... and his "dedication" - but again, like the excerpt above from the informant ... all of these words kind of lose their meaning when you talk about Stalin in any serious way. It's quite incredible. You start to get close to the guy - and everything begins to invert. George Orwell knew what the hell he was talking about. Lunacy.

And yet - NOT. Lunatics eventually lose control. They eventually show their hand. Why? Because they yearn for glory! Or booty! Or riches! Or whatever. They are fallible, they are susceptible to temptation. Not so Stalin.

What frightens me most about him is how much SENSE it all makes - if you look at it through his eyes. Lots of insane things make a lot of sense. It's just that very very few of us have the willpower to go about and make everybody else do what we want them to do. Most of us have a little thing called COMPASSION, most of us have a little thing called a CONSCIENCE ... which stops us from imposing our will on everyone around us. We actually have something called BRAKES. Most people do. Most people say, "Uhm ... no. Not gonna go there ... even though I want to so much!!" Stalin did not have those brakes. And when I say his mindset makes "sense" - I am not endorsing it, so don't say I did. I am saying that from his perspective, his behavior was literally the only way to go - and - if you look at the results - you can see that he was 100% correct. He got what he wanted. A totally paralyzed and atomized society where he was the only person who really mattered.

THAT is the fascination, for me. It's terrifying. I suppose you could say what really interests me then is the psychology. The psychology of Stalin. I know that I "do not understand Stalin yet", and perhaps I never will ... but the questions will continue to pester at me.

How to "grok" Stalin. Hmmmmm.

So back to Lenin's death - and the eventual result of the dude sprouting fungus in public 80 years later.

Here is Radzinsky writing on Stalin's creation of the Lenin Personality Cult (which is amazing - because by the end of his life, Lenin had turned on Stalin - or at least had serious second thoughts about him) ... but Stalin knew he had to turn the "Party" into a religion. And every religion needs a God. His cynicism about religion in general - his revelation during his seminary years that "there is no God" - did not mean that he discounted the need for religion. On the contrary. He understood that need intuitively - and he set about creating a religion - in a land that was supposed to be now full of atheists.

Did Stalin set about, cynically and calculatedly, to create this cult of Lenin so that he would be in the shadows? That any ultimate blame for this experiment failing would never rest solely on his shoulders?

See, that's the thing: He didn't set about creating a cult for HIMSELF. That happened over time, yes - but Lenin was ALWAYS present. Leningrade, Lenin Squares, yadda yadda - all decreed by Stalin. A narcissistic egotist would insist on all the glory.

Nope. Stalin was smarter than that. Greater glory means greater blame when things go wrong. I can only guess but it seems that his entire life's goal was to stay in power. And staying in power was IT for him. No glory? Fine. As long as he was still in power.

I'm trying to look to the results, I really am.

Anyway: Here's the excerpt from the book about Lenin's death, and Stalin's creation of the personality cult, and embalming the dude and putting him on display.

FROM "Stalin" by Edvard Radzinsky

By October the previous year Lenin had given up the struggle and was rapidly sinking. The Leader who had once been such a brilliant seminarist devised an unprecedented propaganda campaign which might have been called "Departure of the Messiah". Stalin had taken the measure of his country long ago. Under the Romanovs, during the Revolution, in the past and in the future, it was forever looking for a god and tsar. (We shall hear his own formulation of this idea later.) He decided to present it with a new god, in place of the one overthrown by the Bolsheviks. An atheist Messiah, the God Lenin.

In the autumn months he was already planning the "Ascension". He sent delegations to Nizhny Novgorod. Ritual farewells to the Messiah were instituted: representatives of the toiling masses vowed to the departing God that they would continue his immortal work. Representatives of the heroic Red army made their farewells. Lenin was enrolled for all eternity as an honorary Red army man, and presented with a bundle containing his uniform. In November the half-dead Lenin had to receive the proletariat as represented by a delegation from the Glukhov factory. An old workman delivered greetings which were also an epitaph: "I am a blacksmith ... We shall forge all that you have designed."

Lenin still had several months to live when the Gensek first spoke about his funeral in the Politbuor. "I learn that this question is also a matter of great concern to some of our provincial comrades." He went on to report a surprising request made by those comrades. "Do not bury Vladimir Ilyich. It is essential that Ilyich remains physically with us." Trotsky, who was present, realized that Stalin intended to transform the atheist Ulyanov into a sacred relic to be worshiped by the faithful. Molotov recalls that "Krupskaya was against it, but we did it by decision of the Central Committee. Stalin insisted." He had his way and produced an imperishable Marxist god.

He had thought of everything. When the death of the God was imminent, doctors advised the ailing Trotsky to take a cure at Sukhumi. After Lev's departure Stalin saw to it that none of the remaining leaders visited Lenin, in case one of them turned up at the Messiah's bedside at the very moment when he began withdrawing into eternity, and turned the dying man's mumblings into "last words" to suit himself.

But it happened just as he feared. Bukharin, who was receiving medical treatment right there in Nizhny Novgorod, appeared at Lenin's bedside. He described that "when I rushed into Ilyich's room ... he heaved one last sigh. His head fell backward, his face was terribly pale, I could hear a hoarse gurgle, his arms went slack."

Stalin corrected Bukharin's mistake, simply wiped him out of the deathbed scene, transferred him from Nizhny Novgorod to Moscow. As a result, Zinoviev was shortly writing in an article that "Ilyich had died ... An hour later we were on our way to Nizhny Novgorod where Ilyich was already lying dead -- Bukharin, Tomsky, Kalinin, Stalin, Kamenev, and I."

Trotsky would later speak of "Stalin's poison". But this is irrelevant. Professor V. Shklovsky, son of the eminent physician M. Shklovsky, found in his father's records the testimony (originally meant to be destroyed) of V. Osipov, one of the senior doctors attending Lenin, and the speech therapist S. Dobrogayev. We read in particular that "the final diagnosis dismisses the stories of the syphilitic character of Lenin's disease, or of arsenic poisoning. It was atherosclerosis, mainly affecting the cerebral blood vessels. The calcium deposit was so thick that during dissection the tweezers made a noise as if they were rapping on stone. Lenin's parents also died of the disease." But the story that Lenin had been poisoned would never die. Stalin killed too many others for anyone to believe that he had not also sent his most dangerous enemy to the grave.

While preparations were being made for Lenin's funeral, a telegram was sent to Trotsky: "Funeral takes place on Saturday, you cannot get here in time. The Politburo thinks that the state of your health makes it essential for you to go to Sukhumi. Stalin."

In fact the funeral had been postponed until Sunday. But Stalin was not simply lying. Where there is a god there are loyal and disloyal disciples. The disloyal, who have insulted the Messiah in his lifetime, must not be present at his obsequies.

Stalin devised a grandiose plan for the God's funeral. The arrival of the Body by train was a solemn ceremony in itself (the compartment which held the sacred remains and the locomotive which pulled it would be stationed forever in a building clad in granite and marble). The loyal disciples devotedly bore the precious Body from the station across Moscow to the Hall of Columns of the House of Unions. Few of those helping to carry the Lord's coffin would survive.

At 7:00 pm the public were admitted to the Hall of Columns. The God Lenin lay there in his khaki tunic. And Stalin, also wearing a tunic, kept vigil over him. People filed past all night long. The frost was incredible, and bonfires were lit. There was a frozen mist; people were wreathed in the steam of their own breath.

The Body had been embalmed on the morning of January 22. It was a temporary job, done so that the Messiah could lie in state in the Hall of Columns for several days. But Stalin had thought up a fantastic scheme: he would show that the Bolsheviks could conquer even deateh. The God would be imperishable. Thousands of telegrams from workers called for postponement of the funeral. In response to the wishes of them and millions of others, the Kremlin announced: "It has been decided to preserve the coffin with Lenin's body in a special Mausoleum on Red Square near the Kremlin wall." Simultaneously, "at the request of the workers of Petrograd" the capital of the Romanov empire was renamed Leningrad.

By the end of January a wooden mausoleum designed by A. Shchusev had been erected over the coffin. Stalin meanwhile was working out the details of the new cult. "Red corners" in honor of Lenin would be set up all over the country. At one time the "red corner" was where the icons were hung in a peasant hut. Now portraits of the God Lenin would hang there.

Behind the closed doors of the Mausoleum Stalin's unprecedented idea was already being realized. When experts declared that contemporary science lacked the means of preserving a body for any considerable length of time, other experts were found. The anatomist Vladimir Vorobyov and the young biochemist Boris Zbarsky undertook to embalm the body as required.

The scientists worked day and night, and Stalin himself went down into the Mausoleum several times. He obtained a result in time for the Thirteenth Congress in May. Kamenev, presiding, announced on the second day that after the morning session delegates would be able to see Lenin in his new immortal guise. They were stunned. Asked by Zbarsky whether "the likeness has been preserved," Lenin's brother said, "I can't say anything, I'm overcome. He's lying there looking just as he did when I saw him after he died." Thus, Stalin's present to the first Congress held without Lenin was -- Lenin.

When he had created an empire, he would rebuild the wretched little wooden Mausoleum in marble, porphyry, and labradorite, with columns of different kinds of granite. Such would be made the dwelling place of the imperishable God, his holiest shrine in the atheist empire. Krupskaya, when she lived in the Kremlin complex, often went down into the Mausoleum. Zbarsky tells us that "six months or so before she died she visited the Mausoleum. She stared for a long time, and then said 'he's just the same, and I'm getting so old.'"

In the West, not everybody believed in the "ever-living" Lenin. They alleged that the figure lying in the Mausoleum was a wax doll. So Stalin arranged in the thirties for a group of Western journalists to be shown the relics worshipped by the Bolsheviks. Lenin's biographer, Louis Fischer, was one of their number. He has described how "Zbarsky opened the glass case containing the remains, and pinched Lenin's nose. Then he turned his head to right and left. That was no wax doll. It was Lenin. The iconoclast had become a relic."

Stalin had given them their imperishable God. Next he must give them a tsar.

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ipod thoughts

Thought I'd update everyone on my iPod progress. Because I know that it is just SO FASCINATING and you all are WAITING WITH BREATH A-BAIT to hear about my upload process.

Listening to the shuffle feature is now a distinctly humorous experience - because I have uploaded my entire CD collection (which, actually, is not that extensive - I still listen to cassette tapes as I have said a gazillion times) - so now I'm walking along the street, listening to the Shuffle - and Led Zeppelin comes on. Whoo-hoo. Let's rock out. Next song. Some random Clancy Brothers song. hahahahaha I LOVE THAT. I have 15 Clancy Brothers albums ... so you can imagine how often they come up now. It's hilarious. But I love it!! I'm rarely in the mood to listen to a Clancy Brothers album all the way through - although I have gone through phases where they are all I can listen to. But to hear them sprinkled in among Nirvana and the Eagles and Fiona Apple ... is just delicious.

I have written before about my strange and deep response to the Everly Brothers. Or perhaps not so strange - they're classic! But it's strange to me in that - it's a response that seems to come from outside of me. Like: I NEED to hear them on an almost daily basis. I don't know why this is. There's something very very familiar to me about them - and I didn't grow up when the Everly Brothers were in their heyday - this is not a personal memory being brought up ... And yet they make me feel nostalgic. They also make me feel CREATIVE and ready to get to WORK. I do not know why. More than any other music. You know how some music just makes you feel positive? Like: Wait a minute, I can get myself OUT of this bad situation if I put my mind to it ... Or it makes you suddenly feel like: wow. Everything is going to be okay. Everything already IS okay. I don't know - maybe that's just me. I have a hard time just feeling like everything is going to be okay. The Everly Brothers - especially "Bye Bye Love" (even though it's such a damn sad song!!! hahaha) make me feel okay. In a real UBER way. I hear them, their harmonies, their lyrics, their melodies ... and suddenly, I am not only FEELING okay, but I am ready to get down to whatever work needs to get done.

I am so not explaining this well.

All I can say is - I have The Everly Brothers Greatest Hits on, of course, a cassette tape. And since I have discovered what they give to me, emotionally, not a day goes by when I don't listen to at least one of their songs. Mainly Bye Bye Love. I listen to it as I get ready to face my day.

So I've been so busy with the iPod upload - that I have turned a blind eye to all my damn CASSETTES - which I cannot upload. Argh - gonna have to get to work on that.

But a couple days ago, I was walking down the street - listening to my iPod shuffle (Madonna - Huey Lewis - Clancy Brothers - Elvis Costello - Johnny Cash) and out of nowhere, I thought of the Everly Brothers and realized I needed to buy a Greatest Hits of theirs ASAP. A Barnes & Noble was a block away so I went into their music section, bought their Greatest Hits, uploaded it that night ... and now, on occasion, they show up in the Shuffle.

And EVERY TIME I hear the opening chords of one of their songs ... it's this strange uplifted feeling. I rise up out of myself.

What is that?? I have no idea. Just know that it is so.

Oh, and I took a 4 mile run the other night - and at one point during the run, the song "Sit Down, John" came on - from one of my favorite musicals (Duh) 1776. I haven't heard that song in years. And as I ran, I just started LAUGHING out loud listening to it - it's so MARVELOUS. The loud male chorus - of all the delegates at the Convention - singing out: "SIT DOWN, JOHN ... SIT DOWN, JOHN ... FOR GOD'S SAKE - JOHN - SIT DOWN!!!" I just looooooooove it. Marvelous.

Oh, and I'm really into Franz Ferdinand. Weirdly: I wasn't as much into their stuff on the CDs I had - maybe because I just didn't like listening to them all the way through, not in the mood for them for 8 songs at a time. I don't know. But every time one of their songs pops up on Shuffle, I feel this thrill. Their songs work well as stand-alone songs.

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The Books: "Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia " (Ahmed Rashid)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51jGC2eX5vL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia by Ahmed Rashid. This book came out in 2000 and did not make a splash at all - I guess because most Americans didn't care about what was going on in Afghanistan until it affected them. After September 11, you could not find this book on the shelves. It was perpetually out of stock. It was re-released in a massive paperback edition after September 11 - and now you see it everywhere. Rashid is a journalist from Pakistan - and he writes in his introduction that this book was "21 years in the making". All of his experience and work life had been leading up to this moment. He's a go-to guy. He shows up in books as an expert in many other books about the area - Robert Kaplan interviews him all the time, Christopher Hitchens - all of those guys who have been determined to explain that whole area and its history to us use him as their main guide. His name comes up all the time. I bought this book after reading Kaplan's book At the Ends of the Earth - where he shows up in the chapters on Pakistan. Ahmed Rashid is a wonderful journalist - he truly does honor to his profession.

Here's a section from chapter 2 - which kind of explains the culture of the Taliban.

From Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia by Ahmed Rashid

In March 1995, on the northern edge of the Dashte-e-Mango -- the Desert of Death -- plumes of fine white dust rose in the air above the narrow ribbon of the battered highway that connects Kandahar with Herat, 350 miles away. The highway, built by the Russians in the 1950s skirted through the brush and sands of one of the hottest and most waterless deserts in the world. After years of war, the highway was now rutted with tank tracks, bomb craters and broken bridges, slowing down the traffic to just 20 miles an hour.

The Taliban war wagons -- Japanese two-door pick-ups with a stripped-down trunk at the back open to the elements - were streaming towards Herat laden with heavily armed young men in their bid to capture the city. In the opposite direction a steady flow of vehicles was bringing back wounded Taliban lying on string beds and strapped into the trunk as well as prisoners captured from the forces of Ismael Khan who held Herat.

In the first three months after capturing Kandahar, the Taliban had broken the staleate in the Afghan civil war by capturing 12 of Afghanistan's 31 provinces and had arrived at the outskirts of Kabul to the north and Herat in the west. Taliban soldiers were reluctant to talk under the gaze of their commanders in Kandahar so the only way to learn something about them was to hitch lifts along the road and back again. In the confines of the pick-ups where a dozen warriors were jam-packed with crates of ammunition, rockets, grenade launchers and sacks of wheat, they were more than eager to share their life stories.

They said that since the capture of Kandahar some 20,000 Afghans and hundreds of Pakistani madrassa students had streamed across the border from refugee camps in Pakistan to join Mullah Omar. Thousands more Afghan Pashtuns had joined them in their march northwards. The majority were incredibly young - between 14 and 24 years old - and many had never fought before although, like all Pashtuns, they knew how to handle a weapon.

Many had spent their lives in refugee camps in Baluchistan and the NWFP provinces of Pakistan, interspersed with stints at imbibing a Koranic education in the dozens of madrassas that had sprung up along the border run by Afghan mullahs or Pakistan's Islamic fundamentalist parties. Here they studied the Koran, the sayings of the Prophet Mohammed, and the basics of Islamic law as interpreted by their barely literate teachers. Neither teachers nor students had any formal grounding in maths, science, history, or geography. Many of these young warriors did not even know the history of their own country or the story of the jihad against the Soviets.

These boys were a world apart from the Mujaheddin whom I had got to know during the 1980s -- men who could recount their tribal and clan lineages, remembered their abandoned farms and valleys with nostalgia, and recounted legends and stories from Afghan history. These boys were from a generation who had never seen their country at peace -- an Afghanistan not at war with invaders and itself. They had no memories of their tribes, their elders, their neighbors nor the complex ethnic mix of peoples that often made up their villages and their homeland. These boys were what the war had thrown up like the sea's surrender on the beach of history.

They had no memories of the past, no plans for the future while the present was everything. They were literally the orphans of the war, the rootless and the restless, the jobless and the economically deprived with little self-knowledge. They admired war because it was the only occupation they could possibly adapt to. Their simple belief in a messianic puritan Islam which had been drummed into them by simple village mullahs was the only prop they could hold on to and which gave their lives some meaning. Untrained for anything, even the traditional occupations of their forefathers such as farming, herding or the making of handicrafts, they were what Karl Marx would have termed Afghanistan's lumpen proletariat.

Moreoever, they had willingly gathered under the all-male brotherhood that the Taliban leaders were set on creating, because they knew of nothing else. Many in fact were orphans whoh had grown up without women - mothers, sisters or cousins. Others were madrassa students or had lived in the strict confines of segregated refugee camp life, where the normal comings and goings of female relatives were curtailed. Even by the norms of conservative Pashtun tribal society, where villages or nomadic camps were close-knit communities and men still mixed with women to whom they were related, these boys had lived rough, tough lives. They had simply never known the company of women.

The mullahs who had taught them stressed that women were a temptation, an unnecessary distraction from being of service to Allah. So when the Taliban entered Kandahar and confined women to their homes by barring them from working, going to school and even from shopping, the majority of these madrassa boys saw nothing unusual in such measures. They felt threatened by that half of the human race which they had never known and it was much easier to lock that half away, especially if it was ordained by the mullahs who invoked primitive Islamic injunctions, which had no basis in Islamic law. The subjugation of women became the mission of the true believer and a fundamental marker that differentiated the Taliban from the former Mujaheddin.

This male brotherhood offered these youngsters not just a religious cause to fight for, but a whole way of life to fully embrace and make their existence meaningful. Ironically, the Taliban were a direct throwback to the military religious order that arose in Christendom during the Crusades to fight Islam -- disciplined, motivated and ruthless in attaining their aims. In the first few months the sweeping victories of the Taliban created an entire mythology of invincibility that only God's own soldiers could attain. In those heady early days, every victory only reinforced the perceived truth of their mission, that God was on their side and that their interpretation of islam was the only interpretation.

Reinforced by their new recruits, the Taliban moved north into Urozgan and Zabul provinces which they captured without a shot being fired. The marauding Pashtun commanders, unwilling to test their own supporters' uncertain loyalty, surrendered by hoisting white flags and handing over their weapons in a mark of submission.

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March 20, 2006

The Books: "On Another Man's Wound" (Ernie O'Malley)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

511NDF13KCL._AA240_.jpgNext book on the shelf is On Another Man's Wound by Ernie O'Malley. Like my dad said when he told me to read this book: "Most memoirs of IRA members are not well written. It's all 'Then we blew up the lorry and hid in the bushes.' But O'Malley can actually write." He sure can. This is literature, a beautifully written book. Luscious language, filled with Irish songs and poems, personal portraits of people he met, a real sense of the time. Ernie O'Malley was a medical student in Dublin when the Easter Uprising happened in 1916. He was kind of indifferent to the whole thing at first - but as the fighting continued - his perspective changed. So much so that he joined the IRA. He traveled around Ireland (in the South, not the North) and organized battalions, training farmers and regular people in the ways of war.

This is his story, written in his own words. But again, what sets this book apart from other revolutionary memoirs is his talent for writing. It's almost like he is determined to get down as complete a picture of Ireland at that very moment in time as he possibly can. It's like Synge's book on the Aran Islands. Everything is going to change ... and people will change ... so let's get it all down NOW before they do.

On Another Man's Wound is filled with lots of Irish legends, told around peat fires in the West - the songs they would sing, the poems they would recite ...

It's hypnotic. A lovely and elegaic book. It's a love letter to Ireland. It reminds me a lot of Synge's stuff.

Here's an excerpt.

From On Another Man's Wound by Ernie O'Malley.

The brigade Vice-Commandant, Maurteen Devitt, and the Quartermaster, Peadar O'Loughlin, were on the run in their part of Mid Clare. They had more time for Volunteer work and knew the by-roads and the general direction of police patrols. Maurteen was thin in body, pale faced and energetic with a sharp turn of tongue in speech and wit; satiric.

Maurteen Devitt's father was an old man, an Irish speaker, his favourite curse being, "the curse of the crows upon you," but he sympathised with us and did not regard us as half wits, as many others did. Once I arrived early in the morning, tired out, as I had walked a long distance, I knew the songs were out at a dance and that the father was alone. He came to the window and when I told him I wanted to get in, he said: "Be off with you, Patsey Mitchell, you playboy." I mentioned my name, but he did not seemingly know it, as it had not been spoken of in the house, although I had been staying there some weeks. He cursed me fluently, ending up with the curse of the crows; I knocked again, but as he became more exasperated i gave it up, buttoned up my coat and went to sleep on thte ground. One of the sons found me in the morning sleeping, white with hoar frost. The old man always bore this in mind and never ceased to blame himself when he met me.

In the night time I often sat opposite to him in the fireplace listening to his talk. He always wore an old hard hat, light green with sun, brown mottled in spots with a torn brim and a dint on the top. He had a hoar stubble of a beard. He slurred his words in English through gaps in his stained teeth, but Irish seemed to flow swiftly enough. He had a great friend who came often; then they spoke Irish all the evening; sometimes the old man would translate or begin a story in English with many pauses. He would hold a match in his broken clay pipe or a piece of glowing sod, then puff, hold the pipe in one hand, talk, draw on the pipe to find it had gone out. Time and again the pipe went out; intent on the story he used it to emphasize words. Refilling the pipe was a ceremony. The 'baccy was pared from a hard black piece of plug or twist, ground slowly between the palms and rammed down into the bowl; some of the last pipe's ashes on top, then a tin cover with a hole in the top. The pipe was cleaned by sticking the bowl in the red turf glow.

Sometimes they'd laugh together and shake their heads with delight when speaking of Pedlar McGrath or Se�n O'Twomey. Some poems he would not translate; they seemed to enjoy them all the more. "The ould fellow is worked up," Maurteen would say, when he began on Rafferty or Donnchadh Ruadh MacNamara. Then I regretted I had not studied Irish thoroughly. I knew next to nothing of these poets save in translation. But here the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries lived again, for these two men could tell story after story of the poets' pranks, drinkings and songs, and describe them as if they had lived in the same parish. They recited verses of men whose names I did not know. I think the only thing that left me with a shred of reputation was that I had a battered copy of the Love Songs of Connacht.

Old Devitt and his friends were like the others I had met in this stretch of Clare and in the Rosses. Their sense of literature was on the lips and in their faultless memory. In craggy Carren an old man recited the whole of The Midnight Court for me. They were not literary nor had they any pretence to learning. The extension of their knowledge made them simple; they were not conscious of it, but they knew more of poetry as a living feeling than had anybody else I had met save poets themselves. They could curse hard and long mostly for emphasis and the sound of words, but also in anger.

What I liked most about him and others was their independence, their air of being true to themselves. In the towns people conformed their suppressed selves to an outward convention; here they created their own environment in and through themselves. They had no feeling of equality or inequality, but a definite reality, and it would be a long time, I knew, before I could ever hope to have anything as real in myself as they had.

They had a sense of life that made them fresh and interesting to listen to and the flavour of a life of the open air was in their words and thought. They were starkly real like chunks of their own earth when they spoke of the land, its irritable uncertainty and its aching sweat, but a feeling for words and phrasing would lift a talk about manure.

Old women screwed with rheumatism, their faces like ploughed fileds, took snuff or a draw of the pipe in the corner while they fingered their beads. These were the obvious signs of outward realism and the harsh background of their lives; but there was a deep content, an ease in life and a depth in themselves that could well up nourishment. They were able to entertain and amuse themselves easily. Song was a definite expression as natural as talk, and they all sang. They sang at the end of the a hard day's work and were refreshed or musicioners used fiddle or melodeon in a manner peculiar to themselves. In spite of aching land work they had the leisure of the wealthy and they made use of it simplyl and fully. Gentleness and fierceness, lack of sentimentality and a definite concreteness merged with poetry and sharp realism in speech; kind towards suffering and callous towards cattle and dogs and their burden-bearer the skinny ass.

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March 19, 2006

In praise of Charles Lane

I watched Sybil last night. I've seen it a gazillion times. So what the hell. I sat down to watch that wrenching thing AGAIN. I've got a lot to say about it - about the acting, in particular - but I just wanted to write a small post of praise for Charles Lane, who plays the small-town doctor from Sybil's home town. He has one scene, and I've gotta say: he knocks that shit OUT OF THE PARK.

THIS is the kind of acting I love. I mean, I love my stars, too, you know I love my big ol' movie stars ... but the acting that really turns me on are these random people, these character actors, who show up - do their job SO WELL - and never get the glory. Mitchell and Alex and I talk a lot about people who we think win "10 minute Oscars". By that we mean - the people who do not star in the films, but without whom the entire film would not work. People who just kick some serious ASS in their parts. My favorite "10 minute Oscar" is Brooke Smith's acting in Silence of the Lambs. She's the girl in the bottom of the well. Man, oh man. That is some good acting there. I mean - think about it. Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins star - and they both give unforgettable performances. (Interesting that Hopkins is only on screen in that film for 15 minutes himself. Isn't that wild??? It seems like he is in it for MUCH longer - but he is not. Phenomenal. So I guess he DID win an Oscar for a performance not much longer than 10 minutes!) But back to these more unknown actors who show up and do their jobs like nobody's business: without the scenes of Brooke Smith in the well - the film would not have the same impact. And she just GOES THERE. What I love about her performance is that, obviously, she is a victim of circumstance. I mean, good Lord. She's AT THE BOTTOM OF A WELL. That sucks. But she is not a docile creature - she doesn't JUST weep and wail - We also see her strategizing. We see her kidnap the dog. Smart!!! I love when she's coaxing the dog down - she's using the normal voice you use when you're talking to a dog - but she's so pissed, so DETERMINED that she will survive this ordeal - that she also says stuff like, "Come on, you little fucker ... get in the fucking basket ..." I love that. It's so real. And yet so unexpected. A lesser actor would just play the victim. She would play to the hilt the "oh my God, I am so TRAPPED" - Brooke Smith plays that as well, but she also expresses the rage one would feel when one is so trapped. It's a fantastic choice. She seems like a real girl. I also love when Jodie Foster bursts into the room - and then says down into the well, "Okay ... I'll be right back." And we hear Brooke Smith start shouting, "Don't leave me - you fucking bitch!!!" hahahahaha I just love that. She's not just falling over herself in gratitude ... she has HAD it ... she wants OUT. Do not leave me down here!! Anyway - for me, that's a perfect example of a 10-minute Oscar. She knocks it out of the park. The movie wouldn't be the same without her performance. Even though the two big stars show up and do THEIR jobs really really well too. I've met Brooke Smith a couple of times - at stage readings, and stuff like that, and I have no idea how to say, "Uhm ... you won a 10 minute Oscar in my mind!!!"

So back to Charles Lane. Here he is - this is about the age he was when he played this part.

charleslane.jpg

Joanne Woodward plays the psychiatrist Dr. Wilbur. I have so much more to say about Joanne Woodward ... I need to do a big Woodward post - she's one of my favorite actresses - but I will keep my focus. I will try, anyway. So anyway, Dr. Wilbur ends up taking a trip to Sybil's old hometown to see if she can kind of piece together Sybil's childhood for her - since Sybil can't remember any of it. She goes and looks up the old doctor who used to treat Sybil for the "normal childhood aches and pains" - to see if he could maybe illuminate anything for her. Charles Lane plays that doctor, Dr. Quinoness. He doesn't have any huge emotional outbursts, he doesn't have any showy explosion of rage ... His part is simple. He is a country doctor. He works out of his house. He has been a doctor for seventy years. He has wonderful manners, he is welcoming and kind. The kind of man you would love to have as your doctor. You just GET that from the second he appears on screen. He ushers Dr. Wilbur into his office, and he's carrying a tea tray with a teapot, and a couple of mugs on it, a little creamer. Just the way he offers her the tea tells you everything you need to know about his character. He's old-fashioned, he's kind, and he is welcoming to this outsider - she may be an outsider, and she may be a woman wearing a white pant suit with a big Peter Pan collar (I love Woodward's clothes in this movie - they're SO mid-1970s!!) - but she is also a doctor, and he treats her with respect. As a colleague. I don't know - it's really subtle - but without that colleague-to-colleague honesty and respect, the scene wouldn't work.

Joanne Woodward's acting in this entire film is literally masterful. But I'll write about her later. Argh. Getting sidetracked!! Even though Dr. Wilbur is angry at what has happened to Sybil, even though she is in a rage at what happened to this little girl, she doesn't bring that anger to this scene. She is on a fact-finding mission ... and this man was not one of the evil-doers. She's appropriate with him. He is a fellow doctor. She starts asking questions about Sybil's health when she was a child. He is kindly, and tells about when Sybil had her tonsils out, and how frightened she was. Dr. Wilbur says, "Did you ever treat her for anything else?" This is when he says, "Oh, the normal childhood aches and pains." Woodward then asks if he still has the file - "I would consider it a great professional courtesy if I could have a look at it." There's no animosity here. Charles Lane gets up from his desk, "Let me see if I still have her file ..." He goes to a file cabinet and shuffles through the folders. He is forthcoming, direct ... he's not CONSCIOUSLY hiding anything. But at the end of the scene, we realize that ... he knew. He knew what was happening to Sybil. I just got goosebumps all over again remembering the last moment of the scene ... But I'm getting ahead of myself.

He finds the file. He sits back down and starts reading out loud: "Fractured elbow. Hand burned from the stove. Fractured larynx. Broken ankle." Etc. The list goes on. As he reads, you can feel his energy change. It's like - seeing it all in one place, hearing the litany of horrible injuries ... makes him realize the reality - makes him SEE, yet again, after so many years, what was so obvious at the time.

Charles Lane trails his voice away ... there's a long silence between the two of them. Nobody speaks.

Woodward says, "Normal childhood aches and pains, huh?" But she doesn't say it with hostility, or as an attack on him. She's just pointing out what she sees. I love how she says that line. Then she says, curiously, "Did you ever speculate?"

This is where Lane's beautiful acting really comes to the fore. And I have to say this: he does the rest of the scene, except for the final moment, looking out of the window. We do not see his face. He stands with his back to her, talking ... An actor needs his face. The actor's face is one of the most important ways he can tell his story. BUT - oh how powerful it is to have an actor turn his back to us ... How much it can tell you about the emotions he is experiencing, it can be extremely powerful - if used effectively. This is what Charles Lane does here.

He gets up. Goes to the window. His BACK is eloquent. Do you get that? His very BACK is eloquent. You just FEEL for this man, this WITNESS. This kindly gentle man ... who had had evidence of horrible child abuse in his town ... and had done nothing.

After a while, he starts speaking. He leads off with: "I've never told anyone this before ..."

It's a moment that makes me catch my breath every time I see it. Again, he doesn't do it in an overdramatic way, he's not being an ACTOR in this moment. He's being a PERSON. A man, an old man, who has kept a secret for thirty years. He knew. He knew.

But he doesn't show his hand too early, as an actor - and this is why the moment is so powerful. He doesn't greet Dr. Wilbur with a guilty conscience. He doesn't SHOW us the things that the character himself doesn't even know yet. He's not being protective of himself. But once he reads all of her injuries out loud ... he knows that his moment of reckoning has come. He remembers. And it's a painful moment for him. This is why he stands and looks out the window. He is filled with grief at his inaction back then. Again, though: none of this is overplayed. You don't think: "Oooh, look at this actor having a great moment." You think: "This man is tormented. This poor man."

Now this next will be a paraphrase - I wish I had the script in front of me, but this is the general idea:

He says, staring out the window ... all we get of him is his back - his slightly stooped over back, "I treated her for a bladder infection when she was five years old ... very unusual for a child of her age ... I would imagine if you did a gynecological exam on her now, you would see what I did. Scarring of the inner walls, hardened destroyed tissue. Now - we know that the Lord sometimes creates mistakes in nature - but the Almighty had nothing to do with what I saw inside that little girl."

It is an absolutely devastating moment.

Woodward just sits there, listening. She doesn't speak. She doesn't need to.

Then - Chrales Lane - the beautiful character actor Charles Lane - turns around and looks at Woodward.

He says, "I imagine in your line of work, you hear a lot of confessions."

Again: it is a devastating moment. Beautifully and simply played. He doesn't say "will you hear my confession?" It is implied. He wants forgiveness. It is out in the open now. Not just what happened to Sybil - but his complicity in it. He does not START the scene with this self-knowledge. Dr. Quinoness has not been walking around with a load of guilt for 30 years. He has suppressed what he saw way back then. But now he remembers. And it is a terrible terrible moment for him. This kindly old man, wearing glasses, and a black suit. A terrible moment for him.

Dr. Wilbur says to him, kindly, "Dr. Quinoness, it was a long long time ago."

Cut back to Charles Lane, looking at her. His face is simple, open, and pained. He says, and he is truly asking, "How do I find absolution?"

Cut back to Woodward, looking up at him. She has no answer for him.

The scene ends there.

There are many other amazing scenes in the film with some of the best acting I honestly have ever seen ... but that small scene between Charles Lane and Joanne Woodward is my favorite in the entire film.

It's because of what he brings to it.

In less than 5 minutes, he creates a completely three-dimensional character. It's a very important scene - because of the information it imparts. Charles Lane's part is simple: he is there to provide some exposition. That's it. That's the point of the scene. Dr. Wilbur gets confirmation of Sybil's abuse. Now she knows. It's confirmed. But - and this is partly because of the writing - which is quite good - in this scene in particular: Charles Lane takes it to another level in those last two moments - looking out the window, not being able to face her as he confesses that he knew ... and then turning back to look at her - asking for absolution.

It's just a perfectly played scene, on every level it needs to be. Not EVERY actor who has a small part in a big film shows up and makes such an impression. Not EVERY actor knocks a 5 minute scene out of the park. It's very difficult. It's almost easier to STAR in something - because you can develop your character over time, you have many scenes to do it in, you can show THIS side of the person you're playing in THIS scene, you can show THAT side of the person you're playing in ANOTHER scene - You have TIME. I mean, you have more pressure on you, of course ... but at least you have a lot of screen time to do your job. Not so with our 10-minute Oscar crowd. They have ONE scene, sometimes ... and they MUST nail it - in less than 10 minutes. It's tough, man.

So I just want to take a moment to sing the praise of Charles Lane's unsung work in Sybil. It's perfection.

I looked him up last night, just to see his story. He was already an old man when he filmed Sybil - and whaddya know - he is still alive. He just celebrated his 100th birthday. He was actually honored at last year's Emmys - he was one of the founders of the television academy - and he is now its oldest surviving member. I loved this bit of trivia:

Was honored on March 16, 2005 at the TVLand Awards for his long career and his 100th birthday. When he received his award, he said in his still-booming voice, "In case anyone's interested, I'm still available!"

God bless him!!

But his career ... I mean, LOOK at this career.

THAT is the career of a character actor. Stars' resumes are always much shorter. Character actors, successful ones, do 10 movies to a star's one. They show up, do their job for 3 days, and move on to the next one. Charles Lane worked constantly in television - appearing multiple times on I Love Lucy and many other classics.

He has been working since the early 30s. He was in Twentieth Century, he was in It's a Wonderful Life - he was in Arsenic and Old Lace - he was in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington - Also, as I scrolled down his resume, I noticed how many times he was "uncredited". He was a workman. Showed up, said his 5 lines, moved on to his next job. Bless those people.

Charles Lane said, "Having had so many small parts, there was a character I played that showed up all the time and people did get to know him, like an old friend."

Old friend indeed. He brings his history with him to every part. You may think of him as "that guy". Oh, wait - that's that guy!!

His work in Sybil is what I, personally, love about acting. It's the kind of thing where I look at it and think: "That. That is what I admire. That is what I want to do." There's no vanity in it. There's an understanding of script analysis - there's an understanding of how your part fits in to the whole - there's also a fearlessness in just doing what the part demands.

Watch how he turns back to her from looking out the window. Watch how he says, "How do I find absolution?"

It don't get any better than that.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (30)

The Books: "Beyond Belief: Islamic Excursions Among the Converted Peoples" (V.S. Naipaul)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51YAVFZVJGL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Beyond Belief: Islamic Excursions Among the Converted Peoples by V.S. Naipaul. This is the sequel to the last book I excerpted Among the Believers. Naipaul returns to the 4 "converted" countries he visited in the first book: Indonesia, Malaysia, Iran, Pakistan. In 1995, he took a 5 month trip through these four places. He had last been to many of them in 1979 - so the changes are startling. Mainly economic changes, especially when it came to Indonesia.

