The Sheila Variations

The giant

I wasn't very nice to John. I look back on how I treated him, the bluntness with which I dealt with his emotions, the devil-may-care attitude I took towards the future, and I'm stunned at my own callousness. At the time I said to myself, "Look, I'm just being honest with him" and I was - I can honestly say that I was more honest with John than I probably was with anybody else in my life at that time. He was a stranger to me, someone completely new, and I was in the process of re-inventing myself and he was the first to benefit from the new me. Or be bludgeoned by the new me. Depends on how you look at it. I see it now as bludgeoning. Later, once I became used to this new person, the person who had shuffled off the shackles of my Holly Hobbie dress-wearing past, I didn't need to bludgeon people over the head with my persona. But John got there first. I trembled on the abyss, I remember the feeling. I could have gone backwards ... it would be so easy to go backwards ... that old self was right there, I could still feel her in me, I could still revert to her in moments of insecurity or when I feel threatened ... but oh, this new self has arisen, and she is powerful, and she is free, and she doesn't have to be the way she used to be, she doesn't have to accept that old destiny ... But I was awkward just being myself. I had no idea who I was, but I knew the old me was dead. Any infringement on my new self, any limits put on her - I fought like a tiger. I was not graceful yet. I was still learning. I was like a giant trying to play with a human-size chessboard. There was much bumbling. There was much inadvertent bludgeoning. And so I bludgeoned John with honesty. And he took it. Maybe I didn't respect him for that, but I don't believe it's that simple.

For a while there, for 2 or 3 months during that manic spring, we had an awesome understanding. I had just moved to Chicago, fleeing a relationship gone bad, and a crack-up in Woodland Hills that left me chastened and frightened about my ability to actually get along in this world. My old boyfriend, my first love, had moved on already. He was dating someone else. The fact of this seared through me, singe-ing me to the bone. And yet he also would call me, randomly, from pay phones, choked with tears, as he suddenly realized what we had actually done.

I was in a new city, a city I had only spent 24 hours in prior to moving there, and everything was shimmering, dangerous, the air full of knives. But instead of sensing the threat, I only felt excitement. The pores opening up, the fearlessness rising. I loved walking through the streets, dodging the knives hurtling at me. I still had terrible moments, lonely moments, in my first apartment - the only apartment I had ever had by myself. A quiet dark room, with a ratty grey carpet, the hallways reeking of the sweet poison of roach motels. The elevator was rickety and would stall between floors. It had a creaking metal gate that you had to yank open to disembark. I put on my Salvation Army bought corporate outfit, and took the L downtown to my temp assignments, staring out the window, my eyes dilated, my breath high in my chest. I had been living with fear for a couple of years. Dodging the truth about myself. Tamping down the reality of Sheila, in order to fit into my relationship. Carol Shields talks about "inner weather". I had been in open battle to calm down my inner weather for years, thinking that there was something wrong with me, something was terribly terribly wrong.

Turns out there was something wrong. But it wasn't with the ups and downs of my inner weather. It was the suppression that was wrong. It took me years to come to terms with it, and on some level - it is an issue with which I still struggle. I rode the L, wearing my little flats, my hose, my hair pinned down to one side, staring out at the roofs of the brownstones, the lights of Wrigley Field, the brand-new silhouette of the Chicago skyline against the dusk, and think: This is me. This. Is. Me. I had never had my life look the way I wanted it to look. Not since I was, oh, 5 or 6, maybe. But now, I got to choose. It's not that everything suddenly was hunky-dory and all my dreams had come true. It was that now, it all was up to me, and to me alone. I was by myself, I had my own apartment, I was single as an adult for the first time ever, and I was meeting every challenge that came my way. I could do this. I could sign up with a temp agency. I could kick ass on the typing test. I could look for an apartment, find an apartment, put down money for it, get a cat, get my cat his shots, and set up a litter box. These are small things, but at this point in my life they were tremendous triumphs. There was a secondhand store where I bought a mattress. I put it on the floor. I had no other furniture for months. It didn't feel right to have possessions. All of my books were shipped to me from LA and I threw them all out. Can you believe that? That gives you some idea. I threw out my entire book collection. Eventually I got a little two-seater couch, a hand-me-down from a friend - but for the year that I lived there, that was it, in terms of furniture. I didn't even put blinds up. My windows remained bare, and open to the alley and building beyond. I just didn't care. The details of life, the surface stuff, which had consumed me when I was with my boyfriend - no longer seemed relevant or interesting. It had been a highly domestic relationship, where we cared about futon covers and teflon and shower curtains and getting our pitcutres framed, All that had disappeared. Vanished. Never, really, to return, actually. I enjoy having nice bookshelves. And I love the curtains my mom made for me. And I am happy that I can now afford a nice bed, with a great mattress and a box spring, and I have a really nice dresser with a swivel mirror that I adore. But that obsession with domesticity, that feeling that pots and pans are important ... is not in my DNA. I felt shame about that for years. I felt like I, as a woman, was supposed to somehow ... give a crap. It's harder for some people. It was hard for me. I had been at war with my own nature.

I have a Polaroid of myself from a fund raiser I went to very early on in Chicago, maybe 2 months after I had arrived. I had been cast in a show and the theatre company held a fund raiser. I was making new friends. I hadn't made a new friend in years, my relationship had been very insular, we had been each other's everything. Most of the new friends I made were men. They hovered around me. Kenny, Paul, Michael At the time the photo was taken, I was very skinny, skinnier than I had ever been. This was not because, oh, I was dieting and taking care of myself. The skinniness was a direct result of the horrible breakup, of being so poor that I lived on Lipton's cup-a-soup, and the adrenaline rush of having to survive. On my own. I stand in the middle of an open space in the photo that I have, I am wearing all black, my hair is curly and red, I am pale, and I am smiling, my mouth open, holding a plastic cup of wine. A mere two months before I had been sitting in my room in Woodland Hills, California, wearing an old jumper I had made, a lavendar Holly Hobbie jumper, billowing, shapeless, tennis sneakers, and a T-shirt, sitting and watching M*A*S*H re-runs, and drinking Rolling Rock. Sick at heart. The transformation was that radical, that fast.

In retrospect, I suppose if I could - I would say to that girl in the photo: "Sheila, you have no business getting involved with anyone right now. You need to be by yourself. You're a mess." And while this was true, my messiness had nothing to do with needing to be in a relationship again. It was completely the opposite.

I have girlfriends who have never been single, and who cannot be alone. They need a boyfriend. "Having a boyfriend" is, and always has been, a part of their adult lexicon. This was not me, although I was not believed at first when I would share this with the new men (we'll get back to John in a minute). Men would roll their eyes at my declaration of independence, and say, "Yeah, right. You girls are all alike. You all just want a boyfriend. I've heard this one before." I don't blame the guys for having this response, by the way. They were responding to the stereotype - the stereotype that exists because, for the most part, it is real. Only in this specific case, it was not real. I actually meant what I said. It wasn't until I met M. (only a couple of months in the future) that I found a man who not only did not roll his eyes at my declarations, but grinned and said, "Cool. Me too."

My first month in Chicago was chaotic. I crashed on my friend Jackie's couch. The sky was white and wintry. The dome from the church a block away stark and black against the billowing blizzardy sky. I had a suitcase of clothes. I missed my boyfriend so much that I would lie at night, on her couch, clutching myself, holding on, pressing my hand down over the spot on my chest where my heart was, trying to soothe, trying to press it back, tamp it down. Jackie and I also got bronchitis, with the swiftness of a stampede. We lay on her couch together, watching Life Goes On, feverish, our throats burning ("there is a tiki torch in my throat" Jackie said 10 times a day), and occasionally - I would start to weep. I remember one disastrous bronchitis-ridden afternoon when we were flipping through the channels, saw that The Way We Were was on, and thought, foolishly, "Oh, we love this movie! Let's watch!" By the end, we were both wrecks, but then my wreckage took over the afternoon. It was one of those moments. Jackie was crying about the movie, I was crying about the movie, and then I started crying about my whole life, and then, whaddya know, I could not stop. Jackie, even with her tiki torch brigade, took care of me. I was lying face down on her couch, holding onto a blanket with fists, crying so hard no sound came out. By this point, the skinny Sheila had already started to emerge, my old pajamas suddenly hung off me, I swam in them. And that afternoon, I happened to have a blue bandana wrapped around my head. So I lay on her couch, and howled, and Jackie got Kleenex, and the white sky shot away from us out her window, and Jackie had a couple of moments when she looked at me, skinny and pale with the bandana around my head, and thought, "Wow. Sheila totally looks like a chemo victim right now." We laughed about it later. "Member that day I was a chemo victim on your couch?"

But once I got my own apartment, and got my cat Sammy, I started settling in. Settling in to a new and oftentimes jagged reality. I was unhinged, unattached. I was in a strange freefall. Every day I woke up thinking; Anything can happen today. Earlier on, as the bronchitis was starting to settle in, Jackie and I were invited to be part of a new actor's collective, called The Actor's Gym. We had to go meet the two organizers of it up in an apartment in Rogers Park. The tiki torches had begun their approach, so we were ill, but we kept our appointment. We hacked our way through the interview, talking about what we were looking for as actors, telling our interviewers what type of work we had done. "I worked at The Walnut Street ... hack cough hack ... which was great for me ... cough ... I just moved here ... cough cough ... so I'm looking to immerse myself ... hack hack hack tiki tiki ..." The beautiful thing, in memory, about that surreal hacking afternoon in Rogers Park, in an apartment that was being painted so every piece of furniture was covered with a drop cloth, adding to the unreal atmosphere, is that one of the men interviewing me was Ted - a man who would become a dear friend, and who remains a dear friend to this day. This was my first moment meeting him. He remembers that first encounter. "You guys were so sick. We just fell in love with both of you." They invited us to join the Actor's Gym. Doing battle with the tiki torches made it difficult to be 100% psyched about anything, but I did have the presence of mind to be happy, proud, and gratified. I had been in Chicago 2 weeks when I joined the Actor's Gym.

Every Saturday a group of actors would meet in a drafty warehouse space, above the China Club, a red-velvet-rope nightclub on the outskirts of downtown Chicago. The windows were as tall as the walls of my apartment, and the wintry wind shrieked through the cracks into our class. Through the windows, you could see the Sears Tower. I would be lying on the buckled hard-wood floor, doing my breathing exercises, doing the group sensory exercises that were part of the Gym, and occasionally I would open my eyes, stare out the window to see the blinking red lights of the Sears Tower antennae against the black night sky, and feel something akin to contentment. It had been years, so I wasn't sure if that would be an accurate word for that emotion. Did "contentment" feel so exciting? So full of possibility? That's how I felt in that warehouse space. With the bare lightbulbs, the scratched table, the random furniture lying on the outskirts - a bedframe, an old fridge with the door off, battered chairs, desks - the leftovers of some defunct bureaucracy. This is where we had our acting class.

And that was where I met John.

He wasn't the first guy to show interest in me. He was just the first guy to make a move. In my bludgeoning honesty, I said that to him later, in a defensive tone, "You just made the move first." This was the truth. John said, "Well ... what if Donald had made the move first?" " I totally would have gone out with Donald." I saw no point in lying to John. I wasn;t having a relationship wtih him, where it seemed to be required that you lie, gently, in order to save the other person's precious feelings. John would laugh. "So ... what ... you like Donald?" "I have no idea." "But you just said you would have gone out with him." "If he asked me, sure. Why wouldn't I?" "How about Paul?" "What's wrong with Paul?" "Nothing." "I totally would have gone out with Paul if he had asked." "So ... are you saying ... that you are only going out with me because I asked first?"

I was so selfish at that point, so consumed with my own reality, that I saw no problem, none, with telling the truth. "Of course, John. You asked first." It was a brutal place I was in, a place of pared-down behavior. You said what you felt. You acted according to your conscience. You did NOT LIE. You did NOT PLAY GAMES. I took all of this quite literally. Donald was hot, and Donald was interested in me. Donald said to me point-blank, "Sheila, call me when you're done with John. You and me? We've got unfinished business." "Okay. I will." I saw no problem with any of this.

But, as always, I am getting ahead of myself.

John showed interest in me almost immediately. Chicago is a smaller town than New York, and all of the actors know each other, or know of each other. I was new. A new girl had come to town, and so she is automatically interesting, by default. I noticed, during our Actor's Gym Saturdays, that he would always be by my side, making conversation, lingering so we could walk out together.

A couple of words about who John was. He was a very good actor, who had been in kind of a large hit the season before, so he had that confidence about him. There were other guys in the Gym who might have been more good-looking or sexy ... I hang out with actors, who are weird people, in that there are usually a ton of freakily good-looking sexy people in my field. These are my peeps. John had beautiful piercing blue eyes, he was pale, and he had an interesting intense face, with an ear to ear grin. He dressed down, he was not a dandy. He was kind of a schlump, to tell you the truth. He wasn't 30 yet, but he had a receding hairline. And yet charm? If the boy could bottle what he had, men round the world would score on a more regular basis. He wrote the book on charm. He had a kick-ass personality, a snarky sinister sense of humor, and a beautiful way with women. I would dare any woman to try to resist him. He knew how to draw women out, he knew how to ask leading questions, he appeared to listen, he would make funny comments, he forgot nothing, and he also seemed to truly enjoy the company of women. Women respond to that. John was as much of a dog as the rest of the guys. He was no wilting sensitive flower. He, like the rest of them, wanted to get as much tail as he possibly could ... but if you, as a man, come off as a person only interested in tail, then you will only get a certain kind of woman. Because real quality women hate being treated like tail, and resent it. We also are interested in being seduced and having as much sex as we possibly can. Of course we are. But if you treat us as though we are interesting? As though you actually enjoy spending time with us? You will never be lonely, kid.

But let me try to describe where I was at, psychologically, at this point. I was not "looking". I was not "on the market". I wasn't even like, "Maybe I'll be ready to be on the market by the fall." The marketplace was 10 oases away, as far as I was concerned. I wasn't planning on living like a nun, oh no. I was planning on having lots of sex. I was hyped up, I was alive to myself, I felt pretty for the first time in years, and I loved the buzzing male attention. I had been "off the market" for 4 years. My ex-boyfriend had been my first (and only) boyfriend, so I had zero experience outside of him and was ready to branch out. I was 24 years old. Time to have some fun. But not boyfriend fun. No. Keep it light, keep it unattached, don't get involved, because you know what "being involved" means. "Being involved" means futon covers and Holly Hobbie. The choices were that stark to me. To me, boyfriend meant "domesticity" and that word has taken on unfavorable connotations to me ever since. Spare me from domesticity. Do not fence me in. Do not tie me down (unless we're in bed together!). BE with me if you want. If I want. But do not fence me in. I was in a growth spurt when I met John. Growth spurts are not comfortable. You do not gradually go from child to adolescent. From adolescent to adult. There are pains. People get hurt along the way. I don't mean to excuse my behavior, because much of what I did to John was appalling. But I was suddenly, for the first time in my life, in the realm of Truth. My truth. You think truth isn't relative? Then you can't understand my life. I was living in a perpetual state of blinding white truth. At every moment of the day. Say whatever is on your mind. Speak it out. Damn the consequences.

Our sessions at the Actors Gym were so long that we would take a dinner break. I remember being outside, and it was still daylight out. Perhaps I was going to a nearby deli to gorge myself on Lipton's cup-a-soup. I remember John following me, and catching up to me, and saying, squinting at me with those blue eyes, "I'd love to take you out. Would you like to go out sometime?" I felt a quickening, a small flutter up and down my nervous system. Here it is. The moment. I had felt that it was coming. It was in the air. But I had also felt it with Donald. With Kenny. With Paul. With Michael. But John had the balls to make the move. I liked John. He made me laugh. I remember him saying, during class once, he was up in front of the class, doing an acting exercise, in front of all of us, being guided through it by Bobby, the leader - and it was a raw and open and almost excruciating thing to watch - and I remember John muttering to himself at one point, in the middle of it all, "I feel like I'm having a stroke", and it was so dry, so witty, such a comment on what all of us felt when we were in his position, that waves of laughter erupted throughout the warehouse room. He was self-deprecating, he was honest about feeling scared, like a doofus, he made sure the joke was always on him. I liked him. So when he asked me out, I said to him, openly, "I'd love that!"

I hadn't been on a date since I was in college. And I was no longer the same person I had been then. I was now a woman. I had had sex. I don't remember our first date, and as a matter of fact, all of our dates kind of blend together - although there are some spectacularly original and cinematic moments which have stayed in my brain, the nuggets at the bottom of the sieve. Insane sexual escapades.

In retrospect, John was my entryway into the Chicago actor life. He knew everyone. He was well liked. He had a busy social life. He loved to go out. He loved meeting up with friends at the Melrose Diner at midnight, after their shows got out. I would go with him. I met crowds of awesome people. John knew weird things to do, odd events: miniature golf tournaments, weird matinees of performance artists who lathered paint over their body and screamed about their mothers, midnight double-features of Andy Warhol movies. We did all of that stuff. I never would have been up for all of that on my own. I am much more of a solitary type. I probably would have holed myself up in my apartment, with the mattress on the floor, my meowing cat, my soup, and read. I was very into Jeanette Winterson at that point. The Passion became a guiding post, a lantern lighting the way for me. Villanelle - the red-headed cross-dressing web-footed gambler - the heroine of The Passion - took up space in my imagination. Her freedom with her love, her intensity, her knowledge of herself - that the domestic way would never be for her ... I read that book over and over.

John included me in his crazy whirl, and - very unlike myself - I went along for the ride. John would call me after our nights out and say, laughing, "Well, once again, you were a huge hit last night." "I was?" "Yeah. 2 of the guys and 1 of the girls asked me for your phone number." "Really? Which ones? Tyler?" "Yeah. Tyler." "I loved her." "Yeah, well. She loved you."

I did not take John seriously. Not as a potential mate anyway. I did not feel that we were "moving towards" anything. I did not let him think that this could ever "be" anything. I didn't know much at that point - I was just getting through each day - but I did know that I would not be a girlfriend any time soon. No. No girlfriend. I am not a girlfriend. No. No. No.

Early on, maybe our second or third date, John and I sat in the back room of a bar which actually was just a house. There was no sign outside. I have no idea where we were in Chicago. I never knew where I was with John. The city was so new. But there was a bar - and it was in a house. You walked in and it was a regular old house, with a living room, a kitchen - and yet there was one room with a bar. You ordered drinks. Then you went and hung out in the house, wherever you could find a spot. We sat in a back room, by ourselves. It was dark, and there was a couch. There were windows, with lights shining on them, and the windows were stained glass - deep blues and reds and blinding whites. I feel like I can't be remembering this correctly, that essential expositionary details are lost, and perhaps this is true, but the fact remains: we were in a bar, that was just a regular house, and there were lit-up stained glass windows. Nobody joined us. We had stained-glass window room to ourselves. John, in his charming way, grilled me on my life. I was the opposite of cagey. I was the bludgeoning giant, remember. Unconcerned with how I was coming across, unconcerned with the fact that maybe this person - this man sitting with me - actually was ... a PERSON ... who might be developing feelings for me - I answered his questions forthrightly. I could not lie anymore. No more tamping down. And John was one of those people - so typical of actors - who are hungry for information. They love people. Their religion is other people. Who IS that person? What is HER story? Why are his eyes like that? What is going on with him? John turned that spotlight onto me. "Where'd you grow up?" "What was high school like?" "What was your first kiss?" "You moved here from where?" Tireless. I do not remember the connecting of the dots, but I do remember this. In that dark stained glass room I said to him, "Listen. We can hang out. I am having a BLAST right now." (I was.) "But you must not think I will be your girlfriend. I will never be your girlfriend. I'm just not into that right now. I am not into any of that. You just need to know what you're getting into." This was not a script. A "let's not be exclusive" script. An "I'm just not that into you" script. It was a bluntly spoken expression of what was going on with me. I liked John, and I loved how he was dragging me around the city, doing cool things, and I was even cool with it being romantic, and us having dates. "But don't ever introduce me as your girlfriend. Because if you do - you'll never see me again." John burst into laughter. We both were kind of drunk. I started laughing too. The blues and reds of the stained glass piercing through the black. I said, "I'm serious. No girlfriend talk. I just won't have it." John said, "Let's just keep hanging out. I'm fine with that." I had a bad premonition. So of course I spoke it out. "I feel like you're gonna develop feelings for me. And you really can't. I am not available. Seriously. If you think you can't handle it, get out now." "I'm not looking for anything serious right now either." Doubt prickled at my spine. IIt's like I was the stereotypical guy, and he was the stereotypical girl. I felt like I wasn't being believed. I said, "You're not?" "No. Let's just keep hanging out." "John, just remember what I said. No girlfriend talk. If I hear the word 'girlfriend' out of your mouth, you'll never see me again." Then John attacked me. In the stained glass room. Okay, I can deal with THAT. I had been monogamous with my boyfriend, of course. I had been unhappy for a long time. So I made out with John in that black and red and blue lit back room, in the bar that was a house, in some unknowable Chicago neighborhood, and it was awesome. He probably didn't know what hit him. I had a lot of sexual steam to let off.

And that, at the bottom of it, was what it was all about for me. Letting steam off. And I learned that it doesn't matter how clear you are at the outset. Clarity does not save you from misunderstanding. Things change. People's feelings change. I had said exactly what I meant to John. In a way that left no room for doubt. I even said it in what could be characterized as a mean way. I let him know that of COURSE I would date Donald if he asked me. Why wouldn't I? None of this was a pose. It was completely genuine. I would ask him, guileless, "Why wouldn't I date Donald if he asked me?"

Honesty was new for me. My own voice was new to me. I had never said the real truth to my boyfriend. Not until the very end when it was way too late. It was never about lack of love between us. We always loved each other. That was what made it so horrible to break up. But I felt my own power with John, for the first time ever. And I used it. I used it brutally.

He would get mushy mushy on the phone. "I haven't seen you in a couple of days. I miss your sweet face."

"Wow," I would drawl. "That sounds an awful lot like relationship talk."

And yet - when he would ask me to go out and do something - I would always say yes. The adventures were fast and furious with John. Some of the adventures took us to other states. We found ourselves joining up with insane wedding parties that we were not a part of. We found ourselves gyrating to house music at some rave on the south side of Chicago, a rave where you had to have a CODE WORD to get in. We found ourselves having a quiche brunch with the gay couple we had met up at a random wedding, having never met them before in our lives, but feeling that kindred spirit "ohmygod, we must be best friends" connection. We went to a gallery opening in a VERY sketchy neighborhood one night - the gallery opening began at one in the morning. It was a night where purple lightning forked through the sky. We sat in this dumpy gallery, on the 4th floor of a huge abandoned warehouse, surrounded by smoking drinking people, drinking cheap wine, with the windows occasionally flashing purple, and John tried to be my boyfriend, and I would not let him. I would brush him off. I would make snarky comments when he would get sentimental. He would get touchy-feely, and I would say, "Member what I said months ago? I'm not girlfriend material right now. You said you were okay with that." Throwing it back in his face. I would talk with another guy in a stairwell for 20 minutes. I would flirt with the bartender. Dangerously. Like ... something could happen. I was feeling it. I was feeling it all the time: This. Is. Me. So you. You. John. I'm talkin' to you. Get. Out. Of my way. But then we left the art gallery and had sex in his car, right on the street. He sent me flowers. I rolled my eyes to myself. I found myself getting angry. Hadn't I been clear? What ... he hadn't believed me? What the fuck was his problem? Why is he treating me like a girlfriend? Even though we are making out at various venues up and down the Lake shore? I TOLD him. He's just being stubborn. The giantess was coming out. The bumbling giant fingers. I did not treat him with delicacy or respect. I should have cut it off with him about 2 weeks in, because it was obvious almost immediately which way the wind was blowing. But John knew about such cool things to do ... John had such a group of cool friends ... John listened to me, was fun to talk to, we had a good time ... Fine. I will continue on with him, even though I realize he's softening towards me - because I can rest easy in my conscience that I WAS CLEAR. Too bad for him if he didn't get the message.

Cold as ice.

There was a night when there was a double-feature at the Music Box: Play it again, Sam and Harold and Maude. Ted (the guy who had interviewed me for the Gym) lived across the hall from John (randomly) and somehow - maybe when I was over John's one day - the 3 of us decided to go see the double-feature. I didn't know Ted that well, and as a matter of fact, I was kind of intimidated by him. He was my teacher. He was brilliant. I looked UP to him. When Ted found out that I had never seen Harold and Maude, he flipped out. It was his favorite movie of all time. I HAD to see it and he HAD to be there when I saw it so he could experience it through my eyes. That night of the double-feature was the true beginning of my long friendship with Ted. It was cemented that night. He remembers it that way too. I watched Harold and Maude, sitting between these two men, and there was one point - when the general with one arm finds himself stuck in the salute position with his fake arm - and you can see his silhouette, with the fake arm saluting his forehead, reflected in the puddle - and I started laughing so hard and so loudly that eventually I had to get up and leave the theatre. I stood in the lobby of The Music Box, luscious and baroque, with the red carpet and the old-fashioned popcorn machine, leaning against the wall, literally having a rabit fit of laughter. I thought I would never be normal again. What a release! I finally came back into the theatre, but the second I saw the action continuing on up on the screen, I was gone again. I sat between them, and wept with laughter. Wept and wept and wept. Ted was beside himself with delight. I remember him catching it. Catching my laughter. He had seen the movie so many times. So to see me flip out to such an intense degree gave him such pleasure. Every time I would bark out a laugh, after trying to suppress it, Ted would start guffawing. I couldn't stop. People were getting annoyed. They were all old old Harold and Maude fans from way back. They had all seen it a gazillion times. But I experienced that movie as an assault unlike any other. I was aware, dimly, that as my laughter intensified - and as audience members were growing annoyed by the girl obviously having an apoplectic fit 3 rows back - that John was getting mildly irritated. He just wasn't having the same experience I was. At one point, he said, smiling a bit, putting his hand on my arm, "Sh."

And I was done with John from that moment on. He "sh"ed me and I was immediately done. Nope. This is what I remember from relationships. This is how I remember my boyfriend behaving. Always trying to control me, tamp me down, afraid of my intensity, trying to get me to express it in a more acceptable way. All of this may sound like an elaborate justification for my meanness to him, my coldness - the fact that I could so easily turn OFF - and to some degree it is. We all come from somewhere. That was where I was coming from at that point. He "Sh"ed me, and I had HAD it with being "sh"ed, on a literal and metaphorical level. No one will ever "Sh" me again. Especially not when I'm LAUGHING. If I'm having an inappropriate temper tantrum in a restaurant, then yeah shush me. But don't you ever "sh" me when I'm laughing.

Two nights later I did what I should have done months before. I had John over to my apartment to break up with him. I resented even having to 'break up' because all along I had told him "this is not a relationship". But it had become apparent that I needed to stop seeing him. I found an echo of a conscience. I would miss the midnight gallery openings, and the secret raves. I would miss the crazy sex. He was such a blast. But this was crazy. I had to get rid of this guy. Before he "sh"ed me again. I think maybe I felt I should get rid of him before he fell for me even further - but really, it was just about the fact that he had become a drag. And I was not into having a drag. Relationships were a drag. I TOLD you I didn't want one. But here you are. Acting like a boyfriend. And it's a drag.

John came over and I remember he had flowers. I struggled to not whip him about the face and neck with them. My cat tiptoed around our feet, looking up at us anxiously, green eyes glowing. I had my mattress on the floor. No blinds. The windows from across the alley looked down on us. I said, leaping off the cliff, "John, I can't see you anymore."

There was a stunned silence. I was so wrapped up in myself, so much of an giant Id at that moment, that it had never once even occurred to me that he would be surprised by the news. Or hurt. I totally assumed he would be like, "Yeah, I've seen this coming." But that was not how it went. John just looked at me. I waited. I don't remember what he said in response. I do remember having a long conversation about it - where he told me he was falling in love with me. At one point, he suddenly - it came out of nowhere - put his hands over his face and started to cry. I was horrified. Horrified and also embarrassed. For him. He said something along the lines of "I guess I thought you'd come around" ... and for once I didn't say something along the lines of, "Well, that is ridiculous. I told you point-blank who I was 2 months ago. Why did you not believe me?" I just let him talk. I listened to him talk. He was emotional.

And to be honest, what was going through my head during all of this was: It's almost over. He's almost outta here. This conversation is nearing its completion, and soon the door will close behind him, and I will be alone again and it will be DONE.

Just smile and nod, Sheila. Smile and nod at John. Make a sympathetic face. Nod. Look like you're listening. It's almost over.

It was the weirdest feeling. To watch a guy get all broken up over me not being into them - and to feel literally nothing. I always feel something. Even if it's annoyance. I always have some emotion throbbing through the ol' veins. So it was chilling, and kind of creepy, to stand there, as he sat on my mattress on the floor, with his head in his hands, and feel absolutely nothing. Nothing for him personally, that is. I did have one feeling, and that was: "Soon he'll be gone, and I'll hear him yank open the elevator gate, and I'll hear the elevator jumpstart itself, and hear the cranks moving him down the shaft, away from me ... and I'm not sorry. I wish it was 5 minutes from now, so he would be GONE, and I could play some music, and have some Lipton's."

I had always been hurt, desperately hurt, by what I saw as men's ability to turn on and off the switch. Turn ON the romance switch. And then turn it OFF. My boyfriend had just done that. He turned OFF the romance switch with me, and within a matter of weeks, turned it ON with someone else. The thing about John was - I never turned on any switch. Not emotionally anyway. I was always OFF. Later, much later, when we ran into each other again, he said, "You were so detached. I could never get to you."

I have not since treated anyone with the coldness with which I treated John. Thankfully. A couple months later, my sense of proportion had come back, the adrenaline rush started ebbing out, I had eased into my new circumstances, and I was starting to fit into my new skin. I became a normal-sized woman again, and not a giantess.

But not before John became a casualty.

It wasn't that I walked all over him, or abused him, or openly had contempt for him - and he just took it. No, no, it wasn't that. It was that I had told him exactly who I was, with a diamond clarity that would be lost in a matter of months, once the crisis period passed - and he had said, "Okay, that's fine by me". And he meant it. For a while he meant it.

Until he realized that I had actually meant what I said too. That I really was just as treacherous as I had described.

In praise of Jake Ryan

Speaking of crushes!

I give to you, first of all, a wee Jake Ryan montage (it's tough to leave out the hottie pictures of Schoeffling in Vision Quest - but this is about JAKE RYAN AND JAKE RYAN ONLY) - and then I give to you (to quote my dear friend Allison) a "veritable dissertation" on what Jake Ryan means to women of a certain age.

Jake Ryan. The hot high school guy who dumped his girlfriend (you know, the girlfriend who had sex with him, the girlfriend who had a perfect body, the girlfriend who was really sweet as well) - dumped her - to go out with the goofy unpopular nearly invisible high school sophomore. Yeah. Like that would ever happen.

But the fact that it did in 16 Candles was important. To a generation of women.

Please read this glorious essay. I laughed out loud reading it - but I also got strangely choked up at parts. Memories of hopeful days. For example:

The second way of talking through Jake-related issues is harder. It's about an ache, a loss. It's about the imperfection of life. In the movie, Ringwald's character muses on what a 16th birthday is supposed to be like: "A big Trans-Am in the driveway with a ribbon on it and some incredibly gorgeous guy you meet in France and you do it on a cloud without getting pregnant or herpes." In this way she is asking for a miracle and Jake is Christ, redeeming the evil sins of high school. Jake as the ideal. Jake as the eternal belief in something better. (Jake on the phone, leaving a message Samantha is temporarily fated not to receive: "Would it be possible for you to tell me if there is a Samantha Baker there, and if so, may I converse with her briefly?")

hahaha I love that moment.

The essay really is a wonderful deconstruction of that entire ... cultural moment. Too funny.

I loved this part too:

But Jake stands the test of time, even in his good looks. His wardrobe -- cargo pants, plaid shirt -- portends an Abercrombie vibe years before it came. His haircut requires only minor tweaking in a mental update of the fantasy. "He's timeless. He doesn't have a Flock of Seagulls hairstyle or anything," says Rick Sayre, 30, a bookstore employee in Miami who started a Web page devoted not only to the Jake Ryan ideal but to locating Schoeffling.

hahahaha Yes. He's kinda timeless.

I have to say - I did love Jake Ryan, and I loved what he represented. (Also, how perfect is it that Michael Schoeffling, the actor, chose to retire. He is now a furniture maker somewhere in Pennsylvania, with a couple kids. There are websites devoted to him: What happened to Michael Schoeffling? and The Search for Michael Schoeffling. It's perfect because we - the audience - didn't have to suffer through watching him fail, become diminished, grow old. He was our youth. He disappeared while his memory was still fresh - and he is caught that way, in my mind, forever. Jake Ryan - forever young.)

I also loved Michael Schoeffling - his general kind of wry and intelligent vibe. I totally believed that he was the kind of popular hot guy who was also nice and not cocky. It seemed real. But, to be honest, he wasn't really my type. Han Solo was my fantasy type, still is - even though Han probably NEVER would have dumped his hot girlfriend for goofy freckled me. Han would have given me an apologetic grin, growled, "Sorry, sweetheart", and he would have stuck with the hottie.

But ... but ...

the sexiness ...

the sexiness of Han Solo ...

It was a mere precursor to Bud White, 20 years later ... but it was all in the same vein. That devastating is-he-bad-or-is-he-good vein. Jake Ryan was awesome - but he wasn't THAT. Or who knows ... maybe he was. Maybe his ambivalence about his nice hot girlfriend, his ambivalence about his own wealth .... was also in the same vein. We all like people who are independent thinkers, who go their own route. Or hell. I can only speak for myself. I respond to independent thinkers, who make up their own mind about things. Jake was certainly that - and independence like that was devastatingly attractive when you are trapped in the conformist suffocation of high school.

Please, ladies - or please anyone - any of you who loved that movie, and who loved Jake Ryan in paritcular - who remembers what it feels like to latch on to a fictional character, as hope that things might work out someday, that sometimes the good people DO win ... you gotta read this. Beautiful.

In praise of Laurie

From Little Women. Yeah. I had a crush on him too.

It just seemed like he and Jo were so ... so ... RIGHT for each other ... When I first read the book, I was 10 years old, 11* - and oh my GOD how I resented Jo falling for the stupid tender-eyed German professor with his dumb-ass poetry and his boring umbrella. And I just hated the thought of Laurie - wild, sensitive Laurie - being with Amy - who, even though she learned her lesson with the stolen apples and getting whipped at school - and even though I did cry a tear or two during the chapter when she fell through the ice --- still and all: Amy wasn't Jo!! It was Jo and Laurie who needed to hook up!!!!

I suppose that was quite an adolescent attitude. Maybe Jo and Laurie were too alike. Maybe Laurie needed a conventional woman, a housewife type - and he knew it. I also know the story of how Louisa May Alcott felt pressured by her publisher to "marry Jo off". She wanted Jo to remain a bachelor - like herself.

Which is why, I believe, stupid teary-eyed German dumb-bum annoyed me so much as a kid.

Get outta here, Kraut, you're an afterthought!! I also despised the illustrations of the German in the copy of the book I had. He had a full flowing beard - coming down over his chest. Words cannot express how much this disgusted me. I almost had to stop reading the book.

I love the scene when Jo and Laurie meet up at the ball - and Jo is so embarrassed about her burnt dress that she hides in the hall so no one will see the burn marks on the back of the skirt. And she and Laurie end up talking, and then dancing - by themselves - out in the big empty hallway.

Come on. Romantic.

I am not at ALL wacky about Laurie's name, and I never was. Not too keen on the androgyny of it. Maybe that was the point. Dont' know. But Laurie's personality was appealing enough to me to overcome these difficulties.

I will go to my grave wondering: But ... but ... what would it have been like if Jo and Laurie had just ... given it a shot???

But then again. I'm a romantic. A romantic who has lost much. A romantic who has been severely disciplined by the universe just for being a romantic. So I stand on the sidelines. And I wonder about the alternate paths of fictional characters.

Either Jo and Laurie should have hooked up - or Jo should have stayed single.

German crumb-bum doesn't work. For me. It didn't work for me when I was 10 and it doesn't work now. Put your umbrella away, dude. It's not wanted here.

* weird memory: However old I was when I first read this book - I remember it was the book where I first really understood the concept of contractions. Maybe I had learned them in school - no idea - but Meg has a line in the first chapter where she says, "But I'm afraid I don't!" And I was reading it out loud - maybe to my mom - and I said the word "don't" like "dahn" - almost as though it were in the word "orthoDONtist". I didn't understand what I was saying. And I was corrected by my mom - "No - that's 'don't' - which actually means 'do not'." And I totally remember that moment of LIGHT breaking thru. Ohhhhh! "Don't" means "do NOT' - wow - cool!!!!

Henry Fonda ...

A great photo of him. He appears to be perusing, uhm, Madonna's Sex book??? What the heck is that he's reading?

Book snooping

I love love love this article about snooping through other people's bookshelves. I so do that - it's the first thing I notice when I go into a new house - and the books are always what I gravitate towards. Standing, scanning someone else's books ... so so revealing. Sometimes you can tell more about a person from his book collection than from conversation with him. The books reveal what you value.

From that article:

What interests me about other people's books is the nature of their collection. A personal library is an X-ray of the owner's soul. It offers keys to a particular temperament, an intellectual disposition, a way of being in the world. Even how the books are arranged on the shelves deserves notice, even reflection. There is probably no such thing as complete chaos in such arrangements.

An X-ray indeed. It's kind of a naked experience - you are totally exposed when someone looks over your shelves. Funny - I brought up some random book on one of my many shelves during a conversation with Michael (it was relevant to the conversation, I was backing up one of my claims) - so I said:- "Yeah - so in this book I have called The Third Terrorist --" Michael interrupted, "Yeah, I saw that on your shelf." Hahaha A little snooping was done obviously. If you're a book person - you will know the pleasure.

Anyway - great piece.

Insanity on Sept. 29 ...

... is appropriate ...

... especially since there is historical basis for it ...

... on multiple levels ...

Happy birthday, Pat, yo.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'Sara's Way"' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Sara's Way" - by L.M. Montgomery

One of the things that is so refreshing, for me, about Lucy Maud's work is how she doesn't pathologize her characters. Freud isnt "in" in her world. People's quirks are just that: quirks. Some people have annoying quirks, some people have evil quirks, some quirks are just lovable. It's all part of the human tapestry. "Sara's Way" is a perfect example of this, for me - it's a story I love. Sara is a girl who only becomes interested in someone (or in animals, as well) when they are down and out. She is a true underdog champion. She couldn't care less about birds. But let a bird be found on the lawn with a broken wing - and she falls INSTANTLY in love with it. This would be seen, nowadays, as a low level pathology - like maybe something is wrong with Sara, something needs to be fixed. Why doesn't she love things that are whole and strong? Why does she only love things that are weak? What is WRONG with Sara? Lucy Maud does not take this route. This is just the way Sara is. It is who she has been since she was a little girl and it is who she is now as a woman ... and so ... what will Sara's life be like, if we know this quirk of hers? Who will she marry? Will she marry? Nothing is WRONG with Sara, in Lucy Maud's eyes - even though the ladies in the town, as well as her mother, get frustrated with her because of this quirk. They talk about her behind her back. Sara knows she is talked about, but she doesn't care, because this is just the way she is. She loves broken things. She loves mothering to weakened animals. Okay - so now: in the course of this story - a man comes into her life. He is interersted in her. He tries to court her. She basically laughs in his face. She is SO not interested. Everyone thinks she is insane to not be interested. He's a good man, he makes good money, he would be a good provider ... Sara is crazy! But Sara just knows her own mind. Lucy Maud doesn't spell it out too clearly but you do get the jist: what would be in this fellow to FIX? Because without that element - Sara will never be interested. He seems perfectly fine all on his own. Sara could not care less about such creatures. And then - all of a sudden - this same fellow falls into disrepute. I cannot remember the reason but I know it has something to do with making bad investments - and losing a ton of money. Suddenly, this golden boy doesn't have such a whiff of success around him. He is scorned by the small town - practical people who think that being bad with your money is a sign of deeper more sinful issues. He becomes almost a pariah. Sara sees him out and about, and he looks like a ghost of his former self. He is gaunt, pale, upset, and averts his eyes away from her. I am sure you can guess where this is going. The women in her life - her mother, her neighbors, all say, "Thank goodness you had the presence of mind to stay away from THAT trainwreck, Sara! He's barely better than a criminal!" Sara, in one fell swoop, knows what she must do. This once-strong man is now the equivalent of the bird with the broken wing. And (like the title of the story says) it is not Sara's way to ignore that. She now has something to fix. She knows, in her heart of hearts, that her attentions, her love - will make this broken man stand strong again. So she basically goes to him and proposes marriage. He can't believe it, naturally. Doesn't she hate him and scorn him? No, she does not. She now loves him. Because he needs her.

I love the straightforward way Lucy Maud tells this moving tale. Sara, for me, comes to life - and I actually would love to have read a full book about her. She's a good character - someone I would love to see in a variety of different situations. A very unexpected personality, a great female character - for me, Sara is in Lucy Maud's canon of unforgettable women.

Here's the opening of the story where this whole dynamic is set up. Notice Lucy Maud's gift with storytelling. The ladies in the town do all the exposition for her.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Sara's Way" - by L.M. Montgomery

"How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs. Jonas, helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's matchless black fruit cake, and thereby bestowing a subtle compliment which Mrs. Eben did not fail to appreciate.

"Well, I guess she likes it pretty well - better than down at White Sands, anyway," answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes, I may say it suits her. Of course it's a long walk there and back. I think it would have been wiser for her to keep on boarding at Morrison's, as she did all winter, but Sara is bound to be home all she can. And I must say the walk seems to agree with her."

"I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last night," said Mrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that Sara had made up her mind to take Lige Baxter at last, and that they were to be married in the fall. She asked me if it was true. I said I didn't know, but I hoped to mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?"

"Not a word of it," said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara hasn't any more notion of taking Lige than ever she had. I'm sure it's not my fault. I've talked and argued till I'm tired. I declare to you, Amelia, I am terribly disappointed. I'd set my heart on Sara marrying Lige - and now to think she won't!"

"She is a very foolish girl," said Mrs. Jonas judicially. "If Lige Baxter isn't good enough for her, who is?"

"And he's so well off," said Mrs. Eben, "and does such a good business, and is well spoken of by everyone. And that lovely new house of his at Newbridge, with bay windows and hardwood floors! I've dreamed and dreamed of seeing Sara there as mistress."

"Maybe you'll see her there yet," said Mrs. Jonas, who always took a hopeful view of everything, even of Sara's contrariness. But she felt discouraged, too. Well, she had done her best.

If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled, it was not for lack of cooks. Every Andrews in Avonlea had beent trying for two years to bring about a match between him and Sara, and Mrs. Jonas had borne her part valiantly.

Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance of Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment in the doorway and looked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. She knew quite well that they had been discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, who carried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Eben had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression.

Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek, and sat down at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some fresh tea, some hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves Sara liked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist, plummy slices. She might be out of patience with Sara's "contrariness", but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was the very core of her childless heart.

Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty, but there was that about her which made people look at her twice. She was very dark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes were velvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson.

She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite, sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge, and told amusing little stories of her day's work that made the two older women shake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over her cleverness.

When tea was over she poured the remaining contents of the cream jug into a saucer.

"I must feed my pussy," she said as she left the room.

"That girl beats me," said Mrs. Eben with a sigh of perplexity. "You know that black cat we've had for two years? Even and I have always made a lot of him, but Sara seemed to have a dislike to him. Never a peaceful nap under the stove could he have when Sara was home - out he must go. Well, a little spell ago he got his leg broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be killed. But Sara wouldn't hear of it. She got splints and set his leg just as knacky, and bandaged it up, and she has tended him like a sick baby ever since. He's just about well now, and he lives in clover, that cat does. It's just her way. There's them sick chickens she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills and things! And she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that got poisoned with paris green than of all the other stock on the place."

This is for Michael

He'll know why. Here is a note from John Cassavetes to Ray Carney, who - to Cassavetes fans - needs no introduction.*

Years and years later, long after Cassavetes has died, here's a note to Ray Carney from Gena Rowlands.

* Dude is quite controversial and not very well liked by the Cassavetes camp right now, for obvious reasons, but - as a fan - I think that his books on Cassavetes are indispensable.

Two things about

... this story:

1. IT'S ABOUT FREAKIN' TIME. Sheesh. It's one of my favorite movies of all time and I have had to struggle through these past 25 years - watching it on battered old VHS tapes whenever I want to see it. Seriously. IT'S ABOUT FREAKIN' TIME. Yay!! I can't wait to own it on DVD.

2. I am so excited to go see it in the theatre next week during its limited re-release. Like: my only experience with this movie has been RENTING it ... because it also rarely is played on television - so ... it's just one of those hidden treasures. One of my ongoing obsessions. I bought it on VHS - but you know, that gets a bit old - and the quality is rather fuzzy after so many years of re-watching. I did not see it in its original release - I was too young to be interested in such a thing - but I saw it soon thereafter, can't remember how - maybe it was on TV? - can't remember - maybe it was one of those inappropriate movies I saw when I was babysitting. Too young to really get it, but discerning enough to know: "Uhm. I LIKE THIS." I was captivated by the film, and have never ever - in 25 years - lost my affection and admiration for it.

One of the posts I have in my head that I have always wanted to write (I have an ongoing list) is why I think Jack Nicholson in his 10 minutes on screen (it's some absurdly small amount of time) not only does his best work - but his most mature work - and he shows a side of Nicholson never seen before or since. It is breathtaking. And it's breathtaking not because it's cathartic - or loud - or crazy - or histrionic. The scene I'm talking about is breathtaking in its quiet, its stillness. "If you were mine, I wouldn't share you with anybody or anything. It'd be just you and me. We'd be the center of it all. I know it would feel a lot more like love than being left alone with your work." And her response to it, the close-up on her face ... I can't get enough of that entire scene - but I'll write up an essay on it when the damn movie finally comes out on DVD and I can do a frame by frame thing about it. Acting don't get any better than what Nicholson does in those 2 minutes of screen time.

Welcome to the 21st century, Reds! It's about freakin' time!!

I love the Village East theatre - maybe I'll go see it there. It'll only be in the theatres for a week, so I've got to JUMP on this opportunity. Allison: wanna come with??

Carnal Knowledge

I am baffled by those who blithely say that Mike Nichols has no style as a director. "He's good with situations - but has no marked style" Mitchell and I have talked about this quite a bit before. What - because he doesn't bash you over the head with camera moves - he has no style? I am such a Nichols fan that I feel like you could show me a still from one of his films and I would be able to identify him as the director. He has SUCH style. That first scene at the cocktail party ... the theatrical nature of the blocking - the color scheme (all muted greys and browns and blacks) ... the way his camera moves, or then doesn't move ... It's all markedly Mike Nichols-esque.

There's one scene where the two guys are making jokes back and forth and she is laughing - but the camera stays on her face the whole time, we never see Nicholson or Garfunkel. There is a rawness and reality to what is happening with Bergen in the scene. She was laughing so hard that tears were were in her eyes.

Nothing harder to act than real laughter. Especially in a film, with a movie camera right in your face, waiting to pick up on all your lies. You can fake a laugh a bit easier on stage - but you can't do that in the movies.

We had to rewind the Bergen scene to watch it again. It's almost embarrassing. So much is going on for her in that moment. She is sitting between two men - and she's sleeping with both of them - but keeping it a secret (she thinks) - and she's torn - and she feels guilty - and out of control - and they are both working really hard, in that moment, to keep her laughing. You can hear the kind of competitiveness in their voices ... Who doesn't want to make a woman laugh like that? It's an extraordinary moment.

It goes on like that forever.

And I need to do a whole post about the great-ness of Ann Margaret. Seriously.

Ibsen

I really liked this analysis of Ibsen. It continues to blow me away that there were those, at the beginning of the 20th century, who were so interested in Ibsen, so turned on by what he was doing - that they learned Norwegian just in order to read him in the original language. James Joyce did this. But he was not alone. That tells you Ibsen's relevance, his importance. Just amazing.

And for those of you interested in the acting of these plays - I give to you a snippet from one of Stella Adler's many lectures on Ibsen. Adler was (and still is) known for her genius in script analysis - people like DeNiro - still talk about taking that class. Recently - a book was published - of her lectures on Ibsen, Strindberg and Chekhov - which I seriously cannot recommend highly enough. She speaks of them as plays to be acted - she is talking to actors - not literary scholars - but seriously: Anyone interested in literature and playwriting should read this book. You want to learn about how to analyze a text? This is the book you want. These are transcribed lectures - so there is a whiff of immediacy about them - you almost get the sense of Adler's personality, which was gigantic. Again: because she is speaking to actors, her focus is on: what questions should one ask before one sets out to play Nora? Or Torvald? What needs to be explored?

Also: historically: where does Ibsen fit in? What was he doing that was so revolutionary? Why did people storm out of Hedda Gabler? Why were his plays so hated, reviled, feared, and yet admired? What was going on? Adler encouraged actors to have curiosity about all of that - the 360 degree experience of a play and a playwright - to (as Henry Miller said): "Forget yourself". Don't just focus on how YOU will play the part. "Forget yourself" and focus on Ibsen. And by doing that - you will get closer to the pulse of the playwright - and then - the playing of it will come much easier.

Here is one of my favorite excerpts from her Ibsen lecture.

Adler on Ibsen

The sense of place - nature, the scenery - had to be truthful in realism. Where you were had to be as truthful as the new dialogue.

Ibsen desired to replace stilted language by the unbeautiful, unemotional language of every day. To tone down the loudness of tragic, classical acting. To tone down the stage effects with the bourgeois fondness for the intimate and homey.

This is the end of the reign of complete illusion in the theatre. From now on, the effort is to conceal the fictitious nature of how a play is acted and presented. Classical acting portrayed a man with contact to the exterior world but never influenced by it. The bourgeois drama portrays him as a part and function of his environment and shows him not to be controlling reality, as in classical plays, but being controlled and absorbed by it.

From now on, the place where the action happens isn't just background. It takes an active part in shaping him on stage. There is no more break between the inner and outer world; now all action and feeling contain powerful elements of the external world.

In most of Norway, there are only two real months of daylight. People live without the sun - seventeen hours of night. This affects their temperaments, how their houses are lit. How do you light your house when it's dark outside all day? That is up to you to find out.

Ibsen says the lines should sound different depending on whether they are said in the morning or evening. You must know whether your scene is taking place in day or night. Otherwise you will just walk in, out of - and into - nowhere.

An actor who gets up to act without knowing when and where he is is insane. Everybody is somewhere. Except an actor, often. He's the only one who can be somewhere and not know where.

Navigation in Norway is very dangerous. It is continually stormy. The nervousness of the weather affects the personality of the people, dating back to the Vikings. They are dominated by darkness and blackness. The plays are influenced by that. There are very few musical comedies that come out of Norway.

What does "twenty miles south of Oslo" mean? [Ed: Doll's House takes place '20 miles south of Oslo'] I could say, get fifteen books on Oslo, on the Vikings, on the history of the royalty there. I'll give you this free of charge.

But for Christ's sake, learn where you are going to do your acting.

Be interested in the fact that Norway has the largest ice fields in the world and that it's very difficult to travel except by sleigh.

