The Sheila Variations

workout mix

Here is RTG's.

And here's mine. I consider it a work of art.

Now there are enough songs on here for me to take a 5 hour run probably - but I like to have a lot of options - because boredom is DEATH to me as a runner. There is one absolute: I always start off with Lose Yourself.

Lose Yourself - Eminem (it's goosebump time - every time I hear the song)

'Cuz I can - Pink (awesome obnoxious song - hysterical)

A Woman Wouldn't Be A Woman - Eartha Kitt (yup. I'm nuts. Great song. You must shake your hips when you hear it)

The One - Foo Fighters (from the Orange County soundtrack - one of my favorites of all of their songs)

Vogue - Madonna (this always comes up when I get to "the hill" - it gives me motivation)

Sk8er Boi - Avril Lavigne (again: motivation - one MUST move when one hears this song)

The Night Before - The Beatles ("we said our goodbye-eeeeees - the night befo-ore ..." - this is where I take it down a notch - works perfectly)

... Baby one more time - Britney Spears (love it. always will)

She-Bop - Cyndi Lauper (those first chords? If you don't pick up the pace when you hear those first chords then there is something wrong with you)

White America - Eminem (angry!! angry song! Keeps me going! There's a lot of Eminem on this mix you will find. Anger is very helpful for me)

Holiday - Green Day (see above in re: anger - this has to be one of my favorite songs written in the last 10 years.)

The Origin of Love - Hedwig and the Angry Inch soundtrack (another sort of "slow it down" song - wonderful - works perfectly)

Everything for Free - K's Choice (I found this on a random Lilith Fair compilation - it is such a hard freakin' rockin' song - reminds me of Evanescence - I ADORE IT)

Gone - Kelly Clarkson (bad ass)

Extraordinary - Liz Phair (it's mainly the beginning of the song that keeps me going)

Ray of Light - Madonna (it cannot be stressed enough - this chick knows how to put together a dance song)

Til I Collapse - Eminem (angry. Keep it going)

Elephant Love Medley - Moulin Rouge soundtrack (around here I start to get really exhausted ... and sometimes my emotions start to flow out ... this medley helps me to cry and run AT THE SAME TIME!! Keep going!!)

Rape Me - Nirvana (back to the anger. Enough tears. Rage!)

A Little More Love - Olivia Newton-John (don't laugh. This song has an insistent eerie beat that is very helpful when you are a sweaty beast thinking of giving up ... "will a little more love make YOU stop preten-diin ... will a little more lo-ove bring a happy ending ..." etc.)

Cream - Prince (yowza)

Strong - Robbie Williams (I love this song so much. It's cheese personified. But ... so so so catchy!!)

Wish Liszt - Trans-Siberian Orchestra (a ridiculous instrumental - classical - hard rock - stupid - but motivational!)

Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Stevie Wonder (fuggedabout it - one of my favorites of all of his songs - transports me)

Dear God - XTC (a perfect way to come on down ... and flop onto my front stoop, praying for mercy)

Exiles

Really interesting article about Joyce's only play. Lots of stuff I didn't know there. I've read the play and it does not have, how you say, the spark of genius. Some lovely writing ... but you don't ache to say the words out loud, like you do with other great playwrights. Joyce's genius lay elsewhere. It lay in the description of interior processes (among other things) - something not at all suited for the stage.

But still - it's a fascinating piece of work - in its own way, it's really vulnerable, really raw - because he's out of his element.

Bad News Bears ...

An appreciation. If you loved that movie (the original) as much as I did - then you do NOT want to miss that essay. It's superb.

This is for Bill's amusement

Scene: A smoke-filled tavern in New York, 1787. Sheila, in modern-day dress, enters. Her pupils are dilated from excitement. She strolls through, looking around. Powdered wigs. Tin mugs, with foam dripping down the side. Candles sputtering black smoke. Men. Mostly men. Then - she sees him. Standing in conversation in the back. She recognizes him immediately. She recognizes his ruddy face, his bright eyes. He has a glitter to him that the other men do not have. She has read about that glitter. And there it is. Right in front of her. It is unmistakeable. The books did not lie. Shyly, she approaches. He turns, and sees her. Those eyes. Holy shit. It's HIM. She makes her move. Once she starts talking, she cannot stop. It is mortifying, and yet she cannot help herself.

Sheila: Oh, Mr. Hamilton. I have waited so long for this moment. You don't know me - I'm from the future. I'm an American - and - well - everything that you're working on right now - everything you're fighting for, and fighting about - well, I just want you to know that i am living in the country that you planned, that you dreamt up. You saw so far ahead - and I'm telling you - so much of what you imagined has come to pass. Uhm ... well ... I just wanted you to know that I so admire you, even though you were kind of insane, and - I just wondered how you did it. How did you write so much? How did you just KNOW certain things? Where does that kind of intelligence come from? Jefferson's gonna get all the glory - at least intellectually - I really should warn you about that - is John Adams here? Because he should be warned as well - I know that's gonna piss him off - but anyway - even though Jefferson's the golden boy, in terms of posterity - you should just know that I think you're the bomb. I really do. Even though Abigail Adams despised you. I have so many questions to ask you. I have so much I want to say. Sorry to bother you ...I am sure you're really busy right now - it's 1787 after all - but do you have, like, 5 or 10 minutes to give me? I MUST interview you - I have a list of questions.

There is a long pause. Hamilton stares at Sheila. He then leans forward, and awkwardly, kind of stumbles a bit. Sheila smells the liquor on his breath. He holds out his mug.

Hamilton: (slurring words) You've got killer knockers.

Sheila: Uhm - woah. Mr. Hamilton - uh ...

Hamilton: (throwing his arm around her) Bitch, you're hot.

Sheila: But ... but ... The Federalist Papers ...

Hamilton: Federalist Shmederalist. Let's knock boots.

Sheila: I ... I've come such a long way ... is Madison here? Maybe I can talk to him?

Hamilton: Madison's a fucking bore. Let's PARTY!

Sheila: Okay - but - I only have limited time to ask you what ----

Hamilton: Are your boobs real?

In-depth

You gotta love a biography of Howard Hawks that starts in 1630.

The Books: "A Wind in the Door" (Madeleine L'Engle)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is A Wind in the Door by Madeleine L'Engle.

Here's the sequel to Wrinkle in Time - the second book in what is now known as The Time Quartet. It takes place shortly after the end of Wrinkle. Mr. Murry is now home from his intergalactic existential captivity. Calvin and Meg have continued to hang out (how much do we just love Calvin?) - and Charles Wallace is still eerily prescient and intelligent. This book opens with him saying to Meg, "There are dragons in the garden." Meg, at first, cannot see them. Turns out, it is NOT a dragon - but that's not the point. SOMETHING is out there and Charles Wallace senses it. Charles Wallace is 6 now - and Meg can tell that something is wrong with him. The book becomes a discovery process of what it is that is tormenting Charles Wallace -

Ack - her books are hard to talk about. I'm making it sound very dull. On a higher level, the book is about the melding of the macro and the micro worlds. What happens in an outer galaxy affects us, here on earth, on a cellular level. We're all one. Made of the same stuff. If a star dies, we feel it - as a loss. We may not even know what we are grieving - but we are in pain.

If Wrinkle in Time was a journey out into the galaxy - (the macro) - then Wind in the Door is a journey into the micro world. Specifically, mitochondria. The whole book ends up being about mitochondria ... and that's really all I'm gonna say - because to describe it further would make it sound dumb. I won't say Wind in the Door is better than Wrinkle - it is not - but it is a sequel that is vibrant, well-written, very moving - and keeps the themes going from the first book, in a strong and unexpected way. I LOVE this book - I find its message to be really poignant, almost painfully so - and I pick up this book when I need a reminder of it. The book ends up being about the universal power of love, and how inextricably intertwined love is with identity. This is played out in the book in a literal as well as a metaphoric way, micro and macro - I've shed tears when reading this book, its message is so healing and redemptive.

Also - I just love all of these characters. I love Meg and Calvin and Charles Wallace and the twins and Mr and Mrs Murry - they seem so real to me - and the beauty of L'Engle's books is that - they KEEP showing up. You can put off the final goodbyes to them - because those characters come in and out of most of her books - sometimes they're peripheral, sometimes they're the stars - but you get this sense of continuity - of connection with them - and I have always loved that.

So here's an excerpt from the beginning of Wind in the Door before it has become clear that drastic measures (uhm - going into mitochondria) have to be taken. It's a family discussion at dinner. All the themes are introduced right here.

Excerpt from A Wind in the Door by Madeleine L'Engle.

Meg was not thinking about spaghetti, although she was sprinkling Parmesan over hers. She wondered what their mother would say if Charles Wallace told her about his dragons. If there really were dragons, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, in the north pasture, oughtn't their parents to know?

Sandy said, "When I grow up I'm going to be a banker and make money. Someone in this family has to stay in the real world."

"Not that we don't think science is the real world, Mother," Dennys said, "but you and Father aren't practical scientists, you're theoretical scientists."

Mrs. Murry demurred, "I'm not wholly impractical, you know, Sandy, and neither is your father."

"Spending hours and hours peering into your micro-electron microscope and listening to that microsonar whatsit isn't practical," Sandy annouced.

"You just look at things nobody else can see," Dennys added, "and listen to things nobody else can hear, and think about them."

Meg defended her mother. "It would be a good idea if more people knew how to think. After Mother thinks about something long enough, then she puts it into practice. Or someone else does."

Charles Wallace cocked his head with a pleased look. "Does practical mean that something works out in practice?"

His mother nodded.

"So it doesn't matter if Mother sits and thinks. Or if Father spends weeks over one equation. Even if he writes it on the tablecloth. His equations are practical if someone else makes them work out in practice." He reached in his pocket, as though in answer to Meg's thoughts about dragons, and drew out a feather, not a bird feather, but a strange glitter catching the light. "All right, my practical brothers, what is this?"

Sandy, sitting next to Charles Wallace, bent over the dragon feather. "A feather."

Dennys got up and went around the table so that he could see. "Let me --"

Charles Wallace held the feather between them. "What kind is it?"

"Hey, this is most peculiar!" Sandy touched the base of the feather. "I don't think it's from a bird."

"Why not?" Charles Wallace asked.

"The rachis isn't right."

"The what?" Meg asked.

"The rachis. Sort of part of the quill. The rachis should be hollow, and this is solid, and seems to be metallic. Hey, Charles, where'd you get this thing?"

Charles Wallace handed the feather to his mother. She looked at it carefully. "Sandy's right. The rachis isn't like a bird's."

Dennys said, "Then what --"

Charles Wallace retrieved the feather and put it back in his pocket. "It was on the gorund by the big rocks in the north pasture. Not just this one feather. Quite a few others."

Meg suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle. "Charles and I think it may be fewmets."

Sandy turned to her with injured dignity. "Fewmets are dragon droppings."

Dennys said, "Don't be silly." Then, "Do you know what it is, Mother?"

She shook her head. "What do you think it is, Charles?"

Charles Wallace, as he occasionally did, retreated into himself. When Meg decided he wasn't going to answer at all, he said, "It's something that's not in Sandy's and Dennys's practical world. When I find out more, I'll tell you." He sounded like their mother.

"Okay, then." Dennys had lost interest. He returned to his chair. "Did Father tell you why he has to go rushing off to Brookhaven, or is it another of those top-secret classified things?"

Mrs. Murry looked down at the checked tablecloth, and at the remains of an equation which had not come out in the wash; doodling equations on anything available was a habit of which she could not break her husband. "It's not really secret. There've been several bits about it in the paper recently."

"About what?" Sandy asked.

"There's bee an unexplainable phenomenon, not in our part of the galaxy, but far across it, and in several other galaxies - well, the easiest way to explain it is that our new supersensitive sonic instruments have been picking up strange sounds, sounds which aren't on any normal register, but much higher. After such a sound - a cosmic scream, the Times rather sensationally called it - there appears to be a small rip in the galaxy."

"What does that mean?" Dennys asked.

"It seems to mean that several stars have vanished."

"Vanished where?"

"That's the odd part. Vanished. Completely. Where the stars were there is, as far as our instruments can detect, nothing. Your father was out in California several weeks ago, you remember, at Mount Palomar."

"But things can't just vanish," Sandy said. "We had it in school - the balance of matter."

Their mother added, very quietly, "It seems to be getting unbalanced."

"You mean like the ecology?"

"No. I mean that matter actually seems to be being annihilated."

Dennys said flatly, "But that's impossible."

"E = MC²," Sandy said. "Matter can be converted into energy, and energy into matter. You have to have one or the other."

Mrs. Murry said, "Thus far, Einstein's law has never been disproven. But it's coming into question."

"Nothingness -" Dennys said. "That's impossible."

"One would hope so."

"And that's what Father's going off about?"

"Yes, to consult with several other scientists, Shasti from India, Shen Shu from China - you've heard of them."

Outside the dining-room windows came a sudden brilliant flash of light followed by a loud clap of thunder. The windows rattled. The kitchen door burst open. Everybody jumped.

Meg sprant up, crying nervously, "Oh, Mother -"

"Sit down, Meg. You've heard thunder before."

"You're sure it's not one of those cosmic things?"

Sandy shut the door.

Mrs. Murry was calmly reassuring. "Positive. They're completely inaudiable to human ears." Lightning flashed again. Thunder boomed. "As a matter of fact, there are only two instruments in the world delicate enough to pick up the sound, which is incredibly high-pitched. It's perfectly possible that it's been going on for billennia, and only now are our instruments capable of recording it."

"Birds can hear sounds way above our normal pitch," Sandy said. "I mean, way up the scale, that we can't hear at all."

"Birds can't hear this."

Dennys said, "I wonder if snakes can hear as high a pitch as birds?"

"Snakes don't have ears," Sandy contradicted.

"So? They feel vibrations and sound waves. I think Louise hears all kinds of things out of human range. What's for dessert?"

Meg's voice was still tense. "We don't usually have thunderstorms in October."

"Please calm down, Meg." Mrs. Murry started clearing the table. "If you'll stop and think, you'll remember that we've had an unseasonable storm for every month in the year."

Sandy said, "Why does Meg always exaggerate everything? Why does she have to be so cosmic? What's for dessert?"

"I don't --" Meg started defensively, then jumped as the rain began to pelt against the windows.

"There's some ice cream in the freezer," Mrs. Murry said. "Sorry, I haven't been thinking about desserts."

"Meg's supposed to make desserts," Dennys said. "Not that we expect pies or anything, Meg, but even you can't go too wrong with Jello."

Charles Wallace caught Meg's eye and she closed her mouth. He put his hand in the pocket of his robe again, though this time he did not produce the feather, and gave her a small, private smile. He may have been thinking about his dragons, but he had also been listening carefully, both to the conversation and to the storm, his fair head tilting slightly to one side. "This ripping of the galaxy, Mother - does it have any effect on our solar system?"

"That," MRs. Murry replied, "is what we would all like to know."

Sandy brushed this aside impatiently. "It's all much too complicated for me. I'm sure banking is a lot simpler."

"And more lucrative," Dennys added.

The windows shook in the wind. The twins looked through the darkness at the slashing rain.

"It's a good thing we brought in so much stuff from the garden before dinner."

"This is almost hail."

Meg asked nervously, "Is it dangerous, this -- this ripping in the sky, or whatever it is?"

"Meg, we really know nothing about it. It may have been going on all along, and we only now have the instruments to record it."

"Like farandolae," Charles Wallace said. "We tend to think things are new because we've just discovered them."

"But is it dangerous?" Meg repeated.

"Meg, we don't know enough about it yet. That's why it's important that your father and some of the other physicists get together at once."

"But it could be dangerous?"

"Anything can be dangerous."

Meg looked down at the remains of her dinner. Dragons and rips in the sky. Louise and Fortinbras greeting something large and strange. Charles Wallace pale and listless. She did not like any of it. "I'll do the dishes," she told her mother.

The Books: "A Wrinkle in Time" (Madeleine L'Engle)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

Okay. Now I'm all nervous and excited - because I'm starting in on my Madeleine collection. We're gonna be here for a while. I'm scared! I love her SO much. Hard to talk about. It's just that her work means so much to me. I'd read a grocery list penned by L'Engle and have a profound experience.

Wrinkle in Time is not just one of my favorite books from my childhood but one of my favorite books ever. It's the kind of thing where if I hear someone hasn't read it, someone who I know will love it - I will literally BEG them to read it. Wrinkle in Time has reduced me to begging.

I actually wrote Madeleine L'Engle a letter once - I was in my mid-20s. This was before the Internet. I sent the letter to her publisher, Farrar, Straus Giroux ... and a couple months later - she wrote me back. The most beautiful personal letter ... I mean, how many letters must she get a month?? She had obviously read my letter, and thought about her response. Unbelievable. She's one of my personal idols - for so so many reasons.

The story of Wrinkle in Time getting published is almost (ALMOST) as good as the book itself. She and her husband, Hugh Franklin, an actor - had given up on the city - bought a general store in a little town in Connecticut - and moved there to raise their family. They had kids. She wrote. She published nothing. She had published a novel in her early 20s - and then a couple other books - quite a bit of early success, actually. Then - for 10 years - 10 long long years - nothing. Not even a story published. Not even a poem published. The rejections piled up. Madeleine has written eloquently about those years. Full rich years of childbearing and mothering and house-wife-ing - but on another level, there was an abyss of despair. Who was she really - if not a writer? She wrestled with the angels. The devils. It is that classic battle: between art and commerce. I've written about this before - in terms of being in a relationship with an artist. I expressed some of my feelings about this in my post about Annie, the wife in 'Field of Dreams'. If you fall in love with an artist, and choose to spend your life with that person - then you cannot fall in love with the end result. You have to love the journey itself. Madeleine L'Engle was a writer whether or not she got published ... but during those hard years of rejection and oblivion, she truly wondered if she could justify the time spent away from her family, writing in her study - if she wasn't making any money at it ... This is the struggle - this is what that struggle personifies. Of course you want to make money. But that is NOT why people get into this whole art game. Not people like L'Engle anyway. She writes because she MUST. She describes a black moment, when yet another rejection slip came in for a novel she had written - and she was pacing back and forth in her study, sobbing - panicky - like: what am I doing?? WHAT AM I DOING??? And suddenly, a sort of unearthly calm came over her - after a couple of hours of crying - and she sat down at her typewriter, and started writing again. That was the moment she knew. There was no monetary value she could place on this writing thing. Whether or not she sold anything ever again, she had to write. But it was NOT easy. She was lucky her husband was an artist as well, and had had the presence of mind to walk away from his career (when it was at its height!!) - and try something new. But then - when that "something new" (running a general store, living in the country, not being an actor) got old ... after 15 years ... he was brave enough to say to his wife, "I think we need to sell the store and I think we need to move back to Manhattan. I need to be an actor again." So that's what they did. And he was hugely successful until the day he died - with a long-running huge part on a soap opera. Anyway - there are many ways to have a marriage, many ways to work out these issues - and I admire Madeleine and Hugh for figuring out what worked for THEM, not trying to fit into some round hole that wasn't right .... I'd need a marriage like that.

Madeleine's breakthrough was with Wrinkle in Time. All her other books had been thoughtful novels about thoughtful people - nothing supernatural, nothing too out there - and they were successful, but - you know, they disappeared. They did not make her famous. After a gazillion publishers rejected Wrinkle in Time ("Is it a children's book?" "It's too dark - could you lighten it up?" "I don't get it ..." etc.) - Farrar Straus Giroux said Yes - and they gave her so much freedom - they just let Madeleine be Madeleine - that she STILL is with them. After 40 years. If she writes a religious book, they publish it. If she writes a book of poetry, they publish it. Children's books, adult books, memoirs - they publish it all. Kind of extraordinary. But Wrinkle in Time was such a huge success that it is still a best-seller - to this day. It's rare. She tapped into something. She "hit it", so to speak.

But the great thing - the inspirational thing - is that she wrote the book in isolation, in the middle of those bleak 10 years of rejection slips - She wrote it because it was a story she NEEDED to tell. She had had such bad luck getting published that she had no expectation that anyone would want the book - but she HAD to write it. And look what happened. It made her name.

Sigh. It's just so inspiring.

Here's an excerpt from the awesome first chapter that starts with the words: "It was a dark and stormy night."

If you haven't read it - I won't give you a plot synopsis. All I can do is beg. PLEASE. Read this damn book.

Excerpt from A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

In the kitchen a light was already on, and Charles Walace was sitting at the table driking milk and eating bread and jam. He looked very small and vulnerable sitting there alone in the big old-fashioned kitchen, a blond little boy in faded blue Dr. Dentons, his feet swinging a good six inches above the floor.

"Hi," he said cheerfully. "I've been waiting for you."

From under the table where he was lying at Charles Wallace's feet, hoping for a crumb or two, Fortinbras raised his slender dark head in greeting to Meg and his tail thumped against the floor. Fortinbras had arrived on their doorstep, a half-grown puppy, scrawny and abandoned, one winter night. He was, Meg's father had decided, part Llewellyn setter and part greyhound, and he had a slender, dark beauty that was all his own.

"Why didn't you come up to the attic?" Meg asked her brother, speaking as though he were at least her own age. "I've been scared stiff."

"Too windy up in that attic of yours," the little boy said. "I knew you'd be down. I put some milk on the stove for you. It ought to be hot by now."

How did Charles Wallace always know about her? How could he always tell? He never knew - or seemed to care - what Dennys or Sandy were thinking. It was his mother's mind, and Meg's, that he probed with a frightening accuracy.

Was it because people were a little afraid of him that they whispered about the Murry's youngest child, who was rumored to be not quite bright? "I've heard that clever people often have subnormal children," Meg had once overheard. "The two boys seem to be nice, regular children, but that unattractive girl and the baby boy certainly aren't all there."

It was true that Charles Wallace seldom spoke when anybody was around, so that many people thought he'd never learned to talk. And it was true that he hadn't talked at all until he was almost four. Meg would turn white with fury when people looked at him and clucked, shaking their heads sadly.

"Don't worry about Charles Wallace, Meg," her father had once told her. Meg remembered it very clearly because it was shortly before he went away. "There's nothing the matter with his mind. He just does things in his own way and in his own time."

"I don't want him to grow up to be dumb like me," Meg had said.

"Oh, my darling, you're not dumb," her father answered. "You're like Charles Wallace. Your development has to go at its own pace. It just doesn't happen to be the usual pace."

"How do you know?" Meg had demanded. "How do you know I'm not dumb? Isn't it just because you love me?"

"I love you, but that's not what tells me. Mother and I've given you a number of tests, you know."

Yes, that was true. Meg had realized that some of the "games" her parents played with her were tests of some kind, and that there had been more for her and Charles Wallace than for the twins. "IQ tests, you mean?"

"Yes, some of them."

"Is my IQ okay?"

"More than okay."

"What is it?"

"That I'm not going to tell you. But it assures me that both you and Charles Wallace will be able to do pretty much whatever you like when you grow up to yourselves. You just wait till Charles Wallace starts to talk. You'll see."

How right he had been about that, though he himself had left before Charles Wallace began to speak, suddenly, with none of the usual baby preliminaries, using entire sentences. How proud he would have been!

"You'd better check the milk," Charles Wallace said to Meg now, his diction clearer and cleaner than that of most five-year-olds. "You know you don't like it when it gets skin on top."

"You put in more than twice enough milk." Meg peered into the saucepan.

Charles Wallace nodded serenely. "I thought Mother might like some."

"I might like what?" a voice said, and there was their mother standing in the doorway.

"Cocoa," Charles Wallace said. "Would you like a liverwurst-and-cream-cheese sandwich? I'll be happy to make you one."

"That would be lovely," Mrs. Murry said, "but I can make it myself if you're busy."

"No trouble at all." Charles Wallace slid down from his chair and trotted over to the refrigerator, his pajamaed feet padding softly as a kitten's. "How about you, Meg?" he asked. "Sandwich?"

"Yes, please," she said. "But not liverwurst. Do we have any tomatoes?"

Charles Wallace peered into the crisper. "One. All right if I use it on Meg, Mother?"

"To what better use could it be put?" Mrs. Murry smiled. "But not so loud, please, Charles. That is, unless you want the twins downstairs, too."

"Let's be exclusive," Charles Wallace said. "That's my new word for the day. Impressive, isn't it?"

"Prodigious," Mrs. Murry said. "Meg, come let me look at that bruise."

Meg knelt at her mother's feet. The warmth and light of the kitchen had relaxed her so that her attic fears were gone. The cocoa steamed fragrantly in the saucepan; geraniums bloomed on the window sills and there was a bouquet of tiny yellow chrysanthemums in the center of the table. The curtains, red, with a blue and green geometrical pattern, were drawn, and seemed to reflect their cheerfulness throughout the room. The furnace purred like a great, sleepy animal; the lights glowed with steady radiance; outside, alone in the dark, the wind still battered against the house, but the angry power that had frightened Meg while she was alone in the attic was subdued by the familiar comfort of the kitchen. Underneath Mrs. Murry's chair Fortinbras let out a contented sigh.

Mrs. Murry gently touched Meg's bruised cheek. Meg looked up at her mother, half in loving admiration, half in sullen resentment. It was not an advantage to have a mother who was a scientist and a beauty as well. Mrs. Murry's flaming red hair, creamy skin, and violet eyes with long dark lashes, seemed even more spectacular in comparison with Meg's outrageous plainness. Meg's hair had been passable as long as she wore it tidily in braids. When she went into high school it was cut, and now she and her mother struggled with putting it up, but one side would come out curly and the other straight, so that she looked even plainer than before.

"You don't know the meaning of moderation, do you, my darling?" Mrs. Murry asked. "A happy medium is something I wonder if you'll ever learn. That's a nasty bruise the Henderson boy gave you. By the way, shortly after you'd gone to bed his mother called up to complain about how badly you'd hurt him. I told her that since he's a year older and at least twenty-five pounds heavier than you are, I thought I was the one who ought to be doing the complaining. But she seemed to think it was all your fault."

"I suppose that depends on how you look at it," Meg said. "Usually no matter what happens people think it's my fault, even if I have nothing to do with it at all. But I'm sorry I tried to fight him. It's just been an awful week. And I'm full of bad feeling."

Mrs. Murry stroked Meg's shaggy head. "Do you know why?"

"I hate being an oddball," Meg said. "It's hard on Sandy and Dennys, too. I don't know if they're really like everybody else, or if they're just able to pretend they are. I try to pretend, but it isn't any help."

"You're much too straightforward to be able to pretend to be what you aren't," Mrs. Murry said. "I'm sorry, Meglet. Maybe if Father were here he could help you, but I don't think I can do anything till you've managed to plow through some more time. Then things will be easier for you. But that isn't much help right now, is it?"

"Maybe if I weren't so repulsive-looking - maybe if I were pretty like you -"

"Mother's not a bit pretty; she's beautiful," Charles Wallace announced, slicing liverwurst. "Therefore I bet she was awful at your age."

"How right you are," Mrs. Murry said. "Just give yourself time, Meg."

"Lettuce on your sandwich, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.

"No, thanks."

He cut the sandwich into sections, put it on a plate, and set it in front of his mother. "Yours'll be along in just a minute, Meg. I think I'll talk to Mrs Whatsit about you."

"Who's Mrs Whatsit?" Meg asked.

"I think I want to be exclusive about her for a while," Charles Wallace said. "Onion salt?"

Happy place!

I came across this really interesting photo this morning - and here it is. I'm posting this one for Mitch as well - because she's his favorite. I know a lot of people who count her (she who is so forgotten now by the general public!!) as their favorite.

What a lovely alive face she has. She's really in her face, if you know what I mean. There isn't a mask there.

I love this photo.

Diary Friday

More Picnic! It's all a mish-mash here. I'm now in my second semester, senior year ... so high school is starting to wind down. This entry is all about the earth-shaking moment that is:

Filling out the blurb to go by your picture in the senior yearbook.

These are some of the most important choices you must make as a teenager. I obviously took it VERY seriously.

JANUARY 13

For the past few days my friends and I have been totally engrossed in filling out our seior blurbs. I can't believe how INTO it we all were. Wherever you looked in school was a senior diligently filling it out. J. and I had the best time doing ours together. We both did about 4 rough drafts. It was so hysterical. In some ways they were hard to fill out. I mean, that little blurb was supposed to represent me. I really wanted it to. I remember when I was an underclassman, poring over every senior blurb - practically memorizing each one. I couldn't help but keep in mind what people would think when they read mine. I kept crossing things out and it would get so messy that I'd have to get another form. Whenever any teacher would give free time, out would come the blurb sheets. We also voted for Senior Superlatives. They were almost harder than the blurbs because millions of names could fit in each one. As far as I can tell, I think I'm getting Best Actress. In fact, I bet it's unanimous. I mean, I'd be in the library, or the caf, and seniors I don't even know (who didn't know I was there) would be saying, "How do you spell Sheila?"

Here, for lack of anything better to do, I'll explain my senior blurb.

My nicknames: Chicago. [which is funny, since I ended up living there many years later] When we were either freshmen or sophomores, somehow Betsy and Mere and I dubbed Beth New York. We also gave ourselves city nicknames. Betsy was Boston, Mere was LA and I was Chicago. They would call me, "Hey, Windy!" or "Hey, you! Hi there, murder capital of the world!" Then I also put as a nickname Sheila Squealah - which is what TS calls me.

Miyako, April's Japanese student, can NOT pronounce my name - it's always "Shira" - J. thinks it's very funny so that's what she calls me now.

During Picnic, one of the jokes that evolved backstage generated from that horrifying movie Magic - really scary - where this marionette comes alive and talks. Liz would freak people out because she could make herself look like that marionette - huge bug eyes, false dead smile - and she'd say in this really raspy whispering voice, "Sheeeeeeeeeeeeila." It wouold make my skin crawl - especially when she did it backstage among the blackness of the curtains and I could see the whites of her eyes. I described it to everyone at school, and now- at spasmodic moments - one of us will assume the face and call someone's name -

"Meeeeeeeeeeeeeredith ..."
"Beeeeeeeeetsy"

It could be scary. J. really exaggerates it. And now she goes, "Shira ....... Shira ...."

I also put down "Millie" as my nickname. I really do answer to it. During rehearsal, on and offstage I was referred to as Millie. When we'd get notes, we'd all be our character names. Once Liz called me to tell me that Joe was coming to get me to come up and see her play. I answered the phone. She said, "Is Millie there? This is her mother speaking." I have a feeling that she would have said that regardless of who answered. Once my mother answsered the phone, and she was saying, "Who do you want? Billy?" I tried to lunge for the phone. "It's for me! They want Millie!" It turned out to be a wrong number and I was quite laughed at by my family.

My favorite quote I found on a little ripped-up calendar under the desk at the library. I was trying to calculate how much someone owed and was counting the days and I read it and I felt my throat clog up, my eyes filmed over - I reached for a pencil and a piece of scrap paper. I love that quote.

Another quote was from our movie (the movie) The Troubled Days and Nights of Husbands, Wives, Lovers and Children in Hope and Despair (which, by the way, is now 4 parts long - over 2 hours long.) We just filmed part 4 over Christmas vacation. And - as the cleaver murderess Andrea - there's one moment when I'm looking straight into the camera and - I don't know what word can describe it - I'm sort of cackling - but it doesn't sound like a witch. It sounds like a deep gutteral "Hm Hm Hm" - it is one of the most hysterical things I've ever done - and I say it all the time now.

Another quote I put down is one of my numerous favorite lines from my FAVORITE movie What's Up Doc. Mere, J and I can recite that movie.

"I am Hugh."
"You are me?"
"No. I am Hugh."
"Stop saying that! Make him stop saying that!"
______

"That's a person named Eunice?"
________

"You are not going to say, 'Hi, my name is Howard.' Anyone can say that! Anyone!"
"Anyone named Howard."
_______________

"They broke into my home."
"That's breaking and entering."
"And they brought her with them forcibly!"
"That's kidnapping."
"They tried to molest me."
Long pause.
"That's unbelievable."

I suppose my favorite foods are self-explanatory. Every year I buy two huge onion bagels from Penn Station with so much cream cheese that it oozes off the side. Every bite is wonderful. The place is a really scummy place, but those bagels! Also, every time Mummy Gina visits she makes her sticky cinnamon rolls. Oh my God. I could eat 5,000,000 of those delectable things. And I could also live on Chicken McNuggets.

Of course - my diaries are my favorite objects. I'm on #9 now. [wow. I'm only 9 diaries in???] I don't know why I write so much or so faithfully. I think partly so I can try to make sense of the feelings I have, or try to discover what the feelings are. If my diaries were ever lost I'd feel like a big chunk of my life was missing. One of the funniest things to do is to read my old diaries. Who was I?? I read things that I wrote a long time ago that sound so stupid to me now. About sex: "No way am I ready. Past making out? Forget it. Even in college I don't think I'll be ready. But I refuse to go through my whole life a virgin, okay? If I really love someone - and if there is no pressure involved - and both of us know that it's right, then maybe I would consider having sex. In my late 20s or so I am pretty sure that I will be ready. That sounds normal, huh?" Did I actually write those juvenile things? I did not know WHAT I was talking about!

My cleaver from the movie is also one of my favorite objects. There is one point in Part II when I do a mad dance with a cleaver to "Hall of the Mountain King". When we were watching this part, Mere glanced at me and said, "Sheila, why am I friends with you?" [hahahahahahahahahahaha] But I also do little drawings of cleavers - as symbols for frustrating and anger. Through my junior year, little cleavers were sprinkled ALL OVER my notebook margins. [Okay, that sounds scary]

I've already explained about my dark glasses and how I love them. [Get ready for some wardrobe talk now. MORTIFYING!] Whenever I wear my jeans jacket, I hook one of boughs into a button hole - I love feeling cool. [If you love feeling cool, then I would not hook my sunglasses into my jeans jacket. Just a tip.] When we all went roller skating, I wore my huge blazer, my Hawaiian shirt, and my jeans - I also wore my dark glasses. I bring them everywhere. [Hon ... they're sunglasses. What is the big deal. They cost 5 bucks at CVS. Calm down.] Roller skating was heaven by the way - HEAVEN!! "Old Time Rock and Roll" came on [I almost don't want to type out this next part it's so embarrassing] - and - I felt so ... something about whizzing along on roller skates - I just felt so exuberant - dancing - music - and when that song came on - I whipped out my glasses and put them on. [AHHHHHH I'M SO EMBARRASSED] I couldn't stand how COOL I felt bopping along. Brett went zooming up to tell Joe to look at me - and I could hear Brett saying, "Look at her! She's hot! Sheila is HOT." [hmmmmmm!!!] I felt it too - I guess I felt hot that night. I really liked David too. [the birthday boy from yesterday!!] We skated hand in hand for about half an hour - kidding around, trying to go backwards. He is so sweet.

Now I have to tell a story that I never told because I never had time. I never told about my birthday. My birthday this year was the best birthday I've ever had. First of all, I'm 17 now. It's a cool age to be. I can see dirty movies now! [hahahahahahaha what???] The whole day was so perfect. I had an inkling that Picnic people were gonna do something. They all knew it was my birthday. The night before, Brett drove me, Liz and Joe home. Joe and I were in the back, Brett and Liz in front. Right before Liz got out at her sorority, she said to Brett, "Are you doing anything tomorrow around 3:00?" He said no. She leaned over and whispered something to him. He nodded, glancing back at me, "Okay." Joe and I were yelling, "HEY! No fair!" I just had this feeling, though ...

My family got up an hour early to give me my presents. i've never appreciated my birthday like I did this year. We were into dress rehearsals. My life was a whirlwind. Opening Night was 2 days awya. I was SO happy and full and excited and living in a flurry. Perfect time to turn 17.

I got wonderful presents - and I got black corduroy pedal pushers that are now my favorite article of clothing. Siobhan made me a card - that - well. Only little kids can touch me that way. It's SO CUTE. And -

I GOT A STEREO!

It was such a wonderful warm birthday. I felt sincerely happy.

Then I went to school. I was feeling everything so strongly. My life was so full. I got a hug from everyone. The first person I saw was April. She made m e 3 little origami birds - she knows I love origami. [I do?] Kate gave me this really special book called Markings by Dag Hammerskold. I haven't really read it yet. It's not a cover to cover kind of book. It's the diary of a man and about his spiritual life. I just open it up sometimes and see what it can tell me.

"But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone - or Something - and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore, my life, in self-surrender, had a goal."
"What I ask for is absurd: that life shall have a meaning.
What I strive for is impossible: that my life shall acquire a meaning."

One of my favorite passages:

"Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was."

Do you see what a high I am operating on at all times? [Yes. I do. Take it down a notch. Thanks.]

Betsy made me a key chain [that I adored and had for years until it literally fell apart] - with a collage on it - a picture of the barn, a picture of a red rose, a picture of James Dean, my face from the freshman toga picture, a picture of me on my retreat, a picture of Betsy - she always makes her presents. And she gave me a card - I read it alone and it is precious.

Beth gave me a certificate guaranteeing me dinner with Beth at the restaurant of my choice. Hey - I still haven't taken her up on that! I feel so close to her.

J. didn't give me my present till that library party Opening Night. It was a pink glass bead necklace and I LOVE IT.

They all put birthday and Break a leg announcements on for me - I felt so loved and special and happy. And I had a dress rehearsal that night. My first real dress rehearsal. I was nervous and sick inside.

So I came up to the theatre - totally forgetting to anticipate that something was gonna happen for my brithday. I came into the lobby and signed in. That was when jennifer came up to me with a letter from Michelle - it touched me SO MUCH that she remembered! It just blew me away. I stood there alone in the lobby talking to myself, "Oh, this is so sweet ... thank you so much ..." I walked down the hall to the girls dressing room and just as I walked past the guys dressing room door, Brett came hurtling out looking around frantically. Then he saw me and SHOUTED, "HEY! Happy Birthday!" and swung me up in a huge tight hug. Then he dragged me into the dressing room. Liz and Joe sat there waiting - they saw me and burst into song. Brett kept his arm around me. Liz presented me with a wrapped package and an envelope. I was so moved, so touched. As they sang, I just stood there saying, "Oh, you guys - " holding my present, beaming at them. I love them all DEARLY.

I opened the envelope first. I burst out laughing. It was a picture of a marionette with an eerie grin on his face. Inside it said, "Happy birthday, Dummy" - and they wrote under "dummy" my ame.

I felt so honored and special and thankful. Just that I was there - that my life was the way it was. I felt a little bit of trepidation in opening the present because the box looked rather suspicious. I thought that it was gonna be a dousche, or condoms - or something embarrassing. I could feel myself trying to think up a reaction before I even opened it. I opened it - and the minute I saw the words on the box - I burst out laughing. It said: THE SPERM BANK. Total mass hysteria broke loose. They all yelled, "Open it!" So I did.

Diary, it is a big hollow white china sperm - with a slot in the top so it is, indeed, a sperm "bank". It now holds an honored position on the top shelf of my bookcase.

Then Brett said, "Hey, did you sign in?"

I n odded. They all glanced at each other. Brett said, "You did?" I nodded. Brett pushed me towards the door. "Well, go and sign in again." I didn't know what he was talkig about - the 4 of us went back to the lobby and I peered at the sign-in sheet to see if my check was there. Yes - there it was. Then I glanced up - and tacked up over the sign-in sheet - was a HUGE sign - I felt this jolt inside - it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY - in huge round gold and silver letters - and SHEILA O'MALLEY in block red and blue letters. Then there was a 17 in block numbers - and on the top was written in purple, "And you KNOW what you can do!" (That line was my main stumbling block in the play). Brett made the sign - I LOVE IT SO MUCH. If the house was burning down, I would grab that sign. I adore it. It's hanging on the wall right above my sperm bank. I hugged everyone, Joanna came running in - she remembered too - gave me a big tight hug. PERFECT BIRTHDAY. My best one yet. Brett told me a few nights later at Giro's: "When we went shopping for your birthday I saw this thing that I was gonna get you - I don't know why - a big James Dean poster - it just seemed like a thing you'd like." "Brett - I am obsessed with that guy. How did you know?"