Here's an excerpt from his section on Iran. He meets a man named Ali - who is in his 60s. Ali made a fortune during the Shah's time as a real estate developer. He was a supporter of the revolution - because he wanted his country to be free, his people to be liberated. But as we all know - the revolution took a bit of a turn, shall we say, with the Khomeini return. Ali suffered greatly in the early years of the revolution - because of his success. He was kidnapped three times, arrested, thrown in jail ... But he survived that rough time - learned how to live with the new rules of the new regime.

Anyway, here is part of Naipaul's long interview with Ali. I love these two books. I highly recommend them both.

From Beyond Belief: Islamic Excursions Among the Converted Peoples by V.S. Naipaul.

Some people Ali knew, supporters of the revolution, turned against it after the first month. Ali thought he should give it a little more time. But then, about two months after the revolution, when the executions began, he had serious doubts. People who had done nothing were arrested and taken to jail. Many of them disappeared. "Then they started charging into people's houses, confiscating their properties. We had no security for our property or our children or our wife." I felt that the word in Ali's word was the word Mehrdad had introduced me to: namoos.

A revolutionary court, the Court of Islamic Justice, had been set up about a month after the revolution. One of Ali's best friends was second in command in that court, and Ali used to go every day to see what he could do to save people he knew.

"That court was going almost twenty-four horus a day. Khalkhalli was the master of that court." Ayatollah Khalkhalli, Khomeini's famous hanging judge. "He used this court as the instrument of his executions. It was in Shariati Street. Before the revolution it was a military court. The Shah had set up this court to try his opponents. Almost the same people who had set up this court were now tried in it, in the same building. My friends were in the court for about two years."

But long before that time Ali had given up on the revolution, and he was deep in his own torments.

"We expected something heavenly to happen -- something emotional. When we were kids of twelve and thirteen we used to read accounts of the French Revolution, the American Revolution, the Glorious Revolution in England. And the Russian Revolution. But we were always fascinated with the French Revolution. It was something done by God, you know. In the last generation most of the Iranians who had studied abroad had French culture. We were hypnotized by their stories of the French Revolution. We all thought revolution was something beautiful, done by God, something like music, like a concert. It was as though we were in a theatre, watching a concert, and we were happy that we were part of the theatre. We were the actors now. For years we had been reading about Danton and Robespierre. But now we were the actors. We never thought that those killings would start afterwards."

It took a year for the communists and the Islamics to move away from one another. But the Tudeh, the communist party, had infiltrated every branch of the new government. They even went to the Friday prayers in the mosques. They showed themselves as people of God. The communist party in those early days put itself entirely at the service of Khomeini. They said, according to Ali, that they didn't want executive power; they were content to be counselors. And they were behind the nationalization of banks, insurance companies, factories. They gave the Soviet-style aspect to government and official demeanor which the visitor could still notice.

After six months of the revolution Ali was insecure and bitter. Life wasn't easy. It was impossible to work. The new officials were hostile; they looked upon Ali as part of the old regime. Some people in Ali's company began to agitate against him. Two or three of them would come to Ali's office to "question" him. He had to buy them off. And at the end of the first year he was kidnapped.

"This was in Kerman. I was on my land. We were building houses. They came in a car, three or four of them. They asked me to help them in a building project they had. I got in the car, and they drove me away. They kept me fifteen kilometers away in a desert area and questioned me as in a court. It was in a little shanty house, a shepherd's shelter. They were young boys. They had seen a lot of cinema. Now they had guns in their hands and they felt really big."

The guns were from the armories of the Shah's army. When the army collapsed, and it collapsed suddenly, many people ran to the armories to get guns. For four months after the revolution the guns were piled up in the university and were being given away to anyone who asked for one and could show an ID card. Many people offered Ali guns, but he soon realized that guns were no use to him, because he couldn't kill anyone, even to protect himself. And perhaps if he had had a gun and had tried to use it at the time of his kidnapping, he might have been harmed by his boy kidnappers.

He thought now to move carefully with these boys, in order to find out just how many more were behind them. Perhaps there was no one else. Perhaps there were four thousand, and they were planning to hold him for a ransom. They talked for ten hours in the shepherd's hut in the desert. At last they said they were going to release him, but he had to pay them. He didn't want to pay them too much; he didn't want to encourage others. He promised very small sums. The boys were enraged. They threatened to kill him. They threatened to destroy his building company. But he didn't promise more.

He said, "I was very strict."

And in the end he was released. But this kidnapping added to his insecurity. There were four million people in Tehran; and it seemed that any four of the five million could come with guns to demand money. And all the time now there was trouble with local officals. They began to occupy his land and housing developments. They said they were government property and had to be given to the people.

"The local government man actually confiscated many properties in Kerman, mine and other people's."

"What was he like? Did you get to know him?"

"He was connected to the mujahidin group. Very leftist, one hundred percent against capitalists."

"What was he like physically?"

"He was about thirty-four, short, fat. Full of resentment. An educated man, an engineer. I am sure he was beaten by SAVAK. And he was full of resentment. He caused me a lot of damage. Millions. Many millions. I met him a few years ago. He came to my office. He was poor. He had been kicked out of office. The government had put him in prison. He came to me and asked for a job. He came and kissed me and asked for pardon. He was then about forty-five. He had an old jacket. I told him that every kid had toys, but there is one toy that is the special toy. 'I too have toys. I have been used to living well, to enjoy myself, and every night, all through my life, I have had lavish food. I am still doing that. And that is my favorite toy. If because of what you have done I didn't have my lavish living for one night, I would never forgive you. I would never pardon you. But what you did was like a little fly walking on my skin. It couldn't hurt me.'"

A lawyer friend of Ali's had come into the room where we were and was sitting with us -- it was a Friday morning, the Muslim sabbath -- and I felt that the presence of this third person was encouraging Ali's unusual passion.

I asked, "Did you give the man the job?"

"I didn't give him the job. Because people of this kind can never be enlightened. If they had the chance again, they would hurt me again. So they should be kept away."

And now, a year into the revolution, Ali was being pushed from every side, by government people, by communists within the government, and by simple agitators. He was kidnapped three or four more times.

"I wasn't much afraid to go with them, because I knew that my reasoning was stronger than theirs. The first time you think it's a wild animal, it's going to tear you apart. But once you tame this animal, you can order them around."

There was now, too, a constant harassment from the Revolutionary Guards, jumping into the garden and looking through the windows to see whether anyone was looking at television or videos, or breaking into the house to search for alcohol or ham or women's dresses or men's neckties, all now forbidden things.

"And if you were cleanly dressed, they didn't like it. They would attack you. It was like Pol Pot, but n ot so extreme. Ten percent. It was a full revolution."

"A full revolution?"

"The reins of government went altogether out of the hands of government, out of control. It was anarchy and terror. The reason was Khomeini himself. About three months after the revolution I was taken by my ayatollah friend to meet Mr. Khomeini. The ayatollah friend had explained to Khomeini that I was a developer and a technical man and could help with housing problems. I and the ayatollah friend and Khomeini were sitting together on the ground in Khomeini's house. The door opened. Some mullahs came in. Khomeini started talking with them. Later some more mullahs came in. And it went on and on until the room was full of mullahs, two hundred of them. And they all wanted money to take to their students and religious organizations in their own towns. Khomeini said he didn't have money to give to all of them. Then he said, 'Go to your own towns. Fine the first man who is rich or the first man who has a factor or a huge farm. And force him to pay you.'"

This language from the head of the government shocked Ali. And this was when he realized that Khomeini was leading his people to chaos.

The lawyer sitting with us said, "His mental discipline was different from other people's. He was a man of the people. He understood the majority of the people. The majority were not educated. They wanted to get money and things. They didn't want revolution. They wanted money, and Khomeini knew that."

Ali said, "The majority wanted to loot."

The lawyer said, "So he made disorder in the country and let them loot. He did what they wanted."

Ali said, "When he said 'Follow the law', it wasn't the law of the country. It was his law, the law in his own mind. Before the revolution he said it was un-Islamic to pay taxes to the government. After, he said it was Islamic to pay taxes to the government. He wanted complete chaos. That day in his house I realized this man is not a man of government. He was still a revolutionary. He couldn't control himself. Until the very last day he was making disorder."

I wondered whether this disorder, this constant "revolution" (a word with misleading assocations), wasn't an aspect of Shia protest. But when I made the point neither Ali nor the lawyer took it up. They were disillusioned men; they spoke out of a great torment; but they were so deep in Shiism, it was so much part of their emotional life, that they couldn't take this step back, as it were, and consider it from the outside.

They began to talk instead of the Islamic law of necessity, in whose name Khomeini, always acting religiously, had said and unsaid things.

Ali said, of this law of necessity, "To protect yourself, you can sometimes do something wrong. The ayatollahs can mediate between the first level of laws, which come from Allah, and the second level. When the need arises, the ayatollahs can for a short time issue secondary orders." The example he gave was close to him. "In Islam the protection of people's property belongs to the first level of laws. But during Khomeini's regime, while he was alive, there was a shortage of land for housing. So Khomeini said, 'Using my privilege of ordering the second order of laws, I am going to grab plots of land that belong to anybody in the town, without paying any compensation, and I am going to subdivide it and give it to the people who need it. Because there is necessity.'"

And now, to prove that this action of Khomeini's was excessive, the lawyer began, as I felt, to take me down the lanes and ancient alleyways and tunnels of Islamic jurisprudence such as was taught in the theological schools of Mashhad and Qom.

The lawyer -- delicately eating small green figs whole, and, in between, peeling and eating other fruit -- said, "About a hundred years after the birth of Islam one of the caliphs in Mecca wanted to take land around the holy place. People were living in houses around this holy place, the Kaaba. But the law didn't allow the taking of the land. Protecting people's property was a duty of the caliph. So the caliph invited the big muftis to his house, to find some way. The best opinion was that of a direct descendant of Prophet Mohammed, the fifth Shia Imam, Bagher. He said, 'You can take those houses around the Kaaba because the Kaaba came first. Value the houses, and pay the owners, and send them away.'"

Ali said, "Khomeini has set a bad example. Every ayatollah now can claim necessity, as Khomeini often did, and break the law." And Iran was still living with his Islamic constitution, which gave him supreme power, and established the principle of leadership and obedience. The constitution provided for an elected assembly, but there was also a council, which could override the assembly.

Ali said, "He had an instinctive brain. He was instinctively intelligent. An instinctive, animal intelligence. Because of this he could command the people. He did not have an educated intelligence. He didn't become emotion. He was very cool."

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 18, 2006

Bacchanal

MAJOR bacchanal last night. I don't really DO bacchanals any more. But last night was a lunatic bacchanal. SO. MUCH. FUN. We hooked up with an entire rowdy group from West Virginia, all wearing green hats, and green shirts - and we had to sign their shirts - and there were beers drank - and beers spilled - and then one random girl showed up with two huge pizzas - for the entire crowd (no food at the bar ... so this needed to be rectified). I love that girl. She didn't know any of us ... but she knew the entire bar needed food.

There was this one poor guy Morgan who - I have no idea why - but the entire bar, randomly, would start to chant his name ... calling upon him to chug the rest of his beer. "MorGAN MorGAN MorGAN MorGAN ..." And Morgan - who was hilarious - would down beer after beer in one gulp. The man truly was amazing. I didn't know Morgan before last night - and he now is a legend in my own mind. We acted like we all were lifelong friends. Did you know that most architects are colorblind and gay? We befriended an entire crowd of architects and one of them told us this little-known fact. None of the guys we met last night were gay, but two of them were colorblind. hahahaha Morgan sat down at our table. He was introduced to all of us. "And what do you do, Morgan?" someone asked. He said, "I'm an architect." I shot at him flatly, "Are you colorblind or gay?" Morgan had not been there for the colorblind/gay conversation - so it was as though he had sat down with a table of lunatics. Why is this strange girl shooting these questions at me?? But he took it in stride, (and I'm telling you, the guy is a legend - nothing ruffled him) and said, "Neither!" One of the other architects said to me, "Damn, you just became a sniper for a minute."

There was a moment where one of the architects shoved his friend angrily and said, confrontationally, "You're NOT fighting China?" I cannot explain the history of that moment ... or why it was so damn funny ... so much would be lost in translation ... Suffice it to say, that was the first thing I thought when I woke up this morning, and I burst out laughing. Like: this guy was PISSED that his friend was NOT fighing China in some future war. Even just writing this much is lessening the funny - we all were literally crying with laughter.

Beers. More beers.

All of us standing and shouting: "MOR-GAN MOR-GAN MOR-GAN ..."

At one point, this really drunk dude with long curly blonde hair and a peaceful beautiful face stood up on his chair - and started to try to make an announcement to the entire bar. It was URGENT to him that he somehow communicate with all of us. But it was way too loud in the bar - no one paid any attention - and he stood up there, alone, waving his arms, and shouting to no avail. Johnny and I were like, "Holy shit ... Jesus is here ... he's trying to speak to us ..." It looked like Jesus. But a WASTED Jesus. Johnny and I tried to tune in to what he was saying and all we heard was something like: "Germany will rise again ..." We were like ohhhhh shit! We could not stop laughing after that. He looked so peaceful - this beautiful face, and long hippie hair ... and he was shouting German nationalistic statements. Dude, please don't start screaming about Germany rising again. He almost got thrown out of the bar. The enormous bouncer came over and tried to calm Jesus down - giving him a warning. Half an hour later, Jen and I were up at the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice us, and we turned around, and we saw Jesus, even MORE drunk, being held up by his two friends, and he was STILL trying to make his announcement. They kept trying to suppress him, and ... dammit ... he just SO NEEDED to communicate with a large group of people. He could not be stopped. Jen and I were like, "He's still goin'! Still tryin'!"

We had an enormous group discussion about rectal exams. It was AWESOME. There was a doctor in our group, and he told us about the first rectal exam he had to do. AWESOME. More beers!

The noise was so out of control that when I had to make a phone call I had to go outside. The streets were absolute PANDEMONIUM. Now I'm actually not a big St. Patty's Day fan. Why not? Same reason I'm not a New Year's Eve fan. Not too wacky about amateur drunks. I enjoy people who can hold their liquor. But the parade of drunken people on the street was, indeed, very entertaining. Especially the big meaty macho guys - strolling by wearing green velvet top hats with Amish beards attached on a string. Smoking, walking, talking ... as though they weren't wearing anything weird at all. So funny.

But while I was out there I saw something pretty cool. There were two Irish girls and an Irish guy - real Irish - I heard their accents, and their faces were obviously Irish. Anyway, they were smoking, hanging out, and I heard the two girls start singing - they were adorable, by the way. Little short spiky haircuts, with plastic barettes, wearing jeans, big boots - They were not drunk. They seemed sane. The two girls were laughing, and singing a song together - the song had many many verses - and I heard "Finnegans Wake" over and over and over ... some long-versed Irish folk song - they kept trying to remember lyrics, one would take over, the other would flounder, then catch up - It was obviously a song from childhood, one they were pulling up out of the memory banks. Much laughter between the two of them - and then one of them, I kid you not, started river dancing on the sidewalk. The guy who was with them started guffawing with laughter, saying, "Oh shit ..." lighting another cigarette - The other girl stood up and they started step-dancing around each other, singing "Finnegans Wake". They were goofy, sweet, lively, and I felt really happy that I had witnessed it. On an insane street, packed with drunken Americans, dressed up in green and gold with flashing green necklaces and shamrock hats, etc. - two Irish girls started riverdancing, unselfconsciously, just enjoying each other, and enjoying the memory of that song. Beautiful!

Back inside.

The bartender looked so much like Philip Seymour Hoffman that I honestly wondered if it WAS Hoffman, and he was there researching his next role, as a harassed bartender on St. Patrick's Day.

The bar became ONE. That almost NEVER happens here. Not like it did in Dublin that one night.

But last night - 85 people BONDED. We became ONE. We were all in this thing together, this St. Patty's Day Bacchanal together.


Mor-GAN Mor-GAN Mor-GAN Mor-GAN!!!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (10)

March 17, 2006

Kinda scattered

Okay, so I haven't finished a book in ... 4 weeks?? 5 weeks?? The last book I finished was, I think, At Swim-two-birds by Flann O'Brien. After that, I started a couple of different books (I have different needs ... commute books are different from LEISURE books - also, my Hamilton biography is hardcover and weighs 20 pounds - I won't lug that around) I haven't been able to finish anything - mainly because 90% of my brain space was taken up with getting ready for (or procrastinating getting ready for) my show. I just couldn't focus. Then along came the iPod and along came the daily exercise, and boom - I seem to not be reading anymore. I wonder if I could get my sleep-needs down to 3 hours a night?? Then I could have more reading time. Probably not. I'm pushing it as it is.

Here are the books I'm kinda sorta working on in a half-assed way - and the last one has definitely got a hold on me - I might finish that one first.

I just looked at this list of books and just have to laugh.

The Autobiography of Ben Franklin - this is taking me shamefully long to get thru. It's actually quite short, and very fun to read. It should be way done by now. But ... can't finish. Too scattered.

Ron Chernow's Hamilton - at the rate I'm going, I'll finish this book in the year 2016. It's fantastic. But I can only focus on it for 2 or 3 pages at a time.

Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood (haunting. She's so feckin' good. Her writing scares me.) But again: I got 5 chapters in, and now have lost the thread. She was my commute book.

Judy Blume's Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret - whoo-hoo! It arrived. It's just as good as I remember. But in a normal Sheila time, I'd read this thing in a couple of hours. Just can't do that now.

Gene Wilder's autobiography Kiss Me Like a Stranger - I love him - have been wanting to read this for a long time ... but I am going at a SNAIL'S PACE.

And here's the last book I'm working on - and this one has actually taken a hold on me - I look forward to the free half hour or so when I get home where I can sit down and just read it. I'll be posting more on it"

Stalin by Edvard Radzinsky - I honestly don't know why I haven't read this before. It's kinda blowing me away. Radzinsky is a Russian playwright - and ... well, I need to post on it a bit. You know. When I'm not so scattered. But it's terrific. Gripping - out of the all the books i'm juggling, this is the one I can't put down. I stand in line at the bank, or at the deli, and read it. It's THAT kind of book.

But still. Kinda scattered.

Simone, the cross-dressing palm-reading astrologist who we met the other night said that I was focusing on domestic stuff, making my house into a home. She kept saying that. "You're making your house into a home ... all good things will follow, once you create that home space ..." Which is pretty spot on. She expressed what's been going on for a couple months now. So I got the bookcases. I got the framed pictures. I have bought more plants. I am having guests over this weekend. It's vulnerable for me to do that. I'm a hermet. My home is mine. A private space. No one ever comes over. I need to change that. I do believe that miracles will occur if I change my relationship to my house. My house, as of now, is CLOSED. No one comes over. It is a private dream space. Only I am allowed to go there. But ... well. Only an idiot would not see the metaphor at work here. This has been going on for some months now - my commitment to changing my relationship to my house ... and Simone, with her scarf on her head, and her red glittery lipstick, nailed it. Thanks, Simone!

So. It's okay that I'm not reading too much right now. At least I got another bookcase to add to my domestic delights!

And there's something about Stalin ... It doesn't surprise me that that is the only book I can focus on right now. It's like he emanates a dark light of fascination from beyond the grave. I'm serious. I don't need to WORK to be interested in Stalin. Honestly - I don't. I'm on the part right now where the Bolsheviks and SRs begin their fight - but there are all these other parties involved - Whites, and invading Germands, etc. etc. Trotsky still in the picutre - but Stalin has already narrowed his sights. Trotsky is now "Enemy". Soon Trotsky will be the Imaginary Friend everyone blames everything for. Oh, we can't feed our own country? It's saboteurs, organized by Stalin! No electricity? No railways? Trotsky did it! Trotsky did it! At this point in the book I'm reading - Stalin knows he will get rid of Trotsky sooner or later - but it can't look like he was the one who orchestrated it. Stalin just needs to sit back ... play chess with human lives ... stay in the shadows ... and wait ...

The mixture of patience and ruthless cruelty seems very rare. Most dictators are impatient. But the ability to just hang back ... hang back ... Stalin had that in spades. Some Soviet official who worked with Stalin said, when it was all over, that Stalin had the deadliest of combinations in his personality: Laziness and capriciousness. If you think about it - that really is rare - and with someone who lacks human compassion - or lacks a conscience, it can be very very dangerous. Also: Stalin to me seems notable because he appeared to lack greed. At least for material things. Many dictators are undone by their own greed. They yearn for BOOTY. They want to live like a king!! They want cars, money, palaces ... they will starve their own countries so that they can own a gazillion Mercedes Benzes. But Stalin didn't care about any of that. He was impervious to money. He had no greed for THINGS.

So ... to be patient ... to be cruel ... and to be impervious to monetary temptation ... At the moment I can't think of another dictator who had all of these qualities at the same time. Castro, maybe? Regardless, it seems to me that this is why Stalin was so terrifyingly effective, and why he lasted so FUCKING LONG.

Like I said.

I'm scattered.

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Diary Friday

I'm going to continue on with diary entries describing my experience getting into Picnic when I was a senior in high school.

I am again amazed at how busy I was and how much I was still able to get down in my journal.

Here's part 1. The audition.

Here's part 2. The callbacks. I got in!

Now here's the next bit. I have to put in the stuff about dating TS too - because it's just too funny.

SEPTEMBER 30

Oh Diary.

I'm so so so happy. I am so happy. [You got that?]

Last night I called TS and invited him to the 7:30. Then he called back and said he couldn't get a ride over till later, could we go to the 10:00? Sure! So I put my lenses in to heat for an hour. [Wow. What a time travel moment! Member having to HEAT your contact lenses???] After a while, Jean said, "Sheila! Someone's trying to open the front door!" So I went and opened the door. TS peeked in. "My parents came home early - want to try to make the 7:30?" I went dashing around and ran out. I hadn't changed, my hair was flat, I had my glasses on. Oh well. Who gives a shit. I'm happy.

We had a blast at the movie.

Oh yeah, on the phone he asked me, "So what happened at callbacks?" And I said, "I'm in!" And he was so happy - he took a fit. [How attractive!]

Before the movie started, we just sat there quietly together, not saying anything and then suddenly he sort of punched me lightly on the shoulder and said, "Hey. I'm really psyched!" and started asking me about my part and rehearsals.

I love him.

OH GOD, I can't STAND how much I LOVE HIM!

I'm so HAPPY right now!

I'm in the play!

Everything's so GOOD!

We walked back to my house, talking about the movie - There was a lot of crying in the movie. We were laughing at how we were "judging" crying. TS was saying, "Well, I'm more impressed by the repression of tears, the holding back of emotion. I mean, I saw this movie with Lauren Bacall and she was WEEPING - and her makeup's all over the place and suddenly I realized 'She's about 70 years old.'"

We talked about Picnic. I told him about Millie [that was my part]

He was like, "I don't mean to scare you, but you very well may end up in Washington in front of thousands of people, Sheila."

I LOVE MY FRIENDS. [Where did that come from?] OH! J!! AND BETH! KATE. BETSY. MEREDITH. I love the world. Wow wow wow

We got back to my house. Brendan was at the dining room table listening to Prince [I love you, Bren] so we sat down with him and talked for about 45 minutes. About Drama, the movie, Purple Rain. Just stuff. It was fun. TS called his parents and they were gonna meet him on South Road, but not for a while yet, so we sat down again, talked some more. He found this Diary under a pile of papers and leered at me. I grabbed it.

TS said, "Well, I better be going." I suppose I was obvious but I said, "Oh, I'll walk you down." Not that I wanted to protect him (hee hee) but I was having such a BLAST talking to him. Every time I see him it gets better. We could talk forever and I'm me and he likes being with me. [Very important.]

So we left. It was black black outside. So much so that I could hardly keep my balance. TS and I kept bumping into each other. Then suddenly I remembered that TS had left some Greek homework at the coffee house (Betsy gave it to me later) - and I remembered that that homework was back at my house so I stopped still and said, "Oh! Your Greek!" And through the black, I heard him say, "Well - Scottish, actually." That is still making me laugh out loud.

Then we ran back to my house, I burst in saying, "We're back!" I grabbed his papers and gave them to him and then we started out again.

As we walked, we talked - But I barely listened to what he was saying. [hahahahahahahaha] What a beautiful person he is!

Last night is a dream. I still can't believe it happened. I can't even remember what we talked about, but we got to South Road, and he was sort of quiet as we walked toward the road - I didn't know why. So there we stood at the tip of Clark, and TS said, "Well, I guess I'll just wait until they find me."

I said, "Okay." Then we just smiled at each other. He looked different though. Then he said, "Well - thanks." Oh, I'm fainting. [hahahahaha] I smiled at him. It's a dream. He smiled back - but not the normal TS smile - a different one - He stepped forward, put his arms around me and hugged me. I was standing there thinking: Oh my dear Lord. I hugged him back. Diary, he hugged me so tight! We hugged for so long. I felt him kiss me on my cheek. Then we just HUGGED.

Oh, I hate writing these things down on paper.

[Then I completely fall apart, and my writing goes all over the page]

Oh help Oh, I love him

!!!!

He loves me ...


AS A PERSON

Oh

my


GOD!


Can you believe this?

I still can't. I haven't even convinced myself it happened. He hugged me.

Oh, I don't ever want to look at this entry again. [Oh, but you will, Sheila! In the year 2006, you will look at it again!!] I'll just remember it.

LATER:

In the daylight it seems even more momentous. HE HUGGED ME. [I love what a huge deal a HUG was.]

J. and Kate know. I don't know who else to tell - Mere, Betsy, Beth, maybe Anne. I don't know. I can't believe it.

Was the reason he was quiet walking was because he was planning it? Getting up his guts?

A hug is so wicked special. [hahahahahaha]

Walking home, I was so washed over with goodness. I just looked at the sky, thinking: GOD, I LOVE THIS WORLD.

I got up at about 6:00 and lay in bed for 2 hours just thinking about it.

Now what?

It took us 7 dates to get this far. I am so happy!!

OCTOBER 1

What a weird weird awful wonderful day.

First of all, on Wednesday, I have a personal meeting with Kimber [the director of Picnic] cause he wants to get to know people he hasn't had before as students. Oh dear Lord. Another thing to worry about!

The hug is already growing fuzzy in m y mind.

I've been thinking about it a lot. So many kids at school have superficial relationships - and I DO NOT see how this is possible. Or how someone could just go out with someone wihtout liking them. When TS and I hugged, it was ... how could 2 people share something like that and still maintain a stupid high school romance? It was so deep. So devoid of fakeness. [Please note that I am talking about the hug as though it were a 10 person orgy. "How could 2 people share something like that ....]

J. came in and said, "Where was it? Show me the exact spot on your cheek." I swear, she has kept me sane this frenzied weekend.

Today in school they announced over the loudspeaker: "Congratulations to Sheila O'Malley, who was chosen for a role in the university production of Picnic to be put on in December."

I feel so good. I'm sort of a little celebrity. Whenever Stephanie sees me, she sing songs, "Sheila's a professional actress!" And Brian Records called down the stairs to me, "Sheila! Sheila!" I stopped and he came down to me saying, "I'm so proud!"

People are GREAT. I still can't believe my life.

Look at my life! I have too much to think about, but I can't throw any away, cause they're all good things. But it's OVERLOAD.

Oh Diary Diary Diary.

We hugged. IT'S TOO MUCH FOR ME! [hahahahahahaha I love the innocence. I really do.]

OCTOBER 2

Awhile ago, when we went to that Film Noir series, we were sitting in Kingston Pizza. TS' mother's cousin came over. He was this old guy who was obviously drunk but friendly enough. In fact, before TS knew who it was, he was sort of making fun of him. Anyways, he came over, looked at the two of us, and said, "God, would ya look at the mirror image here?" We do dress alike. On Saturday I had on a black coat, a short-sleeved collar shirt, jeans, and hightops. TS had on a black blazer, a white short-sleeved shirt, and black hightops. But not just that of course. We are so much alike.

Was it hard for him to hug me? [I'm sure it took him 10 years to get up the guts.] People who have superficial relationships must block out what they're missing - or they don't know any other way to deal withi things. Because being hugged by him was so real - I mean, no kidding about it - God, talk about defenses down - Maybe that's why it felt so awkward after because we both felt exposed. I know I did at least. I loved it though.

I don't know how many times I've kicked myself for acting so casually after. J. yells at me: "Sheila -- what were you supposed to say? 'Till we meet again?'" [hahahahahahahahaha]

Too much is happening right now. I have to calm down. What a way to start my senior year. It's like there's this movie camera in my mind, playing and rewinding over and over again. All I can see is TS' dark coat, his shoulders pressing against my face -

Am I doomed? [Yes.] I feel very tentative now. I'm tiptoeing all the time. What's it gonna take to make me happy? God, I walk around in a fog all day. I can't stand how droopy I get. I can't smile sometimes. Everyone's like "You, of all people, should be riotously happy." And they're right. Look at me. I'm in a play - and it's not a minor part. It's a GREAT and EXCITING part.

All right, the next few months are going to be absolute chais.

I have to remain CALM.

OCTOBER 3

Today was like a bad dream. I kept thinking, "Why the hell did I get up?" Things kept getting worse until finally I was like resigned to my fate. [You were "like" resigned to your fate? Or just resigned?] Maybe that was stupid, but I just sat back and let it all pile on. I mean - nothing bad happened. But all the time now I feel so worried or restless. Perpetually. I don't know what about, but I always feel worried, hassled, sick. [My schedule was probably busier then during that fall than it has ever been since.]

I can't do it all. Well, I can but I have to get used to being this busy. I feel so nervous and worried all the time. I'm not gonna pretend that TS doesn't have anything to do with it. Are you kidding me? I used to think going with someone would solve all my problems. It only creates more.

Splash is at Edwards this weekend. [Splash!!!!] I'll ask him to go and I'll ask him to go to the dance. But I still feel so worried and insecure.

So anyways, today was really rotten and blue. I also had my meeting with Kimber. I was not at all getting psyched for it. Because today is Wednesday - stupid Film Noir night - every dumb Wednesday I just sit around sinking lower and lower and every time the damn phone rings, I just hold my stupid breath. I hate Wednesdays.)

So my meeting was at 4. I came home on the bus for about the 2nd time all year. Mum drove me up. Ho hum. I was still quite the depressed and quiet.

I walked up to the front doors. This building is a dramatic looking building - all cement, and this long walk up where you can see yourself approaching in the dark glass doors. Also, you can only see silhouettes inside. So up I strolled, trying to look like I knew what the hell I was doing. I came into the lobby, and there was Brett (the guy in the audition who smiled at me). He's so CUTE. He struck me as so wicked nice, cause at callbacks, I was just sitting alone and he looked at me, smiled, and said, "And your name is?" I smiled and said, "Sheila. Hi." He held his hand out to me. "I'm Brett. Hi." It was so friendly, it really put me at ease. At the first audition, I came into the room - he and the girl were sitting there with Kimber - I glanced at them. He gave me this reassuring smile. As I was leaving, I was sighing in relief - that yes, I had lived - I glanced at him - He winked.

Diary, I CAN'T WAIT to get to know all these people! It's so exciting! I cannot WAIT.

So anyways, he was standing there with the one other girl who had been out for Millie. You know, it's funny - but at callbacks, I was just sitting there observing everybody and I didn't know that she was trying out for Millie too, but I was looking at her, thinking, "Oh, I hope I don't turn into someone like you." I mean, she was funny, but she seemed "on" all the time. I think it's great when first impressions are wrong. Because mine was. NEVER rely on first impressions. It's a huge mistake, and it felt GOOD to be proved wrong.

Anyway, I came into the lobby, they both looked at me, and immediately both shouted, "Congratulations!"

Brett (who is adorable) hailed me, "Sheila! Congratulations!" I felt so happy, so welcome. Not alienated or too young at all. I walked over to them - Brett held his hand out to me - "Hello. I'm Brett - and you're Sheila." He paused to remember my last name. I said, "O'Malley." The girl giggled, "Don't you mean O'Millie?" She was COOL - I mean, yes - she is "on" - but she is also NICE. She held her hand out to me and said, "I'm Dina. I was out for Millie too, but you were the right choice - you're much better than me." [Uhm - wow - the generosity there is really quite stunning.]

Brett hugged her mockingly and she said, "Hey, I'm being honest! Besides, I'm not the sort of person who goes --" and she started stamping around grumbling, "I DIDN'T GET THE PART! AHHHHH." Brett grinned at me. "The minute you turn around, she's gonna take out a hatchet."

When I went back on Friday to find out if I got in, there was a dance class warming up in the lobby. I guess they were both there, but I didn't see them. Brett told me that they watched me walk calmly by - and then 5 minutes later - watched me zoom back out. I said, "So who are you in the play?" And he smiled at me - really cool and real smile, and said, "I'm your friend. Your buddy!" I said, "Oh! You're Alan!" Wicked cool! Then I said, "Oh! I have a crush on you!" Brett said, seriously, "I'm flattered." We all burst out laughing. He asked me, "So you're a senior in high school?" I nodded. They were ... nobody JUDGED me.

I can NOT wait to work with these wonderful people!

Brett said, "So you're here to talk to Kimber?" I said, "Yes. I don't know what the hell I'm doing." And Brett grinned at me - and said, "Then we will escort you to Kimber!" So they did. They brought me into the audition room with this big fanfare. Brett yelled, "SHEILA O'MALLEY!" And he and Dina started applauding.

I also can't wait to work with Kimber. After one meeting with him - I feel like I can improve so much. I learned incredible things I've never even thought of before. Like: don't learn the lines. Just learn the words. Learn them in a complete monotone. Don't interpret yet - because interpretation depends on the interpretation from other actors. Acting comes from reacting to other actors. So if you start interpreting the lines in a certain way on your own, you're sort of depending on the other actor to give you a CERTAIN interpretation. And that's bad. Then you can't act and react in the moment. Kimber said that it's harder to get out a good interpretation if you interpret on your own, alone - That thought has never entered my mind.

I walked home. As I walked along, I heard this screaming: "SHEILA! SHEILA!" I looked up and there down the sidewalk was Stephanie, tearing towards me with outflung arms. I've really gotten close to her this year. She's in my Project Adventure, and also French. Just then, this car swerved into the curb, and Laura Moran was driving. She was screaming out the window at me, "GET A JOB!" The cars driving by were looking at me as though they were worried about me. Laurie DeW. was in the car too - she is such a sweet nice person. I leaned over to say, "Hi!" - and unlike other popular girls - she didn't just BESTOW a kind smile at me - she smiled at me in a real way, and said, "Hi! How are you! Congrats on the show!"

Oh. It's all so great.

AMBITION!

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The Books: "Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey" (V.S. Naipaul)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

418WF9RGA0L._AA240_.jpg Next book on the shelf is Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey by V.S. Naipaul. VS Naipaul went on a 7-month journey in the early 80s through 4 "countries of the converts" - non-Arab countries, countries of converts to Islam. He has no sympathy for religious fervor whatsoever, and he makes no bones about it. He distrusts fundamentalism of every kind. He and Christopher Hitchens are brothers in this respect. He is right in his assessment that converts are usually more fanatical than those born into a faith. I've known a few recent born-agains in my day, and I can say that he speaks the truth. Uhm - wow. Total personality change. Total erasure of sense of humor. Where did the personality go? A lot of people can't stand Naipaul because of this hostility towards religion, but in my opinion - this personal bias makes him a clear-eyed critic of certain aspects of faith-based societies. Same with Krakauer who wrote that blisteringly hostile book about Mormons - Krakauer came right out and stated his bias in the beginning, so you, as a reader, know what you're dealing with. I don't share Naipaul's distrust for people who have faith - not at all - but I do share his abhorrence of fundamentalists, of any stripe, and I make no bones about it either. Naipaul has no patience whatsoever with those who do not use their MINDS. But anyway, back to this book, which is quite quite wonderful: He travels to Iran, Pakistan, Malaysia and Indonesia. He talks to people. A lot of the book is conversation. He speaks to students in madrassahs, he speaks to mullahs, he speaks to regular everyday people on the street.

There's a sequel to the book which I'll excerpt tomorrow - he returns to the same 4 countries a decade later - and looks up all the same people he met the first trip. The two books together are fascinating and rather prophetic looks at Islamic countries, and the radicalization of the Muslim faith. Especially his chapters on Indonesia, which I'll excerpt here.

I love Naipaul. He's such a crank. And a damn fine writer as well.

The excerpt gives you a real feel for the book. It's all about PEOPLE. Naipaul tells the history of certain events, certain areas, etc., through one person's personal history. Very very interesting. The following excerpt is a bit long, but it's worth it. It's about an Indonesian man named Suryadi.

From Among the Believers: An Islamic Journey by V.S. Naipaul.

It is dizzying to read of recent Indonesian history. And to look at it in the life of one man is to wonder how, with so little to hold on to in the way of law or country, anyone could withstand so many assaults on his personality.

Suryadi was in his mid fifties. He was small, dark-brown, frail-looking. He was born in East Java and he described himself as one of the "statistical Muslims" of Indonesia. He had received no religious training; such religion as he had was what was in the air around him. He wasn't sure whether he believed in the afterlife; and he didn't know that that belief was fundamental to the Muslim faith.

He belonged to the nobility, but in Java that meant only that he was not of the peasantry. The Dutch ruiled Java through the old feudal courts of the country. But Java was only an agricultural colony, and the skills required of the nobility in the Dutch time were hnot high. Suryadi's grandfather, as a noble, had had a modest white-collar job; Suryadi's father was a bookkeeper in a bank.

It was possible for Suryadi, as a noble, to go to a Dutch school. The fees were low; and Suryadi, in facat, didn't have to pay. The education was good. Just how good it was was shown by the excellent English Suryadi spoke. And recently, wishing to take up German again and enrolling in the German cultural centre in Jakarta, the Goethe Institute, Suryadi found that, with his Dutch-taught German of forty years before, he was put in the middle class, and he was later able without trouble to get a certificate in an examination marked in Germany.