I like that. I like knowing that Nora comes home by sleigh. People pass each other on the narrow road. I know that a sleigh has bells and that sleigh bells have a kind of gaiety in them. If it is dark eight months of the year, they must give themselves something to make them happy. They recognize each other's sleigh bells. Twilight is at noon. That affects you, if night lasts seventeen hours.

If you know this, it will affect your acting. It will make you understand certain things you need to understand.

They have hailstones of a size we can't imagine. These hailstones will be used in the last act of Enemy of the People. People throw them at Dr. Stockmann's house. You have to know such things. You must not be so much with you. Whatever is left of my me, you can have. I do not give a goddamn about my me, only what I can give you. That is what is important. That is why my life has been important.

I am interested in acting, not "being a professional".

When you look out your stage window, you must see water - fjords and water running along the streets. It's 1880, but it's not an 1880 street. It's a 1780 street with planks. The water runs along those planked streets. You can only cross them a certain way. It is not easygoing. You can go by horse or maybe by stagecoach. You come home late because you had to catch the coach. If you're late just because the words say so, you are in trouble. But not if you know that it's because there was too much baggage to put on the coach.

Don't act from the words. Act from knowing whether you arrive by coach or whether you have money enough to hire a sleigh.

The fjords are very threatening. They are black and contain bodies that have been disintegrating very slowly for years because the water is so cold. It is a country with a great many psychological problems. Everybody is in trouble. The churches date from the twelfth century. The twelfth century in this crazy Scandinavia produced a very special kind of architecture. It's a big thing about the churches there. Look them up. They have great gargoyles. Do not think of your own pretty little church in East Hampton. You have to see that church people go to with the gargoyles and the frightening things inside it.

Their unique landscape is unduplicated anywhere on earth.

What made Ibsen so great is that he used this unusual place to give him such great truths. So when you think of this space, think of it not as your space. Think of the mountains, the water. It must inspire awe in you, so when you get to a difficult scene you will have the help of the landscape.

So that if you get to a scene where someone has to flee, you will see the waterfalls, the difficulties.

All of a sudden now, I want to cry ...

The landscape has to inspire you with awe!

The fingers of water reach seventy miles into the land from the sea. That makes quite an obstacle if you are thinking of leaving Norway. To cross the sea from the north and come south means that you have risked death to get there, and when you arrive you must arrive with death in you.

In Mrs. Linde's entrance [in Doll's House], when she says, "I have just arrived from the North," and somebody says, "How did you do it?" -- it does not mean by what conveyance. It means, "How did you survive?"

If the country has no railroads, what do you think a doctor has? He does not have anesthetics, he does not have machines and technology.

Always try to see the difference between you and him - beteween then and now. Try, all through the play, to see how this can open things up to you. You cannot do without it. If you do not know these things, you cannot act. You must know.

What does it mean to live in a small town in Norway 110 years ago?

What is it like in summer and winter there?

What does 'Norway' mean?

Norway is three quarters water, surrounded by dark sea. It is different from any concept you have. Look up pictures of its water and mountains. Get an idea for yourself where these people live. Understand that the landscape is always used by the author.

Before Ibsen, actors had never been told that - never knew it, never thought about it, never learned how to use it.

Chekhov and [Eugene] O'Neill always use the landscape. You cannot move without it. You must know how to behave inland - know what O'Neill means by inland when his captain in Anna Christie keeps saying, "I want to get to the sea!" You will have to understand Mr. O'Neill's sense of inland like you have to understand Ibsen's sense of rain and water.

From now on, the landscape always plays an important part.

Your responsibility is to find out how it is different from your own.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'The Return of Hester"' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Return of Hester" - by L.M. Montgomery

Lucy Maud wrote ghost stories. They paid well - and I also think that there was a part of her that really sympathized and believed in the supernatural. All you need to do is read her journals to get that. Her cousin (and kindred spirit) Frede died in the 1918 influenza epidemic and Lucy Maud never really recovered from it (and Lucy Maud died in 1942!) Her grief always seemed to be fresh. She was not a "friend"-ish type person ... Frede was her friend, and when she died, that was it. But there are multiple times in the journals when Lucy Maud got the sense that Frede was trying to communicate with her from beyond. Through her cats - through her dreams ... She believed that there was a thin veil between the living world and the spirit realm - Frede was still with her. This kind of unexplainable phenomenon also shows up in her novels - especially in the Emily books - where she makes it quite clear that Emily has the gift (or curse) of "second sight". Emily does not WANT this gift. It makes her feel uncanny, almost devilish. But in each of the books in those series - there is one incident - one unexplainable incident - when Emily breaks the boundaries between this world and the next - or not even the next world - she has unexplainable ESP moments - where she is actually able to communicate with someone who is across the ocean, or whatever. So Lucy Maud, while she wrote ghost stories because they paid well, also had a rather spooky strain in her ... you can tell, in the prose. She doesn't condescend to the genre.

"The Return of Hester" is about two sisters - again, the Lucy Maud archetypes. There is Hester - the strong domineering sister. And Margaret, the more submissive sister. Hester and Margaret's parents have died - and the two sisters are everything to each other. Hester is a fierce woman (although also quite loving) - and has family pride that could cut glass. She is FIERCE and forbidding. Margaret is a bit more open. Anyway - when Margaret is about 18 - Hester goes away for a month - and during that time, a man named Hugh Blair starts to court Margaret. Margaret (the narrator of the tale) says that she lived a lifetime in that one month. She fell in love with Hugh Blair. It was her "moment" - her one moment in the sun. Hester returned from her trip, found out about the love affair and put a stop to it pronto. I think because Hugh Blair is not "good enough" for Margaret. That family pride, you know. Margaret begs, pleads, cries - but Hester will not budge. So Margaret, moron that she is, submits. She tells Hugh Blair no. Hugh Blair then begs and pleads. Margaret cannot go against Hester. Not because Hester is evil - but because their relationship is so strong. So then years pass. Hugh Blair (naturally) has never married. In my life, they always marry. But in Lucy Maud's world, when your main love affair ends ... you never have another one. And then - after an illness - Hester dies. On her deathbed, she says to Margaret, "Please promise me ... that you will never marry Hugh Blair." Margaret, beside herself with grief at losing Hester, says, "Don't be silly ... it's been years ... he doesn't love me anymore ..." Hester, going into the white light, says, "He has never married ... the moment I die, he is going to come around again ... Do not say Yes. Promise me." Margaret, like a moron, promises. So Hester dies. And whaddya know, a week later - Hugh Blair comes calling. He sees his moment and he takes it. He has never stopped loving Margaret. Margaret, in the first throes of grief, puts him off - tells him No - she is out of her mind. Hester was everything to her. Hugh again begs. Margaret says No.

The book begins at this moment.

Here's the spooky excerpt.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Return of Hester" - by L.M. Montgomery

That was three weeks ago - and now I sat alone in the moonlit rose-garden and wept for him. But, after a time, my tears dried and a very strange feeling came over me. I felt calm and happy, as if some wonderful love and tenderness were very near me.

And now comes the strange part of my story - the part which will not, I suppose, be believed. If it were just for one thing, I think I should hardly believe it myself. I should feel tempted to think I had dreamed it. But because of that one thing I know it was real. The night was very calm and still. Not a breath of wind stirred. The moonshine was the brightest I had ever seen. In the middle of the garden, where the shadow of the poplars did not fall, it was almost as bright as day. One could have read fine print. There was still a little rose glow in the west, and over the airy boughs of the tall poplars one or two large, bright stars were shining. The air was sweet with a hush of dreams, and the world was so lovely that I held my breath over its beauty.

Then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, I saw a woman walking. I thought at first that it must be Mary Sloane, but, as she crossed a moonlit path, I saw it was not our old servant's stout, homely figure. This woman was tall and erect.

Although no suspicion of the truth came to me, something about her reminded me of Hester. Even so had Hester liked to wander about the garden in the twilight. I had seen her thus a thousand times.

I wondered who the woman could be. Some neighbor, of course. But what a strange way for her to come! She walked up the garden slowly in the poplar shade. Now and then she stooped, as if to caress a flower, but she plucked none. Halfway up she came out into the moonlight and walked across the plot of grass in the center of the garden. My heart gave a great throb and I stood up. She was quite near to me now - and I saw that it was Hester.

I can hardly say just what my feelings were at this moment. I know that I was not surprised. I was frightened, and yet I was not frightened. Something in me shrank back in a sickening terror; but I, the real I, was not frightened. I knew that this was my sister, and that there could be no reason why I should be frightened of her, because she loved me still, as she had always done. Further than this I was not conscious of any coherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at reasoning.

Hester paused when she came to within a few steps of me. In the moonlight I saw her face quite plainly. It wore an expression I had never before seen on it - a humble, wistful, tender look. Often in life Hester had looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me; but always, as it were, through a mask of pride and sternness. This was gone now, and I felt nearer to her than ever before. I knew suddenly that she understood me. And then the half-conscious awer and terror some part of me had felt vanished, and I only realized that Hester was here, and that there was no terrible gulf of change between us.

Hester beckoned to me and said,

"Come."

Fill in the blanks

Conversation about an acquaintance who has since become infamous - on a national level:

"Just to give you some idea - his favorite books were ... 1. Don Quixote---"
"Oh, for Christ's sake."
"And 2. Confederacy of Dunces. So ... you can see that---"
"Oh, man. Totally."
"You know?"
"Yup."

On the set of Grey's Anatomy

Part deux.

Happy Birthday Google!!

I would like to list a couple of reasons why I am thankful for Google (thanks for the reminder, Annika!), and it gets quite specific, and I have found that most of it is quite personal. There may be more to add to this list. I am thinking more upon it.

I am thankful for Google because:

-- it brought Andrew back into my life through his sister Googling his name ... and coming across this post I wrote about him, about a Valentine he gave me when we were in the 6th grade. And suddenly ... suddenly ... after writing that post ... I get an email from Andrew ... and I have literally not spoken to him or seen him for ... 20 years? Amazing.

-- Very significantly, it brought Keith M. back into my life. He Googled himself (I'm amazed by people who DON'T Google themselves. I am also baffled at those who judge the self-Googlers. "Wow. What does THAT say about her ... she was Googling HERSELF." Uhm yeah? And the problem with that would be? I Google myself every other minute, practically) ... So anyway, Keith M. Googled his own name and eventually somehow came across this post. He knew immediately it was his old friend (my URL gives me away). He emailed me, saying, "I remember that kiss." Causing my heart to do freakin' backflips. I'm not kidding. It took me a good 24 hours to come down from that one. Keith!!! The high school quarterback! Star of our high school! I then saw him at my high school reunion and got to hang out with him - ("Sheila and I had some serious heat when we were 9" said Keith to Beth) - and then wrote this huge post of acknowledgement about him, one of my most favorite things I've ever written. And now that Keith is back in my life - he read it. I mean ... can you imagine? Reading something like that written about you by someone who was in love with you when you were 9? I don't know. I was so emotional and so ALL ABOUT KEITH for a good 2 weeks ... and it's all because of Google. I was able to reconnect with and acknowledge an old and dear friend. Sniff.

-- I was able to track down, through Googling a key search term, one of my most favorite childhood books ever.

-- Along that same line ... someone Googled "bimulous night" herself, months later - ... and came across my post. Which then led her to be able to find the actual title of the book. The goofily ecstatic and bubbly excited email she sent me - a total stranger - brought tears to my eyes on a blue blue day.

-- There's so much more. Seriously. But so far - what comes up for me - is the human element. I know a lot of that is because the URL of my site is my name ... I am not anonymous ... and that has been a blessing and a curse. But when people like Keith M. emerge from the mists of time, through Google ... and I am then able to tell him, as an adult, who he was to me, and the impression he made, and how special he truly was ... and that Keith M. is able to take that with him ... and know that ... know that someone out there, his 9 year old friend, somehow saw him, saw the best in him ... and carried that with her all these years ...

Life-changing. When I look at it like that, Google has changed my life.

‘You know, I used to play baseball.’

This story made me cry for some reason.

10 bucks a game. God.

Thanks, Steve, for linking to it.

Biograph!!

Tomorrow: marquee lights on at the Biograph Theatre (great little news story there). The Biograph Theatre is, apparently, the new home of Victory Gardens (a fact I did not know. I remember going to see movies at the Biograph - but then again, I am old Father William). Across the street from the Biograph was Lounge Ax - great music club (you can see a bit of the interior in High Fidelity) - and it has now closed (sniff - I am not alone in being sad about the closing of that club). But there were a couple of years in my life when I was at Lounge Ax on a weekly basis. And one evening - a bit buzzed - a group of us went into the alley next to the Biograph and re-enacted, drunkenly, the gunning down of John Dillinger. I believe it was Ann, Mitchell, Phil, Kenny and ... maybe Window-Boy? I cannot remember the exact grouping, although I know Phil and Ann were there - but I do remember running down the alley and falling to the ground in a hale of bullets. I was wearing a short schoolgirl kilt, a leather jacket, saddle shoes, and thigh-high black stockings ... just so you can get the full picture of my death throes. Why do I remember my outfit? If you were shot to death in a hale of bullets - wouldn't you remember what you were wearing? I think we all "took turns" being Dillinger. Hahaha It was like one o'clock in the morning. So fun. It's quite fitting that the marquee will light up on Sept. 28. Because Sept. 29, of course, is when we propel ourselves into the blazing star.

I am caring less and less if my posts make sense. They're all written in code.

Heh.

But anyway: congrats to Victory Gardens for getting such a cool new venue ... if I were living in Chicago now, I would totally go to watch the light-the-lights ceremony.

Happy place

Charles Dana Gibson, 1903 illustration.

Hahahaha. A tough choice there, dude.

Happy place

Charles Dana Gibson.

This one is called "The Disappointing Letter", Life, August 1923

Oh, hon. I know. I've received one of those letters myself.

Happy place

Charles Dana Gibson ...

This one is called "Summer Sports", ca. 1904. First published in Life, 1904.

It is hard for me to even express how much I love the languorous woman flying her kite from a lying down position.

Happy place

Charles Dana Gibson ....

Fall

More thoughts on fall, this time from a parent. Beautiful.

On the set of "Grey's Anatomy"

Alex has the tale.

I love the dude from the planet Phone.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'The Brother Who Failed"' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Brother Who Failed" - by L.M. Montgomery

This story is kind of like, oh, a This Is Your Life episode - or maybe a very special Oprah episode. Robert Monroe - member of the Monroe family, all of whom are brilliant and accomplished - overhears a bitchy gossip say something about him like, "It's such a shame HE never made anythign of himself." Robert Monroe is a farmer, lives on a little farm by himself ... is a kindly man, proud of his brothers and sisters accomplishments ... and he is devastated to hear that he is perceived as a failure, and also as an embarrassment to the rest of the family. He is so kindly and so sweet that it never even occurred to him!! Well, word gets back to his siblings - all of whom are coming to town for a family gathering - that Robert needs a little pick-me-up - so as they sit around the dinner table, one by one they all get up and share storeis about Robert, and how he helped them at one time, how he did something selfless, how he came to the rescue ... Robert just has to sit there and take it. He is love-bombed from every direction. Like I said: it's kinda Oprah-ish, but that's okay - Oprah very often makes me cry, and so does this wee story. It's really about: how do we measure success? Monetary? How many kids you have? How much you travel? Your grades? Sure, all of these things are what we are judged by in life - but there's much more. Lucy Maud has a way of seeing those who are mainly invisible, the Robert Monroes of the world. Her inspiration was Prince Edward Island - and all she needed to do was look there, to see people - men - women - living quiet lives, maybe "unimportant" in terms of the grand scheme of things - but with a 360 degree scope of experience: love, grief, rage, loss, humor, shame, resilience ... She saw it all there.

Here's a brief excerpt. Not much happens here - this is right before Robert overhears the vicious gossip. I include it because it's such a wonderful example of Lucy Maud's poetic nature writing. She is SO good at it.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Brother Who Failed" - by L.M. Montgomery

Robert went across the yard and sat down on a rustic bench in the angle of the front porch. It was a fine December evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A quiet hush, holding something of magic in it, rested like an unseen mantle on the dark forest, brooding field, and the once flowering, fertile valley. The earth was like a tired old man patiently awaiting his well-earned sleep. Out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded out into somber clouds, and the soft sound of the waves breaking on the shore was wafted on the evening breeze.

Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods was mingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. He was a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply set, gentle brown eyes, - the eyes of one who, looking through pain, sees rapture beyond.

He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him. He was proud of their success and fame. He was glad that James had prospered so well of late years. There was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul.

Competing obsessions

-- My Dino book just arrived.

-- I have my Alexander Hamilton lecture tonight.

I am truly torn. Hamilton's gonna win, cause he pre-dates Dino - also, I bought tickets ... but still ... I had feared this would happen. I had feared that Dino would come on the same day, causing my psyche to go into a tailspin of competing interests.

My answer

to this question?

Only one. I'm not a big walker-outter. Why? Cause I love movies and I love the experience of going to the movies, even terrible ones. I sat through Day After Tomorrow and loved every horrible second of it. I sat through Poseidon and loved munching on my popcorn, and laughing at how stupid and horrible the remake was. I never walk out.

Except for once. I walked out of 36 fillette . My boyfriend and I went to the movies all the time at this awesome little arthouse in Philly (I wonder if it's still there) - and I saw some of the best movies I've ever seen in my life in that movie house. 36 Filette came highly recommended. We watched about half an hour of it, looked at each other, got up, walked out, and went to our nearby bar to drink scotch and bitch bitch bitch about that wasted half an hour. I wonder if it was as bad as I remember. I actually have really liked some of Catherine Breillat's other stuff, provocateur that she is. And damn, is that woman a good interview. I watched her Anatomy of Hell and there was an interview with her (in French, of course) - and damn. I want her to write a book. Smart smart cookie. I loved Romance. I love it so much that I own it. But 36 Fillette was the only movie I ever felt compelled to actually get up and walk out on. Thank goodness the boyfriend felt the same way.

I love some of the answers to the question over on that site - even though those people walked out on some movies that I actually adore. I loved this comment:

I walked out of Jumanji in sheer terror when I was younger, but "younger" was actually alarmingly old to be afraid of evil boardgames. (Several years before that I also ran out crying when a friend put on a tape of Nightmare on Elm Street 3. It's probably a good thing that I don't watch much horror now...)

You know. I just love comments like that. "was actually alarmingly old to be afraid of evil boardgames", etc.

In Cold Blood: the first 3 paragraphs

A beautiful post of appreciation and literary analysis ... on the first 3 paragraphs of one of my favorite books.

The cool fifties

Chicagoboyz linked to my Dino archive when I first started writing about him - and the traffic has been semi-constant ever since. But for whatever reason, I went there again this morning (it's not a blog I read) - and found myself completely wrapped up in this post. The launching pad is Dean Martin - but my God, what a wonderful journey she takes us on. Here's just a snippet of the wonderful-ness, but go read the whole thing:

The fifties were cool, dry, witty. But such threads are not cut sharply; they remain, plaited into the braid that made up the “movements” – the later sixties, the seventies. And I have begun to realize that for some of us that very cool led to the heat of our own youth. God knows, we were earnest. Awed by that generation’s cool, we also felt angry, frustrated by the solidity of the front they presented. Trying to describe this with my friends, one brought up Peter Gunn. Perfect, I thought - that pairing of Blake Edwards & Henry Mancini, the sultry singer in the bar - I, too, remember watching it with my father, who loved Brubeck & Mulligan. And, then, she said, there was the dapper Niven in that first, great Pink Panther. Yes, I smiled, for I remember the first time I saw it, who I saw it with, what we ate afterwards. I’m sure that was because I then developed a totally irrational passion for the guy, who was icy & German, with an engineer’s mind & laconic patter. I wanted cool; that, I was used to. The irony in those movies moved into the campy - the later Panther ones, Modesty Blaise. Later, a movie had to go pretty far over the top before it seemed funny. Seeing Casino Royale a few years ago, I was struck by the slowness of its pace – a pace I’d remembered as surprisingly fast. The temperature warmed, the cool era was brought to a boil, but immersed in the water we hardly felt the change.

(I love, too, how one of her commenters references Charade - the movie with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn - directed by Stanley Donen - as an example of the bridge between the 50s and the 60s. EXCELLENT point).

But seriously: go read the whole thing.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'The Dream Child"' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Dream Child" - by L.M. Montgomery

This is one of Lucy Maud's more openly tragic stories. When you get to her collection of ghost stories (published posthumously - as in, the last 10 years) - you see a lot of this kind of writing - quivering wtih passion, grief, strong strong emotions - nobody has a sense of humor. Life is tragic. Bad Things Happen. She was a big believer (and she had a whole philosophy about it) that there is no shame in the Happy Ending, that a book shouldn't be considered less important or less worthy just because things work out in the end. But at the time that she was writing - happy endings were not in vogue (I guess they never really are, if you think about it) - and so she was defensive about being seen as a lightweight. Which is so ridiculous. How anyone could read Emily of New Moon (excerpt here) or Blue Castle (excerpt here) and ever think of her as a "lightweight writer" I will never know.

But anyway - when she puts on her Tragic Mask (as she does in this story) - she tends to tip over into melodrama. At least that is my assessment. She does good melodrama - it gets gothic, the writing is a bit florid - and people quiver with unspeakable pain. Melodrama.

There is a married couple. The story is told first-person from the perspective of the husband. Oh, they are happy. What a happy courtship they had. They live in a little house by the sea. They are happy happy happy. Then their son is born. They had never thought they could be MORE happy. But then lo - they were. Happy happy happy. The child lives 20 months or something like that - and then dies suddenly. And the wife loses it. She cracks up. Her grief is so intense that weird psychic shit starts happening. The husband begins to wake up in the night only to find his wife is not there. He goes out looking for her and finds her wandering along the shore, staring out into the ocean ...She says that she has heard the baby calling for her. She calls it her "dream-child". She can hear it just over that next dune, just over that NEXT dune ... she chases the sound of the dream-child's cry. Husband tries to bring her back to the house. She flips OUT. So he walks the shore with her. This starts to happen more and more often. Every other night he wakes up and finds her wandering along the shore, in between waking and dreaming, listening for the cries of her dream-child, and then following the sound when it comes (the husband can hear nothing).

Here's an excerpt.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Dream Child" - by L.M. Montgomery

What a horror brooded over that spring - that so beautiful spring! The time had come of lazy days, sunny blue skies, of the soft patter of sudden showers welcomed by the yet-to-be-weeded soil; of daffodils and iris and violets, or orchards transformed into pink and white fairylands; of the murmuring of babbling brooks and the sweet song of birds. Yes, the delicious joys of spring were abroad in the land. Almost every night of this wonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we roved the gray shore in quest of him.

In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she was restless and uneasy until she heard the call. Then follow it she would, even through storm and darkness. It was then, she said, that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boy were frightened by the tempest. What wild, terrrible rovings we had, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I, sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best I could, then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because she could not reach the child.

I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip could not busy itself with my wife's condition so long as I could keep it from becoming known. We had no near relatives - none with any right to share any trouble- and so I carried on alone, for grief is ever proud.

I thought, however, that I should have medical attention, and I took our old doctor into my confidence. He looked grave when he heard my story. I did not like his expression nor his few guarded remarks. He said he thought human aid would avail little; she might come all right in time; humor her as far as possible, watch over her, protect her. He needed not to tell me that.

The spring went out and summer came in - and the horror deepened and darkened. I knew that suspicions were being whispered from lip to lip. We had been seen on our nightly quests. Men and women began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad.

One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called. I knew then that the end was near the end had been near in the old grandmother's case sixty years before when the dream-child called in the day. The doctor looked graver than ever when I told him, and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task. I could not watch by day and night. Unless I had assistance I would break down.

I did not think that I should. Love is stronger than that. And on one thing I was determined -- they should never take my wife from me. No restraint sterner than a husband's loving hand should ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling.

I never spoke of the dream-child to her. The doctor advised against it. It would, he said, only serve to deepen the delusion. When he hinted at an asylum, I gave him a look that would have been a fierce sword for another man. He never spoke of it again.

"Fanatically Casual"

Fanatically Casual

Days passed.

Weeks passed.

Months passed.

The "thing" with Josh continued. Nothing so easy had ever happened to her before. He didn't seem to be getting tired of her. There was no drama, no games. They never ran out of things to discuss.

Seven months.

Eight months.

Nine months they had been seeing one another.

But: "seeing one other" was not exactly the right phrase. He would squeeze her around the waist, as they walked down the sidewalk, and say, "I love hanging out with you." They were "hanging out". He never said "girlfriend". Any time they came close to declaring themselves, Josh got skittish. He would say things like, "Okay. Way too fast. Way too fast." He openly resisted permanence. "I'm just not into getting too serious. It's not my thing. But I love hanging out with you. I don't want that to stop."

She curled up in bed alone, on their off-nights, falling up into the thundercloud, surrounded by bruised purple.

____

Occasionally, he wouldn't call her for a week, two weeks. His freelance jobs paid well, and so he had tremendous freedom with his time. He traveled. He took road trips. He flew to Boulder to see a band he had loved in college.

He would disappear and then re-appear, telling her, "I spent a couple days in Atlantic City with my brother." Alice never asked him if the disappearing-act was a test, a way to shake her up. When he called, her heart leapt at the sound of his voice.

Friendliness from him, on the other end: "So what'd you do over the past week?"

Blinded, panicked, Alice invented activities.

____

But during those times when he was in absentio, in actuality Alice wilted, her features pinched, collapsing in on each other.

Her inner life diminished to a tiny pinpoint. Nothing moved.

She went into a fugue state, brain fuzzed by blank noise.

Nothing different ever happened.

She was dragging her shadow in a circle.

She always had one weak moment when she would cave and leave a message on his cell phone, forcing her voice to be fanatically casual. As though she didn't miss him at all, she was so busy with her own life, she barely noticed he was gone.

"Hey Josh ... it's me. Listen, there's a documentary film festival this weekend downtown ... a couple of Iranian filmmakers I want to see. Anyway. Gimme a call. Hope you're well."

She never left more than one message like that.

____

And then he would re-appear unannounced on her doorstep at 3 o'clock in the morning. The doorbell buzzing yanked her up from the black; she struggled to surface, arms pushing helplessly through the water, swimming up reluctantly.

Regaining consciousness was traumatic for her, always had been since she was little, the effort to switch worlds sometimes left her in tears. Josh learned very early on with her that he should not wake her up in the middle of the night for sex, something that he loved to do. He would kiss her and caress her for twenty minutes with no response on the other side; nothing, nada, she was not there - and then her eyes creaked open, the touch of his soft hand finally getting through, and then, uncontrollably, tears of loss. The tears terrified him at first. But not so much now.

And so at the terrible sound of the buzzer, deep in the night, Alice, disoriented, stumbled to let him in, heart pounding, her walls unfamiliar to her, the tub changing position on its own during the night. Josh, an emissary from the waking daylight world no matter what time he arrived, entered, having not seen Alice in a week, his hands gentle, his lips on her face, his voice soothing, "All right, dream-girl, let's go back to bed."

Her other world compelled, beckoned, the dream-scapes washed empty and clear, waiting, shadows crowding out from behind marble buildings, reaching for her. They climbed up into the loft, and Alice plummeted back down into the clamoring darkness, into the embrace of the merging shadow-forms. Josh's body huddled up next to her, warm, big, his hands in her hair an echo of something else, his touch melding into her dream-world, Alice unsure which world was which.

_____

Her daily thought, "Soon I'll start" changed at some point to "Now it's begun." But the "it" was baffling to her, indistinct. She squinted, trying to see. What is "it"? What's begun?

____

It was her firm belief that people are, for better or for worse, shaped by circumstances beyond their control. An exposed tree on a wind-swept field cannot help but warp its shape to accommodate the storms. Josh, however, seemed relatively undamaged by life, unbent. He was an adult, he had gone through his share of crap (divorce of parents, best friend from high school dying in a car accident when they were sixteen), but his capacity for enthusiasm and human connection was untouched. He talked to everybody. He seemed to like everybody. Josh engaged the Burmese deli guy in deep (and informed) conversations about his home country. He flirted with the sad-faced girl behind the counter at his local coffee shop, bringing a smile to her lips. His social life was so ever-constant that he could have used a personal assistant to manage his schedule. Best friends from grade-school were always spending hilarious group weekends in New York, camping out at his cramped apartment in Queens, cutting a wild swath through the nightlife of the city. He never seemed to lose touch with anyone he had ever spoken with, ever. He had no curiosity about the inner workings of his own personality. His curiosity was almost completely outward-driven.

He introduced her to the concept of Manhattan-as-playground. He read Time Out New York with purpose, looking for fun cheap things to do. He used the city. "Let's go to the Museum of Film and Television. I've never been, which seems completely stupid." "Seamus Heaney is reading tonight at NYU. It's only 5 bucks to get in. Let's go." "Wanna go see if people are playing pick-up Frisbee in the park?"

Josh would call Alice late at night, and they would sleepily recount the events of the day for one another. These conversations had moments of glowing intimacy, like the time he said to her, as she drifted off, phone pressed to her ear, "G'night, you sweet thing."

Alice pined to be labeled. To achieve classification. But Alice sensed that to press for this would have meant to lose him. She turned their moments over in her head, compulsively, until they were as smooth and luminous as moonstones. On the nights he didn't call her, she lay in bed, whispering to herself, "Good night, you sweet thing ... Good night, you sweet thing..."

_____

When she was with him, everything tasted good. Burritos, Guinness, ice cream, cantaloupe.

____

Her phone rang at 11:30 at night. She picked up. "Hey." she said into the receiver.

"Turn on the TV right now."

"Okay - what channel."

"E. Sharon Tate True Hollywood Story is on."

They watched together, phone receivers to their ears. Sometimes commenting, but more often remaining silent, waiting to talk during the commercials.

_____

Alice hadn't been with anyone in a couple of years and was a bit anxious about sex, but Josh had no shyness, no embarrassment, and he viewed sex with the same friendly curiosity as he viewed everything else: architecture, music, celebrities, history.
_______

After sex, they would tiptoe out to the kitchen for leftover Chinese food, whispering so as not to wake his roommate, the light from the refrigerator spilling a pathway across the dark tile. Everything seemed hilarious. Random bursts of laughter. They lay together, coming down, his arm around her, and they talked. Mostly nonsense talk. They quizzed each other on what they would do if they won the lottery. They discussed which character in "The Breakfast Club" they related to the most. They made up limericks. The rule was to begin the limerick with no forethought, no planning, and to have no idea how it would work ultimately, or what the punch line would be.

"It's like skydiving," Josh said. "Okay - GO!"

Josh always managed to wrestle ridiculous rhymes out of thin air, which astounded Alice, who tended to freeze in the headlights during her turn. One night, overcome with frustration at her inability to limerick improvisationally, jealous of Josh's casual rhyming of "kitchen" with "From the baseball mound he was pitchin'", Alice burst out angrily with her own limerick. It was a protest against the tyranny of rhyme, against her own embarrassment.

"There once was an asshole named Josh
His head was shaped like a fence
He had eggs in his shoes
And a tie in his nose
And his bedroom was filled with red cabbage."

After a stunned silence, Josh said, "I don't think anyone has ever described me so perfectly."

______

Alice had a recurring vision of the two of them in their after-sex rambunctions as a pair of disgruntled mischievous putti, the ones who perch on the margins of Renaissance paintings, glancing up at the main action, rolling their eyes at life, murmuring to each other, "God, everyone takes everything so seriously."

She had always envied those putti, envied their nonchalance, their detachment, and had never before felt that she could inhabit their irreverent sexy bored little world.

Now it's begun.

Movie mimi

1. The last movie you saw in a theater, and current-release movie you still want to see:

Current release I want to see? I'm dying to see Half Nelson, Black Dahlia, Little Miss Sunshine and I totally have to see Shortbus when it opens on Oct. 4 just cause I'm so curious.

And - I guess I haven't been to a movie in the movie theatre in a long time. I just can't remember what the last one was. Poseidon? What a piece of crap THAT was.

2. The last movie you rented/purchased for home viewing:

Carnal Knowledge - just bought that this past weekend

3. A movie that made you laugh out loud just one??

What's Up Doc?
Waiting for Guffman
Bringing up Baby

4. A movie that made you cry:

Running on Empty

5. A movie that was a darling of the critics, but you didn't think lived up to the hype:

Forrest Freakin' Gump

It wasn't just the darling of the critics - it was the darling of, uhm, everyone - and I wasn't just bored by the film, I was also actively annoyed by it. I thought it was indicative of everything that is WRONG in today's society (and I'm not a "oh woe is me, society is going downhill" type girl - but yay, Forrest Gump MADE me into one of those people). I've posted my thoughts about it before and people write me pained emails trying to tell me why I need to see it again. It HURTS people that I don't like the movie. So freakin' weird. So no. I will not see it again. Life is too short for me to watch that piece of shit twice. Now let the emails fly!!

6. A movie that you thought was better than the critics:

Living Out Loud - I think that was one of the best movies of the last 10 years - and I guess it got good reviews - but certainly not like I thought it should have gotten. Fantastic film. I think everyone in it (Holly Hunter, Danny Devito, Queen Latifah) did their best work ever.

I felt implicated by that movie. I felt named by it. I took it personally. On some level, I am that Holly Hunter character and ... I felt intensely disturbed by it, but also so impressed. Wow ... how did they KNOW all that?

But besides my own personal response to it- it's just a good movie, that's all.

7. Favorite animated movie:

Lady and the Tramp probably. I adore that movie. Although I have such a soft sport for Bug's Life - because of how often I watched that movie with the Cash-man.

8. Favorite Disney Villain:

The Queen in Snow White. I still find her rather terrifying.

9. Favorite movie musical:

Probably Meet me in St. Louis. Although - you know what? No. I'm gonna have to go with Grease. Sorry.

10. Favorite movies of all-time (up to five): Ack - I hate these, but here we go - off the top of my head, just in terms of how many times I have seen these, and how often I can see them and never ever get tired of them:

Empire Strikes Back
Running on empty
Only Angels Have Wings
Witness
What's Up Doc?

Fall

It's my favorite time of year. Why? Because energy, new-ness, nostalgia, and melancholy are all supposed to be happening ... at the same time. In summer you are EXPECTED to be happy. There is an insistence in weather reports ("Good news! Tomorrow more sunshine!" Wow - that's quite an assumption you're making there, weatherman. You assume that that means "good news" to all of us. You can just stuff your assumptions up your ass, ya got that? You're a WEATHERMAN, not a psychologist. Thanks.) It's not that I don't like sun. It's not that I am Tadeusz, the vampire from the Eastern Bloc. It's that I dislike the universal assumption that everyone should prefer summer. I dislike the assumption that summer is supposed to be happy happy happy.

But fall? The melancholy and the letting go are built into the weather. I am looking forward but I am also looking back. But I do not feel stuck.

Here's a beautiful post from Wendy. I so relate.

John Adams exhibit

A huge thank you to cousin Kerry for giving me the heads-up about this John Adams exhibit - at the Boston Public Library right now. A great article about it ... the exhibit will continue on through April! So I have plenty of time to get my ass to Boston.

To see John Adams' notes to himself in the margins of his books (look at the photo in the article) - love that.

E-verse radio has a blog

My daily poetry (and much else) newsletter - edited by Ernie Hilbert - now is in blog form: E-verse Radio. Ernie has been sending out his poetry newsletter for, oh, 7 years now? It's daily: 5 days a week. It's one of the ongoing joys of my life, a daily pleasant surprise. Ernie is a poet himself (a couple sonnets here - but he's been published widely) and an editor - and for about a year we ran in the same circle. He's a great guy, a wonderful writer - and if you're a poetry lover, or literature lover - you will so want to check him out. Another fun thing about his newsletter (and why it will be so perfect in blog form) is that it is interactive. You'll see what I mean when you click over there. You get: Invaluable Fact of the Week. You get to send in Top 5 lists, should you so choose. Ernie will then post responses to the Top 5s. It gets pretty lively, and is a lot of fun.

If you would like to be added to the newsletter mailing list - let me know - I can pass on your email addresses to Ernie.

The dullest man

Ava Gardner was asked, "So - who is the dullest man in Hollywood? Clark Gable or Gary Cooper?"

Ava thought a bit and then said, "Well, if you ask Clark 'How are you doing?' he's stuck for an answer."

hahahahaha

Screen captures!

From Kwik Stop of course.

Had a great talk with Mitchell last night ("I am so glad you put up those photo booth pictures - because my friends now can see what I looked like when I had hair") - and we laughed about the moment when Mitchell lectured Michael and me about why Liza Minelli was great. I remember it clearly - Michael and I were on the couch at Mitchell's, and Michael even remembers what Mitchell SAID. Almost word for word. We were probably being snarky about her, and Mitchell was not having any of it. "Okay, so here's the deal with Liza, mkay?" We shut up and listen. We were afraid for our lives, basically.

Meanwhile: I'm going to see Liza Minelli in Vegas in October. With Alex. So there's some sort of full circle insanity at work. Mitchell: your lecture, lo those many years ago, had an effect. Even when she was a bloated tick, IN MY PRESENCE, I remembered your words.

I love this. It kinda says it all. Also, it's really moving (in a sad way, in a way that brings up a feeling of intense loss) when it's "the morning after" and the room has lost its magic and whimsy - and has become just another cheesy motel room. That transition is really well done in the film.

This scene below is so messed up because of the context - where they are, and what they are in the middle of doing when they start to have sex on the bed. It's like: Guys. That is not. your. room. Go home!

Love this moment. It's brief - not dwelled on, or explained ... but it just captures her entire emotional experience. Love it.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'Jane's Baby' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Jane's Baby" - by L.M. Montgomery

This story has a complicated plot involving two feuding sisters - who are fighting over an orphaned baby in their family - they basically keep kidnapping the baby back and forth from each other, because THEY want to raise it. I believe the sisters are feuding because one of them (Charlotte) went off and married someone that the other sister (Rosetta) disapproved of. They are the Lucy Maud sister archetypes: Charlotte is weak and sweet, Rosetta is strong and bossy. The two have not spoken for years. But - as the opening scene shows - all they do is think about each other. And it is "Jane's baby", Jane's orphaned baby, that forces the two sisters (who, naturally, actually love each other to death) to get back together, to reconcile.

But I love this opening scene. It's Lucy Maud in "high comedy" mode, and I love it.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Jane's Baby" - by L.M. Montgomery

Miss Rosetta Ellis, with her front hair in curl-papers and her back hair bound with a checked apron, was out in her breezy side yard under the firs, shaking her parlor rugs, when Mr. Nathan Patterson drove in. Miss Rosetta had seen him coming down the long red hill, but she had not supposed he would be calling at that time of the morning. So she had not run. Miss Rosetta always ran if anybody called and her front hair was in curl-papers; and, though the errand of the said caller might be life or death, he or she had to wait until Miss Rosetta had taken her hair out. Everybody in Avonlea knew this, because everybody in Avonlea knew everything about everybody else.

But Mr Patterson had wheeled into the lane so quickly and unexpectedly that Miss Rosetta had had no time to run; so, twitching off the checked apron, she stood her ground as calmly as might be under the disagreeable consciousness of curl-papers.

"Good morning, Miss Ellis," said Mr. Patterson, so somberly that Miss Rosetta instantly felt that he was the bearer of bad news. Usually Mr. Patterson's face was as broad and beaming as a harvest moon. Now his expression was very melancholy, and his voice positively sepulchral.

"Good morning," returned Miss Rosetta, crisply and cheerfully. She, at any rate, would not go into eclipse until she knew the reason therefor. "It is a fine day."

"A very fine day," assented Mr. Patterson solemnly. "I have just come from the Wheeler place, Miss Ellis, and I regret to say --"

"Charlotte is sick!" cried Miss Rosetta rapidly. "Charlotte has got another spell with her heart! I knew it! I've been expecting to hear it! Any woman that drives about the country as much as she does is liable to heart disease at any moment. I never go outside of my gate but I meet her gadding off somewhere. Goodness knows who looks after her place. I shouldn't like to trust as much as a hired man as she does. Well, it is very kind of you, Mr. patterson, to put yourself out to the extent of calling in to tell me that Charlotte is sick, but I don't really see why you should take so much trouble - I really don't. It doesn't matter to me whether Charlotte is sick or whether she isn't. You know that perfectly well, Mr. Patterson, if anybody does. When Charlotte went and got married, on the sly, to that good-for-nothing Jacob Wheeler --"

"Mrs. Wheeler is quite well," interrupted Mr. Patterson desperately. "Quite well. Nothing at all the matter with her, in fact. I only --"

"Then what do you mean by coming here and telling me she wasn't, and frightening me half to death?" demanded Miss Rosetta indignantly. "My own heart isn't very strong - it runs in our family - and my doctor warned me to avoid all shocks and excitement. I don't want to be excited, Mr. patterson. I won't be excited, not even if Charlotte has another spell. It's perfectly useless for you to try to excite me, Mr. Patterson."

"Bless the woman, I'm not trying to excite anybody!" declared Mr. Patterson in exasperation. "I merely called to tell you --"

"To tell me what?" said Miss Rosetta. "How much longer do you mean to keep me in suspense, Mr. Patterson? No doubt you have abundance of spare time, but -- I -- have not."

" -- that your sister, Mrs. Wheeler, has had a letter from a cousin of yours, and she's in Charlottetown. Mrs. Roberts, I think her name is --"

"Jane Roberts," broke in Miss Rosetta. "Jane Ellis she was, before she was married. What was she writing to Charlotte about? Not that I want to know, of course. I'm not interested in Charlotte's correspondence, goodness knows. But if Jane had anything in particular to write about, she should have written to me. I am the oldest. Charlotte had no business to get a letter from Jane Roberts without consulting me. It's just like her underhanded ways. She got married the same way. Never said a word to me about it, but just sneaked off with that unprincipled Jacob Wheeler --"

"Mrs. Roberts is very ill. I understand," persisted Mr. Patterson, nobly resolved to do what he had come to do, "dying, in fact, and --"

"Jane ill! Jane dying!" exclaimed Miss Rosetta. "Why, she was the healthiest girl I ever knew! But then I've never seen her, nor heard from her, since she got married fifteen years ago. I dare say her husband was a brute and neglected her, and she's pined away by slow degrees. I've no faith in husbands. Look at Charlotte! Everybody knows how Jacob Wheeler used her. To be sure, she deserved it, but --"

"Mrs. Roberts' husband is dead," said Mr. Patterson. "Died about two months ago, I understand, and she has a little baby six months old, and she thought perhaps Mrs. Wheeler would take it for old times' sake --"

"Did Charlotte ask you to call and tell me this?" demanded Miss Rosetta eagerly.

"No; she just told me what was in the letter. She didn't mention you; but I thought, perhaps, you ought to be told--"

"I knew it," said Miss Rosetta, in a tone of bitter assurance. "I could have told you so. Charlotte wouldn't even let me know that Jane was ill. Charlotte would be afraid I would want to get the baby, seeing that Jane and I were such intimate friends long ago. And who has a better right to it than me, I should like to know? Ain't I the oldest? And haven't I had experience in bringing up babies? Charlotte needn't think she is going to run the affairs of our family just because she happened to get married. Jacob Wheeler --"

"I must be going," said Mr. Patterson, gathering up his reins thankfully.

"I am much obliged to you for coming to tell me about Jane," said Miss Rosetta, "even though you have wasted a lot of precious time getting it out. If it hadn't been for you I suppose I should never have known it at all. As it is, I shall start for town just as soon as I can get ready."

"You'll have to hurry if you want to get ahead of Mrs. Wheeler," advised Mr. Patterson. "She's packing her trunk and going on the morning train."

"I'll pack a valise and go on the afternoon train," retorted Miss Rosetta triumphantly. "I'll show Charlotte she isn't running the Ellis affairs. She married out of them into the Wheelers. She can attend to them. Jacob Wheeler was the most--"

But Mr. Patterson had driven away. He felt that he had done his duty in the face of fearful odds, and he did not want to hear anything more about Jacob Wheeler.

Cranium: "toupee"

Cashel was given "toupee" and he had to draw it with his eyes closed, and we all had to guess what it was.

Look at his drawing. Of a freakin' toupee.

Done with his eyes closed.

Cranium: "backseat driver"

Just found this feverish drawing from a game of Cranium this summer. Melody had to draw "backseat driver". Unfortuantely - she started with the Fisher Price-esque hairdos - and all any of us could say, from that moment on, was "gladiators", "Ben Hur", "chariot racing", "Coliseum" ...

You can feel Melody's growing frustrating in the arrows coming out of the backseat driver's mouth. Sadly, all of us guessing just saw that he was the chariot racer in the Coliseum shouting directions to his partner.

Melody said later, resigned, "I just could not get you guys out of ancient Rome."

Happy birthday - to F. Scott Fitzgerald

Happy birthday to F. Scott Fitzgerald who was born today in 1896 in St. Paul, Minnesota!

Fitzgerald was one of those writers I liked right away, even though I read most of his stuff when I was 15, and was forced to for school. I clicked with his books, for some reason. I credit a lot of that to my 10th grade teacher, Mr. Crothers. His love of The Great Gatsby permeated his lectures, and his enthusiasm inspired the class. I really "got" it. I remember the book as being much much longer - which is so funny. I recently re-read it, and was shocked at how short it really is.

I already had a fascination with flappers (ahem. Obviously.) Not sure where the fascination came from. I think it might have had something to do with seeing Bugsy Malone on TV when I was about 12. Member that movie? Jodie Foster and Scott Baio as little kid gangsters and gangster molls? Driving cars with their feet like the Flintstones? I absolutely loved that movie, and I loved Jodie Foster's spit curls, and her costumes ... I remember, too, in junior high I did a whole paper on the 1920s for history class. I remember including photographs of flappers, and photographs of the cars they had ... I would insert stuff like this through the text:

I knew all about prohibition, I knew the music ... Oh, and I just remembered a couple other reasons why the whole "jazz age" thing fascinated me long before I encountered Fitzgerald: one of my favorite books growing up was Cheaper by the Dozen, hahaha, just thinking about that book makes me laugh. My cousin Susan and I loved that book, and we read it together. We would play with our Fisher Price little people (or "peeps", in the O'Malley lexicon) and we would make them be the Gilbreth family. 12 little kids, and a mother and father. Most of the book was, of course, about the crazy time-saving schemes that Gilbreth would test out on his family (actually, not so crazy - Gilbreth and Henry Ford were real innovators in this area) - making the kids wash dishes, timing them, and then figuring out ways to cut off seconds from the process. The last couple of chapters in the book take place in the 20s, when the older kids are now teenagers, and the whole jazz age flapper scene was starting to kick in. The older girls would have to sneak out of the house to go meet their boyfriends, the father was losing his mind, and the whole thing just sounded so hilarious and exciting to me. Especially the whole fashion part of it ... the skirts getting shorter, the cars pulling up in front of the house with Ivy League guys driving, waiting for the girls ... I loved it.

And lastly - when I was about 11, I remember my parents taking me to see a production of The Boyfriend up at the local university and I was literally swept away by it. The costumes, the music, the craziness ... I loved the charleston. I loved the whole fantasy of that era.

So when Great Gatsby came along, I was ready to just LIVE in the pages of that book.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (or - Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald) was born in St. Paul Minnesota in 1896. He went to Princeton, and afterwards joined the army. Somewhere in here, he sold his first story ... and when he was only 23 years old he wrote and published his first novel: This Side of Paradise. It was a smash hit - and was one of those zeitgeist books: it described the moment in time that everyone was experiencing (or, a certain set of people, let's say that) ... It was one of those books that is eloquent about cultural and social changes AS they are happening. Fitzgerald was immediately seen as the voice of that era, and that generation. The jazz age kicking in. Fitzgerald was the poster child. It didn't hurt that he was so handsome.

People projected their own desires onto him, their ideals for who they wanted to be. He was glamorous, urbane, free of societal conventions ... He lived the life others wanted to live.

And yet, listen to this quote from him: "What people are ashamed of usually makes a good story."

That is courage. That kind of honesty. So inspiring to me.

In 1922, he wrote in a letter to Maxwell Perkins at Scribners: "I want to write something new -- something extraordinary and simple & intricately patterned."

Such a young man. Such a broad and deep vision.

Around this time, he married Zelda Sayre.

She was the yin to his yang, she was the perfect partner in crime for that particular decade ... she did not give a damn. She was the Clara Bow for the literary set. She was who they were talking about when they talked about "jazz babies". The original flapper.

Look at their wedding portrait. I just love it.

They had their wedding reception at Chumley's, a former speakeasy and literary hangout at 86 Bedford Street, which is still there. I first met Bill McCabe and Emily Jones at Chumley's. It's the same now as it was then: no signage, nothing to say it's there. You have to know where it is. 86 Bedford, baby! 86 those plates, and let's get the hell out of here.

So Fitzgerald and Zelda married. They lived their relationship in public. They created personae, they acted parts, they showed up at places looking amazing, they relished in their own publicity. They kept massive scrapbooks of their clippings from the gossip pages. They were partners in all of this. Partners in self-promotion and self-absorption.

Here's a page from their scrapbook:

Zelda and Scott were like the Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie of their day. Exhibitionists, putting their own craziness on display, loving and living to shock others, having massive crockery-throwing fights in public, also having clutching make-out sessions in public ... It all was about being famous. But underneath all of that, there was this kindred spirit thing happening. You can't be in love with someone who NEEDS to be famous and not have the same need yourself. Or, you can, but it'll go bust. The two of them were in sync in those first years - it was like they were the same person.

Neither of them was ever the one to say, "Okay. Time for bed now." They were a couple with no brakes.

They would have drinks at the Plaza Hotel, and she would dance on the table. She would leap into fountains, fully dressed. She bucked convention. Just for the hell of it. She was the life of the party (while it lasted). She was wild. Just wild. F. Scott Fitzgerald was inspired by her, she was definitely a muse of some kind. He would read her diaries, he hoarded the letters she wrote to him, he was completely wrapped up in her glow. Zelda is a fascinating (and ultimately tragic) character in her own right. A girl who was completely unprepared to do anything useful in her life - pampered and indulged by her family who thought she was nuts, and also trouble, she basically set her sights on New York. She had the misfortune of marrying a man seen as the bright literary light of his generation - a misfortune because she had literary aspirations as well (uhm, echoes of Courtney Love?). Here is a small sketch she wrote about Montgomery Alabama, where she grew up. It is obvious she can write. Not like her husband, but she can definitely write.

There exists in Montgomery a time and quality that appertains to nowhere else. It began about half past six on an early summer night, with the flicker and sputter of the corner street lights going on, and it lasted until the great incandescent globes were black inside with moths and beetles and the children were called into bed from the dusty streets ... The drug stores are bright at night with the organdie balloons of girls' dresses under the big electric fans. Automobiles stand along the curbs in front of open frame houses at dusk, and sounds of supper being prepared drift through the soft splotches of darkness to the young world that moves every evening out of doors. Telephones ring, and the lacy blackness under the trees disgorges young girls in white and pink, leaping over the squares of warm light toward the tinkling sound with an expectancy that people have only in places where any event is a pleasant one. Nothing seems ever to happen.

There's a nice descriptive romantic quality there. She had talent. Only she had no discipline. None. F. Scott Fitzgerald, while an insane partier, a heavy drinker, a guy who stayed out all night every night, had great discipline. He worked at his craft. He worked hard at writing. He was always writing, and honing, and editing. Maybe he was hungover, but his writing was his JOB. Zelda had none of that. She couldn't focus her energies. She was threatened by his success. She wanted a piece of that pie for herself. She also ended up resenting how he used her and her thoughts and sometimes even her words to become a success.