Anyway, that's a long story to explain why "sperm bank" is listed as one of my favorite objects in my senior blurb.

Oh - and under Favorite Person - I just put "all my friends" - also Don Juan - which is a whole other story. I am glad I can somehow incorporate these Picnic stories in. Okay - there was a party at Brett and Joe's on November 16 and I was gonna sleep over. Eventually I didn't but it was a good time - only Picnic people - it was really quiet and intimate. These people are all so into ghost stories that it isn't even funny. Apparently our theatre has its own ghost - George. Everything bad is blamed on him. They told a lot of weird true stories about things that happened to them. For atmosphere, we turned off all the lights and lit one candle so it was really creepy. Jennifer is so cute - she's so free with her emotions. Someone would be telling a ghost story and you could hear her moaning, "Oh my gosh" in the corner. After that, we turned on the lights and played Dr. Shrink. What it is is - we sat in a circle. Someone started, like, "If Linda were a food, what food would she be?" Everyone writes down their answers and passes it in to the person who asked the question. Then the person reads them aloud and you have to guess who wrote it. As you can imagine, it got pretty personal.

Liz's question was, "If you were an alcoholic drink, what drink would you be?" I groaned. I have NO idea! So she changed it to any drink. "And anyone who says lemonade is in big trouble." I wrote down, "A glass of damn milk, okay?" which ended up bringing the house down.

Lenny said, "If there were a movie made about Brett's life - no - no - If there were a movie made about Brett's sex life - what would it be called?" When he said that, I almost dropped out of that round. I have NO idea - it feels so personal - I had no idea what to say. Everyone was around me, giggling as they wrote down their answers. Bretet just sat there grinning resignedly. "Okay. Okay. I can take it." I didn't want to make too big a deal over how lost I felt. So I fianlly just scribbled something down and passed it in. When Lenny started to read the answers out loud - oh my God, it was so hysterical.

Jennifer's was 'The Big Chill' - that was the #1 favorite answer
Liz wrote (a line from Picnic) "Beggars can't be chooser"
There were bursts of hysteria at every answer - and as Lenny kept reading I realized that mine was like the only semi-nice one. I wanted to sink through the floor. I wanted to somehow subtly disappear and take my answer with me. [hahahahahaha] I sat in agony. Waiting. Then Lenny came to mine - he read it to himself and then said, "Okay - who wrote Don Juan?" Everyone started screeching with laughter - the blush crept up my cheeks - I got totally hot in the face - my big huge smile gave me away - I sort of raised my hand - Brett shouted, "THANK YOU! OH! THANK YOU!" and practically attacked me. He had really been ragged on for about 5 minutes. I was so glad that it all turned out okay and I didn't hate myself for writing Don Juan anymore.

And that's why I put Don Juan as one of my favorite people. [Sheila, you do realize that by saying a 'sperm bank' is your favorite object and that 'Don Juan' is your favorite person - you may be giving people an incorrect impression of you???]

Other Picnic entries:

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.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.
Part 14. Opening night approaching. Homecoming Dance approaching.
Part 15 Homecoming Dance. Homecoming football game. Rage.
Part 16 Last rehearsal before 3 day Thanksgiving break. Heaven!
Part 17 Opening Night!
Part 18 More on Opening Night.
Part 19 The show closes. Drama with the boyfriend. Reconnecting with my friends.
Part 20Closing Night party - part 1
Part 21 Closing Night party - part 2
Part 22 Brett and I go see 2010 - part 1

The Books: "The Girl Who Wanted a Boy" (Paul Zindel)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Girl Who Wanted a Boy by Paul Zindel.

There's a funny story behind this book - which I loved as a teenager. I signed it out of the high school library. I read it. I loved it. Months later - perhaps YEARS - Betsy and Mere were going through a library-hijinx phase. I think it was Betsy and Mere. They had a free period, they would hang out in the library, and basically scroll through the shelves looking for silly-sounding books, and then sign them out (at least put their names in the back) to people they knew. So suddenly it looked like I had taken out a book called How To Get a Boy to Love You in 30 Days. Stupid stuff - but very funny, too. Betsy even took it far enough to make an announcement over the loudspeaker one morning - I think she might have even made up a fake contest for Mere to 'win' - so Betsy went on the loudspeaker and said, "Congratulations to Meredith - winner of the such-and-such contest - and her prize is her very own copy of her favorite book: Programmed for Love!" Needless to say, Programmed for Love is not and never was Mere's favorite book. But those words blasted throughout the school. I still remember sitting in math class, hearing Betsy's triumphant voice declaring, "Programmed for Love" over the loudspeaker and sitting there shaking with laughter. The point was to embarrass each other over goofy-titled books. So. I happened to be in the library with Betsy and Mere, and we were goofing off in the stacks, getting more and more hysterical. We were pulling books off the shelves, checking the back to see who had signed it out (this was when there were little actual library cards in the back of the book) - and making jokes. Then the worst thing possible happened. Betsy saw a book on the shelf - drew it out - and immediately started making fun of the title - which was The Girl Who Wanted a Boy. Yes!! Horrible title! I knew immediately that I was in big BIG trouble - but it all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to defend myself - Betsy pulled it out, and said, in a cooing voice, "Ohhhhh, isn't this cute? The Girl Who Wanted a Boy!! So adorable!" Then she opened the back of the book, pulled out the library card - and there was my name. I had actually signed it out. Ahhhhh! I could not defend myself! We all just LOST it - Betsy gaped at me - and then we were out of commission, laughing so hysterically that we had to leave the library. I kept trying to say, "Guys ... guys ... it's a really good book!" - but naturally, with a title like that, they were both like, "Suuuuuuuuuuuure it is."

The main character is an oddball girl named Sibella. She's 17. She has no real friends - and her parents are very worried about her. She's not a normal girl. She's a mechanical genius, can fix anything, and walks around with a toolbox - which should just let you know how unsuccessful she really is, socially. But inside, Sibella is all heart. She is waiting for the right one. She lies in bed at night, aching for "the right one". You kind of worry about Sibella, to tell you the truth. It seems like she is gonna get her heart broke BAD. So then - one random day - she sees a picture in the newspaper - of a young race car driver who lives in her town. I guess maybe there's a small race-track on the outskirts of town -can't remember. But anyway - she sees this guy's picture and she immediately knows: That's him. She's never seen him before - he's 24 - she's in high school - he has no idea who she is ... but she knows. She just knows in her heart that he is The One. So she goes out to find him. It's all kind of awful and awkward and comedic ... Zindel, in my opinion, doesn't make a misstep here. Dan, of course, turns out to be just a guy - not perfect, not The One ... but ... Sibella was right ... there is something about him ... Sibella, frankly, acts like a crazy person and Dan is right to be wary of her. But against all odds - a kind of strange friendship starts up ... but you can see that one of the reasons Dan likes her, and tolerates her - is that he likes being seen the way she sees him. He's kind of a loser, truth be told. Down on his luck. He likes having Sibella see into his soul, see the good in him, look up to him.

Here's an excerpt I always loved. Sibella goes to confide in her father about all of this. Her parents are divorced - her mother is kind of a pain - she's a busybody, she's a dating maniac, she thinks her daughter's a weirdo - and her father, a scientist who works in a lab - is the guy she goes to when she has real problems.

Excerpt from The Girl Who Wanted a Boy by Paul Zindel.

Sibella made it to the laboratory by ten-thirty, and took the elevator to the fifth floor - where she remembered exactly which door led to her favorite person in the world. She knew he would be preoccupied, probably wouldn't even notice the door opening. Most of all she knew he would love being surprised. Inside, she looked across the half dozen lab tables and labyrinthine tubes connected to retorts and distillation apparati. He was alone, busy with a titration, carefully watching the drops fall into a beaker to see when acid would become base.

"Daddy," Sibella called softly.

Her father looked up. "Sibella! How are you? Come on over. I'll be finished in a second."

"I don't want to interrupt."

"No, no, don't worry about it."

She watched him expertly guide the titration to its conclusion. He still looked exactly as he did in the big photograph on her bedstand. Kind loving eyes, distinguished - just a touch of gray in his hair. He was the one person she felt hadn't changed on her.

"Your mother called," he said, taking her into his arms and giving her a big hug and a kiss.

"I figured she would," she said, unwrapping his coffee and doughnuts. "I haven't seen you since Thanksgiving, so I thought I'd just take a ride in."

"Ah, my favorite doughnuts." He beamed and then added, "Your mother sounds as spaced out as ever. She was telling me about her new boyfriend. How affectionate and considerate he is. But she seemed very disturbed about Maureen and what she's been doing to you - giving you a hard time as usual."

"Yes, Dad."

"There's a kit to build a computer I could get you. You could just make a code and keep your diary in that. Nobody would be able to pull it out and retrieve it except you. You look like you're feeling pretty good." He smoothed the hair on top of her head.

"Well, I am," Sibella admitted. "So I said this morning, to hell with school, I've got to go and see the wizard."

"I don't know how much of a wizard I am. But I've been meaning to tell you, I've got a secondhand binocular microscope for you for Christmas."

"Oh, Dad, you didn't!"

"Look, I said I would. I did. It's a honey. They were using it in the National Aniline Division on Rector Street - but they're phasing that lab out. Remember when I had you doing the experiments on supersaturated solutions and you ran up here with those flasks of copper sulfate? This is the same kind of scope."

She couldn't resist wrapping her arms around him.

"I miss you, Daddy."

"I miss you, too," he said. "But you're coming along fine, just fine. Please don't be too impatient. That's all I wrory about. You're too smart, Sibella. I think you made yourself too smart just to make me happy, so maybe it's my fault, but I'm very proud of you, very proud."

"Daddy, I needed to ask you about something," she said gently, solemnly. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"From what I hear, you're going to ask me something about love."

"Right on the nose, Daddy. You taught me about atoms and condensers, foot candles and electrodes. I know Ohm's Law and horsepower and the corpuscular theory - but I don't know anything about love."

"Why don't you tell me about this boy? Your mother says he worked at some kind of midget racetrack. Tell me about him. Is he special?"

"Daddy, I feel like I'm going to die if I don't have him. I want to own him. I want to pick him up in my arms and go running down the street with him and tuck him into my tool kit," Sibella said desperately. "I love him so much I wish we could explode together. That our atoms and electrons could get inside each other. I'm so sad. I love him so much, I'm sad, that's how special he is."

"Did you tell him this?" her father asked very seriously.

"Yes."

"Well," her father said, "then you've given your heart away."

Sibella lifted her head from his shoulder. She looked into his eyes to find out whether that meant she had done right or wrong.

"I used to give my heart away," her father said. "Not to Pauline," he clarified, evoking in Sibella the memory of her dad's girl friend. "I gave it to your mother, and you know what she did with it. I think it's very good to give your heart away a few times at your age, just so you know what dazzling love can be like; but then you learn that there are laws of science. I can only really tell you what you will learn to do eventually, and this law I call the law of love's reciprocity. It means you don't give your heart to anyone unless you know he wants it, and wants to give you his."

"How can you know this?" Sibella asked, listening to every word as though he truly was a wizard.

"Well, you see there's a lot of pieces to the human body and soul besides the heart. When you learn to practice the law well, the next time you see a boy you think you could love very deeply, you first say Hello. You start very small and see if there is any response. If the boy says Hello back, then perhaps you offer him a piece of candy. If he takes the candy, then you wait, perhaps days, weeks. And if the boy is interested, if he's going to be the right boy for you, he's going to offer you something, perhaps a piece of cake. And then one day you might offer him your hand, or even a kiss, or say, 'I've got some tickets to a good horror flick' - and if he takes that hand or that kiss or that movie then you wait again. Give him a chance to measure out some act that will signal you that he values you in equal weight. No matter how short or how long it all takes, finally the day comes when you'll know it's time to give him your heart. And when you do, be absolutely certain you want him to give you his. You'll know when he's ready. And when you accept his full love, then there is just one final rule I have to give you. That rule is Don't then turn into the same kind of pain in the ass your mother did. This world is teeming with men and women who have won the hearts of their lovers and don't know what the hell to do with them."

"Dad," Sibella whispered, understanding every word he had told her, "I think I'll be able to do that next time, but what do I do now? I feel so crazy. Daddy, I want to do something crazy. I love this boy so much and he's very freaked out. He's lost. He couldn't offer me a stick of bubble gum, much less his hand. This boy is going down the tubes. There are so many heavy trips lying on his head, I feel as though the entire world has let him down. Daddy, I want to do something crazy to make it up to him. I want to do something so nuts that I think maybe he'll believe again. I want to give him a chance. Am I crazy to want to give him a chance?"

Her father looked at her thoughtfully, again smoothing her hair with his hand.

"This all comes under the category of desperate acts," her father said with a little laugh. "The only rules I would say you would follow now are two: One, don't hurt anybody; and two, don't get knocked up. Anything else I think most of the world would consider as just a part of growing up, and I don't want to interfere with any of that. I knew from the moment I held you in the nursery, all eight pounds, seven ounces of you - I said, 'This is a special girl. This is a sexy, little, brilliant girl, and she's going to have one of the most spectacular lives of any girl in the world.' You're always going to be original, Sibella. And some people will call that crazy. I find it daring, beautiful, and you are the most cherished invention I have ever made. Do your something crazy, Sibella. Shock a few people. I trust you, Sibella. I've always trusted you, and believed in you."

Sibella lifted her lips and gave her father a big, solid kiss. "Oh, God, you're a sweetheart. You're one big, one-hundred-percent-pure sweetheart." And then she laughed, singing, "Crazy, crazy, here I come! ..."

David snippets.

In honor of his birthday today. Some of these will make no sense without the surrounding context. But my friends will get it.

-- David, bandana round head, no shirt on, shorts, major hot bod with the big sculpted arms ... standing in his living room and repeatedly punching a helium balloon - which was tethered on a string - attached to something immovable - David kept punching it like a punching bag, saying over and over - as though the helium balloon was giving him some lip: "Whose fuckin' birthday is it? Huh? HUH? WHOSE FUCKIN' BIRTHDAY IS IT?" He looked absolutely insane. And terrifying. That poor balloon.

-- "And you know the courtesans will burn."

-- "I looove the feelin' of that ROCK in my NOSE in the MORNIN' - BING!!!"

-- The plate dance. It has to be seen to be believed.

-- "I'm all talk no action!"

-- Standing in the parking lot at Ed Debevacs in Chicago and mooning the passing cars

-- Carving pumpkins at David and Maria's house. It was me, Mitchell, Jackie, David, Maria, and Bobby. Jackie had some problems while carving. She had some good ideas ... but then - disaster - she cut out too much and the eye opened up into the lid-top. This was no good. Jackie got upset. David pretended to scorn her horrible pumpkin carving capabilities and started shouting at her, making it into one word: "LIDEYE - LIDEYE - LIDEYE!" I kind of can't put into words WHY this was so funny ... but we still say, on occasion, "lideye" whenever we are talking about any kind of disaster. "Lideye, lideye."

-- Mitchell and David, pretending to be announcers at the Tony Awards: "Ladies and gentlemen ................................... CHITA." Which then morphed into: "A womannnnnnnn ... a performer ... a singer ... a dancer ............ a pudendum extraordinaire ........... CHITA." Seriously. It makes total sense. The funny thing was that Maria, Jackie and I had left the apartment to ... go shopping? Do errands? We left Mitchell and David there, and they were relatively normal - we came back a couple hours later ... and THAT was what they were doing when we walked back in. And they had apparently been behaving that way for hours. Completely happy, entertaining each other.

-- Pictionary on Saturdays at David and Maria's. Those were the wildest games EVER. Mitchell, Jackie and I looked at David and Maria's apartment on Greenview as a total haven. They had big thick water glasses, and nice china. There was always something yummy that Maria had cooked. Everything was cozy and beautiful. There was also the famous couch. You walked into that apartment - and maybe James Taylor was playing - or Marc Cohn - or Des'ree - and Maria had made a pot of coffee, and the light outside was wintry and chill - and you just felt safe, and happy to be there. The two of them have always created such spaces. It's a joint effort. You walk into their house - and you just sink into the couch thinking, "Ahhhhhhhhh".

-- Window-Boy called me at David and Maria's to ask me out. I have no idea why this night, of all nights, stays so vivid in my mind - it's not even a big deal - but David and I still laugh about it. This was ... my... second time going out with the guy? After meeting him on that crazy cosmic-tumbler night - and then meeting him again months later when he finally got my phone number. So anyway - I was, to put it mildly, OUT OF MY MIND about Window-Boy. And I was much younger then so I was blabbing about Window-Boy to eeeeeeeeeeeveryone. It was one of the funniest and craziest adventures I had ever had, and I invited everyone to be a part of it. Window-Boy tracked me down at David and Maria's. I was playing Pictionary - hooooooooping he would call. Hoping so hard that it actually was unpleasant. That was how much I was into him. David LOVES stuff like this and lives it vicariously. Window-Boy called - and he and I made plans to meet at Southport Lanes. Meanwhile, David and Brian are both screaming in the background, all testosterone - and Window-Boy said, tentatively, "Who are they?" Like: uhm - where is she right now??? I hung up the phone and just scurried about the apartment like a crazy person, putting on makeup, involving everyone there in my love life. They all laughed openly at me. David and Brian drove me to Southport Lanes so I could meet Window-Boy. I even remember my outfit. I was wearing a black derby. This was my inspriation. David and Brian actually escorted me into the bowling lanes - They wanted to get a good look at the guy who was making their friend soooooooo insaaaaane! He wasn't there yet (thankfully). I don't think showing up with two guys in tow when you're going on a date with someone - even someone as WILD as Window-Boy - would have been a good idea. But for some reason, David and I still talk about that night. And Brian - who was already dating the girl he would end up marrying a couple years later - and they now have 3 kids - totally had the impression of me (he didn't know me that well) that my life was ALWAYS as crazy as it was that summer. Anyway - David's total support and non-judgment of me during the entire Window-Boy thing - which went on for YEARS - has always meant the world to me. And I still laugh when I think of the three of us parading our way through those old-time bowling lanes, me in my derby, the two of them - big guys, football players - escorting me to my crazy date ... beautiful.

-- David and I met when I was 16. He was 19.

-- During a show once in college - he came up through a trap door into the middle of a scene that he wasn't even part of. During a performance. He did it on a dare. Just stood there grinning at the other cast members who were stunned into baffled and terrified silence, like ... "Uhm ... what the hell are you doing here?" He got into trouble but he didn't care.

-- Once at a party in college - at around 5 am - David and I wrote down a vow that we would always be friends, and there was even a pricking-of-the-finger thing that happened - I still have that vow. With this ancient blood-stain on the piece of looseleaf.

-- Every day with David is a journey. I see him once every couple of weeks - and he is always living, learning, growing, struggling. He is one of my dearest and most cherished friends. He knows how to listen.

-- David, Maria and I were all together on October 27, 2004. It's a memory that will remain vivid for me forever. I couldn't have asked for a better place/group of people to be with on that night.

-- I stood up in the Barnes & Noble on Diversey - I had been sitting in the same position for a couple of hours - I stood up, had no feeling in my foot, my ankle twisted beneath me and I plummeted down onto the floor, my coffee flying up out of my cup. Employees rushed over. Concerned. This is before we all had cell phones. I didn't know what to do - One look at my ankle - and how huge it got - it was like a blowfish - terrified me. I couldn't walk. The Barnes & Noble employees helped me over to the payphone - and I couldn't think of what to do. So I called David. "David??? Uhm .... my ankle is .... I really hurt myself ...." You could HEAR the focus in his voice immediately. He's like a fireman that way. "Where are you. I'm coming to get you." He arrived 10 minutes later - and now my ankle was so huge I was afraid to take my shoe off - He got me into his car, I wasn't hysterical or anything like that - just hurt and kind of pissed at myself. Did we go to the hospital? I don't think so. Mitchell was with him somehow. Mitchell and I lived on the third-floor of an apartment building. We got into that lobby - and I stared up the stairs silently. Thinking, "Okay. Just gear up for the climb." Before I even put one foot on the first stair - David scooped me up in his arms, as though I weighed nothing, and carried me all the way up to the apartment. Even to this day I get a little choked up remembering that. At the time, though, I was just mortified and kept making comments about how I was going on a diet soon ... "I'm sorry ... I'll be going on a diet soon ..."

-- "In you In you In you In you In you" ...

-- David and I spent a year working on the play Summer and Smoke with our mentor. It was one of the most intense and real and awesome acting experiences I have ever seen. And nobody, except the people in that class, saw our work. I talk about it a bit here. He's an amazing actor and working on that play, in particular, with him - was truly one of the greatest gifts of my life. I experienced some soul-growth during that year - I kept a detailed journal of the whole process -which I've thought of posting here, for you acting fanatics. It's very technical and analytical - but man, we worked our BUTTS off. Acting with David is one of those things where - it never feels like acting. It's real. You listen, you talk - he's unpredictable, I'm unpredictable - it's not LITERAL ... It's marvelous and exciting. I STILL would love to do that play with him. Even if only 20 people see it.

-- The relationship that he and Mitchell have is truly hysterical. They are like Long Lost Brothers, seriously. Sometimes they get so out of control that you almost want to say, "Boys. Time for bed."

-- New Englanders - he's the one in that commercial with Tim Wakefield - where Wakefield pitches to him and hits him on the head.

-- Oh God, and then there was that morning after the craziest college party ever (all my college friends will know EXACTLY the one I am talking about) - and it was a "formal" party - so we all were dressed to the nines - David had on a tux - I had on a black lace flapper dress ... We all ended up sleeping over the house - pig piled all over the place - but of course nobody had pajamas or anything - so we all just slept in our formal clothes - people lying in pull-out couches here and there, dressed in tuxedos - and then we woke up the next morning - and all of us - still dressed like that - went out to breakfast at a local diner - and then drove to the cinema to see Seventh Sign. That was the name of it, I believe. With Demi Moore. David looked like a gigolo. His bowtie was bright red, he had loosened his white shirt, opened the collar - but he kept the bowtie on like a Chippendale - he had on mirrored sunglasses - I could not even look at him without bursting into laughter - and we all walked into the Showcase Cinema for a matinee movie dressed in last night's formal wear ...

-- He talked to me until my train came. He kept me on the phone.

-- "Clip it or cloak it, Chloe."

-- The sun hurt my eyes that day. We sat outside at Cafe Avanti. I was so heartsick that I had become physically sick. I couldn't eat, sleep. I called in sick to work. It was one of the worst and loneliest days of my life. David came and got me and we spent the day drinking coffee, talking. I remember hunching over the table, protectively. Heartsick. And these words: "Just because something is meant to be, Sheila, doesn't mean that it will be." Yup. Healing. In raw moments like that ... his big strong presence is healing.

-- He ran into Window-Boy at an audition for something. Of course David knew WAY too much about Window-Boy because ... well. I was a blabber-mouth and out of my mind about the guy. They had met before. Window-Boy walked in - David observed his behavior for a while - watching him - watching this guy who was such a HUGE part of his friend's life - it was like he was watching a rare bird in his natural habitat - hahahaha So finally he went over and said, "Hi ... I'm David ..." Window-Boy, awkward at all times, kind of winced at David - like: "Oh God. Who are you? What did I do?" David said, "Yeah ... we've met once or twice before - we have a friend in common .... Sheila." Again: I have the best group of friends in the whole world because David and I STILL laugh about this ridiculous 2-second exchange. Which probably isn't funny to anyone but those who know me. So at the sound of my name - Window-Boy visibly relaxed - his whole tense demeanor changed, it was like this sudden softness and fondness came over his face - David saw the whole thing (and of course I made him do an imitation of the facial expressions a gazillion times. "Do it again.") - and - awkwardly - Window-Boy said, "Sheila? Yeah .... yeah ... Sheila .... She's ...." (Long agonizing pause.) Then out came: "She's a good girl." Okay - nobody knows any of the participants - but ... to those of you who DO know Window-Boy, you will know how ridiculous this moment is. He was a tough gruff kind of guy, completely insane, brilliant, funny, a big jock - and ... well. He truly had feelings for me - but instead of saying it in a normal way, like, "Oh, she's so cool! I've really liked hanging out with her" or whatever ... he fumbled for words, said my name a couple of times ... and then said, "She's a good girl." And the second it came out - David said he saw the MORTIFICATION flicker through Window-Boy's eyes - I'm laughing out loud - like he KNEW - "Oh shit. Did I just refer to her as a 'good girl'? Did I just say, 'Sheila ... she's a good girl' to one of her best friends? Can a hole open up in the ground right now for me??" But funny thing: the stories about Window-Boy were always kind of wild - and my friends had to kind of just think, "Okay - well, Sheila knows what she'd doing ... " But after that moment with Window-Boy - the shy awkward wince, the "she's a good girl", etc. - David completely got it. Totally saw what I saw. It was important to me that David "get it". It always is, I guess. Explaining myself to David, and working things out with him as a listening ear is one of the most important things I can do in my life - and it's been that way for YEARS.

-- He's one of my "ideal readers". By that I mean - I feel totally comfortable showing him first drafts of things. Not only do I feel comfortable - but his input has always been invaluable. It's not about praise - it's that sometimes he has this way of seeing what I'm TRYING to say before I even can see it ... He's a deep reader. His insights have helped me figure out what I'm trying to express.

He's one of the funniest people I've ever met in my life. One of my dearest friends.

So David:

Whose fuckin' birthday is it?

Yours, my dear friend.

I know you're off on some island in Maine right now - and out of contact - but when you get back - just know: that your crazy friend Sheila ("yeah ... Sheila ... she's ... she's ........... She's a good girl.") said: HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

O'Malley commentary accompanying our group viewing of ....

Follow That Bird:

It was me, Bren, Melody, Siobhan, Jean, and Cash:

-- "Ohhhh! There's Barkley!" (in a fond tone of: "There's my old friend!")

-- "How does Grover fly?" "Why is he a superhero?" "Is he a real superhero?" "Why does Grover fly?" (all of this from Cashel. We each tried to explain Grover's clumsy super-hero status ... but Cashel obviously still didn't really buy it.)

-- "Uhm ... why is Linda cuddling up next to Gordon at the campfire?"

(This concerned us greatly and we kept talking about it. What about Susan? Just because Susan is stuck back at Mr. Hooper's store manning the phones means Gordon isn't married anymore? Uhm - no. Back off, Linda!! Also - not to be too cute about it: What about Bob? Do you have no feelings for Bob anymore, Linda? Are you just using Bob for sex? What the HELL is going on with you, Linda?)

More in this realm:

-- "Linda's behavior at the campfire was completely inappropriate."

-- "Cookie!! Stop eating the car! Please!"

-- I discovered, yet again, how much I love Gordon. Even though he is obviously cheating on Susan with the deaf chick who has no boundaries at the campfire. I LOVE Gordon. He might be my favorite of all the humans on that show. And he gets to do a big stunt on a moving car at the end of this movie which was thrilling.

-- "I don't trust Linda. I really don't. I feel bad for Susan."

-- "Ohhhhh, Snuffy. It's gonna be okay."

-- "Poor Snuffy. Does anyone believe in his existence yet?"

-- We absolutely DIED when the Count was counting the keys, which were being held by Gordon's floozy deaf mistress. Everyone was supposed to be quiet. Linda took out one key - Count, because he just can't HELP IT - declared loudly, "One! One key!!!" Everyone shushed him. Linda took out the next key. The camera goes back to Count, standing there next to Cookie. And Count whispers, "Two keys!" We DIED. Like ... he CANNOT help himself. It is a compulsion and we must not get annoyed with him!!

Speaking of Follow That Bird (which is really really good, by the way) - here's a trivia quiz!!

Follow That Bird Trivia Quiz

I got 70% right. Bah. I bet Jean and Siobhan will KILL on this quiz.

Funny, though - no mention of Gordon's infidelity on the quiz. Hmmmmmm.

Happy place

Uhm ... never seen this image before. How much do I love it?? No wonder people fell in love with her.

Miker just sent me a 900 page biography of Howard Hawks - and words cannot express how excited I am to start it in earnest - 900 pages about him????? I've already flipped through it - and there was a whole section on how Hawks handled Hayworth on Only Angels Have Wings - her first big role. She happened to have a sexy body - but she didn't feel sexy, and couldn't "act" sexy. She was no Marilyn Monroe who knew how to turn that on. Hayworth was shy, and kind of damaged, psychologically. She also was a very new actress - and this was her biggest part she had ever had. She was stiff as a board at first. She couldn't do what Hawks asked her to do. So he would basically just "trick" her. He told her where to go, how to stand - and then made sure that the costume designer had given her a bodacious dress. So Rita didn't have to 'act' anything.

For example: she was in that flowy dress with the flowing V-neck. And Hawks said to her, "When you come into the room, close the door behind you, and then lean against the closed door, with your arms behind your back." And ... you know what? Rita Hayworth does exactly what he asks - you can see it in the film - and Hawks is right. The dress does 90% of the work for her. The pose does the final 10%. If he had said to Hayworth, "Okay, so walk into the room and be really sexy" - Hayworth would have been shy and awkward. By giving her very specific (and indirect) direction - he got her to do just what he wanted.

I was very impressed with that story.

Anyway.

HAPPY PLACE!!!! Beauty! What a smile!

The Books: "The Undertaker's Gone Bananas" (Paul Zindel)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Undertaker's Gone Bananas by Paul Zindel.

All I remember about this book is that two kids - Bobby and Lauri - become convinced that a tenant in their building has murdered his wife. They begin to "investigate" the crime - and all kinds of crazy shit starts happening. It's very much like Woody Allen's awesome Manhattan Murder Mystery - but to be honest, I can't really remember much about this one. Not like Zindel's others. I do remember this: Bobby and Lauri are 16 years old and they are (naturally - since Zindel wrote it) kind of odd kids - they don't really fit in in high school - and the two of them are best friends. Best. Friends. Like John and Lorraine in Pigman are best friends. Lauri, however, is secretly WILDLY in love with Bobby -(the book kind of goes back and forth from his perspective to hers ... we get to see inside both their heads - Bobby appears to be oblivious to any romantic feelings, while that's all Lauri can think about). Anyway, Lauri is just convinced that the two of them are meant to be together and she just wants him to make the first move ... so whenever she's doing anything mundane, washing dishes, vacuuming, she's writing these WILDLY romantic letters to Bobby in her head, telling him how much she loves him, how she just wishes he would put his arm around her and kiss her, how they should be together ... Meanwhile, though, the two of them are creeping around the apartment building in the middle of the night, investigating their neighbor, Mr. Hulka. Who also happens to be an undertaker!

So that's what I remember. I also remember that - for some reason - Lauri is a nervous wreck. She has constant nightmares, and she has a morbid fear of death. She is pretty damaged - and her fears really impact her life. It's some kind of psychological issue. Bobby helps her with that. He doesn't judge her. But for Lauri - to suddenly be creeping around in an undertaker's apartment ... looking for the body of his dead missing wife ... it makes her come right up against all her fears, of course!

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of the book - when Bobby and Lauri sit out on the terrace of Bobby's family's apartment - and talk about Mr. Hulka, and other things. It's not a plot-heavy excerpt - I just love how Zindel writes. It's soooooo specific.

Excerpt from The Undertaker's Gone Bananas by Paul Zindel.

Then the rest of the afternoon they hardly spoke about Mr. Hulka at all. There were too many other important possibilities for the summer coming up. And before long they were into their favorite pastime - which was looking off the terrace and over the terrain of their past exploits. The things they had done on the Palisade Cliffs and the George Washington Bridge - and then across the way on the New York side of the river where The Cloisters was set on top of th ehills above the Henry Hudson Parkway. At least a couple of times a week they looked off the terrace and reminisced about the time they borrowed choir robes from Grace Methodist Church and got dressed as a monk and a nun. Lauri had spent three days making the hat which looked a little bit like a giant dove sitting on her head. And they had gone up to the grounds of The Cloisters which was a religious museum that housed the intricate Unicorn tapestries. Bobby h ad added a hood to his robe so he really looked monastic. And Lauri had also fashioned a stiff white bib, and they strolled The Cloisters grounds all day sipping Coca-Cola and speaking loudly so the tourists could hear them. They kept saying that they were appointed by the archdiocese to guard the Unicorn because of their chosen spiritual identification with all things mystical and magical. Another time, right on the edge of the Cliffs, they had held a marshmellow roast which the Fort Lee police had raided and made them extinguish. Bobby had told them he was the son of the Rockefellers who owned all the land but they had chased them away anyway. It seemed like Fort Lee had only about three or four policement who worked the Cliff areas and in less than a year Bobby and Lauri had gotten to know all of them through their high jinx. The one who usually caught them was Patrolman Petrie. Patrolman Petrie was also the one who came after them on the middle of the George Washington Bridge the day Lauri and Bobby decided to walk across wearing ape masks. Some of the cars did start to swerve and Lauri thought it might be a little bit dangerous but in the end she really did think the police made much too much fuss about the whole event. After all, there was no law against walking across a bridge with ape masks on.

"There's no such specific law on the books," Bobby had said. And the cops just sort of scratched their heads and drdove them off the bridge.

"You two just like to get everybody's goat, don't you?" Patrolman Petrie had observed.

Of course the worst thing Bobby and Lauri ever did they never really got caught at and that was throwing balloons filled with water off Bobby's terrace. They did that almost all of April and it was a lot of fun watching the big rubber balls tumble twenty-four floors and then splash near Rucci sitting at the garage cage. One exploded right in front, splashing the glass in front of him. One time they threw a water balloon too far to the right and ti landed right in the middle of some people who were on their way home from a wedding. That was the same evening Bobby and Lauri had their very profound discussion about how Lauri thought that Bobby was really a reincarnation of Jack in "Jack and the Beanstalk". And Bobby had decided after a lot of thought that he thought Lauri was the Sleeping Beauty. They both had no trouble finding out this information because all they had to do was ask each other what their favorite childhood story was. Bobby always thought of himself as Jack, the devilish kid who would trade the family cow any day for a pack of magical beans and when the vine grew he knew he'd be the first to climb it, especially knowing there was a giant waiting to do battle when he reached the top. The only thing was that Bobby didn't plan on beiong knocked off; he figured he would knock off the giant. Bobby could just see the headline in the Fort Lee newspaper if he ever did that. BOBBY PERKINS DEFEATS BIG GUY IN THE SKY. Lauri had literally fallen out of her terrace chair when Bobby had come up with that line. He always loved to think of headlines but when they got around to her as Sleeping Beauty she becamse more pensive. She knew, like Sleeping Beauty, she didn't really want to die at all. Inside her, part of her felt like a young princess, especially when she was with Bobby. Nevertheless, Lauri did feel an evil curse was put on her by a witch. The witch of Edison, New Jersey. And when she reached a certain age she would stick herself with some kind of needle and fall dead. There would be no commutation of her curse to sleep for a hundred years, though, she felt. Unless of course someone did come along and give her a last-minute gift of life. That was the way the story went. Sometimes in the middle of the night Lauri would actually wake up from a nightmare where she knew no one was going to save her. The real Sleeping Beauty had awoken only when a prince came along and gave her a kiss, and she just felt sure that Bobby was never really going to like her the way she wanted him to. She sort of accepted that and she'd make up these letters sometimes in daydreams. She'd say, Dear Bobby, I understand that we can only be buddies and I really feel terrible about that but I accept it all and so I'm going to die anyway but promise me, Bobby, that when I do die you won't let them cremate me, okay? Because I don't like fire.

Happy place

I like this new "happy place" thing I'm doing.

I know where I need to go to find the "happy place".

I love this photo. It struck me immediately as a really cool image. It's artificial - obviously posed - and yet he looks natural, totally unselfconscious.

Now THAT is a movie star.

No words ...

Go read.

The Books: "Pardon Me, You're Stepping On My Eyeball" (Paul Zindel)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Pardon Me, You're Stepping On My Eyeball by Paul Zindel.

Of all of Zindel's books, this might be my favorite. Don't let the title throw you off. It's sort of a One flew over the cuckoo's nest for the adolescent set. It's about two MISERABLE teenage misfits: Marsh Mellow and Edna Shinglebox. I mean, with names like that .... Marsh is a troublemaker, a loner, he carries a pet raccoon with him in his pocket at all times, his mother is a raging drunk whom he calls Schizo Suzy - and his father has disappeared. Marsh's story is that his father has been institutionalized - and he's been put into an insane asylum because the government fears him so much, fears his insights, his truth ... Marsh is a FANATICAL conspiracy theorist. There are powerful forces at work ... there are powerful men behind the curtain controlling everything ... and his father is the latest victim. He only tells this whole story to Edna Shinglebox, though - once they become friends, in a weird kind of way. He wants Edna's help in breaking his father out of the asylum. He lets Edna read his father's letters to him - which are phenomenal. Phenomenal in terms of what Zindel has created - a frenzied stream of conscious voice - going on and on ... in a typical radical voice, he sounds like a member of the Weather Underground. Edna is horrified. She wants out. But somehow ... she can't abandon Marsh. She gets deeper and deeper involved with him ... and all KINDS of insane things happen. Edna, meanwhile, is a long-haired clumsy freak, whose parents are ashamed of her - or actually, it's more her mother who is ashamed of her. Her father is kind of weak and ineffectual, and her mother is basically in a PANIC because her daughter is not attractive and has never been on a date. She takes Edna to psychologists, and bitches to the psychologist about what a loser her daugher is. Edna just sits there, hiding behind her hair, waiting for it to be over.

Now all of this may sound, uhm, depressing?? And I guess it is - but Zindel's writing is such that this book makes me laugh out loud almost every other page. Every single person in this book is nuts. And yet ... you love them. You also see that ... we're ALL nuts. But does that mean we cannot connect? Marsh Mellow is locked up in his own private agony - he has a secret - he is too ashamed to tell anyone - it's much more romantic to believe that your father has been incarcerated by some frightening bureaucracy than to deal with the truth ... and yet ... Marsh is lovable. Marsh looks at Edna and realizes, in the first second, that this girl is so insane herself that she will not reject him out of hand. She's "the one" for him.

I ADORE this book.

The whole climax of the book takes place at a party - given by Jacqueline - a girl that Edna has kind of befriended. This is the beauty of the book, too: Jacqueline is gorgeous, rich, smart, and popular. She has everything. She is dating the quarterback (who, actually, is a horrible human being - but he's hot and perfect, etc.) But even with all the outer stuff, the material stuff - Jacqueline, too, is nuts. She's lonely. She's depressed. She knows people only like her because she's rich and has a swimming pool. Nobody goes through adolescence unscathed. Not even the ones who SEEM like they have it all. Zindel knows this.

Anyway - Jacqueline decides to have a small party at her house. And things get out of hand. HUNDREDS of people show up. Mayhem ensues. Nobody does teenage drunken mayhem like Zindel. An entire cult shows up - a bunch of Jesus Freaks who follow around a golden-haired teenager who calls himself God Boy ... etc.

I'll post an excerpt from the party. It's SO stressful to read because you can tell that things are very quickly spiralling out of control - and Jacqueline is only 16 and she's not supposed to have friends over while her parents are away - and now there are literally 300 kids running all over the house, and out on the lawn God Boy gives a sermon to 150 crying kids and everyone's drunk. Edna has decided that she needs to tell Marsh that she loves him so she has written him a letter. She's freaked OUT.

Also, notice Zindel's names. He's SO good at names. Member when Jay Gatsby has that big party, and Fitzgerald lists all the names of the people there? My teacher in high school, Mr. Crothers, spent an entire class with us analyzing all of those names - each of which had a double meaning ... Zindel's names are just as good. Every one is a joke.

Oh - and I won't get to that in the excerpt - but what ends up happening at the party? A fire starts and Jacqueline's entire house burns down. Burns to the ground. Everyone gets out in time except for ... Marsh Mellow's beloved raccoon.

Horror!!!

Excerpt from Pardon Me, You're Stepping On My Eyeball by Paul Zindel.