Early in 1942 the Japanese occupied Java. The message from Radio Tokyo was that the Japanese would give Indonesia its independence, and there were many people willing to welcome the Japanese as liberators. Suryadi was in the final year of his school. The Dutch teachers were replaced by Indonesians, and the headmaster or supervisor was Japanese. For six months classes continued as they would have done under the Dutch. Then -- and it is amazing how things go on, even during an upheaval -- Suryadi went to the university. The lecturers and professors there were now Japanese. But the Japanese simply couldn't manage foreign languages. They recognized this themselves, and after a time they appointed Indonesians, who worked under Japanese supervisors.

The Indonesians used the classes to preach nationalism. Already much of the good will towards the Japanese had gone. It was clear to Suryadi that the whole economy was being subverted to assist the Japanese war effort. Thousands of Indonesians were sent to work on the Burma Railway (and there is still a community of Indonesians in Thailand, from the enforced migration of that time). Radios were sealed; the radios that had once brought the good news from Radio Tokyo could no longer be listened to,

Two incidents occurred at this time which made Suryadi declare his opposition to the Japanese. The university authorities decreed that all students were to shave their heads. It was the discipline of the Zen monastery. And Suryadi felt it as he was meant to feel it: an assault on his personality. And then one day on the parade ground -- students were given military training -- a student was slapped by a Japanese officer. All the Indonesians felt humiliated, and Suryadi and his friends held a protest demonstration in the university. Thirty of them, teachers as well as students, were arrested by the Japanese secret police and taken to jail.

In the jail they heard people being tortured for anti-Japanese offences and even for listening to the radio. But Suryadi's group were treated like political prisoners; and they continued to be disciplined in the way of the Zen monastery. They were beaten with bamboo staves, but it was only a ritual humiliation. The bamboo staves were split at the end; they didn't hurt, they only made a loud cracking noise. After a month of this Suryadi and his friends were released. But they were expelled from the university. So Suryadi never completed his education.

They had got off lightly because the Indonesian nationalism leaders were still cooperating with the Japanese. Sukarno never believed that Japan was going to lose the war, Suryadi said. Sukarno didn't even believe that the atom bomb had been dropped on Japan. It was only after the Japanese surrender that Sukarno and the nationalists proclaimed the independence of Indonesia. And four years of fighting against the Dutch followed.

What events to have lived through, in one's first twenty-six years! But Suryadi was without rancour. The events had been too big; there was no one to blame. He had no ill-feeling towards either Dutch or Japanese. He did business now with both; and he respected both as people who honoured a bargain. The Japanese had the reputation in Southeast Asia of being hard bargainers (there had been anti-Japanese riots in Jakarta because of the Japanese domination of the Indonesian market); but Suryadi had found the Japanese more generous, if anything, than the Dutch.

Suryadi was without rancour, and it could be said that he had won through. But there was an Indonesian sadness in him, and it was the sadness of a man who felt he had been left alone, and was now -- after the Dutch time, the Japanese time, the four years of the war against the Dutch, the twenty years of Sukarno -- without a cause. More than once the world had seemed about to open out for him as an Indonesian, but then had closed up again.

He had lain low during the later Sukarno years. Army rule after that had appeared to revive the country. But now something else was happening. A kind of Javanese culture was being asserted. Suryadi was Javanese; the Javanese dance and the Javanese epics and puppet plays were part of his being. But he felt that Javanese culture was being misused; it was encouraging a revival of feudal attitudes, with the army taking the place of the old courts. Suryadi had the Javanese eye for feudal courtesies. He saw that nowadays the soldier's salute to an officer was more than an army salute; it also contained a feudal bow. It was a twisted kind of retrogression. It wasn't what Suryadi had wanted for his country.

And he had lost his daughter. She had become a convert to the new Muslim cause -- the Malaysian disease, some people called it here. At school and then at the university she had been a lively girl. She had done Javanese dancing; she was a diver; she liked to go camping. But then, at the university, she had met a new Muslim, a born-again Muslim, and she had begun to change. She went out with her hair covered; she wore drab long gowns; and her mind began correspondingly to dull.

Suryadi and his wife had done the unforgivable one day. They had gone among the girl's papers, and they had come upon a pledge she had signed. She had pledged to be ruled in everything by a particular Muslim teacher; he was to be her guide to paradise. She, who would have been a statistical Muslim like Suryadi and his wife, was now being instructed in the pure faith.

Suryadi didn't take it well. He thought now he should have been calmer in the beginning; by making his dismay too apparent he had probably pushed the girl further away from him. He said to her one day, "Suppose someone asks you to go out camping now, will you say, 'I can't go, because I have no assurance there will be water for my ablutions before my prayers'?" He had spoken with irritation and irony. But later she came back to him and said, "I have checked. In the Koran there is nothing that says it is obligatory if you are travelling." And Suryadi understood that she had become impervious to irony; that she had become removed from the allusive family way of talking. The intellectual loss was what grieved him the most. He said, "But don't you have a mind any longer? Do you have to go to that book every time? Can't you think for yourself now?" She said, "The Koran is the source of all wisdom and virtue in the world."

She had married the born-again Muslim who had led her to the faith. She had a degree; he was still only a student at the university; but, like a good Muslim wife, she subordinated herself to him. That was the new sadness that Suryadi was learning to live with: a once-lively daughter who had gone strange.

Still, recently he had found a little cause for hope. He was driving her back one day to her in-laws' house, where she lived with her husband. He said, "I have bought that little house for you. Why don't you go and live there? Why does your husband want to keep on living with his parents? It isn't right. Why doesn't he make up his mind to act on his own?" She had said then, "He's got an inferiority complex, Father."

And this little sign, the first for some time, that his daughter still had a mind, was still capable of judging, was a great comfort to Suryadi. She had seen what was clear to Suryadi: that the boy was a poor student, didn't have the background, couldn't cope with university life. He was still some way from taking his degree and wasn't giving enough time to his work. During the month of Ramadan, the fasting month, he had given up his work altogether, fasting all day and going to the mosque in the evening to pray. This was easier than being with the difficult books; and his religious correctness was admired by his Islamic group at the university.

Suryadi's daughter had seen this on her own. That was some weeks ago. And it was now what Suryadi was waiting for: that in time she might see a little more.

At the end, just before we separated, Suryadi said, "But I've been lucky. I haven't been like so many others in Indonesia, switching to another wavelength under pressure."

"Another wavelength?"

"You know how people are like here. But perhaps you don't. They turn mystical. Logical, rational people. They start burning incense or sitting up at night in graveyards if they want to achieve something. If they feel they are frustrated, not advancing in their work or career."

"Do you call that mystical?"

"I don't know what else you call ilt."

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March 16, 2006

Molecular Badness

Someone asked a question about actors reading reviews in the post below this one. I said that in general I try not to read reviews - at least until the show has closed. It can only confuse the issue and it is so damn hard to remind yourself, in the middle of a run, when you might be feeling vulnerable ANYway, that it is just one person's opinion.

However: sometimes you don't NEED the reviewer to tell you a piece of work stinks up the joint. You KNOW it. You KNOW IT IN YOUR DNA. BECAUSE BADNESS LIKE THAT IS MOLECULAR.

So in light of all of that - thought I'd re-post this. I know I wrote it and all, but it still makes me laugh.

Bombs I have been in

I have been in my share of bombs. Plays which made me question whether or not I was doing the right thing with my life. Plays which being a part of made me hate the whole world. Plays through which I understood, on a deeper and more visceral level, just what the word "embarrassment" really means. My long-time dear friend Jackie (she of the brown wool leg-wraps) has labeled the kind of embarrassment you experience when you are up onstage in a HEINOUS piece of theatre as "white-hot shame". That about sums it up. Embarrassment like that is not an emotion. It is a full-body sensation.

The only thing to do when you are in such a cataclysmic bomb is bond ferociously with your fellow cast members about how terrible the play is (hopefully they feel the same way ... If they do not, if they think the play is good, then you are completely screwed ... you will realize what it means to be truly alone) - and have absolutely rocking cast parties where the bacchanals you create will drown out the memory of the SHITE you have just inflicted on an unsuspecting audience.

Some of the best parties I have ever been to, parties that will live on in infamy, were cast parties for some horrific play I was doing. Being in a BAD play is much more condusive to making life-long friends. Because you must cling to one another in agony and white-hot shame.

Bomb #1
I was in a production of Lysistrata in college. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to see it, 15 years ago, continues to use it as a gauge by which to judge other terrible plays. As in: "I saw a TERRIBLE play the other night. It wasn't as bad as that Lysistrata you were in, but it came close."

First of all, the director thought it would be cool (and please, do not ask me why), to call HIS version of the play "Ly-SIS-trata" ... as opposed to the normal pronunciation, which everybody knows is: "Lysis-TRA-ta."

So we, as cast members, were forced, against our will, to participate in this idiocy. He forced us to be accomplices.

Conversations with outsiders would go like this:

"So what play are you working on now, Sheila?"

"Ly-SIS-trata."

"Uh � I think you mean Lysis-TRA-ta." (with a tone of: Wow. You just mispronounced that word, and you're a theatre major!)

"No, no, I know ... but this director wants to call it Ly-SIS-trata."

"Why?"

"Uh ... well...I think he thinks that maybe the audience will ... uh... he wants to show that the play has relevance in today's....Oh, Jesus Christ, I have no idea."

I had countless conversations like that, and I resented it.

3,000 years of Lysis-TRA-ta needed to be upended. For what purpose? If the play had come off brilliantly, then of course the director would be forgiven everything, because it is all about the result. You can be as pretentious and as pompous as you want, as long as the end-result is something to be proud of. That's the deal with the entertainment business. It attracts massive egos. And that's fine. But if you have a massive ego, then you BETTER deliver the goods. Nothing worse than a grandiose personality, filled with dreams of glory, pumped up with a sense of grandeur and originality, who does crap work.

We, as cast members, were held hostage by our own director. He forced us to do things onstage which we found supremely embarrassing and stupid. At one point, I lost it, and pleaded with him, "Oh, come on, you aren't serious, are you?"

I remember one night, as we all were preparing to enter for the first time, I started crying. I just could not go on. I could not subject myself to that meat-grinder of white-hot shame. I wept to my friend Mitchell, as we stood in the wings, "I just don't want to go out there! I feel sick! I don't want to do it! It's so awful!" Meanwhile, of course, we are in our GOOFBALL Roman-toga costumes, talking to each other seriously, having nervous breakdowns at the same moment. The situation was bleak.

Actor-friends would come to see Ly-SIS-trata and not even hold back their contempt and scorn. Normally, when you are in something that is clearly bad, and other actor-friends come to see it, they usually say one of these comments:

"Congratulations!" (complete avoidance of the awful-ness)

"So how did you feel?" (that is my least favorite one)

"Great energy up there!" (subtext: You put all your energy into that???)

"So what's next for you?" (subtext: You need to move on from this nightmare as quickly as possible.)

All of this is code for: "Wow. That was absolutely god-awful."

Well, actor-friends came to see Ly-SIS-trata and couldn't even hide behind any of those stock phrases, they could not lie. To lie about a play that was that offensively bad goes against the grain of human morality. I would come out afterwards, having changed into civilian clothes, washed off the stage makeup, and one of my friends who had come to see it would immediately exclaim, "Oh my GOD, you were NOT KIDDING when you said this was a piece of shit." Or, in the case of my boyfriend at the time: "That was absolutely fucking terrible."

One friend actually recoiled from my hug. As though my even being associated with such an awful production meant that somehow ... my soul was corrupt, or I was a bad person.

The play wasn't just bad. The play was so bad that it made people angry.

Bomb #2
Another TERRIBLE play I was in (and I've been pretty fortunate ... haven't done too many white-hot-shame plays) was a musical version of Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat. I did it in Philadelphia.

I knew from the first rehearsal, when I met the Anglophile playwright, that I was in trouble. The only way to save myself was to treat the entire process as one long extended GOOF, which did not endear me to said playwright, who thought that Three Men in a Boat was on par with Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

A couple of very good friends (Mitchell, Jackie, and Steven) drove down for opening night, to participate in my goofing on the production.

There was an opening night gala afterwards, where I could not contain my apathy for the playwright.

She kept trying to take my picture, for her photo album. I did not want to be in her photo album. By this point, I hated her, because she had wrote the piece of shit that gave me so much white-hot shame. I don't mind if you write something bad. It's hard to write something good. But if you write something bad, and your level of self-awareness is so low that you cannot at all see that you still have work to do - then you have earned my scorn. I can't stand lack of self-awareness and blithe assumptions of perfection. This chick thought what we did was great. She didn't feel the badness in the molecules. So she would aim her camera at me and I would protest. Openly. Not even trying to be polite. "I told you not to take my picture, okay?"

I wanted no evidence that I had ever been involved with this production. But she trapped me a couple of times, taking candid shots of me, her lead actress, swilling back free wine like a free-loader, drowning my sorrows and white-hot shame, whispering with my friends like a conspiring Roman senator, not being enthusiastic at all. All 4 of us guffawing with irreverent laughter.

My friend Mitchell took one look at the playwright, saw which way the wind was blowing, and murmured to me, "She looks like a retired racehorse." Which was so true, and so spot-on, that the ENTIRE terrible experience was redeemed for me, in that moment. I feel like I did Three Men in a Boat in order for Mitchell to be able to make that frighteningly apt observation.

But the crowning glory was the review. It is, by far, the worst review I have ever received. Actually, I escaped comment. All of the actors did. The full brunt of blame for the debacle was placed on the retired racehorse. As it should have been. I even kept the review. I still have it somewhere.

I don't remember anything but the first sentence:

"Not since the Titanic has there been such a nautical disaster."

Even though there was definitely shame involved in being a part of that "nautical disaster", I also admit that I felt tiny pricks of weird pride at being involved with something so monumentally bad. It wasn't just a bad show, a take-it-or-leave-it show. It wasn't your run-of-the-mill bad show. It was HISTORICALLY bad.

Bomb #3
Another white-hot shame production I was in was a new play, (well, actually: since its inauguration with our production of it, it has never been done again, small wonder, so now it can almost be called an 'old play') called Sitcom. It was a spoof on sit-coms. It was written by a friend of mine, who has written other hit shows, shows which have had long and very successful runs in Chicago.

But Sitcom...Sitcom...

Unfortunately, we all went into it with very high hopes. He had just had a very big success. A very good friend of mine directed it - hugely talented, this guy. And the cast was made up of dear friends.

But it didn't work. It didn't work on multiple levels.

It was obvious what he was going for: It was a diatribe against sit-coms, and the whole thing started out as a kind of Cosby Show spoof, and then descended into darkness and evil. The dark Blue Velvet underbelly of the sitcom world. Simple, right?

It had all the right elements. There was a family: a kind of fluttery flaky mother, and a Father-Knows-Best dad.

I played the over-sexed rebellious teenage daughter, like Christina Applegate in "Married with Children". My costume was basically a doily for a skirt, and a string-bikini for a top. I looked ridiculous. I don't mind looking ridiculous in a HIT show but when it's a white-hot-shame show, wearing a string bikini and a doily makes you feel naaaaaaaaaaaaaaasty.

There was a geeky earnest younger brother, played by Mitchell.

There was a younger sister, supposed to be a little girl, a la the once-innocent Olsen twins on "Full House" ... Every time the younger sister came on (played by a grown woman, Rachel, who is, no doubt, one of the funniest women on the face of the planet), there would be a soundcue of the "studio audience" going "Awwwwwww." You know, treacly, sickly-sweet. It could have been funny. In a nauseating way.

There was also a puppet who lived behind the couch, a la "Alf". The actor who had to lie behind the couch, doing the puppet, Rich, again, is one of the funniest men I know, and a wonderful actor. I see him in national commercials all the time, and occasionally remember our bleak days of doing Sitcom, when he, a very good actor, had to lie behind the couch, with a PUPPET ON HIS HAND, talking in a funny little voice.

My very good friend David played my boyfriend .. whose name was Max or Spike or something like that. Spike was a bruiser, a "juvenile delinquent". A "bad boy", but in a sitcom way. My fluttery square parents were supposed to be very concerned that their sweet young daughter (sashaying around in a ridiculous outfit) was going out with such a reprobate.

There was also the "wacky neighbor", who would walk over to peek his head in the window, wearing a scuba mask for no apparent reason. He was just WACKY!!

At some point during the rehearsal process, it dawned on all of us in the cast: Uh-oh. I think we're involved in a stinker here.

We just could feel it in the air, man. Like I said: it was molecular.

David, in a sheer act of actor-desperation, decided that his character (Max or Spike) should actually be more of a heavy-metal type than a Rebel without a cause. He found a long stringy blonde wig backstage (when I say "long", I mean the hair almost reached his butt), he wore a sleeveless denim vest (sleeves ripped off), he drew fake tattoos all over his arms, and he began to behave like an absolute maniac. Staring at me, his onstage girlfriend, with dead lustful eyes, screaming randomly, pumping the air with his fists, going insane. It was a survival technique, completely understandable.

We had one scene where we had to be making out like wild animals on the couch, and the PUPPET interrupts us. Rich lying behind the couch, puppet on his hand, waiting for his cue. I am laughing right now, remembering all of this. So David, a man I have known since I was 17 years old, is lying back on the couch, I am lying on top of him, and I keep getting the long blonde hairs from his ludicrous wig in my mouth. And David would make this crazy grunting sex noises, becoming this lustful heavy-metal dude lying beneath me - But ... please remember: we are BEST FRIENDS. To behave this way with a stranger is a bit easier, because you can pretend you don't have a long storied history - but David and I - BEST FRIENDS - bumping and grinding on the couch in our horrible costumes was almost too much to bear.

Occasionally, as we would be doing this (filled with white-hot shame the entire time, of course), we would make eye contact. Not as the characters. But as Sheila and David. Trapped in this terrible play. Wearing RIDICULOUS costumes. And behaving like morons. I would see such pain, panic, and shame in his eyes that occasionally I would burst out laughing. Onstage.

The worst moment in Sitcom, though, perhaps the worst moment I have ever had on stage ever, was this:

I was in the middle of a scene with my Father (who, remember, was also the playwright). There was an audience there, an audience sitting in stunned silence. Nobody was laughing. Doing the show felt like doomsday. It wasn't just a bad vibe. There was actually a malevolent atmosphere in the theatre. I have never before done a play where I sensed waves of actual hostility coming up at me from the audience.

And then -- in a completely surreal moment -- an audience member had finally had it. He stood up ... an angry figure out in the darkness, yelled at the stage, "WHO WROTE THIS SHIT?" and then stormed out. (I have never experienced something so odd in my whole entire life. Hearing a voice explode from out the darkness...)

But it took him a while to get out of the theatre for a couple of reasons:

First, because he had to get out of his aisle. So as the scene went on (the show must go on), between myself and the actual person who had "wrote this shit", we could hear this man saying, not even trying to keep his voice down he was so annoyed, "Excuse me ... excuse me ... excuse me..."

The second reason was that either the front door in the lobby was locked from the inside, or it was stuck, I have no idea ... All I know is is that the man literally could not get out of the theatre. The door would not open. So we began to hear his rage escalate out in the lobby. Poor man. As the scene trudged on, we would hear random explosions out in the lobby: "Jesus CHRIST ... would this door just OPEN?" And: "Goddammit, get me OUT." And finally he just succumbed to existential despair: "God, would SOMEBODY just get me OUT OF HERE?"

I am not exaggerating.

As I write this, tears of laughter are streaming down my face.

Bomb #4
The final terrible show I must inflict on you all is: the half-hour version of Macbeth I was unlucky enough to get roped into.

At grad school, we had a season of thesis productions. Each one had to be half an hour long. So the actors would have half-hour scenes, whatever the playwrights wrote for their thesis projects had to be half-hour...you get the picture.

Well, there was a director in our program who (for some unknown STUPID reason) wanted to somehow do the entirety of Macbeth in half an hour. Why his thesis project was approved, I have no clue.

I'm still angry that it was.

Angry because I was playing one of the five witches.

("Hold on a second," you might be thinking, "five witches? Aren't there only three witches in Macbeth?")

You may be thinking that but that is only because you are an intelligent person, with a sense of dignity and logic, which clearly was lacking in the mind of the director.

He made there be FIVE witches.

There are too many problems to even discuss ... because it is hard to get past the wrong-headed-ness of the entire idea of the project to begin with.

People were racing around, murdering each other, casting spells, having duels, seeing blood on their hands ... all in half an hour's time.

The man who played Macbeth had an accent - but ... when he played Macbeth his accent became incomprehensible. So the line: "Have we eaten the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?" consistently came out as: "Have we et the insane RUHT that takes the reason prisoner??" RUHT. And he would emphasize that word. It got worse and worse. I think he thought it sounded good, because he started to draw out the R. Have we et the insane rrrrrrrUHT that takes the reason prisoner? It was heinous.

Every time he would say it, every time he was even close to approaching saying it, the five witches (who all had to be onstage at all times, terrible luck, we could never escape to lick our wounds of white-hot-shame) would put our heads down, as we were casting our spooky spells on the five corners of the stage (not the four corners, the five corners), and shake with laughter.

Finally, the director said tentatively, "Uh ... yeah ... could you please say 'root' and not 'ruht'?"

Macbeth said, "I am saying 'ruht'."

Two or three of the witches burst into inappropriate laughter.

The director, trying to hold us all together, and keep us from spiralling out of control, said, tentatively again: "Actually ... you just did it again. The word is 'root'. With an 'oo' sound. If you say 'ruht', then the meaning of the line is lost."

I held myself back from saying, "If you attempt to do Macbeth in half an hour's time, then the meaning of the ENTIRE PLAY is lost."

At one point, I had to run onstage (the five witches, even worse luck, had to double as other characters in this misbegotten piece of shite) - and announce to Macbeth: "The Queen, my lord, is dead!" Once, during rehearsal, things were getting so out of control, and the witches were reaching such a state of frenzied hysteria - that I raced onstage - shouted - "The Queen - " took a deep breath - and then burst into hysterical guffaws, laughing my way through the rest of the line like some kind of jibbering loony-tunes who thought it was a LAUGH RIOT that the Queen was dead! The energy in the rehearsal room was so irreverent that Queen Macbeth, sitting over on the sidelines, now that she was "dead", said, sarcastically, "Thanks a lot." I was pretty much done for the day. I couldn't get through the line without laughing from there on out.

Boom boom boom, scenes came fast and furious. Boom: Macbeth and Lady Macbeth conspire. Boom: Murder and carnage. Boom: The witches race into place and cackle gleefully. Boom: Lady Macbeth staggers on, shrieking "Out damn'd spot" ... and then just as quickly staggers off. Boom: There is a very quick sword fight. Who knows why. People just had duels back then, I guess. Boom: Everybody dies. Except for the five witches. Who live on, eternally. Exeunt

Actors have different ways of surviving terrible shows. The five witches survived this nightmare by literally becoming ONE. We were a five-some. We shared one brain. The normal backstage competition thing that normally goes on, especially among actresses, was non-existent. We bonded into one amorphous being. We completely separated ourselves from the poor stars of this stupid production, who still were trying to actually do Macbeth. The five witches realized very early on that Macbeth could not be done properly in half an hour, so we refused to take anything seriously. Anything. Anything.

Nobody had told us what our makeup should be like, as witches, so the five of us designed our own looks. Our makeup and hair got more and more elaborate and out of control with every performance. We had to arrive at the theatre earlier and earlier in order to complete our transformations in time for curtain. Our faces were literally caked with Kabuki-mask makeup. The more grotesque the better. It was like we were a KISS cover band.

At one point, Eileen, a beautiful girl, turned from the mirror, to display her horrific makeup job ... red circles around her eyes, red wrinkle lines radiating from her mouth, caved-in cheeks, and said to all of us, brightly, "Do I look really gross?"

We validated her. "Yup. Very gross."

My costume, unfortunately, made me look like the chair of a women's studies department at a small college in Vermont. We would all be sitting at our makeup mirrors, and I would suddenly start to pontificate about the evils of the patriarchy, or about holding focus groups to show women their cervixes, and the rest of the witches, slathering on their own makeup, would be cackling with glee about it. I was also in the midst of reading The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich at the time, so there are a couple of pictures of me, backstage, in my "wymyn's studies" Wiccan outfit, twigs sticking out of my hair, big brownish-purple circles around my eyes, seriously reading my book.

Jen, my roommate, with her long mane of curly hair, made her hair bigger and bigger and bigger every night. That became her main goal. To make her hair as large as possible, so that it would completely shield her face. Also, every time she had a line, Jen disguised her voice. Sometimes it was gruff, and manly. Other times whispery and feeble. Regardless: the point was: it was NOT HER VOICE.

The five witches were so taken up by our stupid costumes and makeup that we would hang out in the backstage hallway before entering, taking pictures of ourselves.

Pictures of all the witches peeking their crazy heads around the corner.

Pictures of all the witches making their way down the stairs, like some demented version of the Von Trapp family singers.

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Closer ...

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Please realize that these were taken probably 30 seconds before we had to go onstage. Literally. Stage managers were looking for us while these photos were being taken. Obviously we had our priorities straight.

We were collectively late for our entrance one night because we were too busy taking pictures of ourselves. We resented the actual SHOW we were doing, for taking away from our time taking pictures of ourselves in costume.

Each witch had to carry a big gnarled stick. The first witch-scene began with us doing what was supposed to be a Celtic dance, I suppose. Or something randomly pagan. Or randomly Druid-like. Lots of drum-beats, and moving in circles, and banging the sticks on the floor. It was interminably stupid, and horrifically embarrassing to execute.

We had to enter, as one, holding up our sticks in front of our grotesque faces, moving as slowly as glaciers. The effect was supposed to be scary and ominous, I guess, but a couple of nights I heard someone in the audience burst into laughter at the first sight of us. I don't blame them.

And occasionally, as we moved on like that, with our sticks, I would hear either Eileen or Jen or Kimberly start to giggle ...and try to choke it down ... but laughter like that catches on like wildfire. Once it begins, it is nearly impossible to stop. So there we all were, supposed to be the scary 5 witches, moving onto the stage, holding up our sticks, shaking silently with laughter.

Jen made a big announcement backstage to the rest of the witches, on the night of our dress reherarsal.

"I have decided ... that when we come on with our sticks----" Long pause. We all waited, breathlessly, hoping that she might actually have an IDEA about how we could make it all better. But then she concluded, finishing her thought, "We look like assholes."

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (24)

Translate, adapt

Reeeeeeeeallllly interesting analysis of Andrew Upton's adaptation of Hedda Gabler - being done in Sydney right now, with Cate Blanchett in the lead.

I found it fascinating - as I do most issues of translation, especially in the theatre. How does Moliere translate? (Not very well, usually. The rollicking crazy Moliere rhythms end up sounding stilted and stiff in bad English translations.) How does Shakespeare translate into, say, Polish? Etc. What is lost? What is gained? It's an artform, effective translation - and I know now that I grew up with shitty Chekhov translations. I only know that now because I have read multiple translations - I have taken recommendations from friends who prefer this or that translation - and I realize that the one I grew up with, the one in my public library, BLEW. Made Chekhov sound stilted and formal. Chekhov? Formal? Nope. That's just a bad translation.

Anyway - translation is definitely a topic that I love - but the New Yorker article I link to seems to have more to do with adaptation issues, and "interpretation" than translation. FASCINATING.

At the heart of Hedda Gabler is a mystery. Ibsen leaves stuff out. We don't get ALL of her. He does not tell us totally WHY she is that way.

That's one of the reasons why Hedda has more of a grip on the imagination than Nora from Doll House does. Nora can be explained. Nora is a product of her environment. She is a product of the patriarchal system at that time. Ibsen is VERY clear on that. Her money is controlled - that's the main thing. It's a bourgeois middle-class play. Nora does not have her own money - and that is really where all the problems begin. Ibsen believed in freeing up women financially - and once that happened, perhaps this ol' institution of marriage might work a little bit better. So - Nora is explainable, in terms of Ibsen's playwriting, his intentions, and how he set her up. No less an amazing character. No less a challenge to an actress. But Hedda? Nobody can explain Hedda. Or - you can explain part of her - but that still leaves a vast part of her personality in the shadows. Her motives unclear, to some extent. FASCINATING. Hedda Gabler is a truly magnificent theatrical creation.

It sounds to me like Upton is trying to explain her - or at least to get rid of the elements of her that defy explanation.

For example:

As Tesman sees his aunt to the door, Hedda is left onstage alone for a moment. “Hedda crosses the room, raising her arms and clenching her hands, as if in fury,” Ibsen writes. It’s the marvellous “as if in fury” that provides a clue to Hedda’s unfathomable rage. Reared, we assume, in the spartan fashion of a military brat, Hedda is also a nineteenth-century woman, unable to scream or to act out her rage: what man would have her if she shrieked the truth? And, if no man would have her, where would she be? She has no money of her own. Besides, as a member of the bourgeoisie, she cannot go through life as a single woman: no one likes a female who will not join the herd.

In this scene, Nevin, instead of having Blanchett raise her fists, has her trip over one of Tesman’s footrests. Yes, yes, we get it: the domestic obstacles that Hedda must overcome are really her various internal hindrances—the metaphorical furniture of her sick mind. But if Hedda cannot reveal to us the foundations of her anger, how can she convince us that she is more than a spiteful child, adept only at making the less crafty around her uncomfortable?

Brilliant observation. There's much more where that came from in the rest of the article.


Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (15)

PBS - thank you!!!! for Broadway: The Golden Age

Last night, I happened to catch the final half-hour of a certain fund-raising drive on my local PBS channel - and they were showing an absolutely MARVELOUS documentary called Broadway: The Golden Age. It's eventually going to be a 3-part extravaganza - and last night the first part was shown - which talks about "the golden age" - Broadway in the late 40s and 1950s. When there were sometimes 80 new plays a season. What??? Some of the interviews were just absolutely classic - I am so glad I caught just a tiny bit of it. I made my pledge (I always need to be reminded - I am on a newsletter that lets me know when these fundraising drives occur) and sat back to just REVEL in the damn thing.

Stevie - Alex - Mitchell - Curly - have you seen this documentary? I know I saw the huge one on the Broadway musical (Broadway: The American Musical)- that was ALSO on PBS, and it was something like a 10-part extravaganza - and it was unbelievable. It was on a couple of months ago, and I was home on a Saturday, and I watched the whole eniter THING.

But back to "The Golden Age": First of all, the people they interviewed are just GIANTS to me. Angela Lansbury - talking about Mame - and how it was really the only part she could remember really wanting. And she really had to convince them that she could do it. She didn't have a big enough name. But of course she ended up giving the performance of her life - a performance that is now seen as iconic. Lansbury said, near the close of the special, "I will never ... ever ... get a part like that again." And she knew it at the time. She needed to come out of this enormous comfort zone to play that part (even though she was already VERY successful) - and boy did she ever.

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Gena Rowlands! My own personal idol. She said, "We were live - there were no mikes on the actors - I remember watching a play with Ben Gazzara - who had the best speaking voice on Broadway - and I was sitting in the balcony, and he was whispering - and I could hear it. We had trained voices then!" Then - the next clip was Ben Gazzara (who, please. I just absolutely love that guy) saying, with a wry little grin, "I remember whispering during some show I did - and being heard ..."

What I wouldn't give to see Ben Gazzara live. Those performances he gave in the 50s ... I mean, they're also iconic. People still reference them. They're still seen as kind of IT. Here he is with Barbara Bel Geddes in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof:

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It also basically brought tears to my eyes to hear how many times Laurette Taylor was referenced. She is the guiding light - she's "the one" we all aspire to. I didn't even SEE her performance as Amanda Wingfield in the original Glass Menagerie - of course I didn't! It was in the 1940s!! But still. It's a landmark. A high-water mark for everybody. Funny and weirdly gratifying thing: I am now #1 on Google for "Laurette Taylor" because of this post. I wrote that over 2 years ago. And slowly, without my knowing it, it has been climbing the Google rankings ... I can't tell you how many people have written to me because of that post. Laurette Taylor really MEANS something to people who know who she is. And most people don't know who she is. One of our greatest American treasures - and no one knows who she is. Shame, shame, shame. Well, I am proud of the fact that my little post is up there at the top of the list - because it's a tribute, basically - a tribute to this giant of American theatre. She should be remembered. And since that post is now #1, more and more people have been finding it (I can see in my traffic reports) - and that makes me feel even better.

People in the PBS special last night even say her name differently ... it's iconic. It means something. All you need to do in certain crowds is say "Laurette Taylor" and people just KNOW.

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Elaine Stritch is just amazing, I love her crotchety honest old self. What a phenomenal performer. Truly.

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Tommy Tune was interviewed and he said something about how he felt like it was a shame that "revivals" were taking up so much space - when there were so many NEW plays and musicals that should be nurtured! Then they cut immediately to Elaine Stritch and she says, "There are new generations who should see Kiss Me Kate - who should see Guys and Dolls - one of the greatest musicals ever written - I think the revival trend is great!" Wearing her little wool hat, with her pissed honest eyes. Love that woman. Love Tommy Tune, too. I can see both views ...

There was a big section on Marlon Brando which was absolutely awesome. They interviewed Karl Malden - who worked with Brando many many times, also in Truckline Cafe which was Brando's big break. At least in the theatrical community. That's when he became known to THEM. Streetcar was when he crossed over into the public's consciousness - but Truckline was almost a bigger break, because it made Streetcar possible. There are multiple eyewitness accounts (Pauline Kael, for one) of his performance in Truckline - and how exciting it was. People literally thought they had found some guy off the street and put him on stage - it was that believable. Malden said something very interesting - that Brando "shattered the transitional period between two different styles of acting." There was already a trend towards a more "realistic" style of acting - Montgomery Clift, etc. - and Brando basically trashed the old world with one performance. He didn't set out to do that. That was not his goal. He just was a genius - it was his destiny, that's all.

I did a Google search for photos of Brando in Truckline - but nothing came up immediately. I did, however, find a page of his notes that he made for The Godfather on the back of the pages of his script. It's an insight into the mind of a great actor. I love stuff like this because it is evidence that Brando wasn't just a freak-talent - who worked on instinct. He was a craftsman. He thought about his work. He made choices based on script analysis. The things all competent actors should do. It's just that his instrument, his emotional instrument, was 100% available to him when he got "in the moment". Most actors are lucky if they get to 80 or 90 percent, and they cherish those rare moments when they are 100%. Brando just got out of the damn way when he was acting. No barrier between himself and his impulses. Very very rare.

But look at his notes here:

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#Nose broken early in youth to account for difficulty ...

Gives me chills.

They interviewed Kim Hunter who said, "When you act opposite that kind of truth - it makes you better than you think you are. You are in a whole new world." Then there was a still from the Broadway production of Streetcar - black and white - Marlon, in his sweat-stained T shirt, holding onto Kim Hunter's arms, and yelling at her. It was a still: And my God. It was so damn real - Humphrey Bogart always said that, in acting, "Truth should be 6 feet back in your eyes." That photograph of Marlon Brando is exactly what he was talking about.

Kim Hunter said something really interesting. She said, "Brando made bad choices onstage. Brando made mistakes, and he made wrong choices. But one thing he never was - was a phony."

And that, my friends, is an acting genius.

They interviewed Jerry Orbach quite a bit. I miss that man, I really do. What a career.

Basically, the whole time I was watching last night - I yearned for a time machine. I would literally kill to be able to see Brando as Stanley, or Gena Rowlands in Middle of the Night, Ben Gazzara in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Lansbury as Mame, Gwen Verdon in pretty much anything ... these giants. Giants of the American theatre.

I am certainly hoping that there is a repeat of Broadway: The Golden Age - I missed the beginning of it. And I look forward to the next 2 installments which apparently take us up to the present day. Through the revolutionary theatrical moment that was Hair ... up to now.

Oh, and Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson joined the telethon host in the studio - to talk about their experiences in the New York theatre throughout the years. They have seen it all. They were THERE. It was great - Strange. Seeing the two of them is somehow like seeing an old friend. Their work, and not just their work, but their LIVES - have been such an inspiration to me personally.

It's funny: I admire these people SO MUCH for performances I have never seen. I think it was John Gielgud who said that acting in the theatre was like "sculpting in snow" and it is very true. We have eyewitness accounts. And for the more recent shows, we have video of it. But there is nothing like seeing it live. Nothing. It's sacred to me - live theatre - and so seeing these people - like Wallach - who gave performances on Broadway during the 50s and 60s that people STILL talk about - hell, look at me, I'M talking about them and I didn't even see them - is very moving to me. Their work means so much to me.

I grew up on public television (zoom-ah-zoom-ah-zoom-ah-zoom ... hahahaha And, of course, Masterpiece Theater. COME ON!!). Supporting public television is kinda engrained in me. Last night was a gorgeous moment when I remembered why! Money well spent.

Beautiful documentary!!!

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The Books: "A Secret History of the IRA" (Ed Moloney)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

514SRHDHT7L._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is A Secret History of the IRA by Ed Moloney. If I recall correctly, Emily got so angry reading this book that she threw it across the room! Good times!! Ed Moloney has been Northern editor of The Irish Times and the Sunday Tribune - and has written this book with unprecedented access to - well - the "secret history" of the IRA. It's the story of the IRA but more than that it's the story of the rise of Gerry Adams. The pretty much Machiavellian rise of Gerry Adams. Having stayed in Ballymurphy when I was in Belfast, and having - uhm - seen Gerry Adams' car outside the Sinn Fein head office - I really feel like an insider. There is nothing like seeing Gerry Adams' car parked at the curb to really make you feel close to the HEART of something important. heh heh This book is DENSE, man - I found it tough-going at times to keep on reading it.

When my family went to Ireland when we were all kids - we went to visit my "Auntie Bridgie" in Killarney. An 83 year old woman who lived in a 2-room dark house with cows right outside the door. Her husband had been dead for ... 30 years? 40 years? Anyway, on the dark stained wall over the stove were three things: A picture of JFK. A picture of Pope John Paul II. And a pin in a small dusty glass case - the pin had a red ribboned thing hanging off it. I am unable to describe it, because I am a loser. It wasn't a medallion - but a ribboned thing, almost like an epaulet - Anyway, that was her husband's IRA pin. Of course this would have been the IRA back in the 20s and 30s, a very different organization from the one we see now. But those three items were the only wall decorations. Kinda says it all, don't it??