But ... well, we all know what ended up happening to Zelda. I don't know her diagnosis - but judging from some of her episodes, it had to be pretty bad. This was not a case of clinical depression. It was psychosis. While they lived in Paris, she got it into her head that she needed to be a ballerina. She began to study. She became obsessed. Soon, she was dancing for 6, 7, 8 hours a day. But she was in her early 30s by this point ... way too old to be a prima ballerina. But Zelda didn't care. Apparently, too, she was a terrible dancer. Friends who visited the couple in Paris told stories (in letters, and later, to biographers) of arriving for their visit, and Zelda would greet them at the door in a tutu and ballet shoes. She would dance for them. Awfully. These stories are excruciatingly painful to read. Look at her wedding portrait. Her young wild face, those tiger eyes. It's just sad to think of her end. It really is. It must have been unbearable.

Who knows where the madness came from, or if the wildness of her behavior in her youth (jumping in fountains, etc.) were early warning signs - things people ignored and forgave her for, because she was young and free. Who knows. I read a biography of Zelda Fitzgerald last year and it was heart-wrenching. I actually had a hard time finishing it. She had a deadly fear of fire, she was like a horse in that respect - it terrified her - and how did she die? She died in a fire that broke out in the mental institution - she was on a locked ward, she couldn't get out, and the institution burned to the ground. It must have been shrieking agony. It must have been unspeakable.

But for about 5 or 6 years, the two of them were on top of the world. They had youth in their favor.

The Great Gatsby was published in 1925. Fitzgerald worked his ass off on this book - and was pretty tormented throughout the process. He wrote, and re-wrote, and re-wrote - holding off his editor, Maxwell Perkins, as long as possible. It was a precious book to him, a deeply personal book, and he feared he had not succeeded.

Perkins' long letter back to Fitzgerald, after he finally received the manuscript, gives me chills. I won't print it in its entirety - it's too long - but it's an amazing insight into the book, and also ... into Fitzgerald the Writer. The guy had an innate gift, yes, but he also was this major craftsman.

Here are some excerpts from Perkins' initial letter:

I think you have every kind of right to be proud of this book. It is an extraordinary book, suggestive of all sorts of thoughts and moods. You adopted exactly the right method of telling it, that of employing a narrator who is more of a spectator than an actor: this puts the reader upon a point of observation on a higher level than that on which the characters stand and at a distance that gives perspective. In no other way could your irony have been so immensely effective, nor the reader have been enabled so strongly to feel at times the strangeness of human circumstance in a vast heedless universe. In the eyes of Dr. Eckleburg various readers will see different significances; but their presence gives a superb touch to the whole thing: great unblinking eyes, expressionless, looking down upon the human scene. It's magnificent!

I could go on praising the book and speculating on its various elements, and meanings, but points of criticism are more important now. I think you are right in feeling a certain slight sagging in chapters six and seven, and I don't know how to suggest a remedy. I hardly doubt that you will find one and I am only writing to say that I think it does need something to hold up here to the pace set, and ensuing.

He then goes on to list a couple of pages of specific criticisms. Beautiful to read. It's really just amazing literary analysis is what it is.

One of the criticisms is this:

The other point is also about Gatsby: his career must remain mysterious, of course. But in the end you make it pretty clear that his wealth came through his connection with Wolfstein. You also suggest this much earlier. Now almost all readers numerically are going to be puzzled by his having all this wealth and are going to feel entitled to an explanation. To give a distinct and definite one would be, of course, utterly absurd. It did occur to me though, that you might here and there interpolate some phrases, and possibly incidents, little touches of various kinds, that would suggest that he was in some active way mysteriously engaged. You do have him called on the telephone, but couldn't he be seen once or twice consulting at his parties with people of some sort of mysterious significance, from the political, the gambling, the sporting world, or whatever it mayb be. I know I am floundering, but that fact may help you to see what I mean ... I wish you were here so I could talk about it to you for then I know I could at least make you understand what I mean. What Gatsby did ought never to be definitely imparted, even if it could be. Whether he was an innocent tool in the hands of somebody else, or to what degree he was this, ought not to be explained. But if some sort of business activity of his were simply adumbrated, it would lend further probability to that part of the story.

After a couple more paragraphs, Perkins writes:

The general brilliant quality of the book makes me ashamed to make even these criticisms. The amount of meaning you get into a sentence, the dimensions and intensity of the impression you make a paragraph carry, are most extraordinary. The manuscript is full of phrases which make a scene blaze with life. If one enjoyed a rapid railroad journey I would compare the number and vividness of pictures your living words suggest, to the living scenes disclosed in that way. It seems in reading a much shorter book than it is, but it carries the mind through a series of experiences that one would think woudl require a book of three times its length.

The presentation of Tom, his place, Daisy and Jordan, and the unfolding of their characters is unequalled so far as I know. The description of the valley of ashes adjacent to the lovely country, the conversation and the action in Myrtle's apartment, the marvelous catalogue of those who come to Gatsby's house -- these are such things as make a man famous. And all these things, the whole pathetic episode, you have given a place in time and space, for with the help of T.J. Eckleburg and by an occasional glance at the sky, or the sea, or the city, you have imparted a sort of sense of eternity. You once told me you were not a natural writer -- my God! You have plainly mastered the craft, of course; but you needed far more than craftsmanship for this.

Now that's the kind of letter you want from your editor.

The Great Gatsby was not the phenom that This Side of Paradise was. Reviews were mixed. Only posterity would put Gatsby in the canon.

Zelda had her first breakdown in 1930. Fitzgerald's drinking problem went to another level. He was devastated by her illness, and he was devastated by what was obviously a slacking off in his success. It's tough when you become a mega-star at 23. Anything that follows is sure to be a letdown. Fitzgerald needed to support himself, so he started cranking out short stories for the big mags at the time ... stuff that paid the bills but left him feeling empty.

F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack at 44, leaving an unfinished novel The Last Tycoon behind him.

Like I said, last year I re-read The Great Gatsby. It was like running into an old childhood friend. I'll re-post what I wrote about it back then, because it was fresh in my mind, and I was still on a high from the experience.

Happy birthday, Mr. Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald ... and thanks for your books.

Re-visiting The Great Gatsby

I just picked up The Great Gatsby again and read it in three days. (It felt much much longer in high school.) I was shocked and moved by how much I had remembered. The huge eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleberg ... I remember the intense class discussion about what those eyes symbolize. The green light at the end of the dock, obviously. And there were parts that I actually remembered word for word, because of how, exactly, Mr. Crothers (my teacher) taught the book.

I remember the huge discussion about the following part of the book:

Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

"Oh, you want too much!" she cried to Gatsby. "I love you now -- isn't that enough? I can't help what's past." She began to sob helplessly. "I did love him once -- but I loved you too."

Gatsby's eyes opened and closed.

"You loved me too?" he repeated.

I remember Mr. Crothers pointing out that section to us, and talking about how that was the snap in Gatsby, that was the dream dying in Gatsby, that was the inner conflict of the entire book encapsulated in two sentences:

Gatsby's eyes opened and closed. "You loved me too?" he repeated.

Fitzgerald does not describe the snap. He does not have to. Fitzgerald does not talk about Gatsby's dream of Daisy, his fantasy of Daisy, at least not in that pivotal moment. All he does, all he does, is tell us that Gatsby's eyes opened and closed. And in that moment, a man's dream dies.

Phenomenal.

I would have missed that, in high school, if Mr. Crothers hadn't dwelt on it so specifically, and it all came back rushing back when I re-read it.

I might say that Mr. Crothers was the best teacher I have ever had. Period. He taught me how to write. Plain and simple. And you know how he taught me? I wrote a paper in his class. I got a D. My first D in my whole life. Panic ensued. Deep depression. Writer's block. I wrote another paper. I got a D+. Next paper: C-. Next paper: I got a straight C. It was a very proud moment. And with every paper, agonizingly, I got better and better and better. Until finally, light broke through, and I was able to construct a damn paper. I wrote consistently A-level papers in college directly because of what Mr. Crothers taught me.

This post is a ramble. Mr. Crothers, if he read this, would be thinking: "Sheila, where's the thesis statement??"

So here it is:

I had forgotten the stature of Fitzgerald's opus. I had forgotten how superb it was. Or: if I remembered it, it was in a taken-for-granted kind of way. Like: "Oh yeah, that's a great book. One of the best books of the 20th century. Whatever." I had forgotten the level of the accomplishment. I had forgotten how moving it is.

Reading it as an adult gave me a whole new perspective on it as well.

When I read it at age 15, I was completely on the side of Nick, the narrator: The relatively innocent and honest bystander, looking on at the decadence of Daisy and Jordan and Gatsby, trying not to judge (like he says on the first page of the book), and trying to come out of the situation unscathed. But by the end of the book, Nick is changed. And so are we, whether we like it or not.

But now, reading it as a grown woman, with a couple of failed love affairs in my rear view mirror, I found myself entering the story through the eyes of Gatsby. I could see myself in parts of him. It KILLED me. I understood Gatsby, suddenly. Carrying a torch for years, infusing everything with significance, poetry, choosing the dream-world over reality.

It is only NOW, after reading it from an adult perspective, that I can truly understand why the book is seen as such an epic human tragedy. An American tragedy.

Now I understand. Now I understand.

Those first pages are so extraordinary, so exquisitely written, they cannot be improved upon.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more, but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought -- frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that any intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction -- Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament" -- it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No -- Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Reading that makes me want to put down my pen forever.

So does the last sentence of the book:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The Books: Further Chronicles of Avonlea: 'Her Father's Daughter' (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Her Father's Daughter" - by L.M. Montgomery

This is a great little story. David and Isabella Spencer were married and they had a baby girl. (The story starts on the eve of this baby girl's wedding - so she's an adult now) But there is a past full of pain between the two parents. David is a sailor (this is a big theme in Lucy Maud's work - "going to sea") - which makes sense, seeing as where she grew up, and the whole maritime culture of it). But there was something shameful (to some) about those who wanted to 'go to sea' - it wasn't respectable - and also, in other of her stories - it's tragic - because anyone who "goes to sea" usually isn't seen for years on end. So mothers weep, wives mourn, etc. Usually, in Lucy Maud's world, a guy who "goes to sea" does so secretly - sneaking off in the night - to avoid the weeping and wailing. In "Her Father's Daughter", though - Isabella Spencer is flat out prejudicial against sailors, and anyone who works off of the ocean. (Uhm, then why do you live on PEI, Isabella??). She thinks it's not respectable work, only reprobates are sailors - you should stay and work on the LAND, like her forefathers, THAT is respectable work. (I may not be remembering this quite clearly - it's been a while - but that's what I recall) She told him to give up the sea. He (and Lucy Maud understands this so well) feels that it will break his heart. There are just those who cannot LIVE without being on the ocean everyday. I myself grew up in a state with a maritime culture - and I can attest to that personality type. It still exists. These fishermen, yes, they make great money - but many of them do it for other reasons as well. They MUST be out on the ocean every day. There is no other possible life for these people. They would crumple up and die, emotionally, in Kansas. David Spencer is that kind of person. So Isabella makes a completely unreasonable request of him. But he's in love, they're newlyweds, and he says yes. For 6 years all goes well - until suddenly - he starts to get the call again. An old sea-captain friend of his comes back into his life - and offers him a job And suddenly he knows. Not only does he know he must take the job - he also knows that Isabella has been WAY too hard ... and he cannot go so against his own nature like that. They have had a baby girl named Rachel, love of David's life - but he MUST take the job with the captain. Isabella, a hard woman, says, "If you take this job, don't come back." David takes the job. He doesn't come back. Or - he does come back, eventually, but not to Isabella's house. He lives in a small shanty on the shore. It is a huge scandal in the town. Isabella raises Rachel alone. She is bitter and hard - she does not allow Rachel to see her father - as a matter of fact, I think Rachel doesn't even know if her father is alive or dead - even though he lives just across the fields. She is raised as though he does not exist.

During her childhood - she has a couple of encounters on a beach with a kindly smiling man - who seems to take an interest in her. She is just a little girl so she doesn't think too much of it - but later, much later, she remembers his eyes - how they looked at her - and she just knows. That was her father.

Rachel grows up - and is now engaged to be married. She is in love. OAs she and her mother write out invitations, Rachel drops her bomb. Her father must be allowed to come to the wedding. Isabella - who has lived a life where she never admits she has been wrong, never yields, ever - says Absolutely not - I will not allow that man in our lives again. Rachel insists. Isabella argues. And you realize that Rachel, as pretty and sweet and young as she is, has some of her mother's unyielding nature in her. She is willing to NOT get married at ALL if her father is not allowed to be there. It's that important to her. Isabella is beyond frustrated - having met her match in her own daughter. She says "fine, whatever" and flounces out of the room. The invitation goes out to David Spencer.

On the eve of the wedding - Rachel stands up in her room in her wedding dress. A note has been sent to her from her father saying "I cannot enter the house I was turned out of." (2 stubborn people - David and Isabella!) "But I wish you all the happiness in the world." Guests awill be arriving any moment.

The wedding is minutes away. But Rachel - reading this note - suddenly is filled with a sense of purpose. No. No. Her father MUST attend.

So she basically sneaks out of the house - in her wedding dress - and runs across the fields to get him. That's the excerpt.

And can I just say this? I love Frank.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Her Father's Daughter" - by L.M. Montgomery

It was quite dark when she reached the Cove. In the crystal cup of the sky over her the stars were blinking. The sound of rippling waves, lapping on the shore, broke the stillness. A soft little wind was crooning about the eaves of the little gray house where David Spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, his violin on his knee. He had been trying to play, but could not. His heart yearned after his daughter - yes, and after a long-estranged bride of his youth. His love of the sea was sated forever; his love for wife and child still cried for its own under all his old anger and stubbornness.

The door opened suddenly, and the very Rachel of whom he was dreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps and standing forth in her young beauty and bridal adornments, a splendid creature, almost lighting up the gloom with her radiance.

"Father," she cried brokenly, and her father's eager arms closed around her.

Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming to the wedding. There were jests and laughter and friendly greeting. The bridegroom came, too, a slim, dark-eyed lad who tiptoed bashfully upstairs to the spare room, from which he presently emerged to confront Mrs. Spencer on the landing.

"I want to see Racherl before we go down," he said, blushing.

Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on the table which was already laden with gifts, opened the door of Rachel's room, and called her. There was no reply; the room was dark and still. In sudden alarm, Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp from the hall table and held it up. The little white room was empty. No blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David Spencer's letter was lying on the stand. She caught it up and read it

"Rachel is gone," she gasped. A flash of intuition had revealed to her where and why the girl had gone.

"Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid dismay recalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a bitter, ugly little laugh.

"Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run away from you. Hush; come in here - shut the door. Nobody must know of this. Nice gossip it would make! That little fool has gone to the Cove to see her -- her father. I know she has. It's just like what she would do. He sent her those presents - look - and this letter. Read it. She has gone to coax him to come and see her married. She was crazy about it. And the minister is here, and it is half-past seven. She'll ruin her dress and shoes in the dust and dew. And what if someone has seen her! Was there ever such a little fool?"

Frank's presence of mind had returned to him. He knew all about Rachel and her father. She had told him everything.

"I'll go after her," he said gently. "Get me my hat and coat. I'll slip down the back stairs and over to the Cove."

"You must get out of the pantry window, then," said Mrs. Spencer firmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after her characteristic fashion. "The kitchen is full of women. I won't have this known and talked about if it can possibly be helped."

The bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge that it was well to yield to women in little things, crawled obediently out of the pantry window and darted through the birch wood. Mrs. Spencer had stood quakingly on guard until he had disappeared.

So Rachel had gone to her father! Like had broken the fetters of years and fled to like.

"It isn't much use fighting against nature, I guess," she thought grimly. "I'm beat. He must have thought something of her, after all, when he sent her that teapot and letter. And what does he mean about the 'day they had such a good time'? Well, it just means that she's been to see him before, sometime, I suppose, and kept me in ignorance of it all."

Mrs. Spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious thud.

"If only she'll come quietly back with Frank in time to prevent gossip, I'll forgive her," she said, as she turned to the kitchen.

Rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her white arms around his neck, when Frank came in. She sprang up, her face flushed and appealing, her eyes bright and dewy with tears. Frank thought he had never seen her look so lovely.

"Oh, Frank, is it very late? Oh, are you angry?" she exclaimed timidly.

"No, no, dear. Of course I'm not angry. But don't you think you'd better come back now? It's nearly eight and everybody is waiting."

"I've been trying to coax father to come up and see me married," said Rachel. "Help me, Frank."

"You'd better come, sir," said Frank heartily. "I'd like it as much as Rachel would."

David Spencer shook his head stubbornly.

"No, I can't go to that house. I was locked out of it. Never mind me. I've had my happiness in this half hour with my little girl. I'd like to see her married, but it isn't to be."

"Yes, it is to be - it shall be, " said Rachel resolutely. "You shall see me married. Frank, I'm going to married here in my father's house! That is the right place for a girl to be married. Go back and tell the guests so, and bring them all down."

Frank looked rather dismayed. David Spencer said deprecatingly, "Little girl, don't you think it would be --"

"I'm going to have my own way in this," said Rachel, with a sort of tender finality. "Go, Frank. I'll obey you all my life after, but you must do this for me. Try to understand," she added beseechingly.

"Oh, I understand," Frank reassured her. "Besides, I think you are right. But I was thinking of your mother. She won't come."

"Then you tell her that if she doesn't come I shan't be married at all," said Rachel. She was betraying unsuspected ability to manage people. She knew that ultimatum would urge Frank to his best endeavors.

Frank, much to Mrs. Spencer's dismay, marched boldly in at the front door upon his return. She pounced on him and whisked him out of sight into the supper room.

"Where's Rachel? What made you come that way? Everybody saw you!"

"It makes no difference. They will all have to know, anyway. Rachel says she is going to be married from her father's house, or not at all. I've come back to tell you so."

Isabella's face turned crimson.

"Rachel has gone crazy. I wash my hands of this affair. Do as you please. Take the guests - the supper, too, if you can carry it."

"We'll all come back here for supper," said Frank, ignoring the sarcasm. "Come, Mrs. Spencer; let's make the best of it."

"Do you suppose that I am going to David Spencer's house?" said Isabella Spencer violently.

"Oh, you must come, Mrs. Spencer," cried poor Frank desperately. He began to fear that he would lose his bride past all finding in this maze of triple stubbornness. "Rachel says she won't be married at all if you don't go, too. Think what a talk it will make. You know she will keep her word."

Isabella Spencer knew it. Amid all the conflict of anger and revolt in her soul was a strong desire not to make a worse scandal than must of necessity be made. The desire subdued and tamed her, as nothing else could have done.

"I will go, since I have to," she said icily. "What can't be cured must be endured. Go and tell them."

Five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all walking over the fields to the Cove, with the minister and the bridegroom in front of the procession. They were too amazed to even talk about the strange happening. Isabella Spencer walked behind, fiercely alone.

Obsession Central: Dino

"You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on." -- Dean Martin

Amusingly enough, he was probably the only one of those guys who actually wasn't an alcoholic. But his drunky-drunk comments are always very funny.

Let's hear it again:

"You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on."

heh heh

Diary Saturday

Presented without too much comment from me beforehand. This one is not high school. It's a memory that Michael and I touched on - a stupid memory, really, just a time we ran into each other at an audition and then at a show and how fun it was - and I knew I had written about it. I wanted to find this entry and I did (took me about 2 minutes of digging thru the ol' diary box) ... So I read the damn thing and it's an odd entry. It's inTENSE. I am on the cusp. I am making the moves to move from Chicago. I have set it in motion. But nothing has happened yet. But it's coming. I can sense it. I was recovering from this failed love affair with the Baby Boomer - but I wasn't recovering very well. I am amazed at how haunted I sound in this entry. And I would remain haunted by him for freakin' years. I finally stabbed his ghost in the damn heart about 5 years ago (hahaha) - and have made some peace with it. Writing this helped too. But I was a mess at the point of this diary entry. But meanwhile: I was hanging out on an almost constant basis with Window-Boy at this point - especially since I somehow sensed that my time in Chicago was coming to an end. He was so relaxing for me - or that's how I remember this time anyway - everything else was so crazy, but I could relax with HIM. Turns out there was a bit more darkness in the scenario which I had forgotten - but it comes back, reading this entry. I don't remember much of it, actually. Strange. Timing-wise - this diary entry is in May. Michael and I had dated in the autumn of the previous year, and then sort of drifted apart. Nothing bad happened, no falling out, just ... well. The death-mask debacle and other tragedies. So then in May - changes coming - weirdness with Window-Boy - missing Baby Boomer ... and I run into Michael.

This entry's intense. Not high school giddy silliness. Although much of it did make me laugh out loud. I'll refer to Baby Boomer as BB and Window-Boy as WB in the entry below. Lucky Michael gets to keep his own name.

MAY 15

I have FORCED myself to continue forward with my plans, even though I'm apathetic, a huge part of me doesn't want to leave Chicago AT ALL. A huge part of me wants, at least, to be near BB. [Ouch] I can't let it go. I can't. [Then, in the middle of this text, I have written - and I have NO IDEA what it means: "Hello you monkeys and lovers and lovebirds and shriners." Seriously - THAT LINE shows up right after "I can't let it go. I can't." hahahahahahs Shriners?? WHAT???] But I have to. Or, I certainly can't abandon my plans. I could not live with myself. I am already trying to prepare myself for the wrench of leaving. Also ... BB. It's done. It's over. But in my heart it is so not. I live for word of him. My heart beats faster. But - like a steamroller - I keep making plans, taking the steps, 1-2-3 - without even really thinking about it. Forcing myself. And now I am flying to NYC in June for the audition. I'll deal with the move when it happenns. Listen to how I talk about this - as though moving would be bad.

However, I think I am a pretty evolved person. I think my understanding of and feeling for the shades of grey in life is pretty deep. I understand how good and bad can be mixed. A "good" thing can happen and a really 'bad" thing can be attached to it. That's life. That's being an adult.

I have a problem with the word "happy" anyway. I always have. Happiness, for me, is encapsulated in a moment. Not meant to last. The first glimpse of the skyline as I run around a curve in the lake ... sitting in the sun on my front steps drinking coffee ... dancing on BB's feet in the hot darkness, his arms tight around me ... driving with Ann with the windows down singing the theme song to Greatest American Hero at the top of our lungs ...

Moments.

When I feel a burst of contentment ... Happy? I can see clearly (now the rain has gone ...) I don't say "I'm happy". I live in shades of grey, despite all the hyperbolic stances. So I am preparing myself for this wonderful move - and preparing myself for the grieving I will do. Grieving for my life here. But what's weird is - as of now - I am only thinking about the bad side of it. I can't get to the place of excitement, ambition - I don't feel it yet.

I just had a chilling thought.

5/15

Capture my heart and then bite it in two.
I won't forget.

MAY 16

Once again, things shift so that the fantasy world is more potent and real than reality. Ann and I talked about that - the times in your life when your life is what you fantasize about.

"There were a couple of months when I couldn't even read books because they couldn't hold my interest like my own life could," said Ann.

She's right.

I cannot picture being in that state again.

I felt it briefly on that frozen day when I had 3 auditions in a row. I revelled in my own life on that day. I revelled in being myself.

I am being too dramatic. I am talking myself into a depression. There is no need to do that. My emotions need fluidity. I do not want to petrify. That is where bitterness comes in. Also, it will kill my acting. [Jesus. I do not write in my journal like this anymore. I am really working things out here in writing.]

When depression hits - I go with it. What the hell. I am really sad that this abyss is between me and BB. I am devastated that we did not get a chance to add a bit of light to the universe. And I am still overwhelmed by a feeling of wrongness. This is wrong wrong wrong. But mostly I just live with it. I bear it. Somedays I can't bear it. I don't judge myself.

This is why I cannot go to see his shows.

He blots out the sky for me. I get lost in his shadow.

A couple weeks ago I was called in to read for Suburbia - one of the hit shows in Chicago right now. The show is a smash and they're looking to extend it so they were reading for replacements. I would kill to play that role. Despite my huge problems with the script itself - I think I could make something fabulous out of that part. The audition was on a Saturday morning. I had kind of a weird day - full of serendipity. It was a grey day. Drizzly. I dressed totally Generation X for the audition. Plastic barettes, corduroys, etc. I walked to the Theatre Building - with Liz Phair blasting in my ears. Much wind. Light drizzle. Walked into the Theatre Building lobby and couldn't see clearly because it was dark after being outside. I sensed a group of waiting actors in one area, so I walked over there, my eyes adjusting. The first actual face I perceived was Michael's. He was sitting down, grinning up at me, wryly - waiting for me to see him. I remember the moment - I was walking with purpose - striding really - and then I saw him. There was that audition-going-on hush in the air so I didn't make a sound - but my heart leapt out of my chest at the sight of him. I have MISSED that boy. So as I circled aorund the row of chairs between us to get to him, I mouthed silently, "Oh my God!" - my quiet ecstatic reaction to seeing him. I haven't seen him in months. We've talked a couple times on the phone, we always say "Let's get together" but it never happens. I certainly don't want to get into a situation where just meeting for a coffee is a huge fucking ordeal. He knows where to find me if he wants me. We're friends. I think we could be great friends. We had a real connection - that is still apparent. We are not estranged. [hahahahaha What are you - feckin' Jane Austen???]

I wanted to dance and sing at the sight of him and I would have if we hadn't been in the cathedral atmosphere of an audition. We had to contain ourselves. He was happy to see me. He played it pretty cool, but I could tell. We were very in sync that whole day. He stood up to meet me and he actually looked kind of moved. It wasn't a simple "Hey, great to see you" - for him or for me. Something happened between us in Ithaca and we both recognized it. We had afabulous hug amidst all the actors on the floor, filling out forms. We were holding onto each other and he wouldn't let me go. He's Italian. So not Irish. We both were whispering into each other's ears, "It's so good to see you! Oh my God it's so good to see you!" We moved ourselves out of the group of actors so we wouldn't disturb anyone and we basically said "Hi!" ecstatically for 5 minutes. There's something about him that makes me laugh.

After we both auditioned - we hung out for a bit.

I said, "Did you watch our boy on the Oscars?" ("Our boy" means, of course, John Travolta.)

Oh, wait - before this - I said, "Oh! I'm in a show now." He immediately was so excited for me. I love actors. I love my actor friends. Everyone gets so excited for each other. He leapt on the news.

"Really? What?"

"Oh, Michael. It's a Bailiwick gay pride show and it's called Lesbian Bathhouse."

(It is so hard to tell people what I'm doing. "What show are you doing?" "Oh, it's a sweet little romantic comedy called Lesbian Bathhouse." I told WB - he actually just called me, story at 10 - [hahahahaha I'm so self-dramatic. Still am.] - anyway - I said to him, "It's called Lesbian Bathhouse." There was a pause, and then he said, "Lesbian Bathhouse? What. The. Fuck." That is generally the reaction.) But anyway, Michael and I laughed about Lesbian Bathhouse - and then he said, "I always knew you were gay" and I just BURST into laughter. First of all, I was so damn happy to see the boy I couldn't keep the smile off my face. Also - he just goes right back into our little drama - "I always knew you were gay". I love that he thought I was gay at first, and that held him back from making the first move. [I had forgotten this - but now I remember vividly. It's hilarious.]

Then - I brought up the Oscars and John Travolta. He said, "Of course I watched it."

"I was bummed he lost. How are you doing with it?" Kiddingly serious wiht him. [John Travolta was his childhood hero, basically]

He said, "Yes, he lost, but ... he looked cool though. Don't you think? Didn't he look cool?"

He is like Christian Slater in True Romance saying that he would fuck Elvis Presley - and only Elvis Presley - no other guy - but he would fuck Elvis. So anyway, as Michael spoke - he kind of became a 14 year old girl right in front of my eyes. He went off into Travolta Dream Land - he kind of stuck his hip out, stanidng there like Michelangelo's David, a little sexy flirtatious pose - and as he said, "He looked so cool" - he, without thinking about it, started playing with his nipples. [I AM HOWLING. He's reminding me of my crazy friend David.] Laughter just flowed out of me - unstoppable. I had to say it: "Michael, look at you. And you think I'm gay?" Michael said, "For Travolta, I'm gay."

[I can't stop laughing.]

Here's a serendipitous thing: the 2 of us were both wearing our Ithaca "uniforms". We basically wore the same clothes every day in Ithaca - comfort was key. I had on my flannel shirt which I bought in Ithaca - he had on the tan corduroy jacket [hahahahahaha] which will forever remind me of Ithaca. He slept in the damn thing, for God's sake. And he told me later - that that was the first time he had worn it in MONTHS [to the Suburbia audition]. It was the first spring-ish day - he put it on - and who does he run into but me. And I am wearing my flannel shirt, brown corduroys, and my plastic barrettes. I sat down to fill out my form, I glanced over at Michael, and he gestured at his jacket like, "Look what I am still wearing."

My audition went really well and they invited me to come see the show that night. They invited Michael too - so we had a date to go together and it was just what I needed. Because I was in a funk. The night before Jackie and I had gone to see some improv - and I don't remember why - but I left without saying good-bye to WB. [Surprise, surprise. I was always blatantly ignoring him, even though ... I didn't WANT TO. ] Why do I act so weird? I felt so weird about how I acted. He was talking with some people - but he totally knew I was there - we had talked before the show - and then - I just had an implosion and I left without saying goodbye to him. I reverted to my weird behavior. [Humorous side note: WB would come to meet up with me at some venue. I'd already be there with Mitchell and Ann. I would see WB come in and instead of running over to greet him happily - I would breezily pretend I didn't see him for about half an hour, until I could calm down. So ridiculous. But I was so into him and afraid that if he knew how much he would disappear. But the funniest thing is that during one of these times when I was ignoring him - Mitchell went over to talk to him. "Hey, WB, how you doing?" WB said, smiling, "I'm just waiting for Sheila to stop ignoring me. Should be about another 20 minutes." He had my number, boy. I am so lucky he put up with that shit. And he did. He understood. He didn't take it personally. Kind of amazing.]

Then - even weirder - I got home - I walked home thru the drizzly night and I felt so confused at my behavior. I suddenly, also, got this very desolate feeling - and I realized how - without WB - my romantic life would be at a standstill. He is it. If he goes and starts dating someone else - and I am not his girlfriend and I have never been his girlfriend - not really - then I'll be stuck. However, I am his friend and I should have at least said goodbye or good show or something. That was just plain rude. And my behavior freaked me out. Why am I freaking out? WB and I had really got into a nice groove (before the eve of the Gingerman) [that is hysterical - in my own little world, that statement "the eve of the Gingerman" makes total sense.] - but I hold back. He holds back.

It's probably for the best.

But I felt all itchy and edgy on that walk home. I felt sudden panic, too, when I entertained the thought of WB getting involved with someone else. I becamse super-conscious of how tenuous it all was - how nothing holds me and WB together - nothing. I mean, I have always known that, but I was very uncomfortable about it, suddenly. My heart sank at the thought of losing WB. Where would that leave me? He's all I've got - and what we've got is so transient - it has no weight at all. [Oh, oh. I speak with the 20/20 of hindsight. It most certainly DOES have weight. Things are not always what they seem, my dear.] Let me say one thing: this has been a very tough winter and spring for me. I have been lonely, sad, depressive - and WB has helped me a lot. He has gotten me thru - just by his presence. He has helped me bear the sadness - these have been the darkest hardest months for me - and I de-focused all of that all over him. [hahaha Lucky him.]

But then - after all that - I left without saying goodbye. So - weirdo that I am - I paged him when I got home and told him I loved his show, which I did, and that I was sorry I left without saying goodbye. He is a fearless giant onstage - he is one of the most exciting performers I have ever seen. I love to watch him just GO. But look at me: I see his show, I don't speak to him, and then I page him from 3 blocks away. I am crazy right now. I am not behaving in a rational manner. It is all BB's fault. I have lost my balance completely.

I went to bed that night - quite uneasy. I got this weird feeling. This weird doomed span-of-time feeling, as in: Maybe this will be my life. Maybe this is it. This peripheral relationship will be all I am capable of. This is it.

And then who do run into the next day? But Michael. A guy who got under my skin. A guy I could care about, and did care about. This guy who showed me I could care about someone else right after BB. It was a very significant experience for me. I was all "oh my heart is dead" and Michael randomly showed up and showed me my heart was not dead. [Ahem]

Bringing him coffee in the morning
Trivial Pursuit
Our first kiss - on the living room floor of the drug-addict gay guy they were staying with
Kissing under the waterfall
Breakfast all day long
Talk talk talk
Our fights on the sidewalk
Dancing with him - we loved to dance together
Standing on the porch at night, watching him walk off - the dark trees, leaf shadows, the quiet, the country sounds - assailed by the sweetness of life - my country boyfriend walking away
Falling into his eyeball
Driving around - Laurie driving, Pat up front, me and Michael in back, his head on my lap
The guttering candles at he and Pat's damp dark place - the sound of the river below - the shadows of the leaves
laughing HYSTERICALLY
Joe Daily and my cobalt blue bra [ohmigod ... I can't even get into this ... we actually laughed about this recently ... the landlord, the angry letter, and my random cobalt blue bra ... too much to discuss ... so funny though]
WINE TASTING MAGIC
The Haunt - my God - that name just popped into my head - I danced on a platform at The Haunt
Oh and that was the night that Laurie cried - she cried at the Haunt. Michael called it "random crying". He said, "I have no idea what's going on with you, Laurie. This is just random crying, as far as I'm concerned." Laurie called him a "goober" and a "wanker" because he did not validate her "random crying".

[I vaguely remember SOME of this. I do not remember our first kiss, or the gay drug addict. Did Pat and Michael stay at some other place before they moved to the dark damp place where the electricity kept going out? Was there some drama? No memory of it. I remember the waterfall. I do not remember dancing on a platform - although I do remember the 'random crying'. ]

So anyway - I ran into Michael that very next day - after my uneasy doom-filled night [again with the drama ... but like I said earlier: I was on the cusp of a HUGE change ... I knew it ... I was dealing with the repercussions of it ... even though it wasn't reality yet] - and we had a date for that night to go see Suburbia. It was the perfect medicine. Serendipity. WB doesn't have to be the only guy in my life.

But listen to this craziness - I walked home from the audition. It was about 5:30. I would meet Michael back at the theatre at 8 or whatever. So anyway, Mitchell told me, weeks ago, that he had run into WB on the Starbucks on Southport at 5:30 one random evening. The Starbucks is only one block out of my way and it is right across from WB's apartment - so I walked that way. I have no justification for that except that I am crazy and obsessive.

It was such a funny up and down day that way. The night before I was all anxious that WB had taken on a boyfriend role - so what do I do? I flee into the night, only to page him from my house. Freaked out at how he had become IT. But then ... who do I run into the next day? It was like: all of thse people in my life ... it's almost like I have created them. I have made them all up to serve certain personal purposes.

So I walked home via the Starbucks on the corner. Still buzzing from the encounter with my young-buck hot ex-boyfriend. I felt so good about it, and I felt good about my audition and how well it had gone. It had already been a great day and I was looking forward to going to see the show that night with Michael. He came out after his reading - I waited for him. He came over to where I was sitting and said, "I have to hug you again" and he just burrowed himself into me - it was so sweet. He hugs me like he means it.

What I liked about my behavior that day (as opposed to the day before when I blew WB off) was how open I was to him. I was happy to see him and I let him know. I felt young and unjaded. I lit up at the sight of him. All was okay. I need to strip myself of my layers of protection. They isolate me. I no longer want protection.

Hurt me - love me -- Life's too short to miss out on any of it.

And of course - as I walked by the Starbucks - I ran into WB. The whole day I felt like this sorceress. Like: "Hm. I feel like WB is the only man in my life and I don't like it. I wish I could run into someone who makes me realize that that is not true. POOF! Here's Michael. Hm. I feel very badly about leaving without saying goodbye to WB. I wish I could run into him so that I can make it up to him. POOF. Here's WB."

It was so funny. I was approraching Starbucks on the east side of the street - and then I see, rounding the NW corner of that intersection - a figure with familiar insane hair and a familiar technicolor coat [I AM LAUGHING OUT LOUD. "Go go go Joseph ... to the other window!"]. I didn't even have time to process the coincidence. After all, I basically knew I was going to run into him. Didn't I? It didn't surprise me at all.

I called out his name. The figure stopped and looked in mmy direction. He's so scruffy. He's a mole. He didn't see me - I saw him look - then give up and turn to go to his apartment. So I called out his name again, and this time waved and started towards him. He saw me. Cute smile. He's so cute and awkward. He stood there, gangly, untethered, waiting as I crossed the 2 streets to get to him. At one point, I felt goofy so I did a slow-mo run - and I could hear him start laughing.

He had gone out to order lunch. He had a jar of pink lemonade in one hand. He had clearly just woken up and was getting ready to go to work. We stood there and talked for about 5 minutes. I can't even really remember what we talked about. His show, I told him how good I think he is, I told him about my audition, he told me about his show, and that was it. He went his way, I went mine ... but that weird edgy feeling that had been palpitating around my heart was gone. I had made my peace with him. It was important to me. He means a lot to me. It's not his fault I'm leaving soon and having a nervous breakdown about it.

Michael and I had a great time that night at the show - there was a distinctly date-like aura over the evening, but we've been through so much together somehow that we are comfortable with all of that. It was great to be with him. Fun. We were giggling like teenagers. He was also ALL OVER ME at ALL TIMES. [hahahaha SO "not Irish"] I like him because he's unafraid, and also totally masculine. He's meaty and physical. I am not. I want to be - but whatever, instead I ignore WB and flee into the night. I'm so careful with myself physically - especially if I feel like I could ever be hurt by that person. But there was Michael, playing with my hair, untying my shoes [hahahaha], putting his arm around me - fun, playful, annoying me - not being careful with me. Not being careful with me. I appreciate that. We were sitting in the theatre and he took my arm in his hands and peerred closely at my fingers. "How're the warts?" [bwahahahahaha. When he met me - I had this freakin' awful outbreak on my poor fingers. I am convinced that it was because of the stress of this failed love affair with BB - everything in my body went haywire. I stopped sleeping, eating, my skin changed, and I had warts on my fingers. So there are pictures of Michael and me, in Ithaca, doing whatever - playing cards, reading, and you can see the band-aids on my fingers. Sad little Sheila, body freaking out.] Michael's all in my space. I like it. We flirted like maniacs - but because we've already basically had a relationship - there's a different feel to it. It feels safe. The currents run deeper.

As we walked to his car (he has a car!) - he kept hugging me and wrestling with me and whirling me around - I joked at one point, "Hey. Learn boundaries." That kind of pseudo-therapy talk always made Michael laugh so hard. He said, "Fuck you. I can't have boundaries with you." While he's pulling my hair, and grabbing me by my belt buckle, pulling me to him.

We had a ball during the show. We had issues with the production - and with the script - we both felt like we had done great in our auditions, so we had fun, in that bitchy actor way - whispering criticisms to each other. We talked at intermission, getting into it - and of course, all we were doing was telling the other one that they were MUCH better than the actual actor playing it on stage.

Oh, and he laughed openly at my plastic barrettes and called me a "kinder whore".

I feel pretty when I'm with him. Weird. I had that feeling with BB, too. BB made me feel like I was the inventor of beauty and mystery and sex. Like I was Cleopatra. It's not quite that intense with Michael - but when he looks at me - I just feel the appreciative imprint of his eyes. I feel seen. I wonder if I make him feel the same way. Or is all of this talk, as WB says, "a girl thing"?

Oh, and Michael calls me "dude" - the whole "dude" thing was an Ithaca phenomenon - and we all caught it. We all referred to each other as "dude". All of us. We said "Thanks, dude" to the cashier at Ben and Jerry's. Men, women, didn't matter - all were "dude". So he called me "dude" on the way back to the car - and I said, "Dude! God! I forgot about that!"

Oh, and out of the blue - in the lobby of the theatre - Michael said very hostilely, very confrontational, "So ... have you seen that 60 year old guy you were in love with?" [this is so so funny to me. Some things never change.]

Every time Michael references BB - he makes him older. So he's 60 now! I couldn't help but laugh - at the surly attitude, too.

I didn't ask him about his ex-girlfriend - although I wanted to. See? There's the main difference between me and him. I don't ask something if I might not like the answer. He asks. I want to be more like him. He's not passive-aggressive either. He's out there. Revealed.

But that, so far, was that. It's okay, though. I don't want another peripheral guy. I want a boyfriend. A companion.

BB and I recently talked a little bit - he's reading Mating now - on my recommendation - and I think that maybe that book plus my letter are the sources of the new look in his eyes recently. A deeper understanding. A kindness. A patience with me. An ability to deal. He doesn't try to jostle me into the way it used to be. We cannot go back.

I have this vision of myself coming back here. 5 years from now. 10 years from now. Whevener. And I can see myself going to see his show - sitting in the back - not letting him know that I'm out there - and I have this feeling - I just KNOW (it's more than just a feeling) that, whatever else may change, our connection won't. [Weird. I had no idea how right I would be.]

Quantum mechanics at work. 2 alternate separate yet very similar lives travelling along at the same moment. The Double Life of Veronique. We wil not see each other for years. And I can see me - 5 years from now - being really into a certain band, a new book - or, less obvious - I'll be experiencing a sudden random surge of interest in - oh, I don't know - Brigadoon - It doesn't even really matter what it is - and I know that the following will happen: I will be in a big Shenandoah phase, a big Seven Brides for Seven Brothers phase - and I'll sneak to the back of the club to see him play - and BB will reference Shenandoah, or Brigadoon, or he'll do a medley from 7 Brides - Whatever. I know that this will happen. [Yes. It will happen. Over. And over. And over. It happened last summer when I went to see one of his shows. I accept it now. Whatever. We're on the same trajectory - except they are parallel lines - we intersected briefly - but that was it. Now we're parallel] Even when we are separated by miles and years - the connection will remain.

Love never dies.

Not really. It's like matter. It cannot be destroyed.

A connection like that - when it happens - can't be erased. You can pretend it is erased - but that would be all it was: Pretense.

We will go on, totally separate, more and more separate every day, but that silver cable will remain.

Nothing gold can stay. Right?

Comparison

So I went to check the "twixt clock and cock" monologue in the folio - to compare it to the Riverside Shakespeare version - and check it out. Line by line. Fascinating. (And yes - "f" are "s"s in the folio. You get used to it after a while.)

Riverside Shakespeare:

False to his bed! What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him
And cry myself awake? that's false to's bed, is it?

Folio text:

Falfe to his Bed? What is it to be falfe?
To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?
To weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If fleep charge Nature,
To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him
And cry my felfe awake? That's falfe to's bed? Is it?

Check out the differences. That first "false to his bed" in the monologue is NOT an exclamation in the folio -although it appears in the Riverside as an exclamation. But in the folio it is a QUESTION. Enormous difference, in terms of the playing of it. Also - in terms of the MEANING. What is Imogen DOING here? What is she actually saying?

My interpretation is: when it's a question, she - after reading his letter - is still trying to process what her husband just said to her. She is still in a state of shock, where she must just repeat what she just heard. "False to his bed?" Whereas, with an exclamation mark, like in Riverside - she immediately jumps to the anger and the hurt. She is pissed. "False to his bed!" (Subtext: the NERVE of that guy!) But no - the folio has it as a question. HUGE difference.

Also, that last line:

In the Riverside, it's all one sentence - with commas added.

"that's false to his bed, is it?"

It's all one thing. In the folio - it's more choppy. That's false to his bed? Is it? Her thought process is still erratic (see, Olivier was right: the thought is IN THE LINE.) ... so she's asking one question: "That's false to his bed?" Then she realizes she is not done, and questions again: "Is it?"

To me - the folio is MUCH more plain, in terms of emotion. You can feel Imogen's processing of the betrayal - in the punctuation. In the Riverside, it's ironed out a bit - modernized.

That's false to his bed? Is it?

I prefer that one.

The Books: "Further Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Materializing of Cecil'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Materializing of Cecil" - by L.M. Montgomery

Second story in this collection - it's hysterical. It's almost like a Three's Company episode (sorry for the low-brow comparison, but it's true.)

Charlotte Holmes is a spinster. Or - gentler term - an old maid. One time, long long ago, a boy wrote a poem to her - while in grade school. That is the extent of her romantic associations. She is known as an old maid. It's over for her - she's 40 years old, whatever, she's not bitter. She admits to herself that it's not that she had thwarted her chances. She knows in her heart that she never "met the right guy" - she just never had her heart engaged with anyone, so she's an old maid now. She's fine with her life. She loves sewing, her cats, church, she loves to write poetry, she's not bitter. The only thing that bugs her is the PITY. People in Avonlea PITY old maids (uhm, that shit is still going on, Lucy Maud - the smug pity of married people with kids - it's still odious!!). Charlotte doesn't want to be pitied because she is quite happy! But then, on her 40th birthday, she is at a sewing circle with a bunch of younger women, who are all chattering about their beaus. She doesn't mind. She sits, listening, pleasantly ... until one of them asks her, out of the blue, "Have you ever had a beau, Miss Holmes?"

And a small demon suddenly enters the placid Charlotte Holmes - she tells a lie - an out and out lie - and eventually ... all freakin' hell breaks loose. It's hilarious (mainly because I didn't have to go thru it!! I'm sure I wouldn't find it hilarious if I had had to LIVE it) - like: the thought of getting so BUSTED in your pathetic lie ...

Great story.

Here's an excerpt from the sewing circle when Charlotte, nice sweet old maid Charlotte, suddenly becomes a demon and begins to weave a web of evil lies.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "The Materializing of Cecil" - by L.M. Montgomery

I was sitting by the window and Wilhelmina Mercer, Maggie Henderson, Susette Cross, and Georgie Hall were in a little group just before me. I wasn't listening to their chatter at all, but presently Georgie exclaimed teasingly:

"Miss Charlotte is laughing at us. I suppose she thinks we are awfully silly to be talking about beaux."

The truth was that I was simply smiling over some very pretty thoughts that had come to me about the roses which were climbing over Mary Gillespie's sill. I meant to inscribe them in the little blank book when I went home. Georgie's speech brought me back to harsh realities with a jolt. It hurt me, as such speeches always did.

"Didn't you ever have a beau, Miss Holmes?" said Wilhelmina laughingly.

Just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room for a moment, and everybody in it heard Wilhelmina's question.

I really do not know what got into me and possessed me. I have never been able to account for what I said and did, because I am naturally a truthful person and hate all deceit. It seemed to me that I simply could not say "No" to Wilhelmina before that whole roomful of women. It was too humiliating. I suppose all the prickles and stings and slurs I had endured for fifteen years on account of never having had a lover had what the new doctor calls "a cumulative effect" and came to a head then and there.

"Yes, I had one once, my dear," I said calmly.

For once in my life I made a sensation. Every woman in that room stopped sewing and stared at me. Most of them, I saw, didn't believe me, but Wilhelmina did. Her pretty face lighted up with interest.

"Oh, won't you tell us about him, Miss Holmes?" she coaxed, "and why you didn't marry him?"

"That is right, Miss Mercer," said Josephine Cameron, with a nasty little laugh. "Make her tell. We're all interested. It's news to us that Charlotte ever had a beau."

If Josephine had not said that, I might not have gone on. But she did say it, and moreover, I caught Mary Gillespie and Adella Gilbert exchanging significant smiles. That settled it, and made me quite reckless. "In for a penny, in for a pound," thought I, and I said with a pensive smile:

"Nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all long, long ago."

"What was his name?" asked Wilhelmina.

"Cecil Fenwick," I answered promptly. Cecil had always been my favorite name for a man; it figured quite frequently in the blank book. As for the Fenwick part of it, I had a bit of newspaper in my hand, measuring a hem, with "Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters" printed across it, and I simply joined the two in sudden and irrevocable matrimony.

"Where did you meet him?" asked Georgie.

I hastily reviewed my past. There was only one place to locate Cecil Fenwick. The only time I had ever been far enough away from Avonlea in my life was when I was eighteen and had gone to visit an aunt in New Brunswick.

"In Blakely, New Brunswick," I said, almost believeing that I had when I saw how they all took it in unsuspectingly. "I was just eighteen and he was twenty-three."

"What did he look like?" Susette wanted to know.

"Oh, he was very handsome." I proceeded glibly to sketch my ideal. To tell the dreadful truth, I was enjoying myself; I could see respect dawning in those girls' eyes, and I knew that I had forever thrown off my reproach. Henceforth I should be a woman with a romantic past, faithful to the one love of her life - a very, very different thing from an old maid who had never had a lover.

"He was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair and brilliant, piercing eyes. He had a splendid chin, and a fine nose, and the most fascinating smile!"

"What was he?" asked Maggie.

"A young lawyer," I said, my choice of profession decided by an enlarged crayon portrait of Mary Gillespie's deceased brother on an easel before me. He had been a lawyer.

"Why didn't you marry him?" demanded Susette.

"We quarreled," I answered sadly. "A terribly bitter quarrel. Oh, we were both so young and so foolish. It was my fault. I vexed Cecil by flirting with another man" -- wasn't I coming on! -- "and he was jealous and angry. He went out West and never came back. I have never seen him since, and I do not even know if he is alive. But -- but -- I could never care for another man."

"Oh, how interesting!" sighed Wilhelmina. "I do so love sad stories. But perhaps he will come back some day yet, Miss Holmes."

"Oh, no, never now," I said, shaking my head. "He has forgotten all about me, I dare say. Or if he hasn't, he has never forgiven me."

Mary Gillespie's Susan Jane announced tea at this moment, and I was thankful, for my imagination was giving out, and I didn't know what question those girls would ask next. But I felt already a change in the mental atmosphere surrounding me, and all through supper I was thrilled with a secret exultation. Repentant? Ashamed? Not a bit of it! I'd have done the same thing over again, and all I felt sorry for was that I hadn't done it long ago.

When I got home that night Nancy looked at me wonderingly and said:

"You look like a girl to-night, Miss Charlotte."

"I feel like one," I said, laughing, and I ran to my room and did what I had never done before -- wrote a second poem in the same day. I had to have some outlet for my feelings. I called it "In Summer Days of Love Ago", and I worked Mary Gillespie's roses and Cecil Fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and reminiscent and minor-musicky that I felt perfectly happy.

Twixt clock and .....

This looks like it's going to be a fascinating exchange.

I'm excited to hear Ron Rosenbaum's response. Also - just have to say: Every single person I've heard of who saw Peter Brook's Midsummer in 1970 had a similar response to it that Rosenbaum had. Like- gob-smackingly ecstatic and in awe ... Makes me feckin' MAD I never saw it. I don't want to boil it down - BOOKS have been written about that production, it was apparently a truly transcendental theatrical moment. Never ever to be forgotten. (Here are some images from that production if you are interested: Oberon, Titania and Puck , this one is of Hermia, Oberon, Titania, and the sleeping lovers ) ...) But to hear about that production in this context - that on some level the memory of seeing that production and the revelations it provided - led Ron Rosenbaum - almost 40 years later - to write his latest book.... Incredible.

Check out the Wikipedia entry on the play itself where Brook gets a whole section called "Brook and After".

Another landmark production was that of Peter Brook in 1971. Brook swept away every tradition associated with the play, staging it in a blank white box, in which masculine fairies engaged in circus tricks such as trapeze artistry. Brook also introduced the subsequently popular idea of doubling Theseus/Oberon and Hippolyta/Titania, as if to suggest that the world of the fairies is a mirror version of the world of the mortals. Since Brook's production, directors have felt free to use their imaginations freely to decide for themselves what the play's story means, and to represent that visually on stage.