It didn't take Edna more than a minute to realize there was going to be a lot more than forty kids at the party; in fact there were already more than that and half the football team wasn't there yet. Butch was supposed to be leading the way for the kids from Marblehead, Massachusetts, and as it was, Edna knew only about half the kids there. Most of them weren't even on the football team. Some had been in one class with her or another; some she recognized only because some pictures had come into the Crow's Nest. Richard Kay, Vincent Rolio and Gilbert Barker came with Joan Canyon, Joan Hybred and Norlicka Tobinson; those three girls were known as the three easiest girls in the school, except for Norma Jean Stapleton. Then there was Ed Skahn who was the type any girl would love to run into, especially if she was driving and he was walking. He was with Greg Cutter, John Kenny and John Mell. Renee Rare arrived with Chris Phlegm whose father was an alcoholic district attorney. Chris Phlegm's brother, Nick, arrived with Bonnie Hilderstraw who always went to parties with her own record, and would dance "Slaughter on Tenth Avenue" at the drop of a hat. Betty Slagen and Tillie Roe came intogether, and they said they had been invited by Billy Selmond who was on the football team. Some very freaky kid by the name of Hansen came in with Maureen Clapper, and they were both sporting matching riveted jeans which looked ridiculous. Then there was Lucille Bore who was so cranky you had to say things to her like, "Tomorrow will be Monday, if it's all right with you." Marmaduke Jones came by himself, and as good as he was as a Junior Class politician, he was a complete bust trying to be the life of the party. Gert Ronkiwitz came in looking like she was still wearing her crown as last year's football queen. She had such an artificial laugh. Edna couldn't stand to be near her. Edna realized half of what she was thinking was only because she was so nervous keeping an eye on the front door for Marsh to come in. She wanted everything to go right. She'd have to decide just the exact moment to give him the letter she'd written. She'd wait until he'd had a glass of wine maybe, and then she'd just saunter over to him and press the letter in his hand. Maybe she'd whisper, "Please read this." Then she'd just turn quickly and go away. That would probably be the best approach. Maybe she'd go upstairs. She fantasized that Marsh would take the letter out by the pool wanting to be alone whil he read it. Maybe if she went to one of the decks on the second or the fourth floor, she could pper over and watch him reading it from above. She'd give him a few minutes and if he didn't come upstairs looking for her, she'd come down. Maybe she should wait longer upstairs to make sure he'd come up, then the could be alone and talk. On the other hand, if he didn't see her downstairs, maybe he'd think she just left the party. She'd have to make sure that didn't happen. Or maybe she should just tell him, "Here read this -- I'll be waiting upstairs."

By nine o'clock there was a nice buzz to the party. The sliding glass doors on the first floor had to all be opened, and a lot of kids were straying out near the kidney-shaped pool. Richard Kay and about a half dozen others had gone upstairs just to take a look. They'd asked permission from Jacqueline and Jacqueline said it was okay. Then a few others went up, and somebody turned the stereo system all the way up until the entire living room was beginning to vibrate.

"We're going to need more sauce," Jacqueline moaned.

"I'll do it," Edna offered. Several of the other girls were willing to help too, except for Joan Canyon, Joan Hybred and Norlicka Tobinson who were already practically throwing their bodies at every guy on the football team.

"Great grinders," a lot of kids commented, as they moved around the buffet table. Most of the boys were putting two or three veal cutlets on each grinder, and Maureen Clapper must have been drunk before she and Hansen arrived because it wasn't five minutes before she dropped her grinder in the swimming pool. That really burned Edna up. It just seemed a very revolting and careless thing to do. Edna used her annoyance at Maureen Clapper for energy to stir the big pot of sauce. Then she happened to glance out of the kitchen window, and there at last was Marsh. Edna felt her heart starting to dance on her diaphragm again. She was very excited, and she felt that tonight was going to be a wonderful evening. She could see Marsh was wearing the same outfit as the night he came to take her to the Magic Elephant. In fact, maybe that's why he's dressed that way, Edna thought. Just to remind me of that wonderful evening. Instinctively, Edna put her hand in her pocket to make sure her note was ready. At exactly that moment, Edna noticed that there was something attached to the end of Marsh's left hand, Edna almost passed out when she realized it was Norma Jean Stapleton. In fact, Edna was so startled, she froze, looking out the kitchen window.

"What's the matter?" Jacqueline asked, noticing Edna's stiff position.

"Nothing," Edna said.

Jacqueline leaned over to see what Edna was staring at. "Oh my God," Jacqueline said. "When Norma Jean Stapleton comes to your house, you've got to fumigate it in the morning because she leaves cooties all over."

Edna buried her head in the sauce pot and began stirring like a madwoman. She hoped Jacqueline wouldn't notice her reaction, but it was too late.

"You do think he's groovy, don't you," Jacqueline said. Jacqueline winked, and then disappeared into the crowd with a fresh tray of sliced Italian bread. Out of the corner of her eye Edna saw Marsh and Norma Jean come into the kitchen and then stroll by hand in hand. They shot towards the buffet table like piranha going for a calf that had fallen into the Amazon River. They started fixing themselves grinders like there was no tomorrow. Edna knew very well Marsh had seen her, and she could hear him laughing extra-loud and artificially. Edna also noticed Raccoon's little head peeking in and out of Marsh's jacket pocket. She thought it was unforgivable that he had to drag that poor, cute, little innocent victim along. Edna also heard a lot of kids cracking their usual cracks about Norma Jean Stapleton. Like one kid said, "I didn't know this was going to be a pig party." That line always got a big laugh, because the worst thing that had ever happened to Norma Jean Stapleton was the time the tennis team decided to have a party where each guy had to bring the ugliest girl they could date. Nick Phlegm took Norma Jean, and his job was to arrive last and bring a live baby pig. He had told Norma Jean that the baby pig was a door prize and she didn't suspect anything until they arrived at the party. Norma was petting the baby pig, but after a minute all the girls took a look at each other and figured out what kind of party it was, especially when all the boys roared with laughter. Some of the girls broke down crying, included Norma Jean, who was supposed to have stood there with the baby pig in her arms until she was so pathetic, Nick Phlegm even felt sorry and took her home.

It seemed every time Edna looked up from the stove, Marsh was looking her way and slurping up his grinder. He'd also suddenly become animated and do something like stroke Norma Jean's hair, or pat her on the back, or let out another horselaugh as though Norma Jean was the most sensational date in the world. Finally it seemed Marsh was waiting only to get Edna's attention, and when she'd look at him, Marsh would spring into action with his arm around Norma Jean, and finally he took her strolling out to the pool. Raccoon's head was still popping in and out, looking very bewildered. Edna felt the sad, big black eyes of the cute little furry ball were pleading with her for help. She didn't know whether Raccoon would even remember her; she'd never read anything about whether raccoons had good memories or not. But Edna had grown very fond of the animal. Edna had told herself she shouldn't feel that way; it was probably just because the animal belonged to Marsh that she loved it.

At that moment a van and a bus pulled up outside the glass house and all hell broke loose. Kids were running around saying, "God Boy's here! God Boy's here!" Almost everybody ran out onto the front lawn like rats deserting a ship. The van had what looked like a hundred thousand dollars' worth of amplifiers and speakers, and the members of the band looked like they had the kind of mentality that would go to see toe dancers at a ballet and wonder why the management didn't hire taller girls. They all had long hair and hillbilly clothes, and they mvoed fast to get the equipment set up around the poola rea. Butch Ontock came running up to Jacqueline to explain that God Boy had brought a busload of kids from his commune up in Marblehead. And from what Edna could see, it looked like most of that crew had gone the way of all flesh.

"I don't have enough grub!" Jacqueline yelled.

"Who cares," Butch said. "This crew is already stoned out of their minds." Butch ran back towards God Boy's bus.

A minute later, almost everyone was off the bus and a group of kids from the commune began lighting candles and walking like paraplegic geese towards the house.

"Oh, my God." Edna heard Jacqueline groan as she ran back into the kitchen. "They've got a procession going on out there! A procession!"

Edna poured the batch of new sauce into what was left of the old batch on the buffet table, and went out on the lawn to watch God Boy make his entrance. The kids with the candles were parading in the front gate, and Butch Ontock and Greg Cutter were flanking a very tall boy who looked sort of plain and simple, but was wearing jeans and a phosphorescent, Renaissance-prince shirt. But as he got closer, Edna could see that this boy had the most beuatiful smile Edna had ever seen in her life. It's like you would hardly notice him unless he smiled, but the minute you saw his smile you couldn't take your eyes off him. He smiled at all the kids who were lined up staring at him on the lawn, and Edna could tell they were all fascinated by him. It was a very weird phenomenon. There was something tremendously magnetic about this boy in the phosphorescent shirt - the way he moved, the way he carried his head - and the sound of his voice was angelically sincere. "Hello Brothers, hello Sisters," the boy said. He reached out and touched some of the kids as he moved by them, and at one point he gave Butch Ontock a big hug. Then he singled out Bonnie Hilderstraw and put his arm around her. She kissed him even though she'd never met him before. God Boy was saying other things, most of which Edna couldn't hear because she was on the outside edge of the crowd, but as he came closer and more light hit his face, Edna was aware of an enormous tension lurking beneath the slow, steady motion of his movement. "Tonight will be your night," God Boy said at one point, and then turned his head and repeated it. "Tonight will be your night." Edna hadn't the faintest idea of what he was talking about, and she was sure no one else did either. But it was all very moving and spiritual, and there was no doubt that there was something very special about this boy. A few kids shook his hand and called him God Boy, but he corrected them and asked them to just call him Michael. "We're all children of God," he said.

Scurrying back to the house, Edna happened to glance up to the second floor and saw Marsh and Norma Jean Stapleton leaning over the second-floor railing on the deck. Marsh was staring down at Edna, but the moment Edna looked up, Marsh put his arm around Norma Jean quickly. Seeing that made Edna feel miserable. She actually even felt a pain near her heart. She hurried back into the house and the first thing she did was pull out the letter she had written to Marsh and rip it up. She threw the pieces of the letter into the garbage compactor and pressed a switch. There was the loud crashing of broken bottles and she was glad that the thoughts she had written down were now crushed into garbage. Within another couple of minutes the crew from Massachusetts had moved in and taken over the entire kitchen.

"What are they doing?" Jacqueline demanded to know.

Butch started feeling Jacqueline a big line and put his arm around her and led her off to quiet her down. But Jacqueline kept repeating it. "What are they doing? What do they think they're doing here?" Edna had to admit that the girls from the commune seemed to really know what they were doing, even if they were opening up all the kitchen closets. They looked like they were getting ready to eat Jacqueline's family out of house and home. In another minute, steaks were being cooked, roasts were being defrosted; they just laced into everything. Edna decided to get away from the whole matter, and besides, she was pretty exhausted from all the work she'd done. She decided to go upstairs to the living room, not beause Marsh was there, but because she felt like it. She even took a glass of wine with her. As she was going up the stairs, there was a deafening blast from the band which was all hooked up at the pool. Jo had to shut off the stereo system, although it didn't really matter because the amplifying system the band had brought with them was capable of drowning out everything. From the living-room windows Edna could see a lot of the kids had started dancing down by the pool and it was suddenly apparent that the kids from Massachusetts had everything under control. A huge, wrought-iron candleabra had been brought in from the van and ended up being the destination of all the lighted candles the kids had carried in the procession. One by one, each kid had put a lighted candle in the candleabra until there were more than thirty candles. They tried to keep it upstairs in the living room, but Jacqueline screamed because there was so much wax dripping. She made them take it and put it down in the kitchen. And the light from the candles was so bright that the electric lights in the kitchen were shut off. Edna noticed there seemed to be three main bodyguards that stayed close to God Boy. They looked like Little Caesar, Public Enemy Number One, and Scarface. She'd noticed them first sizing up the kitchen and outdoor area, and then deciding that it wasn't suitable for their leader. So now they were upstairs and taken over the living room.

"What about the wax," Jacqueline was running around complaining. "What about all the wax down there? It's getting all over the tiles."

"It comes right off with hot water." One of the girls fromt he commune was telling her not to worry.

God Boy was led to a place of honor on the living-room terrace. A sofa had been dragged out so he'd be comfortable, and kids began to sit at his feet, including a whole slew of girls who had brought him wine, food, and for some reason, three bags of Taco chips. Edna was afraid to go near God Boy, so she just stayed on the fringe, behind the glass doors.

More happy place ....

more happy place, please ....

(That's from Only Angels Have Wings, by the way, which I blab about ad nauseum here. That's Jean Arthur with him. Look at him. Look at his intent-ness. Jesusmaryandjoseph.)

Going to my happy place

50 randoms

A meme from Tanya!

What curse word do you use the most?
Fuck. Although I love to say "Jesusmaryandjoseph" as well.
Do you own an iPod?
Yes.
Who on your MySpace "Top 8" do you talk to the most?
Is that question written in English?
What time is your alarm clock set for?
5:30 am
What color is your room?
Pale yellow walls. Awesome white ceiling. Dark Oriental rug. Dark brown drapes. Big white down comforter. It's a mishmash.
Flip flops or sneakers?
Flip flops. But also hi-tops. I do both.
Would you rather take the picture or be in the picture?
Neither
What was the last movie you watched?
40 year old virgin, for the gazillionth time
Do any of your friends have children?
Most of them do.
Has anyone ever called you lazy?
Yes.
Do you ever take medication to help you fall asleep faster?
Not regularly
What CD is currently in your CD player?
No more CDs!!
Do you prefer regular or chocolate milk?
Neither.
Has anyone told you a secret this week?
Yes!
Have you ever given someone a hickey?
Of course.
Who was the last person to call you?
Allison - to tell me that she was flipping back and forth between The Rookie and Something's Gotta Give - I introduced her to the first one, and the two of us saw the second one together ... and it is one of our all-time favorite movies.
Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
I know they do
Did you watch cartoons as a child?
Yes! Underdog!! Kimba!!! (ahem)
How many siblings do you have?
3
Are you shy around the opposite sex?
It depends. Not really.
What movie do you know every line to?
What's Up Doc
Postcards from the Edge
Do you own any band t-shirts?
No
What is your favorite salad dressing?
Balsamic
Do you read for fun?
Totally
Do you cry a lot?
No. But when I do, I'm out of commission for 3 days at a time.
Who was the last person to text message you?
Jen
Do you have a desktop computer or a laptop?
Laptop
Are you currently wanting any piercings or tattoos?
No. Happy with the one I have.
What is the weather like?
Hot. It sucks.
Would you ever date someone covered in tattoos?
Sure.
Is sex before marriage wrong?
I think it depends on the individual.
When was the last time you slept on the floor?
Hmmm. Can't remember.
How many hours of sleep do you need to function?
Five
Are you in love or lust?
I am in love with Cary Grant. I am in lust with Ewan McGregor.
Are your days full and fast-paced?
Yes
Do you pay attention to calories on the back of packages?
Yes
How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
What?
Are you picky about spelling and grammar?
You have no idea.
Have you ever been to Six Flags?
A bazillion times. I'm a roller coaster whore.
Do you get along better with the same or opposite sex?
Both. But I would say that in terms of immediate getting-along - guys like me better than girls do.
Do you like cottage cheese?
Jesusmaryandjoseph, absolutely not.
Do you sleep on your side, tummy, or back?
Face down.
Have you ever bid for something on eBay?
No
Do you enjoy giving hugs?
No. I mean - of course - a hug is a good thing, but I'm not really "huggy", so to speak.
What song did you last sing out loud?
"Keep it goin', Dougie Fresh"
What is your favorite TV show?
Of all time? Or right now?
Of all time: I love 30something, Happy Days, Sesame Street, 6 Feet Under, Masterpiece Theatre, MASH, I Love Lucy
Right now: Project Runway - I also got really sucked into the whole Paula Walnuts debacle on Real World: Key West - totally addictive.
Which celebrity, dead or alive, would you want to have lunch with?
Cary Grant
Last time you had butterflies in your stomach?
Couple weeks ago
What one thing do you wish you had?
I'll never tell
Favorite lyrics?
Nobody in my neighborhood
Sees me sleeping in the bushes in my yellow hat
And my big black boots made of Indian rubber
And my heart in a shopping bag

And nobody in my neighborhood
Hears my private conversations with the little people
Who live in a house inside my head
Me and the Seven Dwarfs

Nobody in my neighborhood
Wants to know that I'm alive
They see me standing on the corner
And walk on by

And nobody in my neighborhood
Knows I'm watching what they're doing
And writing it down on tablets of stone
They don't believe I'm Jesus Christ, King of kings

No, nobody in my neighborhood
Wants to know that I'm alive
They see me standing on the corner and walk on by
They hear me howling at the moon and they know that I am

Nobody in my neighborhood
I don't exist in a traditional way
My voice is the wind, my body's a tree
My clothes are yesterday's news

And nobody in my neighborhood
Sees me sleeping in the bushes in my yellow hat
And my big black boots made of Indian rubber
And my heart in a shopping bag

Nobody in my neighborhood
Wants to know that I'm alive
They see me standing on a corner and walk on by
They hear my howling at the moon and they walk on by
They see my laying in the street and they walk on by

But I remember a time
Seems so long ago
When we sat in the moonlight
And somebody sang
They sang a song so sweet
It was just for me
They sang:

Tonight you're mine completely
You give your love so sweetly
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes
But will you love me tomorrow?

(Pat McCurdy) Even now ... after so many years ... after hearing it so many times ... my heart hurts when I listen to that song. It truly takes my breath away.

The Books: "The Pigman's Legacy" (Paul Zindel)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Pigman's Legacy by Paul Zindel.

The sequel!! The sequel is nothing compared to The Pigman - and the plot is basically a repeat of what happened in the first book - BUT - I love The Pigman's Legacy anyway, because the book starts to focus in on the tormented awkward love affair blossoming between John and Lorraine. The first book only hinted at it here or there - like when the two of them dress up in old vintage clothes and make the spaghetti dinner - and pretend they are old-time movie stars. In that one episode they are approaching the issue ... uhm ... maybe ... we actually .... like each other???

The whole structure of this book is the same as The Pigman. They alternate writing chapters. The book takes place 4 months after The Pigman's death - and the two of them are still feeling very guilty about it, and they kind of cling to each other (emotionally) in the aftermath. Everyone in the town knows that the two of them were messed up in something that seems quite unsavory on the outside (they were ... scamming money from an old man? Who then died??) - so the two of them get even closer, and kind of set loose their other friends, and only hang out with each other.

They are haunted by The Pigman's old house. It has been vacant for the 4 months - and then one day, walking by there - they notice that someone has moved in. It is apparent that the house is now lived in. They are somehow inextricably drawn there ... they NEED to meet the new tenant ... even though they KNOW that they should just mind their own business, let the past stay in the past, blah blah.

So they go and yes, a little old man and his dog have moved into the house. He's not sweet and ethereal like Mr. Pignati - he seems tougher, more wizened - and he is obviously on the run from tax collectors. John and Lorraine make the crazy decision to befriend this lonely crotchety old man ... as a way of making up for what they did to Mr. Pignati. Maybe if they can help this little old guy then they will be cosmically forgiven for betraying the Pigman??

But for me - the "plot" is just a side issue. What REALLY hooks me in is John and Lorraine having this growing awareness of each other ... as ... girlfriend? Boyfriend? And because they are alternating writing chapters for the book - both of them begin to write "secret chapters" that they will not show the other person (although we, of course, get to read them) where they confess their inner feelings, their growing attraction and love for the other. These are two awkward damaged kids. They have horrible parents. They don't know how to be romantic or to even admit feelings like that. John writes at one point, "Our parents messed us both up so much about sex that we can't even dance without being so awkward we nearly fall over."

So I love their secret chapters, their confessionals. I find the book really moving and I've read it a bazillion times.

Zindel just GETS it. He understands the Eleanor Rigbys of the world. Those are the people he writes about, the people he loves. He loves all the lonely people. He knows how hard life is. He knows how hard it is to connect. He GETS the importance of such moments - especially to people who are lonely, damaged, and just trying to survive. I love him for that.

Okay - so here is one of Lorraine's "secret chapters". The two of them (John and Lorraine) are hanging out at the old man's house - and he makes them play a game. Where basically he walks them through a visualization exercise: "You're walking down a road - you see a tree - what does the tree look like?" They both answer. "You see a cup on the side of the road. You pick it up. What do you do with it?" They both answer. And then, afterwards, the old guy analyzes their answers. Lorraine then decides to write one of her "secret chapters" listening to the analysis of John's answers.

Excerpt from The Pigman's Legacy by Paul Zindel.

The old guy grunted and sucked in a big breath of air. "All right. Keep your eyes shut and keep walking down the road now until you come to a cup. Do you see a cup?"

"Got it," John finally said.

"What does it look like?"

"It's Styrofoam, the kind you get at a hot-dog stand and bite pieces off so you can spit them out - and there's a soggy cigarette butt in the bottom."

"What do you do with it?"

"I try to clean it out because I'm thirsty, and I want to drink out of it."

"Good," the old man approved, nodding as though at last something was acceptable. "The cup, you see, is the Cup of Love, and your cup is in pretty rough shape, but at least you want to clean it up and start drinking out of it. But your cup is the cup of someone who probably sees love as pretty shaky, something that will fall into pieces and disappear. Somebody who thinks maybe his own love isn't worthwhile, but there's a flicker of hope in it for you because you're willing to try to clean it out."

I tried to keep my eyes from showing that I was more than routinely interested in the subject at hand. Also, you might as well know that this paragraph that I'm typing now is not going to be seen by John until after this whole memorial epic is finished, or he would probably tear it up - or be very embarrassed that I'm going to start telling you my true feelings about him. Up until now I never said very much about what I really feel for John except that he really is very good-looking, and I like it when he holds my hand because of the electricity and strength he gives me. And it's true. John and I have had a lot of adventures and have gone a lot of places together. We've been alone in cemeteries. We've been chased by the police from time to time. We've even discussed all the great issues of life, like death, love, careers, war, heaven, God, and school. We've gotten dressed up in adult clothes, and had candelight dinner parties for just the two of us. We've had beer bashes for the neighborhood gang. We did a lot of silly things and a lot of dangerous things. I just know it's not going to come as a surprise when I tell you that I've been in love with John for quite a while now. In fact some kids at school can't believe John and I haven't been making out like bandits with each other for years. And I'm not naive. I know that a lot of surveys and statistics on teenage sex would probably think we were both a couple of freaks if they knew that John and I had not been sleeping together, or even frolicking around in the backseats of cars. Maybe all the kids who will read this will say, "Boy, that Lorraine jensen is a real waste," but I'm sorry, John Conlan and I have only been friends. Up to now all we've been is the two best friends in the world, and there are good reasons we nevere got more intimate than that. And anyone who says the way you were raised doesn't haunt you the rest of tyour life is nuts. There was one girl in school who used to act like a real loony tunes, and everybody hated her, but I knew there must have been a big problem in her past - and when I checked it out I found out that when she was eight years old her mother murdered her father. In my case you've got to understand that my mother hated my father for leaving her very shortly after I was born. And she spent a good deal of time teaching me that boys are dirty-minded and sneaks, and I'm not blaming her because if I had to live the life she did, trying to support myself and a kid without a husband, I would probably be a bit bitter and feel very cheated myself. And thank God she started to mellow out a bit this spring because of all the adult self-help books she's been reading, but she still hasn't gone to a psychologist. She still spends a great deal of time reinforcing in me the fear that all members of the male sex are out for one thing. Even though I know she's always been a bit crackers in the love department, it interfers with any romantic thoughts I have. Anytime I begin to have deep feelings for a boy, I can hear her voice in my mind saying things like "Don't let them touch you; boys are only out for one thing. Don't ever be left alone with a boy or he'll take advantage of you. Don't let a boy get you in his car or you'll end up pregnant. Don't kiss boys; you never know what germs they have on their lips. Sit with your knees together and ankles crossed or boys will think you're a slut." One thing I can tell you is if you go through your life hearing stuff like that, it can make you afraid of any man from Santa Claus to a priest. But if knowing our Pigman did anything for me, it at least taught me that kids are responsible for their own lives at a certain age. And that's exactly why I'm now able to admit to myself that I love John Conlan very, very much, and even though he doesn't know it, I'm going to do everything in my power to make him my own. I want to love him like I've always dreamed of loving a boy. I'm going to make John Conlan love me, even if it kills me. That's why I was particularly thrilled when the old man said there was still a flicker of hope for John when he didn't throw his Styrofoam Cup of Love away. (The end of my secret paragraph.)

Insanity is ...

... when you and your brother and your 2 sisters truly believe that singing "Keep it goin', Dougie Fresh" over and over and over in goofy 4 part harmony actually caused Mirabelli to hit that 3-run homer last week.

We were so bored with that particular game - it was 200 degrees that day, every player was drenched in sweat, they all looked vaguely ill and floppy, they made errors, they flopped around - even the hits seemed heat-exhausted. It was contagious. We were kinda bored. So bored that when Dougie Fresh (Jean's nickname for him) came up to bat, we could barely get interested in it. We figured he would hit a tired little hit like everybody else, and stagger to first through the muggy heat like everybody else ... same ol' same ol'. Jean began to lazily and indifferently sing "Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh" - then someone else joined in - and another - and another ... (Well, to be fair. Melody did NOT sing. She kept her sanity.) We finished our first chorus and stopped singing. Dougie was still at bat. We all knew we were insane. We couldn't really look at each other. Melody, flipping through her magazine, said, "I am so going to tell everybody about this." At the exact same moment I was saying, "We must never speak of this again." Two seconds went by of silence, and then we all started singing again.

We would stagger the lines.

Jean would start: "Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh" - holding the note ...
Then I would join in ...
Then Siobhan ...
Then Bren ...

Staggering the pitches as well - each one of us climbing up the scale. We sounded SO FECKIN' RETARDED.

And then boom. Major major play by Dougie Fresh. We went insane. For a good 20 minutes.

And "Keep it goin', Dougie Fresh" has now entered the Family Lexicon. Don't even think that we all will not be singing "Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh" for the rest of the summer. And summers beyond.

How 'bout Big Papi stealing a base?? hahahahahahaha THAT WAS SO AWESOME. I especially loved the shots of Manny and Youk in the dugout, laughing hysterically, and cheering, and shouting, "Save the base!" Genius. I could not get enough of that footage.

It was a really Red Sox heavy week. A couple years when we all went on vacation it was in the middle of the All Star break (yaaaaaaaaaawn - nobody gives a shit) - so it was good to have some real games.

In order to truly express our insanity.

Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh ......................................................

all together now ....

Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh
Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh
Keep it goin' Dougie Fresh
Keep it goin' Dougie Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh

WHAP! Outta the park.

Oh, and also when we all were holding the note together - we would then all, as one, go up half a key. Like the Buffalo Bills do in The Music Man.

Seriously. We sounded like halfwits. But hey. Dougie Fresh could feel our lackadaisacal belief in him (uhm: wasn't that ball four??? I think everybody thought that was ball four) ... and it gave him strength to go on!

Catching up

Scrolling down through one of my favorite sites, catching up on what they've been up to. Seriously, I do not know where they find these images but they are so unbelievable. Just go over there and scroll down.

Here are some of my favorites.

Janis Joplin and Robert Crumb

Perry Smith and Truman Capote - my jaw literally dropped when I saw that photo. Unbelievably, with my Capote obsession, I've never seen that particular photograph before.

Roger Maris, Doris Day, Mickey Mantle, Cary Grant, and Yogi Berra. WHAT??? Grant was a HUGE baseball fan. As a Brit, he completely adopted the national pastime of his adopted country. He was obsessed. But anyway - look at that photo. Look at Cary Grant's entire demeanor. Look at his shoes. And then look at all of their shoes. Hahahahaha

Tennessee Williams and Andy Warhol

Great photo of Willie Mays

Marlene Dietrich, Bob Hope, and Bette Davis checking out the Hollywood Hall of Honor

An amazing still from Zulu - it actually looks like a painting, or a wall mural.

"I love you, but I don�t like falling to my death.

This post made me laugh out loud:

Some Hypothetical Instances In Which Women I Date Should Know That They're On Their Own

The first paragraph ends with this:

One girl I dated refused to talk to clowns, but if there were ever a situation in which talking to a clown had been absolutely necessary and unavoidable, I would�ve had no problem. I�ve looked into it, and most non-movie clowns are not supernaturally evil.

Seriously though. Funny funny stuff.

If, perhaps, you somehow find yourself dangling precariously by one hand from a window ledge of a skyscraper (or above any deep chasm, really), I�m not going to try to pull you back up. I�ll sit ten to twenty feet away and give you moral support, but mostly I�ll just wait until help arrives.

Here's the rest.

"Our Friend" my ass

I finally finished my Rasputin book. Which - holy CRAP - I totally recommend it. (Radzinsky wrote the Stalin book that put me into such a frenzy not so long ago) I have a bazillion thoughts about the total feckin' wackjob who was Alexandra (I literally want to smack her upside her autocratic head when I read her BOSSY letters to her husband who is - uhm - THE TSAR - telling him what "Our Friend" thinks they should do in the highest levels of government). I mean, whatevs, all autocrats must fall - and there's no love lost between me and the Tsar (I'm sure he's devastated to discover this) - but my main interest here is (as always) a psychological one. First of all - there were signs everywhere that the world was changing, and that their regime would end. Everyone sensed it. It added to the craziness of the time. She's a symbol of a world that was about to die. But still. MAN. I just HATED how she talked to her husband. Now he obviously was weak, ineffectual, and completely whipped - but I found myself secretly cheering for him when he would "disobey" her, or not respond to one of her letters.

I wanted to scream at her:

Alexandra: BACK. THE FUCK. OFF.

GIVE. YOUR HUSBAND (did I mention he was the fucking Tsar for God's sake??) SOME BREATHING SPACE. LET HIM CHOOSE HIS OWN MINISTER OF FINANCE. LET HIM MAKE HIS OWN DECISIONS.

STOP. EMASCULATING HIM. YOU BITCH.

Also, Alexandra hon? If you say the word "Our Friend" one more time I am afraid that my head will spontaneously explode. Our Friend Our Friend Our Friend Our Friend Our Friend ... that's all I ever hear.

STOP.

She's a moron. Actually, despite my annoyance - I can certainly see that she is also a hugely tragic figure. Not tragic because she tried to be great and failed. But tragic because she was born about 2 generations too late. Her world was dead, and she was the last to know.

I mean, I realize that all this is not news - and I've read a ton of books about the Romanovs - yet another wee passion of mine - but still. This book, more than ever, really highlighted her insanity. Letter after letter after letter to her husband on the front (there's even more of them included in Nicholas and Alexandra - the woman just NEVER STOPPED) ... telling him what to do, to keep "Our Friend's advice" in mind, telling him to be stronger - more autocratic - over and over and over - the same litany .... The woman was fucking RELENTLESS. No wonder Nicky seemed rather apathetic and indifferent at the very end of his life - kind of accepting of his doom. He must have been like, "Phew ... Now I can just sit in a chair and read - although I am under house arrest ... and not have to field her 20 fucking letters every day telling me what to do."

But anyway. I'll stop ranting about her.

I have sympathy for her - you know, her hemophiliac son, and the whole war-with-Germany thing - but GOD WOMAN, GET A LIFE.

AND STOP SAYING "OUR FRIEND".

It's so annoying. She literally thought he was God. I believe on some level that she was WILLFULLY ignorant. I believe that there are some people who, no matter what signs are given them, what crystal clear messages are provided - they will still choose the most self-destructive path. Either out of stubbornness, or needing to be RIGHT, being unable to admit weakness or fallibility - pride - whatever. And I think Alexandra took that to its most extreme. I think her stubborn pride actually ended up driving her mad. It must have been horrible. It must have been absolutely horrible to be inside her psyche in those last years. A frenzy. A psychological frenzy. Masked by haughty indifference to her own fate, and an iron will to keep going on her chosen path.

FASCINATING.

I loved the book, by the way.

The Books: "The Pigman" (Paul Zindel)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Pigman by Paul Zindel.

Okay, I always get a bit nervous when I pull a book off the shelf that not only do I love - but I feel has made some kind of huge impact on me. I felt it when I pulled out Ballet Shoes the other day, and when I pulled out Harriet the Spy I felt an almost hesitance, like: "Maybe I'll skip this one ..." Just because it means so much to me that I feel like it'll be hard to 'go there', in terms of describing it. It gets personal. A lot of these books, as much as I love them, aren't personal. But The Pigman certainly is.

All I can say is - I first read this book for school - in 8th grade - when I was in the middle of one of the worst times of my life. I was a social outcast, my clothes were wrong, I was teased within an inch of my life by a bunch of bitchy girls - to the point where they put signs on my back saying "I'M UGLY" and would crank-call my house, ask for me, and when I came on the phone say, "Hi ... REALLY loved your pants today." I'd hear shrieks of laughter in the background, and I'd hang up, trembling with shame. I didn't tell my parents about any of this - it seemed like it was just something that had to be endured. I had good friends but I didn't have classes with any of them (although I did end up becoming friends with Mere in 8th grade math - the teacher of which is an entire post in and of itself ... But onward!!). Life was a howling wilderness. Well, except for Ralph Macchio. I'm dead serious. I was 13 years old and I was really suffering. From such self-loathing that I still struggle with it today - and also a low-level constant fog of depression. I had been well liked in grade school. Adolescence hit me completely unprepared. I was like a foreign exchange student who hadn't learned the language yet. I was a mess. Instead of fighting back, or adjusting my behavior, I just sank into a passive "let me just get through this" mentality, which was horrible. I should have punched Phyllis. I won't say her last name, but I know who she is. I should have punched her in her fucking mouth. That would have shut her up. I took her abuse for 2 years in a row because our last names were close, alphabetically - and I never fought back. Ridiculous. Oh, and here's the ironic thing: EVERYONE has a horrible time in junior high. I only learned this much later, of course. I thought I was the only one who had a hard time getting thru the day. Everyone struggles - maybe some people have a better game-face, or maybe some people enjoy figuring out the rules of the game and then playing the game everyone else is playing - but that doesn't mean that there's no struggle. It was just me, in my isolation, at the time. I didn't understand this new society, I couldn't get the rules straight, I kept messing up, and I would not be forgiven for my clothes.

So, Hmmm. What does all this have to do with The Pigman? Everything. These are the kids that Paul Zindel writes for. He writes for the kids in those situations. He knows that teenagers feel isolated from not only each other, but the world itself. He knows that adolescence is (for some) a howling wilderness, especially if you have a horrible home life. NOBODY does horrible home life quite like Paul Zindel. (Uhm - Effect of Gamma Rays??)

I LOVE his writing and I have many of his books ... there are still some that I am missing, which I really should rectify. His themes are always similar - it's always teenagers - faced with some struggle - but then, through heartache, usually, having a deep revelation about themselves and the world. It's usually about teenagers being forced to come out of their self-absorption and care about another human being. Or see that they are not the only person in the world. But as anyone who, well, is DEEP understands: growth like that rarely happens in a neat tied-up-in-a-bow way. A lot of times we learn these lessons in life the hard way. We need to be bashed over the head. We need to be shamed. We need to lose something, and BIG, before we really 'get it'. Those are the moments that Paul Zindel writes about ... over and over and over. Some of these moments you can never take back, even though you want to so badly. Paul Zindel's characters really suffer.

And yet - on the flipside - these books are soooooooo funny. I remember when we were all in Ireland as a family - I was about 14 - and I think I was reading the book outloud to Jean. We were in a B&B, and the kids were in one room, my parents in another. I got to the part about The Marshmallow Kid - and I started laughing so hysterically, and so loudly that first of all - I could no longer keep on reading, and second of all - my mom had to come down the hall and tell us to be quiet. The same thing happened when I read a chapter of it outloud to my roommate Jen - on September 10, 2001. Weird. The things you remember. Or maybe it's not weird. We lay in her bed, in her breezy bedroom next to mine, and I started to read to her - and eventually began snorting and crying and guffawing - These books are FUNNY.

He's one of my favorite writers.

The Pigman is the story of John and Lorraine - and how they befriend (under false pretenses) a man in their neighborhood (which is on Staten Island, I believe) named Angelo Pignati. John and Lorraine are two mis-matched people to be friends - and they get into a lot of trouble together. John is as good-looking as a movie star. He has a horrible home life. Kind of like Ally Sheedy's in The Breakfast Club. "What do they do to you?" "They ignore me." John feels invisible. So he becomes this insane trouble-maker at school. The book opens with him telling us, the reader, about how he used to set off little bombs in the boy's bathroom at school. They called him "The Bathroom Bomber". Also how he would organize his entire math class to roll big apples down the aisles between their desk at a given signal. So the teacher would suddenly turn around and see apples careening towards him. Etc. John is cocky, smart, kind of a loner - he smokes, he drinks - he hangs out in the cemetary with his hoodlum friends - He wants to be an actor, but that's mainly because he knows he's gorgeous. But ... you just ACHE with love for this character, eventually. He's funny, he's insane, you never know what he's going to do ... so the ending of the book packs a huge punch. John has to become a man. Way too soon. He's not ready. But he has to. Lorraine needs him to. It hurts. He has lost a lot - and he will have to live for the rest of his life knowing that HE was partly the cause of that tragedy.

Anyway, so that's John.

Lorraine, when I first read this book in 8th grade, reminded me of me. She was goofy-looking - her clothes were never right - she was a new kid in school, and she had no friends. She just didn't fit in. She felt like a fat galumphing ugly beast ... and her mother reinforces this skewed self-image. Her mother is a single mom - I guess the dad walked out on them - and her mother works as a private nurse for dying people - and most of them are dirty old men who try to pinch her ass. Her mother HATES (and I mean HATES) men. She tries to pass along this "wisdom" to Lorraine. "Boys are only after one thing. Never forget that." She makes Lorraine dress a certain way, so as not to attract boys - who are only after one thing - and, in general, makes Lorraine into a paranoid nervous wreck. Lorraine truly believes that all men are sex maniacs who cannot control themselves ... so when she meets John - who may be like that with other girls, slutty girls - but isn't that way with her - she is suspicious of him. And she is sure that Mr. Pignati, the sweet little old man, is up to no good and is about to rape her at any moment.

Anyway, the form of the book is part of the fun. Here's the set-up: John and Lorraine have decided to write a book, telling "their side" of the story about what happened with Mr. Pignati - since everyone is running around thinking the worst of them. As you start the book, you have no idea what the ending is ... but John and Lorraine write their chapters in such a way that you are prepared. They say stuff like: "We honestly didn't mean it. We didn't mean for all of that to happen." You don't know what they're talking about - but you know that it's coming.

It's great, too, because their two narrative voices are completely different. John is kind of cocky, and bragging about stuff - while Lorraine frets and worries - and comments on the writing in John's chapter. "I knew I shouldn't have let John write the first chapter. He has a tendency to exaggerate." Actually, they both comment on each other's chapters. They correct each other, defend themselves against attack from the other, etc.

Lorraine, also, has obviously been OD-ing on the self-help books. You'll see what I mean in the excerpt below.

Through an afternoon of crank-calling - John and Lorraine end up talking to a lonely-sounding guy named Mr. Pignati who actually invites them, his crank callers, over after school the following day. Terrified, but thinking that maybe they can scam him (see? John and Lorraine are total trouble when they are together) - they go over there. Mr. Pignati lives in a dusty dark house - with the shades drawn. He is, to put it mildly, eccentric. He invites them in. He is lovely, doddering, imaginative - he makes them play little word games - because it's all just so delightful to meet new people and isn't it fun to play games? John and Lorraine feel awkward, and ... somehow they succumb to this man. They begin spending all of their time therer after school, hanging out with Mr. Pignati. They tell no one because they think that people might think it weird that they like hanging out with an 80 year old dude, who spends all his time at the zoo, bonding with one gorilla in particular. They go to the zoo with him, and are kind of embarrassed to watch how Mr. Pignati speaks, intimately, to the gorilla through the glass. They have BONDED. Mr. Pignati is kind of nuts.

But it turns out that Mr. Pignati has a secret. John and Lorraine discover it.

And they end up betraying Mr. Pignati. He learns of this betrayal - he looks them in the eyes - his new friends who have brightened up his lonely days - and realizes that they have lied to him. And the repercussions are devastating. Things happen that can never be undone.