I'll post an excerpt about the Provisional IRA.

From A Secret History of the IRA by Ed Moloney.

The first Provisional leaders were sure of the rightness of their cause and the reasons for breaking with the Officials. The initial statement from O Bradaigh's breakaway Sinn Fein in January 1970 listed five reasons for splitting with Goulding: his recognition of the Irish and British parliaments; the move to embrace extreme socialism; illegal internal disciplinary methods; the failure to defend Belfast; and the policy of defending the Northern parliament at Stormont. The list demonstrated that the Provisionals were essentially a coalition of differing grievances; for some Marxism was the major problem with Goulding, and for others the military rundown of the IRA. One characteristic of the new IRA above all others that united the coalition - the glue that held it together - was a distrust of politics, parliamentary politics in particular, and an unshakable belief in the correctness of armed struggle.

The early Provisional leaders were determined that they would not stray down the path of parliamentary reformism trod by other nationalist and republican leaders. Each previous generation of freedom fighters had been betrayed, they believed, by leaders seduced by the siren call of parliamentary politics. They would be the exception. For this reason they defined the relationship between Sinn Fein and the IRA in simple and traditional terms. The military wing, the IRA, was in charge, and Sinn Fein would obey and be subservient to the Army Council. That was the case in the South and also in the North, where, according to one veteran party activist, Sinn Fein was secondary to the IRA from the outset: "Sinn Fein was the poor relation. It wasn't worth bothering about. Sinn Fein in the 1970s was an organization without clout; it supported the 'campaign' and held lofty ideas of a united Ireland but nothing else. The IRA was boss."

As the war intensified and more and more Northerners joined up, the antipolitical nature of the Provisionals intensified, as one of the Provisionals' founding members recalled:

When the resistance began, Northerners came in droves, and they were reacting to events for a number of years. The Northern guys were quite slow to be politicized. They looked down on Sinn Fein and dismissed it, saying, 'We're Army men.' I shared a cell with them in Mountjoy, and that was their view. They were quite happy sitting in their cells reading the Sun or the Mirror boasting about operations. They were purely militaristic - hit, hit, keep on hitting.

Whereas the first IRA commanders were Southerners, the foot soldiers in the war, the Volunteers, came overwhelmingly from the North and at first mostly from Belfast, where the attempted loyalist pogroms of August 1969 had taken place. Many IRA units elsewhere in North, in republican heartlands like Tyrone, Armagh, and Derry, were slower to take sides in the republican split; in some cases months went by before they decided whether to follow Goulding or MacStiofain. The Provisionals were born in Belfast and sustained by the city's bitter sectarian politics.

Some of those outside Belfast were repelled by the Provisionals' simplistic politics. Typical of this category was the Derry republican Mitchel McLaughlin, who stayed with the Officials for several months before joining the Provisionals, later rising to become a key Adams aide and advocate of his peace strategy. "At the time of the split," he once told an interviewere, "I actually stayed with the Official Republican Movement. Mainly because of their politics which undoubtedly were more progressive than the more, kind of nationalistic rhetoric that I was hearing [from the early Provisional leaders]." Gerry Adams and the Ballymurphy unit were not the only IRA members to hesitate before taking sides in the split. Not surprisingly, many were waiting to see who came out on top, and so what happened in Belfast was crucial. When Belfast republicanism went over to the Provos, as it did during the crucial year of 1970, many of the rural units followed, and soon if angry young Northern Catholics wanted to hit back at either the loyalists or the British army, they knew they would find a warm welcome in the Provisionals.

The IRA before August 1969 was an organization kept going by family tradition. Membership was passed from father to son, mother to daughter, but the recruits who flocked to the ranks of the Provisionals were a new breed, motivated by an atavistic fear of loyalist violence and an overwhelming need to strike back. Known as Sixty-niners, they joined the IRA literally to defend their own streets, were resolved that the near-pogroms of August 1969 would never again be repeated, and were ready, if the opportunity arose, to retaliate. They joined the Provos because the Officials had failed to defend their communities in the way that was expected, and they automatically associated the Officals' obsession with politics with military weakness and betrayal. From the outset abhorrence of politics and the requirement for defense and armed struggle were just different sides of the same coin.

Typical of the new Provisional IRA Volunteer was Bernard Fox, an apprentice coach builder from the Falls Road who joined the IRA in 1969, when he was just eighteen years old. He is now a senior figure in the leadership and was named in 2001 in the British media as a senior figure in the Provisional IRA's GHQ staff. He spent nineteen years in prison, either jailed or interned, for IRA activitiy. His motive for signing up was straightforward, as he once explained in a newspaper interview after the peace process reforms had secured his release fromk prison: "I was almost shot in a gun attack at Norfolk Street. I came away wanting a gun. It was survival. You wanted to protect your own people ... my family and myself. When the barricades went up I wanted a gun so I approached this fella who was in the IRA and asked for gun and he said: could I shoot a British soldier? At that time I hadn't the idea that it was the British government's fault ..."

Brendan Hughes from the Lower Falls Road district, a figure who later became an IRA legend, was similarly affected by the violence of August 1969. "At that time it was simply 'Here we are being attacked by Loyalists, by B Specials, by the RUC, by the British army,' and there was a need to hit back," recalled the former Belfast commander. "I mean I was in Bombay Street the morning after it was burned out, helping people out, and I went to the bottom of the Falls Road and seen all the burnt-out homes. I had relatives in Bombay Street who were burnt out, and I felt the desire to get back at these people who were doing it." Micky McMullen, a former long-term IRA prisoner, came under similar pressure but managed to resist it: "Up to 1969 there was nothing, but August 1969 was the turning point. I became involved in community defence you know and stuff like that, helping families to move after they had been burned out. At that time a lot of my friends would have been trying to join the IRA and the rationale would be just to get stuck into the 'Orangies' you know. It was a defence thing but something stopped me from getting into that."

Fox, Hughes, and McMullen and the many hundreds who followed them into the Provisional IRA in the first years of its existence were part of a Northern Catholic tradition that went back nearly two hundred years, when another armed uprising had very nearly ended British rule in Ireland. The United Irishmen's rebellion of 1798 is celebrated as the moment when modern, secular Irish republicanism was born, but it but it also coincided with the birth of sectarian politics in Ireland and left a scar that marked Northern socidety for centuries to come.

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March 15, 2006

American Idol thoughts

Ace: STINKS.

Kelly: STINKS.

Elliot: I love how much he loves Stevie. He's got some great pipes that guy. What I like about him is his sincerity. He's got a good voice, and I never feel like he's up there trying to sell me a line of BULL SHIT, like some of the others. He seems sincere. But unexciting performance.

Bucky: Wow. The hair. Hmmm. Bad. I actually thought he picked the perfect song for his voice. Smart choice.

Kevin: Uhm. Wow. Embarrassing. The makeup job was atrocious. And I felt plain old UNCOMFORTABLE listening to him singing about being a "part-time lover". Randy and Paula just blew smoke up his ass. This is why I love Simon. I know I can count on him to tell the truth - AND when he says "Good job" it actually MEANS something. Kevin's a cute kid, it doesn't mean he's a bad PERSON - but send him home, please.

Katharine McPhee: In my opinion, she has the best voice on the show. Just in terms of a naturally good singing voice. But there's something missing ... I don't know.

Melissa: She sucked.

Lisa: She made no impression on me - although I loooooooove that song. Simon said it was the best performance of the night - but that was before Chris performed.

Paris: This is sacreligious to some but I honestly don't know what the big deal about Paris is. She's cute, whatever. But I don't find her voice pleasing to listen to at ALL. It's screechy, she's not at ALL in control of it - she goes for effects and CONSTANTLY goes sharp or flat ... she's young, fine, but plenty of young people have kick-ass voices. She does not. I like her PERSONALITY but that's not what we're judging here. I would NEVER buy a Paris album. I also just don't like that type of singing, in general. The kind of singers who can't hold a damn note simply but have to constantly go up and down the scales. Just not my taste.

Mandisa: Love Mandisa, I love her whole THING - who she is onstage, who she is off - beautiful - but she needs to work on her lower register - the beginning of her song BLEW. Once she gets up high in her voice, she's great and exciting - but the first couple minutes sounded like unprofessional karaoke to me. Horrible. I wish they had called her on it.

Taylor: Someone needs to tell Taylor that "Livin' for the City" is not a song of CELEBRATION - it is a song of rage. I love Taylor, and that was a perfect song choice for him, but his "interpretation" made me mad last night. It was too self-serving, he was smiling and dancing around - Dude. That's wrong. Listen to the damn lyrics you're singing. My two cents.

Chris: Far and away the best performance all night - and, in my opinion, all season. Go, Chris! I so want to own his version of that song - Simon's right - I'd buy it. He, to me, looked like a PROFESSIONAL. Taylor did, too - I just thought his performance was stupid - but Chris looked like he already IS a star. He's "got it". He made everyone else look like amateurs.


More Idol posts

Sarah K - I always check in with her Idol posts - they're awesome, totally stream-of-conscious - but also very perceptive

Cullen weighs in

Ann Althouse (validating to see that some of her commenters agreed with me about Taylor's poor interpretation of that angry song)

And Tracey!!

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The Books: "Chechnya: To the heart of a conflict" (Andrew Meier)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51J5C6W076L._AA240_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Chechnya: To the heart of a conflict by Andrew Meier. I didn't really like this book. Interesteing topic - but Meier was too pleased with himself for all the things HE went through in Chechnya. It's a travelogue/political history of the place and the conflict - a la Robert Kaplan and others ... but somehow, the tone of this book made me think it should be called: Look, Ma! I'm in Chechnya! Also, here's another thing: The book is literally 106 pages long. It's tiny. Uhm - can you get "to the heart" of that conflict in 106 pages?? You dare to say you've gotten "to the heart" of it in a book no bigger than a pamphlet? Seems a little un-ambitious to me. I'm thinkin' there's quite a lot going on in Chechnya and to get "to the heart" of it, you have to write about more than your terrifying experience at some chaotic checkpoint.

Here's an excerpt about North Ossetia.

From Chechnya: To the heart of a conflict by Andrew Meier.

Vladikavkaz, christened as a garrison town in 1818, means "To rule the Caucasus." The North Ossetians have yet to live up to the bravado, but they have long served as the proxies of tsars and general secretaries in helping tame the unruly tribes of the south. In August 1942 Hitler's troops planted a Nazi flag atop Elbrus. Hitler wanted the Grozny oil fields and dreamed of taking Baku, with its vast reserves of Caspian oil. Not surprisingly, in some Caucasian circles, the Germans found support. How many sided with the Nazis is a matter of historical debate. No one will ever know. To some, the Germans doubtless offered a chance to oppose Soviet power. The Ossetians, however, stood loyal. The Nazi forces got no further than Vladikavkaz, then called Ordzhonikidze after a Georgian aide-de-camp to Stalin.

In recent years North Ossetia had distinguished itself as a singular outpost of fidelity. Things, however, could have gone very differently. In the last years of the old empire, as minor satraps across the south raised the sword of religion and the shield of sovereignty to revive "ancient hatreds" remembered by few, North Ossetia was the first Soviet tinderbox to explode. In the late 1980s, tensions boiled between the North Ossetians and the Ingush, the ethnic minority in the east -- and the Chechens' next of kin. Both sides claimed the pastoral land east of Vladikavkaz known as Prigorodny, just on the North Ossetian side of the border with Ingushetia.

The roots of the trouble, like much of the present turmoil, began with Stalin, who in 1944 ordered the Ingush and the Chechens deported en masse to Central Asia. On February 23, 1944, Red Army Day, and the twenty-sixth anniversary of the founding of the workers' and peasants' army, Stalin tricked the Ingush and the Chechens into coming out to their town squares. They were rounded up and packed off in lend-lease Studebaker trucks. For the next thirteen years, until the liberalizing thaw that followed Khrushchev's secret speech of 1956, when they started to return to the lands, the Chechens and the Ingush disappeared from the pages of officialdom. The Soviet Union had established a tradition, as Robert Conquest notes in his seminal book on the deportations, The Nation Killers, of erasing the existence of intellectuals who had earned the wrath of the state. "Unpersons," George Orwell had famously called the writers and poets who were erased from Soviet society, if not killed. But as Conquest points out in regard to Stalin's rounding up of the Chechens and Ingush, among other minorities, "the 'unnation' was a new phenomenon."

Before the deportation Prigorodny was Ingush. In the last years of the USSR the Ingush began to exhibit their intention of reclaiming it. In 1992, their Soviet bonds loosened, the Ingush and the North Ossetians went to war over the scrap of land. The fighting cost hundreds of lives on both sides, but the North Ossetians, backed by Moscow, kept their hold on the dry pastures of Prigorodny.

There had been another small war, across the mountains in Georgia, beyond the famed Darial Pass, among the Ossetians trapped in another contrivance of Soviet mapmaking called South Ossetia. In 1989 the South Ossetians, with a population of some ninety thousand, had risen up, seeking to break free of Georgia and reunite with their brethren to the north. No nation on earth, however, recognized their sovereignty. The North Ossetians meanwhile remained loyal to Moscow. Fealty had its rewards. The tiny republic of fewer than a half million now led the Russian Federation in vodka production. "Ours is a special relationship," President Dzasokhov said of the coziness with the Russians. "We have a history of understanding."

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March 14, 2006

Hey

Not ready to talk about last night - it was a private night of intense joy - intense - wonderful - but just want to thank Jess for her words. Sorry about the heartbreak, Jess ... but I guess if you felt heartbreak then that means the piece works.

Thanks for being there, everybody. You all know who you are.

Thank you.

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The creator of Loadstone O'Toole

It's Max Shulman's birthday. Who the hell is Max Shulman, you may ask? Or some of you may ask? Hahaha He was one of the most popular humorists of his day - who reached his peak of popularity in the 1950s. He's the dude who created the Dobie Gillis character. He was VERY successful - and is now kind of a forgotten artist. Strange. He also was a screenwriter.

Now I somehow tripped over his book I Was a Teenage Dwarf when I was a teenager myself. This is the chronicle of Dobie Gillis' crazy "woman"izing when he was in high school (the shortest boy in town. Hence - the title.)

dwarf.jpg

It was in the library where I worked as a page (my first job). I have no idea why I would have picked it up - it's kind of an old-fashioned looking book - It LOOKS older than the more recent titles -but also, let's remember - this was at the height of the whole Happy Days craze - so maybe something in the 1950s-ish cover appealed to me.

Also, I DO know that my parents both LOVED Max Shulman. So when I brought the book home they recognized his name immediately, and told me: "You HAVE to read Rally Round the Flag, Boys!"

rally.jpg

I remember vividly my mother TRYING to tell me what the name of one of the lead characters in Rally round the flag was - and completely not being able to get the name out because she started guffawing with laughter. The character's name was: Loadstone O'Toole. Even now - just typing that - I started laughing.

Max Shulman is one of the funniest writers I have ever read in my life. In fact, I was asked to leave my high school library because it was study period, and I was reading that book, and I started laughing so loudly that I could not control myself. Basically, I was GUFFAWING into the studious silence. Tears literally streamed down my face, despite the fact that I was being "Sh"ed left and right. I finally had to just gather up my book bag and stagger out into the hall, where I stood, and literally HOWLED with laughter, by myself, for a good 5 minutes.

Uhm - I can count the writers on one hand who are that feckin' funny.

Over the last couple years, it became my mission in life to find all of his old books again - so I could own them. Many of them are long out of print, and really hard to find. So strange. It's not that long ago - the 1950s and 60s - but his reputation has not survived. It's a shame. I have rarely come across such fanTAStically funny books. Member the famous Christmas pageant scene in Owen Meany? Max Shulman's books are that funny all the way through. The Strand sometimes had copies of his books - I always checked whenever I was there. I got some of his lesser known titles - but the holy grail eluded me. (I Was a Teenage Dwarf) I was dying to know if the book would be as funny to me as an adult as it was when I was a kid. I let my dad know, librarian that he is, what I was looking for - so he could keep his eyes open if he came across copies.

Eventually - a box arrived on my doorstep. I opened it. And took out two books: Rally Round the Flag, Boys starring the marvelously named Loadstone O'Toole (LOADSTONE O'TOOLE???? hahahahahaha) - and oh. my. God: I Was a Teenage Dwarf. Yay!!!!

I immediately took Teenage Dwarf up to my roof, with a thermos of coffee, and sat there in the autumn sun - tearing through my old childhood favorite. I finished it in a couple of hours.

And for the record? It was even funnier than I remembered. It's MEANER than I remembered. It's more biting, bitchy, merciless ... But I sat up there on my roof, the memories were just flooding back (Dobie Gillis at one point has a girlfriend who is a tomboy - and she is constantly playing stickball and climbing trees - and always falling down - so she always has cuts on her knees - her nickname is Red Knees. I was like: "Oh my God! I remember Red Knees!!") - but the sheer ridiculousness of it all was JUST as delightful, JUST as absurd. Like ... Dobie Gillis has a girlfriend whose accepted nickname is RED KNEES. Like, he's having a romantic makeout session with her, and he calls her "Red Knees" as he leans in to kiss her. "Oh, Red Knees ..." I mean - I just snort with laughter reading this stuff.

Writers who make me cry are great. I love them. But writers who make me laugh have my heart forever.

Max Shulman: a witty madcap man with a ridiculous and yet somehow very HUMAN sense of humor ... hugely successful in his day ... now mostly forgotten. If you ever come across his books in a used bookstore, I highly recommend you give them a read. They are laugh-out-loud funny.

Happy birthday, Mr. Shulman!!

maxshulman.jpg


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One of the many good things about Alex ...

... is that she never disappoints. I knew she would put up a great tribute to Maureen Stapleton and she did. I particularly love the comment Maureen made after winning her Oscar. hahahahahahaha Beautiful post, Alex - thank you!!

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The Books: "Nicholas and Alexandra" (Nicholas Massie)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51EKNGY1E1L._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is Nicholas and Alexandra by Robert K. Massie. The story of the final Tsar and his wife. Great book. I've read a couple other books about the Romanovs but none so detailed, none so well-written. It's kind of horrible to read it at times, because you already know the ending. And it just - I hate the thought of those children in that basement, with their jewels sewn into their corsets, trapped, being shot to death, the smoke filling the room. ANYHOO. It's also kind of creepy to read it because you just get the sense that history is marching towards these people - and it is about to march right on by them ... WE know that, because we know the end, but Nicholas and Alexandra don't. They behave in ways that seem almost willfully ignorant ... like they are covering their eyes and shouting LALALALALA at reality. The whole Rasputin thing ...

I'm going to excerpt a bit from one of the chapters on Rasputin. I have a hard time believing that the dude actually EXISTED. What a strange man. What a ... he's kind of an Elron Hubman type. I have no idea - there's so much mystery about him. Alexandra got it into her head that Rasputin had, by sending a telegram at the perfect moment, put a mystical stop to her son's hemophiliac attack. And for her? That was it. Rasputin was IN. He was a holy man, a healer, and he was somehow able to keep Alexis' disease at bay. Alexandra didn't CARE about the rumors, she didn't care that many people thought Rasputin was a fraud, and a user. He was IN.

From Nicholas and Alexandra by Robert K. Massie.

Gregory Rasputin was one of the most extraordinary and enigmatic men to appear on earth. He was an overwhelming personality and a superbly convincing actor. He had prodigious physical strength and caroused night and day at a pace that would kill a normal man. His physical presence projected enormous magnetism: prime ministers, princes, bishops, and grand dukes as well as society women and peasant girls had felt his powerful attraction and, when the relationship soured, had been as powerfully repelled.

Now, all of the terrible power of this remarkable personality was concentrated on a single objective: convincing the Empress that he was as she saw him, the pure, devoted Man of God, sprung from its soil of peasant Russia. Because of his painstaking care, Alexandra never saw him as anything else. His superb performance was strongly enhanced by the miracles she had seen take place at the bedsides of Alexis and Anna. Whenever he felt himself threatened, Rasputin skillfully played on the Empress' fears and her religious nature. "Remember that I need neither the Emperor or yourself," he would say. "If you abandon me to my enemies, it will not worry me. I am quite able to cope with them. But neither the Emperor nor you can do without me. If I am not there to protect you, you will lose your son and your crown within six months." Alexandra -- having been through Spala and the nosebleed on the train -- was not willing to take risks. Rasputin must be what he said he was and he must stay with her or her world would collapse.

Shrewdly, Rasputin secured his position and enhanced his hold by meeting the Empress's more prosaic need for constant reassurance and encouragement. His conversation and telegrams were an artful blend of religion and prophecy, often sounding like the gloriously meaningless forecasts which fall from penny machines at county fairs: "Be crowned with earthly happiness, the heavenly wreaths will follow ... Do not fear our present embarrassments, the protection of the Holy Mother is over you -- go to the hospitals though the enemies are menacing -- have faith ... Don't fear, it will not be worse than it was, faith and the banner will favor us." Blurred though these messages were, the Empress, weary and harassed, found them comforting.

Politically, Rasputin's advice was usually confined to carefully endorsing policies which the Empress already believed in, making certain that the idea was rephrased in his own language so that it would seem freshly inspired. Where his ideas were in fact original and specific, they accurately and realistically represented peasant Russia. Throughout the war, he warned of the bloodletting. "It is getting empty in the villages," he told the Tsar. Yet, when challenged by Paleologue that he had been urging the Tsar to end the war, Rasputin retorted, "Those who told you that are just idiots. I am always telling the Tsar that he must fight until complete victory is won. But I am also telling him that the war has brought unbearable suffering to the Russian people. I know of villages where there is no one left but the blind and the wounded, the widows and the orphans."

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March 13, 2006

Another great one gone

stapleton_m.jpg

Maureen Stapleton has died. Some great background there on her extraordinary body of work. She was one of my childhood acting idols. Her breakout performance in Tennessee Williams' The Rose Tattoo on Broadway with Eli Wallach is the stuff of legends ... what I wouldn't give for a time machine to see her play that part!!!

A real actor's actor - she had a career most people only dream of.

I love this quote from Maureen about being an unattractive person (she knew she was, she had no illusions about herself - especially not with people like Marilyn Monroe as her best friend):

"People looked at me on stage and said, 'Jesus, that broad better be able to act.'"

And dammit, she could.

Rest in peace, Maureen.

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Meme Monday

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4.

cigarette and still another, until the Kraut across the way,

[That's from A Very Long Engagement]

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?

Empty air

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

The Big Love premiere last night. Yawn.

4. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

Ah. My iTunes. On Shuffle. Glory. I am now participating in the technological revolution.

Last 10 songs on the shuffle were:

Peacherine Rag - Scott Joplin
Go Away - Lorrie Morgan
Forgiveness - Patty Griffin
City of Blinding Lights - U2
Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz
You Can't Hurry Love - Stray Cats
Lucky - Radiohead
Hercules Unchained - Pat McCurdy
World of Two - Cake
About a Girl - Nirvana
One Day I'll Fly Away - Nicole Kidman (Moulin Rouge soundtrack)

5. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

Uhm - walking. Whatever. I was outside. Dumb question.

6. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

I looked deep within my soul.

7. What are you wearing?

Brown skirt with little beaded embroidered flowers on it. A camisole-y top of a deep plum color. A brown jacket.

8. Did you dream last night?

Yeah.

9. When did you last laugh?

Last night, watching Dave Chappelle's HBO comedy special. I was howling.

10. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

A huge map of Ireland (an old map - it has sea monsters on the side of the map, stuff like that). Also my shadow box thing I bought at a flea market. I put all my knick knacks in there. Also the painting my mom did of maple-syrup buckets on the side of a tree. Also my two framed things from Trinity College in Dublin: the 1916 Proclamation and a page from the Book of Kells. Also the photograph by Sam Shaw of John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands. Oh, and also a world map above my desk.

11. Seen anything weird lately?

I tried on a top yesterday that looked really good on the hanger and looked absolutely heinous on me. That was pretty weird.

12. What do you think of this quiz?

Not too wacky about it, to be honest with you.

13. What is the last film you saw?

Hustle and Flow. I need to talk about Terrence Howard. I'll get to it someday.

14. If you turned a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?

A house. A car. A DVD player.

15. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.

I am very freckled - and apparently the freckles on my left cheek look like the constellation for Libra. Or so I've been told.

16. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?

Are we talking magical powers here? Like wave a magic wand? I'd make my friend Beth's MS disappear.

17. Do you like to Dance?

Yeah.

18. George Bush.

He seems a little dehydrated these days. Drink 8 glasses of water a day, dude. Very important.

19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

Moira.

20. Imagine your first child is a boy, what would you call him?

I like Ciarán.

21. Would you ever consider living abroad?

In a heartbeat.

22. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?

"Yes. There are aliens living on other planets. You've always wanted to know, and I am now confirming it."

23. 4 people who must also do this theme in their journal.

I just don't do that. Sorry.


From Beth

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (26)

March 12, 2006

Weekend snapshots

-- I got most of my hair chopped off. I love it. It looks great.

-- My new bookcase was delivered. I put it up in my main room - which now means that I have four bookcases in that one room. My kitchen has three bookcases. And my foyer has 2 bookcases. WHOO-HOO. But the book situation, even with all the bookshelves, was getting out of control. So I had a glorious time rearranging EVERYTHING. I moved all my fiction into the new bookcase - it just looks wonderful. All of my titles, all of my books - six whole shelves of them - lined up - ducks in a row and all that. I moved other stuff around, too. I put all of the first-person memoirs I have (except for the ones by actors - those I keep in a separate section) on their own shelf - I moved all of my science and religion books to another bookcase - so that I could then have more room for my theatre books. I am very happy with the new arrangement.

-- I picked up a painting I had dropped off at he framing store ... It's this old stained drawing of Sarah Bernhardt - my dad gave it to me years ago - it's black and white, she is sitting in profile - It's an old and fragile work. It's been sitting in a big thick cardboard envelope for a couple of years and I finally went and got it framed. I chose a big thick old-fashioned frame - with a kind of silvery sheen to it - which totally brings out the starkness of the black and white drawing ... It is GORGEOUS. I am really happy with it. Now I just have to decide where to put it. Running out of wall space.

-- I am now at the point where I am bummed if I can't exercise every day. Breakthrough!! Today it's rainy so ... argh. It means I have to go to the GYM as opposed to running outside, which is my preferred brand of exercise. But I have to go. I can't tell you how huge this is. I used to be that way - addicted to exercise - Like, I didn't feel like MYSELF if I didn't take my 8 mile run every day. I would get ... antsy and itchy. So the fact that I woke up early this morning, and heard the rain hitting my window right beside my head, and my first thought was: "Shit. No outdoor running today" is a huge breakthrough. Whoo-hoo!!!

-- Yesterday was great. A gorgeous sunny breezy day - like something straight out of heaven.

-- And during my haircut yesterday - while she was shampooing my hair - I felt a bolt of something very very familiar. I'm doing my one-woman show tomorrow night - I've been working on it, and having - shall we say - a very WEIRD week with it. I won't go into it. Let's just say that I've had a helluva time even working on this damn thing for various reasons. And so my main feeling about performing tomorrow has been one of nervous-ness. And not the good kind of nervousness. More of a: Oh shit. Fuck. I have to do this. Dammit. I'm not ready. Argh. This is the kind of nervous-ness that can make you choke!! Anyway, I was leaned back with my head in the sink, being shampooed - and out of nowhere - I felt a huge burst of adrenaline - like a cherry tomato exploding in my stomach - hahahaha - and it was the GOOD kind of nervousness. It was adrenaline, feeling pumped, and thinking: "I can't WAIT to do this. I can't WAIT to get up there." Funny: I know my own process well enough now to know that I have a week or so of the bad nervous-ness before the good nervous-ness takes over. It's always just a matter of time before the cherry tomato explodes. I just have to keep doing my work, and keep in the process.

-- I rehearsed on my roof for a couple of hours. A sweeping and windy view of the entire gleaming island of Manhattan ... the sounds of kids playing basketball a week away - the hovering traffic helicopters, the buildings across the Hudson catching the gleam - I love my roof because nobody else seems to utilize it. I'm up there all the time. So I rehearsed. If anyone had been watching me, they would have thought I was crazy. A chick with SHORT SHORT HAIR (heh heh) in sweatpants, on the roof, standing and gesturing and making little marks on a huge invisible pad of paper (part of the show). But it was good. I had about 10 run-thrus of the thing.

-- Took a run along yesterday at sunset time. The beauty was beyond belief. Everybody was out - families, kids, people walking, running .... The sunset blurring the sky - the tall buildings of Manhattan catching the dying gleams of the sun - and bursting out into gold - the purples, and blues - and the high white moon. This is my new routine, and I am BEYOND attached to it.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (14)

The Books: "The Reckoning: Iraq and the Legacy of Saddam Hussein" (Sandra Mackey)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

51TS469ZSJL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is The Reckoning: Iraq and the Legacy of Saddam Hussein by Sandra Mackey. Another book by Mackey. Again, like her book on Saudi Arabia, there's probably nothing here that is new to any of us - especially now, when we are getting to know Iraq as well as our own country!! But still: it's worth a read. I like the sections about the ancient world - Mesopotamia, and the Assyrians - and the Middle Ages, and all that. But the book, as a whole, gives really good background to the conflicts we see there now.

I'm going to post a bit about the first modern king of Iraq - King Faisal. The monarchy only lasted four decades. I did a lot of research about King Faisal a couple of years back because I was in a play where I played Gertrude Bell, a really interesting woman - often called "the female Lawrence of Arabia" - who was really one of the ones responsible for setting up Iraq as we know it now. A "sand-mad Brit" - an unconventional woman (obviously!!) - who was buried in Baghdad, so revered was she by the people at that time. She was considered one of them. Anyway - she was a big supporter of Faisal - really one of his greatest champions - so playing her was one of the reasons I did a boat-load of research about that guy.

So here's an excerpt about Faisal.

From The Reckoning: Iraq and the Legacy of Saddam Hussein by Sandra Mackey.

Born of impeccable stock, Faisal, third son of the Sharif of Mecca, claimed a place in the thirty-seventh generation directly descended from the prophet Muhammed. Sickly as a boy, he spent much of his childhood among the Bedouin of the Hejaz to be hardened by the demands of the merciless desert. He learned to shoot, to manage the cranky bellowing camel, and to ride the fine Arabian stallion. In the tents of the sheikhs, he listened to the cadence of classical Arabic poetry and learned the skills of tribal leadership. Strengthened and tuned, he went to Constantinople as a deputy to the Ottoman Parliament and fought for the Turks in Yemen. In 1917, he took his experiences and skills into the Arab Revolt. In the last days of World War I, he established in Damascus the Arab government obliquely promised by Britain in the Hussein-McMahon letters of 1915-16. Fine boned, with a long face set with large liquid eyes, Faisal looked every inch a great Arab sheikh.

During his two years in Damascus, Faisal filled his house with a throng of black Abyssinian eunuch slaves imported from Mecca and a select group of khaki-clad officers who had deserted the Ottoman army to join the revolt. Brimming with the passion of Arab nationalism, they had fought across the deserts from Mecca to Damascus. Now the group that would become known as the Sharifians gathered around Faisal to fulfill the dream of an Arab state. When Faisal lost his Arab government, they followed him to London and then to Baghdad, where they formed the core of the court and acted as the custodians of Sunni political influence.

When Faisal and the Sharifians arrived in Baghdad in 1921, Iraq bore the scars of Ottoman neglect. Mosul, across the Tigris from the ruins of ancient Nineveh, languished within decaying stone walls where Arabs and Kurds engaged in desultory trade. In once glorious Baghdad, the richly colored tiles decorating the mosques barely clung to structures seemingly untouched since the days of the Islamic Empire. Water still came to homes in leather skins filled from the Tigris and delivererd on the backs of donkeys. The city on the east side of the river was tied to the city on the west side by swaying pontoon bridges that floated on the round reed boats that Herodotus had described two thousand years earlier. There were only three of these bridges, for superstition held that when Baghdad possessed five, as in the days of the caliphs, the city would fall.

Since Baghdad had not been a true capital for nearly seven centuries, no palaces or buildings possessed even a modicum of grandeur. So after his coronation, Faisal went to the Citadel by the North Gate, driven in a car provided by the British. It traveled by the only real street in the city, a rutted unpaved road named for General Maude that cut a straight line through a maze of covered bazaars seemingly untouched by time. The sparse and antiquated infrastructure of Baghdad was symbolic of the new state of Iraq. It literally sagged under the accumulated weight of poverty, ignorance, and isolation that had reduced the land between the rivers to little more than an outpost of civilization.

The day Faisal picked up the reins of government, a simple street scene drew a complex sociological picture of his realm. Sunni bureaucrats and merchants proudly garbed in the newly popular Western clothes gathered around small tables outside the coffee shops strung along the Tigris. From there, they watched Jews hurry twoard their banks; Christians move their crafts to the souks, followed by Persian merchants toting fine carpets; Kurds in their baggy sharwals unload a barge of produce from the highlands; and Shia sheikhs in flowing robes pass by on their way back to their villages in the south. In real terms, the social structure mirrored Ottoman times. The monarchy, with British contrivance, soono superimposed on it the Sharifians, who from the court took all the key military and governmental positions. Products of Ottoman education, many were related by blood or marriage. Claiming neither a local following nor a power base within Iraq, they depended on the government for their position, and the government depended on them to be the loyal cadre of Hashemite rule. Below the Sharifians, grouped in an imprecise and often fluid order, were the old Sunni elite, the Christian elite of Mosul, the Sunni and Shia tribal notables, and at the bottom, the peasants, most of whom were Shia. Finally, there were the Kurdish clan chiefs, added in 1925 by the incorporation of Mosul province into Iraq. But before Faisal could even approach this internal tangle, he first had to secure his borders against his neighbords -- Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Persia, all of them geographically larger than Iraq.

The British, protecting their own interests in the oil resources of the Mosul region, took care of Ataturk's threat from Turkey. But in the south, Abdul Aziz ibn Saud and his Wahhabi zealots posed a serious challenge to Faisal's claim to the tribes of southern Iraq.1 Beginning in March 1922, the Ikhwan, the fanatical Muslim brotherhood within the Wahhabi sect that often defied the authority of Abdul Aziz, periodically rode into Iraq to raid for faith and booty. In 1927 when Ikhwan raiders mutilated tribesmen in southern Iraq, it was Britain as the mandatory power the went into action. In a spate of low-tech warfare, single-enginge Royal Air Force planes swooped low to drop pint-sized bombs on the marauding tribes while Model T Fordsd mounted with machine guns chased the Ikhwan back into Arabia. By 1929, the immediate threat from the south was over.2

The threat from the east, from Persia, defied simple military tactics. The Persian government, claiming Najaf and Karbala as "holy places of Persia", refused to recognize the infant state of Iraq. But Persia, like Turkey and Abdul Aziz, was in no position to threaten the British mandate of Iraq. Not only did Britain control Iran's oil resources, but the Qajar dynasty sat in the dying embers of its own regime. In 1925 when Reza Shah Pahlavi ascended the Peacock Throne, Iran and Iraq, prodded by Britain, negotiated a boundary agreement that held until the 1980 Iran-Iraq War.3 Thus, with the borders calm on the east, south, and north and the British military umbrella spread over Iraq, Faisal turned his full attention to the challenges of consolidating his state.


1In the West, the legendary Abdul Aziz ibn Saud, the father of modern Saudi Arabia, is most often known as Ibn Saud, 'the son of Saud". In the Arab world, he is more correctly known as Abdul Aziz.
2The border disputes between Iraq and Saudi Arabia have never really ceased, playing a role in the 1991 Gulf War.
3It was Reza Shah Pahlavi who would change the name of Persia to iran in 1935.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 11, 2006

Thank you ...

... to whoever sent me the book The Many Lives of Marilyn Monroe ... I don't know who you are! There was no message but I assume it was someone who reads this blog - so thank you, thank you! I've been wanting to read it ever since it came out.

It's not a biography of Monroe, per se, because - well - do we need another one? No. This is an exploration of the nature of myths, and how they are created. Marilyn Monroe was a real woman, just an actress really - an actress who made it really huge - but she has become a myth. Why? We could talk about it forever. I love talking about it.

monroe.jpg

Sarah Churchwell, the author of the book, looks at how certain myths were created and perpetuated, in terms of Monroe. The facts are well-known - but certain untruths have been passed on, or certain interpretations - Even in death, everyone wants a piece of Marilyn Monroe. There was Norman Mailer's book about her - there was Gloria Steinem's book - each of them creating a myth in the process. Every single person who knew Monroe (except for Joe dimaggio and her beloved makeup artist and confidante - with her for years - they kept all her secrets) published some kind of a memoir about her. "My Summer with Monroe". "My Wild Night with Marilyn Monroe". Whatever. These memoirs, subjective, retrospective, and definitely filled with self-interest, are then passed on as TRUTH. This is what happens with myth. Was Monroe a damaged little girl? Or was she a feminist before her time? Was she just one of the most successful results of the casting couch Hollywood has ever seen? Or was she a true talent? What the hell??? Everyone has an opinion.