It goes on a bit more but Brook's influence on this play cannot be over-stated. I didn't even SEE the damn thing and I know all about that production.

I can't wait to read the Shakespeare Wars book too, by the way. I love the Shakespeare controversies, the Shakespeare "wars". I don't have a problem with pondering authorship, pondering who did what, even accepting that I will never ever know the entire story - I enjoy it. I love literary dust-ups anyway - but also - the genius is so intense in this case that on some level it IS unexplainable. And I'm okay with that, whatever the truth actually was. But I've written about the "wars" before. I get all obsessive and manic. I open up the Riverside Shakespeare, and then I open up my copy of the first folio - and do a line by line comparison. Which is chilling, if you know what you're looking for, and if you regard the printed word as somewhat sacred. Also - I'm an actor, which gives a whole other perspective to this whole thing. These are not just pieces of great literature. They are PLAYS meant to be PERFORMED. I do not read them in a literary way, I read them as an actor, trying to imagine how I would say this shit outloud. And when you read the plays that way, and when you double-check the published standard texts that you can buy at freakin' Barnes & Noble with the text in the folio - you realize how much editors have inserted themselves into Shakespeare's words, probably to "make things clear", or because the editors are wannabe directors themselves, and they think they know HOW a line should be said. The editors have added exclamation points, and ellipses, etc. etc. - all of which are EMOTIONAL. An exclamation point conveys an emotion. Shakespeare didn't have to add emotion to the end of a line with an exclamation point - all of the emotion is already in the line. Say the line as he wrote it and you probably WILL feel the correct emotion. He's that good. But editors have added all KINDS of stuff to the texts - because - whatever. Just because. So if the line is, originally: "Give me your hand" - maybe an editor, thinking himself being "helpful", will change it to "Give me your hand!"

Actors notice EVERYTHING when they read a script. EVERYTHING. We are detectives. What's the difference between an ellipses and a dash? There are 2 exclamation points at the end of this sentence. That is important. Etc. And so an actor will read "Give me your hand" much differently than "Give me your hand!" Ya know why? Cause it IS different. The exclamation point is a DIRECTION to the actor. It says, "Say it THIS way."

If you're interested in any of this - and you have a copy of Shakespeare's plays lying around - (like a Penguin copy, or any of the regular copies you can buy anywhere) - take it out and compare it to the text in the first folio, which is now online. And notice how many exclamation points are added. There are more differences - and people have spent their entire lives digging through the first folio, looking for clues, because the folio is the earliest copy in existence of the works of Shakespeare. So it is thought that it is CLOSEST to what he actually MEANT.

(Oh, let me add one contradictory thing - but that's just all of a piece with any conversation about Shakespeare: because the folio lacks those landmarks, emotional landmarks - meaning punctuation marks besides periods and commas - the plays are more difficult to read. At least silently. You realize how much your eye, as it scans along, NEEDS those landmarks - to orient you, to tell you what people are feeling, to skip from one place to another. The editors "made things clear" all right - and it's just flat out easier to sit down and read the Penguin version of As You Like It or whatever. But still: it's good to know the folio is there, if you need it, and my copy of it is MOST treasured and MOST dog-eared.)

Too many mysteries, too many unexplained things. But it's so fun to speculate anyway!!

Gotta put The Shakespeare Wars on my list.

Speaking of Shakespeare, I was preparing for an audition last week while Michael was staying with me. Working on a monologue from Cymbeline. Act III, sc. 4 - where Imogen receives the cold letter from her husband telling her that he has found out she has been "false to his bed" while he is in Italy. She has NOT been false to his bed and so she is SHOCKED to hear his accusations (it comes in letter form). So she reads the letter and then says:

False to his bed! What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep
charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him
And cry myself awake? that's false to's bed, is it?

(See, even just looking at that I feel the need to go check my folio to see if there's an exclamation point after 'bed" in the first line. If you think it doesn't matter, then you're wrong.)

Anyhoo, I memorized the monologue - Michael read his paper - occasionally Michael would read out loud to me from the paper - and occasionally I would proclaim parts of my monologue to him. Randomly. 20 minutes of silence pass and suddenly I start shouting with no warning, "FALSE TO HIS BED???" Etc. This went on for a couple of hours.

During one of my random proclamations, I messed up the lines and said,

To lie in watch there and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and cock?

Twixt clock and cock.

Which - naturally - became the big joke - we couldn't stop saying it - literally - we tried to work it into every sentence - until it actually made me frightened that I would slip and say that during the audition. I started to think that THAT was the line. Wait ... what is the line again? Twixt clock and CLOCK or twixt clock and COCK?

The morning Michael left I was weepy. The emotions snuck up on me (they always do, I'm retarded). I walked around in tears. I was a leaky faucet. I had to go take a walk to try to calm down. I could not calm down. At some point, Michael called me and said "Hey, before I go let's meet up for coffee." I said, acting all chipper and breezy, "Cool! When?" He said, "How about 12?" Me, acting all chipper and breezy, "12 sounds great!" Michael said, "Uhm, are you upset about something?" (I am laughing out loud. All my chipper lying was for naught!) I responded, "Oh, it's nothing. I've just been weeping twixt clock and cock."

I'll be checking back in on this conversation - and I will definitely be getting the book. I'm excited.

Happiness

"Happiness comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it.”

-- Nathaniel Hawthorne

Obsession Central: Dino

You didn't think I was done, did you? I am far from done. You have no idea. Please also realize that as I post this picture - what song is blasting through my apartment? "Twlight". by ELO. Unbelievably, I am able to juggle many obsessions at one time.

Also, hopefully there will be a new development in the Dino realm by next week ... I'm working on something which potentially could be one of the most hysterical things I've ever done. Stay tuned.

But anyway. I love this picture. I love how hard Shirley [Maclaine - not Temple. Okay??] is laughing. And I love the look on his face. It seems that he is happy to have made her laugh. That was his thing. The stories she tells of her time with the Rat Pack are hilarious. She came to my school and one of the things she said about her friendships with all those guys, "I was the only virgin in that group." hahahahahaha But they loved her talent (especially Sinatra - who positioned her in Some Came Running so well that she ended up being nominated - Apparently he said to Vincente Minelli, the director: "If you have the kid die - she'll get nominated." Sinatra referred to Shirley as "the kid". You know. The only virgin in the bunch.) Say what you want about Sinatra. He was one of the most generous people in the business. Or - he COULD be. If you were talented and you worked hard. If you were those things, there was nothing he would not do for you. But if he thought you were wasting his time? He'd be the most difficult mo-fo on the planet. But anyway - they all loved Shirley. She was one of the boys. Virginity and all. She played poker. She cleaned up after them. They looked out for her.

Love this photo.

All Dino posts here.

The Books: "Further Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Further Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Another short story collection! We're gonna be doing LM for the next couple of months. Oh, I'm so happy!!

First story in this collection is a very funny little domestic drama - the kind of which Lucy Maud was just a MASTER of. There's also a sprinkling of romance - but the COMEDY is what is paramount here. I love her sense of humor. I just get it, I respond to it.

So anyway, first story is called "Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat".

The elements in the story:

-- Sue and Ismay are sisters - they are adults, neither married, and are living in the old family house

-- They have a fussy old Aunt Cynthia - of whom they both live in a kind of mild state of fear.

-- Sue has a "friend" named Max - who has asked her to marry him once a year for the past 10 years or whatever. They are best friends - but Sue is just convinced that he is not the man for her, even though she adores him, and loves having him around. (A recurring Lucy Maud theme.) Oh - and funny thing ... Anne Shirley (excerpt here) shows up in a peripheral way here. There's a rumor that maybe Max wants to court Anne Shirley - and even though Sue doesn't want to marry Max, she ... well ... she certainly doesn't want him courting anyone else!!

-- Aunt Cynthia descends upon Sue and Ismay one weekend and she's going out of town or something and she wants them to take care of Fatima - her white Persian cat - a cat that Sue and Ismay both despise. But because they live in fear of Aunt Cynthia, they say "sure, we'll take care of Fatima"

-- Of course - Fatima is lost during her stay with Sue and Ismay. UTTER PANIC ENSUES. It's hysterical - literally, Sue and Ismay are beside themselves. Max gets involved in the drama - mainly because he is such a good "friend" of Sue (you just love Max - he's a very humorous character, the kind of guy I think I would like)

Anyway, it all turns out all right in the end.

But here's an excerpt that gives the flavor of why I love this little story. Lucy Maud, when she's "on", is such a great example of how to keep it simple. She was SO good at that. Her short stories have nothing extraneous - and yet you still get the sense that they are chock-full of reality, and ... you always feel like you are peeking through someone's window - getting a glimpse of a full life lived. She's marvelous.

Here's the excerpt.

Excerpt from Further Chronicles of Avonlea - "Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat". by L.M. Montgomery.

"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said Ismay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touch her with a yardstick. You had no business to say we'd take her."

"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "Aunt Cynthia took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as I do, we couldn't have refused. So what is the use of being grouchy?"

"If anything happens to her, Aunt Cynthia will hold us responsible," said Ismay darkly.

"Do you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?" I asked curiously.

"I've heard that she was," said Ismay absently. "Does she eat anything but milk? Will it do to give her milk?"

"Oh, I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in love with her?"

"I dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has."

"Oh, of course," I said, frostily. "Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. I certainly do not. Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn't stop smoking I shall fly into bits. This is a detestable day. I hate that creature!"

"Oh, you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her," protested Ismay. "Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely --"

"I was talking about Fatima," I cried in a rage.

"Oh!" said Ismay.

Ismay is stupid at times. I thought the way she said "Oh" was inexcusably stupid.

It's finally real.

It's happening. It's only the beginning of course ... but I do need to take a moment to just revel in the fact that the beginning ... is here.

(Yes, I realize we are already into fall ... but they are a literary journal and move at their own clock. They move twixt clock and cock. So the summer issue, the Irish issue, will be out this fall.)

Buy a subscription today!!

An Internet experiment: Pat McCartney - are you out there?

Pat McCartney ... where are you? This is Sheila, your old friend from Chicago. Michael and I have been talking about you and we miss you and we would LOVE to hear from you.

If you Google yourself - maybe you will find this post.

Just know that Michael and I have had many wonderful reminiscing talks about you, and about Killer Joe, and about everything ... and we would love to get back in touch.

Hope you are well!

You can email me at redhead2@sheilaomalley.com

Calling Pat McCartney ... come in, please ... Pat McCartney ...... (calling Baranca ...)

Cryptography

CW hasn't been posting much, of late, but when he does - it is always a good read. I always learn something from him - his is one of my favorite sites. Nice guy. Scroll around in his archives - it's great stuff.

Here's his latest.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Not a nasty, dirty wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

-- first paragraph of "The Hobbit", by JRR Tolkien

On this day in history, 1937, The Hobbit was published.

Just for fun, and to celebrate (if you have, er, 10 hours to read all that crap) - here are some of the long-ass book excerpts and posts I have written about Tolkien:

"It is no bedtime story"

"Of course, The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me"

Frodo and free will

"That noble northern spirit"

"The failure of Frodo"

"I am not Gandalf..."

Happy birthday, Bilbo!!

Zoom-ah-zoom-ah-zoom

Lisa's got the video.

Or perhaps I should say La-bee-sa-ba's gah-bat thah-be vah-bi-dah-buh-ah-bo.

The Books: "Kilmeny Of The Orchard" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Kilmeny Of The Orchard by L.M. Montgomery.

Okay. So I'm gonna be honest. This book is ridiculous. Doesn't mean I haven't read it a bunch of times - because some of the writing (the nature writing in particular) - is good - and also, it's Lucy Maud - so I've read all of her books multiple times - but the premise is ridiculous, the very REALITY of the book is ridiculous - it's like you have to blind your eyes to REALITY in order to accept this book.

Here are some of the themes:

-- Looks are all that matter. Kilmeny is described as literally the most beautiful girl in the world. Therefore: she is good. Anyone with a physical deformity of any kind should be ashamed of themselves - because basically that means that they have something ugly in their souls.

-- If you have foreign blood in you (meaning: anything other than Scotch or British) - you are not to be trusted.

-- You must believe in deus ex machinae. Kilmeny has not spoken for most of her life (for no apparent reason) - and at the very moment when she needs to - out comes her voice!!!

-- Oh and if you're mute? You should be ashamed and hide yourself away from the world And if you're a person who falls in love with a mute, then you must treat it as the biggest tragedy that has ever befallen you.

I mean, I guess it was a different time - yadda yadda - more provincial, there was more open prejudice against, you know, evil people like ... ITALIANS ... but for the most part, I am not confronted with the fact that Lucy Maud wrote her books at the beginning of the 20th century - her stuff still reads well, it's not sentimental or treacly - but this one? I read it and I want to bust in on all the morons living their stupid provincial racist lives and say, "Okay, guys, here's the deal, mkay? Just because he is half-Italian does not automatically mean that he is more prone to murder. That's the first thing. Second of all: who gives a crap that she's mute? Why does she have to never leave her farm in shame? Why are you all bummed out that she's mute? And lastly: Kilmeny is obviously meant to be a supermodel or something. Dude: STOP obsessing on how beautiful she is. She's not PERFECT, just because she's a babealicious babealolio. Let her be HUMAN, how 'bout that? Stop being so focused on her beauty."

So the story is: Eric Marshall is a 24 year old schoolteacher - and Lucy Maud makes some vague reference to the fact that he has been having a hard time recently. Maybe living a wild life? Running away from the expectations of his father? So he comes to this small sleepy town, and boards with someone, and teaches - and is basically all wrapped up in himself. Until one day - on a walk - he comes across THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL IN THE WORLD, standing in the woods. I think 2 pages are given to describing every nook and cranny of Kilmeny's stupid beauty. We hear about the flush on the cheek, the teeny lovable dimple, the long lashes, the creamy skin, the long black hair ... it goes on and on and on.

Lucy Maud makes Kilmeny's beauty a fetish. It's bizarre. She never really comes to life.

But anyway - blah blah - turns out Kilmeny never leaves her house - she sits there day in day out because she is mute, and this is the most shameful thing in the world. But - she can HEAR. She just can't speak. Nobody can understand why. She has a little slate around her neck and writes what she wants to say on that. You get the sense that there are some deep psychological issues with this babealicious babealoliio. She lives with her very strict aunt and uncle - her mother is dead. There are many many romantic and dramatic secrets in Kilmeny's past. And poor Eric just wants to be her friend. Yeah, right, Eric. You just want to be her friend. WhatEVS. Get a life, Eric.

Oh, and Kilmeny has a half-brother or something like that - and he has Italian blood in him (cue evil music) - and Eric has an immediate revulsion to him. But it just comes off as racist or stupid the way Lucy Maud writes it. It's not anything in his CHARACTER that causes the revulsion. It is the FOREIGN-NESS of him.

Get over it, Lucy. Sheesh. Big world outside of Canada with all kinds of races and peoples living good lives. Get over your damn Scotch Presbyterian self. Also: are you aware that some people who are babealicious babealolios actually have ugly mean little souls? Outer beauty is NOT everything. Stop making a fetish of it. Kilmeny could very well be a bitch on wheels - her beauty has nothing to do with her inner self.

Anyway, I do like the writing in this excerpt. Eric goes to speak with Kilmeny's strict aunt and uncle (whom he has never met) - basically to ask permission to hang out with Kilmeny. I just like the description of this old-timey room. Lucy Maud is able to make me go back in time in such excerpts.

Oh, and Eric is good-looking. And he knows it. He's a metrosexual in 1910. I dislike Eric, too. He's a shallow looks-obsessed pretty boy.

Excerpt from Kilmeny Of The Orchard by L.M. Montgomery.

Eric walked into the parlour and sat down as bidden. He found himself in the most old-fahioned room he had ever seen. The solidly made chairs and tables, of some wood grown dark and polished with age, made even Mrs. Williamson's "parlour set" of horsehair seem extravagantly modern by contrast. The painted floor was covered with round braided rugs. On the centre table was a lamp, a Bible, and some theological volumes contemporary with the square-runged furniture. The walls, wainscoted half way up in wood and covered for the rest of it with a dark, diamond-patterned paper, were hung with faded engravings, mostly of clerical-looking bewigged personages in gowns and bands.

But over the high, undecorated black mantel-piece, in a ruddy glow of sunset light striking through the window, hung one which caught and held Eric's attention to the exclusion of everything else. It was the enlarged "crayon" photograph of a young girl, and, in spite of the crudity of the execution, it was easily the centre of interest in the room.

Eric at once guessed that this must be the picture of Margaret Gordon, for, although quite unlike Kilmeny's sensitive, spirited face in general, there was a subtle, unmistakable resemblance about brow and chin.

The pictured face was a very handsome one, suggestive of velvety dark eyes and vivid colouring; but it was its expression rather than its beauty which fascinated Eric. Never had he seen a countenance indicative of more intense and stubborn will power. Margaret Gordon was dead and buried; the picture was a cheap and inartistic production in an impossible frame of gilt and plush; yet the vitality in that face dominated its surroundings still. What then must have been the power of such a personality in life?

Eric realized that this woman could and would have done whatsoever she willed, unflinchingly and unrelentingly. She could stamp her desire on everything and everybody about her, moulding them to her wish and will, in their own despite and in defiance of all the resistance they might make. Many things in Kilmeny's upbringing and temperament became clear to him.

"If that woman had told me I was ugly I should have believed her," he thought. "Ay, even though I had a mirror to contradict her. I should never have dreamed of disputing or questioning anything she might have said. The strange power in her face is almost uncanny, peering out as it does from a mask of beauty and youthful curves. Pride and stubbornness are its salient characteristics. Well, Kilmeny does not at all resemble her mother in expression and only very slightly in feature."

Uhm ...

... is it normal to not be able to listen to any music other than ELO? Seriously. In the last 3 days I have tried to segue out of the ELO phase - but nothing satisfies, and I have to go back. Over. And over. And over. And over. And over.

Something is wrong with me.

Because it's now become a joke

Some screen shots from Kwik Stop - the movie: Rent it, chappies!

I love this one. It's Lucky's inspiration (sad sack that he is - dude, were you CHRISTENED Lucky? I don't think so. You ain't foolin' nobody) in his rear view mirror.

Look at her. I love her. I love her plastic ballies. And I love the full ashtray on the dashboard. You just know that that car smells like shit.

And I adore this next one for my own personal reasons.

Gorgeous!!

I just love everything about this shot below. The lighting, the look on her face, the glimmery gold watch ... everything.

This one is really cool, I think. I like the underwater lighting. That kind of sickly flourescent light that makes skin look diseased and tired.

For some reason, I just love this one. The greenish light, the spontaneous feel to it, and the strange vulnerability on his face.

And this is my favorite screen capture of all. I mean, this whole scene is so gorgeous - it's painful, true, beautiful - but just this shot of her - with her smudged mascara, and the sunset light on her face ... It's perfect, and that's final.

Last dance with Mary Jane

Bunny is one of the best writers on this here web (and maybe anywhere else, frankly) ... and I have been living her multi-chaptered story about being in 42nd Street in high school. Seriously. This woman is so good I don't know what to say. She makes me want to be braver. More open. More honest. Messier.

She inspires me.

The piece is a time-commitment. She's a real writer. Read it like you would a short story, or a long article in the New Yorker or Atlantic.

I'm so so moved right now and I must go cry for a while.

I knew we were moving towards something - as she slowly posted each part. I succumbed to her details, her character sketches, her beautifully and humorously described moments, I succumbed to the moment ... to HER moment ... knowing that I was in good hands.

Last Dance with Mary Jane -

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Happy place

I've been reading a perfectly HORRIBLE biography of Gary Cooper (and by "perfectly horrible" I mean "salacious and awesome") and there's a lot of great stuff in there about Carole Lombard . Lombard and Cooper "dated" before she married Gable and he married Rocky. But then again, she dated pretty much everyone. It drove Gable crazy once they were married, to know she had been (and still was) this wild and free lady - especially when she would say stuff like this to the press:

"God knows I love Clark, but he is the worst lay in town."

Carole!!! Jeez, go easy a bit! But she had no reticence - that was just who she was. Also, Gable knew he was "the worst lay in town" apparently - which was why he preferred to sleep with prostitutes, who wouldn't kiss and tell.

There's a funny story about Gable - Gary Cooper had had a crazy love affair with Mexican actress Lupe Velez - a real firecracker who once shot a gun at a train Cooper was on. She was on a crowded train platform and shot her gun at the passing train. I mean, people who think celebs are out of control now have no idea what they're talking about, frankly. Lindsay Lohan is TAME compared to good ol' gun-slingin' Lupe. Also - imagine Angelina Jolie making a wisecrack like: "God knows I love Brad, but he's the worst lay in town." And to have it be an ENDEARMENT ... Like, Carole was married to the guy, and she said that. heh heh (I must say, though, if I could picture anyone making such a snarky remark in good humor, it would be Angelina Jolie.) But anyway, back to Lupe Velez: she and Gary Cooper had this nutso crazy sexual relationship - and all she did was babble to anyone who would listen about him - what a great lover he was, how she was addicted to his hands, how all he cared about was "satisfying ze woman" - etc. I mean, she would say ANYthing to ANYone. Cooper was kind of reticent - famous for answering reporter's questions with either "Yup" or "Nope" ... hahahaha - and was kind of embarrassed by Lupe Velez blabbing about his sexuality all through town. And apparently - Lupe Velez came on to Gable - and he turned her down. How the press would get a hold of this information is a mystery (uhm, I'm guessing Lupe herself) - but when asked for a response to the rumor - Gable said, "Sure, it's true. She came on to me - but I turned her down. I don't want her running around town telling everyone what a horrible lay I am."

This is so hysterical to me - because ... there Gable is ... telling the press what he feared Lupe would tell the press ... and then he marries a woman, the delectable and funny and snarky Carole Lombard, who says, "God knows I love Clark, but he's the worst lay in town."

I don't know why I find that so endearing. I just do. Sorry, Clark - I know it must have sucked. If someone said that about me to a national newspaper or tabloid, I'd be crushed and pissed.

But he loved her. When she died, he was inconsolable - and never really recovered. He never got that cocky boyish snark back.

I love this one. She's like a little pixy.

And I love this one too. They both look really happy.

Carole Lombard said:

"I think marriage is dangerous. The idea of two people trying to possess each other is wrong. I don't think the flare of love lasts. Your mind rather than your emotions must answer for the success of matrimony. It must be friendship -- a calm companionship which can last through the years."

I know Clark Gable lived with that "what if she had lived" question all the rest of his days. Love of his life.

Dirt

"So tell me the dirt!"
"You want the dirt?"
"Yeah, gimme the Hollywood dirt."
"Oh, I got dirt. Maybe not Fatty Arbuckle dirt, but I got dirt."

Speaking of that, check this out.

Uhm ... Buster is smiling. Just need to point that out.

vh-1 ....

Not to miss essay for anyone who had anything to do with the 80s, however peripheral.

I graduated from high school in 1990, and I saw some of these videos a hundred times, probably. Obviously I never questioned the clothing, or the hair, or why the zombies in that Billy Idol song couldn't just take the elevator instead of climbing the side of the building (actually, maybe they're vampires, and come to think of it, I'm not sure Billy Idol wasn't a vampire also…or maybe it had nothing to do with the undead…like so many videos of that era, it's tough to say definitively what the hell is going on). I just watched them, even for songs I hated.

Yes. Me too.

Also, she makes the comment that John Taylor looked like "one of those yellowing hairstyle cards in the front window of the salon nobody goes to in your neighborhood." That is some serious brilliance. And I say that as someone who had John Taylor pictures plastered all over my locker. But honestly. That is SO what he looked like.

It's not that it's all about me

Really, it isn't. It's just that I enjoy symmetrical moments. I enjoy reference points. I revel in connections, even if they are unconscious. I love echoes. It makes me feel remembered.

So it's not that the still from Kwik Stop (below) has ANYthing to do with me - it doesn't (there are cups like that in diners across America) ... it's just that there is a certain symmetry to it, a looping back, an overlap - that I find intensely satisfying. Bittersweet maybe, but intensely satisfying. It made me smile the first time I saw it and it makes me smile now.

There's more to write about. I'm working on something. Something that has to do with memory. Not just with memory, but with being remembered. And not just being remembered, but being remembered accurately. How rare it is. To be remembered accurately.

But that can be it for now. Those two brown coffee mugs are not all about me, but like Lee Strasberg once said, "Sometimes you look at a pair of your shoes, and suddenly you see your whole life."

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The End of a Quarrel'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "The End of a Quarrel".

So this is the last story in the collection known as The Chronicles of Avonlea. I really like it. It has another Lucy Maud leitmotif: the couple who quarrel over NOTHING, or have a mere misunderstanding - and yet the two have such personal pride that nobody makes up with the other for, oh, 20 years. And suddenly - in one dramatic moment - all those years are brushed away, and all is forgiven. All it takes, in Lucy Maud's world, is 2 minutes to wipe away 20 years of anger. I think she might be onto something there - but still ...

I love the last scene of this story (when all the years are brushed away) - and I think it's actually kind of SEXY. Lucy Maud wasn't really a SEXY writer - she always does the fade-out at sexy moments - and she still does here, but I always just LOVE this last moment ... it's kinda like Rhett Butler taking Scarlett up the stairs. You don't get to SEE what happens next but it's fun to imagine.

Nancy Rogerson grew up in Avonlea. She and Peter Wright "went together" for quite some time - until they mysteriously quarreled - and that was that. What did they quarrel over? Nancy corrected his grammar and he flipped OUT. Nancy was (is) a bit of a snob. She got educated. Peter Wright was just a simple farmer, and he didn't like his school-marm girlfriend telling him not to say "ain't", thank you very much. So after they quarreled - Nancy went off to school to become a nurse - and she has since then lived far away from Avonlea, having a career. She is a career woman. At a time when, you know, women were not doing such a thing. She never married. She thinks she's FINE with that. (Oh, and that's another Lucy Maud theme: people who have no idea what is going on in their own hearts. They literally go for YEARS thinking: "I am fine with this situation, I got no problems with it" - and they truly believe that - until they have one moment of revelation and then they realize: "Wait a minute - I am actually viciously unhappy and I am in LOVE with him!!" etc.) Peter Wright, meanwhile, stayed on his farm, and has (conveniently) never married. In real life, they always marry. Like - when you lose someone in real life, you really LOSE them. But we're in Lucy Maud's world now. Nancy Rogerson has not thought of Peter Wright in 15 years. But she has now come back to Avonlea for a visit, and she sits out on her porch reminiscing with her childhood friend (who has that kind of smiling pity for Nancy, because Nancy has never gotten married or had children). Nancy catches a glimpse of Peter's farm through the trees and asks, innocently, "How is he doing?" She learns he never married. But Nancy doesn't believe that that matters to her. She has forgotten Peter. He belongs to the past. Whether or not he is married makes no difference to HER.

But then one night ... she's taking a walk ... she passes by his house ... and suddenly ......... she finds herself peeking through the windows, he's not home, and she sees what a freakin' MESS the place is. Because we all know that men are perfectly helpless to, you know, wash the damn dishes if he doesn't have a wife. Nancy sees the filth and feels bad ... and suddenly she gets a little mischievous plan. What if she went inside and cleaned up his kitchen for him? And made him a little tea, and a snack - and had it waiting for him when he got back? SHE wouldn't be waiting for him - she would just do this thing as a joke, and then sneak away, and he would come home and wonder: who has been in my house? What good fairy has been here? Nancy thinks this would be very funny, so she gets to work.

This is the last scene of the book. I just find it perfect. I think the two of them have behaved like perfect IDIOTS for 20 years - what a waste of time - but still - I love this drawing-back-the-veil scene, and I love how she has written it.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "The End of a Quarrel".

Nancy went in, threw off her hat, and seized a broom. The first thing she did was to give the kitchen a thorough sweeping. Then she kindled a fire, put a kettle full of water on to heat, and attacked the dishes. From the number of them, she rightly concluded that Peter hadn't washed any for at least a week.

"I suppose he just uses the clean ones as long as they hold out, and then has a grand wash-up," she laughed. "I wonder where he keeps his dish-towels, if he has any."

Evidently Peter hadn't any. At least, Nancy couldn't find any. She marched boldly into the dusty sitting-room and explored the drawers of an old-fashioned sideboard, confiscating a towel she found there. As she worked, she hummed a song; her steps were light and her eyes bright with excitement. Nancy was enjoying herself thoroughly, there was no doubt of that. The spice of mischief in the adventure pleased her mightily.

The dishes washed, she hunted up a clean, but yellow and evidently long unused, tablecloth out of the sideboard, and proceeded to set the table and get Peter's tea. She found bread and butter in the pantry, a trip to the cellar furnished a pitcher of cream, and Nancy recklessly heaped the contents of her strawberry jug on Peter's plate. The tea was made and set back to keep warm. And, as a finishing touch, Nancy ravaged the old neglected garden and set a huge bowl of crimson roses in the centre of the table.

"Now I must go," she said aloud. "Wouldn't it be fun to see Peter's face when he comes in, thugh? Ha-hum! I've enjoyed doing this - but why? Nancy Rogerson, don't be asking yourself conundrums. Put on your hat and proceed homeward, constructing on our way some reliable fib to account to Louisa for the absence of your strawberries."

Nancy paused a moment and looked around wistfully. She had made the place look cheery and neat and homelike. She felt that queer tugging of her heartstrings again. Suppose she belonged here, and was waiting for Peter to come home to tea. Suppose -- Nancy whirled around with a sudden horrible prescience of what she was going to see! Peter Wright was standing in the doorway.

Nancy's face went crimson. For the first time in her life she had not a word to say for herself. Peter looked at her and then at the table, with its fruit and flowers.

"Thank you," he said politely.

Nancy recovered herself. With a shame-faced laugh, she held out her hand.

"Don't have me arrested for trespass, Peter. I came and looked in at your kitchen out of impertinent curiosity, and, just for fun, I thought I'd come in and get your tea. I thought you'd be so surprised - and I meant to go before you came home, of course."

"I wouldn't have been surprised," said Peter, shaking hands. "I saw you go past the field and I tied the horses and followed you down through the woods. I've been sitting on the fence back yonder, watching your comings and goings."

"Why didn't you come and speak to me at church yesterday, Peter?" demanded Nancy boldly.

"I was afraid I would say something ungrammatical," answered Peter drily.

The crimson flamed over Nancy's face again. She pulled her hand away.

"That's cruel of you, Peter."

Peter suddenly laughed. There was a note of boyishness in the laughter.

"So it is," he said, "but I had to get rid of the accumulated malice and spite of twenty years somehow. It's all gone now, and I'll be as amiable as I know how. But since you have gone to the trouble of getting my supper for me, Nancy, you must stay and help me eat it. Them strawberries look good. I haven't had any this summer - been too busy to pick them."

Nancy stayed. She sat at the head of Peter's table and poured his tea for him. Sje talked to him wittily of the Avonlea people and the changes in their old set. Peter followed her lead with an apparent absence of self-consciousness, eating his supper like a man whose heart and mind were alike on good terms with him. Nancy felt wretched - and, at the same time, ridiculously happy. It seemed the most grotesque thing in the world that she should be presiding there at Peter's table, and yet the most natural. There were moments when she felt like crying - other moments when her laughter was as ready and spontaneous as a girl's. Sentiment and humour had always waged an equal contest in Nancy's nature.

When Peter had finished his strawberries, he folded his arms on the table and looked admiringly at Nancy.

"You look well at the head of a table, Nancy," he said critically. "How is it that you haven't been presiding over one of your own long before this? I thought you'd eet with lots of men out in the wordl that you'd like - men who talked good grammar."

"Peter, don't!" said Nancy, wincing. "I was a goose."

"No, you were quite right. I was a tetchy fool. If I'd had any sense, I'd have felt thankful you thought enough of me to want to improve me, and I'd have tried to kerrect my mistakes instead of getting mad. It's too late now, I suppose."

"Too late for what?" said Nancy, plucking up heart of grace at something in Peter's tone and look.

"For -- kerrecting mistakes."

"Grammatical ones?"

"Not exactly. I guess them mistakes are past kerrecting in an old fellow like me. Worse mistakes, Nancy. I wonder what you would say if I asked you to forgive me, and have me after all."

"I'd snap you up before you'd have time to change your mind," said Nancy brazenly. She tried to look Peter in the face, but her blue eyes, where tears and mirth were blending, faltered before his gray ones.

Peter stood up, knocking over his chair, and strode around the table to her.

"Nancy, my girl!" he said.

and a little child will lead them ...

New York, in those crazy weeks afterwards, became a patchwork of remembrance - it was like the city itself had become an enormous collage, or a roughly done papier mache sculpture - taped togther - the fence outside St. Paul's jammed with flowers and patches and letters and drawings, the missing persons posters EVERYWHERE - some professionally done, others much more hand-made, the posters overlapping - everywhere you looked, the drawings and letters from people all over the world plastered up and down the walls in Penn Station, the side wall of Ray's Pizza - I walk by there now and I know it's years later, so I should be used to those posters being gone - but I can't help it. That red wall (almost off-screen over to the left) just aches with emptiness now and all I can see when I look at it, like a mirage, ghosts, are all the posters, all the faces, the words Have you seen me, have you seen me, last seen on, last seen ... Ray's Pizza became a kind of pilgrimage - once you could get below 14th Street. I remember standing there the day I volunteered at the Salvation Army - this was on the 14th - with my surgical mask on, my eyes burning from the chemicals and smoke still in the air, standing by that red wall, scanning all the faces, the faces, people lighting candles, but pretty much what we all were doing - was just standing there. Looking. You had to look. You had to look at every face. Even if you had already seen the same poster 100 times already in the last 2 hours. It was an obligation. You must look.

All of that came up for me when I read the following:

... Don't miss this post.

Thank you, Joe.

Sheer joy from Dean Martin

I have Alex Nunez to thank for the link below - he put it in a comments section below somewhere - and I thought I would pull it out and point to it.

It's Dean Martin's commercial that he did for his signature golf line - must be from the 70s some time. (I put the YouTube link below the jump).

A couple observations:

-- I just need to comment again on his unafraid unselfconscious goofiness and how much I respond to it. Goofiness like that could survive a nuclear blast. If there's one thing all the men I have loved have had in common it is that they are all GIGANTIC GOOFBALLS. I value it above all else, practically.

-- And Alex is so right. Please take note of what happens to Dino's body and face at 0:33. hahahahahaha Seriously - it makes me laugh out loud EVERY. TIME. I've seen it. Glorious. hahahaha

-- I love when he begins to chop at the sand. Like ... uhm ... Dino??

Enjoy!

(more Dino posts here)

Alexander Hamilton

Sept. 26: 6:30 pm
New-York Historical Society
170 Central Park West
New York, NY 10024
(77th St.)

The Many Faces of Alexander Hamilton (pertinent excerpt from that description - for me anyway: "Three Hamilton scholars discuss his legacy, and consider why history has denied him the central place he occupied in his own time." I feel like standing and cheering. I will have to hold myself back while listening to these dudes lecture. Can you imagine? Me shouting out as though I'm at a gospel mass.

Lecture dude: "So Alexander Hamilton's experiences as a shipping clerk ---"
Sheila, shouting out: "AMEN."
Lecture dude: "He was extremely efficien---"
Sheila, shouting:"SPEAK THE TRUTH, BROTHER."

Etc.)

Seriously I just received my newsletter from the NYHS and my heart leapt up into my throat when I saw what was coming.

I bought tickets immediately.

I cannot wait.

A kind of annoying and nosy meme, but whatever, I'm bored

Are you in a relationship? Yes. At the moment I am in a committed and monogamous relationship with Dean Martin.

Do you hate more than 3 people? Hate? I don't know, I really do try not to hate. But yeah, I have hate for some folks, none of whom I actually know in person. You know, like terrorists and stuff like that.

How many houses have you lived in? Houses? 2. Apartments? More than I can count.

What is your favorite candy bar? Don't really do 'em. Maybe Nestle Crunch

What are your favorite shoes? High tops. I have owned a pair of hightops consistently since I was 15 years old - I recycle them on a yearly basis. I always wear them at LEAST 4 times a week.

Have you ever tripped someone? I'm sure I have.

Do you own a Britney Spears CD? Oh yes.

Have you ever thrown up in public? Yup. Horrible experience, to be wasted in public. The last time was at a birthday gathering I had for myself - 5 years ago? I don't know - I was way too old to be that wasted - and I had to go throw up in the MEN'S BATHROOM in this horrible dive bar - My brother stood watch outside the door, and I threw up. I immediately felt SO much better. But still. There isn't a worse feeling.

Name something that's always on your mind? Oh, you know, sex and stuff like that. Romance. Men I love, stuff like that. Also - my writing.

What is your favorite music genre? Uhm - rock. The hard loud angry stuff.

What is your sign? Sagittarius

What time were you born? I have no idea

Do you like beer? Yum

Have you ever made a prank call? Yup.

What is the most embarrassing CD you own? I don't really get embarrassed over my tastes. If I'm into it, I'm into it. But I'll get into the spirit of the question and say that the most embarrassing CD I own is probably the Basia CD with "Time and Tide" on it.

Are you sarcastic? No (rolling eyes, showing sarcasm).

What are your favorite colors? Green. Purple.

How many watches do you own? None. Well, I have a Swatch that was given to me ... but I never wear it. It's more like a relic from the Dead Sea rather than a practical object.

Summer or winter? Winter winter winter. Summer is something to be endured. I revel in winter.

Spring or fall? Fall fall fall.

What is your favorite color to wear? I have no idea. Green?

Pepsi or Sprite? I hate to be difficult but neither.

What color is your cell phone? Uhm - black?

Where is your second home? My fantasy world in my head. I like it much better in there.

Have you ever slapped someone? Yup.

Have you ever had a cavity? Yup.

How many lamps are in your bedroom? 2. I really need one more.

How many video games do you own? None

What was your first pet? Widdy. Here I am holding her when she was just a wee kitten.

Have you ever had braces? Yes.

Do looks matter? Sure. I mean, they're not everything, but they are also certainly not NOTHING.

Do you use chapstick? Yes. Obsessively.

Name 3 teachers from your high school: Crud, Ms. Preble, Ms. Tefft

American Eagle or Abercrombie? I like American Eagle

Are you too forgiving? Not really. I'm not a pushover - but I also do not hold a grudge. Is that what this question means?

Do you own something from Hot Topic? I have no idea what that is.

What is your favorite breakfast? Eggs, homefries, bacon, toast, coffee, juice. Classic.

Do you own a gun? No.

Have you ever thought you were in love? Thought I was? Yes. And was I ACTUALLY in love? Yes.

When was the last time you cried? When Michael left this past week.

What did you do 3 nights ago? This is ridiculous - why are you interrogating me. I can't remember what I did 5 minutes ago. Okay - I had to check my blog to find out. It was Saturday night. I was home. I cooked. I watched Guerrilla and shouted at the morons on the screen.

When was the last time you went to Olive Garden? I honestly don't believe I've ever been there.

Have you ever called your teacher mom? Ew.

Have you ever been in a castle? Yes.

What are your nicknames? Silo. Sheil-babe.

Do you know anyone named Bertha? No.

Have you ever been to Hawaii? No.

Do you own something from Banana Republic? A couple skirts.

Are you thinking about somebody right now? No, my mind is a complete and utter blank. Of COURSE I'm thinking about somebody right now.

Have you ever called someone Boo? Ewwwww. No. Unless it was my friend Kate's dog - who was named after Boo Radley. So yeah, I called HIM "boo" - but please, just shoot me if I ever call my boyfriend "Boo" as an endearment. That's disgusting.

Do you own a diamond ring? No.

Are you happy with your life right now? Oh fuck off.

Does anyone like you? What kind of question is this? Of course somebody likes me right now. A bunch of people like me.

What were you doing May of 1994? Of course I know exactly what I was doing because that was the craziest funnest wildest (and etc etc) time of my life. I was preparing to perform at Milwaukee Summer Fest in July. It was the craziest weirdest thing I had ever done. I was also madly madly in love with someone. All would eventually crash and burn in August of that same year - but in May I still held out hope. Ouch.

McDonald's or Wendy's? McDonalds - although I never eat fast food anymore. But if I had to, I'd eat Mickey Ds.

Do you like yourself? Not always. I have good friends and good people in my life who can remind me why I am lovable, when I need to hear it.

Favorite feature of the opposite sex? Hands. Smile.

Are you afraid of the dark? No

Have you ever eaten paste? I don't think so

Do you have a webcam? No - or ... do I? I might. I have no idea.

Have you ever stripped? Hahaha No comment

Diamonds or pearls? Diamonds.

What was the last film you saw at the cinema? "FILM you saw at the CINEMA"? Sheesh. Uhm - it's been a while. Was it Poseidon?? Damn, that was a long time. There has to have been more.

What are your favorite TV shows? Ever? Sesame Street, 6 feet under, Cheers, Masterpiece Theatre, also The White Shadow

What did you have for breakfast? I just started this new diet - and so I had a HUGE breakfast which is so bizarre for me. Bran flakes, milk, yogurt, a peach. I mean ... seriously. So much food. Get that metabolism going.

What is your middle name? Kathleen

What is your favorite cuisine? Nothing better than going out for Mexican, in my opinion. It's fun.

What foods do you dislike? Coconut. Apple sauce.

What is your favorite CD at the moment? The Essential Dean Martin.

What kind of car do you drive? I dislike your assumption about my lifestyle. I have no car.

Favorite sandwich? Turkey.

What characteristics do you despise? Holier than thou rigidity, and "cooler than thou" aloofness

What are your favorite clothes? Honestly? My flannel pajamas

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would you go? Central Asia.

What color is your bathroom? White

Favorite brand of clothing? God - you're really into clothes aren't you. I guess I would have to say Max Studio - I have a lot of their stuff.

Where would you want to retire to? Again with the assumptions. I am an artist. I probably will NOT retire, ever. However, if I were to retire? I'd love to have a little house on the west coast of Ireland.

Favorite time of day? Before dawn

Where were you born? Boston

Favorite sport to watch? baseball

Are you a morning person or night owl? Morning person. I can't believe I'm saying this. For most of my life I was not only NOT a morning person - but I was HELL ON WHEELS in the morning. Mitchell said that I had "the morning sterns" - hahahaha - I would be frowning and stern in the morning, and I had NO sense of humor. But in 1999 I turned it all around. I basically decided to be a morning person and trained myself over a series of weeks to wake up to my alarm at 5:30 am - and I swear, it has changed my life. Seriously. I can't survive without my morning solitude. It's my anchor. I NEED that time.

What did you want to be when you were little? A witch

What is your best childhood memory? Long days at Uncle Jimmy's pool.

Eye Color? Grey

Ever been toilet papering? Nope

Favorite day of the week? I like Saturday

Ha

We all need friends like My Sharona.

The fluffy planet

I just love stuff like this.

"This new planet, if you could imagine putting it in a cosmic water glass, it would float," said Robert Noyes, a research astrophysicist with the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.

And so now I cannot get the image of a "cosmic water glass" with a "fluffy freakin' PLANET" floating in it out of my mind.

Awesome!

Screen capture!!

Again - from Kwik Stop. Purty. Purty.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Miracle at Carmody'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "The Miracle at Carmody".

A break in the Dean Martin frenzy to go back to my LM Montgomery obsession ...

"The Miracle at Carmody" is about two sisters who have adopted a young boy. The sisters, Salome and Judith, are what I would call LM Montgomery archetypes. Their parents are dead. Judith is 10 years older than Salome - and is a tough tough cookie. Salome is kind of submissive, sweet, and lets Judith be the boss. They had a series of tragedies of a family which left them weakened (and yet also very well-off, having inherited a small fortune). Their mother, sweet and religious, had died when Salome was 10 and Judith was 20. Then when Salome was 19, she had a boyfriend - and he was killed. Then their father died - and right around that same time Salome developed some sort of degenerative hip disease which has left her nearly crippled. She cannot walk without a cane. She has not been upstairs in their house for 15 years. At around that time, of all the tragedies, Judith - who had decided when their mother died - that Salome was going to have EVERYTHING that she could not have (Judith was never courted by anyone, never had a beau, she is kind of stern, not attractive, whatever) - and when Salome became a cripple, Judith went to war with the world, in her mind. She stopped going to church (which is the main issue in the story) - she rails at any minister who tries to talk about everything happening for a reason - Judith is HARD on this issue. She stopped believing in God altogether. What good is this all-loving God if all these bad things can happen? Judith has a "SHOW YOURSELF TO BE THE SAVIOR" rage in her. And when God proves to be as useless as she imagined, when he refuess to show himself, she is DONE with him. Her hatred has become a rock-hard thing in her. She won't let Salome go to church either, even though Salome begs. Salome eventually acquiesces - because she realizes she cannot win an argument with her sister. And so they go along for years - 20 years - in this way. Judith sounds like a tyrant - and she is, kind of - but Lucy Maud also lets us know that she is not a BAD person (she's not like Emmeline Strong, another bossy older sister, in "The Courting of Prissy Strong" - excerpt here). Judith's hard-ness comes from being HURT, not from being a shrew. She feels that God has ROBBED them of happiness. She feels that Salome should be married, with children ... but no, she hobbles through their house, doing little domestic projects, now in her 40s, and it's over. Every time Salome picks up her crutches, Judith burns with rage. Okay - so eventually - they adopt this little boy, who was suddenly left orphaned when his parents were killed in a fire. It is all Salome's idea. She aches for a child. Judith finally caves - and so Lionel Hezekiah, a little 6-year-old hellion. He is a hellion, he gets into all kinds of trouble, he wreaks havoc on their neat lives, and yet - he is lovable. You can't help but love him. Salome loves him more than Judith does - Judith is more of the fierce disciplinarian of the pair. But you do get the sense that Lionel Hezekiah is in good hands.

Eventually though (and I have to say, I think Lucy Maud is a wee bit obvious here) Lionel Hezekiah confides in Salome and says that he thinks he is just going to KEEP being a bad little boy - because he's not allowed to go to Sunday school and church like the other little boys. Salome is horrified. Judith will not allow Lionel Hezekiah to be brainwashed by religion, or by God - that mo-fo up in the sky who likes to MESS with us down here. But Lionel Hezekiah has a whole monologue to Salome where he basically says, "My goal in life now, since I can't go to Sunday school and learn about right and wrong, is to be an old drunken hellraiser like Abel Blair - he lives a great life! He drinks and parties and whores around and I want to be just like him!" (This is a paraphrase. Obviously) Salome is so upset - she literally feels like it is life or death that Lionel Hezekiah get some religion. He is already, at age 6, going down the path of just not caring about ANYthing. Oh, and he also says to Salome something like, "Well, you and Judith don't go to church - so why should I care?"

She and Judith have a huge argument. Salome does have a backbone in there, beneath the sweet submissiveness, and on this she will not budge. She is GOING to go to church. She is GOING to set a good example to Lionel Hezekiah. Judith is in a rage. Salome stays firm.

So she limps over to the church - after 20 years of staying away.

Here's the excerpt of what happens next.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "The Miracle at Carmody".

When the people began to come in, Salome felt painfully the curious glances directed at her. Look where she would, she met them, unless she looked out of the window; so out of the window she did look unswervingly, her delicate little face burning crimson with self-consciousness. She could see her home and its back yard plainly, with Lionel Hezekiah making mud-pies joyfully in the corner. Presently, she saw Judith come out of the house and stride away to the pine wood behind it. Judith always betook herself to the pines in times of mental stress and strain.

Salome could see the sunlight on Lionel Hezekiah's bare head as he mixed his pies. In the pleasure of watching him, she forgot where she was and the curious eyes turned on her.

Suddenly Lionel Hezekiah ceased concocting pies, and betook himself to the corner of the summer kitchen, where he proceeded to climb up to the top of the storm-fence and from there to mount the sloping kitchen roof. Salome clasped her hands in agony. What if the child should fall? Oh! why had Judith gone away and left him alone? What if -- what if -- and then, while her brain with lightning-like rapidity pictured forth a dozen possible catastrophes, something really did happen. Lionel Hezekiah slipped, sprawled wildly, slid down, and fell off the roof, in a bewildering whirl of arms and legs, plump into the big rain-water hogshead under the spout, which was generally full to the brim with rain-water, a hogshead big and deep enough to swallow up half a dozen small boys who went climbing kitchen roofs on a Sunday.

Then something took place that is talked of in Carmody to this day, and even fiercely wrangled over, so many and conflicting are the opinions on the subject. Salome Marsh, who had not walked a step without assistance for fiteen years, suddenly sprang to her feet with a shriek, ran down the aisle, and out of the door!

Every man, woman, and child in the Carmody church followed her, even the minister, who had just announced his text. When they got out, Salome was already halfway up her lane, running wildly. In her heart was room but for one agonized thought. Would Lionel Hezekiah be drowned before she reached him?

She opened the gate of the yard, and panted across it just as a tall, grim-faced woman came around the corner of the house and stood rooted to the ground in astonishment at the sight that met her eyes.

But Salome saw nobody. She flung herself against the hogshead and looked in, sick with terror at what she might see. What she did see was Lionel Hezekiah sitting on the bottom of the hogshead in water that came only to his waist. He was looking rather dazed and bewildered, but was apparently quite uninjured.

The yard was full of people, but nobody had as yet said a word; awe and wonder held everybody in spellbound silence. Judith was the first to speak. She pushed through the crowd to Salome. Her face was blanched to a deadly whiteness; and her eyes, as Mrs. William Blair afterwards decalred, were enough to give a body the creeps.

"Salome," she said in a high, shrill, unnatural voice, "where is your crutch?"

Salome came to herself at the question. For the first time, she realized that she had walked, nay, run, all that distance from the church alone and unaided. She turned pale, swayed, and would have fallen if Judith had not caught her.

Old. Dr. Blair came forward briskly.

"Carry her in," he said, "and don't all of you come crowding in, either. She wants quiet and rest for a spell."

Most of the people obediently returned to the church, their suddenly loosened tongues chattering in voluble excitement. A few women assisted Judith to carry Salome in and lay her on the kitchen loungge, followed by the doctor and the dripping Lionel Hezekiah, whom the minister had lifted out of the hogshead and to whom nobody now paid the slightest attention.

Salome faltered out her story, and her hearers listened with varying emotions.

"It's a miracle," said Sam Lawson in an awed voice.

Dr. Blair shrugged his shoulders.

"There is no miracle about it," he said bluntly. "It's all perfectly natural. The disease in the hip has evidently been quite well for a long time. Nature does sometimes work cures like that when she is let alone. The trouble was that the muscles were paralyzed by long disuse. That paralysis was overcome by the force of a strong and instinctive effort. Salome, get up and walk across the kitchen."

Salome obeyed. She walked across the kitchen and back, slowly, stiffly, falteringly, now that the stimulus of frantic fear was spent; but still she walked. The doctor nodded his satisfaction.

"Keep that up every day. Walk as much as you can without tiring yourself, and you'll soon be as spry as ever. No more need of crutches for you, but there's no miracle in the case."

Judith Marsh turned to him. She had not spoken a word since her question concerning Salome's crutch Now she said passionately,

"It was a miracle. God has worked it to prove His existence to me, and I accept the proof."

The old doctor shrugged his shoulders again. BNeing a wise man, he knew when to hold his tongue.

sniff

sniff ...

The Dino "bender": the next level

I have created a "category" for Dean Martin alone.