It's a FANTASTIC book - and I can't recommend it highly enough. I will always love it because I remember my sensation when I first read it - in the horrible howling wilderness that was adolescence: Someone gets me. This writer gets me. He knows what it's like!

It was unbelievably comforting.

Here's an excerpt from one of Lorraine's chapters - in fact, it's an excerpt from the first chapter Lorraine writes, where she races in and tries to correct all of John's exaggerations and lies. Oh yeah - John is a brilliant and compulsive liar. Notice Lorraine's unremitting psychobabble. She's describing how they met and became friends - a CLASSIC scene.

Excerpt from The Pigman by Paul Zindel.

The one big difference between John and me, besides the fact that he's a boy and I'm a girl, is I have compassion. Not that he really doesn't have any compassion, but he'd be the last one on earth to show it. He pretends he doesn't care about anything in the world, and he's always ready with some outrageous remark, but if you ask me, any real hostility he has is directed against himself.

The fact that I'm his best friend shows he isn't as insensitive to Home sapiens as he makes believe he is, because you might as well know I'm not exactly the most beautiful girl in the world. I'm not Venus or Harlow. Just ask my mother.

"You're not a pretty girl, Lorraine," she has been nice enough to inform me on a few occasions (as if I didn't remember the first time she ever said it), "but you don't have to walk about stoop-shouldered and hunched." At least once a day she fills me in on one more aspect of my public image - like "your hair would be better cut short because it's too kinky," and "you're putting on too much weight," and "you wear your clothes funny." If I made a list of every comment she's made about me, you'd think I was a monstrosity. I may not be Miss America, but I am not the abominable snowwoman either.

But as I was saying, it is a facat that John has compassion deep insideo f him, which is the real reason we got involved with the Pigman. Maybe at first glance John thought of it all simply as a way of getting money for beer and cigarettes, but the second we met th eold man, John changed, even though he won't admit it. As a matter of fact, it was this very compassion that made John finally introduce himself to me and invite me for a beer in Moravian Cemetery. He always went to Moravian Cemetery to dirnk beer, which sounds a little crazy, but it isn't if you explore his source problem a bit. Although I didn't know John and his family until two years ago when I moved into the neighborhood, from what I've been able to gather I think his father was a compulsive alcoholic. I've spent hours trying to analyze the situation, and the closest I've been able to come to a theory is that his father set a bad example at an age when John was impressionable. I think his father made it seem as though drinking alcoholic beverages was a sign of maturity. This particular sign of maturity ended up giving his father sclerosis of the liver, so he doesn't drink anymore, but John does.

I had moved into John's nneighborhood at the start of my freshman year, and he and a bunch of other kids used to wait for the same bus I did on the corner of Victory Boulevard and Eddy Street. I was in a severe state of depression the first few weeks because no one spoke to me. It wasn't that I was expecting the boys to buzz around and ask m e out, but I was sort of hoping that at least one of the girls would be friendly enough to borrow a hairpin or something. I stood on that corner day after day with all the kids, and nobody talked to me. I made believe I was interested in looking at the trees and houses and clouds and stray dogs and whatever - anything not to let on how lonesome I felt inside. Many of the houses were interesting as far as middle-class neighborhoods go. In fact, I suppose you'd say it was a multi-class neighborhood because both the houses and the kids ranged from wrecks to rich. There'd be a lovely brick home with a lot of land, and right next to it there'd be a plain wooden house with a postage-stamp-sized lawn that needed cutting. The only thing that was completely high class was the trees. Large old trees lined most of the streets and had grown so tall and wide they almost touched. I loved looking at the trees more than anything at first, but after a while even those started to depress me.

Then there was John.

I noticed him the very first day mainly because of his eyes. As I told you, he has these fantastic eyes that take in everything that's going on, and whenever they came my way, I looked in the other direction. His eyes reminded me of a description of a gigantic Egyptian eye that was found in one of the pyramids I read about in a book on black magic. Somehow an archaeologist's wife ended up with this huge stone eye in her bedroom, and in the middle of the night it exploded and a big cat started biting the archaeologist's wife's neck. When she put the lights on, the cat was gone. Only the pieces of the eye were scattered all over the floor. That's what John's eyes reminded me of. I knew even from the first moment I saw him he had to be something special.

Then one day John had to sit next to me on the bus because all the other seats were taken. He wasn't sitting there for more than two minutes before he started laughing. Laughing right out loud, but not to anyone. I was so embarrassed. I wanted to cry because I thought for sure he was laughing at me, and I turned my head all the way so the only thing I could see out the window of the bus was telephone poles going by. They call that paranoia. I knew that because some magazine did a whole article on mental disturbances, and after I read the symptoms of each of them, I realized I had all of them - but most of all I had paranoia. That's when you think everybody's making fun of you when they're not. Some extremely advanced paranoiacs can't even watch television because they think the canned laughter is about them. Freud would probably say it started with my mother picking on how I look all the time. But no matter how it started, I've got to admit that when anyone looks at me I'm sure they're noticing how awful my hair is or I'm too fat or my dress is funny. But I did think John was laughing at me, and it made me feel terrible, until finally - and the psychiatrists would say this was healthy - I began to get mad!

"Would you mind not laughing," I said, "because people think I'm sitting with a lunatic." He jumped when I spoke to him, so I realized he wasn't lauhging at me. I don't think he even knew I was there.

"I'm sorry," he said. I just turned my head away and watched the telephone poles some more. Then I heard him whisper something under his breath, and it had just the tone of a first-class smart aleck.

"I am a lunatic."

I made believe I didn't hear it, but then he said it again a little louder.

"I am a lunatic."

"Well, I wouldn't go around bragging about it," I said, and I was so nervous I dropped one of my books on the floor. I was mortified picking it up because it fell between the seat and the window, and I was sure I'd look like an enormous cow bending over to get it. All I could think of at that moment was wishing one of his eyeballs would explode and a nice big cat would get at his neck, but I managed to get the book and sit straight up with this real annoyed look on my face.

Then he started that laughing thing again. Veru quietly at first, and boy, did it burn me! And then I decided I was going to let out a little laugh, so I did. Then he laughed a little louder, and I laughed a little louder, and before I knew what was happening I couldn't stand it, so I really started laughing, and he started laughing, and we laughed so much the whole bus thought we were out of our minds.

Doing scales

He was a jazz pianist. He was an asshole, if you want to know the truth, but I liked him. I was kind of crazy that summer. He would hunch over the New York Times crossword puzzle, sitting at my cramped table, carving a space out for himself in between the piles of unopened mail. I liked him because he was messy and self-absorbed, and didn't shame me for the crazy shit I was doing that summer, a lot of which involved riding the subways at 4 a.m., eating takeout Chinese for breakfast, sleeping with him, and never opening my mail so that it would pile up in stacks on bookshelves, my coffee table, my dresser, my windowsills - collection agencies shrieking at me like a bad dream. I made coffee for him, my mascara from the night before still caked on my lashes, and sometimes I wondered who the hell this person was in my house. He used a tiny pen to fill in the blanks of the puzzle, and I found this ostentatious, but also impressive. Especially when it was the Saturday one. The pen was small, like a tiny peppermint stick you would buy in an old-time candy store. He would crack it open, casually, it was just his pen, no big deal, his slender blue-white hands looking enormous against that teeny thing. Scratching in the answers, up, down, across. The pen itself was a deep dark blue, like midnight, with gold flecks in it, or maybe they were swirls. At the time, which was, like I said, a crazy season for me, the pen reminded me of one of those far-out galaxies, a nebula, but a nebula trapped on a tiny pen? It made no sense. There was a scope, a grandiosity to that midnight-blue, it made me think of the empty space between stars. This was not a good thing to think about on a mascara-caked Tuesday morning, when you haven't slept in 2 days. I didn't need trapped nebulae. I haven't seen him in 5 years, I was too unstable that summer to be seeing anybody, and honestly he was kind of a dick. Although he did have his charms. He left the pen behind by accident, or maybe he didn't find it as captivating as I did. I wondered if he missed it. It's beautiful. Well, except for the size.

I've never really cared for jazz.

The weirdness of the actor's life

I woke up at 5 a.m. It was dark out. I got up. I showered. I dressed - it didn't matter what I wore, I just needed to be comfortable since I could be standing all day - so I just wore a tank top, my hippie embroidered pants that I love, and flip flops. It also didn't matter what I looked like (hard to imagine in this looks-based business) so I just put on a bit of mascara. It's always weird to put on makeup before the sun rises. It feels illicit. Like, frankly, you are up to NO GOOD.

I left the house, carrying my bookbag. That was all I needed. My notebook, my wallet, my Burts Bees lip stuff, my sunglasses, my iPod, my Rasputin book (for the ride home), and my scripts which had been emailed to me at 11 pm the night before. The dawn was just happening ... the hot of the day was still a couple hours in the future - the dawn was cool, dewy, infused with pink and lavendar. The Hudson glowed a dull silver to my right. The city looked quiet, slumbering.

The streets are empty that time of day, except for dog-walkers. I love the dawn.

I got onto a nearly empty bus and went into the city. I made my way to Penn Station. With 10 minutes to spare. Penn Station was packed with travelers, all of whom had also been up since 5 a.m.

Got on the 7 a.m. train to Philly. I had a huge Dunkin Donuts coffee, and my scripts to be studied on the train. I had a seat to myself so I spread out. I rehearsed, to myself - the lines I had just received the night before. It was 15 pages of text - so that gives you some idea of the weirdness of this life. I familiarized myself with each script. I made split-second decisions about how to read them. I had to be a formal narrator, I had to be a snooty English lady, I had to be my colloquial casual self, I had to be a storyteller. Okay. No problem. I can do all of that.

8:27. Disembarked at 30th Street Station in Philly. Brushed my teeth in the restroom there - thinking of poor little Lukas Haas hiding in the stall from Danny Glover. Had a moment with the massive angel as well. I love that train station.

Took a cab to the studio. Met the sound guys. Uhm - I love sound guys. In general. Haven't met a sound guy I don't like. They are always kind of scruffy, sweet, with black senses of humor. They are the low man on the totem pole, in this here biz - and yet nobody is more important than them. Every job I've ever done, I've bonded with the dude who holds the boom. Seriously. They are always cool people.

Then we got to work. We had a lot to do. I got to sit, so that was cool. There was the mike, and we were in this tiny enclosed quiet room on the 12th floor. We went script by script. So basically I spoke all day. Also, there's a ton of repetition. Sometimes you mess up a word or two, or you flub your lines. You have to go back and repeat. Or sometimes it's an equipment issue - and your take was perfect - but a plane flew by overhead, or the mike didn't work, or whatever. So it's all about repetition and being perfect every time. This is no big deal to me. I get into Concentration Mode, where - literally - a bomb could go off next door, and I would keep going with my script. One of the sound dudes said to me, admiringly, "You do it the same way every time. You don't get bored? I would be so bored. It takes practice to do what you do, huh?" So sweet. A lot of times the fact that concentration takes actual practice isn't - acknowledged. I don't need it to be acknowledged. I feel it's just a part of the job. Actors should be able to concentrate under all conditions. I prefer a quiet calm space to concentrate - but, if necessary, I can concentrate on a busy sidewalk surrounded by jackhammers. And yeah, that takes practice. So that was sweet that he said that.

Hours went by. I was snooty English lady. I did that one in one take. That was fun. I did all the scripts - we checked them off - one by one. NEXT.

It was a good day's work. I get lost in the work. I forget to think: "Uhm. I am in Philadelphia. On Walnut Street. In a random makeshift studio. With a mike and sound equipment. Reading these scripts. And uhm ... wait ... where am I right now??" It's all about the task at hand. I love that.

We were done at 2 p.m. Shook hands all around. They got what they needed. Which is all I care about. I came down, did what they needed, and now they can move on with their work. It's cool. It's cool to be able to do that, be part of a collaboration - even if it's just a small part of it. Oh, and let's not forget. It's nice to get a paycheck for all of this as well. That's the nicest part.

Then - grabbed a cab - back to 30th Street Station - walked in - got on the next train out, which was boarding at that very moment. I arrived in New York at 5 p.m. Having read a couple chapters of my awesome book about Rasputin on the ride home, my iPod blasting in my ears. (Liz Phair, if you're interested.)

Took a bus back across the river to my town. The sun was juuuuuust starting to go down. I came back into my apartment - and - naturally - it felt like I had been gone for way longer than a day. Felt like I had to check all of my plants for sign of impending DEATH. But no. I had been gone for 10 hours.

Sat down in my comfy chair, turned on my fan, put my feet up, had an icy cold beer, and read about Rasputin until it was time for bed.

Life is good. And weird!

More faces!!

A lot of people have taken up "the face challenge" from Dennis.

I love to look at other people's choices - because it is so revealing about who that person is. You get to know someone a little bit better, because of the faces they choose. Beautiful!

Anyway, here are more Faces I love:

Beth

Erik

Alex (look at Daffy!! hahahahaha)

El Capitan

Tracey

The Books: "The Birds' Christmas Carol" (Kate Douglas Wiggin)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Birds' Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin

I can't remember where I got my copy of this book but I have had it for what feels like my whole life. This book was published in 1886 and I think the copy I have was actually issued in the 1880s. It's a hard cover, and it has those shiny pages I've mentioned before - old-fashioned paper, which has a sheen to it - and where you can see the imprint of the typeface. Also - it has wonderful illustrations - dark scratchy drawings - very Victorian-era. That's the only way I can describe it. Beautiful illustrations. My Alice in Wonderland book is an old book as well - a Victorian-era printing of it. I love it. The Birds' Christmas Carol is one of the most sentimental treacly proselytizing children's books I've ever read - YET - it has its charms, and she's a good writer. You can certainly see how Lewis Carroll kind of fucked up other writer's plans in this era. He actually described a REAL little girl. Alice is REAL. She has faults, she gets angry, she has a sense of SELF ... In general, kids' books were Sunday School tracts, teaching morals, and lessons, and showing you how to be "good", and blah blah blah Yawn.

So The Birds' Christmas Carol is definitely in that moralizing vein. And add to it that the whole thing is a Christian metaphor - you have the potential for a pretty boring pompous book. Yeah, yeah, I got it, Christ died for my sins, I'll be a good little girl ... Uhm, can I go play now?

But Wiggin, although the sentimentality here is overwhelming, has some lovely passages. She really does. Nobody ever really comes to life - they are all caricatures, two-dimensional - but I do like some of her writing. Briefly: the plot.

On a Christmas Day - a child is born. A little girl. The proud and happy mama and papa don't know what to name her. Since it is Christmas, they hear the choir singing in the church beside the hospital and decide to name her Carol. Their last name is Bird. So her name will be Carol Bird. You can probably already see where we are going here.

For the first 5 years of her life, Carol Bird has a perfect childhood. Her hair is golden and curly, her eyes sparkle with blueness, her cheeks flush - her little laugh makes the world seem like a better place. She is adored.

Then tragedy strikes. Carol begins to walk with a little limp. Her parents notice it, and cling to one another in terror. The limp gets worse until finally Carol is completely crippled and must lie in her bed all the time. I'm assuming polio, but I have no idea.

Poor little Carol. The Christmas child meant to spread joy and happiness ... confined to her room!

Then on her 11th birthday - which is, of course, Christmas, she decides to throw a party. This is her only wish for presents - that her parents help her with this party. She wants nothing for herself. (Of course she doesn't. And why? Because she is a metaphor for the Christmas spirit, not a real little girl!) Anyway - next door there is a poor family named the Ruggles - with 8 kids or something like that. They are poor in a TOTALLY offensive and sentimentalized way. They are adorable, they fight, they have stockings that sag, and yet they all have good hearts. Their mother is stern, loving ... It's not their FAULT that they are poor!! So anyway, Carol wants to have all the Ruggles kids over for Christmas dinner. A little charity function, basically.

So the party goes off very well - we are supposed to chuckle heartily at the sight of the goggle-eyed poor kids, being confronted with the PLENTY of the Christmas table at the Birds house. We are supposed to find their poverty CUTE. But they all have a great great time - it is a night for the books- a night everyone will remember - a night when the Christmas spirit is alive and well and stalking the earth! The Ruggles fill up their poverty-struck souls with Christmas plenty - enough to get them through many a cold night - and Carol, tired yet happy, waves them goodbye from her bedroom window.

And that night ... as the nighttime Christmas mass in the church next door (there is always a church next door, apparently) goes on and the choir sings a Christmas carol - Carol lies her blonde curly head down on her pillow, closes her eyes, happy because of her good deed, and then - she promptly dies.

The End.

I mean, what??

But still. With all of this treacly Christian nonsense, I loved this book when I was a kid, and was captivated by it. Not so much by Carol - because she is obviously not a real little girl and who can care about a two-dimensional cutout? But Wiggin describes her room, where she spends all her time, and how it is decorated (of course in a Christmas theme - because it is Christmas all year round for Carol!) so vividly. I loved it. I also loved Wiggin's description of the Christmas feast - because ... it's from a different time. Another era. The food is different. It sounds old-fashioned. And I always loved books from other eras. Also - there are actually some very funny moments - all involving the Ruggles family, in their adorable poverty.

Anyway, here's an excerpt - where Carol comes up with her plan to entertain the Ruggles.

I know I'm making fun of this book - but it's one in my collection that I could never throw out. Especially my copy of it - which is actually from the era when the book was printed.

Oh - and written on the first page of the book - in a swoopy cursive, now discolored from age are the words:

Oliver
from Marguerite
Xmas 1912

I love that. A relic from days gone by. The book in my hands right now was a Christmas present to Oliver, probably long dead now, in 1912.

Excerpt from The Birds' Christmas Carol by Kate Douglas Wiggin

Uncle Jack did really come on the twentieth. He was not detained by business, nor did he get left behind nor snowed up, as frequently happens in stories, and in real life too, I am afraid. The snow-storm came also; and the turkey nearly died a natural and premature death from overeating. Donald came, too; Donald, with a line of down on his upper lip, and Greek and Latin on his tongue, and stores of knowledge in his handsome head, and stories - bless me, you couldn't turn over a chip without reminding Donald of something that happened "at College". One or the other was always at Carol's bedside, for they fancied her paler than she used to be, and they could not bear her out of sight. It was Uncle Jack, though, who sat beside her in the winter twilgihts. The room was quiet, and almost dark, save for the snow-light outside, and the flickering flames of the fire, that danced over the "Sleeping Beauty's" face and touched the Fair One's golden locks with ruddier glory. Carol's hand (all too thin and white these latter days) lay close clasped in Uncle Jack's, and they talked together quietly of many, many things.

"I want to tell you all about my plans for Christmas this year, Uncle Jack," said Carol, on the first evening of his visit, "because it will be the loveliest one I ever had. The boys laugh at me for caring so much about it; but it isn't altogether because it is Christmas, nor because it is my birthday; but long, long ago, when I first began to be ill, I used to think, the first thing when I waked on Christmas morning, 'Today is Christ's birthday - and mine!' I did not put the words close together, you know, because that made it seem too bold; but I first said, 'Christ's birthday,' out loud, and then, in a minute, softly to myself - 'and mine!' 'Christ's birthday -- and mine!' And so I do not quite feel about Christmas as other girls do. Mamma says she supposes that ever so many other children have been born on that day. I often wonder where they are, Uncle Jack, and whether it is a dear thought to them, too, or whether I am so much in bed, and so often alone, that it means more to me. Oh, I do hope that none of them are poor, or cold, or hungry; and I wish - I wish they were all as happy as I, because they are really my little brothers and sisters. Now, Uncle Jack dear, I am going to try and make somebody happy every single Christmas that I live, and this year it is to be the 'Ruggleses in the rear'."

"That large and interesting brood of children in the little house at the end of the back garden?"

"Yes; isn't it nice to see so many together? -- and, Uncle Jack, why do the big families always live in the small houses, and the small families in the big houses? We ought to call them the Ruggles childrne, of course; but Donald began talking of them as the 'Ruggleses in the rear,' and Papa and Mamma took it up, and now we cannot seem to help it. The house was built for Mr. Carter's coachman, but Mr. Carter lives in Europe, and the gentleman who rents his place for him doesn't care what happens to it, and so this poor family came to live there. When they first moved in, I used to sit in my window and watch them play in their back yard; they are so strong, and jolly, and good-natured; -- and then, one day, I had a terrible headache, and Donald asked them if they would please not scream quite so loud, and they explained that they were having a game of circus, but that they would change and play 'Deaf and Dumb Asylum' all the afternoon."

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Uncle Jack, "what an obliging family, to be sure!"

"Yes, we all thought it very funny, and I smiled at them from the window when I was well enough to be up again. Now, Sarah Maud comes to her door when the children come home from school, and if Mamma nods her head, 'Yes' that means 'Carol is very well,' and then you ought to hear the little Ruggleses yell, - and I believe they try to see how much noise they can make; but if Mamma shakes her head, 'No,' they always play at quiet games. Then, one day, 'Cary', my pet canary, flew out of her cage, and Peter Ruggles caught her and brought her back, and I had him up here in my room to thank him."

"Is Peter the oldest?"

"No; Sarah Maud is the oldest - she helps do the washing; and Peter is the next. He is a dressmaker's boy."

"And which is the pretty little red-haired girl?"

"That's Kitty."

"And the fat youngster?"

"Baby Larry."

"And that -- most freckled one?"

"Now, don't laugh - that's Peoria."

"Carol, you are joking."

"No, really, Uncle dear. She was born in Peoria; that's all."

"And is the next boy Oshkosh?"

"No," laughed Carol, "the others are Susan, and Clement, and Eily, and Cornelius; they all look exactly alike, except that some of them have more freckles than the others."

"How did you learn all of their names?"

"Why, I have what I call a 'window-school.' It is too cold now; but in warm weather I am wheeled out on my balcony, and the Ruggleses climb up and walk along our garden fence, and sit down on the roof of our carriage-house. That brings them quite near, and I tell them stories. On Thanksgiving Day they came up for a few minutes - it was quite warm at eleven o'clock - and we told each other what we had to be thankful for; but they gave such queer answers that Papa had to run away for fear of laughing; and I couldn't understand them very well. Susan was thankful for 'trunks', of all things in the world; Cornelius, for 'horse-cars', Kitty, for 'pork steak'; while Clem, who is very quiet, brightened up when I came to him, and said he was thankful for 'his lame puppy'. Wasn't that pretty?"

"It might teach some of us a lesson, mightn't it, little girl?"

"That's what Mamma said. Now I'm going to give this whole Christmas to the Ruggleses; and, Uncle Jack, I earned part of the money myself."

"You, my bird; how?"

"Well, you see, it could not be my own, own Christmas if Papa gave me all the money, and I thought to really keep Christ's birthday I ought to do something of my very own; and so I talked with Mamma. Of course she thought of something lovely; she always does: Mamma's head is just brimming over with lovely thoughts - all I have to do is ask, and out pops the very one I want. This thought was to let her write down, just as I told her, a description of how a child lived in her own room for three years, and what she did to amuse herself; and we sent it to a magazine and got twenty-five dollars for it. Just think!"

"Well, well," cried Uncle Jack, "my little girl a real author! And what are you going to do with this wonderful 'own' money of yours?"

"I shall give the nine Ruggleses a grand Christmas dinner here in this very room - that will be Papa's contribution - and afterwards a beautiful Christmas tree, fairly blooming with presents - that will be my part; for I have anotherw ay of adding to my twenty-five dollars, so that I can buy anything I choose. I should like it very much if you would sit at the head of the table, Uncle Jack, for nobody could ever be frightened of you, you dearest, dearest, dearest thing that ever was! Mamma is going to help us, but Papa and the boys are going to eat together downstairs for fear of making the little Ruggleses shy; and after we've had a merry time with the tree we can open my window and listen together to the music at the evening church-service, if it comes before the children go. I have written a letter to the organist, and asked him if I might have the two songs I like best. Will you see if it is all right?"

Birds' Nest, December 21, 188-
Dear Mr. Wilkie - I am the little girl who lives next door to the church, and, as I seldom go out, the music on practice days and Sundays is one of my greatest pleasures.
I want to know if you can have "Carol, brothers, carol," on Christmas night, and if the boy who sings "My ain countree" so beautifully may please sing that too. I think it is the loveliest thing in the world, but it always makes me cry; doesn't it you?
If it isn't too much trouble, I hope they can sing them both quite early, as after ten o'clock, I may be asleep.
Yours respectfully,
Carol Bird
P.S. -- The reason I like "Carol, brothers, carol" is because the choir-boys sang it eleven years ago, the morning I was born, and put it into Mamma's head to call me Carol. She didn't remember then that my other name would be Bird, because she was half asleep, and could only think of one thing at a time. Donald says if I had been born on the Fourth of July they would have named me "Independence" or if on the twenty-second of February, "Georgina", or even "Cherry", like Cherry in "Martin Chuzzlewit"; but I like my own name and birthday best.
Yours truly,
Carol Bird

Uncle Jack thought the letter quite right, and did not even smile at her telling the organizt so many family items.

Diary Friday

Here's the continuing story of Brett and I going out to see 2010 - which was obviously the most earth-shaking night in all of human history. There are still many Picnic stories to tell - and eventually I get to them all. It's just that real life, present life, takes over. I'm going chronologically - this is how my diary reads. It is not a literal document. It is not a narrative meant for an audience. It's a diary.

And Brett - when you read this - get ready for some MAJOR praise.

This is incredibly long.

JANUARY 5

I was just listening to my Jackson Browe tape - which means more to me than anyone ever knows. [hahahahahahahahahahaha] Especially Holy On/Hold Out. Oh, dear Lord.

Liz brought her tape one night to listen to as we did our makeup for the show. (I never wore any. Because of how I blush. Kimber told me not to wear stage makeup.) I always just sat around in my costume watching everyone else. It took me 2 seconds to get into my costume - plaid man's shirt, rolled-up jeans, bobby socks, ripped sneakers. [First picture here] Actually, it wasn't a costume. [hahahaha] So anyway, everyone would be doing makeup, etc. and Liz turned on this tape. (My mirror was next to hers). She told me she'd seen them in concert. She said, "You guys - you've got to hear this song." And she turned it on. We all just sat and listened.

Diary, it was like being on drugs. [And, uhm, what exactly do you know about being on drugs, Sheila?] That song makes me feel so high and uplifted. Liz sat listening, eyes closed, with this dreamy smile on her face. [Oh Liz. I love you so much!] By the end, Linda had tears in her eyes, and she said, "That is so beautiful." I looked over at Jennifer who had tears on her cheeks and I said, "I hope I fall in love like that someday." [careful what you wish for!] And she nodded, still crying, "Oh God, baby, I hope so too." She always calls me "baby". I love it.

So I bought the tape during our trip to New York and just sit around listening to that song. Oh, the lyrics!

And it just came to the line: "Give up your heart and you lose your way - Trusting another to feel that way ..." And I felt shivers all over me, and suddenly I knew that I had to keep writing in my diary. It's been 4 weeks since I saw Brett! I hope I don't cry when I see him next. Oh, I probably will, though.

It snowed today. The moon is glowing so that I look out in the dark and everything sort of glows and shimmers. I spent a wonderful day at Mere's and when Betsy and I went out to the car - we had to just stop and look around. It was freezing cold and crisp - and - the moon - the snow looked eerie. Glimmering. The whole earth looks different. The sky is FILLED with stars. Nighttime in the winter is so big and endless. The stars make me think of Brett. [Oh for God's sake.] I just stood there, thinking about him.

I didn't know what to say after the movie. [Uhm - okay - wrenching back into the story now where we left off!] If we had gone to see Beverly Hills Cop the night would not have been what it was. We would have chatted about it - "I love Eddie Murphy", "I liked this part" "It was funy when ..." But 2010 - it left my jaw hanging open. I had questions in my mind I wanted to talk about - I wanted to discuss it - discuss what it all might mean. And he felt the same way. We went to the car. The whole long ride home [the unbelievably long ride home from the Showcase Cinema!] we talked. The atmosphere was so different from the ride up. God, he is so like me it scares me. When he talks, I hear my own voice. It's a comfort. To know that. Talking about that movie was talking about life and the universe and what it all means.

I said, "Do you believe that there are other worlds and more life out there?"

And immediately he said, "Oh God, yes. I think we'd be very egotistical to think that we're the only ones."

J. and I had almost the exact same conversation last night. We talked about the universe and how GROSS it is. [hahaha] IT NEVER ENDS AND THIS IS SO GROSS. And if it does end - what is beyond it. Diary. IT NEVER ENDS. Even grosser - it's been here FOREVER. IT HAS BEEN HERE FOREVER. And if it hasn't been - what was here before? I can't understand the whole "never ends" thing. I cannot comprehend eternity. I mean, I can feel in awe of it - but I cannot fathom it. Oh, life is so confusing when you think of being part of a universe that never ever ends. EUUUU! That is SO GROSS! GROSS! Of COURSE there are other worlds out there. We can't be the only ones. But then - who are they? Where are they out there? The universe makes me cry. It confuses me.

On the beach with Brett, he said something that has been on my mind ever since. He said, "And when I die - I think that I'll become a part of all this. This is where I'll be." And he was looking up at the stars. Is that what happens? Do we become a part of the universe - which is a reality of forever? Do we become star dust? I mentioned it to J. last night and she said, "Oh, I feel so weird inside!" I'll never get the answer either.

We talked on the way home about other worlds and the universe and "Why?" [Ah. Youth.] He said something that gave me awful tingles. He said, "Remember in the movie how they said 'All these worlds are yours except Europa?' Well - what if it's happened before and they said that about us - 'All worlds are yours except Planet Earth?' What if someone's out there watching us and observing - "

I hate thinking about that. But I have before! Thinking about aliens observing me as I do normal things and thinking "What the hell is she doing?" What if there are intelligent beings out there? Oh WOW! Who are they? I just sit here trying my best to imagine it but I can't picture it at ALL. OUT THERE

You can see how emotional I get about this. [Uhm ... just this?]

It was so neat talking to him about it. I've never talked to a guy like that before - but I wasn't even thinking about it. I was too busy talking. I was honestly engrossed. [I date the real beginning of our friendship to this night. Because Picnic had nothing to do with it.] We stopped at a gas station and got sodas. While he put in gas, I sat in the car (it was freezing). And I was shaking. It was not from the cold. But it was uncontrollable. I could feel my shoulders trembling. It was because of him. Not because I felt in love with him, but -

I was trembling because he is who he is, and he is a beautiful human being. My faith has been severely battered lately - but with him - just one person - there's HOPE for the human race. I don't know what I'm feeling. I just know I feel GOOD!

When we started on our way again, I just burst, "I feel so GOOD right now!"

"I know! Me too! I'm almost exploding!"

I felt like I had voice his very own thoughts. He's so real. I really have to work at convincing myself that he isn't pulling my leg. But - he isn't! I don't think there's a better word for Brett than "sincere". I feel different with him. It's hard to explain. I sort of accept the fact now that we are really really close friends. I mean before I would go berserk when he hugged me or something - but then - that 2010 night - we were NOT on two different planes. We were on the same plane. TS and I are on different dimensions, for Pete's sake. That was what really got to me. I wasn't sitting there going, "This is so great that he actually wants to talk to me -- " I was sitting there talking with him. That's why I was shivering. That's what moved me. I was shaking madly.

He pulled into my driveway - I wasn't ready to say goodbye. I really wasn't. I felt like I had just started to talk with him. We'd never talked like that before. I wanted to talk more. But I didn't know what to do. It was about midnight. I looked at him - wishing we weren't in my driveway. But I had to say goodnight. Believe me, I tried. I took a deep breath - "Well ..." and then he just LOOKED at me - his glasses shining in the dark, this gentle caring smile on his lips - Hell. So I (I am so terrific!) - I said, "Want to come in for a while?" (30 years from now I will still be patting myself on the back for doing that, for being brave enough.) Even more terrific, when I said that, he sort of bounced in his seat, turned off the car, and said, "I was hoping you'd ask me!" (All 3 simultaneous.) I was oblivious to any pain I have ever felt in my life. I felt only joy. He meant it. He was waiting for me to ask him in. I had such a good feeling inside me. I didn't want to cut our night off in mid air.

So we both jumped out of the car. The living room light was on so I was afraid that Dad would be sitting up waiting. But - incredibly - he wasn't. No one was up. The house was quiet. Fate was so with me that night. I had to throw away my soda can so I showed him around - the kitchen, the dining room, back to the living room. "Very New Englandy," was his comment.

In the living room, I sat on the couch and he sat down across from me in the chair. I didn't know how to pick up from where we left off. So we sort of just sat there staring at each other, smiling awkwardly. I can't quite remember, but we did somehow pick it up.

That talk in the living room - I will live it over in my head happily for an eternity. [heh heh] I already have a 1,000,000 times. We just talked for so long. About being aware. That's what our talk was all about. How the majority of people in this world are not aware. They go through life not even realizing that life is happening. I am so aware of life around me that I feel strange and very small. Like looking at the sky. Maybe the reason why I was drawn to Brett, and why suddenly we've become so close, is because we are both sensitive and aware - we can pick up on someone else who feels the same way. At least that's what we talked about.

I told him about my theory about myself. "I think that even if I lived in a shanty with awful kids - I'd want to be conscious. I'd have to be." [A shanty? Awful kids? What?] And he sat there nodding, understanding. We talked about wanting to feel important and significant. All the talk about the universe always makes me feel like less than a speck like - I sit here worrying about the dumbest things. None of it matters -I don't matter. But talking with Brett, it made me feel like - I DO MATTER! WE ALL DO. It's important to me to feel like - we matter. Like - we are here to do something. There is a meaning to all of this.

Listen to this: "Here is a test to find if your mission on earth is finished. If you're still alive, it isn't." That's the whole point. I'm gonna try to solve all those answers while I'm alive but - I won't know until I'm dead. [It's all kind of weird reading this now. Very weird.] Brett doesn't think so. He thinks that we can find it here. That the answer is already here. TS doesn't believe in God or anything. He said, "A book on evolution was the clincher for me." When I think of the beginning of man, I feel very strange inside. I can't think about it too often. But when I do - somehow humanity got to where it is now. HOW? Where did we come from? We did evolve but - there's more to it than that. Are we an accident of nature? Or is there a reason? To me, it all has got to mean something. Brett said, "It HAS to be a combination of evolution and something bigger." I've never talked about this before with anyone - we could have talked like that forever. I sat on the couch, feet tucked up under me, arms huddled in. I was shaking so violently I was sure he could see. The atmosphere got TOTALLY one on one later. We talked a long time about what everything means - if there is an answer - and also: what is the question?

And there was this silence. I wasn't looking at him - I was so moved and worked up. And in that silence, I decided to tell him about the retreat. It was a BIGGIE for me. I don't really talk about it to anyone except kids who have been on it. It's just too much to describe. But with Brett, I had the feeling that he would understand. It's a wonderful feeling to be UNDERSTOOD by someone. [I'm all choked up right now. Yes, young Sheila. It is.] It took a lot to look up at him and start to talk about it. The way he looked at me - I can still see it as clear as though he were right here. It was weird - talking about ideas and concepts - I was totally at ease. And then talking about myself - I got shy and awkward. [Uhm. Still the case.] My voice sounded weird and quiet to me. I kept talking - I explained it to him in words I'd never verbalized before. I hadn't even thought them really either. But I described it as best I could. I said, "It was like - in one weekend - in 3 days - I found the answer. I didn't know what it was I found and I sort of lose it off and on but - then - I had found it. And for 3 days - I knew. It was like - the answer was here and I could feel it. I didn't have to go off searching for this huge thing. The answer was here among humanity." That wiped me out. Saying all that made me feel -- Oh. They're just words on a paper right now, but - I was sweating. I felt on the verge of crying. I was aware of him across from me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees - LOOKING AT ME. He wasn't staring off into space, contemplating it - he was LOOKING AT ME. I knew it - but I wasn't ready to look up at him. It sounded so weird from inside my head to hear me say that - But I did. And I don't regret it.

And you know, looking back on what I said - it's very obscure, very vague - but Brett got it. He didn't say, "I got it" but I could FEEL that he got it.

And the pause that followed was so long that with TS I would have hung myself.

Dead silence.

Me staring at my shoes and trying to regain control and knowing that Brett was staring intently at me. His eyes were - I mean, I was so spread open that I felt like he saw inside me just by looking at me. I think he did.

We were quiet for so long.

I didn't know 2 people could be quiet like that without being asleep or watching a movie. [hahahahaha] And WE WEREN'T AWKWARD. He knew I was vulnerable, and he will protect that. The silence helped me. It was good. Vulnerability scares me.

Finally, I slowly looked up at him - he was still sitting there leaning forward, STARING - the expression - so intent, so fixed. Somehow I said, (veddy veddy softly), "Do you have any idea what I just said?"

He didn't answer right away. When he did answer, I shivered. His voice AND WHAT HE SAID. He said, "While you were talking - I felt like there was nobody else on the earth. But you and me ... I felt like a part of you."

The silence after that was so delicate that I could feel it. I just sat there, trembling. So afraid of how MUCH I was feeling, how tremulously happy I felt. Neither of us said anything.

Sometimes I have trouble meeting eyes with someone and looking at them. With DW, I'd look away whenever he'd glance anywhere in my near and far vicinity. For some reason, it really scared me to think of locking eyes with someone. It always has scared me. I felt so exposed. I have changed so much from last year - Even from this summer. And when our eyes met, I didn't break the silence. I just let us LOOK AT EACH OTHER. Do you know what a big step that was for me? I have this great huge fear when things get deep - when things may be beginning to roll. I think I have so much fear of romance. I am just petrified for when it really happens. My first kiss? I'm petrified about it, whenever that will be. I AM SO SCARED. [hahahaha what?? Calm down, Sheila. It's gonna be okay.] But it's like that Billy Joel song Leave a Tender Moment Alone. In fact, when I look at the whole song - it could be by me. I mean, I complain about TS constantly making jokes - and I'm not that bad - but I get sonervous when things get new and different that I can't even deal with it.

Even though I'm in love
Sometimes I get so afraid
I'll say something so wrong
Just to have something to say
I know the moment isn't right
To tell him a comical line
To keep the conversation light
I guess I'm just frightened out of my mind
But if that's how I feel
Then it's the best feeling I've ever known
It's undeniably real
Leave a tender moment aline
Yes, I know I'm in love
But just when I ought to relax
I put my foot in my mouth
Cause I'm just avoiding the facts
If he gets too close
If I need some room to escape
When the moment arose
I'd tell him it's all a mistake
Leave a tender moment alone
But it's not only me
Breaking down when the tension gets high
Just when I'm in a serious mood
He is suddenly quiet and shy
I know the momen isn't right
To hold my emotions inside
To change the attitude tonight
I've run out of places to hide ...

I could have written that.

The first time I ever slept over his house was the Saturday after Opening Night. It was a WEIRD NIGHT. Brett drove me and Joe over. It was a HUGE party with a keg. I'd never seen one before. I didn't know such a tiny house could hold so many. I was having a pretty good time. I was talking to Anne, Eric's woderful girlfriend. She's so great. I had a beer, and I felt pretty good. Billions of people were there (including Kimber). I was just standing there with Anne when I heard someone call my name. I looked around and saw Brett. He was halfway up the stairs. When I saw him, he sort of made this subtle little gesture like, "Could you come here a minute?" It was really strange cause a lot of people saw it - I had to say, "Excuse me" to Anne and go meet him on the stairs after his mysterious beckoning. He said, "I have to talk to you - Come on." and he hurried up the stairs with Sheila following, a Sheila who felt really weird inside. He took me into his room, closed the door and immediately started pacing, head in his hands. He murmured, "Oh my God - I am wicked bumming." I stood there, not knowing what to do. I just said, "Brett - what is it?" Turns out that Kimber had called Brett over and said, "Come here. I'm gonna ruin your evening." And he proceeded to analyze Brett's performance and tell him everything that could be better and he totally rearranged Brett's performance at the ending - put it in a whole new perspective. Poor Brett. He got so upset and frustrated about his character and about the play. Brett threw himself in a chair. I sat on the bed. Brett said, "I mean, the things he said about my character were right, and I will work on it - but why now? Why did he tell me now?" So we talked about it and I did the best I could. I think he just needed an ear. After a while, people slowly started drifting in, milling around between Brett's and Joe's rooms. I started talking to Michelle - even though she quit as Stage Manager, she remembered my birthday and sent me a card care of the theatre. Can you believe it? She's wicked cool. Dina came over - I like her a lot. She's very friendly, very kind, very crazy. [hahahahaha]

Later in the night, Joanna and I danced to Hungry Like the Wolf - I was buzzed by then, enough to feel abandoned and happy and the two of us just went nuts. We were the only ones dancing and everyone else sort of just watched us. I heard all these comments, "Oh, look at the 2 sisters dancing!" We had a blast together. We went berserk. Then everyone got into it. Joanne had brought her brother to the party who is 16. Boy, did it feel strange to see a high school kid there. Joanne introduced us and he said, "I can't believe you're a senior in high school." I said, "Why?" and he said, "Because you're so good." We talked for a while. YES! I had a conversation with a boy in high school. I even asked him to dance. These things don't really feel monumental to me anymore.