Churchwell examines ALL of these different myths. In a way, it reminds me of the whole Sylvia Plath after-death phenomenon. Her memory was co-opted by her cultish followers who needed to cast her in some sort of feminista epic struggle. Ted = evil villain. Sylvia = martyr. The fact of her WORK was sometimes lost in all of the proprietary posturing. Like: how 'bout those POEMS, huh??? Nope - for a lot of the followers, the poems are just autobiographical. That is why they are interesting to these people: not because they are good art, but because they support their case about Sylvia. Now - I say all this because I WAS one of those people once ... hahahaha ... it's a very young-woman thing to do - but I grew out of it, and finally just was able to love Plath's poems as POEMS. But biographies of her are notoriously horrible - because, well - for many reasons. The Hughes estate, watched over by Hughes' tight-fisted sister Olwyn, would not allow ANY interpretation counter to Hughes' interests. Every draft had to go through Olwyn. I mean, can you imagine? This only ADDED to the general perception that Sylvia was trapped in this marriage, and limited - held down. The draconian Hughes estate made it nearly impossible for a DECENT biography of Plath to come out. Their main defense was that: Ted Hughes was still alive, the two children were alive, and yadda yadda, Sylvia could be "vicious" and there was a feeling that her children should be protected. Now - her children are grown ups now - older than I am - I always found this attitude despicable. Sylvia Plath was a major fucking poet - and there has STILL not been a good biography of her written. Shameless. Ted Hughes, by publishing his book of poems about and to Sylvia Birthday Letters - right before his death - hopefully opened the floodgates. He needed to come clean, and break his silence. He himself broke free of his sister's iron fist. Now Plath and Hughes are a bit more fluid - at least in memory - for many years they were FIXED images. Circling one another. FIXED. Many people had a vested interest in keeping these images fixed. They made careers out of the fixed nature of the Hughes-Plath myths. I do hope that, with Hughes' death, and with Frieda (Hughes and Plath's daughter) making many statements recently, writing some wonderful op-ed columns - the bonds have been broken, and we can finally LOOK at these people with a bit more clarity.

Anyway - I'm straying from the point, but I don't care - Eventually, the wonderful Janet Malcolm wrote a FANTASTIC book called The Silent Woman. Its topic? How difficult it was to write a biography of Sylvia Plath, because of all of this. At its essence, her book is about the nature of myth ... and the uncomfortable position biographers can be put in - they are eavesdroppers, snoops ... and what you discover is not always convenient to your IDEA behind your book.

Marilyn Monroe is in the same pantheon. I have read every single biography of this woman ever written. I have read every memoir of her friends/assistants/lovers I can get my hands on. I'm that fascinated.

But still. Even with all that. You get the sense, still, that you are in the presence of a great mystery.

Because - when you get right down to it - can we ever really KNOW another human being? Even if they leave a ton of evidence behind in journals and letters - we still can't say, definitively, that we KNOW them. Or - you CAN say that - but i think you're missing the whole point if you do. I think that's one of the reasons why I can't get enough of Alexander Hamilton. And Thomas Jefferson, come to think of it. Both of those guys wrote more words than all the other founding fathers combined - letters, papers, books, pamphlets, speeches - it's endless - we can read their actual words - but still: there's a sense, at least from me, that they are, essentially, unexplainable. I'm reading the Chernow biography right now - and I am reading the FACTS - the FACTS of Hamilton's beginnings - his horrific beginnings - and then his journey to New York - and his education - We know that this HAPPENED. But ... but ... it still amazes me. It just does. Because really: I can't KNOW him. I can't. I can know the facts ... but his essence? His soul? What it was like to BE him? What he thought about when he was by himself? How his mind worked? A biography can't really give you any of that stuff ... there's still so much stuff between the lines.

Marilyn Monroe (in my opinion) - even though she is one of the most recognizable faces in the world - even though we have more images of her than of any other actress - even though we know all the sordid details of her sad life - even though we have ALL Of that - Marilyn Monroe is almost COMPLETELY between the lines.

THAT'S the fascination.

Her acting is wonderful, and I love her comedic spirit. I love her positive and joyous screen presence. I love her innocence. Even with that body, and even in the parts she was cast in ... she had a deep Bambi-esque innocence ... Now THAT, to me, is a complete mystery. How that occurred.

And I don't need to know WHY, actually. I know that I cannot know.

Doesn't mean it's not an interesting avenue of inquiry - but the real truth cannot be known. She is gone.

Sarah Churchwell, in this book, which came out last year and got terrific reviews, doesn't try to EXPLAIN Marilyn Monroe - because she cannot be sufficiently explained. She tries to see how the myth has endured. There were people who had a vested interest in perpetuating the myth - and she looks at those people - but also: the myth was perpetuated by the adoring public - and that was a much more organic thing. Marilyn Monroe's legend would have lived on with or without all the self-interested tell-all memoirs, and sordid revelations ... because there was something about her that people just, frankly, LOVED. She was so vital, so alive ... it was hard to believe she was dead.

It is interesting to contemplate how all of this would have played out if she hadn't died. Marilyn would be 80 years old today if she hadn't died in 1962. I often wonder what her career would have been like if it hadn't been cut short. The studio system that had so controlled her and marginalized her (the public made her a star - and the studios begrudgingly allowed it) was on its way out - the 70s were coming - with brave new filmmakers, and the whole birth of the independents. I wonder what place Marilyn would have found for herself in all that.

Anyway: to my mystery Santa Claus: thank you SO MUCH! I haven't even READ it yet, and look at all my thoughts on it!!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (7)

The Books: "The Saudis: Inside the Desert Kingdom" (Sandra Mackey)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

0393324176.02.LZZZZZZZ.jpgNext book on the shelf is The Saudis: Inside the Desert Kingdom by Sandra Mackey. Sandra Mackey, a journalist, lived in Saudi Arabia in the late 1970s, early 80s - her husband was there in Riyadh, a doctor on staff at the King Faisal Specialist Hospital. Because of the restrictions on her because of her sex, only allowed to be there because she was a dependent of her husband, Mackey was undercover. She wrote under multiple male pseudonyms, and had to hide her true identity. It's a really interesting story: how she was able to even GET stories - when she wasn't supposed to be a journalist in the first place. But she was there at a certain point of transition in Saudi Arabia (transition? How about total and utter UPHEAVAL) because of the oil boom - that she was able to see this culture wrenching itself into the 20th century, awkwardly, badly at times. We all are aware of the surface realities of Saudi Arabia. This book didn't really tell me anything I didn't know, but it did add perspective and historical context to some of those realities. If you want to get a start on understanding how things work, and WHY - this is a very good place to start. Mackey, at times, takes on a perspective similar to that of Elias Canetti's - she, as a total outsider (and Saudi Arabian social life is pretty much nonexistent - it was nearly impossible for her, as a Westerner, to get close to any of the Saudis she knew on an every day basis - it's not like there were weekly Happy Hours in Riyadh where Mackey could mingle, and get an idea of what was REALLY going on, and people's RESPONSES to the oil boom, and the upheaval, and yadda yadda - it is a closed society, so she had quite a struggle) - But anyway, in the same way that Elias Canetti, after all his research into crowds and how crowds behaved throughout history - felt comfortable enough to generalize about certain cultures - based on his observations - so does Mackey. This is not about stereotyping. It is about the expression of a reality we all can point to, and say exists. Canetti looks at German culture (his own culture) and asks questions like: What is important to a German? What does being in a crowd provide a German that is different than, say, a Bushman in the Kalahari Desert? We are NOT all the same ... a German sees the world differently than an African Bushman ... and WHY?? Mackey not only writes about the history of Saudi Arabia - and all of that is very interesting - but she goes to great lengths to talk about the actual psychology of the kingdom itself, and its residents. How do their minds WORK - it's not just nature that forms us, it's nurture - so what is the psychology like there? How is the family structured? And how do they deal with pride, or guilt, or humor, or insecurity? Of course there are things that all human beings have in common, regardless of the culture they were born into - we experience fear, pain, bodily functions, we laugh ... But the psychology of a Saudi citizen is going to be different than the psychology of a Chinese person, or a person from Russia. Mackey talks a lot about this.

I'm going to excerpt a bit from her chapter on the Bedouin. Again, probably nothing new here to anyone - still, it's interesting.

From The Saudis: Inside the Desert Kingdom by Sandra Mackey.

The legendarily tough and fiercely independent nomads of the Arabian Peninsula are called Bedouins, a French derivative of an Arabic word meaning "an inhabitant of the desert." For centuries the Bedouins alone dominated the vast, empty wasteland of the Arabian Peninsula. Through civilization after civilization, it was the Bedouin with his superhuman ability to survive who not only controlled but characterized the desert.

Nowhere in the world was there such a continuity as in the Arabian desert. Here Semitic nomads ... must have herded their flocks before the Pyramids were built or the Flood wiped out all traces of man in the Euphrates valley. Successive civilizations rose and fell around the desert's edge ... Egypt of the Pharaohs; Sumeria; Babylonia; Assyria; the Hebrews; the Phoenicians; Greeks and Romans; the Persians; the Muslim Empire of the Arabs, and finally the Turks. They lasted a few hundred or thousand years and vanished; new races were evolved and later disappeared; religions rose and fell; men changed, adapting themselves to a changin world; but in the desert the nomad tribes lived on, the pattern of their lives but little changed over this enormous span of time.*

The Bedouin lived on almost nothing. What meager cash he did scrape together came from transporting goods across the desert or selling camels to those who did. Camels were the mainstay of the Bedouin. They were transport, commerce, and, when they died, food. Uniquely suited to the desert, a camel could go without water for five days in summer and twenty-five in winter. For its owners, it provided milk for food, dung for fuel, and urine for hair tonic or a bath to keep the flies away from the baby. The Bedouins survived the ravages of nature in tents woven by the women from the odorous hair of family goats. Meat from their sheep was the staple of their diet. To increase their life-sustaining herds, tribe raided tribe under sacred rules that spoke of medieval forms of fidelity and warfare.** They had nothing except a great sneering pride in who they were.

And then it all changed within a few short years. The Bedouins became victims of mechanization. After the First World War, the products of technology -- cars, airplanes, and radio -- undermined the Bedouins' advantage in the desert. No longer could a Bedouin tribe stage a raid against those who sought to control it and then disappear unpursued into the desert. No longer were the Bedouin tribes able to blackmail governments for their good behavior, levy tolls on travelers, or extract tributes from villages. But above all, mechanical transport destroyed the Bedouin economy. No longer was there any demand for their only cash crop, camels. Yet the Bedouins still survive. Continuing to live in tightly knit grouips of family and tribe, they drift in and out of Saudi Arabia's towns and cities, an object of public scorn.

For centuries in hundreds of towns such as al-Hotghat, the mud-walled settlement in Wadi Hanifa, the town Arabs were traders whose only contact with the Bedouins was in pursuit of commerce. In the coffee houses, there was endless ridicule of the Bedouin for everything he did, including the way he prayed. Yet the emotional intensity of the desert nomad irrefutably imposed its ideals on the towns. Urbanized Saudis look back on the Bedouin and endow him with almost superhuman traits that transform him into an idealized giant. But at the same time, Saudis of the city, especially the young and educated, delight in poking fun at the Bedouin, especially in the presence of a Westerner, and calim that they themselves never step foot outside the limits of the city. In the age of petroleum, the Bedouin is both the archetypal hero and comic buffoon of Saudi society. This conflicting set of attitudes, the Bedouin as hero and the Bedouin as fool, is another of the many conflicts within the Saudi psyche. Psychologically, the Bedouin represents to the present-day Saudi what the Western cowboy folk hero represents to an American. And like Americans, the Saudis have created from the Bedouin, idealized as a desert warrior, a powerful prototype that influences their value system and their patterns of behavior. No matter how much the various geographic regions of Saudi Arabia may differ or how far a Saudi is removed from the desert, the Bedouin ethos is the bedrock of the culture.

Just how many Bedouins are left in Saudi Arabia is an open question. A study done in the early 1980s suggested that perhaps 5 percent of the Saudi population remains wholly nomadic. But this figure is grossly misleading. A Bedouin can no longer be defined by a nomadic lifestyle. The demarcation line between the sedentary and the nomadic population is fluid, for the Bedouins themselves can be nomadic, seminomadic, or settled. It is the strength of the Bedouin mentality that is important for the classification of a Saudi as Bedouin or a town Arab rather than the way he lives. Under this critierion, the Bedouin constitute a significant part of the Saudi population.

How well have the Bedouins adjusted to the age of development in Saudi Arabia? There are Bedouins working in the oil fields, in business, and in the bureaucracy, and there are Bedouins still herding camels. There are Bedouins living in the heart of Riyadh and there are Bedouins still living in tents. Most Western academicians claim that the Bedouins have not adapted well to modernization, are trapped between their traditional past and the unknown future, and survive economically on government handouts. On one level all this is true. The Bedouins have been deeply affected by modernization. There is an ongoing struggle to merge the material benefits of modernization with the Bedouins' traditional lifestyle. Although they travel by plane now, the Bedouins still have a nomadic attitude about the amount and kinds of luggage they carry. When a Bedouin gets on an airplane, he checks battered suitcases, cardboard boxes, and his bedroll. As compartment luggage, he carries a cloth sack filled with food and his portable cooking stove.

For those Bedouins who still choose to live in tents, the clutter of development has moved into their camps. Before the oil boom, a nomadic family's spartan belongings consisted of coffee pots, cooking utensils, some rugs on which to sleep, and a few articles of extra clothing. The Bedouin family now has sewing machines, radios, insulated coolers, aluminum cots, and garishly painted tin trunks imported from Yemen. Abandoned campsites are no longer marked by the blackened stones of the campfire but are littered with punctured tires, empty oil drums, plastic bags, and rusting tin cans.

But on another level, the Bedouin psyche is less torn by development than that of the town Arabs. The Bedouins are so secure in their perception of themselves that they have an amazing ability to accept the things they choose from development and reject the rest. Every day I saw Bedouins manipulate their environment to suit their desires. A graphic example of this occurred along one of the valleys west of Riyadh. As we crested a rise on the roadless desert, Dan was forced to swerve our NIssan Patrol sharply left to avoid a dump truck creeping up the other side. Below, an army of trucks and heavy earth-moving equipment was loudly chewing at the desert floor between massive steel towers that would carry high power lines to villages throughout the valley. In the midst of all this construction activity, a lone figure stood serenely. It was a Bedouin, his leathery feet stuck in traditional sandals, his ragged gutra dropping down the back of his loose, soiled thobe, his staff clutched in his horny hand. Oblivious to the noise around him, he stood watch over his flock of Nejdi sheep, pulling at the spotty vegetation that had survived the onslaught of progress.

Of all the Saudis, the Bedouins are the least willing to interact with Westerners. There was seldom any banter between Bedouins and Westerners in the souqs, and Bedouin camps in the desert were armed fortresses closed to outsiders. Yet even if the Bedouins refused to accept foreigners, they did accept the most advanced medical treatment as a matter of course. One of the most interest aspects of being associated with the tertiary care center for Saudi Arabia was seeing the cross-section of people who came through the hospital. Every day I could observe the Bedouins interacting with modernization on the most personal level. I often saw veiled women, their hands patterned and painted with henna, abaayas covering their loudly striped polyester dresses, squatting outside the door of the x-ray department, waiting for a CT scan. But it was the time I spent in an isolated Bedouin camp to celebrate a tribal member's recovery from a kidney transplant that confirmed in my mind that the Bedouins have emotionally survived the oil boom better than is generally acknowledged.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when those of us invited to the camp excitedly gathered at the gate of the hospital. All of us realized that this was special, for few Westerners ever had the opportunity to enter a Bedouin camp. Mohammed, our guide, arrived in a new Chevrolet Caprice, which he probably had purchased with a government grant to dig a well or with a bonus from the National Guard, where he served as a part-time soldier. With him in the lead, our little caravan proceeded north out of Riyadh, through Darma, northwest into the province of Gasim, on through obscure towns and settlements, and out into the high northern desert. After four hours, the Chevrolet abruptly turned off the road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and bounced across the rough terrain. As we crested a sandy incline, the camp spread out before us. A long, black goat-hair tent open in the front, through which goats were wandering in and out, stood at the center. In front a campfire burned, warming the traditional coffee pot. Scattered across the camp area was a collection of Toyota and Datsun pickups and a square canvas tent. As we pulled to a stop, old and young men, some with ammunition belts strapped across their chests, veiled women, and a multitude of children tumbled out of the tents to greet us. The men of our party were escorted toward the big tent while we women were separated out and taken to the smaller tent. There we were entertained by the camp women and all the children. In the ritual of hospitality, a small handleless cup of pale green coffee spiced with cardamon was thrust in my hand as soon as I was seated on a machine-made Oriental rug imported from Bulgaria. A boy of about four, thick yellow mucous running from his nose, shly reacahed into an aluminum tin buzzing with flies and pulled out a sticky date, which he thrust at me in his dirty hand. I gingerly took the date, passed its sand-coated skin across my lips, and chewed its sweet meat. I was intensely curious about life in the camp. From where I sat I was able to look out through a slit where the sides of the tent joined. Directly in my life of vision was the men's tent. Through its open front, I saw the men sitting in a circle while a young man in his late teens moved from one to the other poruing coffee from an obviously new brass pot of the kind the Saudis imported in great quantities from Pakistan. Leaping out of this montage was a roll of paper towels imported directly from the West, which dangled from the side of the tent on a strand of rope.

By midafternoon, the lamb roasting in an oven made from an oil drum buried in the sand was done. The men lifted the meat up on heavy metal skewers and laid it on a metal tray that was at least two feet in diameter. Dining was reserved for the guests. When we were joined by the Western men, the Bedouin women disappeared. With great ceremony, our hosts set down before us a great steaming tray of lamb and rice. Only the choicest pieces of meat were presented. There were tender neck joints and large chunks of the leg, and lying on top of the wrinkled stomach with its fuzzlike villi was the skull with the brain encased. Loaves of flat Arabic bread were handed around, which we used to scoop up the rice and lamb from the communal plate. It was one of the best meals I have ever eaten. When we finished, the tray was removed and taken to the Bedouin men in the main tent. When they finished, their scraps went to the women.

The Bedouin women reentered the guest tent carrying piles of quilts and mattresses made from cotton wadding, which they rolled out on the ground so we could rest. With the goats temporarily shooed away, I reclined on a square bolster pillow and talked to the women hidden behind their veils. I asked the wife of the transplant patient how her husband happened to know about the availability of transplant surgery. obviously puzzled about my lack of knowledge of basic facts, she said, "From his brother. He had a transplant at the Military Hospital last year." Sitting in that tent, looking out on the patient, his brother who had donated the kidney, and the young, brihgt, highly trained Western surgeon who was comfortably talking with them, I thought that out of the boom decade the Bedouins may have survived the best. Perhaps it is because in the tumultuous days of Saudi Arabia's awakening to the outside world, the Bedouins never doubted their superiority. When the Westerners came with their machines and their different way of life, the Bedouin was able to gather in a share of the new consumer goods purchased with government money. He could choose to send his sons to school and on into the modern economy, or he could choose, without shame, to remain what he had always been - a Bedouin,

Clustered in family or tribe, the Bedouins refuse to surrender to outside authority. Their support can be bought but their loyalty is achored in the family. In the past, each desert family was alone, separated from the rest of society by the sparseness of the vegetation needed to support the animals on which their very lives depended. From this isolation in family units there developed over many centuries an intense feeling that an individual had no protection beyond that of the family. Of the various values the Bedouins have bestowed on modern Saudi Arabia, the primacy of the family is among the most important.

Saudis live in large extended families. It is one of their significant differences from Western culture that, for the Saudis, the concept of individuality is absent. A Saudi seems himself in the context of his family and, to a lesser degree, the tribe. His duty is never to himself but to the group. Within the family, there is a strong sense of patrilineal descent, for a man is considered to be a descendant only of his father and his paternal grandfather but never his mother or maternal grandfather. He belongs only to his father's group, which claims his entire, undivided loyalty. This is why the most sought-after marriages are first cousin marriages between children of brothers. By sharing the same grandfather, the all-important group solidarity is ensured.


*Wilfred Thesiger, Arabian Sands
** The system of chivalry is believed by some to have been carried to Europe from the Arabs during the Crusades.

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March 10, 2006

iPod thoughts

The importation of tunes continues apace.

Thoughts as I reacquaint myself with my own music:

-- Uhm, okay - Metallica fans, I truly need your input: Do I like "LOAD"? Help me. I have owned it for years, I listen to it on occasion ... but I still don't know if I like it. What is the consensus? Is there a consensus? [Update: I guess the fact that I even need to ask gives me my answer. But still - would love to hear from other fans what they think of that album.]

-- I love the song "No News" by Lonestar. I have it on a country compilation CD - which mostly BLOWS - but I have kept the CD lo these many years for that one song. Now I can get rid of the damn CD. "She missed the bus, missed the plane ..." Just love the song.

-- I adore Xanadu. "Have to believe we are ma-gic Nothing can stand in our way ..." Please. It's classic.

-- Is it possible to have too much Queen, U2, Eminem, or Pat McCurdy? I can't believe the STACK of CDs for these artists alone.

-- I need more Lyle Lovett.

-- I love Little River Band and I don't care who knows.

-- Oh. And same with Huey Lewis. I have every single CD the guy ever did. Huge HUGE fan. Now that his songs can reside in the God-given SHUFFLE feature, I can re-acquaint myself again with all the songs of his I love. Because it's not just the hits - there are songs on those albums which might not have gotten huge radio-play, but were my favorites. Yay!!

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Today in history: "To my delight he came and declared that he had heard and understood what I said."

On March 10, 1876 - the first speech was transmitted across a telephone wire.

All together now: "Mr. Watson, come here ..."

So if you make a phone call today (or - I should say - WHEN you make a phone call today) - take a second to think of Mr. Alexander Graham Bell.

I Googled the dude - and came across the relevant pages in his notebook for March 10, 1876. See them below - pretty damn cool.

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bell1_right.jpg

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Diary Friday

The continuing stoooooooooory of my experience getting into Picnic my senior year in high school.

Here's the first part.

More below ...

SEPTMEBER 26

Diary -- I made callbacks. There are about 12 girls called back -- on the notice, it's under a column titled: Women. [hahahaha That was a big deal - to be grouped under that headline, as opposed to "Girls"] There are 12 20-year-old Drama majors! I'm good enough to be called back!

Oh. But today was horrendous. First of all - Oh GOD - TS wasn't called back. I know it has nothing to do with me, and I'm so disappointed for him. I haven't talked to him yet. I know he knows cause on the notice on this bulletin board in the Centre we had to initial next to our names, so I know that when TS went he saw my name and my "SOM".

I'm writing this to you now from my bed. [Who do you think you are - Anais Nin?] I guess I fell asleep at about 6:00. It's only 7:30 now. I'm so tired. I wish I hadn't woken up. I wish I could just sleep entirely through sucky days. Now that I'm up I have to think. [And ... that's a bad thing?]

Today's Wednesday. TS and I were gonna go out. He hasn't called. [Oh. So that's it!] Damn. I wish I had kept sleeping. I wish I could talk to him. I WON'T apologize for making callbacks but STILL - he made me go, he's a Drama major [this is hilarious - Once I got to college, I would never say the words "Drama major" - if anything it was "Theatre major" - which sounds much better, more professional ... Drama major???] I'm sure he did a wonderful audition. They probably just didn't see him as Howard. [One of the great parts in the play]

My life.

What a day. One thing made it all worthwhile. After school, I had a Drama Club officer's meeting. After that, Kate and I were sitting out front waiting for rides. As we sat there, this car drove through the driveway, and Marisa was honestly leaning out of the window - waist up - and she screamed, "Hi, Sheila and Kate! I love you!"

Kate and I both gleefully ecstatically waved and yelled, "I LOVE YOU" There were others around, but - Marisa. Later on, Kate and I were still sitting there and across the front lawn on the main road, the car went by again (about 5 minutes later) - and I got this flying glimpse of a protruding head and crazy hair and all I could hear was this screeching, "SHEILA! KATE! I LOVE YOU!" [hahahahahahahaha] Isn't she incredible? The whole thing with Marisa shouting at us shocked me into the RIGHT reality. Kate and I were just laughing and crying at the same time. I could feel myself crying, but I was also laughing until it hurt. Kate said, "That's what makes the world go round." Yup. That was worth getting up for.

Oh. He hasn't called.

He isn't the type to be mad cause I made callbacks. [Okay. I can no longer keep silent. Sheila: The proper terminology is: "I GOT called back" not "I made callbacks". Thanks.] That isn't giving him any credit, because he's a great person.

I don't know what he's feeling the majority of the time. [Welcome to a relationship.]

There was one thing that happened on Friday that's really confused me. [TS and I were dating. It was relatively new at this point. I was still freaking out about it. I never stopped freaking out, actually - but that's what's going on here. We would go out to movies once a week. He was 19. Out of high school.] We walked home in the dark - talked about our usual things - comedians, movies, drama. [Oh for God's sake. How about "theatre"?? That's a MUCH better word.] We talked a lot about Clint Eastwood. Then we got to Barber Lane - a small hill - totally surrounded by trees - and the darkness was almost liquidy there. It had substance it was so thick. I mean, I could feel that TS was there but I couldn't see him. It was pitch black. As we turned down onto it, I heard TS sort of laugh, as a joke, 'Hey -- Sheila -- what are you doin' to me?" Oh, you'd have had to hear him. It was just strange. I was laughing at how dark it was, and then - suddenly - TS grabbed me tightly around the waist, pretending to be scared, going, "Lions and tigers and bears ..."

I mean, it was like really dark. [Like, totally?] Suddenly, he had his arm around my waist - and he made it as a joke - you know - "Lions and tigers" - but I didn't know what to do or what I was supposed to do. I mean, I could hardly see him. So practically immediately, TS let me go, and we walked to my house talking in a perfectly normal way. I was still like: WHAT JUST HAPPENED? [I love how important everything is.]

When we got to my house, all the lights were off, including in my parents' room. I didn't think of it until later but I should have at least invited him in.

I apologized to him on Sunday. I still think it was rude. He said it never occurred to him. So we were standing at the end of the driveway, and that's when he suggested, "So ... you want to go to Shadow of a Doubt next Wednesday?" [I love that we would go see these noir classics - I think there was a film festival going on at the university. That's the first time I saw Out of the Past, and Double Indemnity - on dates with TS. So fun!!] I said yes. We were standing 5 feet away from each other.

TS doesn't go around touching people. I have more trouble verbally. So we get very awkward. Cause sometimes, you know, if TS makes a dumb joke or something, he always "bows his head in shame", so sometimes I lean over to pat him comfortingly on the shoulder. And even with just that, I can feel something in him just react to that - just me patting him on the shoulder. I mean, it's not like he jumps away or winces or flinches - but I can feel that he can feel it. I don't know what any of this means.

He hasn't called me. [This is really the main point here.]

Oh, why did I wake up?

Tomorrow are the final auditions. I have to go to those alone. Oh, I want to talk to TS. I wish we had gone out today. What a ROTTEN day. Now I'll never go back to sleep. I have no damn stability in my life now. Too many crazy breathless things are happening: this play, TS, school, auditions -

I feel sick sick sick sick sick SICK

I feel so sick. [You got that?]

What fun is going to auditions if I never talk to TS again? [Or: How can I enjoy my life without someone to share it with, you mean? Dont' worry, Sheila - you'll become really good at it! It's easy once you get the hang of it!]

I swear to God. Thinking is dangerous for me.

[To be honest, I don't really know what is going on here. It all seems to be based on the fact that he hadn't called me - AND that I had "made callbacks" and he didn't - and I was afraid he would be mad or hurt by that. This is my guess. It seems rather simple .... but oh well. I was 17 and everything was VERY dramatic!! What is awesome here, in retrospect, is how truly NERVOUS I was about this whole 'callback' thing - it was like I had started a train, and now it was getting away from me, and I had to run to keep up. But I had done it. I had auditioned and I got called back. Can't stop now! Let's see this thing thru to the end. I discovered a lot of GUMPTION that I didn't know I had during this period in my life.]

SEPTEMBER 27

Just came back from callbacks. Cast list up tomorrow.

[The following is written in miniscule letters.] I don't even want to open my mouth. I just have to wait and see what happens.

[Back to regular lettering] It's late now, but I'm still staring around me with bug eyes. [Wow. What an attractive image.]

Today was - my face was perpetually upside down. TS didn't call. [Oh man. Nothing quiiiiiiiiite like that whole "he didn't call" agony] I was feeling sick about callbacks anyway, and having him not call was like - Blahhhhhhhh

What an awful week.

Anyways. Anne passed on some info to me. She told me that she was talking to her brother [He and TS were best friends] and she told him that TS and I had both tried out and only I had made callbacks, and her brother burst into hysterics. Anne told him that I was sort of bothered about it and her brother said, "She's not gonna let that stop her, is she? She's not gonna let that get to her - screw TS's feelings - GO!"

I've been thinking about it and TS is more abnormal than that. Like - I can't imagine he would get jealous and petty about me getting callbacks. He is an exceptional human being and he likes me. Why didn't he call????

[Yes. That is exactly how I put together those sentences. Oh, it's so full of pathos, isn't it???]

So the whole thing Anne told me made me feel better.

After I got off work, I had an hour and 15 minutes to wait - so I was going crazy. I wandered around. I bought a soda. I thought of calling J or something - but I decided: "No. I am, for once, going to do this with only me to supply the strength." [GOOD FOR YOU!]

It was new for me. TS wasn't there to help me. No one but me. As I walked alone up the Centre stairs, I was thinking, "Anyone who thinks I'm not strong doesn't know me." I didn't feel strong - but I knew that I could do it on my own.

I was totally dying. Dying.

I was so so nervous. Nervous isn't even the stupid word.

I want to tell details, but I also don't want to. If I don't get the part, I don't want to talk about it again. Only ONE other girl was there for Millie, and I read for Millie more than she did. But I still don't know.

When I become a Drama major [sigh], I hope I don't turn into like some of those people I saw there. So fakey. So showoffy. I just sat in a corner, read my script, and glared at them. [hahahahahaha] The four guys who were reading were WICKED cool. I really liked THEM.

I think I did okay. Well. I DO.

There's so much more to say - but I can't talk details.

I'm killing myself. I hate this. I want to see TS.

[So fascinating. How he totally stopped calling when I got called back. And how I was literally FORCED to go thru the whole thing on my own steam. I had to just keep going, despite my nerves, and despite the fact that I was nervous the whole thing would separate me from TS. Again, like I said - I found reserves in me thru this whole thing I didn't know I had. And now - we come to the next entry - which still makes me smile, when I look at it.]

SEPTEMBER 28

I'm in I'm in I'm IN!

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The Books: "The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror" (Bernard Lewis)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

413H7GV2CTL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgMy history bookshelf. Next book on the shelf is The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror by Bernard Lewis. I think this began as a lengthy article in The Atlantic or something like that - I remember reading part of it as an article, and he expanded it into a book. Actually, my favorite of all of Lewis' book is a book called Middle East Mosaic - and I'm not including an excerpt from it because - he didn't really WRITE it. It's more that he COMPILED it. A huge book - filled with quotes throughout history about different aspects of the Muslim world. Travelers from the Middle Ages, emissaries from Muslim lands describing things in letters, first impressions, but also: poetry, snippets from recipe books, songs, legends ... It's a GREAT compilation - not the sort of thing to read cover to cover, but still: really fun, and thought-provoking. I love that first-hand stuff. It's a Middle Eastern Commonplace Book. Love it.

But anyway, on to excerpt from Crisis of Islam.

From The Crisis of Islam: Holy War and Unholy Terror by Bernard Lewis.

The victories of Saladin and his capture of Jerusalem from the Crusaders in 1187 have long been and are today a source of inspiration to Arab leaders. Saddam Hussein refers frequently to two previous rulers of Iraq whom he claims as predecessors in his mission -- Saladin, who ended the Western menace of his day by defeating and evicting the Crusaders, and Nebuchadnezzar, who dealt expeditiously and conclusively with the Zionist problem. On October 8, 2002, the prime minster of France, Jean-Pierre Raffarin, in a speech to the French National Assembly, told how Saladin was able "to defeat the Crusaders in Galilee and liberate Jerusalem." This interesting use of the word liberate by a French prime minister to describe Saladin's capture of Jerusalem from the Crusaders may be a reflection of present-day realignments or, alternatively, a case of extreme political correctness. In some other countries this formulation might be ascribed to ignorance of history, but surely not in France.

Even in Christian Europe, Saladin was justly celebrated and admired for his chivalrous and generous treatment of his defeated enemies. This treatment, however, did not extend to Reynald of Chatillon. The great Arab historian Ibn al-Athir explains the circumstances. "Twice, [said Saladin,] I had made a vow to kill him if I had him in my hands, once when he tried to march on Mecca and Medina, and again when he treacherously captured the caravan [bound for the Hijaz]." After Saladin's great victory, when many of the Crusader princes and chieftains were taken captive and later released, he separated Reynald of Chatillon from the rest, and killed and beheaded him with his own hands.

After the success of the jihad and the recapture of Jerusalem, Saldin and his successors seem to have lost interest in the city, and in 1229 one of them even ceded Jerusalem to the emperor Frederick II as part of a general compromise agreement between the Muslim ruler and the Crusaders. It was retaken in 1244, after the Crusaders tried to make it a purely Christian city. After a long period of relative obscurity, interest in the city was reawakened in the nineteenth century, first by the quarrels of the European powers over the custody of the Christian holy places, and then by the new Jewish immigration.

The same period saw a first awakening of interest among Muslims in the Crusades, which had aroused remarkably little concern at the time they occurred. The vast and rich Arabic historiography of the period duly records the Crusaders' arrival, their battles, and the states that they established but shows little or no awareness of the nature and purposes of their venture. The word Crusade and Crusader do not even occur in the Arabic historiography of the time, in which the Crusaders are referred to as the infidels, the Christians, or more frequently, the Franks, a general term for Catholic -- and later also Protestant -- European Christians, to distinguish them from their Orthodox and Eastern coreligionists. Awareness of the Crusades as a distinct historical phenomenon dates from the nineteenth century, and the translation of European books on history. Since then, there is a new perception of the Crusades as an early prototype of the expansion of European imperialism into the Islamic world. A more accurate description would present them as a long-delayed, very limited, and finally ineffectual response to the jihad. The Crusades ended in failure and defeat, and were soon forgotten in the lands of Islam, but later European efforst to resist and reverse the Mulsim advance into Christendom were more successful, and initiated what became a series of painful defeats on the frontiers of the Islamic world.

Under the medieval Arab caliphate, and again under the Persian and Turkish dynasties, the empire of Islam was the richest, most powerful, most creative, most enlightened region in the world, and for most of the Middle Ages, Christendom was on the defensive. In the fifteenth century, the Christian counterattack expanded. The Tatars were expelled from Russia, and the Moors from Spain. But in southeastern Europe, where the Ottoman sultan confronted first the Byzantine and then the Holy Roman emperor, Muslim power prevailed, and these other setbacks were seen as minor and peripheral. As late as the seventeenth century, Turkish pashas still ruled in Budapest and Belgrade, Turkish armies were besieging Vienna, and Barbary corsairs were raiding both shipping and seashores as far away as England, Ireland, and, on occasion, even Madeira and Iceland. The corsairs were greatly helped in their work by Europeans who, for one reason or another, settled in North Africa and showed them how to build, man, and operate oceangoing vessels in the North Sea and even in the Atlantic. This phase did not last very long.

Then came the great change. The second Turkish siege of Vienna, in 1683, ended in total failure followed by headlong retreat -- an entirely new experience for the Ottoman armies. This defeat, suffered by what was then the major military power of the Muslim world, gave rise to a new debate, which in a sense has been going on ever since. The argument began among the Ottoman military, political, and later intellectual elite as a discussion of two questions. Why had the once ever-victorious Ottoman armies been vanquished by the despised Christian enemy? And how could they restore their previous dominance? In time the debate spread from the elites to wider circles, from Turkey to many other countries, and dealt with an ever-widening range of issues.

There was good reason for concern. Defeat followed defeat, and Christian European forces, having liberated their own lands, pursued their former invaders whence they had come in Asia and Africa. Even small European powers such as Holland and Portugal were able to build vast empires in the East and to establish a dominant role in trade. In 1593 an Ottoman official who also served as a chronicler of current events, Selaniki Mustafa Efendi, recorded the arrival in Istanbul of an English ambassador. He does not appear to have been much interested in the ambassador, but he was much struck by the English ship in which the ambassador traveled: "A ship as strange as this has never entered the port of Istanbul," he wrote. "It crossed 3,700 miles of sea and carried eighty-three guns besides other weapons ... It was a wonder of the age, the like of which has not been seen or recorded." Another source of wonderment was the sovereign who sent the ambassador. "The ruler of the island of England is a woman who governs her inherited realm ... with complete power."

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March 9, 2006

Worst sequels

Entertainment Weekly lists the 25 worst sequels.

... Sequels, as a general rule, blow. But some are so ill-conceived, so cynically calculated, and so aggressively inept that they need to be called out and held accountable in the public square.

Hahahaha

Their criteria?

First, we looked at how steep a sequel's drop-off in quality was from the original. Then we weighed how utterly unnecessary the sequel was. You're probably thinking, ''Yeah, but some sequels are so bad they're good!'' Those aren't on this list. These movies are so absolutely bad their badness can be measured only in Kelvin degrees. Finally, we factored in a certain intangible stankitude — a sort of je ne sais crap that makes a film so god-awful you wish there were a cinematic Hague where it could be tried.

Je ne sais crap. Very nice.


Make sure you read the little snippets for each movie. They're funny, and spot ON.


via Chai-rista.

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The Books: "What Went Wrong?: The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East" (Bernard Lewis)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf.

51RXNCRQ3VL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on the shelf is What Went Wrong? : The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East by Bernard Lewis. Oh boy. The thought police are gonna be all over me for this one!! hahaha

Anyway, Bernard Lewis has been out there, writing books on Islam and the Muslim world for many years - and he, of course, catapulted to national prominence (on a wider more populist level) following September 11, when his expertise was sorely needed. The whole "Why are these people so mad???" question is addressed, over and over and over again, in this book. It's a quick read, not too in-depth - it is meant to address a wide populace- not a select group of scholars. Muslim History 101. A very good quick reference book for the shelves. It's also good because Lewis has great affection for his topic - which gives his tone and his points a certain weight. He is truly sad it has come to this. But he's not surprised. Because of the history involved.

I highly recommend this book.

From What Went Wrong? : The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East by Bernard Lewis.