There's no going back now.

God help us all.

All Dino posts can be found here.

Oh, and thanks, as always, for the link, Tim!

Dino again

Seriously, if you're looking for other more serious content - or at least a variety - you might have to come back in a couple months. To see how I'm doing THEN. Because now? I can't stop. Nor do I want to. For those of you who might not have ridden one of these waves with me before - please check out my category pages - for example: Cary Grant has a whole category devoted to him. So does Bogart. So does Stalin - although - er - that's really not the same kind of thing at all. But I guess it counts as an obsession.

I'll create a category for Dino sooner or later - just so they all can be in one place.

And look! It's catching!!

Pitter pat. Pitter freakin' pat.

Said during one of his shows:

"If you think I'm going to get serious, you're crazy. If you want to hear a serious song, buy one of my records."

March 6, 1957

Dean Martin opened his solo show at The Sands Hotel - on March 6, 1957. Everybody was there. He had split with Jerry Lewis the year before - and people had (wrongly) assumed that Martin might have a hard time going solo.

Check out this marquee. It makes me ache for a time machine. I love the "Maybe Frank ... Maybe Sammy".

It's just flat out HOT.

And here's one of the stills from his performance there that night - the night that would launch a spectacularly successful solo career. I just love his goofiness.

I love the fact that everyone is laughing - scan the faces.

Oh, and scan the audience for the famous folks. Ya see Lucy??

(These photos are from the collection at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas - they have a ton of great collections, well worth browsing through if you are interested in this sort of thing)

Obsession Central: Dino

Tracey sent me this image with a brief one-line email - which (I hope she won't mind) I will quote in full. She kind of says it all:

The face is in direct opposition to everything else.

Uhm ... yeah.

hahahahaha

Obsession central: Dino

Another gem from Tracey. Alex: is this from the concert they did together? Or something a bit more impromptu? I have no idea what Dino is doing but what I love most of all about this photo is the very REAL laughter on Frank and Judy's faces. Look at Frank!! You can so sense the friendship between these three.

Obsession central: Dino

One of the funnest things about having a blog where all you do is write about your current obsession - is that there are those out there who not only do NOT roll their eyes at you (because believe me - I get some "rolling eyes" comments on my obsession posts) - but are more than willing to fan the flames. People send me books, links, articles they think I would like ... It is BEYOND awesome.

Tracey, basically, has been bombarding me with Dino images for the last 24 hours. HA!!! I am so grateful.

So here we go.

Here's Dean Martin with his parents. The crinkly smile lines on all three of them strike me as very beautiful.

Snapshot from last night

I was watching Guerrilla - a documentary about the Symbionese Liberation Army (whatever) and the kidnapping of Patty Hearst. It's really good - some great commentary from former SLA members - I mean, you want to throw stuff at the screen (at least I did) - but it's really interesting. The Hearst parents standing on their front steps, poor Steve Weed with his horrendous moustache coming out to the mike stand to talk about his "feelings" - the whole thing was really interesting. Then you listen to Patty's broadcasts - and you listen to them change. By the end, she is obviously reading prepared statements. The first ones are like: "Mom, Dad ..." (big long sigh) "I'm fine ... really ..." Then when the food drive was a bust (or whatever - seemed like a bust) - she comes on and says, in that creepy deadpan voice, "Dad, it sounds like you've made a big mess of things ..."

Uhm, Patty?

Then you hear the broadcast where she announces she is joining the Siamese Cat Liberation Fuckwads.

Broadcasts keep coming. There's the battle with the police which ends up with the house burning down, SLA members trapped inside. Then comes the next broadcast and there's that deadpan voice, flatlining, "My sister Miznoon ... her eyes were cold and full of death" - or something like that - and to Patty - that was a compliment!! She was saying how much she MISSED Miznoon, she was saying what was GREAT about Miznoon. (Imagine: "God, I just love my boyfriend so much. He has so many amazing qualities." "That is so awesome. What are some of his amazing qualities?" "Oh, his eyes are cold and full of death." "Man, that is so great.")

I got increasingly annoyed with Patty's broadcasts. Oh, excuse me. Tania's broadcasts.

I was in the kitchen washing dishes, listening to one of the broadcasts, emanating from the other room.

Tania's creepy flat voice, going on and on. She loves Willie. Or Cujo. Or whatever he calls himself. She loves her cold deathly friends. She is taking the fight to the people. She loves her "brothers and sisters in the Symbiotic Liberace Army" - and then she says something about "And the fascist pig media ..."

She'd said those words before, but I had finally had it.

I'm rinsing out a glass. I hear her dead voice say the words "and the fascist pig media" - and I promptly shout into the other room, where the movie is playing,

"Oh shut the fuck UP, Tania!!!!"

Screen capture!!

I know, it's all about pictures on this here blog these days. The world is going to hell in a handbasket and I am navel-gazing. At least here on the blog I am. Oh well.

I can now do screen-grabs from movies. I'm so happy - now I can hone in on the one shot that I love so much in Bringing Up Baby - or the brief glance that goes over Bogart's face that I adore in Casablanca, etc.

But I'm gonna start off with a little still from Kwik Stop - which I'll also be doing an "under-rated movie" post for (I haven't forgot that series! Just been busy with other shite). Yeah, I'm biased about Kwik Stop. Michael Gilio wrote it, directed it, starred in it, he's a dear friend of mine, and my favorite ex (uhm ...) , and I am missing him right now. My apartment randomly feels empty without him in it now. Ha. Uhm - where the HELL did he go?? Beauty. Our friendship. So whatever. But it's a wonderful movie - and should be seen by more people.

Rent it!!

This is from the scene in the motel that randomly has a disco ball in the room they rent. As they lie in bed talking, the disco ball revolves - there are also little star and planet mobiles dangling from the ceiling - so fanciful little shapes float over their bodies as they talk. They are stoned. It's a perfect scene.

That's Michael and Lara Phillips there - she gives a terrific performance in this film. She creates a complex and very human girl. You love Didi even though she is SUCH a mess. It's one of those performances that dammit you just wish more people saw.

I love how the light from one of the stars is right on his face here.

Photo booth series 3

We are about 19, 20 years old here. Me, Mitchell, and Mitchell's sister . This is the summer when Mitchell and I REALLY became friends. As in kindred spirits, as in forever friends. We are having one of the funnest days EVER - we went to Rocky Point - anyone who grew up in Rhode Island will nod in recognition. Rocky Point, rest in peace. The most dilapidated trashy circus-freak amusement park ever. We spent a whole day there, going on "the flume", getting soaked. I had a terrible haircut which I had fixed the next day. As you can see, we are obviously shouting out emotional directions in between shots. I love the absolute PANIC in Sandi's eyes in that last photo. She has no idea WHAT she should be "performing" ... I don't think any of us did. I seem to recall one of us shouted out incomprehensible emotional directions like: "PROUD ... AND YET ALSO IN A RAGE ... BUT WITH A SMIDGEON OF DEFEAT ..." (hahahahaha this is the kind of shit we find fun) ... but none of us could actually DO that (let alone understand it) and so we all just started screaming.

Built-in advice

Hard to get

Richard Schickel (I had thought it was Pauline Kael - but I was WRONG WRONG WRONG) wrote this about Cary Grant, and I have always loved it:

Cary Grant, when playing his most famous characters, isn't playing hard to get. He is hard to get.

I have thought about this so much when watching Grant's films over and over. Think about not just movie stars - but people in real life - who play hard to get - because either they're afraid of commitment, or they like messing with you, or they're just flat out dishonest. But then there are those who really are hard to get. And those people? Please. They're the ones you never forget. I won't comment on that further cause I'll incriminate myself and most of my ex-boyfriends.

But I think that Schickel quote could also be used to describe Dean Martin.

You'd have to PAY that guy to "play hard to get". Please. He just was hard to get. Not because it was a GAME, but because that was just the way he WAS. Who knows why, and who CARES why.

This is why his appeal is so long-lasting. Because there's a mystery at the heart of it. Watch him perform, how intimate he is with his audience, how he uses his voice, how smooth he is, what good humor ... but still ... there is a sense, somehow, in the same way there was with Grant, that you can never have all of him. Whatever is deepest within him was his - and his alone.

But how wonderful it is - to keep watching him - to keep NOT having all of him - to keep trying to get close to that mystery, close to what it seems like he knows.

The photo booth series 2

(Inspired by Tracey - although come to think of it, I was already kind of going this way last week, with Michael arriving.)

I have pictures of me with various people in photo booths throughout many MANY years. Mitchell and I have a photo booth fetish. We will call out emotional directions to each other in between photos. "MAD!" "EXCITED!" "FRUSTRATED!" Sometimes, as a joke, we will call out very specific emotional directions: "FEARFUL YET FULL OF HOPE" - and then we will try to "do" that for the photo. It's hysterical.

These are from years ago. Look at how sepia-toned the damn thing looks. Uhm - old??

I cannot remember what the emotional directions were - but look at Mitchell's face in that first photo. I think maybe we were trying to do a "DON'T MESS WITH ME" face.

I love you, Mitchell.

The photo booth series 1

These make me laugh out loud. He's actually a good-looking guy but you would never know it from that first photo. Can't stop laughing. He looks mentally deficient - and also like we should NOT be left alone with him because he's about to hack us up in the woodchopper.

Apple freaks ...

Am I not allowed to take screen captures from films I watch? Does anyone know how I should do this? I'm having some issues (but please realize: I've never taken a screen capture in my life, so it could just be my own retardation at work here. Wouldn't be the first time.) But screen shots, screen captures ... can I take them? I've done a bit of surfing and it seems like for some reason it might be a bit more complicated than I thought. But I need to do some screen grabs. So badly. You don't even know.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Courting of Prissy Strong'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "The Courting of Prissy Strong".

This is one of Lucy Maud's many stories that feature two contrasting old-maid sisters - one who is strong, rigid, and bossy - and one who is weak, retiring and submissive. Sometimes (like in "Miracle at Carmody" - excerpt here) - the strong sister is also a good person, who means well, who is just overly protective. Usually the parents are dead in these stories - and so the sisters only have each other. But sometimes, like in "The Courting of Prissy Strong", the stronger sister is pretty much an evil wench, who refuses to allow her weaker sister to have a will of her own. Prissy Strong is the weak sister, and Emmeline Strong is the strong one. Prissy is not allowed to not only have a LIFE of her own - but not allowed to have her own thoughts, ideas, or plans. Prissy is way too submissive to even really MIND - but eventually - when an old beau comes sniffing around, looking to court Prissy again (who is now in her 40s) - Emmeline puts a stop to it real quick. She will have NONE of this.

A kindly neighbor couple ends up intervening. One of them is the narrator of this story. Basically, there is much sneaking around that has to be done, Emmeline needs to be lied to - sometimes it's way better to lie to someone than to try to reason wiht them - because someone like Emmeline does not deserve respect. She's too evil. heh.

Oh, and Anne and Diana show up, randomly, in this story - I love it when that happens. They somehow get involved in the spirit of this thing - basically: how will Prissy elope with her old beau, without Emmeline catching onto the plan? Emmeline is suspicious, rigid, bossy, and rules Prissy with an iron thumb. Prissy is never left alone. How will this be handled?

I love Thomas, the fat husband of the narrator. He is an "elder" in the church - and there's just something about him, the little we see of him, that I love. He can't STAND Emmeline. He tries to be good and spiritual and proper and religious, as befits as elder, but all of this stops when confronted with the bitch-fest that is Emmeline.

The plot finally involves our narrator having to climb up onto her roof and put a red scarf around a ventilator - which is the signal for Stephen (the old beau) that Emmeline has left the premises - and then he runs over, spends a couple minutes with Prissy, courting her - and then has to hide in the barn if Emmeline comes back unexpectedly. This goes on for a while until they finally decide to get married. But they must elope. Our narrator (while Thomas, her fat husband, who has tried to avoid getting all involved in this) sets the whole thing up - tells Stephen to get the marriage license ready and she will talk to Rev. Leonard (the same Rev. Leonard who was featured so prominently in "Each His Own Tongue" - excerpt here) - and they would need to be ready to get married at the drop of a hat - because it all would depend on Emmeline miraculously leaving Prissy alone for 10 minutes. Oh wait - and Emmeline has gotten so suspicious that Prissy is 'seeing' her old beau again - that whenever she leaves the house, she LOCKS PRISSY INSIDE. So that's the kind of bitch we are dealing with here.

I love this ending scene when it all comes together.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "The Courting of Prissy Strong".

Then I walked around the house to the only window that hadn't shutters - a tiny one upstairs. I knew it was the window in the closet off the room where the girls slept. I stopped under it and called Prissy. Before long Prissy came and opened it. She was so pale and woe-begone looking that I pitied her with all my heart.

"Prissy, where has Emmeline gone?" I asked.

"Down to Avonlea to see the Roger Pyes. They're sick with measles, and Emmeline couldn't take me because I've never had the measles."

Poor Prissy! She had never had anything a body ought to have.

"Then you just come and unfasten a shutter, and come right over to my house," I said exultantly. "We'll have Stephen and the minister here in no time"

"I can't - Em'line has locked me in here," said Prissy woefully.

I was posed. No living mortal bigger than a baby could have got in or out of that closet window.

"Well," I said finally, "I'll put the signal up for Stephen anyhow, and we'll see what can be done when he gets here."

I didn't know how I was ever to get the signal up on that ventilator, for it was one of the days I take dizzy spells; and if I took one up on the ladder there'd probably be a funeral instead of a wedding. But Anne Shirley said she'd put it up for me, and she did. I have never seen that girl before, and I've never seen her since, but it's my opinion that there wasn't much she couldn't do if she made up her mind to do it.

Stephen wasn't long in getting there, and he brought the minister with him. Then we all, including Thomas - who was beginning to get interested in the affair in spite of himself - went over and held council of war beneath the closet window.

Thomas suggested breaking in doors and carrying Prissy off boldly, but I could see that Mr. Leonard looked very dubious over that, and even Stephen said he thought it could only be done as a last resort. I agreed with him. I knew Emmeline Strong would bring an action against him for housebreaking as likely as not. She'd be so furious she'd stick at nothing if we gave her any excuse. Then Anne Shirley, who couldn't have been more excited if she was getting married herself, came to the rescue again.

"Couldn't you put a ladder up to the closet window," she said, "and Mr. Clark can go up it and they can be married there. Can't they, Mr. Leonard?"

Mr. Leonard agreed that they could. He was always the most saintly-looking man, but I know I saw a twinkle in his eye.

"Thomas, go over and bring our little ladder over here," I said.

Thomas forgot he was an elder, and he brought the ladder as quick as it was possible for a fat man to do it. After all, it was too short to reach the window, but there was no time to go for another. Stephen went up to the top of it and he reached up and Prissy reached down, and they could just barely clasp hands so. I shall never forget the look of Prissy. The window was so small she could only get her head and one arm oout of it. Besides, she was almost frightened to death.

Mr. Leonard stood at the foot of the ladder and married them. As a rule, he makes a very long and solemn thing of the marriage ceremony, but this time he cut out everything that wasn't absolutely necessary; and it was well that he did, for just as he pronounced them man and wife, Emmeline drove into the lane.

She knew perfectly well what had happened when she saw the minister with his blue book in his hand. Never a word said she. She marched to the front door, unlocked it, and strode upstairs. I've always been convinced it was a mercy that closet window was so small, or I believe that she would have thrown Prissy out of it. As it was, she walked her downstairs by the arm and actually flung her at Stephen.

"There, take your wife," she said, "and I'll pack up every stitch she owns and send it after her, and I never want to see her or you again as long as I live."

Then she turned to me and Thomas.

"As for you that have aided and abetted that weak-minded fool in this, take yourselves out of my yard and never darken my door again."

"Goodness, who wants to, you old spitfire!" said Thomas.

It wasn't just the thing for him to say, perhaps, but we are all human, even elders.

The girls didn't escape. Emmeline looked daggers at them.

"This will be something for you to carry back to Avonlea," she said. "You gossips down there will have enough to talk about for a spell. That's all you ever go out of Avonlea for - just to fetch and carry tales."

Finally she finished up with the minister.

"I'm going to the Baptist church in Spencervale after this," she said. Her tone and look said a hundred other things. She whirled into the house and slammed the door.

Mr. Leonard looked around on us with a pitying smile as Stephen put poor, half-fainting Prissy into the buggy.

"I am very sorry," he said in that gentle, saintly way of his, "for the Baptists."

Ease

It's a cliche that those who make it look easy don't get the props they deserve - at the time when it matters. Cary Grant is a perfect example. He breezed through Philadelphia Story, shining his OWN LIGHT onto his co-stars, both of whom were nominated (he was not), and one of whom won the award (his only award). Cary Grant was not congratulated for how easy he made it look. Or - at least not congratulated in the way that seems to matter: awards, and also - just that feeling that: This guy is the BEST. People who seem to work hard always get the accolades in the moment - which is why those who put on funny noses, use foreign accents, or play people who are 1. retarded 2. autistic 3. insane 4. insanely ugly - win the awards, and get the props. A great example (in my opinion) is Russell Crowe. In my estimation, he has never ever been better than in LA Confidential. Well, maybe Romper Stomper and The Sum of Us - from before he hit it big here - but that's interesting because once he became mega-famous in the States and in the world, he seemed to lose the confidence he had in those earlier films and started trying to prove himself. And naturally, once he started trying to prove himself by working really hard (sometimes VERY successfully like in The Insider and sometimes not so successfully like in Beautiful Mind) he started getting the Oscar nominations he so desired. He is a wonderful actor. Whether or not he transforms himself physically. Cary Grant always looked fabulous - he wasn't a chameleon - that was not his thing - but he is the best there is. But he made it look too easy. That is NEVER congratulated in such an obvious and superficial business as acting.

I bring all of this up because watch this YouTube clip of Dean singing "Everybody loves somebody (sometimes)". It is the epitome of ease. It looks like he was born singing that song. He is barely singing it at all. He's not even emoting. Or living it. Or reaching out to us. Or trying to communicate. He is just INHABITING it.

And ease like that is a miracle. Make no mistake. Almost NOBODY has that kind of ease. You can count them on one hand.

Breathtaking. It's like a soft warm bed you can sink into. A soft warm bed with a warm loving body waiting for you. Ease.

Dean Martin: "the presumably 'less talented' half of the comedy team"

I've said it before: I treat my obsessions as though they are a JOB. So here goes.

(Uhm. LOVE that photo.)

Came across this article about Dean Martin, with some really nice background information about his rise - and also recommendations on books to read, what to watch, what to listen to.

(Mitchell, Alex, and any other big-band singer fan: that site in and of itself looks incredible. Take a look at that right-hand side bar - and all the profiles of these huge names. It's a goldmine!)

Excerpts from the article I really like:

When Martin split from Lewis, he needed to create a character that had an identity unique from other singer/performers. The "drunk" persona was envisioned by Dean, figuring with Joe E. Lewis having recently retired, a perfectly good character was up for grabs. This also served the purpose of helping cover for his opening night jitters as a solo performer without longtime stage-mate Lewis. In April of 1957, with an act written by former Colgate Comedy Hour writer Ed Simmons, Martin stepped onto the stage of Jack Entratter's Sands Hotel in Las Vegas in front of a star-packed audience. . .alone. The crowd that had come out of curiosity and sympathy for the presumably "less talented" half of the comedy team was soon roaring with laughter and approval for the soon-to-be drunken icon who would realize an unprecedented second titanic career as a performer.

And

We grow up as children saying we don't care what anybody thinks. You hear it all the time. Many adults still use that phrase as a defense, but to really come across as not caring what others might think...now THAT is something to be envious of. That's a trait we'd all like to be able to turn on. Spock... Dean... not many can do it.

I don't think anybody really thinks ill of Dean Martin, but if they did, it wouldn't have bothered him much.

"Only Revolutions"

So excited for this - great article there about Danielewski, So excited to read his new book Only Revolutions.

I have never written a post on House of Leaves - and I really should. Anyone who has read it (and loved it, I mean) will know what I'm talking about when I say - it's one of the most unforgettable (and weird and terrifying) reading experiences I've ever had. I'm sure some people found it irritating - or they just didn't like how HARD the book is to read - like: you actually have to write stuff down in order to understand things, you sometimes need to hold it up to a mirror to see the print, the vocabulary is DAUNTING - I have a great vocabulary, but you definitely need a dictionary close by - blah blah ...

But I absolutely ate it UP. Could NOT put it down.

The gimmick of the book (all the codes, and backwards writing, and Rorschach blot shapes, and having to turn the back upside down) does not at all detract from the true heart of the story - and THAT is why I found the book so damn incredible. With all the footnotes, and footnotes to footnotes, and certain words being habitually crossed out, and the print suddenly getting small, one word a page - or whatever (and it all makes sense, emotionally - none of it seems random) - but still - even with all that: it's a story with a narrator you give a crap about, and it also is one of the most frightening books I have ever read. I actually had nightmares while reading it. The only other book (or story) that that has EVER given me nightmares was Stephen King's long story "The Mist" - which I still feel like I can't face reading again. Too scary!

Anyway - I'm dying to read Danielewski's new one.

Dean Martin

The onslaught will be continuous until the obsession burns out of me, like a high fever.

Check out this picture I found. I don't know if that's his own child showing him his muscles - but all of the details of this photo are mini-worlds in and of themselves:

-- the sleek bar in the background - are they in some type of rec room?
-- the posture of the guy sitting at the bar - his pinkie ring
-- Dino's shoes. I mean, the shoes.

The dahlia files

Great piece by the wonderful Seth Mnookin about "the black dahlia", and the ongoing fascination with that unsolved murder - but the piece is really about James Ellroy, a writer I absolutely LOVE.

James Ellroy was 10 when his mother, Geneva, was killed. He initially buried his grief; later, he dealt with his feelings by channeling them through a morbid, erotically charged preoccupation with the Dahlia murder. "Betty Short became my obsession," he explained in My Dark Places, "my symbolic stand-in for Geneva Hilliker Ellroy." As a teenager, Ellroy imagined himself as Short's lover, protector, avenger, and killer, and his escalating mania fueled an increasingly fetishistic sexuality ("my Dahlia obsession was explicitly pornographic"). When he was in his late teens and early 20s, Ellroy would break into houses to smell women's underwear; at night, he'd embark on eight- and 10-hour masturbating jags. "She spawns my lifelong dialogue on misogyny," Ellroy said about Geneva and the Dahlia. Readers of his ultraviolent, hard-boiled crime novels will know that's quite a dialogue.

Great piece. I will be seeing the film - even though I don't really think Brian DePalma is the right director for it. (Nobody asked ME though.) Maybe Neil LaBute would have been right for it - even though he might not be the most obvious choice. I don't know. DePalma seems to have too much unexamined misogyny to take on this story - and this story needs to be able to comment on misogyny - not just revel in it. But I haven't seen it yet - so the Sheila jury's still out.

My brother on Dean Martin:

I have to post one of the comments he made about Dean Martin below. (Yesterday I went a bit nuts on the Dino - start here and scroll back).

But here's a comment my brother made and it's just too good to have it hidden in a comments section:

I remember seeing the Dean Martin roasts and being scared, like a drunk friend of an drunk uncle had showed up unannounced at a dinner party and started shoe-horning everyone into singing along to perverted folk songs. I didn't know what he was famous for and those roasts seemed to hint that he didn't really know why either.

then, years later as a grownup, I heard "Ain't ThatA Kick In the Head" in some movie, or in a bar. That's really all you need to do...just listen to that song a few times in a row. It all seems like a joke. Then you start to hear how well he sings the song. Then you realize that someone could have completely fouled the song up. It isn't a very good song, actually. Think about all the classic standards. Everybody does 'em. But is there another famous version of that song? If there is, I haven't heard it.

How does he turn a mediocre song around? He doesn't sound all that invested in the heartbreak aspect of it, there isn't irony dripping all over the place. I still can't quite place what makes the song work so well. But I'm going to try,..

His presence and personality are so evident that you don't even need the song. He has sung the song out of existence. All you want to do is hear him make a rumble in his throat and roll his eyes about how much trouble a broad can be. You also somehow realize that no broad ever caused him too much trouble. He causes them trouble. And they love it.

It is almost a taunt. What could be a stupid jokey brush off of heartache turns into a come on. It is a magic trick.

Another thing that strikes me about Dean Martin is that you get the sense that he would have behaved EXACTLY the same had he been a truck driver, a grocer, a whatever. Most of the other stars of that era seem to have been transformed in some way by fame and what came along with it. This guy could have strolled around the streets of Rome with his jacket over his shoulder and 10 bucks in his pocket and it would make NO DIFFERENCE TO HIM.

The most underrated of all time.

Dino at home

Annika got into the spirit of my Dean Martin appreciation day - and has linked to a wonderful compilation of Dino's home movies. I love the one shot of Dino being basically attacked by a group of small chidren, they're hanging all over him like little chimps.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Pa Sloane's Purchase'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Pa Sloane's Purchase".

Lucy Maud Montgomery could write flowery prose with the best of them. Her descriptions of nature - snowy fields, the seashore, flower gardens - are superb. But there are also stories like 'Pa Sloane's Purchase' where NONE of that stuff would be appropriate - because the people themselves are not romantic. Having a sudden intense description of a sunset in the middle of a domestic comedy like 'Pa Sloane's Purchase' would have just been Lucy Maud being self-indulgent. Stories like this one shows me how much she was in control of her own art. Pa and Ma Sloane are taciturn farming people, they have been married for 30 years. Ma Sloane totally bosses Pa, Ma Sloane handles the money, and Pa Sloane works the farm, and pretty much does what Ma Sloane says. Their children are grown. They are doing fine. Pa Sloane doesn't mind being bossed. He is not a man of resentment. The ONLY thing he resents is that Ma Sloane will not allow him to go to auctions - his favorite thing in the world to do on a Saturday is to go to some farm auction, and make some bids. It is one of the greatest pleasures of his life. But Ma Sloane watches him like a hawk, and nixes any of his attempts to go. She is tight-fisted with their money - and Pa Sloane is a weeeeeee bit more relaxed about financial stuff ... but Ma Sloane runs the household. She gets frustrated with Pa Sloane bidding on some broken down piece of equipment with the promise that he will "fix it up" - and then of course, he never does, and the broken down piece of equipment ends up just taking up space in their barn. So ... one day - there;s going to be a big auction because a nearby couple had died - within weeks of each other - and all of their belongings were being auctioned off. Pa Sloane, in his quiet passive-aggressive way, got Ma Sloane to agree to let him go - but only if she went with him. At the last minute, some domestic issue comes up - and Pa Sloane gets to go alone. Ma Sloane is a bit in a panic and shouts after his departing buggy, "DON'T BID ON ANYTHING!' But we're dealing with a true bidding ADDICT here. To ask him "not to bid" WHILE he is at an auction - is really just too much ...

Here's what happens. It's a sweet funny story, written in the simple humorous language of a story told round a fire. No frills. Good job, Maud. Look how she gets into Pa Sloane's little world - and it's FUNNY - but she respects him, too. She's not mocking him.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "Pa Sloane's Purchase".

When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of the Garland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction had evidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down. The sorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards.

Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction a "one-horse affair". It certainly was very paltry, especially when compared to the big Donaldson auction a month ago, which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.

Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one of pneumonia, they left nothing but debts and a little furniture. The house had been a rented one.

The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was a very tame affair.

A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.

"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland baby," said Robert Lawson to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor young one!"

"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take him?" asked Pa.

"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Manitoba years ago, and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody'll have to take the baby, and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself, or I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap."

Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not bid on anything, although it will never be known how great was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent. But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.

"There's that's all," said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for the day was very warm for October.

"There's nothing more unless we sell the baby."

A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair, and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out, "Put him up, Jacob." The joke found favour, and the call was repeated hilariously.

Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha's arms, and stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small chap with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls, a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He laughed out at the men before him and waved his hands in delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.

"Here's a baby for sale," shouted the auctioneer. "A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby, warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar? No, sir, babies don't come as cheap as that, especially the curly-headed brand."

The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the joke, cried, "Four dollars!"

Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son was grown up and married.

"Six," cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard. John Clarke lived at White Sands, and he and his wife were childless.

That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was John Clarke. Everywhere at auctions, John Clarke was wont to bid against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa in everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes. Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane; he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everythinge except a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.

"Ten," he called shrilly.

"Fifteen," shouted Clarke.

"Twenty," vociferated Pa.

"Twenty-five," bellowed Clarke.

"Thirty," shrieked Pa. He nearly burst a blood-vessel in his shrieking, but he had won. Clarke had turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the baby was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile been keeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms. There had not been such fun at an auction in Carmody for many a long day.

Pa Sloane came, or was pushed, forrward. The baby was put into his arms; he realized that he was expected to keep it, and he was too dazed to refuse; besides, his heart went out to the child.

The auctioneer looked doubtfully at the money which Pa laid mutely down.

"I s'pose that part was only a joke," he said.

"Not a bit of it," said Robert Lawson. "All the money won't be too much to pay the debts. There's a doctor's bill, and this will just about pay it."

Pa Sloane drove back home, with the sorrel mare still unshod, the baby, and the baby's meager bundle of clothes. The baby did not trouble him much; it had become well used to strangers in the past two months, and promptly fell asleep on his arm; but Pa Sloane did not enjoy that drive; at the end of it, he mentally saw Ma Sloane.

Ma was there, too, waiting for him on the back doorstep as he drove into the yard at sunset. Her face, when she saw the baby, expressed the last degree of amazement.

"Pa Sloane," she demanded, "whose is that young one, and where did you get it?"

"I -- I -- bought it at the auction, Ma," said Pa feebly. Then he waited for the explosion. None came. This last exploit of Pa's was too much for Ma.

With a gasp, she snatched the baby from Pa's arms and ordered him to go out and put the mare in. When Pa returned to the kitchen, Ma had set the baby on the sofa, fenced him around with chiars so that he couldn't fall off, and given him a molasses cooky.

"Now, Pa Sloane, you can explain," she said.

Warning

I'm not done with Dean Martin yet. Just had a kind of frenzied conversation on the phone with my brother about him. And, as always, my brother had some blunt statements about ... this GUY ... and what it WAS about ... this GUY ... that had such great APPEAL. My brother has a way with words. He always has.

Obsession bubbling up. I can feel it. Love has always been there. But now I recognize the voracious signs of ... need ... which would be completely disturbing and single-white-female-ish of me if it were someone I knew ... but since he is a) dead and 2) a celebrity - it's safe.

The signs are there. There is MUCH more to discover here.

Snippets. No context.

"So what do you want?"
"I want the whole package."
"You want the whole package."
"Yup."
"Husband, kids, picket fence."
"I don't need the picket fence. I'm too urban."
"But everything else?"
"Yup. But I have about two eggs left. I need to get cracking."
Laughter. "You have two eggs left."
"You think that's funny?"
"Uhm, er, no. Not funny at all."

"I reek of Ben Gay."
"It smells like mint."

"I always wondered what Katherine Dunn looked like."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I always wondered if she was a dwarf. Or an albino. She seemed to have such an understanding of what is done to those who have some sort of deformity. How they are treated."
"True. But we do the same thing to celebrities - to the freakily beautiful people of this world. They're treated like they are a sideshow in a cage."
"That's so true. Well, as YOU well know."
"Fuck you."

"Dave Eggers is like Quentin Tarantino. He appropriates pop culture, comments on it. And he is REVILED for it."
"I know. So true."
"But at the same time - they are both so generous to talent. They encourage others, Tarantino resurrects people's careers ... Neither of them are selfish in their success."
"I loved Eggers' memoir."
"How about his novel?"
"Hated it."
"Yeah. Uh-huh. But still."
"Totally."
"Right?"
"Absolutely."

"I mean - the Method? Who gives a shit about the Method anymore?"
"I'm of the 'bang bang you're dead' school of acting myself."

"I had a fuck buddy for 11 years."
"You had a fuck buddy for 11 years."
"Yup."
"Uhhhhm. That wasn't a fuck buddy."

"It seems like every year there's only room for one big book to get all the press."
"Uhm. Yes. Underworld?"
"Well, White Noise is one of my favorite novels."
"White Noise is a wonderful book - but Underworld...."
"What about it?"
"Dude. GET AN EDITOR. NOW. It's 1,000 pages long. It was RIDICULOUS. But that book sucked up all the airspace for a good YEAR. I finally read it ..."
"Good?"
"Well - the first 60 pages are spectacular. Seriously. Writing doesn't get any better."
"Really."
"Yup. It's the kinda writing that brings you to your knees. But the rest of it? For God's SAKE, WHY DO I CARE ABOUT THE CHESS TEACHER ON PAGE 800? I don't. I mean, it's a good book -but to be touted as literally the ONLY book to read that year ... No. There was no room for any other book. That's just not right."

"I had some issues with the ghetto bus."
"No!!!!! What is going ON?"
"I wandered around on ... East Boulevard?"
"Boulevard East? Oh for God's sake. What bus did you get on?"
"The ghetto bus."
"No, it was the wrong ghetto bus."
"It's okay. I asked a cop for directions and he ended up driving me home. He was really nice."
"Oh my God. That is horrible."

"So. What. Is the Baby Boomer, like, in his 80s now?"
"No. He's not in his 80s. Jagoff. He's in his 50s. Thank you very much."

"You just didn't see yourself the way I saw you."
"I didn't, did I?"
"Nope."

"And within 5 minutes, I saw Tilda Swinton and Vincent Gallo walk by."
"No way!"
"I NEVER see stars. And within 5 minutes ... I saw--"
"I saw Vincent Gallo's penis."
"We all saw Vincent Gallo's penis."

"My cleavage is completely out of control. It's only 10 am. I'm sorry. It's so inappropriate."
"It's cool. So ... boobs ... wanna get outta here?"

"For some reason, there is a big libertarian streak in the whole magician community."
"Yeah! I've noticed that. Why IS that?"

Dean Martin appreciation day - a link

In addition to all my posts below - here is an amazing post with thoughts about Dino.

Ever notice how most people will say they prefer Dean over Jerry? I’ve heard it time and again. I’ve also heard people say they prefer Dean over Frank. What was the man’s secret? Just this, I suspect --- this guy didn’t do needy. Never. Not with anybody. And most of us think that’s cool. Because we don’t want to be needy either. A pox on Jerry and his unleashed emotion on those telethons! Damn that childish Frank and his spaghetti assault on this cool, unflappable man. Yes, I suspect we’d all like to be a little more like Dean. Not all the way, mind you, because by all accounts, his loner habits did not necessarily make for a happy life, particularly toward the end, but who wouldn’t want that calm exterior? They say that even with all that spaghetti matting in his hair, Dean just got up calmly, walked into the bathroom, and waited for a penitent Frank to leave his hotel suite. The only thing that seems to have really impacted on Dean was his son’s tragic death during a jet-training flight in 1987.

And check out those photos. Presley's gorgeous, sure - but Dean is handsome. Manly handsome.

Wonderful photo below - I just love the whole world it represents - the glimpse into it - the spirit of it:

Dean Martin appreciation day

Bogdonavich writes:

The last time I saw Dean was one evening in front of the Beverly Hills restaurant La Famiglia, less than a year before he died. This popular Italian restaurant was nearly always where Dean ate when he went out. Just as I was walking past, Martin started to come none too steadily out the front door. He looked alarmingly thin, face gaunt and pale. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, it seemed as though one of his knees gave out, and he had to catch himself by the door to stop from falling. He made a funny surprised expression and, looking down, said with a touch of dry irony, "Ooops ..." Right up to the end, I thought, he'll go for the laugh. Then Dean straightened himself to full height, shoulders back, and slowly moved toward a waiting car, weaving only slightly. The image had become the reality.

Or had the reality always been different than we thought? Five years after Dean died, I said to [Jerry] Lewis once that I had always had the feeling (right from the start) that Dean was usually kidding the whole crooning thing, that he was never really serious about it. "There's a lot of truth in that," Jerry said right away. "See, Dean could never ever sing and do it with a full heart because he wasn't clear about his worth. He did not have self-esteem. He didn't have self-esteem of any kind. So he would kid the singing and he would never allow it ever to get serious so that people would compare him to anybody. I don't think he knew this." I asked why did he think the self-esteem was so low, and Lewis said, "I heard about his demons, his fears, talkinga bout his mother. She was a two-fisted Italian woman who gave him one credo to take through life. And that was: you take money into your pockets, you never take it out. Take. You never give. You cry, you're worthless. You have emotional feelings, you're a fag. And all of that was ground into his head..."

And I, personally, will always LOVE him for how he stuck up for Marilyn Monroe during her disastrous last moments at Fox. She was fired from her last movie - co-starrin Dean Martin - and he refused to continue if she wasn't in it. Not a lot of people would behave that way - but he did. The draw for him was HER, being in a movie with HER. Funny thing: Marilyn Monroe was obviously a woman who "got around", so to speak. She slept with a ton of people. People snickered about her. BUT: her friends, her good good friends, outside of Shelley Winters, were all men. Those guys might have passed her around ... but they also recognized and loved talent. They protected her, an army of powerful men. Fox was fucking with her - and Dean Martin was disgusted by it. He walked off the set.

Here's an excerpt from the book Marilyn: The Last Take:

At 3:45 pm, Fox hairstylist Agnes Flanagan knocked on Dean Martin's dressing room door to ask his opinion of the story that Kim Novak had been hired to replace Monroe.

"I don't think so, honey," Martin said. "I'd certainly have heard about that."

But it wasn't long before Buck Hall made it official by posting a notice on the call sheet next to the main entrance to soundstage 14. "Set Closed Until Further Notice - Per Instructions from the Legal Department."

About the same time, Whitey Snyder got a tip from a source in the front office. Not only had Monroe been fired, but the studio had worked quickly to replace her. Lee Remick, who owed the studio two films, was already in wardrobe, being fitted for Monroe's costumes.

Snyder approached Martin, who was still in golf clothes from a noon game at the Los Angeles Country Club. "Dean I think they've fired Marilyn," Snyder said.

"What?" Martin said.

"Then Dean had his assistant run to the production to verify the story," Snyder remembered.

A few minutes later, the assistant was back. "Yep," he said. "Monroe has been fired and Lee Remick's going to be your leading lady."

Martin put his putter down, grabbed his coat and headed for the Fox parking lot. Snyder walked part of the way with him. "Whitey, I made a contract to do this picture with Marilyn Monroe," Martin said. "That's the deal; the only deal. We're not going to be doing it with Lee Remick or any other actress."

When Martin arrived home half an hour later, Vernon Scott, the Hollywood reporter for United Press International, coaxed a brief interview out of him. Martin told Scott that he had walked off the set and didn't plan to return. "I have the greatest respect for Miss Remick as an actress," Martin continued. "But I signed to do this film with Marilyn Monroe."

Shortly after 6 pm, the UPI wires broadcast this bulletin: "Dean Martin quit the Twentieth Century-Fox film because Marilyn Monroe was fired."

Thus began a long PR nightmare for Fox but Dean stuck to his guns. I will always admire him for that. Monroe didn't have many friends at the end of her life. Now he might not have been her "friend" - his concern was that he wanted to do a movie with HER. The biggest female star in the world. But at that time - Fox was punishing her for her success. They saw her as a slut who got lucky. They trapped her in a horrible contract, where she was underpaid, and she knew it. Martin gave her the respect she deserved. A ballsy move - to just walk off the damn set.

More from The Last Take:

Dean Martin never elaborated on his reasons for putting his career and his future on the line for Monroe, but it was typical of a man whose on-screen image as an easygoing good guy was identical to his off-screen persona. An ex-prizefighter and ex-cardsharp, Martin had been laboring in a steel mill when he began singing nights and weekends in small clubs. After he teamed up with frenetic comedian Jerry Lewis in 1946, he assumed the role of a handsome, not-so-bright straight man. The Martin and Lewis partnership endured for ten years, eleven films and a thousand appearances in nightclubs.

When the partnership collapsed in the mid-fifties, many Hollywood producers thought Maritn wouldn't survive as a solo act. But half a dozen number-one hits, including "Volare" and "Memories Are Made of This", smoothed his way to film and television superstardom. In 1958, his role in Some Came Running opposite fellow "Rat Packers" Sinatra and MacLaine proved his value as a dramatic star.

However predictable, Martin's loyalty to Monroe was far from popular. "Nasty sayings were scrawled on his dressing-room door," production secretary Lee Hanna remembered. "By insisting on Monroe, it seemed as if the film would shut down for good - with the loss of one hundred and four jobs."

Hedda Hopper warned the actor in her Los Angeles Times column. "The unions are taking a dim view of Dean Martin's walkout," Hopper wrote. She quoted a union official as saying, "Dean's putting people out of work at a time when we are all faced with unemployment." ...

Levathes, who flew back to Los Angeles on Sunday, was determined to change Martin's mind but, just in case, had Ferguson begin drafting a $5.6 million lawsuit "for breach of contract".

The three-hour meeting among Feldman, Levathes, Frank Ferguson, Martin and Herman Citron was an exercise in frustration. The executives were determined to sell Remick to the increasingly skeptical actor.

When Feldman tried to verbally recap Martin's "rejection of Remick," Martin interrupted him, saying, "I didn't turn down Miss Remick. I simply said that I will not do the film without Marilyn Monroe. There is a big difference between the two statements."

Levathes countered, "What kind of position does that put our investment in?"

Martin answered, "That's not a fair question to ask me. I have no quarrel with anyone."

Levathes forged ahead. "We think Miss Remick is of adequate stature," he said. "After all, she has appeared with Jack Lemmon [in Days of Wine and Roses] with James Stewart [in Anatomy of a Murder], and with Glenn Ford [in Experiment in Terror]."

Martin patiently explained that he had taken the role mainly because "the chemistry between Miss Monroe and myself was right." The actor also said that the whole point of Something's Got to Give was Martin's desertion of his new bride, Cyd Charisse, for Monroe, which was something which wouldn't happen, Martin said, "with Lee Remick."

The production chief disagreed. "This story is a warm situation in which th ehusband, with his children, loved his former wife, but was caught in an embarrassing position because he had remarried," said Levathes. "This is not the case of a man who chucks one woman for a sexpot."

Martin shook his head.

They went round and round, at a total impasse. Martin would not budge. He would not do the film without Marilyn Monroe, and that was final.

Balls. Integrity. I totally admire that.

More from Bogdonavich:

When I asked Jerry to take me behind Dean's supposed coolness, he said, "Dean had a wonderful device in his life. 'Recluse' was wonderful for him. 'Above the crowd' was wonderful for him. The best thing he ever had working for himself was his way of standoffishness. And I think throughout all of it, he must have peeked through the door to see what everyone was doing. I never knew that he did that, but I always wondered if he did. And did he come away from the door saying, 'Whew, I don't need that.' Or did he come away from the door saying, 'Why can't I be with them?' If you know about his background, you'll see the complicated is simple. He came from a Mafia-like upbringing - an insensitive set of parents. And certainly sad to have to say they were also incredibly dumb ... Then, at his twentyninth birthday, he put his arms around me because I got my arms around him. And he liked it. And then he would push me away like I'm the kid brother: 'What's with the hugging?' And he loved it. He used to do what his grandmother did. He pushed me with this hand and pulled me with that hand. Because I was the only human on God's earth that he would communicate with then. He was kind, he was generous, he was silly, he was simple. He read comic books because that was easy. And I used to say to him, 'Will you stop sending people for comic books? Go yourself and buy them. What are you hiding?' He said, 'Aw, you know, Jer.' I said, '"You know, Jer"? my balls! This is something an individual, who has the inalienable right to live as a human being, with the pink slip on himself, won't go over to a stand and buy what the fuck he wants with his own hard-earned money?' He said, 'Can I please send out for them?' And I said, 'OK.' He was so fuckin' cute. He loved sitting in the corner and having a beer and he had his fuckin' comic books. And if a Western was on, he tabled that and the Western is on!"

That Dean Martin died on Christmas Day was the kind of black joke he might have made. It didn't seem real to me until I heard that all the casinos on the Vegas Strip had turned off their lights for one minute to commemorate Dino's passing. You could almost hear Dean saying, in amazement, "One whole minute? I must have been a big shot." He was.

And so concludes my Dean Martin appreciation day. I'm such a nerd that I have actually shed tears as I typed all this out. I need to see all his movies and TV specials RIGHT NOW.

Dean Martin appreciation day

I adore that photo.

Here's more from Bogdonavich's superb essay about Dean Martin. Here he is talking to Howard Hawks about directing Dean Martin in Rio Bravo. Martin was afraid he couldn't do it - afraid it would be "too dramatic" - that he would fail. If you see that movie - it is truly astonishing how much he does NOT fail. But we all have our demons of insecurity. Martin had never been called upon before to play such dramatic scenes. But watch him in that movie. Seriously.

So: Bogdonavich:

Hawks told me how he had happened to cast Martin in what would remain the finest dramatic performance of his career. "I always liked him," Hawks said. "I'd met him personally." Martin's agent had asked if Hawks would consider Dean for the role of the drunken deputy and talk with him. Hawks said, "OK, nine-thirty tomorrow morning." When the agent said he wasn't sure Martin could get there quite that early, Hawks just closed him off: "Look, if he wants to get here at all, have him get here at nine-thirty." Hawks grinned, remembering that Dean had come in the next day right on time and said, "Well, I'm kind of shufflin'. I did a show till midnight over in Vegas -- got up early, hired an airplane to get down here and I've had a lot of trouble gettin' 'cross town." Hawks shook his head. "You went to all that trouble to get here at nine-thirty?" Martin answered, "Yes," and they talked for a minutes until Hawks abruptly said, "Well, you'd better go up and get your wardrobe." Dean looked confused. "What do you mean>" he asked, and Hawks replied, "Well, you're going to do it - go get your wardrobe." Howard went on to me, "And that's what we did. I knew that if he'd do all that, he'd work hard, and I knew that if he'd work we'd have no trouble because he's such a personality. And he did - he worked hard over that drunk."

It shows - yet only in the best way - nevere labored, remarkably natural. Clearly, Martin never worked that hard over a role again, nor did he ever have as layered a part to play. Apart from a cowboy burlesque with Lewis (Pardners), Rio Bravo was also Martin's first Western, which was by far his own favorite kind of entertainment. Especially John Wayne Westerns. In his last tragic eight years, supposedly all Dean ever did was sit in front of the TV and watch Westerns. Therefore, to co-star with John Wayne (of all cowboy stars, the most popular), and to be directed by Howard Hawks - for the director's first Western since his triumphant debut epic with Wayne, Red River -- must have been for Dean one of the crowning moments of his career. The performance he gave was a kind of committed investment proving to doubters that if he wanted to, Dean could, within his range as an actor, do just about anything.

Yup.

Dean Martin appreciation day

Peter Bogdonavich writes:

We got on the subject of acting drama, as opposed to comedy, and how he prepared for a serious role. "I just kinda think the way the part is, you know?" He leaned forward in his chair. "I kinda think back to somethin' that's happened to me," he continued. "Like in Rio Bravo -- there was a scene I was supposed to be very sad in, supposed to cry even. So I thought about a time I was unhappy - time my son, little Dino, was very sick - and that helped me. I kinda used those feelin's I had then." He sighed deeply. "Before I started that picture, I went to Brando and he helped me out a little bit. Told me to listen. Actin' is reactin', you know? Think wthat you're thinkin'."

The image of him going to Brando for acting coaching is so moving to me. And that excerpt above makes me think of John Wayne, who always said, "I am not an actor. I am a reactor."

More about Rio Bravo:

Martin went on to tell me that Rio Bravo director Howard Hawks had so correctly sensed the actor's anxiety about this key emotional scene - to be played in a stable with John Wayne - that he saved it for the last one Dean did on th emovie. A little over a year after interviewing Martin, I first met Hawks, who confirmed to me that the scene had purposely been held for last. "And he did a hell of a good job of it," Hawks said. "He really found out he could act in that thing and it was a great scene. He worked so hard ... The ones who are good, work."

Dean Martin appreciation day

Peter Bogdonavich again:

In our brief conversation, the last thing I asked Martin was about the many jokes already then being made about his drinking. He shrugged. "They don't bother me, but they're a little silly. If anyone drank that much, how long you think people'd keep hirin' him?" He paused, but not for an answer. "Oh, don't get me wrong, I drink. But I hardly ever get drunk. I don't mind the jokes though. Matter of fact, they kinda help the image, you know what I mean?"

Dean Martin appreciation day

Peter Bogdonavich interviewed Dean Martin in the mid-60s. I love Bogdonavich. His whole essay on Dean Martin is really not to be missed, for Martin fans. There's SO MUCH in it - and this is just a taste.

In his portable MGM dressing room - a small moveable bungalow on the sound stage - Dean sat very politely with me and was quite forthcoming. He had been told that I was writing a piece on the state of Hollywood for Harper's Magazine (it ultimately went to Esquire), so I assume he thought of this interview as fairly weighty stuff, answering my questions with a kind of uncharacteristic earnestness and little kidding around. Which doesn't mean he was pretentious or less than candid. Since he had just done Bells Are Riging the year before, I asked if he would ever consider doing a musical on Broadway. He made a face. "'Doin' the same thing ev'ry night?" he asked rhetorically. "Jesus, how borin'." He shook his head once. "I wouldn't mind tryin' it for about three nights," he said, "but I'd sure as hell hate to be in a hit."

hahahahahahaha

Dean Martin appreciation day

Peter Bogdonavich writes:

What I saw them do onstage at the paramount was much like what they are seen doing at the end of The Caddy, and for the last ten minutes of each of their Colgate Comedy Hours: the boys in tuxedos (even during Paramount's morning and afternoon shows), their bow ties untied, fooling around in front of Dick Stabile's orchestra, their caricatures displayed thorughout the band. Dean sings -- Jerry disrupts. They sing together. They throw things into the audience or Jerry runs into the auditorium. They do jokes putting each other down. Dean sings as if he's sending up crooners and doesn't mean a word, Jerry screeches hysterically for attention and his outrageousness becomes contageious. For a privileged minority, Dean was as funny in his own dry way as Jerry was so obviously. In fact, even Frank Sinatra had originally missed the self-deprecating wit behind Dean's comedy. When Frank saw the act the first time at New York's Copacabana, he reportedly said, "The wop's not much, but the Jew's funny."

I love this photo so much that I have been unable to stop staring at it for about 5 minutes. Because I am a gigantic nerd.

Onward.

Dean Martin appreciation day

I came across this photo and was just completely struck by it - on every level. Every face, every detail ... Mia Farrow, Dean Martin, and Sharon Tate. It's kinda haunting. I mean, it's hard to look at anyone else but Sharon Tate in that photo - but look at his face, the softness, but also the ... etches of something else there. Despair? Private sorrow? The man did not have an easy time of it. But the softness is what I am really struck by.

Dean Martin appreciation day

Peter Bogdonavich writes:

Recently I saw nearly all twenty-eight of their Colgate Comedy Hours (soon to be released on DVD), and a lot of the stuff is still fall-down-on-the-floor hilarious. Usually, it's Lewis who ad-libs a line or some piece of comic business that makes Martin laugh, which in turn often causes Jerry to fall apart, too; he always got a big kick out of breaking up Dean These moments are not only infectiously funny, they sparkle with a delightfully unfettered sense of loving camaraderie and joy. When I mentioned this to Jerry, he said quietly, "Yeah, if you could bottle that, you could change the world."

Dean Martin appreciation day

Bogdonavich asks Lewis: "What was it like those first four years, before the movies? From 46 to 49?"