What is scary though is looking someone in the eye. So we bopped around for a while - it was so COOL. I feel free now. I've changed. I don't want to regress.

J. said something totally wonderful: "You know how people say that life goes in a circle? Well, it doesn't. Because that means that once you go around you're at the same point, and you're not. Every experience you have makes you a little bit different and it's not possible to go back. Life is more like a spiral. Each time you go through something, you grow. You could go through the same things 1000 times, and never look at it the same because you change. LIfe isn't a circle. It's a spiral." [I still remember the diagram she drew to show me her theory.]

I danced the whole night at that party. Hungry Like the Wolf came on again and Joanna and I found each other and went crazy - screaming - and moaning like the lady does in the song - We were making each other laugh. It was SO MUCH FUN. And Joanne and I jitterbugged.

Then Time Warp came on. We got in a line, everyone at the party, and did the Time Warp - screaming out the words. I love to dance - especially when I don't care what I look like.

Somehow, as it got later, I stopped dancing. I was just sitting on the couch. The party had thinned out slightly. People got a bit more mellow. Brett and I ended up up in his room - we lay down on the bed, and we talked. Or actually, I mostly talked. I felt at ease. I found myself telling him how great I felt with this group of people and with him.

DW is my definition of infatuation. But Brett? DW, I wasn't friends with him. He wasn't a person, a friend - he was the guy I liked. I don't think I could have been friends with him. But Brett will always be my friend.

There's this song from Boys From Syuracuse that I hadn't even thought of until last night - and the words just hit home:

This can't be love because I feel so well
No sobs, no sorrows, no sighs
This can't be love, I get no dizzy spells
My head is not in the sky
My heart does not stand still
Just hear it beat
This is too sweet to be love
This can't be love because I feel so well
But still I love to look in your eyes.

I was saying, "I mean, I don't know what it was about you - but more than anyone else, I feel ..." I clammed up. "I mean, it's just cool ..." More than anything else, I just wanted to say, "Brett, thank you very much. I will never forget you." But I didn't. I fell back on my little teenager words.

I said, "Member that night at Giro's before we went home for Thanksgiving?" He nodded, grinning. I said, "Brett, I had so much fun that night. I don't think I've ever had that much fun." He started to laugh, obviously remembering what a blast it was, and he reached out to touch my arm. We smiled at each other. I said, "And then the next day, I took this guy to a dance and I felt so awkward with him. I hated it. It was back to the old way. But I don't feel awkward with you at all." [Uhm - those are "little teenager words"? Seems pretty bold and blunt to me!]

He didn't really respond - he just listened. Now comes a part that either I blocked out - or it was so bizarre that I remember exactly what happened, I just can't believe it. Somewhere along in here, we stopped talking. We lay there, quiet, on his bed, not talking, feeling close to each other. And suddenly - the next thing I remember - I jumped up and ran out of the room.

I wish I could somehow remember what happened and replay it in my mind. I have no idea what it looked like to him. I just jumped up and ran out of the room. What was going on? Was I a woman possessed?

Joe was in his room with a couple of people and I said, "Joe, is it true that what you say when you drink is true?" And this whole chorus of voices shouted, "Yes!" [I am guffawing] I said, "Oh. Okay." Jennifer and I ended up having a long talk. She is an honest-to-goodness Southern belle. When she becomes a mother? She's a natural at it.

Eventually, I went back into Brett's room, and I sort of meandered around looking at his posters. He was in The Fantasticks! He was Matt! We talked about that show - and we sang The Rape Song. How appropriate. No, just kidding. It was hysterical - we danced, and sang, and lightened up, and had fun. I don't know why - I guess I just suddenly freaked out when it got quiet and we were lying there. I had to get out of there. Oh well.

Then we threw darts and sang the score of The Music Man. [God. We were meant to be friends. This is hysterical.] He said, "Hey! I have a tape of The Fantasticks!" And he went rummaging around for it but instead he found another tape - with a coo of delight. "Oh! I know! Want to hear War of the Worlds?" I'd heard of it, knew what it was about, knew it was Orson Welles, but had never heard it - so I said yes. Brett put the tape in (he loves it) - then he went around turning off all the lights in his room except for a tiny one on his bedside table. I felt my insides go warm and cold and up and down. All at the same time. I knew he was just turning the lights off for atmosphere, though, so I didn't jump up and run out again.

Then he said, "Okay - get on the bed." It wasn't a harsh order - it was a suggestion - like: let's get into this and sit on the bed. So feeling what you would call terror and fear and paralysis [I am honestly not sure what is going on with me here. I guess I felt in the presence of a grown-up sexual guy - you know, an adult - and I felt freaked out, even though I ADORED HIM] - and I got onto the bed. I felt like a stick of wood. I didn't realize my position until Brett looked at me. I was sitting in the corner of the bed, huddled against the wall. When he saw me, and I really did it unconsciously, he said to me, flat out, "Sheila. I'm not going to attack you."

Then he climbed on the bed beside me and we listened to it. We pretended it was real. We pretended that we were a married couple in the 1920s and just normally listening to the radio - and then that comes on. It was SO MUCH MORE FREAKY that way. I convinced myself that I totally believed it. It was really fun.

Then when they announced that it was a recording, we both started screaming and laughing and rolling around, going, "I can't believe that!!!" There was more to the tape after that, so we sat and listened. I was perched on the edge of the bed, bare feet dangling. He was sprawled out next to me. After a while, I happened to glance at him. There he was - lying there asleep beside me. [Man, this is all so KILLER!!] I love watching people sleep. It's beautiful. I could sit and watch people sleep forever. [Okay, that's kinda creepy] Brett looked different when he slept - kind of innocent, and peaceful. I sat there in the dim room looking at Brett sleeping for I don't know how long. It was so magical. I had the urge to reach out and touch his cheeks, or touch his lips. I should have. I so wanted to. My heart was full.

Finally I got up and pulled the blanket up from the bottom of the bed and put it over him. Then I tiptoed out of the room.

Joe gave me a blanket and a pillow. I gave him a big hug and tiptoed downstairs. It was dark. There was a fire in the fireplace. The couch was pulled out into a bed and Jennifer was on it, asleep, in a flowered flannel nightgown. Her golden blonde hair was dangling over the edge and glowing by the fire. I went to the other couch, curled up in my clothes, and went to sleep. The sun coming up over the ocean woke me up the next day. I went through that day in a dream. When Brett woke up - he looked like a little boy - his hair on end, his eyes squinting, his cheeks flushed. He came downstairs looking dead to the world. Jennifer and I had been under the covers on the pullout talking, so we both looked up when he came down. He was rubbing his eyes with his fists, looking confused. He said to me, "I had about fifty dreams about you last night." I laughed - a little nervously - Brett flopped down in a chair. "In the dream, everyone at the party was being so awful to you - like saying 'what a bitch that Sheila is' and I was running around and yelling STOP IT. STOP IT. I LIKE HER. STOP IT. Then Joanna came into the room and said 'Sheila is such a jerk' and I punched her in the face."

The living room was bursting with laughter at this. We all were just dying.

Jennifer went out to the kitchen for some milk and Brett did this somersault bound onto the couch bed. He sat up and looked questioningly at me. "Where did you sleep last night?" I pointed at the couch and he groaned. [I realize that this is all incredibly intricate - but this is how I write in my diary!! Crazy!] Brett said, "No - you didn't sleep on that hard thing, did you? Why? You should have slept in my bed. I totally wouldn't have been a moron."

I remember how it felt that one night I slept in Joe's bed - and the feeling of safety it gave me - so reassuring - knowing just that someone is there.

Wow. That was a long tangent. Sorry.

I just know that if Brett moved to Siberia tomorrow, a part of me would go with him.

Other Picnic entries:

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.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.
Part 14. Opening night approaching. Homecoming Dance approaching.
Part 15 Homecoming Dance. Homecoming football game. Rage.
Part 16 Last rehearsal before 3 day Thanksgiving break. Heaven!
Part 17 Opening Night!
Part 18 More on Opening Night.
Part 19 The show closes. Drama with the boyfriend. Reconnecting with my friends.
Part 20Closing Night party - part 1
Part 21 Closing Night party - part 2
Part 22 Brett and I go see 2010 - part 1

Faces I love

I'm copying. But go look here. WONDERFUL, right? And I'm not just saying that because Archie is on the list. So here are my choices.

I think it's fun to show the faces without listing the name that goes with it. Because this isn't just about whatthe person means to me (although that does factor in - but not always!!). It's about loving their actual FACE. Some are more famous than others. Some are not famous at all (well. Er. One isn't. Although in his small world of expertise he is very well known.) But they are all faces that, in and of themselves, I adore. Oh - and if it's a picture with two people in it - just assume I chose it because I love both the faces.

Oh, and feel free to guess - or ask: "who the hell is that one??" Etc.

It's fun to just sit around ruminating about faces that I love.

Faces that I love.

Literary Notes for Axl Rose ...

... on the lyrics of "Sweet Child O' Mine".

Hysterical.

Example:

As if they thought of rain—Axl, eyes can't think of rain. And even if they could, which they can't, why would bluest skies think of rain? Perhaps less imagery of thinking eyes made of sky and more direct exploration of your feelings?

Fay Wray fans ...

Beautiful images of her here. Woman of a million looks. Not just this one, the one she will always be remembered for:

The Books: "The Sword in the Stone" (T.H. White)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White

I can't remember a time when I hadn't read this book. I know I eventually HAD to read it for school - maybe in 8th grade? Would that be right? But I read it much much earlier - mainly because my cousin Susan - who not only did I adore, but I WANTED TO BE HER - read and loved it (and The Once and Future King) so I, of course, had to read them. Susan actually had great tastes in books (she was a year older than me) - and through her I discovered all the Enid Blyton books, for which I am FOREVER grateful. By the way - I thought I HAD some of those old Enid Blyton books, but obviously I don't, since I'm already on "W" in the alphabet. Hmmm. I loved those Adventure books of hers. Again, with the themes I adore: children on their own (preferably British), having to survive by their wits. No parental figures around. Anyhoo. Susan was responsible for me reading a lot of cool books - and the TH White books are part of that. I just LOST myself in these books. The Sword in the Stone was my favorite of the two. I just loved it - the training scenes, the transformation scenes, becoming animals ... I loved Merlyn, and I loved the relationships described. There is a kind of Dickensian flavor to the whole thing - children at the whims of financial realities. Sir Ector is looking for a tutor for his "real" son, his proper son, his REAL heir - Kay. Kay's younger brother is an adopted child named Wart (well, he's called "The Wart") - who, well. His name kind of says it all, in terms of how he is perceived. Sir Ector is a kind and loving man - who does love Wart - but it is no secret that Kay is the one he favors, and wants to give the best to. But it is Wart's journey that makes up the story of this book. Sir Ector hires the magical Merlyn to be Kay's tutor, and Wart's as well, by default. The magic starts. The psychedia starts. They travel back and forth in time. They meet Robin Hood. I love the scene with the little mustard pot that comes alive. Merlyn gives Kay and Wart (but mainly Kay - remember!!) challenges. They become fish. They become badgers.

And did I mention the awesome-ness of the writing? It's rich writing, man - detailed, funny, sharp-eyed - the characters are well-drawn, and you care about them. You care about Wart. I love Wart. He's one of my favorite fictional characters.

Meanwhile, through their journeys - there is word that there is a sword stuck in an anvil in London - and the word goes: ""Whoso Pulleth Out the Sword of the Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of All England."

There is, at this point, no heir to the throne (if memory serves). So it's a big deal. Where is this sword in the stone? Why is it so hard to pull the sword out? Just pull it out, what's the big deal?

Eventually - Wart and Kay are in London, for a jousting tournament, I believe. Is Merlyn with them? I can't remember - there's a very sad scene when Merlyn lets the boys know that their time with him is almost through. Anyhoo - they're in London, and they head to the jousting tournament. Kay realizes he left his sword back at the castle. Wart, who is basically his manservant in life, is sent back to get it. But the door to Kay's room is locked, and Wart decides to go out into the streets of London and find Kay another sword. Now - this all occurs at the end of the book - and will make up the excerpt I post below - but one of the things I LOVE about the ending of this book, why it gives me goosebumps every time I read it is because it starts out so casual. You don't even get what's coming. It's all very casual, "Oh, where's my sword? Could you go get my sword?" Door's locked. Let's go get another sword. Whatever. It's not all filled with portent and telegraphing of the end. That's why the end packs such a huge punch. For me, at least. Wart doesn't know that what he is doing is accepting his destiny. He will be King of England. He will become Arthur. This is his destiny, and it has been there all along. But Wart is unaware of it. He totally buys into the whole "Kay is the favored son" routine. He hovers in Kay's shadow. He has no dreams of greatness. He just wants to learn the same stuff Kay learns. But there's something deeper going on here. Merlyn knew. But nobody else does. And TH White doesn't tip his hat too early. I LOVE the ending of this book.

So anyway - Wart, wandering around London looking for a replacement sword, casually comes upon a big iron anvil - with a sword sticking up out of it. He doesn't think about the legend, or the saying. He just goes and tries to pull the sword out.

Here's the excerpt. It just kills me. Why does it kill me? Because Wart doesn't know that what he just did was a big deal. Not just a big deal - but the biggest deal ever. And watch how it all unfolds ... how he tells people where he got the sword ... how Kay, the golden boy, tries to ignore the implications, because HE'S supposed to be the king, he is the favorite one, after all ... how could silly dirty little WART have pulled out the mythical sword that nobody else could remove?? And just watch how the realization dawns - on Wart - on everyone else - on what this all means.

It's just a GREAT story about ... a person who might not be expected to heed the call of greatness, who might not be ready for his destiny ... but oh well - here his destiny comes anyway. Anybody can relate to it.

And the ending (or, almost the ending) which I post below ...

Gulp. I'm tellin' ya. It gets me in the throat every time.

Excerpt from The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White

"How does one get hold of a sword?" he continued. "Where can I steal one? Could I waylay some knight, even if I am mounted on an ambling pad, and take his weapons by force? There must be some swordsmith or armorer in a great town like this, whose shop would still be open."

He turned his mount and cantered off along the street.

There was a quiet churchyard at the end of it, with a kind of square in front of the church door. In the middle of the square there was a heavy stone with an anvil on it, and a fine new sword was struck through the anvil.

"Well," said the Wart, "I suppose it's some sort of war memorial, but it will have to do. I am quite sure nobody would grudge Kay a war memorial, if they knew his desperate straits."

He tied his reins round a post of the lych-gate, strode up the gravel path, and took hold of the sword.

"Come, sword," he said. "I must cry your mercy and take you for a better cause."

"This is extraordinary," said the Wart. "I feel queer when I have hold of this sword, and I notice everything much more clearly. Look at the beautiful gargoyles of this church, and of the monastery which it belongs to. See how splendidly all the famous banners in the aisle are waving. How nobly that yew holds up the red flakes of its timbers to worship God. How clean the snow is. I can smell smothing like fetherfew and sweet briar - and is that music that I hear?"

It was music, whether or pan-pipes or of recorders, and the light in the churchyard was so clear, without being dazzling, that you could have picked a pin out twenty yards away.

"There is something in this place," said the Wart. "There are people here. Oh, people, what do you want?"

Nobody answered him, but the music was loud and the light beautiful.

"People," cried the Wart. "I must take this sword. It is not for me, but for Kay. I will bring it back."

There was still no answer, and Wart turned back to the sword. He saw the golden letters on it, which he did not read, and the jewels on its pommel, flashing in the lovely light.

"Come, sword," said the Wart.

He took hold of the handles with both hands, and strained against the stone. There was a melodious consort on the recorders, but nothing moved.

The Wart let go of the handles, when they were beginning to bite into the palms of his hands, and stepped back from the anvil, seeing stars.

"It is well fixed," said the Wart.

He took hold of it again and pulled with all his might. The music played more and more excitedly, and the lights all about the churchyard glowed like amethysts; but the sword still stuck.

"Oh, Merlyn," cried the Wart, "help me to get this sword."

There was a kind of rushing noise, and a long chord played along with it. All along the churchyard there were hundreds of old friends. They rose over the church wall all together, like the Punch and Judy ghosts of remembered days, and there were otters and nightingales and vulgar crows and hares and serpents and falcons and fishes and goats and dogs and dainty unicorns and newts and solitary wasps and goatmoth caterpillars and corkindrills and volcanoes and mighty trees and patient stones. They loomed round the church wall, the lovers and helpers of the Wart, and they all spoke solemnly in turn. Some of them had come from the banners in the church, where they were painted in heraldry, some from the waters and the sky and the fields about, but all, down to the smallest shrew mouse, had come to help on account of love. Wart felt his power grow.

"Remember my biceps," said the Oak, "which can stretch out horizontally against Gravity, when all the other trees go up or down."

"Put your back into it," said a Luce (or pike) off one of the heraldic banners, "as you did once when I was going to snap you up. Remember that all power springs from the nape of the neck."

"What about those forearms," said a Badger gravely, "they are held together by a chest? Come along, my dear embryo, and find your tool."

A Merlin sitting at the top of the yew tree cried out, "Now then, Captain Wart, what is the first law of the foot? I thought I once heard something about never letting go?"

"Don't work like a stalling woodpecker," urged a Tawny Owl affectionately. "Keep up a steady effort, my duck, and you will have it yet."

"Cohere," said a Stone in the church wall.

A Snake, slipping easily along the coping which bounded the holy earth, said, "Now then, Wart, if you were once able to walk with three hundred ribs at once, surely you can coordinate a few little muscles here and there? Make everything work together, as you have been learning to do ever sice God let the amphibia crawl out of the sea. Fold your powers together, with the spirit of your mind, and it will come out like butter. Come along, homo sapiens, for all we humble friends of yours are waiting here to cheer."

The Wart walked up the great sword for the third time. He put out his right hand softly and drew it out as gently as from a scabbard.

There was a lot of cheering, a noise like a hurdy-gurdy which went on and on. In the middle of the noise, after a very long time, he saw Kay and gave him the sword. The people at the tournament were making a frightful row.

"But this isn't my sword," said Sir Kay.

"It was the only one I could get," said the Wart. "The inn was locked."

"It is a nice-looking sword. Where did you get it?"

"I found it stuck in a stone, outside a church."

Sir Kay had been watching the tilting nervously, waiting for his turn. He had not paid much attention to his squire.

"That's a funny place to find a sword," he said.

"Yes, it was stuck through an anvil."

"What?" asked Sir Kay, suddenly rounding upon him. "Did you just say this sword was stuck in a stone?"

"It was," said the Wart. "It was a sort of war memorial."

Sir Kay stared at him for several seconds in amazement, opened his mouth, shut it again, licked his lips, then turned his back and plunged through the crowd. He was looking for Sir Ector, and the Wart followed after him.

"Father," cried Sir Kay, "come here a moment."

"Yes, my boy," said Sir Ector. "Splendid falls these professional chaps do manage. Why, what's the matter, Kay? You look as white as a sheet."

"Do you remember that sword which the King of England would pull out?"

"Yes."

"Well, here it is. I have it. It is in my hand. I pulled it out."

Sir Ector did not say anything silly. He looked at Kay and he looked at the Wart. Then he stared at Kay again, long and lovingly, and said, "We will go back to the church."

"Now then, Kay," he said, when they were at the church door. He looked at his first-born again, kindly, but straight between the eyes. "Here is the stone, and you have the sword. It will make you the King of England. You are my son that I am proud of, and always will be, whatever happens. Will you promise me that you took it out by your own might?"

Kay looked at his father. He also looked at the Wart and at the sword.

Then he handed the sword to the Wart quite quietly.

He said, "I am a liar. Wart pulled it out."

As far as the Wart was concerned, there was a time after this in which Sir Ector kept telling him to put the sword back into the stone - which he did - and in which Sir Ector and Kay then vainly tried to take it out. The Wart took it out for them, and stuck it back again once or twice. After this, there was another time which was more painful.

He saw that his dear guardian Sir Ector was looking quite old and powerless, and that he was kneeling down with difficulty on a gouty old knee.

"Sir," said poor old Sir Ector, without looking up, although he was speaking to his own boy.

"Please don't do this, father," said the Wart, kneeling down also. "Let me help you up, Sir Ector, because you are making me unhappy."

"Nay, nay, my lord," said Sir Ector, with some very feeble old tears. "I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wote well ye are of an higher blood than I wend ye were."

"Plenty of people told me you are not my father," said the Wart, "but it doesn't matter a bit."

"Sir," said Sir Ector humbly, "will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are King?"

"Don't!" said the Wart.

"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that you will make my son, your foster-brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."

Kay was kneeling down too, and it was more than the Wart could bear.

"Oh, do stop," he cried. "Of course he can be seneschal, if I have got to be this King, and oh, father, don't kneel down like that, because it breaks my heart. Please get up, Sir Ector, and don't make everything so horrible. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I wish I had never seen that filthy sword at all."

And the Wart also burst into tears.

How do you write "Holy shit" in the Cyrillic alphabet?

At this very moment a raging argument is going on on a Macedonian blog between nationalist Bulgarians and nationalist Macedonians - about these posts of mine. I have no idea what is going on but everyone is obviously VERY angry, with many ALL CAPITAL LETTER SENTENCES and many exclamation points!!!! The Macedonians appear to feel vindicated - because I kind of take their side (although I'm not blinded to their faults) - and the Bulgarians are in a rage about this. It's kind of an uncomfortable feeling to have a bunch of rage-filled Bulgarians screaming about you in the Cyrillic alphabet. I am just sitting back and watching the fur fly, cringing a little bit at the brou-haha, feeling a wee bit ashamed that my own armchair-fascination with Macedonia (I thought that nobody read those posts but CW - and I'm so glad I wrote them all - because somehow, it brought CW to my blog, and he's an awesome guy) has somehow reached the Balkans themselves, and crowds of angry Macedonians and Bulgarians are shouting at each other filled with their ancient hatreds over a couple of stupid posts I wrote in my living room in New Jersey. Good lord. At least it's all happening on a blog, and they aren't stabbing each other to death on some Ottoman battlefield. That's a hopeful sign. But still. People are obviously SCREAMING about me in another language, and my horrible assumptions about Bulgaria, and how dare I take Macedonia's side ... and I'm a little bit scared. But excited too.

Smudge

Last night was smudgy. The air was smudgy, the sky smudgy, and all that smudginess did psychedelic things to the moon. I'm a moon fanatic. I came off the train, into the smudgy black night, not a breath of air moving anywhere, it's been dreadful here the last couple of days, and I glanced up, like a little cat, trying to catch a stray breeze, and in looking up - I saw the moon. I sound so much like Anne Shirley right now, but the sight of that moon sent soul-shivers running through my body. It was low in the sky, and one day past fullness. It was enormous, and looked almost swollen with its own color, like an overripe plum. The sky was black around it - and the moon was not white, or golden, but a kind of sluggish dark red, like the storm swirling around Jupiter. The moon: sullen, swollen, smudgy, gorgeous. The whole sky looked like a charcoal drawing that someone had rubbed their arm over, blurring the boundaries. The dark sullen red of the moon seemed to smudge into the sluggish black of the sky ... and perhaps because the moon was so low in the sky, hovering just above Wall Street, it looked abnormally huge. As though it were about to pop. The swollen-ness of the moon added to the smudgy energy of the night, when people were literally lying out in Frank Sinatra park, at 11 pm, in their bathing suits, sluggishly waiting for something, anything ... waiting for the pressure to break. The Hudson was still and black. Unreflective. Not moving. Boats churned by through the black, causing a thick resistant wake to come our way, but other than that - stillness. The Hudson looked solid enough to walk across. A slab of thick black. I couldn't get over the red-ness and full-ness of that moon. It looked almost satanic. Like a sentient being up there. There was no breeze. It's a thunderstorm right now - but we've had two days of unearthly stillness, heaviness, and mugginess. Nothing moving. You ACHE for the air to just ... MOVE!! The pressure still has not broken, and the late afternoon sky is a sickly green - and it has lost its sluggish smudginess. Something's coming.

Last night when I first saw the moon, it so struck me that I was compelled to talk to a stranger. I feel like ancient Druid like people would see bad (or good) omens in such a moon. They would huddle together in their communities, glancing up fearfully every now and then, providing sacrifices, whatever they needed to do. You don't see a moon like that every day.

I needed to share my awe with someone. It was an instinctive thing, I didn't overthink it. I saw the glowing deep red ball and gasped, to the guy next to me - "Oh my God. Look at that moon!!" A more girlie comment would be difficult to imagine. Well: "I prefer Tampax to OB" is pretty girlie as well. But still. Moon-beauty-gushing is really girlie. And it was great: The guy who happened to be next to me was big guy whom I would describe (lovingly, by the way) as a "meathead". He is a total Hoboken type, (but not drunk enough to be evil) - he had "frat boy" written all over him (literally - Greek letters on his sweatshirt, and on his backwards baseball cap) - you can tell that he is no stranger to a weekend kegger - and ... it just was so funny - I MADE him deal with the moon, and he was so nice. He looked up and said, "Oh man. Yeah!"

He could have scorned me. Many people would have been like: "Uhm ... what is your problem, lady? So it's a big red moon, so what?" But he, although he was taken aback, and although he didn't go on and on about how he agreed with me about the moon ... he was kind. He looked up, he took it in, he commented enthusiastically. He did not judge.

I look for kindness wherever I find it. Even in a meathead stranger on a smudgy black night.

Man

These photos are disturbing on multiple levels.

This one's for Emily

A heartfelt tribute to Syd Barrett.

Well, it's for all Syd Barrett fans - but I am posting this one for Emily in particular.

The Books: "Romance Is a Wonderful Thing" (Ellen Emerson White)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Romance Is a Wonderful Thing by Ellen Emerson White

Don't let the HORRIBLE title fool you. This is another great Young Adult novel - (by the same Rhode Island author) - and when I first read it I think I was 16, 17 - and I just flipped OUT. I thought it was the most romantic book I had ever read. (Guess I hadn't read Jane Eyre yet, huh?) This book killed me. I wanted to crawl through the pages. Uhm ... it reminds me of my response when I first saw Moulin Rouge. Obviously, I haven't outgrown certain types of behavior. Moulin Rouge cut right through the crap that had been swirling around in my head, the well-meaning advice from worried friends, the crappy books I was reading, trying to get through the darkest time ... and I rented that movie, and it shot through all that crap like a laser. And for a while - that was the only movie I could watch. I wasn't really, how you say, a WELL person at that point ... but Moulin Rouge was the life force asserting itself in me again. Yup. It was that dramatic. And I knew it the SECOND I watched the film. I knew it was the "way out". If I could just keep my eye focused on the "way out" (by watching the movie every day) - then I would have a chance of making it out of that dark time. This book by Ellen Emerson White, with the horrible title, was the same kind of catalyst. I don't think I was overly depressed when I read it, or anything like that - but I do remember being lonely - I was lonely as a teenager. Not because I didn't have friends (right, Bets, Mere, Beth??) It was just this undefinable YEARNING for love, for a boyfriend, for ... THAT whole thing to start. I had never had it ... and I felt like I would die if I didn't experience it. I was lonely for someone I had never met. This book was like Moulin Rouge in that it filled me with hope. I felt like: Oh God, it hasn't happened yet ... but it WILL. I lived it vicariously. And you know what? I still re-read this book on occasion. It's still a good read.

Briefly, the story (and Beth: this might be a good one to read as well on your mandatory silent period):

The heroine of our story is Trish Masters. She's a high school senior - and she's one of those perfect girls. Not a popular girl, necessarily - but she's an honor student, she's a kick-ass tennis player, she's well-liked, she's got a couple really good friends - she's on the "success track". You know those girls.

Somehow, in the first or second chapter of the book - we are introduced to a guy in her class - Colin McNamara (first of all: the name?? Okay?? You see what I'm dealing with here?) Colin is kind of notorious. It is well known that he is illiterate, it's well known that he drinks, that he causes trouble, that he is always being sent to the principal's office for goofing off. He never takes anything seriously - and he has a terrible reputation. There's also a rumor that he got some girl pregnant the year before. Trish never gives him a second thought - but somehow (not remembering it now!!) the two of them have an interaction where suddenly she sees something different in him. Or - she notices how cute he is. And suddenly- without her even talking to him, or admitting she has a crush on him - she starts defending him when his name comes up in a derogatory manner. Her friends don't get it. "Why are you defending that loser?" Etc.

There are times in the book when we go into Colin's world as well - even though Trish is the "star". We see his life behind the scenes - and it is not at all what you would expect. We learn some things about him. For some reason, in my memory of the book - he has no mother - but apparently he does (I just double-checked.) Mainly it's because his father makes such an impression - he seems like the main parent. His dad is a cop. Great character. A father anyone would love to have. He knows his son has problems - but he knows that deep down, his son is a good person - and he just has to keep encouraging and nurturing that good side - as opposed to focusing only on how much the kid gets into trouble.

We also learn, surprisingly - that Colin is not only NOT illiterate - but he is secretly a huge reader. He can recite long passages from Macbeth. He has read all of Faulkner, even though he kind of disliked it. He loves Hemingway. Etc. He is pissed off that because he got a bad reputation early on everyone just assumes he's stupid - so he decides: "Fine. If they're gonna think I'm stupid, then I'm gonna act stupid." So he is flunking all of his classes - and then going home at night and reading Eugene O'Neill plays by himself.

Okay ... so he's a great character, basically. It doesn't take much to fall in love with him. Everyone loves an underdog.

Somehow - Trish offers to tutor him in the subjects he is failing (having no idea that the kid is actually really really smart - and is failing on purpose). She really thinks that he's mentally challenged as well, and needs her help. One night she's at the local library, doing research for a paper she's writing and she runs into Colin. Colin McNamara? At the library? WTF???? She looks at the books he has stacked up in his arms - The Old Man and the Sea and Richard II and she's like: okay. What the hell is going on here? Colin walks Trish home from the library and ends up asking her to go out on a date. She says yes. The two of them are INCREDIBLY AWKWARD with each other, and it is all deliciously rendered.

Trish, on some level, believes all the rumors about Colin. She thinks he does sleep around, and he did get some girl pregnant - Scandal swirls about his head, and she kind of believes it all - even though she is starting to like him. Trish has no experience with guys. She has never dated anyone. Colin, on the other hand, feels like Trish is crazy to be interested in him ... and so he acts all prickly at times, like: "You're not ashamed to be seen with me?" etc. which makes her mad.

Eventually ... their romance heats up - and the entire school starts to get involved. They seem mismatched. Trish, the virginal honors student, with Colin, the retarded sex-maniac jagoff? Trish endures a lot of grief. Everyone assumes that she is sleeping with him - because of course, Colin would NEVER go out with anyone without sleeping with them - and things get kind of rough for both of them. Lots of trouble-makers. Colin's tough friends making fun of him for dating this pure little girl - Trish's friends basically looking at Colin as though he's something from under a rock. Trish also feels kind of embarrassed at her lack of experience - she's never kissed anyone, never been on a date, blah blah (she so reminded me of me at that time) - and instead of keeping it all to herself, she would say to Colin, after he kissed her for the first time, 'Am I bad at this?" Etc. She's intimidated by what she sees as his VAST sexual experience. (Turns out that all of that is just a nasty rumor as well - but Colin is so pissed off that everyone is so eager to think the worst of him - that he lets the rumors fly.)

Again, like I said yesterday- Ellen Emerson White is so good at dialogue - and most of this book (like the one yesterday) is back and forth dialogue. Not too much editorial interjections - we just hear these people talking. I love it - because she's good at it. She has the different voices down, we always know who is speaking - and somehow, very early on in this book - we become so invested in BOTH of these people. We love Trish, and we love Colin. And whether or not they end up together - we want both of them to do well, to be well.

It's a scrumpdiddlyumptious book and I freaked out like a sexmad lunatic when I first read it. I wanted to be Trish! I wanted to date Colin! I wanted a guy to come into my life and completely MESS IT UP the way Colin messed up Trish's life. I was DYING for it!!

Ahem. Oh well. I'm not embarrassed.

Here's an excerpt. This is from their first date. Colin and Trish have gone to a movie and now they are out to eat. They don't know each other at all. It's really awkward.

Excerpt from Romance Is a Wonderful Thing by Ellen Emerson White

"So." Colin cleared his throat.

"I enjoyed the movie."

"Me too," he agreed. "Yeah, good movie." Nervously, he moved his hand forward to play with the salt shaker, but knocked it over. He winced, then picked it up and tossed some salt over his shoulder.

"Superstitious?" Trish asked.

"What? Oh, guess I'm in the habit. My mother - she's doing that stuff all the time. You know."

"Like knocking on wood?"

"Yeah. And if you drop a knife, a man's coming to visit."

"Really?" Trish looked down at her silverware. "What if I dropped my fork?"

"A woman."

"How about my spoon? There's nothing left."

"It means a kid's coming. Least, that's what my mother says. Like Dad dropped a spoon the other night and some friend of hers called after dinner and said she was pregnant. My mother got all excited - kept shouting, 'See? See?' all night."

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

"No, just me." He grinned wryly. "After I showed up, they were afraid to try again."

"The only child. You must be spoiled."

"They let me get away with murder," he agreed. "Oh, thanks," he said, as the waitress put down his sandwich.

"Thank you." Trish echoed him as she got her salad.

"Salad, huh?" He shook his head. "You should have gotten something decent."

"I like salad." She picked up the little cup of dressing. "Before I do this, do you like olives?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Here." She transferred them to his plate. "Tell me three other things about you."

"What?"

"I don't know, three things you like."

"You've been reading Seventeen, huh?" he asked.

She flushed. "So what if I have?"

"I knew it." He took a gulp of Coke.

"So tell me three things."

"I don't want to play."

"It's not a game," she said. "I'm serious."

"Okay. Big Macs. I like Big Macs. Can we quit now?"

"Boy, you're a lot of fun."

"Okay, I like running."

"I already know that." She tried to spear a cherry tomato and missed. "What's your favorite book?"

"I don't know how to read," he said stiffly.

"Then, how come you were in the library?"

"I look at the pictures."

"In Hemingway?"

He scowled, putting his sandwich down.

"Can we talk about something else?" he asked.

"No."

"Guess your friends thought it was pretty funny, you seeing me in the library," he scowled.

"I didn't mention it. I thought it might embarrass you."

"You thought right." He gulped down most of the Coke.

"Come on, Colin. I'm not going to make fun of you or anything."

"Okay. Farewell to Arms," he said, scowling harder. "Now, can we shut up about it?"

She nodded silently.

"Oh, terrific." He shoved his plate away. "Now you're mad."

"I'm not mad." She kept her eyes on her salad, playing with the lettuce. "You just sort of hurt my feelings."

"Oh, great - guilt. Now I'm supposed to apologize."

"Do what you want, Colin." Her voice was very quiet.

Neither spoke for a long minute.

" 'They have tied me to a stake,' " he said finally. " 'I cannot fly. But, bearlike, I must fight the course.' "

She looked up. "What?"

"Macbeth." He smiled slightly. "Act Five."

"And you're flunking out," she said.

"Yup." He picked up his sandwich.

"Is it none of my business?"

"I'm flunking out because I'm stupid."

"But you're not."

"Yeah, I am. Look at the classes I'm taking - shop, stupid Functional Math, Spanish One ..."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Hey, don't bother, okay?" His voice was irritated. "I know they're stupid classes. Hey, I'm not even in a real English class. I'm in Remedial Reading. My science class is horticulture- what are you in, chemistry? Something like that? What do you mean, I'm not stupid?" His voice was rising and he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. "You know what happens if I give an answer in one of my classes?" He spoke more calmly. "The teacher nods and says, 'Very good, Colin. Good job.' They even speak slowly to make sure I understand! And you say I'm not stupid." He took a vicious bite of his sandwich.

"What are you getting in reading?"

"I don't know, a D? Something like that."

"Sort of fulfilling their expectations?"

"Yup." He gulped some Coke. "They want me to be dumb, I'll be dumb."

Trish moved her lettuce idly in her bowl.

"You know what you are?" she asked.

"Come on, Trish, I get this all the time."

"You're a closet intellectual, that's what you are."

He laughed, the irritation slipping away.

"Is that what you think?" he asked.

"That's exactly what I think."

"You're cute, you know that?" He grinned at her. "And even cuter when you blush." He reached over, touching her hand. "Trish --"

"Kids?" the waitress asked. "I hate to do this to you, but we're kind of closing up and --"

"Oh, sorry," Colin took one last bite of his sandwich, fishing for his wallet. By the time he'd paid and they were outside, he'd managed to change the subject to the movie, which they talked about until they got to her house.

He glanced at his watch. "Good, it's not too late." He gestured toward the lights coming from the living room. "Your parents still up?"

"Looks like it," Trish said nodding. "Thank you, I had a nice time."

"You don't have to be polite."

"I'm not. I had a good time."

"I'm sorry I lost my temper."

"It's okay."

"Not really," he said.

They were both silent.

"Well, it's -- it's getting kind of late." Trish backed up a step.

"Yeah, it is." He swallowed. "Guess I'd better get going."

"Yeah, me too."

"Yeah." He leaned forward and his lips brushed against hers. "Uh -- goodnight."

"Goodnight."

As he went briskly down the walk, she started up the front steps.

"Colin?" she asked, turning.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets. "What?"

"You said you wished you had a dog you could walk." She held on to the cast-iron railing, not sure if she was going too far. "If it's nice tomorrow, do you maybe feel like walking a lazy basset hound with a lot of sexual hangups?"

His grin came so fast that she could see the sudden white of his teeth in the darkness.

"Yeah," he said. "Sounds good."

Big news

Big news to anyone who knows me:

I now have a DVD player. Let the collective fireworks begin.

I have a friend to thank for giving it to me - but he knows who he is, and he has already been thanked!!

I'm gonna go home tonight and set it up.

And then I'm gonna join Netflix ...

And then I'm gonna be so happy ...

And then my life'll be complete ....

I know so many of you have been literally stunned into either silence or over-use of question marks when you discover that all this time I have never upgraded from my VCR. ("You, of all people, don't have a DVD player?????????" Etc.)

So now ... rubbing hands together excitedly ... I have one!!

Hmmm ... maybe the first movie I see should be this one?

Today in history: July 11, 1804

Today in history my dead boyfriend was shot and killed. Well - he was alive obviously, on July 10. But then he was killed in a duel on July 11 ... and so now he is dead. He was killed only a couple of miles from where I live now.

Old posts of mine below with a ton of great quotes from him.

He's my favorite. Of course he was. He's my dead boyfriend. When I get home tonight, I'll stop by his statue on the cliff near my house and pay my respects.

"An active and scheming mind ..."

"A total dissolution of nature"

"I dread the vehement character of your people"

"You are invited to deliberate upon a new Constitution for the United States of America"

"Take mankind in general, they are vicious"

"a division ... into the few and the many"

Just because

Images

Another amazing image in the series The Art of War - he's got a lot of those old propaganda posters. They're incredible.