At the peak of Islamic power, there was only one civilization that was comparable in the level, quality, and variety of achievement; that was of course China. But Chinese civilization remained essentially local, limited to one region, East Asia, and to one racial group. It was exported to some degree, but only to neighboring and kindred peoples. Islam in contrast created a world civilization, polyethnic, multiracial, international, one might even say intercontinental.

For centuries the world view and self-view of Muslims seemed well grounded. Islam represented the greatest military power on earth -- its armies, at the very same time, were invading Europe and Africa, India and China. It was the foremost economic power in the world, trading in a wide range of commodities through a far-flung network of commerce and communications in Asia, Europe, and Africa; importing slaves and gold from Africa, slaves and wool from Europe, and exchanging a variety of foodstuffs, materials, and manufactures with the civilized countries of Asia. It had achieved the highest level so far in human history in the arts and sciences of civilization. Inheriting the knowledge and skills of the ancient Middle East, of Greece and of Persia, it added to them several important innovations from outside, such as the use and manufacture of paper from China and decimal positional numbering from India. It is difficult to imagine modern literature or science without the one or the other. It was in the Islamic Middle East that Indian numbers were for the first time incorporated in the inherited body of mathematical learning. From the Middle East they were transmitted to the West, where they are still known as Arabic numerals, honoring not those who invented them but those who first brought them to Europe. To this rich inheritance scholars and scientists in the Islamic world added an immensely important contribution through their own observations, experiments, and ideas. In most of the arts and sciences of civilization, medieval Europe was a pupil and in a sense a dependent of the Islamic world, relying on Arabic versions even for many otherwise unknown Greek works.

And then, suddenly, the relationship changed. Even before the Renaissance, Europeans were beginning to make significant progress in the civilized arts. With the advent of the New Learning, they advanced by leaps and bounds, leaving the scientific and technological and eventually the cultural heritage of the Islamic world far behind them.

The Muslims for a long time remained unaware of this. The great translation movement that centuries earlier had brought many Greek, Persian, and Syriac works wihtin the purview of Muslim and other Arabic readers had come to an end, and the new scientific literature of Europe was almost totally unknown to them. Until the late eighteenth century, only one medical book was translated into a Middle Eastern language -- a sixteenth century treatise on syphilis, presented to Sultan Mehmed IV in Turkish 1655. Both the choice and the date are significant. This disease, reputedly of American origin, had come to the Islamic world, from Europe and is indeed still known in Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and other languages as "the Frankish disease". Obviously, it seemed both appropriate and legitimate to adopt a Frankish remedy for a Frankish disease. Apart from that, the Renaissance, the Reformation, the technological revolution passed virtually unnoticed in the lands of Islam, where they were still inclined to dismiss the denizens of the lands beyond the Western frontier as benighted barbarians, much inferior even to the more sophisticated Asian infidels to the east. These had useful skills and devices to impart; the Europeans had neither. It was a judgment that had for long been reasonably accurate. It was becoming dangerously out of date.

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March 8, 2006

Marilyn and the camera

Eve Arnold took some of my favorite photos of Marilyn Monroe ever. Like this candid one.

mm4.jpg


That's on the set of The Misfits. Spectacular photograph - regardless of who the subject is. I have it on my bulletin board in my kitchen. I just love it. Who knows - she COULD be thinking: "Damn, I'm hungry" or "I love the color of the sky" or "I'm so pissed at my husband right now" ... You could project anything onto it - and what I project onto it is - This is a photo of an actress preparing for a scene. I like to think this is her having a meditative quiet moment before the camera starts rolling.

I just love everything about it.

Eve Arnold has written a couple of books about Marilyn (mainly photo books) and there's a lot of great insights in there about the relationship between Marilyn and the camera, which even directors who found her a handful and a half to direct (like Billy Wilder) could not deny was something completely out of the ordinary. The camera turned on, and Marilyn DECIDED to become Marilyn. And the audience - millions of miles away, and months away from the time of shooting, GOT her. Marilyn skipped right over the heads of the directors, the editors, the publicists, and went STRAIGHT to the public, who loved her. Men and women.

Here's another one of Eve Arnold's.


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Here are some of Arnold's quote about Marilyn's magic:

I never knew anyone who even came close to Marilyn in natural ability to use both photographer and still camera. She was special in this, and for me there has been no one like her before or after. She has remained the measuring rod by which I have -- unconsciously -- judged other subjects.

Story after story from photographers tell of this plain-looking rather blanched-faced woman showing up at the studio - who then just transformed when the camera was clicking. It was not just a matter of makeup. There are plenty of beautiful girls. It was a matter of turning a light on inside. And Monroe was not only conscious of this - this was no accident of talent, or coloring, or working hard ... She knew how to be photographed better than anybody.

Eve Arnold again:

If an editor wanted her, he had to agree to her terms. She knew how she wanted to be seen, and if her cooperation was sought, she reserved the right of veto.

She knew she was superlative at creating still pictures and she loved doing it.

She had learned the trick of moving infinitesimally to stay in range, so that the photographer need not refocus but could easily follow movements that were endlessly changing.

At first I thought it was surface technique, but it went beyond technique. It didn't always work, and sometimes she would tire and it was as though her radar had failed; but when it did work, it was magic. With her it was never a formula; it was her will, her improvisation.

Amazing. There's a mystery at the heart of it. I love it. My friend Anne said to me in high school, "Everyone has magic inside of them. But only some people have theatre magic."

Photographer Burt Glinn had this to say:

She had no bone structure -- the face was a Polish flat plate. Not photogenic in the accepted sense, the features were not memorable or special; what she had was the ability to project.

Yup. That's the actress in her. She PROJECTED herself into the dreams and fantasies of the audience - you can see it in the photos, sure, but you can also see it in the films. Watch her. Watch how her face moves. How her eyes close slightly, open, become serious and wide, and then drowsy again - This is projection. It cannot be duplicated. She is literally in a class all her own in this regard. People try to imitate Monroe, and fail. Because, at heart, she is one of our most organic of actresses. If she didn't FEEL it (like Arnold wrote above), she couldn't do it. This is why she could be a nightmare on the set. If she didn't feel "her" when it came time to shoot the scene (she would refer to that person who came out of her when the cameras were rolling in the third person ... "So do you want to see 'her'?") - panic would set in, and she would lock herself in her trailer, or get lost on the way to the location, or whatever. Panic. Fear. It had to come from inside, or she couldn't do it.

But that's neither here nor there. Every artist has his or her demons. Those were Marilyns.

This is meant to just be a wee celebration of her magic with the camera.

Even in moments of either a pause between shots - or - sadness? - she is riveting. Arnold again:

mm5.jpg

Who knows what is going on here. She might just be resting, or thinking - and the camera, for whatever magic reason, picks up on the underlying sadness there ... That was the kind of relationship Marilyn had with the camera: it was intimate.

I'll save one of my favorite quotes about this for last.

Here's one more photo from Eve Arnold: Marilyn as Venus on the half shell practically:

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Now obviously that photo is all about her body and its curves - but if you look at her face - if you look at that expression - it's a startlingly intimate expression. She is WITH us. We are so used to seeing images of Marilyn Monroe - it's hard to remember how out-of-the-ordinary she is. How nobody does it like her. Her eyes are half-closed, she's got a soft and vulnerable look on her face ... she lets the camera IN. Beautiful. No wonder audiences always felt PROTECTIVE of her. Anyone that vulnerable obviously needs protection.

Ernest Cunningham, another photographer who worked with her, describes the whole magic in the following quote - and what I love about this quote, is that we get a quote from Marilyn herself, showing her awareness about the whole thing - she was in charge of what was going on. Anyway, here's Cunningham:

I worked with Marilyn Monroe. A rather dull person. But when I said "Now!" she lit up. Suddenly, something unbelievable came across. The minute she heard the click of the camera, she was down again. It was over. I said, "What is it between you and the camera that doesn't show at any other time?" She said, "It's like being screwed by a thousand guys and you can't get pregnant."

That's what it is, isn't it? She felt intimate with the camera. It was where she could project. She knew that the camera could see everything and so she LET it see everything. She was loved by that camera more than she was ever loved by any human being.

But I don't mean to pathologize this woman - that's not what interests me about her.

What interests me, above all, is her magic.

mm1.jpg

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Love in the time of blindness

Had an eye appointment today. I get all stressed out for eye appointments, due to the bad-ness of my eyes. Going to the eye doctor for me is like going to a dentist is for others.

I love my doctor, though. He's cool, he makes me relaxed, and he EXPLAINS TO ME what is going on with my eyes. No eye doctor has ever actually taken the time to TALK TO ME ABOUT MY DAMN EYES. What is happening with the itty bitty muscles, how my eyes are changing, what's going ON ... Information is not only power, but it is CALMING. My whole relationship to my eyes has always been one of pretty much intense fear ... just hoping against hope that they don't get worse, I don't lose my sight - but he actually talks to me about my eyes, and I find myself feeling like ... Wow. Maybe things aren't so bad. No eye doctor has EVER made me feel that way before. EVER.

I feel lucky I found this dude.

Anyway, today:

He had me take my contact lenses out. I did. Feeling, as always, suddenly vulnerable with a capital V. I sat there in the chair. Blind as a bat. I even can't HEAR properly without some kind of corrective lens - the world becomes a complete and utter blur. It stresses me out, and upsets me.

We continued to talk, though, about my eyes - I did my best to hear him, even though I couldn't see.

I said at one point, "See, I sit here and become completely aware of how bad my eyes are ... Like, you are totally blurry right now."

He said, "Oh, no, I'm just that way already."

I burst out laughing. "You're blurry?"

"Yeah. That's just me."

I love this man.

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The Books: "China Wakes: The Struggle for the Soul of a Rising Power " (Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf.

Oh, and a quick note: I get emails sometimes, angry emails, about the books I have on my shelf. My latest email was from an angry Muslim woman who wrote to tell me that The Hidden Lives of Muslim Women is a bad book, hated by Muslim women, and Geraldine Brooks is hated by Muslims. I am aware of this already - and in posting excerpts from my books, it is not an implicit endorsement of the ideas therein. The Muslim woman was extremely polite, and respectful - it was actually a nice email - but it made me do a double-take. I didn't write the books. I own Mein Kampf, for example. If you want to understand the rise of Nazism, and I do, then you kinda need to have that book. So don't bitch at me about the books I have on my shelves. I am glad for any discussion - but I own tons of books that would probably offend SOMEONE and ... I don't care. They're my bookshelves. This daily-excerpt thing is a fun exercise for me - and lots of readers seem to get a lot out of it. I do it in a ROTE way, because that makes it funner for me and less editorial. By that I mean, I'm not looking at my shelf and thinking: "Hmmm, what book is the best one here? What book do I like best?" No. For this daily-excerpt thing I just go book to book to book - and they're mainly in alphabetical order. I skip the books I haven't read yet. Again, any discussions of these books is awesome - that's the whole point - I have an incredible group of readers, who are all well-read, with different historical perspectives, who come from this or that walk of life - they all bring cool stuff to the table. I got an angry email from some frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic (funny how the people who email me like this rarely comment on the site - never heard of this dude before in my life) about my love of Clifford Odets, and how could I post excerpts from his plays WITHOUT denouncing his Communist views. This guy wanted me to say: "Clifford Odets, while I love his plays, had views I consider abhorrent". It offended him that I focused only on Odets' language, and plays. He was ITCHING to add text to my own post - he was TWITCHING through the keyboard with his own agitation - I could feel him thinking: "Why didn't she mention that he was a Communist?? Why is she misleading people?" Uhm - well. Many thoughts. Get your own blog is the first thought. Second of all: if, by reading the Odets-ian excerpts, people get interested in him - then they can go look him up and see what he was all about. I'm not trying to be encyclopedic here. Third of all: this is an exercise for me. For me, the appeal of Odets is his language (nobody better - literally) - his dialogue - and his place in American theatrical history. I am not trying to be all-inclusive here. I certainly don't like the thought that I might offend someone, but - I don't care, essentially. Especially with something like THIS - a daily book excerpt - which is just an interesting and invigorating personal exercise for me.

The comments these book excerpts have gotten have been WONDERFUL. I love the discussions that come up. But just a reminder: I did not write these books. I do not endorse many of the views in my books. But - DUH - I like history. I like to learn what people say about it, from all sides. And there you have it!!

71C45NYPBTL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.gif.jpegNext book on the shelf is China Wakes : The Struggle for the Soul of a Rising Power , by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn. Married, both New York Times reporters - they won Pulitzers for their reporting during the Tiananman Square situation - I remember their articles from that time. Every day - you just had to open the paper (uhm - no cable news, of course!!) - and see if there were any new developments. It was gripping, and awful - to watch it all unfold. All of their articles are included in this book.

Anyway - they have now written, as a team, a couple of books on China - and this is one of them. It's what you would call a "sweeping" book - each chapter takes on a different aspect - Communism, capitalism, the peasants, the intellectual life, yadda yadda. It's good. I actually would like to read a nice big book solely about the Cultural Revolution in China - if anyone has any suggestions, please leave them in the comments. That would be great!

Sheryl Wudunn, a Chinese-American, only one generation removed from China - had quite an experience going back. She went back to her family's village - actually, she had never been there before - it was a pilgrimage for her, almost - she had heard about it, and then she traveled to see it. To meet her relatives still there, etc. I'm going to post an excerpt from that chapter.

From China Wakes : The Struggle for the Soul of a Rising Power , by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn.

As I stood beside my second cousin in Shun Shui, I felt an abyss between us that cut deeper than our bloodline. As I watched him and his wife and his sons, I rested a hand on my smooth black leather bag, which all of a sudden seemed to boast of opulence. I had gone to private schools on the East Coast and taken jazz dance and French lessons. My cousin had dropped out of school before he learned to write. I had grown up shopping in Bloomingdale's and eating bagels. He had never even been to the provincial capital of Guangzhou. And now I carried $150 -- or four months' worth of his salary -- in my wallet. When I departed, I left half of my money with Ng Lap-ting, the village chief: "Use it toward buying a television for the village," I urged. And I left the other half with my relatives, stuffing it hurriedly into my second cousin's hand.

I wasn't the only one leaving piles of cash behind in China. Like my grandfather, millions of Chinese had forsaken their homeland from the seventeenth century on, fleeing poverty and seeking a better life. This diaspora embraces more than 50 million ethnic Chinese, now living in Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia -- and, of course, the Upper West Side of Manhattan. While Chinese in China remained mired in poverty, those abroad became successful traders and often did better than the local people. That's why -- at least until the Deng era -- Chinese always seemed far more dynamic when you encountered them in Jakarta or Singapore than when you visited Shanghai. Chinese ethnic minorities play a hugely disproportionate role in the business communities of Thailand, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Chinese dominate such dynamos as Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapoer.

It has always struck me as odd that many nationalities should thrive abroad while seeming listless at home. India is a laggard, yet Indians dominate the Fijian economy. Tamils are far more impressive abroad in Sri Lanka than at home in Tamil Nadu. Perhaps it has to do in part with the immigrant mentality lighting a fire under people in their new homes. Perhaps they are bound at home by the burdens of caste and culture, finding themselves free only when they are far away. And perhaps it is self-selection: The risk takers are those who flee their homelands to work on plantations in Fiji, to work in construction in Sri Lanka -- or to open a Mandarin Restaurant in Manhattan.

In any case, the overseas Chinese have been a godsend to China. Beginning in the 1970s, they shuffled in through the door when other foreigners demurred; they traveled by rickety car and rackety bus through the rice paddies to see their laojia and invest in local factories; they brought in radios and camera and, over banquets of stir-fried pig stomach and sea urchin, told about life in the world beyond; they offered investment, expertise, modern manufacturing techniques, and a great desire to do business with their homeland. Today, they run all over China, their arms overflowing with gifts and hong bao -- red envelopes containing money -- for their relatives. They have become role models for the Chinese.

The Chinese diaspora is one reason China has been a great deal more successful than the European alumni of the Communist Bloc. How many overseas Bulgarian businessmen are there abroad to set up factories in their hometowns? No other country has had remotely as much support from compatriots as China. Some three-fourths of foreign investment in China has come from ethnic Chinese abroad, mostly in Hong Kong and Taiwan. The biggest single foreign investor in China is a Thai Chinese who runs an agribusiness empire. As labor costs soared in Southeast Asia, many overseas Chinese businessmen moved their entire assembly lines or their back offices into their ancestral hometowns in China.

The overseas Chinese brought other baggage with them as well. They lugged their Scandinavian furniture, their Persian carpets, their long-haired cats, their love of Western books and newspapers, and a large basket of Western values. They even brought their American husbands! Maybe it wasn't such a pity after all that the poor or the persecuted fled China, for they always seemed to return -- often as foreign citizens -- to the motherland, whether to tour, to live, to invest, or to die. And how intoxicating it was for many local Chinese to see this, and how puzzling! Were these overseas Chinese really Chinese? Or some weird hybrid? But the Chinese liked what they saw. For a time the top pop singer in China was Fei Xiang, the blue-eyed, six-foot-tall son of a Taiwan woman and an American father. Anything foreign had cachet. Companies began changing their names to sound foreign, as if they were translated from English, even if they weren't. Chinese began spelling their names in the Taiwan and Hong Kong way, like Chang instead of Zhang and Chow instead of Zhao. People gave themselves English names (sometimes with disastrous results, as when Miss Chow named herself Kitt). And these newly styled Chinese began asking their government for more. As the economy soared and the confidence of economists and intellectuals rose in the late 1980s, there was a strange sense, a wistful hope, that China was transforming into a new country, one more like the overseas Chinese communities abroad.

But it was going to be a battle, a tug-of-war for the soul of the new China. The revolutionary generation was not amenable to sweeping change, and to them this new orientation was tantamount to abandoning the nation's pride. The growing dependence on the West was too much for many of the old cadres, whose fathers and forefathers had spent their lives fighting off the foreigners. China's emperors, from Qianlong to Mao, had struggled to keep China an economic island unto itself, shunning Western help and advice.

"Our Celestial Emperor possesses all things in prolific abundance," Emperor Qianlong declared to Lord Macartney in 1793, explaining China's refusal to trade with the West. Ever since, Chinese have agonized over the merits of contact with the West. Some of them, like Mao, boasted of self-reliance, and those who took up his mantle wanted to believe that China could advance on its own, with limited foreign assistance. They were embarrassed, humiliated, by their country's mood. They disparagingly called it chongyang meiwai -- worshiping the West and fawning on foreigners.

I wasn't the only one with an identity crisis: China was in the midst of one, too. Would it be traditional or Western? Would it maintain strict controls on society or be bold enough to liberalize? Would it allow people to speak out more openly, perhaps even to criticize the emperor and his retinue? These questions bubbled in the atmosphere during the months before the Tiananmen Square democracy movement. The government's unequivocal answer came soon enough.

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March 7, 2006

Black aircraft ...

Area 51, conspiracy theories (ahem), Aurora watchers ...

CW has a reeeeeeallly interesting post up right now.

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Circus

Alex and Mitchell, two of my dearest friends, are now doing a circus together. No, literally. A circus.

The envy that I feel is pretty much inappropriate.

Anyway, they just had their opening night ... and here is Alex's recounting of it, which brought me to tears. I LOVE that boy backstage.

Wish I could see it, you guys!!!

UPDATE; The Chicago Tribune gave it a rave.

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Snowy woods

I learned that today, in 1923, Robert Frost's "Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening" was published in the New Republic.

Here's the story of the composition of that poem - which I think is just GREAT:

Though it's a poem about winter, Frost wrote the first draft on a warm morning in the middle of June. The night before he had stayed up working at his kitchen table on a long, difficult poem called "New Hampshire" (1923). He finally finished it, and then looked up and saw that it was morning. He'd never worked all night on a poem before. Feeling relieved at the work he'd finished, he went outside and watched the sunrise.

But while he was outside, he suddenly got an idea for a new poem. So he rushed back inside his house and wrote "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" in just a few minutes. He said he wrote most of the poem almost without lifting his pen off the page.


Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.



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In my humble opinion, it is that last stanza that makes this a truly great poem. Before that, although the imagery is beautiful and evocative - we are in a rather prosaic world, the world of the everyday - with neighbors and villages and harness bells - objects that cement us to the physical world.

But in the last stanza, Frost pulls his lens abruptly back ... going into the universal and timeless.

Jesus, it's moving.


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The Books: "The Spirit of Prague" (Ivan Klima)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

71K58A945ML._OU01_AA240_SH20_.gif.jpegNext book on the shelf is a collection of essays by Czech writer Ivan Klima - it's called The Spirit of Prague . Klima has seen it all - he was in Terezin concentration camp as a child, he went though the Stalinist totalitarianism afterwards in his home country - he's a novelist - (his book Judge on Trial is what turned me on to him) and lived through YEARS of repression of even being able to work. Because you know who are most frightening to totalitarian despots? The writers. Nothing more dangerous than the printed word. Nothing more dangerous than a well-timed book, or painting, or film that cuts straight through all the bullshit propaganda. No, no, no, we can't have THAT! Klima was the editor of Czechoslovakia's most prominent literary magazine - his experience of the "Prague Spring" was, like most of his countrymen, shattering. Devastating. Most of these essays were written in the 1989-1991 period - during and following "the Velvet Revolution" (I love that they called it that) - it was a time of great hope, but also - great sadness and uncertainty. Vaclav Havel's "moral contamination" speech in early 1990 captures that vibe perfectly. Yes, whoo-hoo, they were now "free" - but they had to deal with all they had lost, through the repression, and also how they the citizens were partly responsible for all of it. (Havel's speech, to me, is one of the greatest speeches of the 20th century. Never heard anything like it before in MY life!! Amazing.)

I'm going to post a bit from Klima's essay called "Culture vs. Totalitarianism". In it, he describes the cultural opposition to the regime in Czechoslovakia. This is one of the reasons why I am so, shall we say, 'touchy' towards those who wish that artists would just shut up about things outside of their realm, don't try to be important, or relevant ... just juggle over in the corner and entertain me. I'm touchy about it not just for my own personal reasons and my own life-choices, but because in my mind I'm thinking: Careful what you wish for. Careful what you wish for.

I love Czech writers - and Havel is one of my idols - so it was an easy leap over to Klima. I checked out his novel first and then moved on to his non-fiction. He's fantastic - if you haven't read him, I hope you give him a try.

From The Spirit of Prague .

Totalitarianism correctly understood the threat this cultural resistance posed, but the nature of that power ruled out any accommodation or compromise. It continued to battle against literature. It raided private flats and detained people who had gathered there to listen to lectures or the reading of a play or something as innocent as lyric poetry. It confiscated manuscripts from poets, prose writers and philosophers, both local and translated works, just as it did documents from Charter 77. From time to time it held trials in which judgement was passed on those who copied texts or organized other kinds of cultural activitiy. Because these people were clearly innocent, even according to the laws in force, the outcome of these trials were the opposite of what the authorities intended. They were meant to intimidate, but they succeeded only in unmasking power, in revealing it for the unprincipled, prejudiced and philistine force it was. This merely stiffened people's resistance. Early samizdat publications came out in tiny editions of tens of copies; by the eighties, books were being reproduced in many workshops, the technology of reproduction was modernized, and the number of titles mushroomed. (The literary samizdat enterprise Padlock Editions published three hundred titles.) In the seventies, there were practically no samizdat cultural journals; by the eighties, there were more than a hundred unofficial magazines. (At the same time, there were only five official magazines dealing with culture.)

Sasmizdat literature was only one of the ways in which the repressed culture expressed itself. There were seminars in philosophy, and lecture series were held on different areas of the humanities. Young people frequently tried to distance themselves entirely from the pseudo-culture offered to them by the authorities. They founded small theatres, and from the seventies on, the most authentic expression of their relationship to the ruling system was the protest song. Singers who were closest to them in age and attitude became their idols. The authorities reacted predictably, and one generation of protest singers was essentially driven into exile, but as usual, the results were the opposite of what was intended.

By the late eighties, the international situation was undoubtedly influential. Those who represented power and those who represented culture were clearly squared off against each other. Several events also sharpened the conflict between the authorities and those who were trying to extricate themselves from their toils. The authorities frequently used police brutality to break up memorial assemblies to commemorate the country's national holiday or the memory of Jan Palach, a student who had set fire to himself, and died, in protest against the Soviet invasion. Those who came to pay their respects to a person who symbolized the possibility of individual protest taken to its furthest extreme became the object of a violent attack by special units who used truncheons, water-cannons, and tear-gas. People, mostly the young, decided not to give way to violence. For five consecutive days the peaceful assemblies were repeated, and on four occasions the police used violence to break them up. Several people were arrested, Vaclav Havel among them. During these events, which aroused the emotions of the whole country, the cruel truth about power was publicly revealed for the first time. At this critical juncture, the government could not find a single person with sufficient authority to address the nation. No one was willing to give public support to the regime, but many could be found to protest against police brutality, against imprisoning the innocent. Among the protestors were actors, filmmakers, and writers who, until then, the regime had believed to be "on its side".

In this critical situation, the authorities -- and it is hard to say whether this was out of stupidity or desperation or arrogance, or the awareness that they were indeed indelibly tarnished -- refused all invitations by the cultural opposition to take part in a dialogue. The deep chasm between totalitarian power and all the "shaken", to use Patocka's term, became unbridgeable. It was clear that any further error, any further act of arrogance, might be fatal.

What happened in November 1989 is well known. As an eyewitness and a participant, I wish to emphasize that this revolution, which really was the outcome of a clash between culture and pwoer, was the most non-violent revolution imaginable. In the mass meetings attended by up to three-quarters of a million people, no one was hurt, not a window was broken, not a car damaged. Many of the tens of thousands of pamphlets that flooded Prague and other cities and towns urged people to peaceful, tolerant action; not one called for violence. For those who still believe in the power of culture, the power of words, of good and of love, and their dominance over violence, who believe that neither the poet nor Archimedes, in their struggle against the man in uniform, are beaten before they begin, the Prague revolution must have been an inspiration.

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March 6, 2006

Objects

Yes, I know, I'm so easily pleased it's frightening. A red-shaded lamp from Pier One sends me into ecstasies. An iPod sends me into some kind of manic revelatory experience. So let's add another OBJECT to that list:

This year I actually took advantage of the whole Presidents Day sale thing - and went to Gothic Cabinet with a coupon clutched in my hand - 75 feckin' percent off. Now THAT'S a sale. So whatever. I bought a huge bookcase - and it will arrive this Friday. I need another one. Uhm - "need"? Yes. Need. I don't know where to put it ... but it will all work out. It's five shelves - stained a dark teak color - yum. I can't WAIT to rearrange all my books.

Also, I just have to take a second to thank one of my readers who just made my day by sending me an item off my Wish List: America's Constitution : A Biography - by Akhil Reed Amar.

It's one of those things where I forgot it was even ON the wish list - and today it arrived - like a mini-Christmas day pour moi!

I think this book will dovetail QUITE nicely with the biography I'm reading now of Mr. Ratification himself, Alexander Hamilton.

And now I won't have to stack the book on its side, on top of other books. I will have a bit more ROOM for my BOOKS. Less room for ME, personally ... but more room for the BOOKS. And that's really what's important.

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hahahahaha

I need to pass on this small moment of New York behavior. Hahahaha

I mean, there's always funny stuff on that site - but sometimes one just calls out to be passed on. Still laughing ....

Posted by sheila Permalink

Oscar fashion

Off the top of my head here are some of my responses to the sartorial choices of the actors and actresses last night:

-- Charlize Theron looked dyed orange - and what the hell was that THING sprouting out of her shoulder?? Terrible dress.

-- Sandra Bullock's dress was my favorite. She looked beautiful and simple, I thought.

-- Uma literally looked like a statue off of some ancient Grecian urn. GORGEOUS.

-- Meryl Streep's dress had a nice classical line to it, I love the brownish sheen of it, and I felt that her boobs looked amazing. Also, I liked her dangly earrings. She's got such a nice face.

-- Lily Tomlin looked like she was dressed as an extra in Memoirs of a Geisha

-- Philip Seymour Hoffman's gangster choice of black shirt, white tie, was very funny. I love him. People like him typically win Best Supporting actor parts. He's a character actor and he just won Best Actor. You can count on one hand how many people have done that. YAY for him.

-- I thought Michelle Williams looked amazing - in that BRIGHT YELLOW with the dark red lips. It was a Veronica Lake look and very different from every other actress there, and I thought she looked stunning.

-- Jennifer Aniston looked great. Hmmmmm, Brad and Angelina nowhere in sight. Hmmmmmm.

-- I thought Keira Knightley was kind of overwhelmed by her own dress. She's so skinny and tiny - she seemed to be weighted down by the material. Something a bit more wispish would have been appropriate for her.

-- Salma Hayek is gorgeous - but something about the cut of the front of her dress made her breasts seem misshapen. It looked off. As though her left breast was being squished down.

-- Not wacky about Reese's dress although I have to say it is very HER. Very simple, and elegant.

-- Naomi Watts did NOT look good. The cut of her dress made it seem like she had a flabby belly, and - uhm - the woman weighs 100 pounds - it just was NOT a good choice. Also the color made her look like she was literally in need of artificial respiration.

-- Wasn't wacky about Felicity Huffman's dress either. Also, it's obvious she is still rather new at the whole red carpet thing - because she was literally doing runway poses - in a kind of awkward way. Now you have to pose on the carpet - everyone wants to see all angles of the dress - but red carpet afficianadoes are much more graceful at it. Huffman looked horrible, I thought. Hand on hip, sort of aggressive -It looked phony. I did love the moment, though, when her cast members from Desperate Housewives sent their good wishes via video and she got all choked up. In that moment I saw the real actress - I saw what she was trying NOT to show. She was like, "I can't believe you just showed that to me ... I'm going to start crying ..." That to me was a real moment - but all of the aggressive posey stuff was annoying me.

-- Jada Pinkett Smith looked gorgeous - and again - like Michelle Williams - she chose a BRIGHT color - bright bright blue, which I thought was spectacular. Everyone else either looked funereal or as though they were at death's door.

-- I thought Ludakris looked terrific. The little glasses, the tux with the huge collar - he looked classy, and yet funky. Very much HIM. I'm telling you - he was the best presenter of the night. He made it thru with no flubs, he didn't try to be cute or clever - he just got the job done. He also just looked great, I thought.

-- Helena Bonham Carter looked like a raving lunatic.

-- J. Lo looked hoooooot. She looked a bit severe and Eva Peron-ish, but I LOVED her dress, I LOVED the color on her - and I thought she was glamour personified.

-- Hilary Swank looked boooooooooooring. Better than her feckin' dress last year, though, which I despised.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (34)

iPod update

Here are the songs that came up on my "shuffle" feature early this morning:

"Bionic Eyes" - Liz Phair - great tune

"Come Back" - Foo Fighters - totally forgot about this song until this morning - LOVE IT

"1000 Umbrellas" - XTC (which is ironic considering one of the facts in the 74)

"Fly Away" - by Lenny Kravitz - awesome song - Normally when I take out that CD it's just to put "Fields of Joy" on YET ANOTHER MIX TAPE ... but now the other songs are coming back into the shuffle ... tres exciting

"Stay" - Allison Krauss

"Get You Alone" - the Donnas


I am sure this is all VERY thrilling. But I'm excited about the Shuffle, and it kinda hasn't passed yet. Obviously.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (6)

74 facts

I have been working on my one-woman piece that I will be performing next week. I've done it before for an audience so I know it works, and it's a good piece, and yadda yadda. It's a very different thing performing something that YOU WROTE about YOUR OWN LIFE as opposed to performing someone else's words. It's fascinating - the difference. I'm enough of an exhibitionist and I have enough confidence in my writing and storytelling ability that - it completely lights me UP to perform my own stuff. It's more vulnerable - of course - because if someone doesn't like the piece, I would take it MUCH more personally than if I was in some shitty play and someone didn't like the script - hey, man, it's not MY fault ... but with 74 Facts it's just me and my words. If you don't like it, you're kinda saying, "Uhm - I don't like you." hahaha That's how personal it is. But I LOVE that kind of pressure - The vulnerability is a turn-on, actually (and I don't mean tears - or sensitivity - I just mean: awareness, intense awareness). It's a lot of fun.

But I've noticed - in this last rehearsal period with myself - that it's a little bit ... more challenging to 'get into' it than it has been in the past. I have to do a preparation for it - just like I would for any other play - to get myself into the proper mood. It's not a huge deal, and I don't have to turn myself inside out emotionally - it's not THAT hard - but it's definitely different from the other times I have performed this piece before. I used to be able to slip into the mind-set and mood of that piece at ANY minute of ANY day - mainly because I LIVED there. (If you've read the piece, you'll know what I'm talking about. And man - my friends sure as hell know what I'm talking about. They were sick of hearing about the guy.) But the miracle has happened - I mean, I literally thought it would never happen. Never. I had lived with this sort of low-level sadness for, uhm, years. That's how important and essential he was to me. But ... but ... it's not that it's GONE - I saw him this past summer and that ... connection remains - but that other stuff, the ... living with regrets, and the sadness, etc., is not there for me anymore. I can REMEMBER it - and that's part of what acting is all about - tapping into emotions that you may not be feeling in that very moment in your real life but that are appropriate for the scene. I can be having a great day, a happy day, and then go do my play that night and cry and rage and all that stuff - and then go home and have a good night's sleep. Because I know what it means to be in a rage - I have to tap into that for the show. Whatever. It's just weird to have to do this for a piece that I WROTE. I need to remember my way back into what it felt like for me. This is not only a cool acting challenge - but it's also a revelation to me. Of how far I have really come. Of how much work I have done to close that thing up, to heal, to accept. I have done a HELL of a lot of work ... and I am only realizing now that it has paid off. It took me a couple of rehearsals with myself to realize the problem (like I've said before: I am always the last one to know when something is actually going ON with me - hahaha) - I was like: "Why isn't this flowing like it used to? Why can't I just stand up and DO it?" Then the realization: "Ohhh. Cause I guess I don't really feel this way anymore."

If you know me, and if you know my struggle to get over this guy - you'll know that this is nothing short of a bloody miracle!

I'm excited to do the show next week to see what NEW form it takes - Because here's the deal - I'm proud of a lot of my writing - there are a couple of pieces I've written (one which is going to be published in The Sewanee Review at SOME point this year - at last!!) where I look at it and think: Okay. I just expressed that perfectly. I am done. That piece is done. It did what I meant it to do. There's only a couple of pieces I've written that I feel that way about - I can barely hold myself back from going back and editing old BLOG POSTS for God's sake, because I always see my writing as a work in progress - But sometimes, just sometimes - I write something that comes out exactly as it existed in my dream-space in my head. (oh, and the piece about waiting in line in Central Park is another one where it came out pretty much exactly as I wanted it to come out - I did very little editing with that piece, and I am still able to read it now, 5 years after writing it, and not be overcome with the desire to edit it to death - I can just sit down and read it).

The 74 Facts piece is definitely, in my opinion, one of those pieces. I NEVER feel like tampering with it - the only thing I want to tamper is the facts themselves. Hmmm, should I take out THAT fact and put in another one? Etc. But in terms of its expression, and my objective in writing the piece - it came out just as I wanted it to.

So I have faith in the PIECE itself. Not just as an expression of where I was at at a certain moment in time ... but as an expression of something universal. The responses I have gotten to the piece from total strangers - people who do not know me, who do not know "him" - have had deep and powerful responses to that thing. That tells me that I have expressed something that goes beyond just a story from my own life. Other people can relate to it, they can project onto it, they can have their own response - that's the most fun of this for me. I mean, that's the fun thing about acting - when audience members have some huge response to what you did, it's PERSONAL for them - that's great - but it's even better when it's because of something that came out of your OWN HEAD.

I am excited to see how it will go - knowing now that I myself have moved on past the intense first-person experience of it - into a more universal space. I can certainly, like I said, remember my way into that mind-set very easily. That's not a problem.

It still has the power to amaze me. That I'm past it. What??? When did THAT happen? It happened gradually and over a long space of time. It took work. On my part and on his part. And so here we are. Old war buddies. With no relics, no evidence, except for his words and mine.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (9)

The Books: "Imperium" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

51QZBN26TBL._OU01_AA240_SH20_.jpgNext book on this shelf is the last Ryszard Kapuscinski book I have - actually, I think that's it for Ryzsard - at least in English translation - To anyone who is interested in Communism (the rise and fall of), totalitarian regimes and how they work, the Caucasus, Central Asia - (meaning all the things I'm interested in!!) then I can't recommend this book highly enough. I absolutely LOVE it. It's called Imperium - I'm sure I've posted excerpts from it before. The structure of the book is really interesting. Kapuscinski starts with a description of the Russians rolling into his Polish town in 1939 and what that was like - he was 8 or something like that. This was his first encounter with "the Imperium". In 1958, as a journalist, he takes the Trans-Siberian Express - and that's the second section of the book - his confrontation with the true vastness of the Imperium. In 1967 he traveled down through the Caucasus (called "the South") and that's the third section of the book. The last section is the longest one in the book - and it is reporting from the years 1989 to 1991. Kapuscinski tried to be literally everywhere at once - because events were happening so quickly, revolutions breaking out, things falling apart - it was hard to tell where the center was.

Anyway - it's a wonderful book and might be my favorite of Kapuscinski's. I know I've FORCED a couple of people to read it - hahahaha - but I knew they'd like it!

I knew immediately what excerpt I wanted to put here. The one about Armenia.

From Imperium

In Matenadaran one can see the ancient books of the Armenians. To me they are doubly inaccessible: they lie in cabinets behind glass, and I do not know how to read them. I ask Vanik if he understands them. Yes and no, for he can read the letters but cannot discern the meaning. The alphabet has remained the same for fifteen centuries, but the language has changed. The Armenian walks into Matenadaran like a Muslim into Mecca. It is the end of his pilgrimage; he is moved, overwhelmed. In Armenian history, the book was the national relic. The comrade who is our guide (so beautiful!) says in a hushed voice that many of the manuscripts that we see were saved at the cost of human life. There are pages stained with blood here. There are books that for years lay hidden in the ground, in the crevices of rocks. Armenians buried them in the same way defeated armies bury their banners. They were recovered without difficulty: information about their hiding places had been handed down from generation to generation.