Lewis responds:

It was wonderful. It was the Katzenjammer Kids. We had so much fun, it's ridiculous. We played football in a suite in Philadelphia, broke windows, lamps. Like two monkeys on a fucking high. We just played. And he played golf and I'd write. Then I said to him: "I've written some wonderful shit here, we've got to work on it." "Later." Uh-oh. "No, no later - because I'll quit and then you won't have any good shit to do." "Later." And I knew not to push him. He wanted to play golf during the tournament in Philadelphia, I didn't push him. We left there, we went to Chicago, I said, "Now you're going to practice." And he did. But the thing of it was this - impossible to understand was - I would write him a bit that would run four minutes, spotting the positioning on the stage and the geography within that bit. I would do it that night and he was right on the fucking money. And he had a favorite line, he said, "You only have to tell me once."

Dean Martin appreciation day

More from Jerry Lewis' interview with Bogdonavich. I know a lot of this is Jerry being self-serving, but that's no matter. It's still awesome information. Bogdonavich is asking about Dean - he says "he worked on a totally instinctual level".

Lewis responds:

Oh, yes. Because he always told everybody, "I can go out and drift, he'll always pull me back." And vice-versa. Jerry can get as crazy as he wants and who's the best judge of what Jerry does but Dean. And Dean knew when to pull me back if I was getting in trouble or something. So, we never sat and discussed the enormity of our emotional ties together. But it was always underlined. It was always underneath it all. I would reprimand him sometimes: "Would you sing one, just straight? You've got a marvelous voice. Go out in the Copa and let the honeymooners hug while you sing a love song." "I do." "No, you don't." "Yes, you do." "No, you don't." "Yes, I do!" "No, you don't!" He felt his oats really good and clean and solid when we split up. Then he didn't have to do what I thought he did all those years, and that was cop out. Have me as the cop out. "Well, that's not what got us here - singing." "No, but it was part of it. So you should do it. I mean, honor those who think you're a wonderful singer, that buy your records and so on." He said, "You know what we'd be getting if we were two singers?" I said, "What's that got to do with it?" He said, "Tell me, what if we were two singers and we were hot in the business. Do you think we'd get a grand a week?" I said, "Oh, that's fucking ridiculous. We wouldn't be. Two singers wouldn't have made it." He said, "How about that?" Now, July 25, 1946, the team legally started. And we ended July 25, 1956, to the night.

Dean Martin appreciation day

Jerry Lewis:

And the premise in my mind always was that I'm going to dig in and get the child within me alive. I cannot see two men standing on the stage and doing what I think we should do together, and be adults and do it. Dean must be the adult, but Jerry has to be the kid - the little guy - and I loved that. I was as tall as Dean, except I worked in a crouch, and I had his shoes lifted. Just so that I could work the crouch better. He always looked that much taller than me on the stage because I'd shrink. When I stood upright introducing him or something, I was six feet.

More:

Peter Bogdonavich (all of this is coming from his marvelous book Who the hell's in it) asks Lewis: "A lot of times on the Colgate Comedy Hour he's sing and you'd do shtick while he was singing, which was hysterical."

Lewis responds:

Right. We had wonderful times. If he didn't feel like really singing straight from the heart one show, we'd fuck with it. I would just create something. And the most wonderful thing about the two guys was that I could write anything at any time, or create anything at any time with anything. And I was fearless about it. "Let's go for it!" "Yeah, but you're on the air live now - there's like fifty million people tonight. "That's right. Let's go for it." "You mean, you're going to do this live without ...?" "It's ready. And what's going to happen to me if I fall on my ass? I'll be here next week." "Oh, OK." Now, the brilliance of Dean was that he would expedite it like he rehearsed four years. He wouldn't get in the way of it, he knew how to hold on to it, he knew where to take me, where to back off. And I'm on the stage and my mouth drops open sometimes because I'm watching this excellence, and 97 percent of it was that he wasn't even aware of how good he was.

Dean Martin appreciation day

Jerry Lewis:

You see, the one thing that [newspaper columnist] Walter Winchell told me that night -- he saw us at the Havana Madrid -- and I was sitting having a drink with him after the show and he said, "You know what's wonderful about what you two guys are doing?" And he's talking like we're an act. We're not an act. He said, "I love the way you look at him." I said I didn't know it was that evident. "You know, that's part of the magic - and the way he looks at you".

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's".

Okay, here's the magic of Lucy Maud: I can't count how many times I've read this story, and every time - it is a delight. Seriously. How many authors can you say that about? She has SO many stories and books like that for me - that I can just keep coming to them, and finding joy in reading them. This story is HYSTERICAL. Not only that - the two lead characters are emblazoned in my mind - they are such individuals - and it's so fun to just sit back and watch the whole disaster unfold. Even though I already know how the story will end ... it's also one of my favorite "endings". The story ends just perfectly.

We've got the two leads: Angelina MacPherson - an unmarried Sunday School teaching woman. She hates men. She's known for it in Avonlea. She's a feminist. She is so angry at the girlie name her mother foisted on her - that to retaliate she calls herself "Peter" and always has. She doesn't want to be associated with any silly name like "Angelina". She is treated with deference, because - it seems like everyone is, uhm, a little bit AFRAID of her. Men become used to just being ABUSED by her, and women cower in fear. She just stalks through her life, righteously, organizing everyone else, being slightly judgmental towards everyone, and rolling her eyes at the foibles of men.

Then there's Alexander Abraham Bennett, an old bachelor, who lives in complete SQUALOR on his old farm. He is a woman-hater. Known for it in Avonlea. He is a successful man - not a loser, or a drunk - He just won't have a housekeeper, and so everything is falling apart, and coated in dust. He has a dog. He refuses to go to church. He is an eccentric. Ever since his sister died, uhm, 20 years before?? - not one woman has set foot inside his house. As a matter of fact, if a woman comes to ask him to donate to charity or whatever - he has been known to chase them off his property with a pitchfork. He hates women.

Okay, so there's our set-up. Peter McPherson (let's call her what SHE wants to be called) drives out to Alexander Abraham's to find out why Jimmy Spencer, a young boy who works for Alexander, hasn't been in Sunday School for 3 weeks. She has heard the stories about his hatred of women and how he won't let any woman come near him - and SHE is having NONE of it. SHE knows how to handle men. Because she despises them and has contempt for their sorry stupid irresponsible little lives.

(Uhm, and have I mentioned that this story turns into a great romance? One of my favorites of her romances?? hahahahaha These two crackpots who make a huge show of hating the opposite sex ....)

When she arrives at his house, she gets out of her buggy - she has her cat with her for some reason - and they are immediately attacked by his dog - who is so fierce that she is forced to climb up a tree. She hangs out up in the tree for a while (already this is amusing - because in the first 3 pages of the story, you get the picture of this woman - this judgmental perfectionist woman - and now she is shimmying up a tree in alarm.) Finally, she decides she can wait no longer to be saved - so she climbs INTO an open window - into the house of Alexander Abraham - where no woman has set foor in 20 years. She immediately sees what a mess his house is - and her fingers itch to begin cleaning with a vengeance - but for now she has other fish to fry. FURIOUS at how she has been treated by his dog, she stalks downstairs - and there is Alexander Abraham, sitting downstairs - and he looks at her, horrified, as she emerges from WITHIN his house. How on earth did that WOMAN get in here??

At that very moment, the doctor drives up in his buggy - Alexander runs and flings open the door - and the doctor informs him that because of the smallpox outbreak in town, and because Alexander Abraham had not been vaccinated - he has to put him under quarantine. And sadly - because Peter crawled through the window - she also will not be allowed to leave. She will now have to stay at Alexander Abraham's.

These two people are FURIOUS at being stuck with each other. She is contemptuous, he is a crank - she sends for all of her clothes - and so the quarantine begins. One of the first things she MUST do is to clean his house from top to bottom. Not out of kindness towards HIM, oh no. Just because it is a MORAL obligation to ANY fellow human creature that they do not WALLOW IN THEIR OWN FILTH. She cleans - and Alexander Abraham sits back and just GLARES at her.

Guys, this story is just wonderful. You would think that these two self-righteous temperamental people would never fall in love ... but ... but ... OH! I just love it!!

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of the quarantine.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "The Quarantine at Alexander Abraham's".

Alexander Abraham was sitting on a chair looking at me. Presently he said,

"I am not curious -- but will you kindly tell me why the doctor called you Peter?"

"Because this is my name, I suppose," I answered, shaking up a cushion for William Adolphus and thereby disturbing the dust of years.

Alexander Abraham coughed gently.

"Isn't that -- ahem! -- rahter a peculiar name for a woman?"

"It is," I said, wondering how much soap, if any, there was in the house.

"I am not curious," said Alexander Abraham, "but would you mind telling me how you came to be called Peter?"

"If I had been a boy, my parents intended to call me Peter in honour of a rich uncle. When I -- fortunately -- turned out to be a girl, my mother insisted that I should be called Angelina. They gave me both names and called me Angelina, but as soon as I grew old enough, I decided to be called Peter. It was bad enough, but not so bad as Angelina."

"I should say it was more appropriate," said Alexander Abraham, intending, as I perceived, to be disagreeable.

"Precisely," I agreed calmly. "My last name is MacPherson, and I live in Avonlea. As you are not curious, that will be all the information you will need about me."

"Oh!" Alexander Abraham looked as if a light had broken in on him. "I've heard of you. You -- ah -- pretend to dislike men."

Pretend! Goodness only knows what would have happened to Alexander Abraham just then if a diversion had not taken place. But the door opened and a dog came in -- the dog. I suppose he had got tired waiting under the cherry tree for William Adolphus and me to come down. He was even uglier indoors than out.

"Oh, Mr. Riley, Mr. Riley, see what you have let me in for," said Alexander Abraham reproachfully.

But Mr. Riley - since that was the brute's name - paid no attention to Alexander Abraham. He had caught sight of William Adolphus curled up on the cushion, and he started across the room to investigate him. William Adolphus sat up and began to take notice.

"Call off that dog," I said warningly to Alexander Abraham.

"Call him off yourself," he retorted. "Since you've brought that cat here, you can protect him."

"Oh, it wasn't for William Adolphus' sake I spoke," I said pleasantly. "William Adolphus can protect himself."

William Adolphus could and did. He humped his back, flattened his ears, swore once, and then made a flying leap for Mr. Riley. William Adolphus landed squarely on Mr. Riley's brindled back and promptly took fast hold, spitting and clawing and caterwauling.

You never saw a more astonished dog than Mr. Riley. With a yell of terror he bolted out to the kitchen, out of the kitchen into the hall, through the hall into the room, and so into the kitchen and round again. With each circuit he went faster and faster, until he looked like a brindled streak with a dash of black and white on top. Such a racket and commotion I never heard, and I laughed until the tears came to my eyes. Mr. Riley flew around and around, and William Adolphus held on grimly and clawed. Alexander Abraham turned purple with rage.

"Woman, call off that infernal cat before he kills my dog," he shouted above the din of yelps and yowls.

"Oh, he won't kill him," I said reassuringly, "and he's going too fast to hear me if I did call him. If you can stop the dog, Mr. Bennett, I'll guarantee to make William Adolphus listen to reason, but there's no use trying to argue with a lightning flash."

Alexander Abraham made a frantic lunge at the brindled streak as it whirled past him, with the result that he overbalanced himself and went sprawling on the floor with a crash. I ran to help him up, which only seemed to enrage him further.

"Woman," he sputtered viciously, "I wish you and that fiend of a cat were in -- in --"

"In Avonlea," he finished quickly, to save Alexander Abraham from committing profanity. "So do I, Mr. Bennett, with all my heart. But since we are not, let us make the best of it like sensible people. And in future, you will kindly remember that my name is Miss MacPherson, not Woman!"

With this the end came, and I was thankful, for the noise those two animals made was so terrific that I expected the policeman would be rushing in, smallpox or no smallpox, to see if Alexander Abraham and I were trying to murder each other. Mr. Riley suddenly veered in his mad career and bolted into a dark corner between the stove and the wood-box. William Adolphus let go just in time.

There never was any more trouble with Mr. Riley after that. A meeker, more thoroughly chastened dog you could not find. William Adolphus had the best of it and he kept it.

Seeing that things had calmed down, and that it was five o'clock, I decided to get tea. I told Alexander Abraham that I would prepare it, if he would show me where the eatables were.

"You needn't mind," said Alexander Abraham. "I've been in the habit of getting my own tea for twenty years."

"I daresay. But you haven't been in the habit of getting mine," I said firmly. "I wouldn't eat anything you cooked if I starved to death. If you want some occupation, you'd better get some salve and anoint the scratches on that poor dog's back."

Alexander Abraham said something that I prudenly did not hear. Seeing that he had no information to hand out, I went on an exploring expedition into the pantry. The place was awful beyond description, and for the first time a vague sentiment of pity for Alexander Abraham glimmered in my breast. When a man had to live in such surroundings, the wonder was, not that he hated women, but that he didn't hate the whole human race.

Bragging rights

So I told Michael I brag about him. "I brag about you, you know." He laughed at me. I mean, it's so silly. To brag about someone else. It's not MY success. It's not MY life. It's really just that - I'm proud of him, psyched - and also - not at all surprised. If I had never seen him again - and then heard he found success - I would have thought: "Well, it certainly seemed to be going that way." So those of us who love Michael all were on the horn a couple of years ago - "Have you seen his movie yet? Have you seen it?" Mitchell leaving me phone messages about it. So cool. Michael's endured my bragging about him. Ha. So whatever, I'll be tiresome, and link to this piece in Slate about the movie he directed/wrote/starred in - and what it has to say about the state of independent film right now. We actually laughed about how he wanted to "show up" in one of those posts I wrote about him and say ... something ridiculous and pointless ... along the lines of: "I AM THE MAN SHE SPEAKS OF." hahahaha I mean, what the hell else is there to say? Strange, I know - to be turned into a character on this here blog of mine - but whatever.

See Kwik Stop! You can get it on Netflix. Oh, and Ceci - my Argentinian friend - his film was completely embraced by your country. He always remembers the kindness of everyone in Buenos Aires, and how well he was received there.

Uhm ...

what?

Happy place

Oh, happy happy place. Seriously. There's just something about him. I love to get my brother talking about Dean Martin - he's really articulate about his appeal. This happy place is also for Michael - who loves Dean Martin. That ring-a-ding-ding jollity ... hiding a world of pain ... but what a guy. What a guy.

Peter Bogdonavich's essay about him is so wonderful - I'll post some excerpts of it later, because I think Dean Martin, while loved and all that, is HUGELY under-rated.

I look at Dean Martin and I feel happy. I cannot explain why this is so. I am sure it has SOMEthing to do with the fact that I am a gigantic nerd.

"spawn of my hooch"

This made me laugh out loud.

Happy birthday to ...

... the Star Spangled Banner!

by Percy Moran

There's Francis Scott Key ... catching a glimpse ... seeing that "our flag was still there" ...

I love this, too - here is one of the original broadsides of the lyrics - which was called "The Defense of Fort McHenry" at the time.

I can't help but think of Eddie Izzard's very funny bit about the singing of the national anthem - and that if you can't remember the lyrics - just be firm, use "big mouths", and keep "confirming and denying" with your hand gestures. hahaha

UPDATE Thanks to Doug, in the comments section, I must link to this - a speech Isaac Asimov made about the national anthem. Seriously: do not miss it. I've been a weepy raw nerve for 2 days now so the fact that it made me cry is no surprise - but regardless: POWERFUL stuff. Read it!!!

And yes, like wikipedia mentions, it is one of the more difficult songs to sing - and most anthems are notoriously EASY to sing, because - duh - they are for the MASSES, not for opera singers. But Star Spangled Banner starts low and goes way up high - and it takes a really good singer to pull it off (uhm, Whitney Houston?? Before she became a rickety crack ho? Her live version, for me, is the best.)

So happy birthday, dear national anthem.

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming! And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there: O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen thro' the mist of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep.
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream
'Tis the star-spangled banner. Oh! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation,
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n - rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause is just,
And this be our motto--"In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Complete the thought

Never again in my life: will I wear those stupid pointy shoes I bought last year. I don't think my feet have yet recovered.

When I was five: I had an imaginary dog who would chase after our car. His name was Hinkle.

High School was: horrible while I was there - and now seems comedic, in memory

I will never forget: the moment when he touched my right foot, on that cold night, shivering in my car, on the shores of Lake Michigan, in the parking lot at a Christian college (if you feel like it ...)

I once met: Elia Kazan

There’s this girl I know who: if she takes a shower - and afterwards has to poop - she will then take another shower.

By noon I’m usually: awake

Last night I: downloaded Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You" and listened to it over and over and over and over ... It's sheer perfection, seriously, I can't get enough. It's playing right now, as a matter of fact. I am so not done yet.

Next time I go to church: will be this Sunday

What worries me most: how much time have you got?

When I turn my head right, I see: my blue bookcase, filled with my entertainment biographies. Goldwyn, Grant, Grodin, Guinness, Hawn, Hepburn, Huston, Kazan, Keaton, Miller, Monroe, Nijinsky, Ovitz, Russell, Sedgwick, Sher, Taylor, Wallach, Wilder. That's the shelf I see

When I turn my head left, I see: my coffee maker

You know I’m lying when: uhm - I blush. But blushing is also when I'm telling the truth, like: "I am in love with you" or whatever. I'll blush THEN, too. Basically, pay attention when I blush because you just don't know WHAT will happen next.

If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be: Wow. I like to flatter myself that I am Rosalind. But I can also be Jaques, on a darker day. I always really related to Viola.

By this time, next year: no comment.

A better name for me would be: Gigantic Nerd. (Thanks, Mark!!)

I have a hard time understanding: the lollipop-head-stick-figure-body trend in female bodies right now

If I ever go back to school I’ll: have an experience similar to that of Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed

You know I like you if: I bust your chops.

Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferarro are: completely unrelated to one another in every way that is possible.

Take my advice, NEVER: switch from vodka to tequila

My ideal breakfast is: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, homefries, bottomless cups of coffee

A song I love, but do not have is: Okay - I have been trying to track it down but it does not appear to be on iTunes and I'm PISSED - the song is "Vienna" by Aztec Camera, I bleieve. NOT the Billy Joel "Vienna" - this is a different one. I ADORE the one I'm talking about - and I have it on an old mix tape but have since been unable to find it.

f you visit my hometown, I suggest: go to Phil's for breakfast. Go to the Mew's for dinner. Go to the Ocean Mist for drinks after. And definitely walk along the seawall.

Why won’t anyone: tell Michelle Kwan that her time is up, and it is time to disappear already.

If you spend the night at my house, DO: NOT JUDGE me if I fart in my sleep. Because we will be sleeping in the same room, and you just don't know what will happen.

I’d stop my wedding for: like - at the altar?? Uhm - a terrorist attack.

The world could do without: Jessica Simpson, Paris Hilton, Osama bin Laden.

I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: Horrible. Disgusting. I hate this question. I guess I'd rather do THAT than lick the belly of a "t" - but seriously, I might have to kill myself if I had to make that choice.

My favorite blonde is: natural blonde? My friend Allison. Fake blonde? Marilyn Monroe.

Paperclips are more useful than: a manual typewriter.

San Diego means: there's a zoo there! And sea lions! And tracey and her beloved!

I got this from Tracey.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Aunt Olivia's Beau'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Aunt Olivia's Beau".

This story is a total HOOT. I love it! It's Lucy Maud at her best. The plot doesn't show its machinations, everything seems to just unfold naturally, and - I remember the first time reading it - truly not knowing how it would all work out. And the way she DOES work it out? It's so satisfying! It's as good as any romantic-comedy big-finish! I mean, there's no 'slow clap' - but there might as well be!

Lucy Maud had a great love for the delicate spinster character. She despised bitter spinsters - women who hated other women for being happy, etc. - but she had a great affection for those little "aunt" characters, who maintained their femininity, even if they were a bit prissy about it, still took care of their appearance, and still never 'aped' youth - a woman who has grown older gracefully, and who has accepted her spinster status gracefully. Who is a wonderful aunt, fun and girlish, etc. Miss Lavendar is another one - but Lucy Maud's books and stories are full of such characters.

Olivia Sterling is one of those spinster characters. Actually, Lucy Maud would call her an "old maid" - which has a slightly softer connotation than "spinster". Aunt Olivia is a confirmed old maid. She lives alone, she keeps an IMPECCABLE house (she's actually rather OCD about cleanliness), she is good friends with her two mischievous nieces (who are young ladies - one of whom is the narrator of this tale) - Her nieces love to come and hang out at Olivia's house. They sew together, they gather flowers, whatever - but Olivia is a mild non-judgmental fun person to be with. She has sympathy for their young romances, wants to hear all the details ... she's not one of those people who has grown older and has contempt for youth. She loves youth! But she's an old maid - make no mistake about it. She is a fussy personality, you get that right away. Her house is so clean that it's actually almost frightening. She is set in her ways.

So the nieces are DUMBFOUNDED at the beginning of the story when Aunt Olivia shyly tells them that she has a beau and his name is Malcolm McPherson. Malcolm McPherson had lived in East Grafton 20 years prior - and maybe had a crush on the younger Olivia - then he moved away and has not been home in 20 years. But now he is coming home - he sparked up a correspondence with old-maid Olivia - asked her to marry him - and she said yes!

Her nieces are ... they literally have no words. They try to be happy for her ... and they ARE ... but ... Olivia just doesn't seem the marrying TYPE. She had never been courted - and now she is so set in her ways ... who is this Malcolm McPherson? Was he nice? How would he fit in to her fussy type-A sort of lifestyle???? The nieces are DYING to meet him and watch the drama unfold.

I won't tell what eventually happens - because it's all just too funny and too perfect - and I even get a little lump in my throat at times when I read those last 2 scenes (sniff!!) - but my excerpt is the "reunion scene" between Olivia and Malcolm McPherson.

The last sentence of the first paragraph makes me laugh out loud - but there are SO many sentences that do the same thing in this entire story. I love, too, how they always refer to him as "Mr. Malcolm MacPherson". He's never just Malcolm or Mr. MacPherson - he's "Mr Malcolm MacPherson." It's repeated a gazillion times, and it just keeps getting funnier.

This story is one of my favorites of hers.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "Aunt Olivia's Beau".

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected, peggy and I went over. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the lovers would prefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insisted on our being present. She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becoming concrete. Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top to bottom. Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept the cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care as if she expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to inspect each at once and she must stand or fall by his opinion of them.

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her skirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.

" 'Mr. Malcolm MacPherson' will be inspired with such awe that he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her," whispered Peggy. "I wish he would come and have it over. This is getting on my nerves."

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt Olivia's kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred in maddening peace of mind.

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window, and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore, that we positively jumped when a thunderous knock crashed against the front door and re-echoed through the house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the skies?

We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and around the house from the back, but just then his sudden advent was almost uncanny. I ran downstairs and opened the door. On the step stood a man about six feet two in height, and proportionately broad and sinewy. He had splendid shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big, twinkling blue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell over his breast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was what one would call instinctively, if somewhat tritely, "a magnificent specimen of manhood."

In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-blue asters.

"Good afternoon," he said in a resonant voice which seemed to take possession of the drowsy summer afternoon. "Is Miss Olivia Sterling in? And will you please tell her that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson is here?"

I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped through the crack of the door. Anyone would ahve done it. We would have scorned to excuse ourselves. And, indeed, what we saw would have been worth several conscience spasms, if we had felt any.

Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand.

"Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you," she said formally.

"It's yourself, Nillie!" Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two strides.

He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small table, and sent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he caught Aunt Olivia in his arms and -- smack, smack, smack! Peggy sank back upon the stair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Aunt Olivia was being kissed!

Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm's legnth in his big paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt Olivia's eyes roam over his arm to the inverted table and the litter of asters and goldenrod. Her sleek crimps were all ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half around her neck. She looked distressed.

"It's not a bit changed you are, Nillie," said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson admiringly. "And it's good I'm feeling to see you again. Are you glad to see me, Nillie?"

"Oh, of course," said Aunt Olivia.

She twisted herself free and went to set up the table. Then she turned to the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of leaves and stalks on the carpet.

"I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie," he said. "Where will I be getting something to stick them in? Here, this will do."

He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel, stuffed the flowers in it, and set it on the table. The look on Aunt Olivia's face was too much for me at last. I turned, caught Peggy by the shoulder, and dragged her out of the house.

"He will horrify the very soul out of Olivia's body if he goes on like this," I gasped. "But he's splendid - and he thinks the world of her - and, oh, Peggy, did you ever hear such kisses? Fancy Aunt Olivia!"

What it's like when your parents read your blog

I hadn't talked to my parents in 5 days. I called them last night.

My mother: "So you've been having a nice time with Michael, I see."

(If I didn't have a blog, and I hadn't talked to my parents in 5 days, that would be a completely creepy comment - but since I have a blog, all is normal.)

Me: "Oh, it's been so great to see him. Awesome time."

Then she said, "I loved your tribute."

Me: "Oh, thank you."

Big discussion about the 2,996 project. It was great. My mother is wonderful, wants to know everything.

Then I hear my dad in the background, clamoring for the phone.

My mother: "Hang on - Dad wants to say something."

My father gets on the phone. Launches right in. "Who reads Cymbeline for fun???"

Sept. 10 - under the Ghostbusters sky

Michael and I sat up on my roof for a couple of hours on the late afternoon-early evening of Sept. 10. The sky was what I call a "Ghostbusters sky" - smudgy, charcoal grey, heavy and low - dramatic. Smudgy almost-black clouds overlapping each other, pressing up against each other. The buildings of our fragile beautiful skyline came out in stark relief against that black sky. Occasionally, a stray red gleam of sunset would break out from behind the clouds to the west (behind us) - and then, suddenly, the buildings of Manhattan would GLOW. But only for a moment. The spire of the Empire State Building would blaze into a golden-white paper cut-out, the Chrysler Building beaming - and then, as the clouds closed up again - the gleam would subside, back to the shadowy building shapes of late afternoon.

We were surrounded by butterflies. Big orange butterflies, soaring in the wind, not even having to flap their wings, just taking off, hanggliding, but then flap flap flap flap pumping it up a notch, chasing each other - At one point Michael and I literally had two orange butterflies hovering over our heads. Were they like the little angel and devil who sit on your shoulder at the same time, whispering contradictory demands? At first we thought there was only ONE butterfly - we kept seeing him - and he certainly seemed to get around - first he was here, now there ... but then we realized there was a whole PHALANX of them. Not really watching over us, no, they were too self-absorbed for that (and who can blame them? Have you ever heard of an altruistic butterfly?) ... but it did seem like they hovered around our heads protectively. Taking shifts. "Okay ... you go off and hangglide for a while ... I got these two ... no, no, you go ... have fun! I got it, I got it."

We had been walking around all day - breakfast at a diner in Hoboken (we HAD to go to a diner, for old time's sake) - we talked our heads off (a bit jazzed on caffeine) - then we walked around Hoboken for a couple hours. We went into the second-hand bookstore. We talked. Michael so enjoyed the overcast sky and the cool wind - coming, as he does, from living in LA. He had been so excited that the forecast was "overcast". We went to Barnes and Noble. There were a couple of hysterical moments - involving a certain Pulitzer Prize winning author with whom I have a checkered past - ahem, no further comment - HA!- Michael, looking at the book, because he had asked to see it, and saying, bluntly, "I will NEVER buy this book." hahahaha So protective. heh heh

After that we walked to Frank Sinatra Park and sat on the low wall for an hour or so, the Hudson slate-grey and choppy - the buildings of Manhattan in shadow - the clouds marching down from the north, heavy and low and portentous. We talked about cults. They had come up a couple times - so Michael finally asked, "So why are you fascinated by Co$?" I said, "Oh God. How much time do you have?" Turns out, he had a LOT of time, as a matter of fact, he egged me on. "So tell me more. What else do you know?" This is like blood to a vampire. - He talked about how he had been trapped next to Scientomogy member on the plane - and how the dude had a stack of Hubman books in his lap AND Hubman's lecture tapes playing on his iPod. Seriously. And he had started up talking to Michael, and he had seemed so nice, and so interested in Michael - and then, of course, out came the recruitment moment - and Michael was like: Fuck YOU. It's the emotional blackmail - the "bait and switch" - that is so offensive. "I am so interested in you, you seem so fascinating, I really like you, wanna come check out my cult?" We talked and talked about brainwashing and cult recruitment and Patty Hearst and the strain of power-worship that goes through all cults -

Meanwhile, there's a cool breeze, so sailboats go careening by, there are teeny little whitecaps slapping up against the dock ... the sky is low and black - but still: no rain. I had forgotten (sort of) how easy it is to talk with and be with Michael. I mean, I wrote about it ... but here it was again.

Then we walked the length of Hoboken again, talking about libertarians, and Christopher Hitchens, and the 9/11 myth retards, and Katrina and politics and elections. It was fun. I don't think we ever talked about politics when we were dating - it was all books and movies and actors and our own emotions - so it was great fun. He's such a smart dude. I enjoy him.

I couldn't face walking back up the damn cliff to my town so I called a cab. Somehow, as we were waiting for the cab, we started talking about our relationship. That took place, uhm, 5 billion years ago. Oh, I know - it had to do with crossing the street. He and I always used to have these mini showdowns when we would go to cross the street - because Michael would always charge across the street just as the light turned yellow, regardless of whether or not cars were coming. I would always just wait for the light to turn red and this drove him batshit. Hilariously: as we walked around in Hoboken, I silently noticed that this dynamic was still going on. Yellow light. Michael would start across. I would silently hesitate, looking down the street, and then follow. hahahaha I had to smile to myself. I LOVE continuity of any kind. We were young when we dated - or much younger than we are now - but there is something eternal in both of us. I do not know why I doubt that. Perhaps because I am alone, and with my thoughts too much. People who live with the same person, day in, day out, probably have a much better grasp on how some people never change, how the same things keep coming up (actually, no - I don't mean "better grasp" at all - I need to re-think how I'm wording this because I actually think that MY way is better - but let me re-think this - I will come back to it)... Maybe people who deal with someone else's same-ness on an everyday basis get frustrated by it, or annoyed. Because they're over it, they're used to it, it's not evidence of something eternal and beautifully unchanging - it's ANNOYING ... But to me? The fact that this whole silent "how to cross the street" battle is STILL going on - even with the intervening years - even with not seeing each other in so long made me smile. Made me feel like there was a silver thread of connection between us now and us then. I love that stuff. Also - there's a sense of being confronted with something that is eternal. And this is a huge comfort to me. Things change, people grow, move on, move apart ... every day is a little loss, things must be grieved - small and large - you must always be letting go, every day a process of letting go. Naturally I have a terrible time with this. I have lost a lot. It's hard for me to let go. But our silent traffic-light moments - our silent different ways of handling crossing the street - is eternal. If we see each other when we're in our 70s, it would probably be the same damn thing ... except maybe we both would be walking with canes or something. I love eternal stuff like that. Again: I think my consciousness comes from the fact that I do NOT have that sort of continuity in my life on an everyday basis. I relish those moments. It's intense. I am intense. Michael was never put off by my intensity, though, and he still isn't. He goes right into it. He asks about it. He asks for more information. Maybe because he's the same way? I don't know.

Anyway, I somehow said, "Remember our whole crossing the street thing we used to have?" He thought a second and then just BURST into laughter.

So what used to happen - when we were dating - was that Michael would call me on it. He was a hot-blooded young rebellious guy and he hated that I would hesitate. So he would yell at me. Literally: YELL. And I would yell back, pointing at the approaching car that was 1.2 miles away, as evidence of why I wasn't crossing. We were both howling at the memory of this. The two of us, standing on random empty corners in Ithaca New York, yelling at each other. To him it was a symbol. If I crossed the street the way HE did then I would have a breakthrough as an actress, a writer, a woman ... Michael was just guffawing as I reminded him of this. "So I was basically bullying you to be a better person?" "Yes." "At age 20?" "Yes. You were a 20 year old bully." "Jesus." hahahahahahaha We were laughing, I said, "Yeah but have you noticed how that shit is still going on? I mean, you're not YELLING AT ME anymore ... but it's still the same thing when we cross the street."

We eventually got home - the light was low and heavy - my apartment cozy and late-afternoon-ish - He hadn't been up to the roof, so he took his New York Times and I took my Cymbeline script and we went up to hang out on the roof. Of course we didn't end up reading, just talking, and laughing, and sometimes just silently staring across at the glowing/shadowing skyline. The slow march of clouds. The butterfly army watching over us.

He said, "So what else. Besides crossing the street. What else do you remember?"

So we talked about what we remembered.

Later:

I lay in bed memorizing my lines. He sat in the chair reading the New York Times "cover to cover".

Sometimes we talked. Mostly we didn't. We were wrapped up in our own private concerns. But we shared space. It was so nice to have him there. His presence. Night fell outside. We ordered dinner. We ate at my kitchen table. Then we talked for hours and hours. There is years of information to catch up on.

So the black Ghostbuster sky was still there, I imagine - I imagine the black clouds continued to march by overhead, in their smudgy procession - but they blended into the general blackness of night. My lamps glowed out, soft, golden, homey. Talking. Late into the night.

I felt safe.

Sept. 12

Read this.

And please read this as well. We all have our stories of that day - and I've told mine - you've told yours - and I wasn't into that this year. But please read her story (if you haven't already - I know you have, Lisa!!) . She's such a good writer. The bit about the priest passing out orange slices brings me to tears every time. Don. I love Don. We all had "Dons" that day - those of us who were here, and who were trapped in this or that place, surrounded by strangers.

"For the falling man"

For the Falling Man - by Annie Farnsworth

I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.

The 2996 Project: Michael J. Pascuma

2,996 is a tribute to the victims of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.

Each of us who signed up for the 2,996 Project will pay tribute to a single victim- we were assigned a name, randomly. (List of victim names and participants here. You can click through and read the other tributes.) I have post-dated my post - so that it will stay at the top through Sept. 12, 2006. (Apparently the volume of traffic has been way too high so you cannot access the original site at this moment - Here is the mirror site. Even though it's difficult, I HIGHLY recommend clicking through and reading as many tributes as you can. Eventually, as I read them all, through my tears, all I became aware of was a blinding white light of love.)

I am paying tribute to Michael J. Pascuma.

Update: I had been unable to find a photograph of Mr. Pascuma online, although I did look. I have since come across this article about him - and here is a picture of the entire Pascuma family:

Michael Pascuma, Jr., center, with his family on a recent vacation. Left to right are his son Michael, wife Linda, daughter Melissa, and son Christopher.

It has been quite an experience spending the last couple of days researching this man. I cannot even pretend to know him - it feels so presumptuous - and in some ways, even writing this tribute has felt presumptuous. I did not know this man - and I can't even comprenend the loss that family feels (look at that photo - can't you feel the threads of connection between all of them?) - but I will say this: I can't imagine that another September 11 will go by without me thinking, specifically, of Michael J. Pascuma - and Linda Pascuma - and Michael, Melissa, and Christopher Pascuma.

If any of you ever come across this post - please know that I did my best. And also know that it was truly an honor to 'get to know' Michael, even in this small way.

Newsday article:
Michael J. Pascuma
Broker didn't sweat 'the small things'
April 19, 2002

Every Tuesday morning, Michael J. Pascuma Jr. of Massapequa Park would take a short stroll from the American Stock Exchange to meet colleagues for a breakfast conference at Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center.

"They would conduct business and maybe later tell a few jokes,” recalled his daughter, Melissa Pascuma, a fourth-grade teacher at the Shaw Avenue Elementary School in Valley Stream.

Pascuma, 50, worked as an independent stock trader with his father at their firm, MJP Securities. Both held seats on the exchange. The senior Pascuma, 93, still works as a trader at the exchange. Shortly before the terrorist attack. MJP merged with another firm and is now called Harvey, Young & Yurman.

Pascuma's daughter said that immediately after the first plane struck the north tower, her brother, Michael, reached their father by cell phone. "I have to get out of here. There's a fire,” were the last words he said to his family. The trendy restaurant was located on the 107th floor of Tower One. Pascuma's remains were discovered shortly after the disaster, and a memorial service was held at St. Rose of Lima Church in Massapequa.

"My father had the most amazing sense of humor,” said Melissa Pascuma. "He thoroughly loved telling jokes to the family and his friends. He was constantly generous with everyone around him, and he enjoyed every single day of his life.”

She said her father was fond of chatting online with friends and was an avid golfer. "He never worried about the small things. He knew what mattered,” she said.

Pascuma's wife, Linda, said, "My husband was a wonderful family man who was very much loved and appreciated by everyone.”

The couple would have been married 27 years on Sept. 21. Linda Pascuma called the entire family "Disney-O-Philes.” "For the past seven years at Easter time, we'd all go to Disney World for 10 days,” she said. A friend served as travel agent and also went along on the trips. The annual event also included her sister's family, bringing the fun-seeking entourage up to about a dozen members, recalled Linda Pascuma.

"Sometimes when my husband got a little bored with things, he'd go off to play golf while we went on the rides and things,” she said. "But it always was a trip we'd talk about all year.”

Pascuma, who grew up in Richmond Hill, never attended college but as a young man learned the ins and outs of stock trading from his father, still a well-known figure in financial circles who remembers the stock market crash of 1929.

Besides his wife and daughter, both of Massapequa Park, Pascuma is survived by his sons, Michael, a college student at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Conn.; Christopher, a Massapequa High School student; and his parents, Michael and Ada, of Richmond Hill.

--Bill Kaufman (Newsday)

"He knew what mattered."

As I did my research on this man - one of the things that kept coming up was how he didn't sweat the small stuff, he was all about appreciating what he did have, "he knew what mattered". I went to the memorial sites where people who knew the victims could leave tributes and I came across the following message:

You will be missed. Thank you for all of your kindness. I will miss being your customer. Anne Boudreaux (New Orleans, LA )

There were many messages I found from family members, childhood friends ... but this one, from a customer, struck me: "I will miss being your customer." How many businessmen can say that there will be those left behind who will say, "I will miss being your customer."? That is integrity.

Other people from Mr. Pascuma's life left tributes (some on this site and some on others) - and here are some personal memories of him:

Childhood friend Al Husni:

"I will always remember growing up with Michael. Playing ball, hanging out at PS66 with Michael, Chris, Latz, and the rest of the gang. His sense of humor, his gentleness, will never be forgotten by myself or those who knew him."

Childhood friend Robert A. Maltempo:

"I grew up across the street from Michael, moving away from Richmond Hill at the age of twelve. I will always remember the good times we had and what a wonderful father Michael had (he treated me like his son). I remember playing ring-a-leevio until dark, seemingly every evening, at P.S. 66. I remember Billy Speckman and also another friend of mine and Mikes, named Michael (I'm butchering his last name) Krachunis) who lived next door to Michael. Had many, many wonderful times growing up with Michael...his basement that was full of miniature/toy construction equipment, the NY ranger games his family took us to, a row boat trip with Michael's father singing "Michael Row the Boat to Shore" while Mike and I struggled with the oars.

George Moeser tells some really beautiful stories about Michael Pascuma:

I met Michael Pascuma through my sister Jean Barone back in the 1980's when my (now) ex-wife and I visited her and her (now) ex husband Tommy Barone during a Christmas holiday. We attended a party hosted by the family that owned the Mermaid Restaurant. Of all the people we met at that party in Massapequa Park, Michael was the standout. He was and still remains one of the nicest most genuine people I have met in this life. His warmth, demure and canny sense of humor along with that winning smile of his were a true reflection of great soul, something that can not be faked, learned or acquired. Ias I said, I grew up in the City, the street smart He was the kind of rarity that

He and his wife opened his home to us as if he had known us all his life. I met his father and talked about his horses. His wife Linda and Bianca became friends. Later that week we met him for a visit to the exchange where he worked, but I didn’t know there was the dress code and said he could take Bianca inside and I would wait. Michael thought for a moment then said, “Come on in with me, it will does these guys good to shake them up a little bit.” As we went on to the floor, all three of us were pelted with spit-balls and hoots laughter from the men and women working there, all in good natured fun. One of the keenest impressions I got about Michael was that you could sense the friendship and admiration his coworkers felt for him. He later told me, to his knowledge I was the only person in the history of NYSE to walk the floor in a cowboy hat and blue jeans.

The irony for me in learning of his tragic and untimely death was that he took Bianca and I to the Windows on the World Restaurant for lunch that day. I still have the photo Bicana and myself with the Manhattan backdrop taken by Michael. I have another of him and I on the train with him pretending to pick my pocket in an exaggerated pose, this great smile stealing the scene. Later in the week he met us for lunch again, this time to the Carnegie Deli. He didn’t want us to miss what he called the best corn beef sandwich on the planet—It was.

When we returned to Tucson, he would sometimes call the Boss Shears, the hair salon Bianca and I owned. Pretending to be a first time customer, he would ask if we took late appointments, saying he would have to fly in from New York. The receptionist would ask Bianca and I if we wanted a late appointment. And one or the other of us would ask what time. Then Michael would ask to speak to one of us, and I would recognize his voice instantly. He would laugh and say he might be able to catch the red-eye, get his haircut and fly back in time for work, but would bring two corn beef sandwiches from Carnegie as a tip for staying late.

Over the years we would fly back to New York on the holidays or a family function. Each time Michael and I saw each other again, it wasn’t as if years had past but only days since our last laugh, shared antidote or exchange of impressions.

Years later I was divorce, my sister was also divorced, and had moved to Brooklyn. She and I became estranged and I lost contact with her friends from Massapequa Park. My ex wife kept in touch with my sister Jean and Bianca continued to exchange Christmas card with the Pascuma family, but I lost touch. It was years later when I asked how he was doing that I learned he had died in the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers. That he died at the very same place where he and I had shared laughter over a meal was deeply moving to me. My eyes filled with tears and I prayed the Lord to bless him and keep him in all his ways. I still do.

On April 22, 2005, Michael Pascuma's daughter Melissa had a baby girl whom they named Madison Michael. It would have been Michael Pascuma's first grandchild. Imagine what a grandfather this man would have been.

Melissa wrote to her father on Sept. 12, 2005:

Daddy, I miss you more and more each day, month and year. I would do anything to get a tight hug from you, hear your laugh, or hear one of your jokes. There are very few children in this world that have an amazingly exceptional father. I am so thankful I happen to be one of them. You held our family together and were the kindest, most generous human being that lived. You did not deserve this. You are a grandpa now. She carries the name of a hero, Madison Michael. Love you endlessly, Your princess

That's the thing that gets you about these horrible losses. The loss itself is horrific - but as life moves on, the loss continues to reverberate in those who are left behind. Madison Michael will not know her grandfather.

Michael Pascuma's son Michael (on this page) wrote:

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and will be Madison's first. You should be here sharing this with us in more than just spirit. I wish there was something I could do because I would in a second! There is so much that we never got to do or say and I would do anything for 1 more minute. I was in Miami this past weekend and saw more Ferraris than ever before and I didn't have you to call. For a split second I thought call Dad and then realied that can never happen again. I will never forget all the times we did share and will cheerish those forever. I miss all the things we used to do together and wish we could play one more round of golf. I would even take just being able to hear one more joke and hear your laugh. I miss and love you so much and I'm getting to upset to continue writing.

"I didn't have you to call." I am so so sorry.

Here is the NY Times Portraits of Grief piece on Michael J. Pascuma:

Golf was Michael J. Pascuma Jr.'s consuming passion. He played every Saturday with a group of friends from work, at courses all over Long Island. He watched golf endlessly on television.

Michael, 50, immersed himself in everything, whether it was golf, his family in Massapequa Park or his work as a stockbroker on the American Stock Exchange. Work and family were entwined: he and his 92- year-old father, Michael J. Pascuma Sr., possibly the oldest broker in the United States, had their own firm, M.J.P. Securities, which recently merged with Harvey, Young & Yurman.

"You would think it was a stressful job, but he was never stressed," said his 23-year- old daughter, Melissa Pascuma, whom he called his little princess. He also had two sons, ages 20 and 17. "As soon as he came home, he detached from it and his family was No. 1."

Michael's wife Linda:

My husband, Michael J. Pascuma, Jr., was an only child. Michael worked with his father on the American Stock Exchange. His father is still employed there at 93 years old. His mother is 89.

He was very well liked and a very respected Stockbroker. He was a very fair and honest person. He had a great sense of humor. He loved telling jokes or playing pranks at work.

He also loved playing golf. He played every Saturday with friends. He had started to travel a little to play on different courses.

Most importantly, Michael was a great father. He had three children, a daughter and two sons. His children loved him. He never fought or got mad at them. He would do anything for them. His sons enjoyed playing golf with him. He never worried about the small things. He loved life and appreciated everything he had. He knew what was important. If they made a mistake or if there was a problem he would always say it didn't matter as long as everyone was healthy.

We struggle every day without him and he is truly missed by his family, friends and co-workers.

He sounds like an amazing man, with a heart as big as the ocean. A laughing kind hard-working family man. Someone I would have loved to get to know.

Rest in peace, Michael J. Pascuma - and my sincerest condolences to the Pascuma family.

The Names

I have spent my day with all the names. Reading all the tributes. Weeping for people I never met. Putting faces to names. It has been a profound experience. There was more to this day - another narrative going on at the same time - but I will save that for a later day. For now, all I am conscious of ... are all of those names.

And so I must post again Billy Collins' poem "The Names". It has been on my mind all day. I am tear-drenched, exhausted. And this is why we need our poets. Poets don't always fulfill this role - but when they do? We need them. Or let me just say: I need them.

In loving memory of all of those names.

Billy Collins, former poet laureate, wrote "The Names" in the wake of September 11 and read it during a special joint session of Congress in New York on September 6, 2002.

This is what poets laureate are for.

The Names

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

Stories

A must-read.

Hey hobo-man

Hey dapper Dan

I have always loved his eccentricity. And that he has maintained that eccentricity for years. So it's not a pose. It's a lifestyle. It's who he is. His life is a performance-art piece - and I love that. I love eccentrics. Especially if, you know, they can WRITE. If they're just dilettantes, or pretentious no-talents, then eccentricity can be obnoxious. But someone who can write? Please wear a big white hat, and a watch-chain, and shiny white bucks. Please.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Old Man Shaw's Girl'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Old Man Shaw's Girl".

To me, this story is a bit of a clunker. I mean, it's sweet, and all - but it's a bit too saccharine for me, and also: the plot shows its skeleton way too plainly. It seems to me obvious from the get-go that Old Man Shaw's girl will NOT have been turned into a snooty city girl after her years away from her father. She seems too sweet and loving for that. So Old Man Shaw being thrown into a tizzy seems too artificial. I don't know - it doesn't really work for me (even though I love some of the actual writing in this piece - the bit about the roses especially - the theme of the "rose bush that never blooms - but then one day - spectacularly - it is ALL OVER BLOSSOMS" shows up in Lucy Maud's writing again and again and again). I also think that the characterization of Mrs. Peter Blewett (who shows up in other stories as well as her novels) is really great observation - the kind of person who is truly UPSET when other people are happy. You know those people? The rain on the parade people? The people who rain on your parade and SMILE as they do so? Because they like to spread misery? That's a real kind of person, and Lucy Maud nails it.

I know that Lucy Maud had a fierce protective side to her, when it came to Prince Edward Island. I think if she met someone who said, "I don't know HOW anyone could STAND to live on this remote little island!" - she would write them off forever. That person could have turned out to be Mother Teresa, and Lucy Maud wouldn't have cared. Either you love PEI - or you are the devil's spawn, not worth worrying about. So in this story she's kind of expressing that. Old Man Shaw loves his island, and his little simple cottage - but when he suddenly sees it through the scornful eyes of an outsider - he is horrified. Will his daughter, now that she's educated and a young lady, be satisfied living here? Will she, the light of his life, scorn him? How will he live?

I mean, I get it - but for me, it just doesn't work.

Here's an excerpt where the evil seed is planted in Old Man Shaw's head. He's a widow and his daughter has been spirited away to go to a fancy private school on the mainland somewhere - he has not seen her in 3 years. He is busy making preparations for her return, so excited to see her again, so excited to have her back. But then ... a mischief-maker ruins his hopes ....

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "Old Man Shaw's Girl".

And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was coming home. She wrote him nothing of her aunt's pleadings and reproaches and ready, futile tears; she wrote only that she would graduate in June and start for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw went about in a state of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming. As he sat on the bench in the sunshine, with the blue sea sparkling and crinkling down at the foot of the green slope, he reflected with satisfaction that all was in perfect order. There was nothing left to do save count the hours until that beautiful, longed-for day after tomorrow. He gave himself over to a reverie, as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley.

The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those red roses - they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness and joy of living. And besides these, a miracle had happened in Old Man Shaw's garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had never bloomed, despite all the coaxing they had given it - "the sulky rosebush," Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had flung the hoarded sweetness of years into plentiful white blossoms, like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy fragrance. It was in honour of Sara's homecoming - so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad because of it.

He was gloating over Sara's letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. She told him she had run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara came.

Old Man Shaw shook his head.

"No'm, thank you, ma'am. Everything is attended to. I couldn't let anyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think, ma'am, she'll be home the day after tomorrow. I'm just filled clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home again."

Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled, it foretokened trouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden business elsewhere before the smile could be translated into words. But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years, and had pestered his life out with advice and "neighborly turns".

Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry. The effect on her was to render happiness in other people a personal insult. She resented Old Man Shaw's beaming delight in his daughter's return, and she "considered it her duty" to rub the bloom off straightway.

"Do you think Sara'll be contented in White Sands now?" she asked.

Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.

"Of course she'll be contented," he said slowly. "Isn't it her home? And ain't I here?"

Mrs. Blewett smiled again, with double distilled contempt for such simplicity.

"Well, it's a good thing you're so sure of it, I suppose. If 'twas my daughter that was coming back to White Sands, after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish folks, and at a swell school, I wouldn't have a minute's peace of mind. I'd know perfectly well that she'd look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable."

"Your daughter might," said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm than he had supposed he had possessed, "but Blossom won't."

Mrs. Blewett shrugged her sharp shoulders.

"Maybe not. It's to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I'm sure. But I'd be worried if 'twas me. Sary's been living among fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands to reason she'll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up in Boston for just a month last winter and she's never been able to endure White Sands since."

"Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people," said Sara's father, trying to smile.

"And your house, too," pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. "It's such a queer, little, old place. What'll she think of it after her aunt's? I've heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace. I'll just warn you kindly that Sary'll probably look down on you, and you might as well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back, seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I'm certain she doesn't want to, and I don't blame her either."

Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were dealing him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously, straight into Mrs. Blewett's straggling, ferrety gray orbs.

"If you've said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go," he said passionately. "I'm not going to listen to another such word. Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious tongue out of my hearing!"

Mrs. Blewett went, too dumbfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone, Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped and ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom; of course the little gray house where she was born would seem a poor abode after the splendours of her aunt's home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes. How poor and simple everything was! How sagging and weather-beaten the old house! He went in, and upstairs to Sara's room. It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she woudl think it a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards. She would be ashamed of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands, and chafe at the dull existence, and look down on everything that went to make up his uneventful life.

Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisifed even Mrs. Blewett, had she known.

"Everything looks 3-D."

This was Cashel's response to what it feels like to have glasses. Cashel just got glasses. Uhm ... I need a picture of Cashel in glasses IMMEDIATELY.

I remember when I first got glasses. In 5th grade. My first glasses had thin silver rims and were vaguely Oscar Goldman-ish. I will never forget being driven home after first getting the glasses - and I remember we were driving by Old Mountain Field - and I was completely blown away by how the trees no longer looked like green BLURS. I was amazed at how I could see individual leaves. I had thought that EVERYBODY saw trees as vague green blurs!