Also, y'know - I have looked at this image probably, oh, 30 times now ... and I still can't figure it out. But I can't stop looking at it either.

The Books: "Life without friends" (Ellen Emerson White)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Life Without Friends by Ellen Emerson White

Ellen Emerson White was pretty famous in Rhode Island - she was a young woman from Rhode Island and she published her first novel - called Friends for Life, I believe - and it was kind of a big hit, at the time. I was in high school when that book was published, and I think White was - 23? It was amazing to all of us that she was so close to us in age, and she had a book out!! Rhode Island treats its literary celebrities quite well. She did readings everywhere, book signings ... She grew up in the town right next to mine - and it just was odd to think that she had written a book! Oh, and it was a young adult novel - not strictly a romance, it had a thriller aspect to it as well. Kind of a I know what you did last summer thing. But it's a good book. She's not a flashy writer, but she is a good writer - and I still think, even years later, that she is TERRIFIC at dialogue. Sometimes entire pages go by with two people just talking to each other, back and forth, and sometimes you get the "he said" or "she said" - but she doesn't insert herself editorially into the conversations. The characters just talk. And you never lose track of who is talking, you know EXACTLY what is going on ... it's so so fun to read, especially if you like the characters. So Friends for Life was kind of a big hit - and we all read it - because she was a Rhode Islander and we wanted to participate, vicariously, in her success. After that, I kept up with her and kept reading her books. She ended up writing a really popular series called The President's Daughter - I LOVED them. They were about the trials and tribulations of being the teenage daughter of the President of the United States. I think there are 3 in the series. They are still in print and they're terrific. But to me - the book I'm excerpting today - Life without Friends - is her best book. I know, it's so silly to be talking about this stuff as though it's feckin' Jane Austen or something - but I love and respect all kinds of books - and if you can tell me a good story, I don't CARE. If you are able to tell a story without treating me like I'm a dimwit then I love you. (I picked up a book yesterday, read the first paragraph, and put it down again - because I had read all I needed to read. No surprises would be in the book. The author was phoning it in. IN THE FIRST PARAGRAPH. I hate obvious writing. And in my estimation, a book like Good Night Moon is better writing than that piece of crap book I browsed today. Even in Good Night Moon the language is soft, poetic - and still somewhat surprising. It's a world you can lose yourself in. Margaret Wise Brown respects her reader.) Ahem. I'll stop ranting now.

I'm just saying all of this because I love the "Young Adult" genre - especially when it respects the reader - which is usually (especially with books like this) a teenage girl. Ellen Emerson White is really good at it. And I can't understand why Life Without Friends (the book I'm excerpting today) has gone out of print. If you ever see it in a second-hand bookshop, and you're into this kind of literature - I highly recommend you pick it up. It'll make you feel really good when you read it. I'm such a fan of this book that I even considered adapting it for the screen - this totally should be a movie. It would be a ginormous hit.

So basically, here's the plot. It's kind of a sequel to Friends for Life - some of the same characters. In Friends for Life - a girl dies - she somehow gets mixed up with the wrong crowd at her chichi Boston prep school - and she dies. Her best friend Susan is haunted by her dead friend - and it's not that she investigates the crime - the crime is solved - But she goes about trying to deal with the loss, deal with her grief, and deal with her RAGE at the "wrong crowd of kids" who caused her friend's death. In Life without Friends - Susan is no longer the star, she's a peripheral character. The star of this book is Beverly - and she was one of the kids in that "wrong crowd" - and she is inadvertently responsible (because she said nothing, she didn't intervene) with the death of Colleen, I think her name was. Beverly is a privileged kid - with a father who teaches at, oh, Harvard - and she has everything - but she got mixed up in the wrong crowd, she dated a bad bad guy - who abused her, punched her in the face - but she loved him. She had sex with him. She was 16 and the whole thing was too much, too soon. She's a MESS. Life without Friends is Beverly's aftermath of that whole tragedy. She is racked with guilt, she has NO friends anymore, she is forced, as punishment, to see a psychiatrist every week - she has a raging ulcer - Her father is very strict, and is very unhappy with his daughter, and the trouble she has gotten into. Beverly is not a happy camper. She is 17 years old, and it is like she is just enduring her life. She has a bad attitude. Her stepmother, Maryann, (such a terrific character) keeps trying to befriend her stepdaughter - she is calm, open, and yet nobody's fool. Maryann is not an idiot, and she won't be treated like a doormat - and even though Beverly keeps rejecting her, she keeps reaching out. She just doesn't want Beverly to be lost to them again. If Beverly starts having problems, she wants to make sure that she knows. Beverly feels harassed by all this attention. She is treated like a pariah at her school. She hates her psychiatrist. She is prickly, angry, defensive. You kind of end up just loving her, even though she's totally not pleasant - You can feel how much she bottles everything up, you can feel her underlying sadness that she will not allow herself to experience - you just want her to let her guard down, and tell her everything will be okay.

Very early on in the book, she's taking her dog for a walk in Boston Common, and she sits to rest. She sees a gardening crew out working ... and becomes kind of ... taken (at least, visually) - with one of them. A big beefy guy, maybe 19 years old, wearing a Red Sox hat - and joking around with everyone. He ends up realizing that he is being watched and comes over to talk to her. His name is Derek. Guys: Derek is a KICK-ASS character. In my mind, he's just a great romantic hero. He's tough, funny, baffled by this girl who seems to have "chosen" him as her friend ... She is mean to him when he tries to be nice to her, she doesn't want romance - it freaks her out - and yet - somehow - they keep just hanging out. She tells him nothing about her past. He seems like such a good guy, an open-faced simple guy - and the fact that she was such a bad girl, and did nothing to stop Colleen's death - also, just the fact that she had had sex before and maybe he would think she was a slut - she fears that something like that would be unforgivable to him. She has a lot of secrets. Derek can feel the secrets, and sometimes he asks - but mainly he doesn't push. They "hang out". Derek has a mild air of confusion the entire time. Can a girl and a guy be "just friends"? If they go out to Brigham's for ice cream, is it a date? Beverly is firm that it is not. She can't handle it. Her experience of dating involved being punched in the face by a guy who sounds like the Preppy Murderer. You know, one of those cocky rich prep school boys. Derek is strong and tough, and even though Beverly thinks he is so cute - something about his strength makes her nervous. He is nothing other than gentle with her - but she wonders what would happen if he turned that strength against her? She knows she wouldn't stand a chance. Eventually all of this comes out, in the course of their friendship (which takes up the entire book - the whole book is just Beverly and Derek, walking around Boston, talking - I love it) - and Derek is kind of hurt that she would think he would ever do anything to hurt her. Etc. You get the idea.

Over the course of the story - romance, of course, keeps kind of bubbling up - but Derek and Beverly both don't know how to deal with it. Beverly's father is highly suspicious of his daughter's taste in men, for good reason, and he is kind of an asshole to Derek when he first meets him. Oh, and there are some really good observations in here - about class issues. Beverly is from the upper echelon of Boston society. It is a given that not only will she go to college, she'll go to Harvard or Yale. It's not even a question. Derek is "blue collar" (not wacky about that term) - which basically means - he was never a 'school person' - He grew up in a rough neighborhood, he works construction, and he thinks he's dumb. There's a great section where she asks him what his plans are and he says he's thinking about the Army. And this is so far outside Beverly's experience, that she realizes her own limitations. She asks herself - why am I so uncomfortable right now? Why can't I think of anything to say?? It's a good observation, I think. Derek doesn't know anyone who just assumes they'll go to Harvard, and Beverly doesn't know anyone in the Army. But for whatever reason - these two people are just able to relax with each other. You can see Beverly thawing over the course of the book. It's not all smooth - there are miscommunications - there's a moment when Beverly turns away from him, and he reaches out to grab her arm, stop her from turning - and instinctively, she slaps his hand away, and cowers away from him, thinking he's going to hurt her. Derek is stunned by this kind of crap. 'What the ... I was just taking your arm ...."

Anyway, as you can tell - I ADORE this book. It's incredibly romantic, in the end - and you really feel like - wow. These 2 people are gonna have a chance. Not only that - but whatever happens, the couple of months that they spent bumming around together has had a lasting impact on both of their lives. Lovely book.

Here's an excerpt where Beverly invites Derek over to have dinner with her family - always awkward - and then they go to a movie, where ... suddenly it is totally not clear that they are not on a date. At this point, Derek still doesn't know Beverly's back-story - and why she's so skittish and weird. He seems to just accept that that is who she is. Eventually she comes clean - but in this excerpt they're still strolling around, kind of lost in their own thoughts. I just love her dialogue. It's kind of a PG-13 excerpt, yeah!!

Excerpt from Life Without Friends by Ellen Emerson White

Dinner, to Beverly's surprise, was kind of happy and relaxed. Derek ate a lot, but he talked a lot, too. He and her father seemed to be getting along okay, and Oliver obviously thought that Derek had fallen off a Christmas tree or something. After, it even seemed natural for him to be helping with the dishes and saying things like that he was kind of a fan of Brillo pads. What about Silverstone? Maryanne asked. Me, I'm a cast-iron man.

"Mr. Johnson," Derek said, when the dishes were finished. "is it all right if Beverly and I head out for a while?"

Her father nodded. "Not too late."

Her father liked him. A friend she had chosen. Unreal. She started up to her room to get a sweater.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Derek said, handing her his jeans jacket. "You get cold, you can wear this."

Beverly flushed, but took the jacket, holding it awkwardly in one hand. "I will be home early," she said to her father, who nodded. A benign nod, not a stern one.

"So," Derek said when they got outside. "You feel like going to a movie or what?"

She shrugged, noticing that it was kind of cold, but too shy to put the jacket on. "Whatever."

"How about we go over to the Sack Cheri and just see whatever's playing when we get there?"

She nodded.

"You look cold," he said as they walked towards Boylston Street, and draped the jacket over her shoulders.

"No, I'm --"

"Wear it," he said. " 'F if you catch cold or something, your father'll be mad at me."

She slipped it on, noticing right away how nice it smelled, rolling the sleeves up to her wrists. Cigarettes, sawdust, grass cuttings. A little motor oil, maybe. Man smells.

"Look better in it than I do," he remarked, reaching into the front pocket of the jacket to get his cigarettes, lighting one for each of them.

Beverly smiled, and as they walked, automatically let her hands go into the side pockets. There was stuff in the pockets, and she lifted each object out an inch or two to look at it. A couple packs of matches. What was left of a roll of ButterRum LifeSaveres. A soft, neatly folded navy blue bandana. Some change. A Swiss Army knife.

The knife made her nervous, and she ran her thumb along the outside of the closed large blade. "Um, what do you use this for?"

"Weapon mostly," he said. "Corkscrew's pretty damn lethal."

She smiled uneasily.

He took the knife, pulling out various blades and tools. "Comes in pretty handy. Like, I'm always forgetting to buy beer with twist-off caps and stuff."

"You don't just do it with your teeth?"

He shook his head. " 'F I do, I just end up biting off the end of the bottle and then it's hard to drink."

Beverly laughed. One thing for sure, he was quick.

"See, like, it has all these screwdrivers and an awl and tweezers - all kinds of excellent stuff."

Beverly nodded.

"And sometimes, I don't know, when work is stupid, I make stuff, you know? There's all these sticks and stuff around, and - I mean, I make stupid stuff - throw it away mostly - but sometimes I make little - boats and things." He coughed. "Dumb-looking boats. I just -" He stopped. "Getting kind of verbal, hunh?" He closed the knife completely, putting it in his pocket.

"Like, what do you make?"

He shrugged, his shoulders hunching up.

"I'm interested," she said. "What do you make?"

"Stupid stuff. You know."

"Like what?"

He sighed and pulled a long, thin piece of wood out of one of the top pockets of the jacket, handing it to her. She frowned at it: about eight inches long, very smooth, with six sides, and a point at one end, the other end flat.

"I call it," he paused, " 'Ballpoint.'"

Beverly laughed, recognizing the object.

"Was trying to make a cap and all," he said, "but the wood kept splitting."

Beverly turned the wood over in her hands, amused. It did look like a Bic pen. "I like it."

"Oh yeah?" He put the wood back in the pocket, Beverly kind of surprised that his fooling with the jacket while she was wearing it didn't bother her. "Got one at home you'd really like then. Call it 'Door Key'."

Beverly laughed.

"If you're nice to me, I might make you a toothbrush or something."

"Never use them," she said.

Now he laughed, holding the door of the movie theatre for her. They were early for all three of the movies, but after wasting quarters on video games, ended up in the outer space action one. The theatre wasn't very crowded, and they sat in the middle, near the left. Derek, of course, had gotten popcorn and candy. Lots of candy.

"Want you eating some too," he said, opening the box of Jujy-fruits.

She leaned over, examined the array of candy, then leaned back, shaking her head. "I only like Raisenettes."

He started to stand up. "Hey, no problem, I can just --"

"Joke," she said.

He stopped halfway. "I knew that."

She nodded.

"I did."

She nodded.

"Just, you know, didn't want to burst your bubble." He looked at the candy, then slapped the box of Milk Duds into her hand. "Eat these."

"Chicks really go for that," she said and slapped them into his hand.

There were some previews - pretty dumb action movies, mostly - then, the lights went down.

"Arm's kind of stiff," Derek muttered.

"What?"

"Just have to stretch it out or something," he said, and slung it across the back of her seat.

Beverly grinned wryly. Cute.

"I mean, don't want to get in your way or anything," he said.

Beverly glanced around, afraid that other people were being bothered. "Just shut up and watch the movie."

"Oh." He settled himself more comfortably. "So, it's okay?" he said.

People turned around, frowning, and Beverly jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

"I want you to be happy," he said, with his little-boy expression.

"Then, shut up."

"Okay," he whispered, the same people turning to frown.

"Jerk," Beverly said.

"Yeah." He sat back, smiling up at the screen, and looking at him, Beverly smiled too, moving very slightly closer before looking up at the movie.

"This is such a nice blouse you're wearing," he whispered. Loudly.

Beverly pressed her teeth together. "Derek, it's a sweat shirt."

The people in front of them got up, moving across the theatre.

"It's lovely fabric," he said.

"Derek, if you don't shut up, we're going to get thrown out of here."

"Aw, hell," he said, looking unhappy. "And I'm supposed to be reviewing it for The Globe."

She was tempted to smack him, but he was looking at her with such a cute smile that she just shook her head and focused on the movie. It was a dumb movie - mostly asteroids and lasers - and she found herself watching him instead. His eyes and mouth looked all happy - he pretty much always looked happy - and suddenly, unexpectedly, she liked him so much that she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Hey, woah," he said.

He'd turned to look at her, so she kissed his mouth this time.

"You, uh," he shifted the popcorn to his other leg, "you don't like the movie?"

"What," she kissed him again, "you like it?"

"Well - " he cleared his throat. "Kind of. I mean, before. I mean -" he hesitated, not kissing back. "Do - friends - do this?"

"Yes."

His mouth relaxed into a grin. "They do?"

"All the time."

"Well, hell with the movie then." He dropped the popcorn, brining his left arm over to put it around her. "I'm kind of animal," he said against her mouth. "Just slap me if I bug you or anything."

She laughed. "Count on it."

Things got intense pretty fast, the arm of the chair between them very definitely in the way - Beverly not sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

"You are an animal," she said quietly.

"Yeah, I know." He withdrew his hand. "Been slapped so many times, I lost track."

"That many women?"

"No, just that many times." He rested his arms on her shouldres. "Guess I forgot myself or something. Especially, like, with you being so beautiful."

"I'm going to slap you," Beverly said.

"Yeah, I figured." he tried to move to a more comfortable position, the seat arm still in the way. "Can see why people buy those VCR things."

"Yeah." Beverly swallowed, noticing that the other two people near them had moved. She looked back at Derek, regretting having initiated the whole thing. Things would be different now, him pressuring her all the time, wanting -

"If you'd rather," he said, "we could just hold hands or something."

She nodded, relieved.

"And, you know, look at the movie."

She nodded.

"Like to get my money's worth," he said.

"A financial wizard."

"Yup, that's me."

So they held hands and looked at the movie. Whatever the hell it was.

Terror.

Seriously. Sheer TERROR. I LIVED her terror with her as I read that. Worst feeling in the world. Worst. Feeling. In. The. World. Although I never actually NAPPED during a show and missed my entrance. But I have missed many an entrance and the show goes on without you and it is the worst. feeling. in. the. world.

DC Comics vs. Marvel Comics

-- Cashel slept over my house on Saturday night. This is a first. I planned for it as though a Head of State was passing through.

-- As we careened through the Lincoln Tunnel together (in the crazy little bus), on the way back to Jersey, he said, in a tone of humorous awe, "It's weird that I'm going to be in a different state than my dad!" I told him about the line in the middle of the tunnel - where it says New York on one side and New Jersey on the other. So we kept our eyes open for it - so we could be aware of the moment when we were actually in two states at the same time! When we saw the line, I glanced down at Cash, and I could see this huge grin on his face - as he was briefly picturing himself being split down the middle between 2 states.

-- Cashel was amazed at how tall the Empire State Building is. "It makes the Chrysler Building look so small!" he exclaimed in his enthusiastic mouse-voice.

-- He kept commenting on the cultural differences between my neighborhood and New York. "This feels like Maine," he said, as we tromped along the sidewalks to my house. "Really, buddy? Maine?" I asked, kind of doubtful, to tell you the truth. He said, thinking about it, "Yeah! It's quiet. Well ... it's quieter than Times Square!" That is always a good point of comparison. Is it quieter or louder than Times Square?

-- I think my favorite moment was when I brought him into my place (he's never been here before), and he came into my main room - sat down in the most comfortable chair (well - er - it's the ONLY comfortable chair - but he picked it!!) - took out his book and started reading. Immediately. SUCH an O'Malley moment. Yeah, whatevs, nice apartment, Auntie Sheila, I'm gonna read now. He didn't care about the TV until I mentioned it later. He didn't immediately sit down, pick up the remote, and turn on the TV. No. Out came the book. So I sat on my bed and read my book (which basically should be called The Black Death for Dummies - but oh well. I don't know much about the Black Death, so I guess you could call me a dummy. It's fun to read, believe it or not - even though the author talks to me like I'm retarded and don't know what bacteria is.). We sat in companionable silence and read for about an hour. I kept glancing up at him, I admit, so I could watch him read. The serious face, the long eyelashes, the big book ... I asked him questions about the book. He was forthcoming. "And this kid ... is endowed." Cashel said. Excuse me? "He is?" "Yeah. He is endowed with magical powers. And ... some crazy things happen to him." "Wow." Endowed.

-- Topics we discussed:
the Museum of Natural History, and the primates therein.
Illegal immigration. (Cashel brought it up.)
his best friends - who they are, and what their virtues are as friends
the Far Side (he's very into the Far Side) Once he gets started on the Far Side, it is a runaway train. Pretty hard to stop it.

-- I made him a sandwich. Mr. Picky Eater completely approved of the mustard, and asked me, as though he is a culinary connoisseur, "What kind of mustard is that?"

-- I know all I write about him are little teeny moments like that, but I love him and he kind of is a reminder of how miraculous life is. Small moments like that. There he is - this small person in my apartment - and it's kind of a miracle.

-- Then came the coolest thing. After dinner - with the amazing mustard - we turned on the TV to see what was on the History channel. You know, see if we could catch up with the Sumerians or something. And lo and behold - there was a 2-hour special on the entire history of Superman. We both got so excited!! Cashel is a Superman afficianado - and lectured me briefly on the importance of DC Comics, mentioning the names of the creators, casually, as though he knew them personally. So we were really psyched. I got him some ice cream. He sat on my rug, and I sat on my bed, and we watched. Occasionally we discussed. It was fanTAStic. Did anyone else see it?

-- Cashel had some comments: "I am REALLY interested to learn that the original Superman was evil!" This then led to Idea #1: He thinks it would be a great idea to have a movie where the original evil Superman battled the later good Superman. Almost like a Jekyll & Hyde thing.

-- Another idea he had was to have a movie where the cartoon characters created by DC Comics would battle the cartoon characters created by Marvel. Sort of an apocalyptic inter-comic-company war. Marvel vs. DC! Opening summer 2008!

-- We discussed the so-called Superman's Curse. I felt a little bit weird talking about suicide with Cashel - and George Reeves committed suicide - but Cashel seemed okay with it. Even baffled. "Why would someone want to kill themselves, Auntie Sheila?" Oh boy. We were on a commercial break, so I said, simply, "I guess he was just sad that he wasn't really Superman, Cash." Cashel thought about this, and then went back to his ice cream. Not really satisfied with the answer, but not pursuing the subject further. Hmmmm.

-- We laughed at the failed TV show "Super Pup" - which was put togehter in the wake of Reeves' suicide. I guess the producers thought: We can't have any more Supermans bite the bullet - so let's do the same Superman story, with the same cast, only let's have them all be dogs - only not real dogs - let's put midgets in dog outfits!!!!

Yeah, cause that's exactly the idea I would have in order to keep the franchise alive. I would hire midgets and make them wear dog costumes. Makes perfect sense!

-- We saw a bit of the pilot of Super Pup - which was ludicrous. Lois Lane was a poodle. The dog-heads were hard - made of some kind of hard thick plastic - and you just knew that there was some sweating midget inside. It was bleak. The narrator (Kevin Spacey) said, "This rarely shown pilot blah blah blah ..." The next day when Cashel was telling his dad about Super Pup, he rattled off, "We saw the rarely shown pilot!" Frankly, I can understand why it is "rarely shown".

-- Cashel has not seen the original Superman with Christopher Reeve! This is a must-see. We saw many clips from it. We saw Reeve's screentest - which - are always amazing for me to watch. I love seeing actors auditioning for the parts that eventually would make them famous. First of all: he was so hyped up and probably nervous that he had huge sweat stains in his blue leotard. Second of all: the performance that I saw in the screen test (and I think he was actually acting with Leslie Anne Warren who was up for the part of Lois) - was exactly the performance he ended up giving in the film. His audition had that much certainty to it - that much fullness. He had researched it to death - he knew what Superman represented - he knew what he had to embody - and so he DID that. He WAS Superman, and that was just his screen test. It just goes to show you that as an actor you always need to "show up" 110%. It's just a job interview ... but what they are looking for is the final product - and that may seem unfair - but that's the way it goes, and those actors who are sure enough of themselves to deliver that - will go far. It was great to see Reeve be so effortless in his screen test (only the sweat stains gave him away.)

-- When they showed the clip of Superman flying with Lois Lane near the Statue of Liberty - Cashel exclaimed (and it's a good point), "In Metropolis???"

Anyway - as you can see we had a great time with this special. We just ate the whole thing up ravenously - and were still talking about it the next day. Cashel is probably talking about it right now. Either that or the Far Side.

Gorgeous

Check out this gorgeous new blog I have discovered.

It's hypnotic.

Like this. I am totally in love with this image. I want to step inside it.

And this. The images she finds in old magazines are so beautiful.

Pictures like this convince me I was born in the wrong era. I just love the look of those magazines.

And these are incredible.

The Books: "Ballet Shoes" (Noel Streatfield)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild.

There are a couple of important books I read in my childhood and this is one of them. Important, I mean, in terms of me, and my development- and also my private little world of wanting to be an actress. Because even though I was in plays and everything as a little kid, and even though I knew I was happier on stage than just about anywhere else - my ambition was something I kept private. It seemed embarrassing and I didn't know what to do with it. Also, my family didn't really like show-offs, and I didn't want to be a show-off. But what is acting other than showing off? A lot of my desire to be an actress came from (and still comes from) wanting to be seen. This isn't easy to admit, because people hate people like that. And yet, whaddya know, they still shell out their 10 bucks to go see movie stars "show off" ... and maybe they don't respect the impulse, and maybe they wouldn't like the movie star if they met him in person ... but they still love to go be entertained. And all of those people, mega-stars even, just want to be SEEN. As you develop your craft, other things come into the picture. For me it did, anyway. You fall in love with the artform itself. You become aware of a bigger need. Something happens between actor and audience during the course of a play that is truly profound - on both sides - and it is addictive. What is it? It is a shared experience. It is an experience of Community with a capital C unlike anything else I have ever experienced. I was unaware of all of this when I was a little kid. I just knew that being in school plays was the most fun I had ever had ... and more than that ... I knew that I NEEDED to do it. I liked other things, too. I loved to write. I loved playing baseball. But acting - with all its anxiety, all its frightening implications - was what I NEEDED to do. And at the very bottom of that need, was a ferocious desire to be SEEN. I believe that once you accept that desire (which is, at its base, an anti-social desire), and stop shaming yourself for it, and stop thinking that you need to be like other people, and stop putting "fitting in" as the #1 virtue - you are well on your way to actually BEING an actor. So in terms of the importance of this book, Ballet Shoes (which is a wonderfully written story, by the way) - it said a couple of different things to me. It said: You are not alone. Other little girls out there have the same burning desire. It also said: There is a way to take this craft seriously. You can actually WORK at it until you can do it as a JOB. Now my aunt Regina was (and is) an actress - and part of my childhood was going to see her in shows up and down the Eastern seaboard. A marvelous singer, wonderful actress - she was impossibly glamourous to me - one of my most important influences. My first trip to New York was when I was 11 years old - and I went on the train by myself (Mum, Dad - how on earth did you dare??) - and stayed with Regina for a weekend. She took me to see Annie (and omigod, Sarah Jessica Parker was playing Annie!!) - and I stayed with her in her little apartment, and she took me around to museums, and it was one of the coolest trips EVER! Now I know that Regina was only 22 at that time - which is just amazing to me - she seemed SO adult!! I'm imagining myself at 22. Wow. What?? So unlike some other people - who have no examples in their immediate family of people who do this weird job and actually have lives, etc. - I had an example right in front of me, which was very important. This private acting dream of mine was something I could actually do when I was a grown-up.

Ballet Shoes, which I read when I was 9 or 10, was a hugely formative book for me - for all of these reasons. It is the story of Pauline, Petrova and Posy Fossil (yes, those are their names) - three adopted sisters - who live in the bleak rain-sodden world of 1930s London - and who, in order to pay for their room and board in their foster home - start to train for the stage. Streatfeild wrote a whole series of these books - about kids who are good at something, and who go to train for it - Circus Shoes, Tennis Shoes - and more. I read them all - but Ballet Shoes was my favorite. I LIVED with those girls. I went to the Academy of Dancing with them. I angsted over their auditions. I marveled at Posy's gift for ballet. I wanted to BE in those classes. I wanted to have my chance too - to "put my name in the history books" (this is a vow the 3 sisters make to one another). I read it over and over and over ... and I still have my copy of it - and funnily enough, I picked it up this morning, and I knew the first paragraph by heart:

The Fossil sisters lived in the Cromwell Road. At that ed of it which is farthest away from the Brompton Road, and yet sufficiently near it so one could be taken to look at the dolls' housese in the Victoria and Albert every wet day. If the weather were not too wet, one was expected to "save the penny and walk".

Interestingly enough, Petrova (the one who didn't want to be an actress) was my favorite of all of the sisters. I related to her the most. She was not obedient, she grumbled a lot, and she had outside interests. This seems interesting to me - it seems logical that Pauline, the little prodigy actress would have been my favorite, but no. Petrova was my girl. I could analyze this thus: Even with acting growing in my heart as something I wanted to do ... I think I knew that I could never not have other interests. I don't know that I KNEW this, actually ... most of this was unconscious. Petrova was an actress, and actually kind of a good one - instinctive - but she never took it too seriously, and always had her eyes looking up in the sky, looking for "aeroplanes", her main passion. People do not fit into nice little square boxes. Pauline "should" have been my favorite - but she was not. Petrova was.

Another reason why this book was so haunting to me was because the three girls lived in a world I didn't know - London in the 1930s. What is the Cromwell Road? No idea - it seemed like I SHOULD know - but because of this book I had a vivid picture of it in my mind. As well as "the dolls' houses in the Victoria and Albert". What is the Victoria and Albert? No idea - but I had an entire building erected in my mind. I had a love affair with stories of kids in London anyway, starting from when I read Oliver Twist at age 10 - I loved the Narnia books - I loved The Little Princess ... London was just alive for me, because of books like that. It seemed kind of grim. There was always rain. People wore galoshes, and lit fires when they came inside. There were tea trays, and grey sodden lawns. Noel Streatfeild is a wonderful writer - she doesn't just write very convincingly of the training young actors got in London those days (although all of that is very well done) - she describes that entire pre-war world of London vividly. You LIVE there with those sisters. Also, I just so wanted to call my own dresses "frocks" and not have anyone look at me weird. "Frock" is SUCH a better word than 'dress", an opinion I maintain to this day.

Pauline turns out to be a gifted actress, and starts getting leading roles immediately. Petrova is the odd one out - a skinny brown-haired tomboy - she has no interest in this stuff - she wants to be an aviatrix. She wants to fly "aeroplanes". Again - with that spelling of the word .... a whole other world is evoked. A British world. A world SORT of like mine - I knew what she was talking about when she talked about "aeroplanes" - but that's not how WE spell it. I loved that slight difference. It was romantic. The youngest sister, Posy, is 8 years old. And although she has no training yet - it is apparent to the people at the school from day one - that she could be a ballerina the entire world would know. Her talent is kind of mystical - and there are a couple of goosebumpy sections when it is recognized (one of them is in the excerpt below). Posy is casual about her genius - beause most geniuses are. They don't know that there is any other way to be than the way that they are.

If I had to look back on my childhood and pick 5 books which helped me to become who I am today - this one is on the list. Maybe it would be #1. Well, it would have to be a tie with Harriet the Spy. Harriet was the writer in me. The Ballet Shoes girls were the actress. This book helped say to me:

No. You are not crazy. This is actually something you can DO and taking it seriously is not only NOT silly ... but it is one of the most worthwhile things you can do with your time. Being a show-off is not a bad thing if you put it to USE. So whatever you do, Sheila, put it to USE. Yes, I was only 10, 11 years old when I read it ... but it had that affect on me. Flipping through the pages right now, I can feel the young young Sheila reading it, poring over every word, taking life lessons from every page.

Weirdly enough: I have mentioned this book before on my blog, just in passing. I got a random email from Mark Steyn of all people - out of the blue - saying, "Anyone who loves Noel Streatfeild is okay in my book. I read them all when I was a kid." Okay - now picture THAT!! Also ... uhm ... Mark Steyn reads my blog? Huh?

Here's an excerpt that kind of captures the magical feel of this book. The Fossil girls have just been accepted as scholarship students into the Academy of Dancing. Their whole lives change.

Listen to the details. See how a whole world is created?

Excerpt from Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild.

The Fossils became some of the busiest children in London. They got up at half-past seven and had breakfast at eight. After breakfast they did exercises with Theo for half an hour. At nine they began lessons. Posy did two hours' reading, writing, and kindergarten work with Sylvia, and Pauline and Petrova did three hours with Doctor Jakes and Doctor Smith. They were very interesting lessons, but terribly hard work; for if Doctor Smith was teaching Pauline, Doctor Jakes taught Petrova, and the other way on, and as both doctors had spent their lives coaching people for terribly stiff examinations - though of course they taught quite easy things to the children - they never got the idea out of their minds that a stiff examination was a thing everybody had to pass some day. There was a little break of ten minutes in the middle of the morning when milk and biscuits were brought in; but after a day or two they were never eaten or drunk. Both doctors ahd lovely ideas about the sort of things to have in the middle of lessons - a meal they called a beaver. They took turns to get it ready. Sometimes it was chocolate with cream on it, and sometimes Doctor Jakes' ginger drink, and once it was ice-cream soda; and the things to eat were never the same: queer biscuits, little one from Japan with delicate flowers painted on them in sugar, cakes from Vienna, and specialties of different kinds from all over England. They had their beavers sitting round the fire in either of the doctors' rooms, and they had discussions which had nothing to do with lessons. At twelve o'clock they went for a walk with Nana or Sylvia. They liked it best when Sylvia took them. She had better ideas about walks; she thought the Park the place to go to, and thought it a good idea to take hoops and things to play with. Nana liked a nice clean walk up as far as the Victoria and Albert and back. On wet days Sylvia thought it a good plan to stay in and make toffee or be read out loud to. Nana thought nicely brought-up children ought to be out of the house between twelve and one, even on a wet day, and she took them to see the dolls' houses in the Victoria and Albert. The children liked the dolls' houses; but there are a lot of wet days in the winter, and they saw them a good deal. Pauline and Petrova had lunch with Sylvia, Posy had hers with Nana. After lunch they all had to take a book on their beds for half an hour. In the afternoons there was another walk, this one always with Nana. It lasted an hour, and as they had usually walked to the Victoria and Albert in the morning, they did not have to go there again, but took turns to choose where they went. Pauline liked walking where there were shops. Petrova liked the Earl's Court Road, because there were three motor showrooms for her to look at. Posy liked to go towards the King's Road, Chelsea, because on the way they passed a shop that sold puppies. They all liked Posy's walk; but they did not choose it themselves because they knew she would. If Nana was not so sure that they must save and penny and walk they would have gone to much more exciting placesl for you can't get far on your legs when there is only an hour, and that includes getting home again. Tea was in the nursery at a quarter to four, and at half past they went by the Piccadilly railway to Russell Square. They all liked going on the underground; but both Gloucester Road, where they got in, and Russell Square, where they got out, were those mean sort of stations that have lifts instead of moving staircases.

"Going to dancing class," Petrova said almost every day, "wouldn't be so bad if only there was even one moving staircase."

As soon as they got to the Academy they went down to the changing-room. There they shared a locker in which their rompers and practice-frocks and shoes were kept. Their rompers were royal blue with C.A. for Children's Academy embroidered on the pockets. They wore their rompers for the first half-hour, and with them white socks and black patent-leather ankle-strapped shoes. In these clothes they did exercises and a little dancing which was known as "character", and twice a week they worked at tap dancing. At the end of half an hour they hung towels round their necks (for they were supposed to get so hot they would need a wipe down) and went back to the changing-room and put on their white tarlatan practice-frocks. These were like overalls with no join down the back; the bodice had hooks and the frills of the skirt wrapped over and clipped. With this they wore white socks and white kid slippers. The work they did in these dresses they found dull, and it made their legs ache. They did not realize that the half-hour spent holding on to a bar and doing what they thoughts stupid exercises was very early training for ballet. Ballet to them meant wearing blocked shoes like the little pair that had come with Posy or such as the more advanced classes wore at school. Sometimes Madame Fidolia came in to watch their class, and directly she arrived they all let go of the practice-bar and curtsied to the floor saying "Madame".

They got home at half-past six, and Posy went straight to bed. Sylvia reada to the other two for twenty minutes, and then Petrova had to go up, and at seven, Pauline. The lights were out by half-past and there was o more talking.

On Saturday mornings they worked from ten to one at the Academy. As well as special exercise classes and the ordinary dancing classes, there was singing, and one hour's acting class. For these they wore the Academy overalls. They were of black sateen made from a Russian design, with high collars, and double-breasted, buttoning with large black buttons down the left side; round the waist they had wide black leather belts. With these they wore their white sandals.

Petrova, who hated clothes, found the everlasting changing an awful bore. Saturdays were the worst.

"Oh, I do hate Saturdays," she said to Nana. "I get up in my jersey and skirt, and as soon as I get to the Academy I change everything, even put a vest on instead of my combinations, and wear those rompres; and then my practice-dress and the overall; and then back into my combinations and my skirt and jersey. I wish I was a savage and wore nothing."

"That's no way to talk," Nana told her sternly. "Many a poor little child would be glad of the nice clothes you wear; and as for changing out of your combies, I'm glad you do; you wear holes in them fast enough without all the dancing in them."

From the very beginning Madame took an interest in Posy. Every class that she came to watch she made her do some step alone. Posy had her shoes taken off one day and her instep looked at; Madame was so delighted at the shape and flexibility of her feet that she called the rest of the class to look at them. The rest of the class admired them while Madame was there, but secretly none of them could see anything about them different from their own. Pauline and Petrova thought it very bad for Posy to be made so conspicuous, and to teach her not to get cocky they called her "Posy-Pretty-Toes" all the way home. Posy hated it and at last burst into tears. Nana was very cross.

"That's right, you two, tease poor little Posy; she can't help Madame saying she has nice feet. It's jealous, that's what you are. Any more of your nonsense and you'll go to bed half an hour early."

"Why should we be jealous?" asked Petrova. "Who cares what feet look like? They are just useful things."

Pauline giggled.

"Have you pretty feet, Nana?" She looked down at Nana's square-teoed black shoes which she always wore.

"I have what God gave me," Nana said reverently. "and they're all I need, never having thoughts to dance in a ballet."

The thought of Nana, who was very fat, dancing in a ballet made them all laugh so much that they forgot to call Posy "Pretty-Toes" again, and they were still laughing when they got home.

It was at the acting classes that Pauline shone. The acting in their first term was entirely in mime. They acted whole fairy stories without saying a word. Whether she was a princess, or a peasant, or an old man, Pauline managed to make them real without any dressing up, but just in the way she moved.

Just before Christmas the school broke up for a month. All the senior girls were working in pantomimes, and for some time all those who were not old enough for licenses had felt very important. The children's classes were moved from one room to another to make room for rehearsals, and the notice-board was covered with rehearsal calls. "All concered in the Rose Ballet, in room three at 4.30". "The children appearing in Red Riding Hood, 5.30, room seven." "The principals for the Jewel Ballet, 4 o'clock, room one." And, as well, calls for the children stars. "Poppy: 10.30 with Madame Fidolia." "Winifred: 12 o'clock with Madame Fidolia."

Pauline, Petrova, and Posy would gaze in great awe at these names.

"Winifred," one of them would say - "that's the girl who wears a fur coat. Poppy is going to be Alice in Wonderland. She's the one with the long hair."

They would peep through the glass on the doors of the rooms where the rehearsals were taking place, and stare at the children who were already twelve and old enough to earn money.

"Not this Christmas, but the one after I shall be one of those children," Pauline said enviously.

"Do you want to be?" Petrova asked in surprise. "I'm very glad I'm not twelve, except because of Garnie wanting money to look after us."

Pauline watched the figures through the glass, the rows of white practice-dresses, and the rows of pink canvas ballet shoes.

"I don't want to be them, exactly," she explained, "but I want to be old enough not to dance, but to act. I'd like that."

Posy could not see through the glass window without standing on her toes. Suddenly watching the ballet rehearsal she got up on to her points. She was only wearing her sandals, but she did not seem worried by the position. Pauline nudged Petrova.

"Look at Posy."

Petrova looked. Then both of them tried to stand up on their toes, but they could not - it hurt. Posy was not looking at them; but she lolled against the door balanced on her points as easily as if they were her flat feet. Petrova said at last:

"Could you walk on your toes like that, Posy?"

Posy looked down at her feet as if surprised at the way they were behaving. Then she walked down teh passage. She was perfectly easy on her points, as though it was ordinary to walk on them. Pauline and Petrova did not show her how impressed they were, as they thought it would be bad for her. But on the way home, Pauline said:

"You know, Petrova, I do think Posy really has got rather nice little feet."

Petrova nodded.

"I shouldn't wonder if she danced terribly well."

The potato famine, a-boo-hoo-hoo

It is well known in my family that my dad hates memorials to the potato famine. If you want to know why, just ask him! It's a "ooh! ooh! Mr. Kotter! Ooh! We were victimized too! We were victimized too!!" desperation that my dad despises. A-boo-hoo-hoo there was a potato famine. Get over it. Stop wallowing. So you had to eat your great-grandmother when she died. SO WHAT!! She was old anyway. I love to get my dad going on the potato famine memorials. The O'Malleys are from County Mayo - one of the hardest hit counties - but whatevs. Is that any reason to put up memorials in every city about it? It was black '47, a-boo-hoo. It's 2006 now. GET OVER IT. You just want to be included in the roll call of the world's biggest victims. Etc. I could go on and on, but you get the drift.