A nation that does not have a state seeks salvation in symbols. The protection of the symbol is as important to it as the protection of borders is to other states. The cult of the symbol is an act of patriotism. Not that the Armenians never had a state. They had one, but it was destroyed in antiquity. It was then reborn in the ninth century, and after 160 years it perished -- in that earlier form -- forever. It is not just a question of statehood. For at least two thousand years Armenians were in danger of complete extermination. They were sitll threatened with it as recently as this century, right up until 1920.

The history of Armenians is measured in millennia. We are in that part of the world that is customarily called the cradle of civilization. We are moving among the oldest traces of man's existence. In the valley of the Razdan River, near Yerevan, stone tools from half a million years ago have been unearthed. The first mention of Armenia is four thousand years old, but by then, as the stone inscription proclaims, there had already existed on Armenian territory "sixty empires" and "hundreds of cities". Armenia therefore is the contemporary of the world's oldest civilizations. Babylon and Assyria were its neighbors. The biblical rivers Tigris and Euphrates have their sources within its borders.

Armenians have a measure of time different from ours. They experienced their first partition 1,500 years ago. Their renaissance occurred in the fourth century of our era. They accepted Christianity seven centuries earlier than we. Ten centuries before us they started to write in their own language. But Armenia shared with ancient Egypt, Sumer, and Byzantium a drama typical of this part of the world -- its essence was a lack of historical continuity, that sudden appearance of empty chapters in the history book of one's own state.

A magnificent ascent, and then a dispiriting fall.

Gradually, the nations living in this cradle of mankind, having created great, monumental civilizations, as if exhausted by the superhuman effort, or perhaps even crushed by the immensity of what they had brought forth and no longer capable of further developing it, handed over the reins to younger peoples, bursting with energy and eager to live. Europe will come on the scene and, later, America.

The source of all of Armenia's misfortune was its disastrous geographic location. One has to look at the map, not from our vantage point, from the center of Europe, but from an entirely different place, from the south of Asia, the way those who sealed Armenia's fate looked at it. Historically, Armenia occupied the Armenian Highland. Periodically (and these periods lasted centuries) Armenia reached farther, was a state of three seas -- the Mediterranean, the Black, and the Caspian. But let us remain within the borders of the Highland. It is this area upon which the Armenians' historical memory draws. After the eleventh century, the Armenians never succeeded in rebuilding Armenia within those borders.

The map, looked at from the south of Asia, explains the tragedy of the Armenians. Fate could not have placed their country in a more unfortunate spot. In the south of the Highland it borders upon two of the past's most formidable powers -- Persia and Turkey. Let's add to that the Arabian caliphate. And even Byzantium. Four political colossi, ambitious, extremely expansionist, fanatical, voracious. And now -- what does the ruler of each of these four powers see when he looks at the map? He sees that if he takes Armenia, then his empire will be enclosed by an ideal natural border in the north. Because from the north the Armenian Highland is magnificently protected, guarded by two seas (the Black Sea and the Caspian) and by the gigantic barrier of the Caucasus. And the north is dangerous for Persia and for Turkey, for the Arabs and Byzantium. Because in those days from the north an unsubdued Mongolian fury loomed.

And so Armenia gives all the pashas and emperors sleepless nights. Each one of them would like his realm to have a nicely rounded border. So that in his realm, as in King Philip's, the sun should never set. A border that does not dissipate itself amid flatland, but which leans against a proper mountain, against the edge of the sea. The consequence of these ambitions is continued invasions of Armenia; someone is always conquering and destroying it, always subjugating it.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 5, 2006

A statement

My mystery guest and I just want to go on record to say that we HATE, and we mean HATE HATE HATE HATE - the music they now play under speeches.

We HATE it.

MAKE. IT. STOP.


Quotes from my mystery guest so far this evening:

During the preshow red carpet extravaganza - there was some skinny chick in white asking stupid questions of celebrities - we watched for a while. Then mystery guest said flatly, "Look at that vacuous bitch."

Then - watching a Keira Knightly moment - mystery guest shouted, "Look at her incisors!!!"

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (69)

Inauguration walk

I have imported many many many songs into my iPod. I am all about the iPod right now. I'm having a friend over tonight to watch the Oscars and I can barely stop fiddling with my iPod long enough to make us some food to eat this evening. I mean ... I can't stop. And yesterday was when the full import of ... well ... what an iPod actually IS ... hit me. I'm not a tech geek. I don't keep up with that stuff. I still don't have a DVD player, for God's sake. And the remote for my VCR doesn't work, so if I want to rewind to watch a scene again, I have to stand up, walk across the room, hold down Rewind, find my spot and then go back and sit down. This actually doesn't torment me. It really doesn't. I do not need to keep up with the every new thing that comes out. I also do not have the money to give a crap about what everybody else has. I just don't. I'm fine with my VCR. And I can watch DVDs on my laptop if I want to. I'm fine.

But I've been walking around with a Walkman for years now. I make mix tapes. I have them in many categories - because you know how it is - mix tapes get stale ... and I personally don't want a Joan Baez song to be in the middle of a mix when I'm on the treadmill. No. So I have the "running mix" - actually I have several of them - to use during workout moments. This is all the hard driving hard rock stuff that keeps me going, pushes me to complete what I'm doing, pushes me to keep up with the beat. Lots of Foo Fighters. Lots of Madonna (great beats - really insistent). B-52s is awesome. Etc. I have a ton of these mix tapes.

And yesterday I inaugurated my iPod and used the "shuffle" feature and ... I am just blown away.

I know I'm years behind everybody else, but whatever. I'm at my own pace. Like ... okay, here's the deal: I would never just sit down to listen to Billy Joel's Songs in the Attic, song by song, all the way through - like I used to. Yes. I love that album. It's my favorite Billy Joel and it's the only one I own. Billy lost me when he tried to get socially relevant. Billy. Please stop. BUT. That's not the point. I haven't listened to that album in YEARS. If I'm making a mix tape for someone or myself, maybe I'll pull it out and put one of the songs on ... but that's it. But I imported every song from that album (and - unbelievably - I love EVERY song on that album - I think it's terrific) ... and so now - with the whole shuffle thing - I'm listening to Queens of the Stone Age or The Waterboys and suddenly - on comes "summer, Highland Falls" and I feel this jolt of excitement. It really is like the best radio station ever. I can INTEGRATE all of that music into one long continuous mix. It's ... so damn cool that I am literally beside myself.

I have to go cook some food for my friend. But I can't ... seem ... to stop ... fiddling ... with the ... iPod.

So yesterday was my introduction to the shuffle feature. I took everyone's advice (thank you!!) and tried to pace myself in terms of importing music. I am going slowly. I need to pick and choose the necessary songs off of each album. Not EVERY album is like Songs in the Attic where I like them all. (I guess I could live wihtout hearing "Captain Jack" again - but still - when it's in this shuffle formation, it'll pop up once in 10 years - and in THAT way it will be fun to hear it again. Know what I'm sayin'????)

I have 200 songs on the iPod now or something like that. All my Queen, Queens of the Stone Age, Sinead O'Connor, Metallica, U2, the Moulin Rouge soundtrack, the Donnas, Avril Lavigne ... uhm who else ... well, you know. My faves.

And yesterday was freezing cold. I put on my workout shit, bundled up in a sweatshirt with a big roomy pocket in the front, put a hat on, put the iPod in my pocket (like I was a marsupial of some kind) and headed out for a walk.

The glory of that walk will last for days. I took another one today. I feel like I was shedding my skin or something. First of all: I was in my own personal music video for about 3 hours. Yes, I walked for 3 hours. A power walk too. I can barely move today. I walked along the Hudson north - for miles - then turned around - walked back down the Hudson - for miles - went down into Hoboken - walked along the waterfront there - then back up the hill to my house. I have no idea how many songs I listened to. I was just ... BESIDE MYSELF.

It was almost an out of body experience at times. I felt the burn in my legs, my heart rate going up, I felt all that stuff - but I was on another PLANE. I just kept going and going and going. The day was blindingly bright - I walked along Boulevard East - past Alexander Hamilton Park - heh heh - and at that point, there is a sheer dizzying drop down a cliff - down below you can see cars as small as matchbox cars - and then the gleaming blue of the Hudson - with teeny tugboats chugging by - small as toys - and then the city. The city. That beautiful Emerald City across the way. I never get over it. The skyline. The missing part of the skyline. The thick cluster of skyscrapers in midtown, all glimmering blue mirrors ... Just breathtaking. But my experience of this walk was not literal - I was all OVER the place in my mind. The cold air, the music, the Empire State Building, the burn in my legs, and then - on a whole other plane, my emotions. What I'm going through. I'm going thru a lot. A lot of my activity is designed to push all that shit back. It's bothersome, it's painful, and it's just easier to read a book and not deal with it. But on the inauguration walk - with the help of this soundtrack - I floated off into that space - I didn't sit and concentrate on it, or try to 'work' on it ... I just let it into my heart a little bit. It's easy to do that when you're in a music video. Music is all about expressed emotion. It helps us, the listener, to express our emotions. That's the whole deal. And I need a lot of help to do that. I guess I'm just out of practice.

So yesterday I must have walked 15 miles - just zoning OUT to the best mix of music ever known to man. At times I was in tears. At times I felt compelled to become an air guitarist. I didn't give a shit. At times I stopped walking, leaned against the wall lining New Jersey and stared at New York - just to catch my breath, and also to catch up with myself.

I'm a little bit lovesick right now and not even really admitting it - hahaha I'm such a retard - and through this Shuffle feature WHICH IS THE BEST INVENTION EVER - I came across the Queen song "Too Much Love will Kill You". I guess I was never really familiar with that song, as much of a Queen fan as I am. I just ... I felt like I had never heard it before. I was charging along into the wind, and it came on - and it was like it sliced through me like an arrow. I need to write about that song in depth. I think I'll do it over here. I started writing the essay in my head as I walked - trying to figure out what it was, EXACTLY, that was so GETTING me in the listening. It's the lyrics, sure - they were reflecting what I was feeling perfectly - uhm, that "too much love will kill you" - that's just how I was feeling - but it's also just his VOICE. He sings that song as though it is a Shakespearean monologue. It's a STORY. You get the whole story of what is going on - and his voice - GodDAMNIT, Freddie, you fucking KILL ME.

I could not get enough of that song. I listened to it probably 20 times in a row yesterday on my mammoth walk, because that was how much I needed to hear it. And every time I heard it, two things happened simultaneously: I lifted above the moment - I transcended the everyday banality of the situation - and got straight into the experiential, the sensoral. I was FEELING what I was FEELING. This may sound retarded and like Being a Human Being 101, but it's hard for me, at times, to really even understand what is going on with me at any given moment. My friend David always laughs at me, like: "But Sheila ... you're so THERE for me ... you're so insightful ..." Yup. With my friends I'm awesome. With me? I am usually the last to understand that something is actually going on. Dense as fog. So "Too Much Love Will Kill You" just sliced right into the heart of what is REALLY going on - and so then it was like I had permission to just feel it. Just feel it, Sheila. Be lovesick. Whatever. Go for it. So I was. It was AWESOME. Thanks, Freddie!! I swear, though, I have to write more about that song.

So those were the two things going on - rising up above any petty anxieties or cerebral concerns that I always torment myself with - and also going down INTO the experience. Which is just a way of admitting that it is actually going on. Probably a ton of you won't know what I'm talking about. That's cool - my friends will. They get it, they know my struggles ... to just BE HERE. In this moment.

Exercise always helped me to do that. Just be in the moment. If you're on a 10 mile run, you just go moment to moment. At least I do, since I didn't run competitively. Or - I did run in races, but it was for myself. So running is a good way for me to get out of my own way - stop thinking so much - stop that - and just focus on whatever is going on right now, in the moment. It's quite a bit like acting, actually. Good actors all have the ability to do that. The job is not called THINK-er, or ANALYZ-er. It's called ACT-or. When we "act" we are in the moment.

This is a long way of saying I love my iPod. This is why I love my iPod. It's been the missing piece. I have been resisting my exercise routine because of this whole cerebral issue - I find it a struggle - but now that barrier has been swept away.

Yesterday was the best day I have had in a long long time. I came home after my marathon - my cheeks were BEET RED - I looked healthy to myself. In the mirror. I was IN my face. I could see ME there.

Then I did my cooking for the week - I'm a bulk cooker, haha - all as I was uploading new music - and I felt like I had some kind of huge RELEASE that day. I felt free, like a weight had been lifted, like my eyes were clear.


UPDATE: Oh fuck it, we'll just order a pizza tonight. I can't cook right now. I have too much iPod-ing to do!!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (16)

March 4, 2006

Killer sugar

This one's for Anne who has written a couple of times about the brutality of sugar cultivation:

A couple excerpts from the harrowing first chapter of Ron Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton - no wonder Hamilton was such a fierce abolitionist. From the beginning. He didn't have an "Aha!' moment like many of the other founding fathers did, he didn't slowly realize that it was an "evil" - he knew it from the beginning, he was quite clear on that - MUCH clearer than all the rest of them (most of whom owned slaves) - You read his background and it's not hard to understand why he was the way he was, in this regard:

To modern eyes, Nevis may seem like a sleepy backwater to which Hamilton was confined before his momentous escape to St. Croix and North America. But if we adjust our vision to eighteenth-century realities, we see that this West Indian setting was far from marginal, the crossroads of a bitter maritime rivalry among European powers vying for mastery of the lucrative sugar trade. A small revolution in consumer tastes had turned the Carinbbean into prized acreage for growing sugarcane to sweeten the coffee, tea, and cocoa imbibed in fashionable European capitals. As a result, the small, scattered islands generated more wealth for Britain than all of her North American colonies combined. "The West Indians vastly outweigh us of the southern colonies," Benjamin Franklin gumbled in the 1760s. After the French and Indian War, the British vacillated about whether to swap all of Canada for the island of Guadeloupe; in the event the French toasted their own diplomatic cunning in retaining the sugar island. The sudden popularity of sugar, dubbed "white gold," engendered a brutal world of overnight fortunes in which slavery proved indispensable. Since indigenous Caribbeans and Europeans balked at toiling in the sweltering canebrakes, thousands of blacks were shipped from slave-trading forts in West Africa to cultivate Nevis and the neighboring islands.

British authorities coloninzed Nevis with vagabonds, criminals, and other riffraff swept from the London streets to work as indentured servants or overseers. In 1727, the minister of a local Anglican church, aching for some glimmer of spirituality, regretted that the slaves were inclined to "laziness, stealing, stubbornness, murmuring, treachery, lying, drunkenness and the like." But he reserved his most scathing strictures for a rowdy white population composed of "whole shiploads of pickpockets, whores, rogues, vagrants, thieves, sodomites, and other filth and cutthroats of society." Trapped in this beautiful but godless spot, the minister bemoaned that the British imports "were not bad enough for the gallows and yet too bad to live among their virtuous countrymen at home." While other founding fathers were reared in tidy New England villages or cosseted on baronial Virginia estates, Hamilton grew up in a tropical hellhole of dissipated whites and fractious slaves, all framed by a backdrop of luxuriant natural beauty.

More:

St. Croix had its picturesque side in its conical sugal mills, powered by windmills or mules, that crushed the sugarcane with big rollers. During harvestime, the twilight glittered with fires from boiling houses that dotted the island. The coast around Christiansted was lined with soft, green hills and punctuated by secluded inlets and coves. Early idealized prints of the town show two distinct moods: a smart military precision down near the fort and wharf, with heaps of sugar barrels ready for expert, and a slower, more sensual inland atmosphere, with black women balancing large bundles on their heads. Though house slaves donned shirts and skirts, it wasn't unusual for one or two hundred slaves to toil naked in a steaming field beneath the towering sugar stalks. By night, the whitewashed town of Christiansted, laid out in a formal grid by Danish authorities, erupted into a roaring, licentious bedlam of boisterous taverns and open brothels overflowing with rebels, sailors, and outlaws from many countries. So extensive was the sexual contact between whites and blacks that locl church registers were thickly sprinkled with entries for illegitimate mulatto children.

More:

Violence was commonplace in Nevis, as in all the slave-ridden sugar islands. The eight thousand captive blacks easily dwarfed in number the one thousand whites, "a disproportion," remarked one visitor, "which necessarily converts all such white men as are not exempted by age and decrepitude into a well-regulated militia." Charlestown was a compact town of narrow, crooked lanes and wooden buildings, and Hamilton would regularly have passed the slave-auction blocks at Market Shop and Crosses Alley and beheld barbarous whippings in the public square. The Caribbean sugar economy was a system of inimitable savagery, making the tobacco and cotton plantations of the American south seem almost genteel by comparison. The mortality rate of slaves hacking away at sugarcane under a pitiless tropical sun was simply staggering: three out of five died within five years of arrival, and slave owners needed to replenish their fields constantly with fresh victims. One Nevis planter, Edward Huggins, set a sinister record when he administered 365 lashes to a male slave and 292 to a female. Evidently unfazed by this sadism, a local jury acquitted him of all wrongdoing. A decorous British lady who visited St. Kitts stared aghast at naked male and female slaves being driven along dusty roads by overseers who flogged them at regular intervals, as if they needed steady reminders of their servitude. "Every ten Negroes have a drive who walks behind them, holding in his hand a short whip and a long one ... and you constantly observe where the application has been made." Another British visitor said that "if a white man kills a black, he cannot be tried for his life for the murder ... If a negro strikes a white man, he is punished with the loss of his hand and, if he should draw blood, with death." Island life contained enough bloodcurdling scenes to darken Hamilton's vision for life, instilling an ineradicable pessimism about human nature that infused all his writing.

And lastly (but there's so much more in that first chapter, Anne, of this kind of harrowing detail):

All of the horror was mingled incongrously with the natural beauty of turquoise waters, flaming sunsets, and languid palm fronts. In this geologically active zone, the hills bubbled with high-sulfur hot springs that later became tourist meccas. The sea teemed with lobster, snapper, grouper, and conch, while the jungles were alive with parrots and mongooses. There were also monkeys galore, green vervets shipped from Africa earlier in the century. Many travelers prized the island as a secluded refuge, one finding it so "captivating" that he contended that if a man came there with his wife, he might linger forever in the "sweet recess" of Nevis. It was all very pleasant and balmy, supremely beautiful and languid, if you were white, were rich, and turned a blind eye to the black population expiring in the canebrakes.
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The Books: "The Shadow of the Sun" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

41HQ4WFPT5L._AA240_.jpgNext book on this shelf is the latest Ryszard Kapuscinski book - it came out in 2001 - and it's called The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski. Kapuscinski described this book as the story of "a forty-year marriage" between himself and Africa. He arrived in Ghana in 1957 - this was the beginning of the end of colonial rule across the continent - and he traveled - reporting on the hopeful beginning of independence - independence! How exciting!! And of course we all know how most of that "independence" has worked out - and Kapuscinski has stayed in Africa, living there off and on for 40 years - reporting on the upheavals, the revolutions, the reversals ... This is his book of his 40 damn years in Africa. It's huge. Again, like most of his books - it is not a scholarly book. There is no bibliography. There are no footnotes. He writes his experiences, first-hand. There is also obviously a lot of on-the-ground reporting that gets done - he's a journalist, not a travelogue writer - but his style is not your regular journalist-in-the-field style. He has an entire chapter on when he got malaria and what malaria feels like. You read it and it's so vivid you think: "Uhm. Wow. Hope I never get THAT." But he also goes country to country ... honing in on one aspect to write about ... It's a sweeping accomplishment. Africa's feckin' huge, after all. It was really hard to pick an excerpt, I loved all of it ... but I've decided to excerpt from his amazing chapter on Idi Amin. It's a bit long but ... oh well. Read on if you like.

The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

I once considered writing a book about Amin, because he is such a glaring example of the relation between crime and low culture. I was in Uganda many times, saw Amin more than once; I have a small library of books about him, and stacks of my own notes. He is the most well known dictator in the history of contemporary Africa and one of the most famous in the twentieth century the world over.

Amin belongs to a small ethnic group called the Kakwa, whose territory encroaches on three countries: Sudan, Uganda, and Zaire. The Kakwa do not know to which country they belong, although they view this question with indifference, preoccupied as they are with something else: how to survive despite the poverty and hunger that prevail in this remote region without roads, cities, electricity, and cultivatable land. Anyone with some initiative, wits, and luck runs as far away from here as possible. But not every direction is a propitious one. Whoever goes west will only worsen his circumstances, because he will stumble upon the thickest jungles of Zaire. Those setting off northward also err, because they will arrive at the sandy, rock-strewn threshold of the Sahara. Only the southerly direction holds promise: there the Kakwa will find the fertile lands of central Ugagnda, the lush and splendid garden of Africa.

It is there, after giving birth to her son, that Amin's mother makes her way, the infant on her back. She comes to the second-largest city (or, rather, town) in Uganda after Kampala -- Jinja. Like thousands of others at that time, and millions upon millions today, she arrives in the hope of surviving, in the hope that life here will be better. She has no skills, no contacts, and no money. But one can make a living in a variety of ways: through petty trade, brewing and selling beer, or operating a portable sidewalk eatery. Amin's mother has a pot and cooks millet in it. She sells portions on banana leaves. Her daily earnings? A serving of millet for herself and her son.

This woman, who made her way with her child from a poor village in the north to a town in the wealthier south, became part of the population that today constitutes Africa's biggest problem. It is composed of tens of millions who have abandoned the countryside and migrated to the monstrously swollen cities without securing adequate housing or employment. In Uganda they are called bayaye. You will notice them at once, because it is they who form the street crowds, so different from ones in Europe. In Europe, the man on the street is usually heading toward a definite goal. The crowd has a direction and a rhythm, which is frequently characterized by haste. In an African city, only some of the people behave this way. The others are not going anywhere: they have nowhere to go, and no reason to go there. They drift this way and that, sit in the shade, stare, nap. They have nothing to do. No one is expecting them. Most often, they are hungry. The slightest street spectacle -- a quarrel, a fight, the apprehension of a theif -- will instantly draw large numbers of them. For they are everwhere around here, idle, awaiting who knows what, living who knows how -- the gapers of the world.

The principal characteristic of their stance is rootlessness. They will not return to the countryside, and there is no place for them in the city. They endure. Somehow, they exist. Somehow: that is how best to describe their situation, its fragility, its uncertainty. Somehow one lives, somehow one sleeps, somehow, from time to time, one eats. This unreality and impermanence of existence cause the bayaye to feel himself in continuous danger, and so he is increasingly tormented by fear. His fear is amplified by his condition as a stranger, an unwanted immigrant from another culture, religion, language. A foreign, extraneous competitor for the contents of the cooking pot, which is empty anyway, and for work, of which there isn't any.

Amin is a typical bayaye.

He grows up in the streets of Jinja. The town housed a battalion of the British colonial army, the King's African Rifles. The model for this army was devised toward the end of the nineteenth century by General Lugard, one of the architects of the British Empire. It called for divisions composed of mercenaries recruited from tribes hostile toward the population on whose territory they were to be garrisoned: an occupying force, holding the locals on a tight rein. Lugard's ideal soldiers were young, well-built men from the Nilotic (Sudanese) populations, which distinguished themselves by their enthusiasm for warfare, their stamina, and their cruelty. They were called Nubians, a designation that in Uganda evoked a combination of distaste and fear. The officers and non-commissioned officers of this army, however, were for many years exclusively Englishmen. One day, one of them noticed a young African with a Herculean physique hanging around the barracks. It was Amin. He was quickly enlisted. For people like him -- without a job, without possibilities -- military service was like winning the lottery. He had barely four years of elementary schooling, but because he was deemed obedient and eager to anticipate the wishes of his commanders, he began advancing rapidly through the ranks. He also gained renown as a boxer, becoming the Ugandan heavyweight champion. During colonial times, the army was dispatched on countless expeditions of oppression: against the Mau Mau insurgents, against the warriors of the Turkana tribe, or against the independent people of the Karimojong. Amin distinguished himself in these campaigns: he organized ambushes and attacks, and was merciless toward his adversaries.

It is the fifties, and the era of independence is fast approaching. Africanization has arrived, even in the military. But the British and French officers want to remain in control for as long as possible. To prove that they are irreplaceable, they promote the third-rate from among their African subordinates, those not too quick, but obedient, transforming them in a single day from corporals and sergeants into colonels and generals. Bokassa in the Central African Republic, for exmaple, Soglo in Dahomey, Amin in Uganda.

When in the fall of 1962 Uganda becomes an independent state, Amin is already, because of promotions by the British, a general, and deputy commander of the army. He takes a look around him. Although he has high rank and position, he comes from the Kakwa, a small community and one, moreover, that is not regarded as native Ugandan. Meantime, the preponderance of the army comes from the Langi tribe, to which Prime Minister Milton Obote belongs, and from the related Acholi. The Langi and the Acholi treat the Kakwa superciliously, seeing them as benighted and backward. We are navigating here in the paranoid, obsessive realm of ethnic prejudice, hatred, and antipathy -- albeit an intra-Africa one: racism and chauvinism emerge not only along the most obvious divides, e.g., white versus black, but are equally stark, stubborn and implacable, perhaps even more so, among peoples of the same skin color. Indeed, most white who have died in the world have died at the hands not of blacks, but of other whites, and likewise the majority of black lives taken in the past century were taken by other blacks, not by white. And so it follows, for example, that on account of ethnic bigotry, no one in Uganda will care whether Mr. XY is wise, kind, and friendly, or the reverse, evil and loathsome; they will care only whether he is of the tribe of Bari, Toro, Busoga, or Nandi. This is the sole criterion by which he will be classified and evaluated.

For its first eight years of independence, Uglanda is ruled by Milton Obote, an extraordinarily conceited man, boastful and sure of himself. When it is exposed in the press that Amin has misappropriated the cash, gold, and ivory given him for safekeeping by anti-Mobutu guerrillas from Zaire, Obote summons Amin, orders him to pen an explanation, and, confident that he himself is in no danger, flies off to Singapore for a conference of prime ministers of the British Commonwealth. Amin, realizing that the prime minister will arrest him as soon as he returns, decides on a preemptive strike: he stages an army coup and seizes power. Theoretically at least, Obote in fact had little to worry about: Amin did not represent an obvious threat, and his influence in the army was ultimately limited. But beginning on the night of January 25, 1971, when they took over the barracks in Kampala, Amin and his supporters employed a brutally efficient surprise tactic: they fired without warning. And at a precisely defined target: soldiers from the Langi and Achole tribes. The surprise had a paralyizing effect: no one had time to mount a resistance. On the very first day, hundreds died in the barracks. And the carnage continued. Henceforth, Amin always used this method: he would shoot first. And not just at his enemies; that was self-evident, obvious. He went further: he liquidated without hesitation those he judged might one day develop into enemies. Over time, terror in Amin's state also came to depend on universal torture. Before they died, people were routinely tormented.

All this took place in a provincial country, in a small town. The torture chambers were located in downtown buildings. The windows were open -- we are in the tropics. Whoever was walking along the street could hear cries, moans, shots. Whoever fell into the hands of the executioners vanished. A category soon emerged, then grew and grew, of those who in Latin America are called desaparecidos: those who have perished, disappeared. He left his house and never returned. "Nani?" the policeman routinely replied, if a family member demanded an explanation. "Nani?" (In Swahili the word means 'who"; the individiual is reduced to a question mark.)

Uganda started to metamorphose into a tragic, bloody stage upon which a single actor strutted -- Amin. A month after the coup Amin named himself president, then marshal, then field marshal, and finally field marshal for life. He pinned upon himself ever more orders, medals, decorations. But he also liked to walk about in ordinary battle fatigues, so that soldiers would say of him, "You see, he's one of us." He chose his cars in accordance with his outfits. Wearing a suit to a reception, he drove a dark Mercedes. Out for a spin in a sweat suit? A red Maserati. Battle fatigues? A military Range Rover. The last resembled a vehicle from a science-fiction movie. A forest of antennas protruded from it, all kinds of wires, cables, spotlights. Inside were grenades, pistols, knives. He went about this way because he constantly feared attempts on his life. He survived several. Everyone else died in them -- his aides-de-camp, his bodyguards. Amin alone would brush off the dust, straighten his uniform. To cover his tracks, he also rode in unmarked cars. People walking down a street would suddenly realize that the man sitting behind the wheel of that truck was Amin.

He trusted no one, therefore even those in his innermost circle did not know where he would be sleeping tonight, where he would be living tomorrow. He had several residences in the city; several more on the shores of Lake Victoria, still others in the countryside. Determining his whereabouts was both difficult and dangerous. He communicated with every subordinate directly, decided whom he would speak with, whom he wished to see. And for many, such a meeting would prove the last. If Amin became suspicious of someone, he would invite him over. He would be pleasant, friendly, treat his guest to a Coca-Cola. Executioners awaited the visitor as he left. Later, no one could determine what had happened to the man.

Amin usually telephoned his subordinates, but he also used the radio. Whenever he announced changes in the government or in the ranks of the military -- and he was constantly instituting changes -- he would do so over the airwaves.

Uganda had one radio station, one small newspaper (Uganda Argus), one camera, which filmed Amin, and one photojournalist, who would appear for ceremonial occasions. Everything was directed exclusively at the figure of the marshal. Moving from place to place, Amin in a sense moved the state with him; outside of him, nothing happened, nothing existed. Parliament did not exist, there no political parties, trade unions, or other organizations. And, of course, no opposition -- those suspected of dissent died painful deaths.

Posted by sheila Permalink

March 3, 2006

The Books: "Shah of Shahs" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Shah%20of%20Shahs.jpgNext book on this shelf is called Shah of Shahs by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

This is about the fall of the last Shah of Iran and the rise of Khomeini. Kapuscinski was there. He appeared to be here, there, and everywhere, through the 60s and 70s. He was in Teheran when the hostages were taken - he lived in Iran and reported on the events. Again - what I find so fascinating about this book (and his book about Ethiopia) is that he ... in a subtle way ... uses these books to criticize Communism and the leadership back in his homeland of Poland. He could not openly criticize. That was not allowed. But he could write a blistering book about the Shah of Iran, making all the points he wanted to make about the Soviet Union ... Totalitarianism pretty much takes on the same guise from country to country. The people back in Poland would have gotten the point. They would have understood the subtext of Kapuscinski's book.

Listen to this section of Shah of Shahs where he describes SAVAK, the secret police of the Shah. Doesn't really take a rocket scientist to figure out that this could also apply to the KGB.

From Shah of Shahs by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

Savak had a good ear for all allusions. One scorching afternoon an old man with a bad heart turned up at the bus stop and gasped, "It's so oppressive you can't catch your breath." "So it is," the Savak agent replied immeditaely, edging closer to the winded stranger. "it's getting more and more oppressive and people are fighting for air." "Too true," replied the naive old man, clapping his hand over his heart, "such heavy air, so oppressive." Immediately the Savak agent barked, "Now you'll have a chance to regain your strength," and marched him off.

The other people at the bus stop had been listening in dread, for they had sensed from the beginning that the feeble elderly man was committing an unpardonable error by saying "oppressive" to a stranger.

Experience had taught them to avoid uttering such terms as oppressiveness, darkness, burden, abyss, collapse, quagmire, putrefaction, cage, bars, chain, gag, truncheon, boot, claptrap, screw, pocket, paw, madness, and expressions like lie down, lie flat, spreadeagle, fall on your face, wither away, gotten flabby, go blind, go deaf, wallow in it, something's out of kilter, something's wrong, all screwed up, something's got to give -- because all of them, these nouns, verbs, adjectives, and pronouns, could hide allusions to the Shah's regime, and thus formed a connotative minefield where you could get blown to bits with one slip of the tongue.

For a moment, for just an instant, a new doubt flashed through the heads of the people standing at the bus stop: What if the sick old man was a Savak agent too? Because he had criticized the regime (by using "oppressive" in conversation), he must have been free to criticize. If he hadn't been, wouldn't he have kept his mouth shut or spoken about such agreeable topics as the fact that the sun was shining and the bus was sure to come along any minute? And who had the right to criticize? Only Savak agents, whose job it was to provoke reckless babblers, then cart them off to jail.

The ubiquitous terror drove people crazy, made them so paranoid they couldn't credit anyone with being honest, pure, or courageous...

Fear so debased people's thinking, they saw deceit in bravery, collaboration in courage. This time, however, seeing how roughly the Savak agent led his victim away, the people at the bus stop had to admit that the ailing old man could not have been connected with the police. In any case, the captor and his prey were soon out of sight, and the sole remaining question was: Where did they go?

Nobody actually knew where Savak was located. The organization had no headquarters. Dispersed all over the city (and all over the country), it was everywhere and nowhere. It occupied houses, villas, and apartments no one ever paid attention to...Only those who were in on the secret knew its telephone numbers...Whoever fell into the grip of that organization disappeared without a trace, sometimes forever. People would vanish suddenly and nobody would know what had happened to them, where to go, whom to ask, whom to appeal to. They might be locked up in a prison, but which one? There were six thousand. An invisible, adamant wall would rise up, before which you stood helpless, unable to take a step forward.

Iran belonged to Savak.

It was Savak that banned the plays of Shakespeare and Moliere because they criticized monarchical and aristocratic vices. Savak ruled in the universities, offices, and factories. A monstrously overgrown cephalopod, it entangled everything, crept into every crack and corner, glued its suckers everywhere, ferreted and sniffed in all directions, scratched and bored through every level of existence...

The people waiting at the bus stop knew all this and therefore remained silent once the Savak agent and the old man had gone. They watched each other out of the corners of their eyes, for all they knew the one standing next to them might have to inform...Without wanting to (even though some of them try to hide it so as not to provoke any aggressive outbursts), the people at the bus stop look at each other with loathing. They are inclined to neurotic, disproportionate reactions. Something gets on their nerves, something smells bad, and they move away from each other, waiting to see who goes after whom, who attacks someone first. This reciprocal distrust in the work of Savak...This one, this one, and that one. That one too? Sure, of course.

Everybody.

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Moss Man

Patrick's story of being a Webelo. Too funny to excerpt. I have been sitting here reading it with tears of laughter streaming down my face. "murder-y noise" for some reason made me just LOSE it. But there's so much there ... the "Sapphic tribunals" ... I am guffawing ...

I can't ... get past it .... hahahahahahahahahaha

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Diary Friday

So I promised David I would post this. hahaha It's one of my first Diary Friday REQUESTS. The funny thing about a friend making a request: "Oh, could you post the entries about this event ..." is that, in general, if it didn't happen in the last 5 years when my journalling has slacked off - then I WILL have the event in the pages somewhere. Very bizarre.

David and I were talking about our very similar beginnings in the college theatre program - coming in as outsiders into this clicque-y atmosphere. And David started asking me to tell him the story of Picnic and how I got in and yadda yadda ... It was so fun to relive it! Haven't told that story in years. Basically, I was 17 - a senior in high school (WAY past the immaturity of my junior year, when all I could think about was "DW" - Oh, I was WAY beyond that ...) - and thru the guy I was dating at the time - who was 19, and already in college (hubba hubba) - I heard about auditions for the big fall college production which was Inge's Picnic. And I somehow found out that there was a 16 year old girl in the play - so I went and auditioned. Long story short, I got in.

Playing Millie, as a 17 year old, surrounded by theatre majors in COLLEGE and also adult actors - was a turning point in my life.

And I knew it at the time.

So for the next couple of Diary Fridays, I'm going to post my diary entries for the whole Picnic thing. Funny thing is: I made friends during that experience who are still friends today. I have my first impressions of them in my journal - but thru the show, we became best friends - many of them live here in New York (you know - actors) - and our friendships live on. Like I said: Picnic was huge. I would be a different person and I would have a different life if I hadn't snagged the part of Millie.

David: this one's for you!!

SEPTEMBER 22

Tomorrow I am going to audition for a URI play - open auditions - for Picnic - (I believe there's a 16 year old girl in it). TS wangled me into it. OH I HOPE HE'S THERE!

I know I know I can't go alone. I feel ill.

SEPTEMBER 23

Diary, I feel physically ill. [The continuing theme.] I haven't gone yet. I can't stand how paralyzed and totally SICK I feel. Last night I was feeling so weird that I called Mrs. McNeil [the drama teacher at the high school] to ask her if I should do it. She wasn't at home (a babysitter answered) but Mrs. McNeil called back right at 8:30 - when the sitter said they'd get back. So I told her about auditions and she said, "Yes. Do it, Sheila. You have absolutely nothing to lose. I mean - just for the experience. And since you'll be going there next year as a drama major - why not make yourself known now?"

There is a "homely 16 year old girl" in it. Mrs. McNeil said, "Aha! So you're walking in there with an advantage. Not every college student can look 16 - but you are!"

I am so sickly nervous. I want TS to be there. I don't know if I can do this alone. TS probably went yesterday - but he said he'd come on Sunday to give me "immoral support".

Mrs. McNeil told me to call her the minute I got back. She said, "I can't wait till Monday to hear about it."

Oh help me - listen to the ad in the paper:

"The production, directed by Kimber Wheelock, will be done in the Robert E. Will Theatre, November 29 through December 8. It is the theatre department's entry in this year's American College Theatre Festival, and therefore may be invited to the regional festival at UNH in February and the national festival at the Kennedy Center in Washington DC in April. Auditions will consist of reading from the script and are open to all."

Good Lord. I want to audition with someone. God - do professionals ever get used to feeling this way? [No. But they actually start to enjoy it.]

Later:

I am bouncing off the walls! I am a pinball! Someone calm me down! I don't know if I can make a living at this - I mean, feeling this way all the time - My adrenaline! I'm -- I'm gone! I'm going nuts!

What a morning.

Wowee.