So yes, Cashel, everything DID look 3-D!

My heart cracks at the thought of him in glasses. Can't wait to see him again. Where we can commiserate on our vision issues.

Snapshots with Michael

-- Lights out our first night. He lay on the blow-up mattress on the floor right below my bed. I lay in bed. Lights out. I lay there in silence, my eyes wide open, and I was just overly conscious of him being RIGHT THERE. After all these years. It was dark, but all I could think of was of him lying on the floor. Silence between us. Darkness. For maybe a minute. As we both lay there pretending to go to sleep. Suddenly, randomly, he started to laugh. And then I started to laugh. And then we both lay there, in the darkness, laughing for a good MINUTE. For no reason that we could really explain. There is no reason. But it was funny nonetheless.

-- After the laughter calmed down - and it took some time - I said, through the darkness, "Okay, I have to get something off my chest. If I fart in my sleep ... PLEASE. Do not judge." Michael started laughing - and then we were off laughing again - and Michael said, "Why would I JUDGE a fart? Like ... what's to judge?" Then began a game, spontaneously - where we both took turns saying increasingly horrible activities, followed up by, "PLEASE. Do not judge." ("If I blah blah blah ... PLEASE. Do not judge." Etc.) The game ended with a BANG when Michael said, "If I get up in the middle of the night, come over to your bed, and piss all over you .... PLEASE. Do not judge." Then there was a pause and I had to say, "Uhm, I'm totally gonna judge you if you do that."

-- I had no idea how deeply I actually slept and now that Michael has informed me of it, I am rather alarmed for my own safety, in terms of fire drills and cat burglars. But apparently my alarm clock, the loudest alarm clock in the world, set to the most obnoxious radio station in the world - takes a good 15 minutes to actually wake me up. Apparently I lie there in peaceful DEAD TO THE WORLD slumber - as DJs shriek about sex and traffic and music and hip hop music plays and general morning hilarity ensues - and I do not wake up. Eventually I do - but Michael informed me that he almost thought I was in a comatose state, the alarm was so loud and there was NO response from my bed. He also said that the alarm was so loud and so sudden that he almost wet the bed. I am laughing out loud. He finally "snoozed" my own alarm for me. And went back to sleep. 10 minutes later, the alarm goes off again - and the DJs shriek about blowjobs and Eminem and there are sound effects and hip hop - and STILL I lie in peaceful slumber. Poor Michael - who had been traveling the entire day before - who got in at midnight - snoozed the alarm AGAIN. I am laughing out loud thinking of his torment. Its killing me. Finally, the damn thing penetrated my consciousness - and up I got, oblivious to the agony Michael had been thru. Lalala, I'm up now, let's make some coffee ... It was only later that Michael told me the entire drama.

-- This afternoon I sat on my bed, looking over my Cymbeline script. A slight movement caught my eye and I glanced up to see the following horrifying action movie take place on my drapes: An absolutely MASSIVE spider, who had to be at LEAST .5 millimeters across, was racing up the side of my curtains. Yes. Racing. He was in a huge hurry, MASSIVE legs scurrying him along - and then I watched him do this (well, as you can imagine - first I screamed bloody murder and jumped off my bed in a panic - but then I stood back and watched this): He reached the top of my curtains and then propelled himself off like a damn bungee jumper - leaping down onto my bed, the bastard, where he took a tiny horrifying rest (that's MY bed, you asswipe!!), and then he began climbing back up his own damn web that he left behind. It was a small Adventure-Travel exploit happening on MY curtains. He was taking over my whole apartment, and due to his hurrying energy I assumed he knew I was onto him. But I couldn't figure out how to kill him because ... he was on the curtains ... I couldn't throw a book at my curtains ... because that would just bat him off into the atmosphere, where he could flail through the air and COME AND GET ME. All .2 millimeters of him.

-- He is now peacefully hanging out in a hammock of own making off of my curtain rod. I hate him intensely. I mostly hate his ARROGANCE, his in-your-face defiance. He did all of this right in front of me. As though he didn't care.

-- And so just now Michael and I had this phone exchange: He: "Hi - I probably won't be home until late." I said, "Oh, that's cool - I have one thing to ask - When you come back ... would you mind killing a spider for me?" "Uhmmmmm ... sure ... do you think it will be there when I get back? Or will it somehow crawl directly into your mouth?" "I think he's napping. He'll be there. Do you have any ethical issues with killing a spider?" "None whatsoever." "Oh, I'm so happy." "So ... you're gonna be okay sharing space with it until I get home?" "It's an uneasy peace. But I think it will maintain."

-- I love talking with someone who also knows the background to the filming of this scene. Somehow that scene came up. Oh, I know - we were talking about "the Method" and what a bunch of crap it can be. Hahaha Also how actors like Spencer Tracy or Cary Grant are as good as it gets - and Michael brought up Cagney. I said, "That scene in White Heat ..." Michael said, "The prison scene?" "Oh. My. God." Cagney knew what the scene would require of him. He knew he would have to just "go there". So he said to Raoul Walsh, the director, before fiming it: "Just follow me." Meaning with the camera. Because he knew he couldn't worry about hitting marks, or keeping it in control. Gives me goosebumps. But I love it because Michael shares the same values and passions and interests as I do. We love that kind of shit.

-- Oh, and this morning? I drank my coffee out of THE cup RIGHT AT HIM. "Hey, Michael. Ya see this? Ya get a load of this???"

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Winning of Lucinda'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "The Winning of Lucinda".

Lucinda Penhallow, the heroine of this very funny story, is one of Lucy Maud's more memorable adult characters. I'm not sure why - maybe it's just because of what ends up happening and the scene I'm going to excerpt, which I adore. There's somehting about her I have always loved. I love her stubbornness (even though she is obviously a slave to her own pride and stubbornness), I love her sadness that she can barely admit to herself (not being married, feeling that her youth is passing her by), I love her pride, and then I love her behavior in the following excerpt when it all comes undone. I don't know - it just seems like Lucinda would be someone I would like to hang out with.

Also, the plot of this story doesn't have any of the artificial "oh my God what a coincidence" machinations that some of her other stories do. This is straight-up romantic comedy.

The plot: The Penhallows (very similar to the interweaving huge extended family she creates in Tangled Web - excerpt here) are a big sprawling nosy loving obnoxious well-to-do family - where everybody knows everybody else's business, and gossip runs rampant. Lucinda is beautiful, a wee bit haughty, but beloved by all - she's also 35 and unmarried, which is astonishing. The story opens at a Penhallow wedding celebration where the entire family is gathering at "the Grange" - to get ready. We learn, through a bit of exposition, that Lucinda and Romney Penhallow had been in love once - but 15 years ago they had had a quarrel, and Lucinda, in a fit of temper, said that she would never speak to him again. Her pride was stronger than her love for him, apparently, so in 15 years she has not said one word to him. And Romney, hurt, rebuffed, and finally - angry - hasn't said one word to her. For 15 years. They see each other only at family gatherings - somehow they are distantly related - by marriage, I think - and when that happens, when Lucinda and Romney are at the same event - all the ladies sit back, whispering, wondering, watching the 2 NOT speak to each other. Nobody knows what the original argument was about. But 15 years ahve now gone by - and neither of them have married anyone else. (This is such a typical Lucy Maud device. She wrote a lot about people with pride so strong that NOTHING else can live alongside of it.) Lucinda and Romney both have taken the position: "Well ... whatever happens ... I will not be the one to speak first." Lucinda, at times, finds herself getting melancholy - she is now 35 - full in her prime - and not married - and there is Romney, the man she once loved ... and does she still love him?? We don't know - but we do know that Lucinda, in all her pride, has fiercely promised to herself that she will not "speak first". If Romney speaks first, she will not reject him ... she will be open to talking with him ... and maybe more?? But ONLY if he "speaks first".

heh heh

Lucy Maud sets up her characters so well, doesn't she??

So the two of them are at this big shindig. It has been a couple of years since they saw each other. Throughout the wedding celebration, the two are only aware of each other, and neither of them speak to the other. Then - after the wedding - through a total mix-up - Lucinda is left stranded at the church - without a way to get back to the Grange. Her ride left without her. She is in a rage about this. A silent rage. This means she will have to walk back to the Grange across the fields - in her delicate green voile dress and her delicate little slippers - she's so PISSED. It's like her whole life suddenly seems so UNFAIR, and she is PISSED about it.

So - in a rage - she starts off across the fields. It's a moonlit night.

Oh - and I forgot - for some reason it comes up earlier in the story that Lucinda's grandfather ("Old Grandfather Gordon") had spent a lot of time as a miner - and from his mining days he had picked up a horrible habit of swearing. People still talk about his horrific swears - he couldn't seem to help himself. This will end up being important later - Lucy Maud sets up her situation carefully, and then lets all hell break loose later.

I love the episode that follows. (Oh, and I love, too, how Lucy Maud blanks out the swear. It makes it even funnier - it really shows how swearing was kind of beyond the pale at that time.)

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery- "The Winning of Lucinda".

She gathered up the green voile as trimly as possible, slipped around the house in the kindly shadows, picked her way across the side lawn, and found a gate which opened into a birch-bordered lane where the frosted trees shone with silvery-golden radiance in the moonlight. Lucinda flitted down the lane, growing angrier at every step as the realization of how shamefully she seemed to have been treated came home to her. She believed that nobody had thought about her at all, which was tenfold worse than premeditated neglect.

As she came to the gate at the lower end of the lane, a man who was leaning over it started, with a quick intake of breath, which, in any other man than Romney Penhallow, or for any other woman than Lucinda Penhallow, would have been an exclamation of surprise.

Lucinda recognized him with a great deal of annoyance and a little relief. She would not have to walk home alone. But with Romney Penhalow! Would he think she had contrived it so purposely?

Romney silently opened the gate for her, silently latched it behind her, and silently fell into step beside her. Down across a velvety sweep of field they went; the air was frosty, calm, and still; over the world lay a haze of moonshine and mist that converted East Grafton's prosaic hills and fields into a shimmering fairyland.

At first Lucinda felt angrier than ever. What a ridiculous situation! How the Penhallows would laugh over it!

As for Romney, he, too, was angry with the trick impish chance had played him. He liked being the butt of an awkward situation as little as most men; and certainly to be obliged to walk home over moonlit fields at one o'clock in the morning with the woman he had loved and never spoken to for fifteen years was the irony of fate with a vengeance. Would she think he had schemed for it? And how the deuce did she come to be walking home from the wedding at all?

By the time they had crossed the field and reached the wild cherry lane beyond it, lucinda's anger was mastered by her saving sense of humour. She was even smiling a little maliciously under her fascinator.

The lane was a place of enchantment - a long moonlit colonnade adown which beguiling wood nymphs might have footed it featly. The moonshine fell through the arching boughs and made a mosaic of silver light and clear-cut shadow for the unfriendly lovers to walk in. On either side was the hovering gloom of the woods, and around them a great silence unstirred by wind or murmur.

Midway in the lane, Lucinda was attacked by a sentimental recollection. She thought of the last time Romney and she had walked home together through this very lane, from a party at "young" John's. It had been moonlight then, too, and - Lucinda checked a sigh - they had walked hand in hand. Just here, by the big gray beech, he had stopped her and kissed her. Lucinda wondered if he were thinking of it, too, and stole a look at him from under the lace border of her fascinator.

But he was striding moodily along with his hands in his pockets, and his hat pulled down over his eyes, passing the old beech without a glance at it. Lucinda checked another sigh, gathered up an escaped flutter of voile, and marched on.

Past the lane a range of three silvery harvest fields sloped down to Peter Penhallow's brook - a wide, shallow stream bridged over in the olden days by the mossy trunk of an ancient fallen tree. When Lucinda and Romney arrived at the brook, they gazed at the brawling water blankly. Lucinda remembered that she must not speak to Romney just in time to prevent an exclamation of dismay. There was no tree! There was no bridge of any kind over the brook!

Here was a predicament! But before Lucinda could no more than despairingly ask herself what was to be done now, Romney answered - not in words, but in deeds. He coolly picked Lucinda up in his arms, as if she had been a child instead of a full grown woman of no mean avoirdupois, and began to wade with her through the water.

Lucinda gasped helplessly. She could not forbid him, and she was so choked with rage over his presumption that she could not have spoken in any case. Then came the catastrophe. Romney's foot slipped on a treacherous round stone - there was a tremendous splash - and Romney and Lucinda Penhallow were sitting down in the middle of Peter Penhallow's brook.

Lucinda was the first to regain her feet. About her clung, in heart-breaking limpness, the ruined voile. The remembrance of all her wrongs that night rushed over her soul, and her eyes blazed in the moonlight. Lucinda Penhallow had never been so angry in her life.

"You d-----d idiot!" she said, in a voice that literally shook with rage.

Romney meekly scrambled up the bank after her.

"I'm awfully sorry, Lucinda," he said, striving with uncertain success to keep a suspicious quiver of laughter out of his tone. "It was wretchedly clumsy of me, but that pebble turned right under my foot. Please forgive me - for that - and for other things."

Lucinda deigned no answer. She stood on a flat stone and wrung the water from the poor green voice. Romney surveyed her apprehensively.

"Hurry, Lucinda," he entreated. "You will catch your death of cold."

"I never take cold," answered Lucinda, with chattering teeth. "And it is my dress I am thinking of - was thinking of. You have more need to hurry. You are sopping wet yourself and you know you are subject to colds. There - come."

Lucinda picked up the stringy train, which had been so brave and buoyant five minutes before, and started up the field at a brisk rate. Romney came up to her and slipped his arm through hers in the old way. For a time they walked along in silence. Then Lucinda began to shake with inward laughter. She laughed silently for the whole length of the field; and at the line fence between Peter Penhallow's land and the Grange acres she paused, threw back the fascinator from her face, and looked at Romney defiantly.

"You are thinking of -- that," she cried, "and I am thinking of it. And we will go on, thinking of it at intervals for the rest of our lives. But if you ever mention it to me I'll never forgive you, Romney Penhallow!"

"I never will," Romney promised. There was more than a suspicion of laughter in his voice this time, but Lucinda did not choose to resent it. She did not speak again until they reached teh Grange gate. Then she faced him solemnly.

"It was a case of atavism," she said. "Old Grandfather Gordon was to blame for it."

I wondered

why this old post of mine was suddenly receiving 90% of all of my traffic today. I knew something must be going on in that world - another parole board hearing perhaps - and yes, that's why: Leslie van Houten was just denied parole, yet again.

Good.

She can cry all she wants now. I have another interpretation of her tears (unlike Patricia Krenwinkle - who I believe has true remorse - and not just remorse - but terror at what she had done. I don't think that because Krenwinkle has remorse that she should be let out - but I do have a different feeling about her than about Leslie. Leslie scares me. She's vacant. She would "follow the leader" even now. She's got that vacant stare. ) -I think van Houten is a sociopath who needs to rehearse how to be a human being.

Any time I have seen her in interviews crying about the remorse she feels about the LaBiancas - I remember this:

And I remember this photo which has always made my blood run cold:

She's a monster. She's always reminded me of Steinbeck's Cathy - a point I made in that post that's getting so much traffic today. Crocodile tears. There is something MISSING there. And what is missing is capacity for fellow human feeling. She doesn't "get it". At all. So she can say platitudes, like "I don't know how to make it okay" - but to that I would say: Make it okay? Do you have any sense of what you have done? Of how horrible you really are? Of how beyond the pale your behavior really was? How dare you pretend to be a human being and expect us to swallow it whole? You do NOT make such a horrible murder "okay". The only recourse we have is to keep you in prison forever. But still: even that does not undo your actions. If we executed you it would not undo your actions. Keeping you in prison for life does not give the LaBiancas breath in their lungs again. But it does deprive you of your freedom, because you abdicated your human rights when you chose to act like a monster.

That's the deal.

Throw away the key.

Love

I am absolutely in love with this photo. It's a total happy place photo. Look at Dino!! But look at both of them! Dino's tux, Wilder's checked cap, Dino's handkerchief, the huge stage lights in the background, the air grimy with cigarette smoke ... the smiles. Awesome. A world gone by. (Oh, and I also love it because it is so obvious that these two are up to no good. Whatever they are whispering is probably unprintable.)

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Little Joscelyn'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Little Joscelyn".

Lucy Maud was a big believer in the importance of moments. That one good moment could balance out a hundred bad moments. There's the beautiful episode in Windy Poplars (excerpt here) about Pauline (I think that's her name, right??) who is basically trapped taking care of her querulous sickly bossy and, frankly, AWFUL mother. Anne befriends Pauline and learns that a good friend of hers is getting married - and Pauline wants to go. It means she would have to be away from taking care of her mother for one weekend. Her mother says NO. Even though Pauline is in her 40s, for God's sake. The answer is NO. Pauline is heartbroken - but years of slavery has weakened her will. Anne ends up coming up with a plan. She offers to "take care" of the awful mother for a weekend so Pauline would be free to go. This is what ends up happening. Pauline returns from this one weekend and tells Anne all about it - the heart to heart she had with her dear cousin, the moonlight on the lake, the fact that a man said a sweet thing to her about how nice her hair was ... These are GEMS. Pauline goes back to slavery with her mother - it's not that she throws off her duties - but she says to Anne, "My mother needs me ... she's not all that bad ... and at least I got to have my perfect weekend." There is a certain pathos in this - but also a certain triumph. Pauline will have the memory of her perfect weekend to last her lifetime. And we leave her, thinking: That's okay. One perfect weekend is nothing to sneeze at.

This is a theme that Lucy Maud visits again and again and again. I think it's a mistake to read into all of this biographically TOO much (or at least to make a fetish of it) - Mainly because I think that takes away from her artistry and the power of her imagination. Yes, she had a real life, and of course that real life informed her work ... but she also, like novelists throughout the ages, just made shit up. She was a storyteller. An amazing one. But this theme - the one shining moment that can last a lifetime theme - comes up again and again - and this is the theme of "Little Joscelyn".

The story is simple. The Morrisons live on a big rambling farm. There's a bossy wife, a kind of henpecked husband, a bunch of kids - and then an aged aunt - who is the star of our story. She is old. Old and infirm. And also - you can tell that senility has begun to creep in. She lives in the past. She is desperately unhappy in her present - her hands are crippled by rheumatism, she can no longer move ... and she is completely dependent on her relatives - who, frankly, don't treat her all that well. Or - they take care of her - but they don't love her. Taking care of her is a duty. She feels this keenly.

But once upon a time - 20 years ago - the family had an orphan girl live with them for a summer - "little Joscelyn". She was a bright and beautiful young child - and out of all the members of the family she bonded the deepest with Aunty Nan. The two were, in the words of Anne Shirley, kindred spirits. You know how the very young and the very old sometimes understand each other perfectly? Because their spirits are close in age. That's what happened. It was the happiest summer of poor Aunty Nan's life. To be loved like that.

And then Joscelyn went away. And gained quite a bit of fame as a singer. She lost touch with Aunty Nan - because she basically had a very unhappy childhood and doesn't want to remember her lean years. She doesn't realize what her disappearance has done to Aunty Nan. She barely remembers Aunty Nan. You know ... little kids can be selfish, too. They are self-centered. They don't realize.

So anyway - Aunty Nan hears that Joscelyn is going to be coming back to the hometown for one night only to give a concert. Aunty Nan wants to go. The answer from the relatives is a resounding NO. Aunty Nan cries like a little child in her disappointment. It's kind of heart-wrenching to read, actually. You wish that you lived right next door and had a buggy - because then YOU would take Aunty Nan to see the concer and see Little Joscelyn after all these years. Aunty Nan sits in her room, crying by herself.

The hired boy - a little scrappy fellow - who loves Aunty Nan - decides that this is ridiculous. She should be able to see Joscelyn. For some reason he gets it. This is actually life or death. Aunty Nan will not live much longer. If she could just see Joscelyn one last time ... So he (beautiful little boy) goes into town by himself, goes to the palatial house where Joscelyn is staying, asks to see her - and basically pleads with Joscelyn to come out to the farm - even for just half an hour - to see Aunty Nan again. Joscelyn hems and haws. She only has a limited amount of time, she is in a rush ... she, you see, has forgotten. She has forgotten the kindness of this little old woman in her childhood ... she had forgotten that this little old woman had loved her. And that she was the only one. But the hired boy, a tough little boy, begs. Joscelyn eventually caves. She goes back to the farm with him.

Aunty Nan has no idea that Joscelyn is coming. That her dream is about to come true. That her "shining moment" has arrived.

Got a lump in my throat here. This shit works, it really does.

Here's the excerpt.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery- "Little Joscelyn".

It was sunset when they reached Gull Point Farm. An arc of warm gold was over the spruces behind the house. Mrs. William was out in the barn-yard milking, and the house was deserted, save for the sleeping baby in the kitchen and the little old woman with the watchful eyes in the upstairs room.

"This way, ma'am," said Jordan, inwardly congratulating himself that the coast was clar. "I'll take you up to her room."

Upstairs, Joscelyn tapped at the half-open door and went in. Before it closed behind her, Jordan heard Aunty Nan say, "Joscelyn! Little Joscelyn!" in a tone that made him choke again. He stumbled thankfully downstairs, to be pounced upon by Mrs. William in the kitchen.

"Jordan Sloane, who was that stylish woman you drove into the yard with? And what have you done with her?"

"That was Miss Joscelyn Burnett," said Jordan, expanding himself. This was his hour of triumph over Mrs. William. "I went to Kensington and brung her out to see Aunty Nan. She's up with her now."

"Dear me," said Mrs. William helplessly. "And me in my milking rig! Jordan, for pity's sake, hold the baby while I go and put on my black silk. You might have given a body some warning. I declare I don't know which is the greatest idiot, you or Aunty Nan!"

As Mrs. William flounced out of the kitchen, Jordan took his satisfaction in a quiet laugh.

Upstairs in the little room was a great glory of sunset and gladness in human hearts. Joscelyn was kneeling by the bed, with her arms about Aunty Nan, and Aunty Nan, with her face all irradiated, was stroking Joscelyn's hair fondly.

"O little Joscelyn," she murmured, "it seems too good to be true. It seems like a beautiful dream. I knew you th eminute you opened the door, my dearie. You haven't changed a bit. And you're a famous singer now, little Joscelyn! I always knew you would be. Oh, I want you to sing a piece for me - just one, won't you, dearie? Sing that piece people like to hear you sing best. I forget the name, but I've read about it in the papers. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."

And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan's bed, in the sunset light, sang the song she had sung to many a brilliant audience on many a noted concert platform - sang it as even she had never sung before, while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and downstairs even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite melody that floated through the old farmhouse.

"O little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.

Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days. One by one they recalled the memories of that vanished summer. The past gave up its tears and its laughter. Heart and fancy alike went roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty Nan was perfectly happy. And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs since they had parted.

When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window, Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.

"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much, I want you to sing just one other piece. Do you remember when you were here how we sung hymns in the parlour every Sunday n ight, and my favourite always was 'The Sands of Time are Sinking'? I ain't never forgot how you used to sing that, and I want to hear it just once again, dearie. Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."

Joscelyn rose and went to the window. Lifting back the curtain, she stood in the splendour of the moonlight and sang the grand old hymn. At first Aunty Nan beat time to it feebly on the counterpane, but when Joscelyn came to the verse, "With mercy and with judgment," she folded her hands over her breast and smiled.

When the hymn ended, Joscelyn came over to the bed.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye now, Aunty Nan," she said.

Then she saw that Aunty Nan had fallen asleep. She would not waken her, but she took from her breast the cluster of crimson roses she wore and slipped them gently between the toil-worn fingers.

"Good-bye, dear, sweet mother-heart," she murmured.

The universe ...

... sometimes she provides.

My relationship with him was so of-the-moment. The fact that it has lasted is something to be thankful for, in the deepest part of my heart.

Then (many years ago - I was 2 weeks into knowing him here):

to now ...

The universe ...

... she confuses me. So my friend Michael is coming to stay with me for a bit. Yay! Very excited. Haven't seen him in years. A-whoo-hoo, a-whoo-ha. My apartment is so small that it will be quite interesting, not to mention hysterical, to see our living arrangements. I bought a blow-up mattress (with pump!!) at Wal-Mart (thanks, Mum, for leading the way!) - but still: I have no extra bedroom, so he will basically be sleeping on my floor, which strikes me as intensely comedic. It's so high school! I have fresh sheets and towels - I have gone grocery shopping for my manly guest, and I have made a bit of room in my closet. Which - if you could see my apartment and see what I mean by closet - you would laugh out loud.

I'm excited and happy! A-whoo-hoo, a-whoo-ha! I so rarely have guests! I am ready!

I come home last night after my massage. I smell of patchouli oil and my hair is a wreck. I turn on the light in the bathroom. I brush my teeth. With the light on (this will be an important detail later). I then walk into my wee kitchen. I turn on the light, not realizing how glorious electric power will seem in a matter of moments. I walk into my main room (my living room/bedroom/study/TV/wreckroom/meditation room/etc. etc.) and immediately notice something is off. The electric clock is frighteningly dark. I see no light emanating from my cable box. I go to turn on my light - nothing. No power. It is 10 pm. No power. I find it hard to accept. I try the light by my bed. Nothing. I try the portable fan on the windowsill. Nothing. I try my little red-shaded lamp across the room. Nothing. Weirdly - when I turn on my ceiling fan - IT goes on.

So I'm half in light, half in darkness. It wouldn't have mattered so much if it had been my kitchen plunged into the depths of night - because Michael and I won't be hanging out in the kitchen.

Horrible thoughts reverberate through my brain, as I stare with dilated eyes into the pitch-black of my apartment. Now I will not be able to blow up the mattress, since it requires a plug. Which ... the thought is too awful to contemplate. Michael arrives after a long flight. I say, shyly, "We have not seen one another in years, great to see you, it is pitch black in my apartment, and guess what, you have to sleep in my bed with me." I shiver at the impropriety. I think: maybe I can blow up the mattress in the kitchen? Because THERE'S ELECTRICITY IN THERE?

I am immediately embarrassed. As though this glitch is somehow my fault even though my bill is paid (obviously - since one half of my apartment is literally ABLAZE with electric bulbs). It is too late to call the electric company - so I have to wait it out. In the dark.

My computer runs on its battery. I turn it on. I light a ton of candles. Bill and I talk. Which is a good thing, there is much laughter ("I have an audition next week!" "What's it for?" "Antigone." Pause. "Is that a Civil War play?" Think about it. Heh heh. Guess you had to be there. I howled.) Anyway - by the time I got off the phone with Bill I was ready for bed. Still beset with anxieties about my power-less main room and what it wiill mean in terms of my house guest who is, as we speak, shrieking towards the east coast.

My alarm clock is problematic. I need it to wake up. I have a lot to do in the morning!! So I plug the thing in in the kitchen, and jack the volume up to the max. It works. I wake up this morning to the sound of a shrill overly jolly DJ chick hollering about how her moon is in Virgo - her voice bellowing through my apartment.

Still no power.

I wait until 8 and call the electric company. I am on hold for 25 frickin' minutes. They cannot help me. Of course. So I call my landlord and explain the situation. It's probably a breaker thingamajiggie and they'll send someone over today. I explain my situation - "I have a guest coming into town and I need to blow up his mattress immediately ..." I ask her to call me when the problem is resolved.

She does not.

I come home just now, worried that ... there will be no power. But no - I have power! Yay! I can blow up his mattress! I do not need to greet him swathed in the darkness of midnight holding a candleabra while making some improper suggestion.

I sit down, after making a little dinner, to watch some TV. To just relax after the unbeLIEVable stress (haha) of the past 24 hours. I press the remote. The television flares into life, for a beautiful shining moment, and then with a sickening "whirr" sound - yes, there was a "whirr" - the picture on the television diminishes to a tiny pinprick, and then all goes black.

The TV is SO dead. It was old when I got it and it chose TODAY - when I have a guest on his way - a guest who will have a lot of down time and would probably want to lie about watching television a bit - to DIE. A fiery blazing pin-point of light death.

The universe. She's a bitch of whimsy, is she not?

I wonder what will break next.

Sydney Carton

Re-reading Tale of 2 Cities right now - and this passage struck me.

When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears.

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.

"the air was cold and sad" ....

Feed the kitty

sniff, sniff ... anyone remember this awesome Looney Tunes cartoon? There's too much to even say about it ... I just love it. I love the detailed observations (the kneading the kitty does on the dog's back, the way the kitty circles around and around before lying down) ... but also just the emotional power of this thing. I also love that the housewife is doing her chores wearing strappy stilettoes. What??

But I remember seeing that when I was a kid - and lo and behold here it is again. Beautiful!!!!

The apology

This is hysterical.

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Each In His Own Tongue'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Each In His Own Tongue".

This story is an amazing piece of work - and Lucy Maud herself, as I recall, was very proud of it. It's well-written - but it's also one of those stories where every single person in it is ALIVE and complex and ... distinct. Abel Blair: it seems that he has a full life off the page, his life will continue after the story ends. Janet ... who is she?? Naomi - I mean, there aren't many people in this story, but each person is a three-dimensional mini-portrait of a human being. Kind of extraordinary.

I also love the story because it is Lucy Maud's statement about the sacred-ness of art (that also shows in the title). She lived in a strict rigid Presbyterian community - where any kind of leisure-time outside of a sewing circle - was frowned upon. Not even frowned upon. OPENLY discouraged. Yet ... writing was her art. There was nothing she could do but write. (This comes up in the Emily series, too (excerpt here), when Emily is forbidden to write by her rigid aunt Elizabeth who thinks "making up stories" is the first step on the way to total degradation of the soul.) That attitude is not so out of style as you might think - I've written about it before. This story is Lucy Maud's protest against that kind of rigid uptight STUPID thinking.

The plot is this: Young Felix Moore lives with his grandfather, Reverend Stephen Leonard. Felix's parents are dead. His mother married a musician - a violinist - which apparently broke her father's heart (her father being Rev Stephen Leonard). She had married the musician completely against his wishes - and he soon was proven right: the guy she married was dissipated, drunk, irresponsible, and traveled all the time because of his music. She broke her heart over this and died. But before she died - she gave birth to Felix. Felix comes to live with his grandfather. They love each other with an intensity that is all-encompassing - Lucy Maud doesn't take the easy way out and make the Reverend a bitter old man, with no redeeming qualities. No, she makes him a loving man, a man who truly has a CALLING to be a minister - one of those special special people. But he has a blind spot - and that is music. Felix has a gift for the violin. The whole story opens with Felix playing the fiddle for his neighbor, Abel Blair (a drunken old reprobate - who nevertheless somehow transcends all of that when listening to Felix - he sits there listening to Felix play and promises himself to be better, to stop drinking, to live a good life, to turn his eyes towards God - there is God in Felix's music - this is Lucy Maud's point about art.) But anyway - the Reverend has it in his head and in his heart that Felix will be a minister. This is his plan for his grandson. The thought that Felix might become a musician is ... well, it just will NOT happen. He will NOT have Felix live a drunken dissipated life, traveling with a low class of people, and not living in the light of God. So he forbids Felix to have a violin, even though Felix wants one - and Felix is forced to sneak around. This is what happens when you make someone go against their nature: you make other bad things happen as well. Felix is a good little boy, and he loves his grandfather dearly. He is not malicious, or even bitter ... He's a little kid, but he knows that he must play the violin. It is not even an option to NOT play the violin. His grandfather's ruling FORCES Felix to behave duplicitously. To lie and sneak.

So it's kind of a tortured set-up.

The whole thing comes to a head when a local "bad woman" is lying on her death bed. Lucy Maud doesnt' list this woman's sins exactly - but you can guess. She was beautiful once, she played men for fools, she slept around, she used and abused men, and she wrecked lives. She probably slept with married men - she had absolutely no scruples. Her beauty, which could have been something that marked her for GREAT things, instead turned her down the path of sexual manipulation. Her sins are many. She is on her death bed - and her illness has already chipped away at her sanity. Her beauty is gone. She thrashes about in her bed, tormented. The end is near. She calls for the Reverend. She has to clear her conscience. Or ... that language is so weak - clear her conscience?? No - she needs the Reverend to prepare her to meet her Maker. She has not gone to church since she was a child. She is terrified - terrified - of meeting God. Inconsolable. The Reverend goes to her bedside in the middle of the night - and prays with her - but she will have none of that. Her agony is too acute. And here's where Lucy Maud's title comes into play: Language, while wonderful, can be limited. You must realize that divinity, that God, does not only exist in language - words cannot describe him, contain him ... and sometimes God shows up in something concrete, or in something more abstract. Oh, but this pisses some people off - literal people who feel that they must KNOW. That they do KNOW. Oh well, but those people are stupid, and I try not to worry what stupid people think about important subjects.

Now remember: Lucy Maud has already set up that Reverend Stephen Leonard is not a caricature of a rigid unloving minister. He is the opposite. He is a deeply holy man, beloved by the community. He does GOOD in the world. But his GOOD-ness is no help to Naomi. There is a long tortured scene between the two of them where he tries to tell her that all she needs to do is ask for forgiveness - and God WILL forgive. Repent!! To Naomi, these are just words. They do not take away her torment. The Reverend goes at it in many different ways - sitting with her, talking with her, telling her about the love of God ... but she cannot hear it. Her agony, instead of going away, gets stronger - because she knows the end is so near. If she goes into that bright light screaming in terror - she has no idea what will happen to her afterwards. Finally - the Reverend (you just love him - even though you wish he would get that Felix ALSO has a "calling" - just as divine as the calling to serve God) kneels, puts his head in his hands, he is devastated at his failure to help Naomi - and pleads to God, "Help me, Lord. Help me speak to her in a language she understands."

Suddenly - at the door of Naomi's little shack - is Felix. Standing there with a lantern. He has been sent there by Janet, the maid at the manse - she has sent Felix down with a lantern for Stephen's return home in the dark. He stands there, a little boy looking on this horrible death-struggle. His grandfather's agonized face. Naomi's thrashing about. She catches a glimpse of him and calls him to her. She stares at him with gleaming insane eyes and tells him to take down the fiddle she has on the wall and play for her. She has heard that he plays and she wants to hear some music. Since his grandfather has been so useless to her, and she's going to die at any minute - she might as well enjoy some tunes.

Anyway - the excerpt I've chosen is what happens after that moment. And I've read it a bazillion times, and it still GETS me.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery- "Each In His Own Tongue".

"Take down that fiddle on the wall and play something for me," she said imperiously. "I'm dying -- and I'm going to hell - and I don't want to think of it. Play me something to take my thoughts off it - I don't care what you play. I was always fond of music - there was always something in it for me I never found anywhere else."

Felix looked at his grandfather. The old man nodded; he felt too ashamed to speak; he sat with his fine silver head in his hands, while Felix took down and tuned the old violin, on which so many godless lilts had been played in many a wild revel. Mr. Leonard felt that he had failed his religion. He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her.

Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings. He had no idea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught and held by Naomi's burning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her crumpled pillow. A strange, inspired look came over the boy's face. He began to play as if it were not he who played, but some mightier power, of which he was but the passive instrument.

Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through the room. Mr. Leonard forgot his heart-break and listened to it in puzzled amazement He had never heard anything like it before. How could the child play like that? He looked at Naomi and marvelled at the change in her face. The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listened breathlessly, never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bed the idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks.

In that strange music was the joy of innocent, mirthful childhood, blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds. Then it held the wild, wayward dreams of youth, sweet and pure in all their wildness and waywardness. They were followed by a rapture of young love -- all-surrendering, all-sacrificing love.

The music changed. It held the torture of unshed tears, the anguish of a heart deceived and desolate. Mr. Leonard almost put his hands over his ears to shut out its intolerable poignancy. But on the dying woman's face was only a strange relief, as if some dumb, long-hidden pain had at last won to the healing of utterance.

The sullen indifference of despair came next, the bitterness of smouldering revolt and misery, the reckless casting away of all good. There was something indescribably evil in the music now -- so evil that Mr. Leonard's white souls huddered in loathing, and Maggie cowered and whined like a frightened animal.

Again the music changed. And in it now there was agony and fear - and repentance and a cry for pardon. To Mr. Leonard there was something strangely familiar in it. He struggled to recall where he had heard it before; then he suddenly knew - he had heard it before Felix came, in Naomi's terrible words! He looked at his grandson with something like awe. Here was a power of which he knew nothing - a strange and dreadful power. Was it of God? Or of Satan?

For the last time the music changed. And now it was not music at all - it was a great, infinite forgiveness, an all-comprehending love. It was healing for a sick soul; it was light and hope and peace. A Bible text, seemingly incongruous, came into Mr. Leonard's mind -- "This is the house of God; this is the gate of heaven."

Felix lowered the violin and dropped wearily on a chair by the bed. The inspired light faded from his face; once more he was only a tired boy. But Stephen Leonard was on his knees, sobbing like a child; and Naomi Clark was lying still, with her hands clasped over her breast.

"I understand now," she said very softly. "I couldn't see it before - and now it's so plain. I just feel it. God is a God of love. He can forgive anybody -- even me -- even me. He knows all about it. I ain't skeered any more. He just loves me and forgives me as I'd have loved and forgiven my baby if she'd lived, no matter how bad she was, or what she did. The minister told me that but I couldn't believe it. I know it now. And He sent you here to-night, boy, to tell it to me in a way that I could feel it."

Naomi Clark died just as the dawn came up over the sea. Mr. Leonard rose from his watch at her bedside and went to the door. Before him spread the harbour, gray and austere in the faint light, but afar out the sun was rending asunder the milk-white mists in which the sea was scarfed, and under it was a virgin glow of sparkling water.

The fir trees on the point moved softly and whispered together. The whole world sang of spring and resurrection and life; and behind him Naomi Clark's dead face took on the peace that passes understanding.

The old minister and his grandson walked home together in a silence that neither wished to break. Janet Andrews gave them a good scolding and an excellent breakfast. Then she ordered them both to bed; but Mr. Leonard, smiling at her, said,

"Presently, Janet, presently. But now, take this key, go up to the black chest in the garret, and bring me what you will find there."

When Janet had gone, he turned to Felix.

"Felix, would you like to study music as your lifework?"

Felix looked up, with a transfiguring flush on his wan face.

"Oh, grandfather! Oh, grandfather!"

"You may do so, my child. After this night I dare not hinder you. Go with my blessing, and may God guide and keep you, and make you strong to do His work and tell His message to humanity in your own appointed way. It is not the way I desired for you - but I see that I was mistaken. Old Abel spoke truly when he said there was a Christ in your violin as well as a devil. I understand what he meant now."

He turned to meet Janet, who came into the study with a violin. Felix's heart throbbed; he recognized it. Mr. Leonard took it from Janet and held it out to the boy.

"This is your father's violin, Felix. See to it that you never make your music the servant of the power of evil - never debase it to unworthy ends. For your responsiblity is as your gift, and God will exact the accounting of it from you. Speak to the world in your own tongue through it, with truth and sincerity; and all I have hoped for you will be abundantly fulfilled."

An Ode to a very special teacher

To all the educators I know - to Jean, to Beth, to Betsy, to Janine ...to all the teachers out there ...

Here is my favorite story about a teacher. I post it every year at the start of the school year.

An Ode to a very special teacher

I have a friend who grew up in a nightmare, surrounded by poverty, chaos, abuse. He and his siblings clung to one another through it all, and they have emerged intact: healthy beautiful people. But they were brought up in an abusive and reckless nuthouse.

And this post is an ode to a teacher. A teacher who saved my friend's life. When I say this I am quite serious, although she did not drag him from out of a burning house, or leap in to save him from drowning. No. What she did was she recognized the light within him, and she made it her business to protect it, and nurture it. She made it her business to make sure that that bright light survived.

If that's not saving someone's life, then I don't know what is.

My friend is extremely intelligent. His parents did not value this in him. On the contrary, it threatened them. To add to all of this, my friend, from a very young age, knew he was "different" from other boys. Somehow. How many other boys would stay home from school and put hot-rollers into their sister's Cher-doll's hair? How many other boys could recite Meet Me in St. Louis? How many other boys lip-synched to Barbra Streisand albums? He couldn't put a name to what was different because he was just a little boy. But he knew it was there.

The teasing he got, from within his family and at school, was brutal. Teasing of this kind has one goal and one goal only: to crush what is different. The difference in him was like a scent and other kids could smell it. So they set out to destroy it. Which is why he would stay home from school, playing with his sister's Barbies.

The little boy reached the 2nd grade. He had already learned some very hard lessons. He had already experienced cruelty, betrayal, terror. The end of this story could have been a terrible one. All of the cards were stacked against this person.

He might never have gotten out, were it not for his 2nd grade teacher.

I cannot remember her name, but I will hold a place in my heart for her forever. I did not meet this "little boy" until college when we became fast friends, but to my view, this 2nd grade teacher was directly responsible for the fact that this little boy went to college (the first one in his family to do so), that this little boy broke the pattern of abuse in his family, that this little boy got the hell OUT and said NO to what seemed to be his logical fate.

This 2nd grade teacher read E.B. White's Stuart Little to the class.

And my friend, then 7 years old, had what can only be described as a life-changing experience, listening to that book.

Stuart Little is a mouse, born to human parents. Everyone is confused by him. "Where the heck did HE come from?" My friend, a little boy who was so "different" he might as well have been a mouse born to human parents, a little boy who was, indeed, smaller than everybody else in the class, listened to this book, agog, his soul opened up to it, and it changed his life.

First of all: for the first time, he really got reading. By this I mean the importance, and the excitement, of language. Language can crack open windows in places you thought were just a wall. Language can create new and better worlds. Language is a way out. To this day, my friend is a voracious reader. I will never forget living with him while he was reading Magic Mountain. We lived in a one-room apartment, and so if I wanted to go to sleep and turn the lights off, my friend would take a pillow into the bathroom, shut the door, curl up on the bathmat, and read Magic Mountain long into the night.

I believe that this voraciousness is a direct result of that 2nd grade teacher reading Stuart Little to the class. If that had not happened, and if it hadn't been that particular book, my friend might not have gotten OUT, might not have gone to college, might not have been the big reader that he is today. It was that significant.

Stuart Little is "different". Just like my friend was "different". In hearing the words of that story, my friend rose above the pain, the loneliness, the torture, the fear, and realized that there were others out there who were "different" too. And that different was GOOD!

And here was the major revelation: Stuart Little's small-ness ends up being his greatest asset. That which seemed like the biggest strike against him is not at all in the end! My friend, in his 7-year-old epiphany, embraced his size. Small didn't mean "weak". Not at all.

Somewhere, in his child-like soul, he knew he was gay although he did not have a word for it. It wasn't a sexual orientation so much, at that time, but a sensibility. He wasn't like the other kids. He didn't know yet what that would mean for him, in his life, but it certainly isolated him in school. And it isolated him at home. And so, hearing about the adventures of Stuart Little, my friend realized that this life that he was living right now , the narrow circle of poverty and pain, did not have to be his life. He suddenly knew, for the first time in his life, that everything was going to be okay.

As the teacher read the story to the class, my friend had the intense sensation that the teacher was reading it directly to him, and only to him. It was such a strong feeling that he was able to describe it to me, vividly, years and years later. The rest of the class fell away, and it was as though she had singled him out, she was trying to give him a message of some sort, through the words of E.B. White. That book was for him, and for him alone.

By the time high school came around, my friend had learned that wit was the best defense against teasing. His humor, his sarcasm became his armor, but it also became the way he made friends. In a very short time, he acquired what can be only referred to as bodyguards, high school football players, who thought he was hilarious, and who protected him in the locker room, pushing anyone off who tried to mess with him.

My friend had a close circle of friends, all witty, artistic, interesting people, and these friends pushed him to apply to college, because they all were applying to college. And so he applied to college. He got in. He went to college. He graduated. He graduated college.

Years later, many years after college, he ran into that 2nd grade teacher in a breakfast restaurant in Rhode Island.

She (a teacher to the core) recognized him immediately, even in his adult-ness. She said, "My goodness - it is so wonderful to see you! I have heard so many wonderful things about what you are up to - how are you??"

They talked for a while. He caught her up on his life, she listened and supported him. She still was invested in what had happened to that small special boy she had taught many many years before.

And then, in a burst of open-ness, my friend said to her, kind of blowing it off, laughing at himself, "You know ... this is kind of silly ... but I want to tell you that ... I remember so vividly you reading Stuart Little to the class. It had a huge impact on my life ... and ... I know it's crazy and everything, but at the time, I truly had the feeling that you were reading it just to me."

She looked at him then, smiled, and said, "I was."

Weekend snapshots

-- First and foremost: there was the wild ocean.

-- We walked down to Turtle Soup - a restaurant right on the water - we could see the heaving grey waves over the wall - which, on a calm day, you can't see. You normally can just see the horizon, the blue ocean horizon. But on Saturday - the water was so high you could see the whitecaps rolling in. The air filled with flying chunks of sea foam. The wind so hard that Katie's "dump receipt" was whipped out of her hands, smacked Jean in the face, and then promptly flew 2 blocks away. Katie ran to get it. Why was that so funny to me?? She had just dropped off a thousand pounds of garbage at the dump and she was DAMNED if she would lose that receipt.

-- Oh, and on our way back to dinner, we had a spitting contest. Spitting INTO the wind. Awesome.

-- There was an hour and a half wait for a table at Turtle Soup. It was a stormy wind-wracked wave-drenched Saturday night - and basically the whole town had come out to stand by the sea wall to watch Mother Nature. And now it was time for dinner. So we walked to PJ's Pub, the wind now at our backs, pushing us along. Jean was almost blown away.

-- Big dinner. Lots of talk. Sangria.

-- Then we headed over to The Ocean Mist. The ocean heaving itself towards the shore, foam rushing underneath the deck of the bar - the deck where we were standing. The white floating seagulls had flown off for calmer landscapes - because it was pretty damn wild out there.

-- I became obsessed with "Tamborine Lady" and I am working on a piece about her. She's a modern-day Tennessee Williams character - even down to the bum leg. I so wanted to talk to her, but that meant I would have had to interrupt her wild gyrating tamborine playing. Seriously, I know it's rude and everything, but I couldn't stop staring at her. It would be like if Blanche Dubois walked into a fisherman's bar, with her gloves and her ancient jewelry, and sat in a dark shadowy corner, fanning herself. You'd want to stare at her, too. Tamborine Lady. I have thought about her nearly constantly ever since my first glimpse of her. She had long thick white hair. And eyes with an intense frightening gleam in them. The Ocean Mist is a shack on the beach, cavernous, big, pool tables, a deck, you can actually FEEL the pound of the waves when you're inside - there's music, a crowd of regulars, food coming out of the kitchen ... and Tamborine Lady. With her rituals, and her otherworldly preoccupations.

-- Oh, and big discussion earlier about the Narnia books. I had set up my Mac for everyone and had shown them my geek-a-mo slideshow that I created of Cary Grant photos. Then came the big Narnia discussion and I realized that - with Sean - I was in the presence of a true Narnia FANATIC and I had best just get out of the way. It would be like someone trying to convince me that Cary Grant was born in America, or some other horribly WRONG thing. Like: Okay, you're obviously an amateur at this obsession thing, not to be rude, but I am an expert - and there is NO WAY you can compete with me. NO WAY. Don't even try, CHiPs. So talking with Sean was like that. It was too damn funny - because he caught himself at one point, like: "Wow. I just sounded like a total geek, didn't I?" I said, to set him at ease, "I just showed you a slideshow I created of all of my Cary Grant photos." Bursts of laughter. That was really all I needed to say. No need to be embarrassed about being a dork in MY presence - because when I'm nuts about something, I'm NUTS. We all talked about the Narnia movie. I asked Sean what he thought of it - knowing how important his opinion would be, seeing as he was a Narnia expert and all. He looked doubtful, hesitant ... and he said, regretfully, "I didn't like Mr. Tumnus' legs."

Now THAT is an obsessive.

The pathos of childhood ...

... let me count the ways ....

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'Old Lady Lloyd'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: "Old Lady Lloyd".

Perhaps her stories would seem sentimental or too obvious today - I know they do at times for me - but in a way, for me, it's like watching old movies when the acting style was different ... I certainly prefer modern short stories, and I certainly wouldn't put any of her work up next to, say, Lorrie Moore - or any other master of the form ... She wrote this stuff for MONEY and she tailored her stories for certain audiences. She wrote horror stories, ghost stories, love stories, stories which would fit right into a Good Housekeeping mag or a Ladies Home Journal - simple little domestic tales. The plots are sometimes clunky and a lot of times they depend on coincidence - unbelievable coincidence - showing up at just the right moment. But this, remember, is the style of the time. If you read Dickens now - while yes, his characters leave an indelible impression - a lot of the times it is in SPITE of the machinations of the Victorian-era plot devices. Again: this is not a criticism. It would be like watching an old movie and being literally unable to get used to the black and white, or noticing that: Hmmm, he's supposed to be poor - yet look at his immaculate jacket! Etc. If you get hung up on the surface of things, you can miss so much of the jewels beneath. I'm not saying that some of Lucy Maud's short stories aren't crap (especially the ones published posthumously in the last 10 years or so) - because, oh boy, they ARE ... but I think it would also be wrong to say that they are uninteresting. Maybe you need to be a Lucy Maud fan to find them interesting, but I find them interesting on a literary level as well. Lucy Maud wrote at a time when there were literally hundreds of magazines devoted to literature. That world no longer exists. If you look at The New Yorker, it's the same names publishing stories there week after week - there just aren't as many options for starting writers to make a little cash. Lucy Maud, too, did not have any illusions ... Ghost stories sold, and those magazines paid well - so she wrote a ton of ghost stories. Her novels are where she shines as a storyteller, a creator of worlds - but she had no shame in working in many different genres, if it paid. Also: that world no longer exists either.

"Old Lady Lloyd" is almost novella length - it's quite long. It tells the story of an interesting old woman who is known to the people in Spencervale as "Old Lady Lloyd". She lives off by herself, she is known to be famously stingy, and she is also known to be haughty and almost frigidly proud. She wears elaborate silk dresses every day. She doesn't go to church. She never donates to worthy causes. People are chased away from her door. Gossip rages about her. But we get to know her, through the story - and we learn a lot about her. We learn that she was left with no fortune at all when her parents died - and her oily cousin controls her money - and so she basically lives in poverty. She wears silk dresses every day because those are left over from her wealthy time and she can't afford new clothes. And she is so humiliated about her poverty-struck state that she never lets on that she needs anything. She lives off of fruit that she picks in the woods, and she rations out her bread for herself. Spencervale has NO idea that she is so hard up. They no longer ask her to join sewing circles or what have you, because they are sick of her haughty airs - they do not recognize that it is all a front, to hide her poverty. We also learn that long ago she loved someone once - and he - in typical Lucy Maud fashion - spurned her. Or - no - they quarreled, and like a typical Lucy Maud heroine, she refused to forgive him when he begged for it. And he BEGGED. But her pride is too strong to give in. She turned him away. And of course - that meant the end of her happiness forever. He married someone else, moved away - etc. etc. He then died.

Old Lady Lloyd lives in the past. She wears old silk dresses, she is laughed at by townspeople, she is feared, little kids think she's a witch - and her life is very very bitter.