In our walk yesterday I said something like, "Somewhere along here is a memorial to the potato famine. Which of course makes dad crazy."

I was talking to Bren, but of course Cashel heard this and I could feel his little brain turning it over. Then the inevitable: "Why does the potato famine memorial make Gampa crazy?"

Bren replied, "Oh, because he's cranky."

We walked and walked. We saw the Korean War Memorial. We saw the US Navy memorial. We saw the really cool memorial to the Merchant Marines. That engendered a great discussion. Mainly about the seagull who perched on top of the main statue's head. Then suddenly, we saw something that looked like a discarded set for a Flintstone movie. Seriously. Look at the potato famine memorial in Battery Park and you'll see what I'm talking about.

"What is that?" asked Cashel.

"Some memorial, Cash. I have no idea what it is."

Then we heard some loudspeakered voice moaning on and on reproachfully and we heard the Irish accent and Bren said, "Oh God. It's the potato famine memorial."

"We have to go check it out."

We walked through it. There's a kind of recreation of - oh - Glendalough - but - it's dumb. I didn't say anything, though, because who knows - maybe Cashel would LIKE the potato famine memorial, and it's not up to me to tell him how to feel. We stood in one of the little Glendalough-esque alcoves, listening to the a-boo-hoo-hoo loudspeaker voice - on autopilot - there was an "old" stove cut into the wall, and Cashel went over and sat in it. All around us was the overwhelming sadness of the millions of Irish dead. Not. It looked like a Flintstone set.

Then I said, "Oh my God. We have to call Gampa right now and tell him where we are."

So we did. It was hysterical. I dialed - Dad picked up - and I said, "Hang on, Dad - we want to tell you where we are right now ..." And on the count of 3, just like we planned, Cashel, Bren and I screamed into the phone: "WE'RE AT THE POTATO FAMINE MEMORIAL!"

Seeing Cashel, with the huge smile on his face, and his big-boy teeth, scream those words - and he doesn't even really get WHY the potato famine memorial is funny - but he knows it's a joke, and that we're "getting Gampa" and that will be, in and of itself, funny.

My dad was HOWLING.

The funniest thing about it is that people were wandering around through the memorial - people of all nationalities - looking at the plaques, listening to the a-boo-hoo overhead, contemplating, being serious and respectful - blah blah - and 3 people of actual Irish descent stand in their midst, shouting into a phone about how FUNNY the memorial is.

Sumer

Cashel, Brendan and I walked around in Battery Park, looking at all the war memorials. We had many interesting discussions. Cashel said, in a tone of ancient worlds, obscured by the mists of time, "The Korean War was a long long time ago." At some point the word "genocide" came up. We were passing the Holocaust memorial - so it was appropriate. Cashel said, "What's genocide?" Ah, it's a beautiful summery day!! We're drinking lemonade, the sun beats down, the sounds of children laughing fill the hot air! It's the perfect time to discuss man's inhumanity to man! Bren said, "It's when one group of people decides to totally wipe out another group of people." There was a long pause. Cashel pondered this. Then he said, "Like with the Sumerians."

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

A massive swooping book (which, broken record, I could not put down) - with a tragedy at the end - something I didn't see coming.

But I chose a girlie excerpt, because I'm a girl, and I enjoy the high drama of teen romances. I especially love unrequited love.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling.

Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing when he arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward the drinks table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.

"Looking for Ron?" she asked, smirking. "He's over there, the filthy hypocrite."

Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose hands were whose.

"It looks like he's eating her face off, doesn't it?" said Ginny dispassionately. "But I suppose he's got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry."

She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to help herself to more butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

"Hermione!"

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spellwork at a time like this.

"Oh, hell, Harry," she said in a brittle voice. "I was just practicing."

"Yeah ... they're - er - really good ..." said Harry.

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebration."

"Er ... does he?" said Harry.

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," said Hermione. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was --"

The door behind them burst open. To Harry's horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.

"Oh," he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione.

"Oops!" said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.

There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, "Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!"

Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the solar system.

"You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside," she said quietly. "She'll wonder where you've gone."

She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that nothing worse had happened.

"Oppugno!" came a shriek from the doorway.

Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: The little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.

"Gerremoffme!" he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before it slammed.

The axe

I cannot stop laughing.

Diary Friday

I continued to write about Picnic, filling in the blanks, even after the whole experience ended. I had a hard adjustment period to "life after Picnic". Here's a great night, though. The memory of it today still makes me smile. My embarrassment about my family singing Christmas carols is SO teenager-ish. This'll probably be a two-parter too because it's a marathon.

JANUARY 1

While Picnic was playing, I had to be so careful because I had to be in a good mood to do the show. If I mistreated my family during it, I honest to God had not a smidgeon of an idea. If I had I wouldhave stopped! During Picnic, I was self-centered, but there was no other way I could be. I had to be self-centered because my life wasn't just my life. I was doing so much. I had to take care of myself first. I had so much to do. My world, my life - my millions of things to get done. I apologized to Jean and Siobhan, if I ignored them. I can't stop crying.

I ache madly to talk to a Picnic person.

That Monday - December 19, I think - I came home from school and I somehow gathered courage, and called Brett and asked for him. Patty answered. She told me that Brett was still at school. I talked to her for a while. Then she called Lenny to the phone. He did not help. My yearning for Brett was painful. My loneliness for him was so huge. And that he wasn't there. It really hurt.

Tuesday during school I was a mess. I felt such an emptiness inside of me and I could not get rid of it. It just hurt. Having Picnic be so over. It was still so with me. I came straight home from school. I was so depressed that it isn't even worth re-creating. I missed it. That's all. I didn't know what to do without Picnic in my life.

I went down in the cellar, into the den, lay on the couch and watched Giant. I had never seen it before so I was psyched. What a downer. First of all, it was SO boring. Even Jimmy was boring. [Yup. First-name basis] He was so spectacular and exciting and wonderful [and marvelous and fabulous and awesome and wicked cool and terrific ...] in the other two movies - but first and foremost, Giant was deathly boring. I fell asleep watching it.

Then.

THE TURNING POINT.

I felt Mum shaking me (thank God she decided to wake me up) - and she was saying, "Sheila - Sheila - wake up ..." It always takes me a while to get going - and then she said, "Brett's on the phone."

YA HOO!

How can I explain? Instantly I was off the couch and up the stairs. I was flying! I felt better already! He called! YAY! I grabbed the phone and yelled, "Hi!"

He yelled back, "Hi!!!"

Then both of us were just yelling. "Hi!" "Hi!"

[hahahahaha]

He's my friend. I'm his friend. Hearing his voice I was so happy that I had tears in my eyes. He said, "Patty said you called yesterday?"

I said, "Yeah, I was Picnic-starved. And lonely for you."

[It is indicative of the level of our friendship that I felt comfortable enough to just say that.]

We talked for a while. I talked to Joe, too. And jennifer was there - so she came on the phone as well. OH, the world was merciful and beautiful once more.

I LOVE JENNIFER.

It is so hard for me to accept that she really loves me. That any of them do.

Then she handed me back to Brett. We talked a little bit, but not much. He's told me before how much he hates talking on the phone. So then suddenly, out of the blue, he said, "You want to do anything tonight?"

All I can say is that it took me by total surprise. I was not expecting that at all. Without even thinking about it, no presence of mind, I said, "Yeah!"

Then in the background at Brett's I heard all this laughter and Brett said, "They're laughing at my tactics for asking a girl for a date."

We couldn't really decide what we wanted to do. I wasn't saying much. I was just stanidng there, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, shaking all over. [oh man!!! Thank God Brett was kind and nice!]

Brett said, "Why don't I just come over to your house and we'll decide then."

So I said, "Great!"

Then we said bye and hung up.

Totally calmly, I peeked my head in the kitchen, said, "Brett's coming over" and then I tore up to my room.

I COULD NOT WAIT TO SEE HIM.

I put in my lenses.

I had on this new shirt I had bought at Bloomingdales - just my style - grey, baggy [WTF??? Grey and BAGGY is your style??] with French and Italian newspaper print all over it. [Holy crap, I remember that shirt. So 80s!!] I wore my jeans, and one of my prized possessions - my big black blazer that I bought at a thrift shop for five bucks. I have duly adorned it with a rhinestone pin, an oversized silver safety pin and a band-aid. J., Mere and I have started a trend. We wear bandaids on all our clothing. [Uhm ... why did we do that, Mere? Can you remember? Was it a nod to Bob Geldof?] I felt good.

I was all shivery with anticipation to see him. I was totally psyched with every fiber of my being.

Jean was downstairs playing Christmas carols and everyone was standing around singing like a stereotype. [Okay, that so cracks me up. They were "singing like a stereotype."] I begged them to stop before he came. It was all too corny.

What I really wanted was to shoo them all out of the living room so I could greet him in peace.

Mum said, "Don't be embarrassed about sharing emotion in front of us, Sheila." She so doesn't get it. [Wow, I am 17. She so DOES get it!!]

I pleaded with them. They could stay in the living room, fine, but pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease stop singing Christmas carols! [I am howling with laughter. Please stop acting like a family! Please!]

Well, of course he arrived while I was in the bathroom so I couldn't monitor everyone's behavior. [hahahaha I am howling ...]

I was so fluttery nervous. Not like I get before TS' dates - but a tremulous HAPPY nervous. [Thanks for clearing up that minute difference in emotion.]

I was in the bathroom and I heard the doorbell ring. AH! Slap dash! I got out as quick as I could. Finally, I came out. There he stood in mym hallway. Mum is so adorable. She was just standing there beaming. I guess I'm really lucky to have a mum like her. [You guess, you ingrate???] I can still see his face - him - when he first saw me. We both just smiled and said "Hi".

Then for a few hysterical minutes we all just stood around staring at each other. [I can't stop laughing] Mum, Jean, Siobhan and Brendan were in this tableau around the piano, and Brett and I were at the door, and it was all awkward and quiet.

Brendan - that hysterical jerk - started rocking back and forth on his heels, hands behind his back, saying over and over, "Yup ... yup ... yup ... yup ...." I, of course, started to laugh. Brett was probably totally baffled. He said, "Well, we'd better go." So I put on my coat and out we went. Such a relief to get away from that piano tableau! [Uhm, Sheila? That's your family.]

The car doors closed - and then we were back to normal. He cried, "Hey!" as though this were the first time he'd seen me and leaned over to hug me. I was squished so I could only get one arm around. It was so great to see him! I like to be hugged. Especially when he hugs me, because I can feel how much he means it.

We had no idea what the evening would hold. Part of the fun of it was the spontanaeity of it. He is precious to me. I had been missing him so much that I felt this yawning hole inside of me. But I'm not missin ghim now. I'm just happy thinking about him and looking forward to seeing him again. I was sort of expecting that we'd go to Campus Cinema or Pier - somewhere close - but he said, "So how about it - want to see what's at the Showcase?" That's so far away! Psyched! [Wow. This is such a Rhode Island statement. Only Rhode Islanders will understand how insane this statement is.]

We were embarking on an adventure. [This is why dating is hard for me to this day. Every single moment I am "embarking on an adventure" - if I like the guy, I mean. NOTHING is casual. EVERYTHING is exciting. And dating seems to require a bit more "coolness" which I categorically CANNOT DO. I am not cool. And pretending seems just wrong. I need to feel like dates are "adventures" or why go?? ]

So we started up to the Showcase. [Which, man, is so so far away. Hope you guys packed a lunch!] He said, "Oh, you know what we should do if we're not in time for a movie? We should go to Chuck E. Cheese." I had no idea what he was talking about so I asked. He gaped at me. "You don't know? You've never been there? Oh, you deprived girl!! You haven't lived!" He was so psyched. He explained the place to me - it's a restaurant for kids - with video games, rides, a big huge dog dressed up as Elvis, and a band of mechanical dolls. [I can barely type. I am shaking with laughter.] During the summer, Brett took his retarded kids there. [Oh man. So not PC. Brett loved those kids.] Brett said that he had more fun on the trip than the kids did.

It was a long ride [SO LONG! What a LONG RIDE it is to the Showcase Cinema!] He said, "Okay. So tell me every detail about your New York trip." He went to NYU for a year before transferring - he loves New York. So I told him everything. We went to Bloomingdale's, Macy's, Fioruccis - it was crazy - BILLIONS of Christmas shoppers. "Oh God," Brett said, "It must have been awful. You should come to New York with me. I'd take you to all the little obscure places in the Village. I know the Village like the back of my hand." [To this day, Brett is one of the best tour guides I know of the city. He USES this city even though he lives here. He knows every nook and cranny of Central Park - he's just wonderful.] He told me all these funny stories of his first year alone in New York -a naive 17 year old from Connecticut. He was approached by a prostitute [man, those were the days ... when there were actually hookers in New York] and he didn't even catch on until a block later. Then he was like, "Ohhhhhh! I get what that was!" He's a real relaxed driver. He holds the wheel with one hand, gestures with the other. [What one thing has to do with the other I will leave to the imagination.]

I was quite happy. It was such a comfort to my soul to be riding along at night to go see a movie with him. We were laughing so hard. He said, "I knew I'd get a laugh being with you. It's so grim back home. I'm done with my exams but everyone else is still going crazy. I had to get out of there. Last night I helped Liz do some drawings for her costume class. We were up all night working in total silence - and then - at around 4 a.m., I heard this little mutter next to me: 'I hate the whole fuckin' world.' Then I came home and found Joe lying on his bed moaning, 'I don't know what to write ... I don't know what to write!' I was like, 'Oh God. Get me out of here.'" [I am guffawing.]

When we got to the theatre - which has 8 cinemas - we were too late for the 7:30 show. [Of WHAT, Sheila??] So we decided to go to a 9:45 and in the meantime drive around and get lost. Just as we got in the car, it came to him. "CHUCK E. CHEESE." So off we headed to find Chuck E. Cheese. We eventually got lost. It was my fault. Brett would not stop and ask for directions. Mainly because he is a 20 year old guy and he did not want to say to a stranger, "Hi - can you tell me the way to Chuck E. Cheese?" [hahahahahahahahahahaha] He knew that it was near the airport so somehow we got there and we drove around, peering closely for Chuck E. Cheese. Soone enough, Brett yelled, "There it is!"

The minute I saw the place I started laughing. It is the ultimate kiddie place and there we were, going for dinner. Brett thought it was so amusing too. "I can't believe we're doing this." We walked into the place, and we both were in total hysterics. Brett was surging in front of me, saying, "We;re looking for our little sister. That's all. Just looking for our little sister."

The place is really fancy. [Uhm. Excuse me?] There are places to buy pizza, ice cream - part of it looks like a 50s malt shop - then there was a dim side room with pink lights - and there was this enormous mechanical dog dressed up like Elvis. Then there was a theatre sort of room with stands and tables surrounding a small circular stage. There was a room filled totally with video games. There were ring tosses and prizes. There was a little merry-go-round. The place is a riot. Especially when you are 17 and you are there with a 20 year old and you both have the same sense of humor.

I thought everything we did in Chuck E. Cheese was hysterical. I could not stop laughing. We ordered pizza and sodas and wandered around. We bought some tokens and played video games. That's about the first time I've ever played one. I got so nervous and also so into it. Then we both played skeet shooting. We both had guns. I did not get ONE POINT and we played twice. That is when I lost control. I was shooting so off target that it was bizarre. I was laughing so hard. So was he. We had these guns, and we were just clutching at each other, howling.

We sat and ate together. And we decided that the movie we wanted to see was 2010. I hadn't seen 2001 so he explained the plot to me in great detail. [I love you, Brett. What a fun night.]

I miss him. I wonder what he is doing right this instant.

We somehow found our way back to the Showcase. He paid for the tickets. I paid for popcorn and soda. We shared a large popcorn and we shared a large Coke. With only one straw. Oh my God. I thought that was really romantic. We walked into the theatre. We were the only ones there. We sat down. On the way up in the car he had noticed my shirt. "Hey, is that new?" I told him yeah, I got it at Bloomingdale's. He seemed so enthusiastic about it. With TS I feel like I always have to be the one to intitate honesty and openness. With Brett, he is so naturally happen. I don't have to work on him. Brett is like me. And I've found him and it's unbelieavable!

With DW I spent all my time wondering, "What does he think about? What do boys think about?" With Brett, I KNOW - because ten to one it's the same thing I feel - and also he can just come out and say it. Do you know what a comfort it is to find a true kindred soul? And it's true. It's like I found him. Or we found each other. When we smile at each other - sometimes I see a little bit of myself looking back at me. I don't have to explain myself ot him, or justify myself to him. He already knows. He isn't afraid of closeness.

Like - he started out to go to the bathroom (we were still the only ones there) and I just settled back in my chair - and then I heard him say, "Hey." I turned around. He was standing in the aisle aways up, arms out - and all he said was, "This is so fun" and he turned and left.

It's sincere.

We watched the movie. When I watch a movie with TS it's like we are two people on an awkward date watching a movie. We are two separate people there for the sake of seeing the damn movie because we are on a stupid date. It was SO DIFFERENT seeing a movie with Brett. We were there because we wanted to be together, because we are friends. Seeing a movie with him is just that: seeing a movie. We could have been in either one of our living rooms. I was so relaxed that I could actually pay attention to the movie.

I became so into the movie. It was fascinating. The effects alone were with it. Wow. I have always been enthralled by astronomy and physics - even though it scared me to death because everything is so big - but 2010 was INTENSE. I had to close my eyes a few times especially when they were going into orbit. It was scary - I was drained just watching it.

Trying to explain how happy I was being out with Brett is like trying to describe eternity.

That movie was the right movie to go see with him.

If we hadn't seen that movie, it wouldn't have triggered what happened after. It's all meant to happen. Both of us were so moved and awestruck by the end of the movie that we didn't say anything. We couldn't speak. When the lights came up, Brett and I just slowly stared at each other - and then - mutually - these slow smiles spread across our faces. Real smiles.

Other Picnic entries:

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.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.
Part 14. Opening night approaching. Homecoming Dance approaching.
Part 15 Homecoming Dance. Homecoming football game. Rage.
Part 16 Last rehearsal before 3 day Thanksgiving break. Heaven!
Part 17 Opening Night!
Part 18 More on Opening Night.
Part 19 The show closes. Drama with the boyfriend. Reconnecting with my friends.
Part 20Closing Night party - part 1
Part 21 Closing Night party - part 2

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling.

Here's the post I wrote directly after finishing the book. I was very taken by the cover of this book - of all the covers (and the artwork is generally amazing) - but the midnight-blues and blacks seemed very evocative to me - and it really goes along with what this whole book is about. The darkest of the series. Harry is alone. Harry is different. We always knew Harry was different - from the beginning - he's got the mark of difference on his forehead. But in the first books, he finds a group of friends, he is accepted (even with that difference), and even embraced. All of that changes in Order of the Phoenix. We see the dark side of being different. Which is: being isolated. Having to go it alone. Only Harry is really equipped to do what must be done. And he doesn't feel ready for it. Who of us feels ready when called? He also resents the fact, almost for the first time, that he is different - that he is "the one". Why is all the responsibility on his shoulders? He's pissed about it. Also, he's dealing with a lot of physical anxiety - his dreams, his itching scar, the taunting voices in his head ... These are all private experiences. His friends can sympathize, but they don't understand. He is alone. This is something any kid can relate to - even if they have not been marked by Voldemort, and go to a school of magic. Harry is a miserable dude in this book - and he makes life miserable for his friends who care about him. Finally, Ron and Hermione kind of just back off from him, because they are sick of him lashing out at them. This book is so true to the upheavals of adolescence. Yes, it takes place in a magical otherworld - but all of that stuff is so right ON, and that's one of the appeals of the books, for me.

I'll post a really creepy excerpt.

I remember reading it for the first time, and thinking: "Okay. This canNOT be a good sign." It's early in the book - and it sets up the whole theme in a really chilling way - a sudden and upsetting separation in perspective from his kindred spirits Ron and Hermione. They do not (and cannot) enter into his experience with him. It's upsetting. Upsetting to be alone.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling.

Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then did a double take.

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts; if he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, although there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither -- vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving along by themselves.

"Where's Pig?" said Ron's voice, right behind Harry.

"That Luna girl was carrying him," said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. "Where d'you reckon - "

" - Hagrid is? I dunno," said Ron, sounding worried. "He'd better be okay ..."

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second years out of the way so that they could get a coach to themselves. Seconds later Hermione emerged panting from the crowd.

"Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first year back there. I swear I'm going to report him, he's only had his badge three minutes and he's using it to bully people worse than ever ... Where's Crookshanks?"

"Ginny's got him," said Harry. "There she is ..."

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.

"Thanks," said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. "Come on, let's get a carriage together before they all fill up ..."

"I haven't got Pig yet!" Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off toward the nearest unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.

"What are those things, d'you reckon?" he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other students surged past them.

"What things?"

"Those horse --"

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon's cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.

"Here you are," she said. "He's a sweet little owl, isn't he?"

"Er ... yeah ... He's all right," said Ron gruffly. "Well, come on then, let's get in ... what were you saying, Harry?"

"I was saying, what are those horse things?" Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.

"What horse things?"

"The horse things pulling the carriages!" said Harry impatiently; they were, after all, about three feet from the nearest one; it was watching them with empty white eyes. Ron, however, gave Harry a perplexed look.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about - look!"

Harry grabbed Ron's arm and wheeled him about so that he was face-to-face with the winged horse. Ron stared straight at it for a second, then looked back at Harry.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"At the -- there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the coach! It's right there in front --"

But as Ron continued to look bemused, a strange thought occurred to Harry.

"Can't ... can't you see them?"

"See what?"

"Can't you see who's pulling the carriages?"

Ron looked seriously alarmed now.

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?"

"I ... yeah ..."

Harry felt utterly bewildered. The horse was there in front of him, gleaming solidly in the dim light issuing from the station windows behind them, vapor rising from its nostrils in the chilly night air. Yet unless Ron was faking - and it was a very feeble joke if he was - Ron could not see it at all.

"Shall we get in, then?" said Ron uncertainly, looking at Harry as though worried about him.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, go on ..."

"It's all right," said a dreamy voice from beside Harry as Ron vanished into the coach's dark interior. "You're not going mad or anything. I can see them too."

"Can you?" said Harry desperately, turning to Luna. He could see the bat-winged horses reflected in her wide, silvery eyes.

"Oh yes," said Luna. "I've been able to see them ever since my first day here. They've always pulled the carriages. Don't worry. You're just as sane as I am."

Smiling faintly, she climbed into the musty interior of the carriage after Ron. Not altogether reassured, Harry followed her.

Finally.

A fashion designer has made a dress that real women can wear to the grocery store, the play group, the PTA meeting, or on date-night with hubby.

The narcoleptic dominatrix

Here's how it went.

The day was hot and long. We were sweaty and tired. We looked forward to a couple of cold beers, and a little one on one. I knew of a pub nearby so I led the way. We made our way through the sweaty smudgy horse-shit odor along the edge of Central Park. As gross as that sounds, it's actually quite wonderful. The summery-est of summery smells. Mixed in with the smell of hot pretzels, car exhaust, and random whiffs of cotton candy. All of New York was out and about, walking, biking, little kids splashing in the fountains, people reading ... Earlier in the day, I had seen a black guy dressed as a Roman gladiator pedaling two people around in a carriage attached to his bicycle. He literally looked like this. It was 900 degrees out and that was how he was dressed. He glimmered in the sunlight. As he pedaled by, I could hear him saying, "And over there is the Plaza Hotel ..." hahahaha

After a false start (uhm ... thought the pub was on 59th? Where is it??) I found the one I was thinking of. We walked in. It's the kind of pub where there are sepia-toned watercolors of John F. Kennedy everywhere you look, and pictures of rugby teams from small towns in county Kerry, and Irish flags hung up next to American flags, and a gleaming wooden bar with high stools, and tables with red and white checked tablecloths. It was a good choice.

We sat at the bar, which was already quite crowded. I was practically on top of the woman to my left, so I apologized. "Sorry ... I'm on top of you right now." Opening up the channel of communication may have been a mistake - but you just never know who is going to be slightly insane in this massive metropolis. She had long blonde hair, she was drinking white wine, she was in her 40s, I would guess - maybe early 40s. She was by herself. She spoke, and her voice was very distinctive. Kind of loud. I'm guessing that that had not been her first glass of wine. "Oh - don't worry about it. I'll be leaving soon."

Now I cannot remember how we struck up a conversation with this woman. It was just 2 days ago, and it is already lost in the fog of time. But somehow, we started talking with her. Or - let's be accurate. She started talking to us. No, no. Let's be more accurate. She started talking AT us.

It did not start out well.

She asked me where I was from. I told her. I asked her where she was from. She told me San Francisco. I asked her what brought her to New York. (Or at least I think I did. One of us did.)

She said, and I am putting in the pauses, just so you can get what we were dealing with here. She began to pontificate as though it were a monologue FULL of portent, and I knew from the pauses that we were meant to hang on every word. I also could tell from how she was speaking that this was going to be a long LONG story. "Well ............ I moved to New York ............ because ............. the dot-commers ........."

Bill said helpfully, "Hired you?"

She shook her head, in the middle of her own cliff-hanger, and began again, "I moved .......... to New York ........... because the dot-commers .............."

Bill tried again, "Fired you?"

Then came the slightly insane moment. She stopped and said, getting a wee bit frightening, "Are you going to let me finish? Or ... are you done now? Are you done? Because I can wait. Or are you going to let me finish?"

This was within 30 seconds of speaking with her. Listen, hon, if you're going to doze off into narcolepsy MID-SENTENCE while speaking with strangers, then please do not be surprised if we try to pick up the pace for you. We are worried for you. We are not waiting on tenterhooks to find out what the dot-commers did or did not do to you. Pick up the pace. We don't give a shit. We're just making conversation. Your pauses are so long that Bill and I both begin to plummet through empty space, flailing our arms, looking for footholds.

Okay. So the second she lashed out like that, I clocked her in my head. "Slightly insane. But harmless. A bit tipsy. Handle with care."

Bill said, probably clocking her as nuts too, "I apologize."

She still didn't speak, looking back and forth between us, to make sure she had our undivided attention. Oh, so she's one of THOSE.

She began again and told us a very very long story about her entire career, which involved the dot-commers and the crazy cash they had to burn in the late 90s. Now this is something that I actually know a little bit about, from my personal experience, but I just knew that any outside comments would not be welcome. She was the ONLY person to have experienced the dot-com boom and its repercussions. Her experience was SINGULAR. I held my tongue. I listened dutifully. Meanwhile, we got our beers, which were cold, delicious, and so welcome after our hot sweaty day. I kinda wanted to just talk to Bill. But ... we were trapped. By the narcoleptic wine-guzzler.

She actually was harmless. I'm just making fun of her. Because it's fun.

It was odd. To know that she needed us to just LISTEN. I wonder if she grew up with no one ever listening to her. She was obviously overly sensitive on this point. She couldn't have our focuses be scattered. She spoke with a self-importance and a This Is My Big Monologue emotional undercurrent - so that it would be nearly impossible to interrupt it, without seeming rude. Also, for some bizarre reason, she talked to us as though she assumed that we had ZERO experience in the world. We were just two pairs of EARS, that's all. We had no history to share. Everything she told us was going to be new and unheard of to us ... because we were basically ameobic homunculits before she came along. So she regaled us with stories of how cutthroat New York is (as though no way would we ever guess that) and how beautiful San Francisco is (she assumed we had never been there - I actually lived there - but again, I just got the sense that this was supposed to be the Narcopleptic Show and any of my reminiscences would be greeted with resistance), and how she was starting a new job next week with Calvin Klein and she hoped it wouldn't be too cutthroat. Uhm, it's Calvin Klein. Of COURSE it's gonna be cutthroat. A corporation that successful is gonna be cutthroat. But I said, submitting to her worldview because that was just easier, "I hope it's not too cutthroat."

Then somehow - the monologue segued into her telling us the entire story of the making of Gone with the Wind. She had seen a documentary on it.

Now this was actually a fun conversation - even though Bill and I were both struggling against her domination. It was a battle. You know how you can just feel when someone needs to dominate? And it's such a strong force in them that it would literally have taken me saying, point-blank, "Listen, bitch. There are 3 people in this conversation. STOP DOMINATING. It's RUDE" for her to realize what she was doing. And then, of course, the conversation would be over. Besides - the whole thing was kind of entertaining and interesting, psychologically.

Now Bill and I actually are very familiar with the entire story of Gone with the wind. It could have been a much better conversation if she would have given us the props for that. If we had been allowed to contribute, that might have been really fun!! We know something about that story! The search for Scarlett, the "discovery" of Vivien Leigh, and - uhm - yes, we know that Vivien Leigh was British - but thanks for the information anyway! The relentlessness of Selznick, the firing of George Cukor, how Clark Gable refused to do a Southern accent, etc. etc. etc.

But it was okay. She was a lonely Calvin Klein employee, drinking white wine by herself, and telling us the entire story. It's an enjoyable story. My beer was cold. I was happy to be where I was. Even though I was being dominated by a transplant from San Francisco.

She told us that her favorite actress ever was Grace Kelly. We supported her in this opinion. She swooned over Rear Window. We validated this. She went ga-ga over Grace Kelly's gowns in that movie. We agreed with her wholeheartedly. Bill managed to get one full comment in: "That entire movie is based on a false premise. There isn't a man in the world who wouldn't want to marry Grace Kelly." I was shocked that she allowed him to get that much out!! Good job, Bill! But it was greeted by a baffled stare of uncomprehension from our Fearless Leader. All she heard was "false premise". All she heard was that Bill was criticizing Rear Window. Which ... DUH ... he was not. So she kind of skipped over the comment, not even referencing it, and moved on in her bulldozer way.

Bill and I had no choice but to follow along in her wake. She would not let us go.

She informed us, "Hettie McDaniel was the first black actress to win an Emmy." Yes! Totally true! Only her name was Hattie, and it was an Oscar. But it's the thought that counts!!

Moving on!

There was a moment when she rhapsodized about how "Selznick kept with the project" and that was one of those sharp moments when I just fell in love with my own life. Here I am, sitting in an Irish pub with my new friend, and some blonde woman is babbling about Selznick "keeping with the project". Hilarious.

Our whole entrapment ended very quickly. I found it interesting. I have a theory about the moment when it occurred. It's one of those little snapshots, or series of snapshots - where you can see someone's behavior so clearly - and you can see what they are trying to hide. You can see the subtext, basically.

I cannot remember how this came up, but somehow - whatever our Blonde Dominatrix was saying - made Bill think of Night of the Hunter - and he said, directly to me, "Oh! I meant to tell you - I finally saw Night of the Hunter!" This excited me so much I nearly stood up. "You'd never seen it???" "No!" "Oh. My. God. Isn't it just amazing?" Then he and I went off (very briefly) into a conversation about that movie. It was fun. It was our first moment alone since we walked into the bar. So we lived it up!! Whoo-hoo! Freedom from domination! Look at us!! Choosing our own topics! How do we DARE??

That went on for probably 20 seconds - we managed to cram a lot in, though - knowing that our time "alone" was probably limited - and suddenly, our new friend stood up and said, "I have to go now." It was that abrupt. She wasn't mad or anything, but just like that, she was DONE with us. 20 seconds of us looking at each other, as opposed to her, and she felt like she went up in a puff of smoke. "It was nice to talk to you both," she said ... but still with this strange glazed-over look on her face, like she could not WAIT to get out of there, and away from those two lunatics who REFUSED to give her their undivided attention for hours on end.

I said, "Good luck at your job next week!"

More glazed-over smiles, as she reached for her purse. She barely knew what I said to her. "Thanks."

And then POOF! She was gone!

We analyzed her behavior for about 30 seconds, exchanging notes on what we had noticed ... "The moment we started to talk about Night of the Hunter, she was done with us. DONE." She felt rejected. That's what it was. There was a fragility there, underneath the loud voice, and all of the opinions. If we weren't sitting there just listening to her, she felt out of control, lost, and invisible. So even though we hadn't rejected her, that was what she felt. Which made me a little sad for her.

When she talked about San Francisco and its beauty, she got this really passionate happy look on her face. There was actually something very delicate about her. I kind of hope her job at Calvin Klein does prove to be too cutthroat for her, so she can move back to that foggy hilly city on the West Coast, the city of her narcoleptic dreams.

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling.

I had SUCH a blast reading this one in the series, in particular. Not sure why. I just know that I could not put it down. The 'world cup' chapters? Just so inventive - so awesome - you just go deeper and deeper into this 3-dimensional world that Rowling created. And now - in this book - the stakes are ratcheted up a bit. I mean, think about the ending ... think about Cedric. The stakes in the other books were serious, too - but now? It seems to be getting personal. There's a death mark in the sky, things appear to be getting more desperate ... I also, you know, love the little glimmerings of teenage romance that start to bubble up here and there. But there's just so much to say about this book because, of course, it is 10,000 pages long. I remember one summer on vacation with my family looking across the room, and little 6 or 7 year old Cashel was sitting in a chair - one leg crossed over the over - just like my dad sits, and just like my brother sits (with the ankle of the crossed leg resting on the knee of the other leg - so that the crossed leg makes a little shelf) - and Cashel had this massive hardcover book which was practically wider than his torso - resting on the little shelf of his crossed leg - and he was seriously reading, turning the pages. That was the book that got him to the next level, in terms of reading by himself. The first couple of books we would have to read to him. But Maria and Brendan told him he couldn't see the next Harry Potter movie that came out until he read the book all by himself - so Cashel sat down, crossed his leg, and read the whole damn thing.

I had a hard time deciding what to excerpt - so much good stuff - but I finally went with the arrival of the 2 other schools at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. I just love her descriptions here. And I love Madame Maxime's French accent.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling.

Harry was starting to feel cold. He wished they'd hurry up ... Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance ... He remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: "always the same -- we can't resist showing off when we get together."

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers -

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?" said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.

"There!" yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick - or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks - was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

"It's a dragon!" shrieked one of the first years, losing her head completely.

"Don't be stupid ... it's a flying house!" said Dennis Creevey.

Dennis's guess was closer ... As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backwards as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed - then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year's foot, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from inside of the carriage - a shoe the size of a child's sled - followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid: he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow - maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid - this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face, large, black liquid-looking eyes and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you," said Dumbledore.

"My pupils," said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what Harry could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime's enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

" 'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asked.

"He should be here any moment," said Dumbledore. "Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"

"Warm up, I think," said Madame Maxime. "But ze 'orses --"

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," said Dumbledore, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other - er - charges."

"Skrewts," Ron muttered to Harry, grinning.

"My steeds require - er - forceful 'andling," said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubed whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong ..."

"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"Very well," said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. "Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?"

"It will be attended to," said Dumbledore, also bowing.

"Come," said Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up thes tone steps.

"How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnegan said, leaning around Lavendar and Parvati to address Harry and Ron.

"Well, if they're any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won't be able to handle them," said Harry. "That's if he hasn't been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what's up with them?"

"Maybe they've escaped," said Ron hopefully.

"Oh, don't say that," said Hermione with a shudder. "Imagine that lot loose on the grounds ..."

They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then --

"Can you hear something?" said Ron suddenly.

Harry listened, a loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed ...

"The lake!" yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. "Look at the lake!"

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water - except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's floor ...

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool ... and then Harry saw the rigging ...

"It's a mast!" he said to Ron and Hermione.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle ... but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

"Dumbledore!" he called heartily as he walked up the slope. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replied.

Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped into the light pouring from the front door of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own.

"Dear old Hogwarts," he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good ... Viktor, coming along, into the warmth ... you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold ..."

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He didn't need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.

"Harry -- it's Krum!"

Movie fanatics, read on

So much else going on. No time to write. But I did manage to finish the newest quiz from The Professor.

Fun!!

1) Does film best tell the truth (Godard) or tell lies (De Palma) at 24 frames per second? (Thanks, Peet)

In my opinion - in terms of human BEHAVIOR - the camera tells the truth. If someone is a phony, or lying, or dissembling, or deflecting - the camera will pick up on it. This is why film acting is different from stage acting. It must be REAL - (and even "lies" can be truthful - if you're lying, then you're lying ... there's a truth to that) - But if you're a phony? If you're a shallow actor, who is just a big fat phony? Or you're tryiing for effect? The camera will tell the truth about you. You can't hide from it.

And yet there's something not quite "real" about what goes on in the movies. People become somewhat mythic or archetypal when they are photographed ... I don't know how that happens ... I just know that it does. Images become solidified, nailed down, chosen ... and there's something inherently artificial about that. I wouldn't call it a lie, though. I'd call it a myth.

2) Ideal pairing of actors/actresses to play on-screen siblings

You mean who haven't already? Or who already have?

My brain immediately went to the beautiful (and completely believable) brother/sister relationship portrayed in Holiday between Katharine Hepburn and Lew Ayres (his best performance - how much do you just LOVE that brother??) I don't find Hepburn all that convincing, actually, in a family setting - she seems too isolated and dominating (which is why her most successful family drama, in my opinion, is Lion in Winter). Even in On Golden Pond, where she was great and everything ... she still is too much of a massive presence (in my opinion) to seem like part of a family. I didn't really buy it - although I enjoyed her performance. But there she is in Holiday - as the loner eccentric sister - and her sloshy decadent brother just GETS her ... in his own slightly sodden way. I completely bought that relationship.

3) Favorite special effects moment

For sheer nostalgia's sake - I have to say this moment.

I can't tell if it's just because I also remember seeing it in the movie theatre the first time ... and the goosebumps are a memory of my OWN awestruck wonder way back then ... but who the hell cares. That opening sequence kicks some serious intergalactic ass.

4) Matt Damon or George Clooney?

Clooney. I was never really a fan of his on ER - but then came Three Kings and I thought, HUH ... and then came O Brother Where Art Thou and I figured that I needed to re-assess the dude. Then there was the story from Julia Roberts of the filming of Ocean's 11 and how she would come back to her hotel room to find it literally booby-trapped on a nightly basis. The image of Clooney sneaking around - gluing the receiver of the phone down, putting trick snakes in her bathtub, etc. makes me think he would be a huge pain in the ass and also so. much. fun.

5) What is the movie you’ve encouraged more people to see than any other?

Only Angels Have Wings.

6) Favorite film of 1934

I began scanning the list at IMDB and came across this title and wanted to say it was my favorite just BECAUSE. I mean - look at that title!

Gonna have to go with It Happened One Night. One of my favorite movies ever made.

7) Your favorite movie theater

Probably The Music Box in Chicago. Beautiful old movie theatre on Southport. I used to live on the street right behind that theatre so I spent many hours there - watching, oh, documentaries about Kazakhstan, I saw Latcho Drom there - or we would go to see silent films, midnight double-features, whatever! I saw Harold and Maude there for the first time, believe it or not - and began laughing so loudly at the army dude with the missing arm that I had to get up and leave the theatre. I went to go see a couple of different Cassavetes films there when they were having a Cassavetes festival - and I went with a boyfriend of mine at the time (hahaha I love how I have LINKS to my own personal life. I'm such a moron) who was also a huge Cassavetes freak (still is!) - and I remember that we made out during the closing credits to Faces. Geeks. You kind of can't get any geekier than that. We were so swept away by Faces, of all things, that we succumbed to PDA. Totally embarrassing. I saw Crumb there - a movie that I kinda still can't get out of my mind. Uhm - Max? Get off the bed o' nails and stop eating that piece of string or whatever freako thing it is that you do. Thanks so much. The Music Box also has that old-movie glamour - red carpet in the lobby, little niches and nooks with strange decadent little statues in them ... old school buckets of popcorn ... and in the theatre, if you look up - you can see a night sky, with stars glittering, as well as clouds moving across. A cyclorama roof. Oh, and there's a big red velvet curtain that rises before each movie. It's a celebration. No matter WHAT you see there. You could see Porky's 12: The Beer-Soaked Aftermath there and feel like you were having a celebratory cinematic experience.

It looks like this.

8) Jean Arthur or Irene Dunne?

Oh, why. Dennis - WHY are you making me make an unmake-able choice?? I can't do it!