I didn't sleep at all last night. I just lay in bed honestly worrying myself sick. [In looking back, I would say that what I was experiencing was NOT really worry. It was the birth of my ambition. Or - re-birth, maybe. My ambition was so huge and so ferocious that at first it actually gave me anxiety when it would come up. I wanted this part so badly that it literally ate away at me.] I had to go to the bathroom about every minute. And last night, real late - the last M*A*S*H* was on - Oh my God. Maybe I was in for a good cry. It is beyond my comprehension how the MASH people did it. Everyone - the actors, the writers - I went up to my room and CRIED AND CRIED. I didn't sleep at all. I just lay there feeling sick and worried. I kept thinking, "Nervousness can be good" but all I felt like was throwing up. I'm serious.

I got up on my own accord at like 8:00 (auditions at 11:00). I just was pacing. I wanted to get hold of a script but where? I had no idea what the auditions would be like. I saw myself as they would see me - a bumbling high school kid, humiliated and ridiculed.

I just had a nap. I still can't eat anything. I'm starved but the sight of food makes me feel gross.

At about 10:00, I really didn't want to go. But I had to. Mrs. McNeil would want to hear about it and I just couldn't say, "I chickened out." So I called TS. This time I got him out of the shower. GREAT. Again, he answered with this grunt. I said, "Hi - it's Sheila." I asked him, "Did you go to the auditions yesterday?" And he said, "Auditions? What the hell are you talking about, Sheila?" I KNEW somewhere in the back of my mind that he was kidding, but I still got all flustered, and stuttering. Finally I said, "You know what I'm talking about." Turns out that he didn't go yesterday, so he was getting ready to go today. I felt so relieved. Thank God! Someone I knew! I wonder how I'm gonna do in New York. I know one thing: I would have gone even if he didn't. But it made me feel so much better that there would be a familiar face there.

So then off I started. I walked there . I needed to do something with my coursing adrenaline. I felt like screaming, I felt roller-coaster sickness when I thought of auditioning.

It was a gorgeous perfect breezy day. We've really had beautiful Garden of Eden days lately. And everything is so green and yellow and blue. It was perfect exhilarating weather - just right for my mood.

And - just as I was walking down the road, I heard this, "Sheila! Sheila!" Mrs. McNeil was just driving by so she pulled over. Rebecca - her too-cute-to-be-true daughter was in the back seat. Mrs. McNeil said, "I was just thinking about you!" So we talked - she wished me luck and off I went. I kept pounding it into my head, "This is a good experience. This is a good experience." But I was scared out of my MIND.

I finally got to the Fine Arts Center. All these Drama majors were milling around. They all knew each other. They all knew the play. I felt so country bumpkinish and disgustingly juvenile. In fact, I sort of hid in the bathroom. I was so scared and shy, and I had no idea what I was doing. I almost left. I really did. My teeth were chattering, I was all over goosebumps. I sat on this bench for about 15 minutes thinking, "Where is TS?"

The way the lobby is set up - there are benches around these huge square columns so I was sitting on an isolated side where no one could see me. I came so close to getting up and leaving when I heard on the other side, this guy saying, "Are you auditioning?" And I heard TS' voice, "Yes." I really am glad he came. I was practically crying I was so scared and afraid to move that I'd humiliate myself. So TS found me huddled alone, and he sort of told me what to do. There was this other guy on the other side with forms we had to fill out. [He ended up becoming a great friend of mine.] So TS and I sat together and filled them out. Easty stuff. Height, weight, previous experience, any disabilities, and when we couldn't rehearse. I felt so idiotic writing: "Monday thru Friday - 8:00 to 2:00." Oh well. I can't help it that I'm still in disgusting high school.

He also gave me a script to study. So we had a 15 minute wait, so TS and I just sat together quietly, reading. There was really only one part I could go for. That was the 16 year old girl Millie. I LOVE her. She's shy with boys, but covers it up by being really aggressive. God, she's so cute. The whole time I was reading I could hear myself saying her lines. I guess I looked pretty corpse-ish cause TS said, "You look like you're on Death Row!" I read all the Millie scenes about 3 times - then TS and I just sat there whispering about the play. He's such a cool guy.

The way they ran the auditions is that the director (Kimber Wheelock - dear Lord!) and two Drama majors would help with the auditions by reading opposite the auditioners. What I liked was that they auditioned us one by one so that I wouldn't have to be intimidated by anyone else, and I could interpret it in my own way. But it was nerve-wracking anyway.

I still have to tell about our date on Friday. It was great!

So this really nice lady who acted really informal and nice came out and took the forms off the pile one by one and brought the person in. TS went before me. I love having a theatre gung-ho person as my friend. We really relate. He's so so so terrific.

I went after TS. When he came out, she called, "Sheila O'Malley" and I stood up. TS said, "Do you want me to wait for you?" and me - the stupid idiotic girl - said, "Oh yes - would you?" Boy do I deserve a kick in the head. [Even back then, I was paranoid about being "too much" for whatever guy I was with. ]

The lady [hmmm ... have no idea who this "lady" was. She was probably a theatre student which meant she was, oh, 20 years old ... but to me, she was EONS older than I was!!] knew I was in high school so as we walked in the room she asked me if I knew Kimber, told me just to relax. God, everyone was so nice to me.

I was mostly just worried that everyone would be like: "Oh. You're in --- high school" in a derogatory way, and just dismiss me, not give me a chance.

The audition room was one of the acting class rooms. I've been in them before. They're huge - but no architecture at all. It almost looks like a gym - or just a box with tape on the floor. [I didn't know the lingo yet. Rooms like that are actually called "black boxes".] Really bleak. And there was Kimber behind a desk, smoking on his pipe. And there was a guy and a girl there. [This completely cracks me up. This "guy and a girl" turned out to be Brett and Liz - people who are now two of my dearest friends on the planet. This is the first contact!!] I had seen the girl in a play before.

The minute I got into the room, I wasn't nervous anymore. In the middle of the room were 2 chairs facing each other. Kimber told me to sit in one. I did. I was ON DISPLAY!

He read over my form and said, "So. You're still in high school?" I didn't feel at all stupid saying, "Yes."

I glanced over at the two theatre majors and the guy grinned reassuringly at me. They were both probably 20 or so. Kimber told the girl to go up and read with me.

It was a great scene. I'm dressed up for the picnic and nervous about my first date and I'm talking to my older sister Madge. The minute I started reading, I knew I was in control. I know how to act. In fact, I think I did pretty damn well considering how sick I felt before. Then we had to read another scene that the guy was in too. He played the paper boy - and he was calling me names like "Goon face" and making fun of me - and I had to scream: "YOU ORNERY BASTARD." Well, I did scream. I hope I didn't make a fool of myself. I felt my whole face get hot when I screamed. I don't know. What a wonderful part Millie is anyway.

After that Kimber just said, "Thank you, Sheila." And the lady escorted me out. She told me that the cast list would be posted on Tuesday. TUESDAY! TWO DAYS! I'm dying already.

Oh God. I felt good about myself. Everyone was just nice. Nevertheless I mean it when I say I have no fingernails left.

Then TS and I left together. We were both practically screeching with all the left-over energy we were housing. [Housing? hahahaha What a funny word choice. Not quite right.] I still felt all rattled and frenzied. To beat off some of it, we just wandered around the sunny campus talking about our auditions, how we thought we did and all that stuff. We went over to the Union to see if the book store was open. It wasn't. So then we decided to walk back to my house and he could call his mom from there. Boy, have I walked a lot today.

We just talked. He kept saying, "Are you still quaking?"

[Interesting: The whole "quaking" thing I truly believe was a way for me to shield myself and others from my ambition - which was actually quite ruthless. I had an iron will and I took no prisoners. This made me nervous about myself. It was easier to just act "nervous" - which is a much more acceptable attitude - than to let people see how much I wanted it, and how much I had a "GET OUT OF MY WAY" ferocity to my drive. I was also nervous about seeming like I was competitive with my boyfriend - TS. HE needed to do better than I did. All of this was going on unconsciously, and I am just guessing at what was really going on back then. Turns out - I did get in this show - and TS did not - and we drifted apart for a good long while. I moved into another realm. I moved ahead. We ended up getting back together a couple months later - but once I finally opened up and let that ambition in - there was little room for anything else. I am only realizing this now.]

He decided to walk home. "Work off my tension."

I was just so wired.

He's so neat, Diary. I am really glad he was there today.

I still have to tell about our Friday night date, and also about what happened at mass tonight, but it's late and I have school tomorrow. I still can't eat a thing.

SEPTEMBER 24

All right. Sit down.

I either got a part, or I made callbacks.

Can you believe this.

I don't know WHICH though because I went out with Kate today after school and when I came home Siobhan [who was 8 years old at this point] had taken this message when I am going to keep FOREVER. I love her as much as life, you know. And listen to how CUTE she is. Her writing is in pencil, and it is huge and uneven:

"do a play at the same place on Thursday night at 7:30 URI Love Siobhan"

I can't stand it.

I don't know what it means, though. [hahahahahahahaha]

I'm gonna go tomorrow to see if there's a cast list or a callback list. But can you imagine? If I even just made callbacks - I was good enough to be called back! This way at least I'll know if I don't make it that it wasn't only because I'm in high school.

Oh My God

If I get into this my life will never ever be the same again.

Am I good? Someone tell me. Am I any good? I mean, this is getting to be big time.

What if I get a fuckin' part in this thing?
What if I have gotten into this play?
I will die.

This weekend has been a rough one to get through, but I did it. And on my own steam. I feel very vulnerable right now. For some reason, all my defenses are down. I think it's because of who I am. This weekend was not a weekend. It was crazy. I got no sleep. I ate nothing. And I went and acted - which further lowered my shields. Because no matter how much I want to be irrevocably me - and be free and unselfconscious - I have my walls up. But not now for some reason. I better be careful. Acting does lower my defenses. Sometimes I feel so scared in school because nobody would protect my vulnerability there.

Okay. So TS and me. Friday.

I called him and the minute we talked, I felt better.

Oh yeah. One more thing. When he came over after the auditions - he had to get back home - but before he left though, he came out on the porch to say hi to Dad and stuff. As TS called home, I went out to say hi. I glanced back inside and I saw TS coming thru the dining room - I saw him look down, see my Diary (this Diary!!), pick it up, and just walk out on the porch. He and my Dad talked for a little bit - then he held up the book and grinned at me. "Look what I found!" I made a grab for it but he held it back and said, "God, my fingers are burning up just holding it."

I just want to say about Friday that I had a great time. You know how I've been feeling about myself. Because of him. I don't like it. Friday night I was me. And I felt so much more comfortable and at ease. And good about myself. Seeing him cheered me up. What a cheerer-upper he is. I LOVE THE GUY.

It's so weird. I'm getting used to walking along with him, talking. He's a friend.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (7)

ipod glory

I was up all night importing music. I'm having a manic episode. whoo-hoo!!!

It's actually fun to go thru all my old CDs and pick and choose - I have so many CDs that I have kept only because of one damn song. Now I can clear up the space in my CD rack by importing the ONE song I like ... and throw out the damn CD.

I have a LONG ways to go ... Also - has anyone else experienced this? My laptop has to work so hard to import the music that the fan starts blowing - and then it suddenly spontaneously turns off. It's like it gets overheated or something. It's definitely slowed me down in my import progress.

But ... so far I've imported all of my Green Day, all of my Tracy Bonham, all of my Queen, all of my Queens of the Stone Age, all of my Bare Naked Ladies, and Beck's one song "Sexx Laws". I know Beck is a Co$er, and it bums me out ... I love that song. Not wacky about the rest of that album - so I just lifted "Sexx Laws" up off it ... I've imported most of my Tori Amos, and my Ben Folds Five.

I can't wait to work out today. It's going to transform my whole work-out experience. No more READING on the treadmill. Screw THAT!!!

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (26)

March 2, 2006

This is the most exciting day of my life

Why is that?

Because MY IPOD ARRIVED.

My parents bought me a freakin' IPOD. OH. MY. GOD.

I am beyond grateful. I had been "saving up" for one. And ... it arrived. The blessed parent Gods to the rescue. THANK YOU.

I am now "importing" music into iTunes. This is a whole new language for me. I have no idea what I'm doing. But I am jittering on the edge of psychological collapse, merely from the excitement.

One of the other reasons I'm excited is that I can now listen to The Eminem Show without tracks 9 and 13. I know this is a controversial point to some Eminem fans - but I don't like those 2 tracks. I always skip them. I listened to them the first time I listened to the album - and never listened to them again.

So now ... importing that album ... what a glorious feeling to click "de-select".

ahhhhhhhh

I am beside myself.

The iPod will change my life.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (36)

The longest meme

Thanks, Alex, for the longest meme ever.

Answers below.

THE LONGEST MEME

1. What time did you get up this morning?

5:45 am. Big snowflakes coming down thru the dark dawn.

2. Diamonds or pearls?

Diamonds.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Munich.

4. What's your favorite TV show?
Of all time? Or right now? Please don't ask me right now cause I'd say something like Project Runway and that's just absurd. So ... of all time, I'd have to say ...I don't know. I can't remember loving any show more than I loved Sesame Street when I was a kid. So ... I'll go with that and with the Muppet Show.

5. What did you have for breakfast this morning?

Yogurt, granola.

6. What's your favorite cuisine?

Italian.

7. What foods do you dislike?

Coconut and applesauce. Ahem.

8. What is your favorite chip flavor?
Mesquite BBQ.


9. What's your favorite CD at the moment?

Toss-up between Queen's Greatest Hits and Metallica's S & M.

10. What kind of car do you drive?

Sorry, I don't speak that language.

11. Favorite sandwich?

Tuna.

12. What characteristics do you despise?

Close-mindedness. Rigidity. Humorlessness. Sanctimonious-ness. Get the picture?


13. What is your favorite type of clothing?

Anything fleece. Also these ripped Madonna-esque gloves that I have - even though I never wear them. For whatever reason, that's why Window Boy decided to talk to me the night he made his move ... and I'll always be grateful that he came into my life. He still references those gloves, on occasion. hahaha They were good gloves - also, they were FREE - I wore them in a show, and they were falling apart, so I took them home with me when the show ended. Free gloves ... brought me Window-Boy? A pretty good return on NO investment.

14. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation. Where?

Iran.


15. What color is your bathroom?

White.

16. Favorite brand of clothing?

DKNY or as my mom calls it: "Dinky"

17. Where would you retire to?

Retire? What line of work do you think I'm in???

18. Favorite time of the day?

Between 5 and 6 a.m.

19. What was your most memorable birthday?

Gotta say the one described here.

I don't even know how old I was turning ... but it was a GREAT birthday.

20. Where were you born?

Boston.


21. Favorite sport to watch?

Baseball. Halfpipe.


22. Who do you least expect to send this back to you?

I don't play that game.


23. Person you expect to send it back first?

See above.


24. What fabric detergent do you use?

Tide - although Alex's answer is making me re-think my brand loyalty.


25. Were you named after anyone?

My mom.


26. Do you wish on stars?

Yup.

27. When did you last cry?

Last night.


28. Do you like your handwriting?

Yup. It's changed drastically over the years. It's now wild, and scrawling - completely not neat. I like it. It's dramatic.


29. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you?

Yes. Jeez, if I said "no" that would be a pretty sucky situation, wouldn't it??


30. Are you a daredevil?

Not really. Well - kinda.

31. Do looks matter?

I love LOVE Alex's answer: "If you�re Catherine Zeta Jones, no." Heh.

Uhm - of course looks matter. I mean, they're not EVERYTHING, but they're certainly not NOTHING either.


32. How do you release anger?

I try to get it OUT. Writing - talking it out - whatever. I have really bad habits when it comes to anger. I also go to yoga class, and I see a massage therapist once a month who ... well. Dude has worked WONDERS with all that stuff.

34. What were your favorite toys as a child?

I had an elephant named Dopey that my mom made. He was soft grey corduroy and he had googly blue eyes and his trunk was always up and I loved him very much. Okay, I have tears in my eyes. Because of Dopey. Haven't thought of him in years.


35. What class in High School was totally useless?

For me, it was Introduction to Physical Sciences. Horrible teacher who was in the process of having a nervous breakdown that year. Literally. He lost his job following that year. Horrible class. Horrible teacher.


37 Favorite movies?

Notorious, Apollo 13, Fearless, Running on Empty, Empire Strikes Back, Bringing up Baby, Postcards from the Edge, Fisher King, Waiting for Guffman, What's Up Doc?, Reds


38. What are your nicknames?

Sheil-babe.

Silo. The story of why I am called "silo" is rather amusing. I'll tell it some day.


39. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

Yup.


40. Do you think that you are strong?

I have no idea. I have endured a lot. I'm still here. But then I think I might be like that Bonnie Raitt line: "She's fragile like a string of pearls ... she's nobody's girl ..."


41. What's your favorite ice cream flavor?

Chocolate.


42. What are your favorite colors?

Green, purple.


43. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?

How unforgiving I am of myself. No rest for Sheila from that shite. Ever.


44. Who do you miss the most?

My uncle Jimmy. Pat.


45. Do you want everyone you sent this to, to send it back to you?

Guys - get it thru your skulls: I'm not sending it to anyone!!!


46 What color pants are you wearing?

Not pants. I'm wearing a black skirt.


47. Last thing you ate?

Chicken caesar wrap


48. Favorite song?

I always come back to "Fields of Joy" by Lenny Kravitz. Someday I'll write about what that song means to me.


49. If you were a CRAYON what color would you be?

Er ... flesh?


50. Last person you talked to on the phone?

My brother.


51. What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?

Alex has a great answer for this as well: "It depends on whether they�re walking toward me or away from me."

heh heh

Now the wording of this question is weird, I think. I don't find EVERYONE of the opposite sex attractive merely because they are of the opposite sex. I THINK the question is really: what do I find ATTRACTIVE - but ... it doesn't really SAY that. So I'll assume that they mean: "IF you find a member of the opposite sex attractive - what do you notice first?"

I'd say: the person's laugh. And hands are a close second.

52. Favorite drink?

Ginger ale.


53. Do you wear contacts?

Yup.


54. Favorite day of the year?

Oh, some random day in November or in March. Some day that is cold and blustery.


55. Endings happy or sad?

Sad. Whatever, I can live with them, and move on, but they're sad.


56. Winter/summer?

Winter.


57. Hugs OR Kisses?

Kisses.


58 What is Your Favorite Dessert?

I don't eat dessert. Uhm ... Tom: YOU GOT THAT? I DON'T EAT DESSERT.


59. What Book(s) are you reading?

I'm reading Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton. I am also reading Wise Blood by Flannery O'Connor.


60. What is on your mouse pad?

No mouse pad.


61. What Did You Watch Last night on TV?

Didn't watch TV. I went out.


62. Favorite Smells?

The ocean.

63. Stones or Beatles?
Beatles.


64. What's the furthest you've been from home?

Well. I flew out into the space-time continuum once and floated through a weird unending silvery world of love ... so I'm gonna go with that one.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (17)

Fug Humor

Quotes today that have made me laugh out loud:

From this post:

and her lazy, albeit timeless sweatpants

"albeit timeless". Why does that make me laugh SO much? "albeit timeless"

From this post:

the pants de-emphasize the length of her legs and can be described stylistically as "avant-garde French clown,"

Also:

"I feel fantastic -- and I look it, too! Thanks, Dynapoxilactiphan-Omega-10-X-Plus!"

And finally, from this post:

The boots are fine. I just wish she weren't dressed like she's on her way to jazzercize in Neverland.
Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (9)

Uhm ...

I feel like I have literally died and gone to heaven. I am there now.

Why?

Cause Bill Simmons and Malcolm Gladwell are having an email exchange. I ... I ... can't process my own ... joy ...

Simmons starts his email exchange like this:

When I started reading you back in the mid-'90s, I remember being discouraged because you made writing seem so easy -- technically, you were almost flawless, and since I knew I couldn't write that well, you were one of those visible writers who made me feel like I was going to be bartending my whole life. You never waste a word. You come up with cool arguments and angles for your pieces, then you systematically prove/dismantle those same arguments and angles, and you do it in an entertaining, thoughtful, logical way. You never allow your biases to get in the way. You're better at writing than me in every way. Basically, I hate you.

hahahahaha

The image of the two of them going out for drinks and having some hottie hit on Gladwell ... just ... ARGH.

I'm in heaven. Two of my writing idols? Emailing about SPORTS? And WRITING? Kill me now.

Quotes I so far love:

From Malcolm Gladwell: "Rural Ontario is not, exactly, a hotbed of athletic ability. I think I read somewhere that Jason Williams (the point guard) and Randy Moss went to the same high school. How is that even possible? If Brian Scalabrine went to my high school, it would now be called the Brian Scalabrine Memorial High School."

hahahahahaha

More:

From Gladwell: "They say that Wayne Gretzky, as a 2-year-old, would cry when the Saturday night hockey game on TV was over, because it seemed to him at that age unbearably sad that something he loved so much had to come to end, and I've always thought that was the simplest explanation for why Gretzky was Gretzky."

More:

From Bill Simmons: "My favorite Red Sox regular season was 1986, and only because I was stuck living in Connecticut before the days of DirecTV and the Internet. We did have Channel 38 on our cable system back then, but they didn't show that many of the Red Sox games, so either I had to climb on my roof to catch a static-filled radio broadcast or wait for "SportsCenter" and Warner Wolf highlights on Channel 2. (That was a big year for me and Warner because he also announced the Drago-Creed fight in "Rocky 4.") Still, I appreciated the season more than if I had lived in Massachusetts and watched the games -- every telecast was a treat, every radio broadcast was an effort, every highlight felt like a special gift, every box score was studied and analyzed, every phone call from my Dad felt like a live report. It's crazy, I remember more about that '86 season than any other season. And I missed most of it. "


Just finished reading the whole thing. Even better: it's only Part 1!!! Part 2 to come on Friday. SO satisfying.

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (18)

Happy birthday, John Irving!

johnirving.jpg

One of our best storytellers. I've been reading John Irving's books since high school when I first read Garp. I think, in retrospect, my favorite of his books is Cider House Rules - (can't even really think about it without getting goosebumps) - but in terms of an emotional reading experience - Prayer for Owen Meany is up there in the top 5 - as one of the most intense and powerful reading experiences I've ever had. The book blindsided me. It is one of a handful of books where I spontaneously burst out crying at the last sentence. (In case you're interested - the other books in that very rare category are Geek Love - don't even get me started - and Atonement - don't even get me started again). I think, in terms of structure, impact, importance - Cider House Rules is his best book - so far - but ... argh - I don't want to commit to that!

My family are all huge John Irving fans - and my group of college friends are all Irving maniacs - led by Mitchell and David, primarily. I strayed away from the Irving oeuvre in the late 90s ... I just felt too wiped OUT by Owen Meany - which I had read in 1991 (I remember where I was, what I was wearing, what the day was like, etc., when I finished that book) - and somehow ... I was done with John Irving. For a while. Mitchell and David were the torch-bearers for Irving, saying to me... "Have you read Widow for one year?" "Have you read Son of the circus?" Etc. They kept up with him. The release of a new John Irving book is anticipated, waited for, countdowns going on ... "It comes out on April 1!!"

The story of how Garp came to be - and how his fourth novel took off in a way that other writers only DREAM of - is now the stuff of legend. Irving is quite honest about the fact that all of his books somehow have to do with absentee fathers - because he has never met his father. His father took off when Irving was a baby, never to be heard from again. One of the reasons that Irving's idol, as a writer, is Charles Dickens (no surprise there - he is Dickens' American heir) - is because of Dickens' neverending theme of abandoned children. Children have to fend for themselves in Dickens' work - and adults are notoriously unreliable, evil, and selfish. Irving felt really inspired by that. He said once: "My imaginary reader has been my father. Surely, in one novel after another, I've been inventing fathers. I've been making them up. I have a ceaseless capacity to make up the missing part, to fill in the blanks, and he was a blank in my life."

Amazing ... if Irving's father HADN'T abandoned his child - then perhaps John Irving would not be the artist he is today.

Irving fans: what are your favorites of his books?

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Hahahahahaha

This is funny on so many levels - including the chosen title. hahahahaha

Posted by sheila Permalink | Comments (1)

The Books: "The Emperor" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

51SVKM3HQAL._SS500_.jpgNext book on this shelf is called The Emperor by Ryszard Kapuscinski. This is the story of the the fall of Haile Selassie, Emperor of Ethiopia. Kapuscinski went to Ethiopia, while the fighting for power was still going on, and tracked down Haile Selassie's old servants and secretaries and butlers, etc. The "true believers". And their interviews make up the bulk of the book. Most of the book is in their voices - with no editorial comment from Kapuscinski. We hear their delusions, prejudices, small-mindedness, or foresight - unimpeded. Intermittently, Kapuscinski will come in and write a couple of pages - pushing the events along.

I did a post about Haile Selassie - on the date he was deposed by the military. I used a lot of quotes from Kapuscinski's book - interviews about his final days. That post - sitting in my archives - is one of those Google-friendly posts. It still gets a lot of traffic. Stuff like that always interests me. Who knew??

Here's an excerpt from Kapuscinski. Kapuscinski describes a banquet he went to in Addis Ababa in 1963. The Emperor was hosting all of the presidents of independent Africa - and so he wanted to put on a show, and display that Ethiopia was a modern nation. Buildings were erected quickly, streets were cleared of peasants and camels, all of the poverty was basically hidden from view. Mud huts were destroyed - people left homeless - etc. Kapuscinski saw all this.

Then the reception itself.

From The Emperor by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

The Emperor threw an imposing reception for the meeting of the presidents. Wine and caviar were flowin in from Europe specially for the occasion. At a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars, Miram Makeba was brought from Hollywood to serenade the leaders with Zulu songs after the feast. All told, more than three thousand people, divided hierarchically into upper and lower categories, were invited. Each category received invitations of a different color and chose from a different menu.

The reception took place in the Emperor's Old Palace. The guests passed long ranks of soldiers from the Imperial Guard, armed with sabers and halberds. From atop towers, spotlit trumpeters played the Emperor's fanfare. In the galleries, theatrical troupes performed scenes from the lives of past Emperors. From the balconies, girls in folk costumes showered the guests with flowers. The sky exploded in plumes of fireworks.

When the guests had been seated at tables in the great hall, fanfares rang out and the Emperor walked in with President Nasser of Egypt at his right hand. They formed an extraordinary pair. Nasser, a tall, stocky, imperious man, his head thrust forward with his wide jaws set into a smile, and next to him the diminutive silhouette - frail, one could almost say - of Haile Selassie, worn by the years, with his thin, expressive face, his glistening, penetrating eyes. Behind them the remaining leaders entered in pairs. The audience rose; everyone was applauding. Ovations sounded for unity and the Emperor. Then the feast began. There was one dark-skinned wiater for every four guests. Out of excitement and nervousness, things were falling from the waiters' hands. The table setting was silver, in the old Harar style. Several tons of priceless antique silver lay on those tables. Some people slipped pieces of silverware into their pockets. One sneaked a fork, the next one a spoon.

Mountains of meat, fruit, fish, and cheese rose on the tables. Many-layered cakes dripped with sweet, colored icing. Distinguished wines spread reflected colors and invigorating aromas. The music played on, and costumed clowns did somersaults to the delight of the carefree revelers. Time passed in conversation, laughter, consumption.

It was a splendid affair.

During these proceedings, I needed to find a quiet place, but I didn't know where to look. I left the Great Chamber by a side door that led outside. It was a dark night, with a fine rain falling. A May rain, but a chilly one. A gentle slop led down from the door, and some distance below stood a poorly lit building without walls. A row of waiters stood in a line from the door to this building, passing dishes with leftovers from the banquet table. On those dishes a stream of bones, nibbled scraps, mashed vegetables, fish heads, and cut-away bits of meat flowed. I walked toward the building without walls, slipping on the mud and scattered bits of food.

I noticed that something on the other side was moving, shifting, murmuring, squishing, sighing, and smacking its lips. I turned the corner to have a closer look.

In the thick night, a crowd of barefoot beggars stood huddled together. The dishwashers working in the building threw leftovers to them. I watched the crowd devour the scraps, bones, and fish heads with laborious concentration. In the meticulous absorption of this eating there was an almost violent biological abandon -- the satisfaction of hunger in anxiety and ecstasy.

From time to time the waiters would get held up, and the flow of dishes would stop. Then the crowd of beggars would relax as though someone had given them the order to stand at ease. People wiped their lips and straightened their muddy and food-stained rags. But soon the stream of dishes would start flowing again -- because up there the great hogging, with smacking of lips and slurping, was going on, too -- and the crowd would fall again to its blessed and eager labor of feeding.

I was getting soaked, so I returned to the Great Chamber to the Imperial party. I looked at the silver and gold on the scarlet velvet, at President Kasavuba, at my neighbor, a certain Aye Mamlaye. I breathed in the scent of roses and incense, I listened to the suggestive Zulu song that Miriam Makeba was singing, I bowed to the Emperor (an absolute requirement of protocol), and I went home.

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March 1, 2006

Sports Guy ...

... on the glory that is Monday night television. I love the bit on this last Bachelor Paris - only because I saw it:

I loved the contrast between the two finalists: "Cute, happy, functional, baggage-free, average-breasted and not even remotely sexy" versus "mysterious, crazy, dysfunctional, baggage-saddled, big-breasted and smoldering with sex at all times." No wonder Travis used the word "amazing" 437 times last night. It was an amazing decision to make. The Sports Gal and I were rooting for him to choose Sarah (the cute/happy chick), if only because we wanted to see Moana's meltdown in the limo afterwards, as well as the Us Weekly story six weeks from now in which Travis reveals he and Sarah broke up because "we realized we were much better off as friends," followed by him moving to L.A. and rolling through every D-list celebrity in Hollywood.

So what happened? He dumped Moana, leading to a limo breakdown that was even better than expected. The only thing missing was Moana's head doing 360s while she screamed obscenities in Latin. Reader Andrew Martin even compared Moana's meltdown to Ron Burgundy's "I'm in a glass case of emotion" meltdown in "Anchorman," wondering why she didn't start screaming, "That mean man! He punted Baxter!" In fact, she was so crushed that they're not even running one of those "After the Rose" shows next Monday because they're probably afraid she'll murder everyone in the studio.

I love this show.

hahahahahahahaha

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2014 Olympics

Here is the petition from the planet Hoth to host the games.

I particularly enjoy under "events" where it says:

SKELETON (avoid Wampa dismemberment)


(via Bill)

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The Books: "The Soccer War" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

51RXMPFKZGL.jpgNext book on this shelf is called The Soccer War by Ryszard Kapuscinski. Often referred to as a classic of this type of journalism, The Soccer War is a compilation of many of Kapuscinski's essays, all of them having to do with the revolutions and civil wars that happened from 1958 - 1976.

It starts in Africa. Kapuscinski lived in Africa, off and on, for about 20 years and his most recent book, The Shadow of the Sun is entirely about that continent. In The Soccer War, he writes about Lumamba, Kwame Nkrumah, Ben Bella. He drives through burning roadblocks in Nigeria, he gets malaria, he drives right into the middle of civil wars. Algeria, Nigeria, etc.

In the second half of the book we leave Africa and go to Latin America. More revolutions. That's what Kapuscinski is interested in. And here, in this section, is the title essay of the book "The Soccer War". I'll post an excerpt from it.

It's a famous essay to journalists. People look to it as inspiration, as "how" to tell a story. He's a master at his craft. You can tell when people try to imitate Kapuscinski - Mark Bowden tried in his big long piece in The Atlantic about Saddam Hussein (which was very good, but he had drastically changed his style from Black Hawk Down, and I think it's because he re-read Kapuscinski's stuff and decided to 'try' it. It's not entirely successful - he's not as big a thinker, but Bowden is right on one point: that style IS more appropriate to his topic at hand. It has a more meandering feel to it, it is completely unafraid to go off into psychological tangents. Kapuscinski is not obsessed with driving a narrative forward. He is much more sensoral. He is contemplative. He will be writing about one thing ... and then stop and contemplate the meaning of life. Literally. Bowden is too much of a working journalist, a career journalist, to let himself go that far ... but he gives it a good try in the Saddam piece. But it's not quiiiiite a good fit. Bowden is too practical.)

There's one essay in Soccer War where Kapuscinski is recalled from the field as a foreign correspondent and has to go back to Poland and work behind a desk. Kapuscinski writes a 4 page essay about what it is that bothers him about desks: desks create barriers between men, desks create a hierarchy that Kapuscinski finds disgusting, desks diminish one person and raises another person up. The long story short is that Kapuscinski is saying, "A desk job is NOT for me" but like Elias Canetti, and Robert Kaplan, and Herodotus, and other great big-picture thinkers, he tries to describe WHY. Bowden could never go there to that degree. It would be too embarrassing for that practical-minded man.

A great example of that kind of Kapuscinski writing (the philosophical contemplations) is here. When the huge train crash happened in North Korea, I wrote a post about the lack of information we were receiving about it and it made me think of one of Kapuscinski's essays. Now THAT is good writing. It sticks with you. It contextualizes the world. You reference it.

Here's the start of The Soccer War.

The Soccer War by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

Luis Suarez said there was going to be a war, and I believed whatever Luis said. We were staying together in Mexico. Luis was giving me a lesson in Latin America: what it is and how to understand it. He could foresee many events. In his time he had predicted the fall of Goulart in Brazil, the fall of Bosch in the Dominican Republic and of Jiminez in Venezuela. Long before the return of Peron he believed that the old caudillo would again become president of Argentina; he foretold the sudden death of the Haitian dictator Francois Duvalier at a time when everybody said Papa Doc had many years left. Luis knew how to pick his way through Latin politics, in which amateurs like me got bogged down and blundered helplessly with each step.

This time Luis announced his belief that there would be a war after putting down the newspaper in which he had read a report on the soccer match between the Honduran and Salvadoran national teams. The two countries were playing for the right to take part in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico.

The first match was held on Sunday 8 June 1969, in the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa.

Nobody in the world paid any attention.

The Salvadoran team arrived in Tegucigalpa on Saturday and spent a sleepless night in their hotel. The team could not sleep because it was the target of psychological warfare waged by the Honduran fans. A swarm of people encircled the hotel. The crowd threw stones at the windows and beat sheets of tin and empty barrels with sticks. They set off one string of firecrackers after another. They leaned on the horns of cars parked in front of the hotel. The fans whistled, screamed and sent up hostile chants. This went on all night. The idea was that a sleepy, edgy, exhausted team would be bound to lose. In Latin America these are common practices.

The next day Honduras defeated the sleepless El Salvador squad one-nil.

Eighteen-year-old Amelia Bolanios was sitting in front of the television in El Salvador when the Hondruan striker Roberto Cardona scored the winning goal in the final minute. She got up and ran to the desk which contained her father's pistol in a drawer. She then shot herself in the heart. "The young girl could not bear to see her fatherland brought to its knees," wrote the Salvadoran newspaper El Nacional the next day. The whole capital took part in the televised funeral of Amelia Bolanios. An army honour guard marched with a flag at the head of the procession. The president of the republic and his ministers walked behind the flag-draped coffin. behind the government came the Salvadoran soccer eleven who, booed, laughed at, and spat on at the Tegucigalpa airport, had returned to El Salvador on a special flight that morning.

But the return match of the series took place in San Salvador, the beautifully named Flor Blanca stadium, a week later. This time it was the Honduran team that spent a sleepless night. The screaming crowd of fans broke all the windows in the hotel and threw rotten eggs, dead rats, and stinking rags inside. The players were taken to the match in armored cars of the First Salvadoran Mechanized Division -- which saved them from revenge and bloodshed at the hands of the mob that lined the route, holding up portraits of the national heroine Amelia Bolanios.

The army surrounded the ground. On the pitch stood a cordon of soldiers from a crack regiment of the Guardian Nacional, armed with sub-machine-guns. During the playing of the Honduran national anthem the crowd roared and whistled. Next, instead of the Honduran flag -- which had been burnt before the eyes of the spectators, driving them mad with joy -- the hosts ran a dirty, tattered dishrag up the flag-pole. Under such conditions the players from Tegucigalpa did not, understandably, have their minds on the game. They had their minds on getting out alive. "We're awfully lucky that we lost," said the visiting coach, Mario Griffin, with relief.

El Salvador prevailed, three-nil.

The same armored cars carried the Honduran team straight from the playing field to the airport. A worse fate awaited the visiting fans. Kicked and beaten, they fled towards the border. Two of them died. Scores landed in hospital. One hundred and fifty of the visitors' cars were burned. The border between the two states was closed a few hours later.

Luis read about all of this in the newspaper and said that there was going to be a war. He had been a reporter for a long time and he knew his beat.

In Latin America, he said, the border between soccer and politics is vague. There is a long list of governments that have fallen or been overthrown after the defeat of the national team. Players on the losing team are denounced in the press as traitors. When Brazil won the World Cup in Mexico, an exiled Brazilian colleague of mine was heartbroken: "The military right wing," he said, "can be assured of at least five more years of peaceful rule." On the way to the title, Brazil beat England. In an article with the headline 'Jesus Defends Brazil', the Rio de Janeiro paper Jornal dos Sportes explained the victory thus: "Whenever the ball flew towards our goal and a score seemed inevitable, Jesus reached his foot out of the clouds and cleared the ball." Drawings accompanied the article, illustrating the supernatural intervention.

Anyone at the stadium can lose his life. Take the match that Mexico lost to Peru, two-one. An embittered Mexican fan shouted in an ironic tone, "Viva Mexico!" A moment later he was dead, massacred by the crowd. But sometimes the heightened emotions find an outlet in other ways. After Mexico beat Belgium one-nil, Augusto Mariaga, the warden of a maximum-security prison in Chilpancingo (Guerrero State, Mexico) became delirious with joy and ran around firing a pistol into the air and shouting, "Viva Mexico!" He opened all the cells, releasing 142 dangerous hardened criminals. A court acquitted him later, as, according to the verdict, he had "acted in patriotic exaltation."

"Do you think it's worth going to Honduras?" I asked Luis, who was then editing the serious and influential weekly Siempre.

"I think it's worth it," he answered. "Something's bound to happen."

I was in Tegucigalpa the next morning.


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