I'm leaning towards Irene Dunne. She is one of my favorite actresses - and can we please talk about her 10 minute silent scene in Penny Serenade when she bumblingly tries to give her new adopted baby a bath, as her husband (Cary Grant) and all the men from the newspaper shop stand around watching? It's such an amazing scene ... you can feel her growing panic ... and she finally snaps and starts screaming and crying "WHY ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT ME? I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!" ... but as the scene goes on, it just gets funnier and funnier and funnier. Dunne was Cary Grant's favorite leading lady, and it's easy to see why. She was an actress of such substance, intelligence, reality - her work has barely dated at all.

But ... er .... Jean Arthur was in Only Angels Have Wings so ... I just ... love her for that. Jean Arthur has a sort of ditzy baffled charm - kind of reminiscent of Jennifer Aniston at Aniston's very best. You know those moments (in Friends mostly) when Aniston is CLINGING to the SHREDS of her dignity in the middle of some ridiculous situation that makes her look really really stupid? But she stands there, spluttering, insisting that she is a DIGNIFIED PERSON? It is so funny when it works - and Jean Arthur is so good at that. Watch her in Only Angels Have Wings. I mean, she's also great in her other films - I particularly liked her in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town opposite Gary Cooper - and then she did another really wonderful little movie called The Talk of the Town with Cary Grant again and Ronald Colman (in one of his better performances). I mean, Jean Arthur was in a ton of classic films - but those are the ones I have real affection for. She has some moments in Talk of the Town - when she is running around, and lying to everyone, and getting busted constantly - which make me laugh out loud every time I see them. She's a wonderful comedienne - and a GREAT foil for Cary Grant.

But I'm gonna have to go with Irene Dunne. I do so under gentle protest, because I don't want to have to choose!

9) Favorite film made for children

Hmmm. I have an intense fondness for the movie Bug's Life. For many reasons. One: because of Cashel. We watched that movie together many times, when he was still a diaper-wearing fat-wristed Brooklyn baby, shoving Cheerios in his mouth as he sat on my lap, and I was the babysitting aunt. I can recite the movie by heart. ("HARRY! DON'T LOOK AT THE LIGHT, HARRY!" "Ican'thelpitit'ssobeeeeeeautiful...") But also: I just think it's a really nice film, with a cool message. I like it a lot. I think it's my favorite of the Pixar films, actually.

10) Favorite Martin Scorsese Movie

Probably Goodfellas.

11) Favorite film about children

I never pass up a chance to push the film Children of Heaven. Please! I beg those of you who haven't seen it! SEE IT! Magical film with an ending that made the audience burst out clapping - at least when I saw it.

But then I also want to say Night of the Hunter. Sure - it's about Mitchum and Lillian Gish ... but it's really about those kids. And I can't think about Mitchum's voice saying, off screen, "Chiiiiiiiiildren ..." without my blood running cold. Never has innocence seemed so threatened.

12) Favorite film of 1954

On the Waterfront

13) Favorite screenplay written by a writer more famous for literature than screenplays

The Big Sleep. Based on book by Raymond Chandler. Screenplay by William Faulkner. Didn't have to think about this one at all. In my humble opinion, there can be no valid contest on this one.

14) Walter Matthau or Jack Lemmon?

Walter Matthau.

15) Favorite character name

Sugarpuss O'Shea. Barbara Stanwyck's character name in Ball of Fire

16) Favorite screenplay adapted from a work of great literature, either by the author himself or by someone else

"Great" literature, huh? Does Ordinary People count as "great literature"? I don't think it does - but I read the book - and I am amazed at the effectiveness of the adaptation to the screen.

Oh - and I also REALLY enjoyed Emma Thompson's adaptation of Sense & Sensibility. Yummy.

17) Favorite film of 1974

Chinatown.

18) Joan Severance or Shannon Tweed?

HAHAHAHAHAHA This question so kicks ass. heh heh I'm gonna go with Joan Severance just to be totally contrary.

19) jackass: the movie-- yes or no?

Sure! Why not?

20) Favorite John Cassavetes Movie

Opening Night. I still haven't got up the nerve to actually write an essay about what that movie means to me - it's daunting - but I'll get to it some day. It's almost like I look at that movie and see my whole damn life.

21) First R-rated movie you ever saw

I saw Dog Day Afternoon while babysitting - I was 12. Life-changing moment.

22) Favorite X-rated film (remember that, while your answer may well be a famous or not-so-famous hard-core film, the "X" rating was once also a legitimate rating that did not necessarily connote pornography)

heh. I'll say Midnight Cowboy.

23) Best film of 1994

Forrest Gump. JUST KIDDING. I despise that film.

Hmmm. Many good films that year. In terms of sheer enjoyment, I'd probably have to go with Pulp Fiction.

24) Describe a moment in a movie that made you weep

The last moment in Field of Dreams gets me every time. "Dad?" Oh shit. Just typing that and I felt all choked up.

25) Ewan McGregor or Ewan Bremner?

Oh please. Ewan McGregor always and forever.

26) One of your favorite line readings (not necessarily one of your favorite lines) from this or any year

Diane Keaton saying, "This was a great night for me" in Something's Gotta Give - after they sleep together. You want to see great screen acting - and a great screen ACTRESS - watch her say that line.

However, other favorites:

Cary Grant - and how he says, "Peabody? What Peabody?" in Bringing up Baby

Barbara Stanwyck and how she says, "I love him because he gets drunk on a glass of buttermilk" in Ball of Fire

Anything Kenneth Mars says in ANY MOVIE EVER. The man is a scary GENIUS and we all just have to BOW DOWN and accept it.

27) What, if any, element in a film, upon your hearing of its inclusion beforehand, would most likely prejudice you against seeing that film or keeping an open mind about it?

A certain scrunchy-faced thin-fat actress.

28) Favorite Terry Gilliam Movie

Fisher King. That's another movie that I really need to write a big huge post about.

29) Jean Smart or Annie Potts?

Annie Potts was in the classic Corvette Summer so I will have to go with her.

30) Is it possible to know with any certainty if you could like or love someone based partially on their taste in movies? If so, what film might be a potential relationship deal-breaker for you, or the one that might just seal that deal?

If someone is able to watch What's Up Doc with a stone-face, and not laugh once, then I would really really question whether or not we were compatible. Same with Bringing Up Baby. Silly screwball movies are a great litmus test for compatability.

Happy 4th of July!

Boy on Float
Fourth of July Parade.
Vale, Oregon
Russell Lee, photographer, 1941.

(found that on the Library of Congress website - isn't it so great?)

A goldmine!!

Here's why this site Greenbriar Pictures Show is one of my daily pitstops. Every day he writes some long detailed incredibly entertaining essay about a different topic - either actor, or genre, or director - and finds these incredible images to illustrate his essays. Truly - this site is a WONDER. I am perpetually amazed by it. John - great great stuff - keep it up!

Here's a sampling, but this is just the tip of the iceberg:

His essay on Shirley Temple becoming a teenager

An amazing two-parter on Olivia de Havilland: Part One and Part Two

An essay on the human billboards of the 1920s - human billboards!! Dancing girls posing on top of massive letters, etc. A world gone by.

Another great two-parter: Lucy and Desi in the movies. Part One and Part Two.

A not-to-be-missed essay on the mysterious Mary Miles Minter.

A MARVELOUS post about Karloff's The Mummy

Here's one on Easter Parade

And here's one on Carole Lombard

Seriously though ... this is one of the most incredible blogs I've ever seen. Can't get enough!

10 days ...

A cool piece, which really made me think about the days I would choose:

10 days that changed history

I like this writer.

History often occurs when nobody is watching.

Today in History: July 4, 1826

It was the 50th anniversary of July 4, 1776. Both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had been invited to attend huge celebrations in honor of the anniversary, but due to illness - both had sent their regrets and also best wishes, saying they would not be able to come.

These two men, two of the main architects of the American Revolution, long estranged due to political differences, (and Jefferson referring, in public, to "political heresies" among some of his colleagues - a clear dig at Adams - and a clear sign that Jefferson believed in some sort of orthodoxy - this was the breaking point for Adams) had finally reconciled (engineered by Benjamin Rush, who thought it a shame that these two great patriots, once dear friends, would go their graves without making up). Benjamin Rush had a dream that Adams and Jefferson became friends again, and began to correspond - sharing their thoughts, reminiscences, philosophies with one another ... and this correspondence would be a great gift to posterity. Rush, the sly devil, told John Adams about this dream. Hoping it would spark something ... an opening pathway between these two great men. It did. Then followed a 12-year correspondence between the two aging statesmen ... a correspondence that has to be read to be believed. And Rush's dream was prophetic. What an amazing gift to posterity those letters are.

And then ... on the same day ... which happened to be July 4 ... which happened to be the 50th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence ... John Adams and Thomas Jefferson both died. Within hours of each other.

I don't even know what more to say about that.

It makes me understand why so many of these men felt that they had been chosen by "Providence". That there was some divine structure to their actions.

John Adams' last words were either "Jefferson ... still lives." or "Jefferson ... survives." I mean... ex-SQUEEZE me???

Amazingly, though, Jefferson actually had died a couple of hours earlier.

Thomas Jefferson's last words were: "Is it the fourth?" He actually said those words on the 3rd ... yet the fact that that was where his mind went ... it just leaves me awe-struck.

Yes, Mr. Jefferson. It is the fourth. And thank you. Thank you both.

Happy 4th of July, everybody!

Today in History: July 3, 1776

John Adams wrote to Abigail on July 3, 1776 after the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 2:

The Delay of this Declaration to this Time, has many great Advantages attending it. – The Hopes of Reconciliation, which were fondly entertained by Multitudes of honest and well meaning tho weak and mistaken People, have been gradually and at last totally extinguished. – Time has been given for the whole People, maturely to consider the great Question of Independence and to ripen their Judgments, dissipate their Fears, and allure their Hopes, by discussing it in News Papers and Pamphletts, by debating it, in Assemblies, Conventions, Committees of Safety and Inspection, in town and County Meetings, as well as in private Conversations, so that the whole People in every Colony of the 13, have now adopted it, as their own Act. – This will cement the Union, and avoid those Heats, and perhaps Convulsions which might have been occasioned, by such a Declaration Six Months ago. But the Day is past. The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. – I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfire and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. You will think me transported with Enthusiasm, but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil, and Blood, and Treasure that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet, through all the Gloom, I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means, and that Posterity will triumph in that Day's Transaction, even though We should not rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.

Adams was just 2 days off in his prediction.

Genius.

I know it's Hoff's new music video for his song "Jump in my car". I realize it's Hoff. But this video is GENIUS. And by "genius" I mean "mortifying to watch". And yet also ... it's AWE-some.

Suddenly he's dancing in front of an American flag? What? Why? Where did that come from? Also, you're driving on the European side of the car, dude ... are you trying to remind us you're an American? By randomly dancing in front of the stars and stripes? WHY??

And doing AIR GUITAR in your own video? Hoff. I do air guitar myself. Alone. In my apartment. When no one's looking.

Also: sorry, but he is HARASSING those poor girls. There is nothing sexy about a plastic-faced old man basically forcing you and your friends to get in his car with him. This does not look good. I don't care that he's a star and he sang at the Berlin Wall. He is 68 years old, and the girls look, literally, like jail bait. I found it creepy. I found myself wanting to shout at them, "RUN!" No means no, Hoff. They said NO once, twice, even THREE times (in unison, and harmonizing no less!) - what are you deaf???

And yet I found myself tapping my toe. And ... I kinda like the lead girl (who's sitting beside him in the front seat) She's cute. She looks like a young Barbra Streisand - that kind of beautiful strong face. I admit it that I love the girl-voice chorus. And by "love" I mean: "shame-filled involuntary toe-tapping".

What is UP with the devil horns?

Why? I beg of you ... why?

He really has to STOP with the whole phony background thing. It's so dumb.

And yet I do like how he is making fun of his own image. The Kit car. The Baywatch moment. Etc. Self-deprecation is always attractive. Like when he does his own slo-mo. That's actually pretty funny.

And yet ... I question his motives.

Stop harassing the tweens, Hoff.

And don't ever move your hips like that again. Okay? Thanks.

I have so many thoughts. None of them make sense. I can't stop watching it. I absolutely adore it. The best thing I've seen all year.

Here's the whole thing.

Sewanee ... how I love ya, how I love ya

Well, the moment is (almost) here. I continue to work on other projects, etc., - but my first big "Ma, look, I'm Published" - moment is almost here. An essay I wrote is going to be included in the upcoming "Irish Letters" issue of The Sewanee Review - which, frankly, is rather a big deal. Read the history of this illustrious journal here. It is the oldest continuously published literary journal in America. When I read that list of author names I just ... my mind goes blank.

In this venerable journal you'll find the direct literary line to Flannery O'Connor, Robert Penn Warren, Hart Crane, Anne Sexton, Harry Crews, and Fred Chappell-not to mention, Andre Dubus and Cormac McCarthy, whose first stories were published in The Sewanee Review.

So now it's my turn. The most recent issue came out and has my name in the back, part of their "Next up ..." announcements. It's thrilling, really, and I feel all humble and moved and all that. It makes me feel like crying. I am PROUD to be included in such a publication. It gives me goosebumps, frankly.

This was the first piece I sent out for publication (which none of you all have read), and this was the second magazine I chose to send it to. So far, I don't have that bad a track record, huh??

The issue should be out in the fall (at least what's they tell me) and I will certainly give you all a heads up. The Sewanee Review is not easy to find - there are only a couple of little literary magazine shops here in New York where I have seen it. So it's not like you can just run out to Barnes and Noble and get it. Maybe Borders would carry it, but I'm not sure.

I have a subscription, and - I'm not just saying this because I'm going to be published by them - if you like good essays, excellent new fiction, short stories, nonfiction essays, book reviews - The Sewanee Review is top of the line. Also, if you subscribe, you'll be able to participate in my (first) moment of glory. Subscribe here - click on "Order this journal". It's 25 bucks for one year. (I'm shameless, I know. Whatever. I'm normally so humble that I am actually self-destructive. I can afford a little pride. So here you go. BUY THIS MAGAZINE.) But more than that ... just wanted to preen a little bit. I'm really proud and happy and excited.

The Books: "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling.

I didn't know what excerpt to choose! The dementor appearing on the train? The patronus training? Professor Trelawney - one of the goofiest characters ever created (brilliantly portrayed in the movie as well by Emma Thompson) - I just think her whole thing is so FUNNY. But ... well ... I decided to go with this one.

The "fat lady" has disappeared from her painting - which has now been slashed to bits. Dumbledore orders everyone in the school to go into the Great Hall and stay there until the entire castle has been searched. Crisis! Thank goodness we have the priggish git Percy in charge! Every school must have a fascist-dictator-in-training!

This is the book where Harry seems to start dealing, emotionally, with what happened to his parents. The dementors affect on him is devastating - he hears his parents last moments of life - screaming to one another, trying to save their baby son ... Harry seems to be both weakened and strengthened by these glimpses into the horrors of the past.

Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling.

Professor Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he added to Percy, who was looking immensely proud and important.

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, "Oh, yes, you'll be needing ..."

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

"Sleep well," said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly; the Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what had just happened.

"Everyone into their sleeping bags!" shouted Percy. "Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!"

"C'mon," Ron said to Harry and Hermione; they seized three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.

"Do you think Black's still in the castle?" Hermione whispered anxiously.

"Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be," said Ron.

"It's very lucky he picked tonight, you know," said Hermione as they climbed fully dressed into their sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows to talk. "The one night we weren't in the tower ..."

"I reckon he's lost track of time, being on the run," said Ron. "Didn't realize it was Halloween. Otherwise he'd have come bursting in here."

Hermione shuddered.

All around them, people were asking one another the same question. "How did he get in?"

"Maybe he knows how to Apparate," said a Ravenclaw a few feet away. "Just appear out of thin air, you know."

"Disguised himself, probably," said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

"He could've flown in," suggested Dean Thomas.

"Hoestly, am I the only person who's ever bothered to read Hogwarts: A History?" said Hermione crossly to Harry and Ron.

"Probably," said Ron. "Why?"

"Because the castle's protected by more than walls, you know," said Hermione. "There are all sorts of enchantments on it, to stop people entering by stealth. You can't just Apparate in here. And I'd like to see the disguise that could fool those dementors. They're guarding every single entrance to the grounds. They'd have seen him fly in too. And Filch knows all the secret passages, they'll have them covered ..."

"The lights are going out now!" Percy shouted. "I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!"

The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall to check that everything was quiet. Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched him looking around for Percy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. Percy was only a short way away from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be asleep as Dumbledore's footsteps drew nearer.

"Any sign of him, Professor?" asked Percy in a whisper.

"No. All well here?"

"Everything under control, sir."

"Good. There's no point moving them all now. I've found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You'll be able to move them back in tomorrow."

"And the Fat Lady, sir?"

"Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She's still very distressed, but once she's calmed down, I'll have Mr. Filch restore her."

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

"Headmaster!" It was Snape. Harry kept quite still, listening hard. "The whole of the third floor has been searched. He's not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either."

"What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney's room? The Owlery?"

"All searched ..."

"Very well, Severus. I didn't really expect Black to linger."

"Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?" asked Snape.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free his other ear.

"Many, Severus, each of them is as unlikely as the next."

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to where they stood; Dumbledore's back was to him, but he could see Percy's face, rapt with attention, and Snape's profile, which looked angry.

"You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before - ah - the start of term?" said Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block Percy out of the conversation.

"I do, Severus," said Dumbledore, and there was something like warning in his voice.

"It seems - almost impossible - that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed --"

"I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it," said Dumbledore, and his tone made it so clear that the subject was closed that Snape didn't reply. "I must go down to the dementors," said Dumbledore. "I said I would inform them when the search was complete."

"Didn't they want to help, sir?" said Percy.

"Oh, yes," said Dumbledore coldly. "But I'm afraid no demetor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster."

Percy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a moment, watching the headmaster with an expression of deep resentment on his face; then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione. Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling.

"What was all that about?" Ron mouthed.

Diary Friday ... part deux

Continuing on from where we left off yesterday.

Oh and David: if you are reading this:

Our famous first real meeting ends this entry!

PART 2

Everything was lit up by the moon. Boy, was it cold. All I had on was my jeans jacket, a thin grey shirt, rolled up jeans and loafers - with no socks. [Sheila, it's December. What is your problem.] I was chilly. But I was also just so excited about strolling along with Brett. I was shivering for 2 reasons, basically. We didn't really talk. It's sort of a long walk to get to the beach. The moon - bright white and silver. But the sky was cloudy - so the clouds were all stringy, and silver-tipped - scudding across the moon. And the stars were peeking through. It was a spectacular sky. Bimulous. [HA!! A reference to one of my favorite childhood books which I recently rediscovered]

We quietly walked along the road. The silence sounded so loud and wonderful after the party. And far away was the pound of the surf on the beach. All I could do was let the beauty shiver through me. [So ... er ... this means you were shivering for THREE reasons then?] I wanted to pray or say Thank you - to someone! So I kept just thinking, "Thank you! Thank you!"

My teeth were chattering so loudly that Brett heard them and he looked at me.

"You're cold."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Look at you. Wait a minute - " and he took off his scarf and wrapped it around my neck.

I tried to give it back to him so that he wouldn't be cold but he ordered me to keep it. I was thrilled. Yes. I was thrilled.

It was all like a very romantic but very real movie.

The night was so beautiful.

Brett started talking to me. He said, "There's something about nature, isn't there? Whenever I get down, or anxious - I come out here to the beach and I feel in touch again. I'm at peace here. There have been times when I've had - almost religious experiences down on the beach. If I'm lost or confused - I don't know - I get in touch with myself here."

His voice died away. I was shaking so much I could feel it. He could have been me talking. I wanted to say to him, "I understand" but I didn't - I sensed that he was not talking to get my opinion, but just talking to share himself with me. He was revealing something to me. So I shut up and just listened.

I was walking beside him, listening - [then my handwriting freaks out and gets huge and goes jaggeding around the page] LOVING HIM - LOVING THE WORLD AND UNIVERSE!!

The sky - being under that sky - the earth felt so painfully beautiful on that night.

We came to the entrance to the beach. Just a few days ago I found my loafers and they still have sand on them. It gave me a weird feeling to see it. I felt the specialness all over again. The entrance to the beach was lit up by a streetlamp but the moon was glowing even brighter. As we walked through the dunes towards the beach, he said, "This is nice." I smiled at him. I had my hands shoved in my pockets because I was trembling. [Of course you were. You were wearing a jeans jacket IN DECEMBER you moron!!] We came out onto the beach. He kept talking, "I guess - in some ways - I feel like a big brother to you. Like I should protect you."

Do you know that that is what I yearn for? I am independent, but I want to be protected. I want to feel safe. I'm a feminist, but I want to feel safe. It made me almost start crying when he said that he feels like he has to protect me. [This is resonating so hard with me right now - in my life.] He looked over at me and I think he might have thought that I was offended because I didn't say anything. He said, "Well, not just that ..." Then he said with this honest open voice. "I don't know. I feel close to you."

I felt like I was dying. I managed to say, "I feel close to you too."

The beach itself was like a dream. It was so vast - a long long stretch of flat sand that was shining silver in the bright moonlight - and the ocean. I couldn't see the horizon. I saw a flashing lighthouse. I could see the dim white foam, and I could hear the continuous surf.

Life and the world and just being alive and being human is so painfully sweet.

We didn't talk much but we were so close. The whole beach felt like a dream. We were almost one. The beauty of the world, the beauty of us together - we just floated through all of that.

Part of the beach was totally flooded - there was a raging river rushing down from the dunes to the ocean. If we wanted to keep walking, we'd have to somehow cross it. He smiled at me, all mischievous. "What do we do?" I smiled back and said, "Want to make a run for it?" "We'll get wet." "So what?" He started to giggle - and he said, "We're really gonna do this?" I started to laugh too - "Yeah! Come on! On the count of 3." So we both counted and then we dashed across - it turned out that it was deeper than ankle deep and freezing - we both were screaming as we zoomed across, laughing madly and trying to jump in shallow spots that we couldn't see - It was exhilarating. I got quite wet but I didn't care. Oh Diary, I didn't care about a thing but the moment!

Finally, we bounded up on the other side. We were in hysterics. I was really cold - we were both laughing - and suddenly we started hugging, and laughing madly. It felt like the ultimate beautiful friendship. ["Louie?"]

After that, we calmed down, became silent and just stood there, looking out at the water.

It was sort of like looking at eternity, or experiencing foreverness. The moon was behind us - and the endless water and that damn sky and stars. Brett was behind me - I could feel him there. He was all intertwined with the beauty of it all. He was a part of it. I felt so much. Not just for Brett. But I felt so much - wonder, pain, awe, ecstasy, happiness - not able to bear it all. And knowing that Brett knew. Brett knew how I felt. We stood there for a few minutes - then I felt Brett quickly kiss me on the back of my head, and started off walking again. I trotted to keep up with him. We didn't talk. The breeze was lifting my hair off my face, and I had my head thrown back to the stars and moon. I felt beautiful. I can't really explain it, but I think that if a person is beautiful inside then they are automatically beautiful outside. I could love someone that is considered ugly because if I loved him he wouldn't be ugly. I understand it anyway. I usually don't think about what I look like, and when I do - I am not satisfied - but then - I felt sure that how I was feeling inside must show on my face. I felt radiant. Beautiful. I felt loved.

I kept saying fervently, inside, "Thank you, my dear Lord - thank you SO MUCH."

We were heading for the rocks that are on the edge of the beach. Brett told me on the way down, "There are all these rocks on the edge of the beach and there's one rock I always stand on. I feel like King of the Walk because it's up so high and the water comes in and totally surrounds it." He wanted to show me his rock. ["These are my igneous tamula rocks." "Yes! Of course they are!" "Don't touch his rocks." "But really, Professor, do you honestly believe you can make music out of minerals?"]

I pointed out Orion to him. The moon was full, almost blinding - and everything was dimly glowing. (I want to know if I looked as beautiful as I felt.) [Let it go, Sheila. You'll never know.] Occasionally one of us would break the silence. Like, "God, this moonlight!" or "There are so many stars!"

There's this whole part in the play with Alan and Madge:

"Madge, after supper tonight, maybe you and I could take a boat out on the river."

"All right, Alan."

"I want to see if you look real in the moonlight."

That sort of my entered mind just as Brett said, "I wanted to see if you looked real in the moonlight." I started laughing and said, "I was just thinking that!"

Brett said, "Joanna wrote me the nicest thing in her card to me. She said 'To a very real person.'"

"That's the most important thing," I said. "Being real."

We got to the rocks and started to climb. Brett led the way. I was hopping from rock to rock, trying not to slip. The rocks looked so smooth and marble in the moonlight - some had mossy stuff all over them but it was too dark to see. I jumped on one mossy rock unknowingly, and my feet flew out from beneath me and down I went. It shocked me more than it hurt me. We both started giggling. He tried to say, "You have to be careful" but he couldn't get it out he was laughing too hard. I stood up and we kept climbing. There were puddles in between the rocks and I remember stopping to look down in one. It was perfectly smooth - no ripples - and in it was perfectly reflected the moon. I called Brett over to see. He started to lead the way again, but he reached out and took my hand. That's how we went from then on. It was so comfortable. Hand in hand, jumping from rock to rock, not even really talking.

There was one point when I slipped again, and fell into icy cold water up to the middle of my shin. I screeched - and again - we both just started guffawing about it. Brett was moaning, "If you get pneumonia, your mom'll kill me. Sheila - dry your leg off with my scarf."

"But it's a white scarf!"

He was so firm - "Forget the scarf. Wipe your leg off. I mean it. You'll really get sick."

So I dried my leg off. (The whole night was like the ultimate experience.)

I love the feeling of security I get with him. Of him taking care of me, looking out for me - but never bossing me around. I just feel protected, like he's there for me.

We came to Brett's rock. He jumped up onto it - it was so high up that my eyes were on a level with his Nikes. I leaned my elbows on the rock and stared out to sea. I occasionally arched my neck to look up at him. I can still see him in my mind. He almost looked superhuman. He had his hands in his pockets and he was staring at the ocean. When I looked up, all I could see was him, and behind him the sky, and stars. He's so human. [Uhm ... thought you just said he was superhuman. I don't understand.]

I could have looked out to sea forever. The waves curled in around the rocks. I love the noise of the surf. The beauty hurt me. I rested my chin in my hands and just let myself be vulnerable to all of it. And that Brett would want to share this with me - Brett was opening himself up to me, too. No guy has ever opened himself up to me. He had said to me earlier, "I guess I see a lot of myself in you." And that's strange, because that's exactly what I have been thinking. That's why I am drawn to him. Because instinctively, I sensed something in him, from the beginning. I knew that I was drawn to him - so at first I chalked it up as a crush. When really - it's that he is someone I relate to. He is one of those very rare people who feels the same way I do about things. And there's so much more to learn about him and discover in him.

As he was standing up there, he said, "I love to come down here. I just look ... and listen ... and feel." I was feeling it too. Being human and alive and real - it was all so painfully clear to me that night. I was aware that I was alive - at every second. For a long time I haven't been to church, I haven't had time, and I was so wrapped up with my happiness here on earth. I was so engrossed with being HAPPY. But that night on the beach, I felt God again. There He was. No apology was needed for Him to accept me in again. I was just tingling with everything. The whole night was like this continuous "thank you". Thank you Thank you. I wondered if Brett felt the same thing. So I asked him if he did. It took me about five minutes to get up the guts. I mean, I'm used to TS where asking "how was your weekend" is a big fucking deal.

When I asked Brett - I could see his smile - a slow, spreading smile. He didn't look at me. His eyes were still out on the water, but he smiled. I knew that it had been all right to ask. He said, "It's funny that you asked me because I was just about to tell you." He squatted down so our faces were on the same level. Looking at him in that moment, I knew that I loved him more than I could ever express. But for some reason, it didn't ache like it did with DW or with TS sometimes. It was just love - powerful and pure - It felt a little bit painful but that's only because there was so much of it.

He spoke quietly and I don't think I want to record the conversaion we had. It's sacred to me, and I do not want to touch its loveliness. It was cosmic in every way. We had this talk - about life and being alive - on a rock at the edge of this ocean and underneath this sky. Life felt so crystal clear.

Afterwards, Brett said, "Let's climb some more, shall we?" He jumped down from his rock and we started hopping rock to rock again. On one big flat rock, he suddenly turned to me. I couldn't see his face in the dark but I could feel his smile. He put his arms around me and hugged me so tight that I almost couldn't catch my breath. And I remember thinking, "This is how I will remember the last night of Picnic now. This time on the beach with him." [And it's true. All the other stuff I have almost no memory of - but this entire walk on the beach remains perfectly crystallized in my mind]

As we were hugging - suddenly we heard these far-off shrieks and shouts: "BRETT! SHEILA!"

It was Joe and Liz come to find us. What was so perfect is when they came - they didn't interrupt that conversation. I don't even like to relive that conversation. I don't even want to go near it. It is too special. But Joe and Liz arrived on the beach about 5 minutes after the conversation - so it was perfect. We started back to meet them. I slipped and fell once again. More hysteria.

We met them at the edge of the rocks. Liz had shaved off Joe's mustache. He looked so different! What is so cool about me and Brett is that there is such a happy medium with us. I mean - we were really deep and serious and sweet when we were alone - and then when Joe and Liz showed up - we were absolutely crazy. We all went absolutely crazy on that beach. We stood on the rocks by the shore for a while, shivering, and then we started back. Liz and I were walking along calmly, and Joe and Brett were going BONKERS behind us. Brett stopped us and said, "Okay - what is this from?" And he started running around and throwing sand like a madman and then he stood at the water's edge, flung his arms out, and yelled, "WHAT IS IT? WHAT IS IT?" We all shouted, "CLOSE ENCOUNTERS" at the top of our lungs.

We got back to the house. Liz and I went inside and Joe and Brett didn't. We found out later that they had gotten into Joe's car and were yelling and laughing and being crazy and pretending to drive it. The party had thinned down. A lot of people had left. Jennifer was still there. I look at her sort of as a mother figure. She fusses over me, worries about me. I adore her. Joe and Brett finally came inside and the four of us went up to Joe's room because Brett had stashed away a bottle of champagne there. The four of us sat on Joe's bed with wine glasses and made about 8,000,000 toasts. We went around in a circle - toasting the stupidest things we could think of. We toasted scrambled eggs. We toasted Roy Scheider. [hahahahahahaha] We toasted Kimber. We also toasted the cast, the run of our play, the frienships created. Brett toasted me, shouting, "TO SHEILA O'MALLEY!" I made a toast to peer pressure.

After that, after the champagne, things started getting even crazier. Joe read poems out of this book of his and Brett did modern Interpretive Dance to the poems. I swear, I have never laughed that hard in my life. We were all out of control. Tears were streaking down my cheeks. It is one of the funniest things I have ever seen ever. It's making me laugh right now just writing about it. I thought I would die of shortage of breath. It was 4 o'clock in the morning and Brett was writhing around doing Interpretive Dance as Joe read some Emily Dickinson poem. It was a RIOT.

And somehow - after that - we all ended up lying on Joe's bed in a row and going to sleep. The four of us. For a while we talked, but then gradually - I realized that we had all gone silent. I could hardly move. I fell asleep with my lenses in. We all woke up simultaneously at about 5:30 when the sun rose up out of the ocean. I felt groggy, drugged - it was so funny that we all woke up at the same moment. I stumbled into Brett's room where my lens case and saline was - I took the lenses out - they were sticking to my eyes - so dry - it was hard to get them out. Brett climbed back into his own bed. I climbed back into Joe's bed. Liz climbed into Brett's bed. This whole thing sounds so weird but it was totally natural at the time. I actually really liked the comfort of knowing that someone was lying beside me.

Outside Joe's window is a beautiful view of the ocean horizon - it was all blue and pink and peach mists - really gentle and dawn-ish - I could hear the surf from Joe's room. He had cracked a window.

Oh, and that night I had to go and be in Antigone! I had a good sleep though - about 2 hours of total slumber. [Ah, youth!] I woke up at about 7:00 and I felt like I had been sleeping forever. [The fact that my parents let me sleep over is amazing to me. Second of all - it is obvious that their trust in these college kids was not misplaced. I mean, yes, I was drinking ... but look at that night. There is nothing about it that is not innocent. Amazing.]

Joe and I were both awake, so we went outside to sit on the lawn. It was so breezy, early morning freshness, the view of the beach, the coolness of the morning, the salty air. My hair was sticking straight up. I had my glasses on. I stretched out on the grass beside Joe, and we just breathed it all in. I wished I never had to leave.

I spent the day there - Jennifer and me had stayed over - so we all just lounged about the whole day. Liz had to leave because she was directing a play - Brett and Joe drove me home. I knew that I had to say goodbye to Jen. I didn't know when would be the next time I'd see her because she was going home for Christmas. I was so psyched for her because she hadn't seen her family since June. When we both slept over the first time, we sat downstairs and talked on the pullout bed in the living room and she told me about her family - eight kids - she missed everybody so much. Jennifer cries easily - she thinks of her home and she starts to cry. She's just so beautiful.

So we hugged and I said, "Have a beautiful Christmas with your family. I want to hear all abuot it!" I heard her say, "I love you, baby." She's so sincere.

Then we got into Joe's car - all three of us crmped in the front. It was about 5:00 - so the sun had just started setting. I was pretty much quiet on the way home. We all made plans to go see Liz's play which was being put on the next day and everyone was going to go roller-skating on Tuesday. [Cue David!!]

I totally discouraged them from coming to see Antigone. As a matter of fact, I begged them not to.

When we got to my house - there wasn't the big BOOM goodbye that I had been dreading - because we didn't have to. We would be seeing each other again, and soon. Strange - but I had never thought of that. I had thought it woudl be really goodbye. But we just said goodbye to the show - not to each other.

It was so neat - at the party, before Brett and I left, I was talking to Joe - he sat down beside me and he said, "Oh, I meant to thank you for the card ..." and somehow, leading up to it, he said, "Not a day goes by when your name doesn't come up in our conversations."

Brett got out of the car to let me out. Joe and I hugged and kissed - when I got out, Brett smiled at me. When he looks at me, I feel so comfortable with who I am. No, not just comfortable. I like who I am. We had a nice hug - then I backed away, both us still smiling - I said, "That was nice on the beach" - and, as though he hadn't been thinking of it and was just reminded - he smiled at me. So much talking with no words. Sometimes with guys - or, all the time with guys - I feel like I am so much more moved by stuff than they are. Like that one time I danced with DW. I felt kind of delirious with happiness and I just never felt like DW was that thrilled about it. [This struggle continues on to this day. I am "too much". I guess I always have been, always will be. Interesting to see me pick up on that already, though.]

It was a blessing from God that I got in this play. I have changed. I mean, look at me. When I step back and really evaluate the changes. I called TS just to say, "Why are you giving me mixed signals?" I can't even believe that. Last year it took me half an hour to get up the guts to call Keith M. for a math assignment. [hahahahaha - Keith M! My schoolboy hero! And I'm so insane that I recounted that whole phone exchange in yet another Diary Friday.]

By the way, it's December 31 now. This is the day before MY year begins. I will graduate high school and go to college this year. What's gonna happen this year? [Oh man. Don't ask.] I sent off my college application on Friday. But I'm still not done with Picnic stories. Not by a long shot!

Brett is home at his parents now. But when he comes back I can't wait to see him! I can't wait for college, too. Here's one reason why:

When we all went roller-skating - it was so much fun. I love to roller skate anyway, but it was such a blast. None of the guys could skate. Watching Joe on roller skates was so hysterical. Brett picked it up pretty fast though. And David. David W. He is a freshman right now - he was in the O'Neills - he was GREAT.

I've never really talked to him. He'd been at some of the parties. We'd been introduced but - we really hit it off roller skating. He is hysterical. It was his first time on skates, maybe - so I was leaning up against the wall and he came to a crash landing beside me, and immediately assumed this nonchalant macho pose, with dead macho eyes, and said, "Hey, baby, come here often?" and right then his feet flew out from under him and down he went. He kept doing this. I was having fits about him the whole night. College boys are so fun! Whenever he skated near me, I'd start yelling, "Stay away from me! You scare me! You're gonna take me down!" Liz and Brett skated off on a couples skate and Dave and I stood there - [Dave? Who the hell is that?] and - you will not believe how EASY [again: I do not have a font big enough to show how large those letters are] it was to ask him to skate. [David: HA! See? I asked you!!] It was as easy as saying, "Hello!" We had been laughing all night so it all felt natural. So we did - we skated the rest of the night, hand in hand. Liz was doing all these arabesques with Brett - so we tried them and ended up in a painful crash on the floor.

But we had a blast. David is unbelievably sweet.

[I have a weird lump in my throat right now. David is still one of my best friends. This is our first meeting. It is rather controversial - as we both have different versions of it - but that's okay! I just feel a bit choked up - because all of these people are still in my life. Dear dear friends. Liz, Brett, David ... all of them. I miss Joe - I wonder where he is now.]

Other Picnic entries:

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.
Part 5. Rehearsals start
Part 6. Rehearsals. Stress building.
Part 7. Crush with Brett intensifying. Finding my own way as an actress. Stress building.
Part 8. Dropping out of religious retreat with much sturm und drang.
Part 9. Being invited to college party
Part 10. Going to college party
Part 11. Aftermath of college party!
Part 12. Rehearsals! Life! Going crazy!
Part 13. The rehearsal when the play clicks into place, emotionally.
Part 14. Opening night approaching. Homecoming Dance approaching.
Part 15 Homecoming Dance. Homecoming football game. Rage.
Part 16 Last rehearsal before 3 day Thanksgiving break. Heaven!
Part 17 Opening Night!
Part 18 More on Opening Night.
Part 19 The show closes. Drama with the boyfriend. Reconnecting with my friends.
Part 20 Description of closing night - part 1.

The Books: "Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets" (J.K. Rowling)

Next book on the shelf ... (we're in my children's and young adult bookshelves, by the way):

Next book on the shelf is Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets by J.K. Rowling.

The books are so episodic that I found it hard to pick out an excerpt. Like - we have the flying car which leads to the Whomping Willow. But - once that's over, it's over - and onto the next thing. (I find parts of the books tedious for that reason - It ends up reading like: "And then THIS happened and then THIS happened and then THIS happened ..." and eventually I'm like: "So?" I get bored with the episodic nature of the books sometimes. The main PLOT-LINE of each book - the ARC, if you will - is there in the titles. The final battle, or stand-off - is always in the title - but I feel like some of the episodes included are extraneous and could have been chopped earlier along in the process.) All of this is to say I flipped through the book, reminiscing about my favorite parts - I love the ridiculousness of Lockhart - He is such a funny character. I love how the Weasleys come and save Harry in the beginning of the book. This is our first introduction to The Burrow, and what a cozy chaotic happy place it is. You just love being there, and you're happy for Harry to have such good friends.

Anyway, I decided - as an excerpt - to go with the Deathday Party (or at least part of it). I just found some of the images really arresting, and cool - and I also love Rowlings cleverness and wit here. The books are funny - that's one of the reasons I am so hooked on them. Like - the group of "gloomy nuns" at the party ... It's just such a funny random image. I love that detail.

Also, I am SURE that Rowling was subtly referencing Miss Havisham's decaying wedding feast in this section. Can't be a coincidence.

Also, please. I love Ron so much I frankly do not know what to do with myself.

Excerpt from Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets by J.K. Rowling.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful. These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all bursting bright-blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

"My dear friends," he said mournfululy, 'Welcome, welcome ... so pleased you could come ..."

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his feet.

"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Ron nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle --"

"Who?" said Harry as they backtracked quickly.

"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said Hermione.

"She haunts a toilet?"

"Yes. It's been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you --"

"Look, food!" said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words.

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON
DIED 31ST OCTOBER 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a porly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

"Can you taste it if you walk through it?" Harry asked him.

"Almost," said the ghost sadly and he drifted away.

"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione knowledgably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.