But then one spring ... her dead lover's daughter Sylvia (who is now 20 years old) moves back to Spencervale. She has a job as a music teacher. Old Lady Lloyd recognizes the family resemblance immediately - and through the course of the story - begins to leave Sylvia little gifts on the woodland path that Sylvia uses to get to town. She leaves her fresh strawberries (which basically means a full meal to Old Lady Lloyd) ... she leaves her flowers ... she never lets on that it is her, and she doesn't even think that Sylvia would know of her existence. But Old Lady Lloyd, a lonely old soul, sees in Sylvia the daughter she COULD have had ... and so wants to do anything she can for her.

Anyway ... that's the set up. The way it all turns out is, yes, sentimental, but I gotta tell ya - I get a little lump in my throat at the end of the story every time.

Here's an excerpt from "Old Lady Lloyd". She has heard that Sylvia has been accepted to music school - yet she does not have the money to go. Old Lady Lloyd worries herself almost sick about this. It just so happens that Andrew Cameron, her businessman cousin, had a daughter who was also a singer - and I guess she died - so in her memory he set up a very lucrative music scholarship. He has sent 10 young needy people to music school already. Old Lady Lloyd feels that Sylvia MUST go to music school. So she decides to do what she has promised herself she would never do: go into town and ask her slick cousin for help. This is a proud proud woman, and having to beg for money is so against who she is - but love has opened her up. She no longer clings to pride. There are more important things.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "Old Lady Lloyd"

When the Old Lady reached the town, she ate her slender little lunch and then walked out to the suburb where the Cameron factories and warehouses were. It was a long walk for her, but she could not afford to drive. She felt very tired when she was shown into the shining, luxurious office where Andrew Cameron sat at his desk.

After the first startled glance of surprise, he came forward beamingly, with outstretched hand.

"Why, Cousin Margaret! This is a pleasant surprise. Sit down -- allow me, this is a much more comfortable chair. Did you come out this morning? And how is everybody out in Spencervale?"

The Old Lady had flushed at his first words. To hear the name by which her father and mother and lover had called her on Andrew Cameron's lips seemed like profanation. But, she told herself, the time was past for squeakishness. If she could ask a favor of Andrew Cameron, she could bear lesser pangs. For Sylvia's sake she shook hands with him, for Sylvia's sake she sat down in the chair he offered. For no living human being's sake could this determined Old Lady infuse any cordiality into her manner or her words. She went straight to the point with Lloyd simplicity.

"I have come to ask a favour of you," she said, looking him in the eye, not at all humbly or meekly, as became a supplicant, but challengingly and defiantly, as if she dared him to refuse.

"De-lighted to hear it, Cousin Margaret." Never was anything so bland and gracious as his tone. "Anything I can do for you I shall be only too pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice keenly. I realize that some appearances were against me, but --"

The Old Lady lifted her hand and stemmed his eloquence by that one gesture.

"I did not come here to discuss that matter," she said. "We will not refer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favour, not for myself, but for a very dear young friend of mine - a Miss Gray, who has a remarkably fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came to ask you if you would give her one of your musical scholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has said of her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send her abroad for training, you will not make any mistake."

The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron would grant her request; but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely or unwillingly. She could accept the favour so much more easily if it were flung at her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it, Andrew Cameron was suaver than ever. Nothing could give him greater pleasure than to grant his dear Cousin Margaret's request - he only wished it involved more trouble on his part. Her little protege should have her musical education assuredly - she should go abroad next year - and he was de-lighted --

"Thank you," said the Old Lady, cutting him short again. "I am much obliged to you - and I ask you not to let Miss Gray know anything of my interference. And I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. Good afternoon."

"Oh, you mustn't go so soon," he said, with some real kindness or clannishness permeating the hateful cordiality of his voice - for Andrw Cameron was not entirely without the homely virtues of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of his Cousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that "circumstances" had "compelled" him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father's investment. "You must be my guest tonight."

"Thank you. I must return home tonight," said the Old Lady firmly, and there was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would be useless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage to drive her to the station. The Old Lady submitted to this, because she was secretly afraid her own legs would not suffice to carry her there; she even shook hands with him at parting, and thanked him a second time for granting her request.

"Not at all," he said. "Please try to think a little more kindly of me, Cousin Margaret."

When the Old Lady reached the station she found, to her dismay, that her train had just gone and that she would have to wait two hours for the evening one. She went into the waiting-room, and sat down. She was very tired. All the excitement that had sustained her was gone, and she felt weak and old. She had nothing to eat, having expected to get home in time for tea; the waiting-room was chilly, and she shivered in her thin, old, silk mantilla. Her head ached and her heart likewise. She had won Sylvia's desire for her; but Sylvia would go out of her life, and the Old Lady did not see how she was to go on living after that. Yet she sat there unflinchingly for two hours, an upright, indomitable old figure, silently fighting her losing battle with the forces of physical and mental pain, while happy people came and went, and laughed and talked before her.

At eight o'clock the Old Lady got off the train at Bright River station, and slipped off unnoticed into the darkness of the wet night. She had two miles to walk, and a cold rain was falling. Soon the Old Lady was wet to the skin and chilled to the marrow. She felt as if she were walking in a bad dream. Blind instinct alone guided her over the last mile and up the lane to her own house. As she fumbled at her door, she realized that a burning heat had suddenly taken the place of her chilliness. She stumbled in over her threshold and closed the door.

Burning Man

What an amazing picture. I have a couple friends at Burning Man - they go every year - and it's one of those things where I think I really should just go one of these days. Mitchell and I have talked about it. It would be an adventure. You know, make some papier mache shit and strum a homemade ukelele and wear a Mardi Gras mask for no apparent reason and sleep in a tent and dance around a fire. Look at that sunrise over the desert - with the black paper cut-out bicycle riders. Breathtaking.

More photos here.

Happy place

I have a bunch of stills from River of No Return - especially from this particular scene - but the one below is my favorite. It's hot. He's hot. In general.

Humorous moment

Mere showing us one of her karate kicks. She stood up - Beth and I were sitting down - and she began her kicks. We watched, in silence.

But then Beth said, showing where her attention really was: "I love those jeans!"

Mere kept kicking, and said, "Thanks! They're my nice-ass jeans!"

Kick - kick - kick - kick ...

Why I love North Dakota

The Books: "Chronicles of Avonlea - 'The Hurrying of Ludovic'" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery.

So I'm going to make what might be a rather controversial executive decision. There are a couple of collections of Lucy Maud's short stories - a couple put together while she was alive - and MANY put together after her death - and of course I will include them in the book excerpt thing, because she wrote them, and they are part of her, uhm, CANON. But I just can't choose ONE story out of each collection to be representative of the whole - because I'm too obsessive - so I'm going to choose excerpts from - well, not ALL the stories - but MANY of them. These collections of stories are pretty wonderful (some of her earlier work - the stuff that was put together after her death - is pretty bad - it was her bread and butter for the many years before Anne was published - so she wrote them "to order" for certain magazines, and it shows - but a lot of these stories are as good as mini-novels). So here we are at Chronicles of Avonlea - a collection that was originally published in 1912, in the first wave of her fame. Anne shows up in some of these stories (always peripherally, though) - She's home on her vacation from Queen's or Redmond - and she manages to do a little matchmaking in her spare time.

The first story in the collection is "The Hurrying of Ludovic". It's an adorable story. Theodora Dix and Ludovic Speed (I mean, come on, the NAMES!!) have been "seeing" each other for 15 years. Ludovic Speed is the opposite of his own last name. He meanders, he walks slowly, he talks slowly. Theodora Dix is a comfy homey sort of woman - and even though Ludovic has never had a sense of urgency in his courting of her, she doesn't really worry about it. She assumes that eventually they'll get married, eventually he'll get around to proposing her. But ... when? It is against Ludovic Speed's nature to hurry - or make a stand. He totally takes Theodora for granted. He walks her home from prayer meeting every week, and then they sit up in her sitting room until 10 o'clock - talking and arguing and conversing - and then Ludovic walks home, only to do it all again the next week. It takes Anne Shirley, home from Redmond for the summer, to hurry Ludovic along. She is friends with Theodora and one night Theodora finally admits that she does want to get married, and she thinks that Ludovic needs a wife (he doesn't eat right, his clothes need mending, he lives with an old aunt who is a terrible housekeeper) - and she also wants to know that Ludovic actually has at least a LITTLE bit of fire in him. So Anne comes up with a plan to make Ludovic jealous. To "hurry" him along.

And of course it all ends happily. Because that's the kind of short stories that Lucy Maud wrote.

Oh - and one last thing: If Lucy Maud had never published "Anne" - if she had never become famous - she probably still would have been making a rather nice living off of short stories. She was ALWAYS writing, and ALWAYS sending stuff out. Her output is incredible. How could one woman write so much in just one lifetime?

And you'll see in the prose below - how rich and full these worlds she creates are - even in the short story form.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery - "The Hurrying of Ludovic"

The curtain rose on the first act after prayer meeting on the next Thursday night. It was bright moonlight when the people came out of church, and everybody saw it plainly. Arnold Sherman stood upon the steps close to the door, and Ludovic Speed leaned up against a corner of the graveyard fence, as he had done for years. The boys said he had worn the paint off that particular place. Ludovic knew of no reason why he should paste himself up against the church door. Theodora would come out as usual, and he would join her as she went past the corner.

This was what happened; Theodora came down the steps, her stately figure outlined in its darkness against the gush of lamplight from the porch. Arnold Sherman asked her if he might see her home. Theodora took his arm calmly, and together they swept past the stupefied Ludovic, who stood helplessly gazing after them as if unable to believe his eyes.

For a few moments he stood there limply; then he started down the road after his fickle lady and her new admirer. The boys and irresponsible young men crowded after, expecting some excitement, but they were disappointed. Ludovi strode on until he overtook Theodora and Arnold Sherman, and then fell meekly in behind them.

Theodora hardly enjoyed her walk home, although Arnold Sherman laid himself out to be especially entertaining. Her heart yearned after Ludovic, whose shuffling footsteps she heard behind her. She feared that she had been very cruel, but she was in for it now. She steeled herself by the reflection that it was all for his own good, and she talked to Arnold Sherman as if he were the one man in the world. Poor, deserted Ludovic, following humbly behind, heard her, and if Theodora had known how bitter the cup she was holding to his lips really was, she would never have been resolute enough to present it, no matter for what ultimate good.

When she and Arnold turned in at her gate, Ludovic had to stop. Theodora looked over her shoulder and saw him standing still on the road. His forlorn figure haunted her thoughts all night. If Anne had not run over the next day and bolstered up her convictions, she might have spoiled everything by prematurely relenting.

Ludovic, meanwhile, stood still on the road, quite oblivious to the hoots and comments of the vastly amused small boy contingent, until Theodora and his rival disappeared from his view under the firs in the hollow of her lane. Then he turned about and went home, not with his usual leisurely amble, but with a perturbed stride which proclaimed his inward disquiet.

He felt bewildered. If the world had come suddenly to an end or if the lazy, meandering Grafton River had turned about and flowed up hill, Ludovic could not have been more astonished. For fiteen years he had walked home from meetings with Theodora; and now this elderly stranger, with all the glamor of "the States" hanging about him, had coolly walked off with her under Ludovic's very nose. Worse -- most unkindest cut of all -- Theodora had gone with him willingly; nay, she had evidently enjoyed his company. Ludovic felt the stirring of a righteous anger in his easy-going soul.

When he reached the end of his lane, he paused at his gate, and looked at his house, set back from the lane in a crescent of birches. Even in the moonlight, its weather-worn aspect was plainly visible. He thought of the "palatial residence" rumour ascribed to Arnold Sherman in Boston, and stroked his chin nervously with his sunburned fingers. Then he doubled up his fist and struck it smartly on the gate-post.

"Theodora needn't think she is going to jilt me in this fashion, after keeping company with me for fifteen years," he said. "I'll have something to say to it, Arnold Sherman or no Arnold Sherman. The impudence of the puppy!"

Fun with the scanner!

Ridiculous-ness from stage-makeup class. I wish I had the photos of my friends as well - because I was in class with Mitchell and Jackie, and we were basically in rebellion against our required courses (brown wool leg-wraps, you understand). Either Jackie or Mitchell took these photos. So our underlying emotional subtext was: Look, lady, I know how to do stage makeup, mmkay?? But still. Uhm ...

We got into it.

Ah, Sean Young, before she went batshit insane.

I have no idea what this is. The lady in the water? The ho in the pool?

And finally:

Wow. Cheer up, chippy. You're lookin' a little, uhm ... dehydrated would be a nice way to put it.

The Books: "The Golden Road" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is The Golden Road by L.M. Montgomery.

The Golden Road is the second book in the series about "The Story Girl" (first excerpt here) - the second and final book. The melancholy that was only hinted at in the first book now comes much more to the forefront (you'll see what I mean in the excerpt). "The golden road" means childhood - and in this book - the children are approaching the end of it. It's like little Jackie Paper's betrayal of Puff. That song always killed me as a little kid - because I was SO on Puff's side. I would NEVER betray Puff, etc. But that's what happens ... you grow up ... Puff is left behind. Lucy Maud remembers very well what that moment is like (so many people forget - and often it is up to authors to remind us) - and "The Golden Road" tells about that specific moment. The kids still cling to childhood - although life continues to intervene, pulling them forward.

The Story Girl's father (who basically abandoned her) returns at the end of this book - and amazingly the Story Girl holds no resentment towards him (this is akin to Lucy Maud's whole experience with her father) - she is overjoyed to see her father. But what the advent of her father means is that he is now going to take her away. She will be joining him now in his global gallivanting - and the little band of friends are going to be broken up. Bev and Felix also get the word from their father from Rio de Janiero that he will be coming to fetch them as well - he misses them desperately - and needs to have the family be together again. So everything is going to change ... all at once.

But before that moment - the adventures continue. They get up a newspaper which they publish once a month. Every issue of this newspaper (with etiquette tips, and gossip columns, and "news" stories) is included in this book. Some of it is laugh out loud funny.

There are resolutions that come to mysteries and conundrums set up in the first book. The mysterious and dreamy Awkward Man (that is his name, apparently) finds his love and takes her home with him. He will be lonely no more. The kids finally get to hang out with Peg Bowen, the witch, up close and personal - when they take shelter in her hut during a blizzard. A couple of other loose ends are tied up, including the big ol' loose end of what will happen to the Story Girl. Her humble homely aunts and uncles have a vague sense (even though they are strict unimaginative Presbyterians) that she could "be something" some day ... that she needs to have an education ... that the life of a housewife or a farmer's wife is not for her ... but who will give her this education? Who will provide for her?

At the end of the book - the Story Girl leaves - waving out the window of her buggy - tears streaming down her face - at all of her little friends and cousins, promising to keep in touch, even though now - she will be living in London and Paris with her father.

Childhood has ended. They have come to the end of the Golden Road. These are simple sweet books about childhood, with hilarious tales of mischief, and recipes gone bad, and dares gone haywire - but running through them is a yowl of pain, that all beautiful things must come to an end.

Here is a chapter that comes near the end of the book. The group of friends sense that their time of heavenly togetherness and blissful oblivion is coming to a close. So every moment they have together is piercingly sweet, and almost sad.

At the end of this excerpt comes a perfect example of what I meant when I said that the future flits across these books like a shadow. Bev, the narrator, is writing from the future. He knows the end. He knows what is going to happen. He never shows his cards, because that is not what the books are about - but the knowledge is still there.

Excerpt from The Golden Road by L.M. Montgomery.

"It'll be awfully dull when you fellows go," muttered Dan.

"I'm sure I don't know what we're ever going to do here this winter," said Felicity, with the calmness of despair.

"Thank goodness there are no more fathers to come back," breathed Cecily with a vicious earnestness that made us all laugh, even in the midst of our dismay.

We worked very half-heartedly the rest of the day, and it was not until we assembled in the orchard in the evening that our spirits recovered something like their wonted level. It was clear and slightly frosty; the sun had declined behind a birch on a distant hill and it seemed a tree with a blazing heart of fire. The great golden willow at the lane gate was laughter-shaken in the wind of evening. Even amid all the changes of our shifting world we could not be hopelessly low-spirited - except Sara Ray, who was often so, and Peter, who was rarely so. But Peter had been sorely vexed in spirit for several days. The time was approaching for the October issue of Our Magazine and he had no genuine fiction ready for it. He had taken so much to heart Felicity's taunt that his stories were all true that he had determined to have a really-truly false one in the next number. But the difficulty was to get anyone to write it. He had asked the Story Girl to do it, but she refused; then he appealed to me and I shirked. Finally Peter determined to write a story himself.

"It oughtn't to be any harder than writing a poem and I managed that," he said dolefully.

He worked at it in the evenings in the granary loft, and the rest of us forebore to question him concerning it, because he evidently disliked talking about his lterary efforts. But this evening I had to ask him if he would soon have it ready, as I wanted to make up the paper.

"It's done," said Peter, with an air of gloomy triumph. "It don't amount to much, but anyhow I made it all out of my own head. Not one word of it was ever printed or told before, and nobody can say there was."

"Then I guess we have all the stuff in and I'll have Our Magazine ready to read by tomorrow night," I said.

"I s'pose it will be the last one we'll have," sighed Cecily. "We can't carry it on after you all go, and it has been such fun."

"Bev will be a real newspaper editor some day," declared the Story Girl, on whom the spirit of prophecy suddenly descended that night.

She was swinging on the bough of an apple tree, with a crimson shawl wrapped about her head, and her eyes were bright with roguish fire.

"How do you know he will?" asked Felicity.

"Oh, I can tell futures," answered the Story Girl mysteriously. "I know what's going to happen to all of you. Shall I tell you?"

"Do, just for the fun of it," I said. "Then some day we'll know just how near you came to guessing right. Go on. What else about me?"

"You'll write books, too, and travel all over the world," continued the Story Girl. "Felix will be fat to the end of his life, and he will be a grandfather before he is fifty, and he will wear a long black beard."

"I won't," cried Felix disgustedly. "I hate whiskers. Maybe I can't help the grandfather part, but I can help having a beard."

"You can't. It's written in the stars."

"T'ain't. The stars can't prevent me from shaving."

"Won't Grandpa Felix sound awful funny?" reflected Felicity.

"Peter will be a minister," went on the Story Girl.

"Well, I might be something worse," remarked Peter, in a not ungratified tone.

"Dan will be a farmer and will marry a girl whose name begins with K and he will have eleven children. And he'll vote Grit."

"I won't," cried scandalized Dan. "You don't know a thing about it. Catch me ever voting Grit! As for the rest of it - I don't care. Farming's well enough, though I'd rather be a sailor."

"Don't talk such nonsense," protested Felicity sharply. "What on earth do you want to be a sailor for and be drowned?"

"All sailors aren't drowned," said Dan.

"Most of them are. Look at Uncle Stephen."

"You ain't sure he was drowned."

"Well, he disappeared, and that is worse."

"How do you know? Disappearing might be real easy."

"It's not very easy for your family."

"Hush, let's hear the rest of the predictions," said Cecily.

"Felicity," resumed the Story Girl gravely, "will marry a minister."

Sara Ray giggled and Felicity blushed. Peter tried hard not to look too self-consciously delighted.

"She will be a perfect housekeeper and will teach a Sunday School class and be very happy all her life."

"Will her husband be happy?" queried Dan solemnly.

"I guess he'll be as happy as your wife," retorted Felicity reddening.

"He'll be the happiest man in the world," declared Peter warmly.

"What about me?" asked Sara Ray.

The Story Girl looked rather puzzled. It was so hard to imagine Sara Ray as having any kind of future. Yet Sara was plainly anxious to have her fortune told and must be gratified.

"You'll be married," said the Story Girl recklessly, "and you'll live to be nearly a hundred years old, and go to dozens of funerals and have a great many sick spells. You will learn not to cry after you are seventy; but your husband will never go to church."

"I'm glad you warned me," said Sara Ray solemnly, "because now I know I'll make him promise before I marry him that he will go."

"He won't keep the promise," said the Story Girl, shaking her head. "But it's getting cold and Cecily is coughing. Let us go in."

"You haven't told my fortune," protested Cecily disappointedly.

The Story Girl looked very tenderly at Cecily - at the smooth little brown head, at the soft, shining eyes, at the cheeks that were often over-rosy after slight exertion, at the little sunburned hands that were always busy doing faithful work or quiet kindnesses. A very strange look came over the Story Girl's face, her eyes grew sad and far-reaching, as if of a verity they pierced beyond the mists of hidden years.

"I couldn't tell any fortune half good enough for you, dearest," she said, slipping her arm round Cecily. "You deserve everything good and lovely. But you know I've only been in fun - of course I don't know anything about what's going to happen to us."

"Perhaps you know more than you think for," said Sara Ray, who seemed much pleased with her fortune and anxious to believe it, despite the husband who wouldn't go to church.

"But I'd like to be told my fortune, even in fun," persisted Cecily.

"Everybody you meet will love you as long as you live," said the Story Girl. "There that's the very nicest fortune I can tell you, and it will come true whether the others do or not, and now we must go in."

We went, Cecily still a little disappointed. In later years I often wondered why the Story Girl refused to tell her fortune that night. Did some strange gleam of foreknowledge fall for a moment across her mirth-making? Did she realize in a flash of prescience that there was no earthly future for our sweet Cecily? Not for her were to be the lengthening shadows or the fading garland. The end was to come while the rainbow still sparkled on her wine of life, ere a single peter had fallen from her rose of joy. Long life was before all the others who trysted that night in the old homestead orchard; but Cecily's maiden feet were never to leave the golden road.

Monsters

More from George Orwell's essay on Dickens.

The fact that Dickens is always thought of as a caricaturist, although he was constantly trying to be something else, is perhaps the surest mark of his genius. The monstrosities that he created are still remembered as monstrosities, in spite of getting mixed up in would-be probable melodramas. Their first impact is so vivid that nothing that comes afterwards effaces it. As with the people one knew in childhood, one seems always to remember them in one particular attitude, doing one particular thing. Mrs. Squeers is always ladling out brimstone and treacle, Mrs. Gummidge is always weeping, Mrs. Gargery is always banging her husband's head against the wall, Mrs. Jellyby is always scribbling tracta while her children fall into the area -- and there they all are, fixed for ever like little twinkling miniatures painted on snuffbox lids, completely fantastic and incredible, and yet somehow more solid and infinitely more memorable than the efforts of serious novelists. Even by the standards of his time Dickens was an exceptionally artificial writer. As Ruskin said, he "chose to work in a circle of stage fire". His characters are even more distorted and simplified than Smolett's. But there are no rules in novel-writing, and for any work of art there is only one test worth bothering about -- survival. By this test Dickens's characters have succeeded, even if the people who remember them hardly think of them as human beings. They are monsters, but at any rate they exist.

crashing

Drove down to the beach yesterday afternoon - to watch the surf. The waves were so high that they were crashing over the sea wall. Huge breakers crashing, the entire ocean appeared to be a-foaming. Normally you see at least some blue water, even on a choppy day ... but yesterday, the entire ocean seemed to be white. Then a wave would rise up, slate-grey, thick, and crash into white foam, then another wave, then another wave, there was no let up. The waves had to be 20 feet high - crashing far out and then barreling in and smashing up and over the sea wall. Also the wind was so high that it picked the foam up off the top of these waves and catapulted it through the air. And so the windy air was filled wtih swirling bits of white - sea-foam -only it looked like a ticker-tape parade. "What is all that white stuff in the air???" It was the foam off the crashing waves. The ocean - a massive heaving crashing force. The boom of the wave impact against the wall - getting sprayed with water - over and over ... Towers of spray, like spume shooting out of a whale. I wasn't the only person who chose to go down to the sea wall yesterday. There were tons of people down there, either parked in their cars, or standing right out against the wall, looking at the storm. The wind was intense. The sky was grey and dramatic - it was like you could almost picture the sweeping curve of the entire storm as if you were looking at a satellite picture, only from below. You could sense the longness of the arms of the storm, the scope of it. The noise of the waves and the wind and the crashing was so loud that people had to shout to be heard. The ocean was coming across to me as a living organism, bubbling, boiling over, heaving beneath that crashing white foam. I love the ocean in all its moods, but I love it in its stormy mood the best.

The Books: "The Story Girl" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is The Story Girl by L.M. Montgomery.

Okay - so now we're moving out of the comfort of the Anne series - into the wilds of all her OTHER books. The Story Girl is first in a two-part series - and the lead girl is Sara Stanley, aka "The Story Girl". However- unlike her Anne books (excerpt here) or her Emily books (excerpt here) - in this one The Story Girl is seen from the outside. The book is a first-person narration - rare in Lucy Maud's work (except, actually, for her short stories - there's a lot of first-person narration there - but The Story Girl and The Golden Road (excerpt here) are the only first-person books.) And the person telling the story is NOT The Story Girl - so we are seeing her from someone else's eyes the whole time, which I think is really interesting.

I love these two books. Lucy Maud wrote them for a couple reasons - one because she didn't JUST want to write about Anne. The Story Girl was published in 1910 - so Lucy Maud is in the first wave of her fame. She didn't just want to repeat herself. Second of all, she wanted to reach out to the young BOY audience as well. These two books are her way of doing that. The first-person narrator is a boy - and the books are light on the nature descriptions - there's next to no romance (the kids are all young - The Story Girl is the oldest one, and she is only 14) - and the books are FULL of hi-jinx. Lucy Maud has never been so mischievous as in these books. Everything that could go wrong does go wrong. The kids scheme, plan, make up games, decide to cook dinner for their elders and use sawdust instead of flour by accident, they get freaked out, they have serious problems, they get ill, they sit around on snowy nights and tell stories - but mainly, it is the story of all the MISCHIEF they get into, on purpose or not. This is a book about childhood, on the ground-level. She's right there in it with them. BUT (and here is why I think she's such a special writer): you also get the sense, somehow, that Bev (the narrator) is not telling us about these events NOW - but he is looking back on them, way back on them, from his own adulthood. There's a certain nostalgia that keens through these pages - there's also (at times) a shadow that falls over the narration here and there - a shadow from the future. Like with Cecily. You know, somehow - through things Bev says and hints at - that Cecily will die young. She doesn't die within the course of the two books - but you know that she is not going to make it, and that ... Oh. It's going to be so so sad for those kids. It will be the moment they leave childhood behind. So these books are elevated somehow - by this sense of retrospect. I LOVE that aspect of them. It's painful. It's like the last paragraph of Stephen King's It which ... gives me a little pang inside every time I read it, or even right now, when I am just thinking about it (excerpt here). The nostalgia for the intensity of childhood. The pain of separating from your childhood friends, and also moving off "The Golden Road" of childhood. Nostalgia is great. But it doesn't feel good, all the time. You miss those days gone by. You miss them so much that it aches. This is what I get from these two books.

Bev is our narrator. Bev is a boy. Bev??? Don't ask me. Bev and Felix are being sent to live with relatives because their father is being sent on business to Rio de Janiero. I believe their mother is dead. Bev and Felix have never been to see these relatives - so it is all new to them. It is also their father's childhood home (on PEI, of course) - so they have heard all about it - the red roads, the cherry blossoms, all the little landmarks (trees and stones and walls, etc.) that their father had described to them so lovingly. So even though Bev and Felix miss their dad, they feel so close to him - seeing where he grew up.

They stay with Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet who have 3 kids - Felicity, Cecily and Dan. At the next farm over stays Sara Stanley with her Aunt Olivia (Sara's mother is dead). The other kids who hang out in this gang are Peter, the "hired boy" (you just love him) - and Sara Ray - a small pale kind of annoying little worrywart. They all embrace Bev and Felix ... and the adventures then begin.

The Story Girl is a born storyteller. The book is full of her stories - some of them are true, or legends from the town - how so-and-so proposed to his wife, etc. Some are hilarious, others are tragic. She tells stories about ancient Greece and Rome - but she also tells poetic stories, about how the Milky Way became the Milky Way, etc. Her voice holds everyone in thrall. She knows it, too. She knows she has a special voice. And whatever else her storytelling ability is - it is also a gift. There are times when it is even an uncanny gift - when she has the ability to transform herself into an ancient crone, back to a straight tall prince, back to the crone .... and those listening see the ENTIRE thing unfold in their mind's eye. Sara Stanley is that good. All the kids love her stories, and say, "Oh, tell this one! Tell that one!"

The excerpt I chose is this: the kids are usually very stuck as to what they can "play" on Sundays. Their normal games would not do, because it's the Sabbath, and so ... usually the alternatives they come up with are almost worse than their normal games. Much trouble is caused on Sundays. Sara has an idea ... why don't the boys have a sermon-writing and sermon-saying contest? And the girls will be the judges. That sounds like a good Sunday game!

The boys are all stressed out ... they sit and work on their sermons, they write them out, they murmur the words to themselves, they are in an agony of stress about having to PERFORM them ... totally terrifying. Then comes the day of the contest. They all go into the orchard to what is known as The Pulpit Stone. The girls sit in a semi-circle, waiting, ready, agog. The boys start to do their sermons. Felix is terrified. Bev is proud of his writing. Blah blah ... they all do okay.

But then comes Peter. The 'hired boy'. And the entire game changes. That's the excerpt I'll do - because it's pretty damn funny. I love it.

Excerpt from The Story Girl by L.M. Montgomery.

Peter made quite a handsome little minister, in his navy blue coat, white collar, and neatly bowed tie. His black eyes shone, and his black curls were brushed up in quite a ministerial pompadour, but threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets.

It was decided that there was no use in waiting for Sara Ray, who might or might not come, according to the humour in which her mother was. Therefore Peter proceeded with the service.

He read the cahpter and gave out the hymn with as much sang froid as if he had been doing it all his life. Mr. Marwood himself could n ot have bettered the way in which Peter said,

"We will sing the whole hymn, omitting the fourth stanza."

That was a fine touch which I had not thought of. I began to think that, after all, Peter might be a foeman worthy of my steel.

When Peter was ready to begin he thrust his hands into his pockets - a totally unorthodox thing. Then he plunged in without further ado, speaking in his ordinary conversational tone - another unorthodox thing. There was no shorthand reporter present to take the sermon down; but, if necessary, I could preach it over verbatim, and so, I doubt not, could everyone that heard it. It was not a forgettable kind of sermon.

"Dearly beloved," said Peter, "my sermon is about the bad place - in short, about hell."

An electric shock seemed to run through the audience. Everybody looked suddenly alert. Peter had, in one sentence, done what my whole sermon had failed to do. He had made an impression.

"I shall divide my sermon into three heads," pursued Peter. "The first head is, what you must not do if you don't want to go to the bad place. The secon dhead is, what the bad place is like" -- sensation in the audience -- "and the third head is, how to escape going there.

"Now, there's a great many things you must not do, and it's very important to know what they are. You ought not to lose no time in finding out. In the first place you mustn't ever forget to mind what grown-up people tell you - that is, good grown-up people."

"But how are you going to tell who are the good grown-up people?" asked Felix suddenly, forgetting that he was in church.

"Oh, that is easy," said Peter. "You can always just feel who is good and who isn't. And you m ustn't tell lies and you mustn't murder any one. You must be specially careful not to murder any one. You might be forgiven for telling lies, if you was real sorry for them, but if you murdered any one it would be pretty hard to get forgiven, so you'd better be on the safe side. And you mustn't commit suicide, because if you did that you wouldn't have any chance of repenting it; and you mustn't forget to say your prayers and you mustn't quarrel with your sister."

At this point Felicity gave Dan a significant poke with her elbow, and Dan was up in arms at once.

"Don't you be preaching at me, Peter Craig," he cried out. "I won't stand it. I don't quarrel with my sister any oftener than she quarrels with me. You can just leave me alone."

"Who's touching you?" demanded Peter. "I didn't mention no names. A minister can say anything he likes in the pulpit, as long as he doesn't mention any names, and nobody can answer back."

"All right, but just you wait till to-morrow," growled Dan, subsiding reluctantly into silence under the reproachful looks of the girls.

"You must not play any games on Sunday," went on Peter, "that is, any week-day games -- or whisper in church, or laugh in church -- I did that once but I was awful sorry - and you mustn't take any notice of Paddy - I mean of the family cat at family prayers, not even if he climbs up your back. And you mustn't call names or make faces."

"Amen," cried Felix, who had suffered many things because Felicity so often made faces at him.

Peter stopped and glared at him over the edge of the Pulpit Stone.

"You haven't any business to call out a thing like that right in the middle of a sermon," he said.

"They do it in the Methodist church at Markdale," protested Felix, somewhat abashed. "I've heard them."

"I know they do. That's the Methodist way and it is all right for them. I haven't a word to say against Methodists. My Aunt Jane was one, and I might have been one myself if I hadn't been so scared of the Judgment Day. But you ain't a Methodist. You're a Presbyterian, ain't you?"

"Yes, of course. I was born that way."

"Very well then, you've got to do things the Presbyterian way. Don't let me hear any more of your amens or I'll amen you."

"Oh, don't anybody interrupt again," implored the Story Girl. "It isn't fair. How can any one preach a good sermon if he is always being interrupted? Nobody interrupted Beverley."

"Bev didn't get up there and pitch into us like that," muttered Dan.

"You mustn't fight," resumed Peter undauntedly. "That is, you mustn't fight for the fun of fighting, nor out of bad temper. You must not say bad words or swear. You mustn't get drunk - although of course you wouldn't be likely to do that before you grow up, and the girls never. There's prob'ly a good many other things you mustn't do, but these I've named are the most important. Of course, I'm not saying you'll go to the bad place for sure if you do them. I only say you're running a risk. The devil is looking out for the people who do these things and he'll be more likely to get after them than to waste time over the people who don't do them. And that's all about the first head of my sermon."

At this point Sara Ray arrived, somewhat out of breath. Peter looked at her reproachfully.

"You've missed my whole first head, Sara," he said. "That isn't fair, when you're to be one of the judges. I think I ought to preach it over again for you."

"That was really done once. I know a story about it," said the Story Girl.

"Who's interrupting now?" said Dan slyly.

"Never mind, tell us the story," said the preacher himself, eagerly leaning over the pulpit.

"It was Mr. Scott who did it," said the Story Girl. "He was preaching somewhere in Nova Scotia, and when he was more than half way through his sermon - and you know sermons were very long in those days -- a man walked in. Mr. Scott stopped until he had taken his seat. Then he said, 'My friend, you are very late for this service. I hope you won't be late for heaven. The congregation will excuse me if I recapitulate the sermon for our friend's benefit.' And then he just preached the sermon over again from the beginning. It is said that that particular man was never known to be late for church again."

"It served him right," said Dan, "but it was pretty hard lines on the rest of the congregation."

"Now, let's be quiet so Peter can go on with his sermon," said Cecily.

Peter squared his shoulders and took hold of the edge of the pulpit. Never a thump had he thumped, but I realized that his way of leaning forward and fixing this one or that one of his hearers with his eye was much more effective.

"I've come now to the second head of my sermon -- what the bad place is like."

He proceeded to describe the bad place. Later on we discovered that he had found his material in an illustrated translation of Dante's Inferno which had once been given to his Aunt Jane as a school prize. But at the time we supposed he must be drawing from Biblical sources. Peter had been reading the Bible steadily ever since what we always referred to as "the Judgment Sunday", and he was by now almost through it. None of the rest of us had ever read the Bible completely through, and we thought Peter must have found his description of the world of the lost in some portion with which we were not acquainted. Therefore, his utterances carried all the weight of inspiration, and we sat appalled before his lurid phrases. He used his own words to clothe the ideas he had found, and the result was a force and simplicity that struck home to our imaginations.

Suddenly Sara Ray sprang to her feet with a scream -- a scream that changed into strange laughter. We all, preacher included, looked at her aghast. Cecily and Felicity sprang up and caught hold of her. Sara Ray was really in a bad fit of hysterics, but we knew nothing of such a thing in our experience, and we thought she had gone mad. She shrieked, cried, laughed, and flung herself about.

"She's gone clean crazy," said Peter, coming down out of his pulpit with a very pale face.

"You've frightened her crazy with your dreadful sermon," said Felicity indignantly.

She and Cecily each took Sara by an arm and, half leading, half carrying, got her out of the orchard and up to the house. The rest of us looked at each other in terrified questioning.

"You've made rather too much of an impression, Peter," said the Story Girl miserably.

"She needn't have got so scared. If she'd only waited for the third head I'd have showed her how easy it was to get clear of going to the bad place and go to heaven instead. But you girls are always in such a hurry," said Peter bitterly.

"Do you s'pose they'll have to take her to the asylum?" said Dan in a whisper.

"Hush, here's your father," said Felix.

Uncle Alec came striding down the orchard. We had never before seen Uncle Alec angry. But there was no doubt that he was very angry. His blue eyes fairly blazed at us as he said,

"What have you been doing to frighten Sara Ray into such a condition?"

"We -- were just having a sermon contest," explained the Story Girl tremulously. "And Peter preached about the bad place, and it frightened Sara. That is all, Uncle Alec."

"All! I don't know what the result will be to that nervous, delicate child. She is shrieking in there and nothing will quiet her. What do you mean by playing such a game on Sunday, and making a jest of sacred things? No, not a word --" for the Story Girl had attempted to speak. "You and Peter march off home. And the next time I find you up to such doings on Sunday or any other day I'll give you cause to remember it to your latest hour."

The Story Girl and Peter went humbly home and we went with them.

"I can't understand grown-up people," said Felix despairingly. "When Uncle Edward preached sermons it was all right, but when we do it it is 'making a jest of sacred things.' And I heard Uncle Alec tell a story once about being nearly frightened to death when he was a little boy, by a minister preaching on the end of the world; and he said, 'That was something like a sermon. You don't hear such sermons nowadays.' But when Peter preaches just such a sermon, it's a very different story."

"It's no wonder we can't understand the grown-ups," said the Story Girl indignantly, "because we've never been grown-up ourselves. But they have been children, and I don't see why they can't understand us. Of course, perhaps we shouldn't have had the contest on Sundays. But all the same I think it's mean of Uncle Alec to be so cross. Oh, I do hope poor Sara won't have to be taken to the asylum."

Easter Sunday

So of course. I grew up Catholic. Easter was a big deal. Well, not just Easter. Holy Week beforehand. All of Lent. Ash Wednesday. Palm Sunday. Seriously. For a kid, that is a high-maintenance month, religiously.

Naturally, on Easter Sunday we had to go to church.

But afterwards - MUCH steam had to be let off.

So what did we do?

We proceeded to stick the halves of plastic easter eggs into our eyeball sockets and then we staggered around the neighborhood, like zombies. We would hide in bushes and then slowly emerge juuuuuust as a car went by. There are pictures of all of us peeking out from behind trees, Sleestak eyes goggling in the Easter Sunday morning light. We stood standing stockstill, spread across the street - facing cars as they came near - cars filled with happy religious families coming back from mass ...

and this is what they saw as they approached ....

Happy Easter, everybody.

Why I am wearing a straw cowboy hat, a down vest, a pale blue sweatshirt beneath that, RED dickies, and suede Wallabies is all just part of the cornucopia of mysteries which are dissolving forever (thankfully) in the fog of time.

View

This was the view from our kitchen in Hoboken.

Get ready for it. I am still never ready for it.

Mitchell will laugh at this one

We have a friend who is a hat designer. Her hats are works of art - they're plushy, crushy, impractical, fun. I have one of my own. They're whimsical and gorgeous. So she was trying to start up her business - she had opened her own studio - so we went to a nearby street fair - all of us WEARING one of her hats - holding fliers and cards - basically being walking billboards for Christina. People were surprisingly really snotty - even though it was a street fair with tons of local artists showing their work. We heard one person say, as we walked by, "Oh. What. Is today Hat Day?" in a really snotty voice. Well, yes, frankly, it IS Hat Day, and apparently it is ALSO Corn-Cob-Up-Your-Ass-Day if your behavior is any clue. Why don't you chill out?? Have fun. Don't be so "over" everything. Sheesh.

Christina, who often said that she "woke up in order to hyperbolize", later characterized this entire experience as: "The Day We Almost Got Killed". Hahahahahaha One snotty comment = bloody murder.

Anyway, there are a lot of funny (and good) pictures of that day - Mitchell took this one. Here we all are on The Day We Almost Got Killed.

Let's try another one!

Here's one of my favorite pictures. It is me and my cousin Marianne (or one of my cousins named Marianne) leaping off the diving board together at my Uncle Jimmy's pool.

Scanner experimentation

After much rigmarole (which I don't even want to get into because it is far too annoying) - my printer and scanner is hooked up and operational.

I have scanned my first photo. Which has next to ZERO sentimental value - hahahaha - it's a random photo I pulled from a random album.

This is me in Utah. Let's see how this looks. Consider it an experiment.

Hmmm. Looks kinda blurry. I will continue my experiment.

Today in history: Sept. 1, 1939

Germany invaded Poland.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939
W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

The Books: "Rilla of Ingleside" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on my young adult fiction bookshelves:

Next book on the shelf is Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery.

Lucy Maud Montgomery wrote this book in a fiery passion and it was published in 1921. She considered it the best thing she ever wrote. Even years later. She considered this her best book. There were a couple of things going on in her life as she wrote it: Uhm, WWI. So there was THAT. The whole book takes place during WWI - which wrenched Canada into the 20th century. Also - her dearly beloved kindred-spirit cousin Frede had died in the 1918 influenza epidemic - and she basically never recovered from the loss. She was still in pretty much OPEN mourning 10 years later, 11 years later ... she never made another "friend", that was it for her. So Frede died in 1918 - the world war completely consumed her every waking breath - she didn't passively wait out the war, she LIVED it. Every battle, every move forward, every setback ... she was extremely patriotic, she hated 'the Huns' - she devoured newspapers, she felt sickened at the bloodshed, she was a woman consumed. Rilla of Ingleside is her book about all of that.

Anne and Gilbert's children are now almost all grown up. Rilla, the youngest, is 14 years old. So when war breaks out - her sons all go. Anne doesn't know how to find the strength - there is a heart-wrenching scene when she gets the word that Walter, her son who abhors war (he's the poet), has signed up. (He's like Sergeant York, a bit.) She tries not to be "selfish" - when other mothers have lost sons, have sacrificed so much - she tries to be brave - and she IS brave - but it breaks her heart.

The household becomes a war household. The town is a war town. There are parades of soldiers going off to war. The women stay home, join the Red Cross, and read the newspaper every day, and learn how to pronounce the names of towns they have never heard of before, towns in foreign lands. Canada loses its provincial isolation. Women (or a lot of women - not all women) are just as involved in the war effort as the men - even though they don't go to battle. It is not just emotional involvement - although there is THAT. Having a girlfriend or wife or mother to write home to when you are at war is not a small thing. But they sew, they make bandages, they become nurses - the entire country basically stops what it's doing, and turns its entire focus onto winning this apocalyptic battle.

Lucy Maud's journals during WWI are an amazing historical document - I think anybody who is interested in WWI, and first-person experiences, should not leave those journals out of their library. Every day - she'll report to her journal what happened in Europe the day before - and the response of the town - etc. Every single inch gained ... every inch lost ... the big battles, the ones still remembered, the small ... Every single one is hashed out in those journals. Lucy Maud used her journals as the basis for much of Rilla of Ingleside.

Of course there are romances, and small comedic episodes - but for the most part: this is a war book. This is also a book about Canada. I'm surprised this book isn't more remembered. It should be.

"Real life" also moves on ... there's a very funny 'war wedding' that goes on, Rilla has a sweet beginning romance with one of the Ford boys (member Leslie Moore? It's her son) - but then he goes off to war - and now she just writes him letters, and waits it out, and tries to bear it. Rilla is kind of a silly girl, you can see that - she's the youngest of 6, so she was fussed over, petted, babied. She's kind of vain, and has a rather frivolous personality. Lucy Maud does this on purpose, obviously. The war, and what the Blythe family loses, changes everyone forever. Rilla - without having one "a-ha" moment - which would be phony - changes. She finds depths of strength within her she never knew she had. She becomes a woman. A grown woman. Strong, deep, reliable, and in touch with the deeper wellsprings of life. She gives up frivolity.

I wanted to choose an excerpt, though, that shows the book's true feel - the feeling of the WAR - and I knew exactly what chapter to choose.

Like I said: any person who is really serious about WWI (in the way I'm serious about the Soviet empire - and collect any and all books about it - fiction or non) - should read Rilla and should also read Lucy Maud's war journals. They're amazing historical documents - not just the history of Canada, but the whole world at that time.

This excerpt is from the chapter called "Black Sunday". Oh - and "Mrs. Blythe", of course, is Anne. The "Cousin Sophia" mentioned is a total drip who thinks that the war has been sent to them to punish them all for their collective sinful ways. She's one of THOSE morons. The great thing too about this book is that it's all the same stuff going on then that's gone on in every war: there are the pacifists, there are those who actuall sympathize with the enemy, there are those (all women, of course) who just don't care about world events and go on with their idiotic trivial lives of childrearing and cooking and sewing (that's what Rebecca West calls such women: "idiots" - women who don't read the newspaper - who make a big deal out of REFUSING to read the newspaper, as though that is something to be proud of, women who willfully huddle in their domestic concerns while the world tailspins into horror and carnage - women who only pay attention to world events when it affects them PERSONALLY - idiots) - there are defeatists, there are extremists, there are people who are blood-thirsty for the Huns, and those who just know that the threat caused by Germany must be stopped ... etc. It's all the same. You would recognize the world she described. But oh - to not have the Internet to race to when you hear horrible news ... That's part of the agony. Having to WAIT for the news.

Excerpt from Rilla of Ingleside by L.M. Montgomery.

In March of the year of grace 1918 there was one week into which must have crowded more of searing human agony than any seven days had ever held before in the history of the world. And in that week there was one day when all humanity seemed nailed to the cross; on that day the whole planet must have been agroan with universal convulsion, everywhere the hearts of men were failing them for fear.

It dawned calmly and coldly and greyly at Ingleside. Mrs. Blythe and Rilla and Miss Oliver made ready for church in a suspense tempered by hope an dconfidence. The doctor was away, having been summoned during the wee sma's to the Marwood household in Upper Glen, where a little war-bride was fighting gallantly on her own battleground to give life, not death, to the world. Susan announced that she meant to stay home tha tmorning - a rare decision for Susan.

"But I would rather not go to church this morning, Mrs. Dr. dear," she explained. "If Whiskers-on-the-moon were there and I saw him looking holy and pleased, as he always looks when he thinks the Huns are winning, I fear I would lose my patience and my sense of decorum and hurl a Bible or a hymn-book at him, thereby disgracing myself and the sacred edifice. No, Mrs. Dr. dear, I shall stay home from church till the tide turns and pray hard here."

"I think I might as well stay home, too, for all the good church will do me today," Miss Oliver said to Rilla, as they walked down the hard-frozen red road to the church. "I can think of nothing but the question, 'Does the line still hold?'"

"Next Sunday will be Easter," said Rilla. "Will it herald death or life to our cause?"

Mr. Meredith preached that morning from the text, "He that endureth to the end shall be saved," and hope and confidence rang through his inspiring sentences. Rilla, looking up at the memorial tablet on the wall above their pew, "sacred to the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe", felt herself lifted out of her dread and filled anew with courage. Walter could not have laid down his life for naught. His had been the gift of prophetic vision and he had foreseen victory. She would cling to that belief - the line would hold.

In this renewed mood she walked home from church almost gaily. The others, too, were hopeful, and all went smiling into Ingleside. There was no one in the living-room, save Jims, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Doc, who sat "hushed in grim respose" on the heart-rug, looking very Hydeish indeed. No one wa in the dining-room either -- and, stranger still, no dinner was on the table, which was not even set. Where was Susan?

"Can she have been taken ill?" exclaimed Mrs. Blythe anxiously. "I thought it strange that she did not want to go to church this morning."

The kitchen door opened and Susan appeared on the threshold with such a ghastly face that Mrs. Blythe cried out in sudden panic.

"Susan, what is it?"

"The British line is broken and the German shells are falling on Paris," said Susan dully.

The three women stared at each other, stricken.

"It's not true -- it's not," gasped Rilla.

"The thing would be -- ridiculous," said Gertrude Oliver -- and then she laughed horribly.

"Susan, who told you this -- when did the news come?" asked Mrs. Blythe.

"I got it over the long-distance phone from Charlottetown half an hour ago," said Susan. "The news came to town late last night. It was Dr. Holland phoned it out and he said it was only too true. Since then I have done nothing, Mrs. Dr. dear. I am very sorry dinner is not ready. It is the first time I have been so remiss. If you will be patient I will soon have something for you to eat. But I am afraid I let the potatoes burn."

"Dinner! Nobody wants any dinner, Susan," said Mrs. Blythe wildly. "Oh, this thing is unbelievable -- it must be a nightmare."

"Paris is lost - France is lost - the war is lost," gasped Rilla, amid the utter ruins of hope and confidence and belief.

"Oh God --- oh God," moaned Gertrude Oliver, walking about the room and wringing her hands. "Oh --- God!"

Nothing else -- no other words -- nothing but that age-old plea - an old, old cry of supreme agony and appeal, from the human heart whose every human staff has failed it.

"Is God dead?" asked a startled little voice from the doorway of the living room. Jims stood there, flushed from sleep, his big brown eyes filled with dread. "Oh, Willa - oh, Willa, is God dead?"

Miss Oliver stopped walking and exclaiming, and stared at Jims, in whose eyes tears of fright were beginning to gather. Rilla ran to his comforting, while Susan bounded up from the chair upon which she had dropped.

"No," she said briskly, with a sudden return of her real self. "No, God isn't dead -- nor Lloyd George either. We were forgetting that, Mrs. Dr. dear. Don't cry, little Kitchener. Bad as things are, they might be worse. The British line may be broken but the British navy is not. Let us tie to that. I will take a brace and get up a bite to eat, for strength we must have."

They made a pretence of eating Susan's "bite", but it was only a pretence. Nobody at Ingleside ever forgot that black afternoon. Gertrude Oliver walked the floor -- they all walked the floor; except Susan, who got out her grey war sock.

"Mrs. Dr. dear, I must knit on Sunday at last. I have never dreamed of doing it before for, say what might be said, I have considered it was a violation of the third commandment. But whether it is or whether it is not I must knit today or I shall go mad."

"Knit if you can, Susan," said Mrs. Blythe restlessly. "I would knit if I could -- but I cannot -- I cannot."

"If we could only get fuller information," moaned Rilla. "There might be soemthing to encourage us -- if we knew all."

"We know that the Germans are shelling Paris," said Miss Oliver bitterly. "In that case they must have smashed through everywhere and be at the very gates. No, we have lost -- let us face the fact as other peoples in the past have had to face it. Other nations, with right on their side, have given their best and bravest -- and gone down to defeat in spite of it."

"I won't give up like that," cried Rilla, her pale face suddenly flushing. "I won't despair. If Germany overruns all France we are not conquered. I am ashamed of myself for this hour of despair. You won't see me slump again like this. I'm going to ring up town at once and ask for particulars."

But town could not be got. The long-distance operator there was submerged by similar calls from every part of the distracted country. Rilla finally gave up and slipped away to Rainbow Valley. There she knelt down on the withered grey grasses in the little nook where she and Walter had had their last talk together, with her head bowed against the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. The sun had broken through the black clouds and drenched the valley with a pale golden splendour. The bells on the Tree Lovers twinkled elfinly and fitfully in the gusty March wind.

"Oh God, give me strength," Rilla whispered. "Just strength - and courage." Then like a child, she clasped her hands together and said, as simply as Jims could have done, "Please send us better news tomorrow."

She knelt there a long time, and when she went back to Ingleside she was calm and resolute. The doctor had arrived home, tired but triumphant, little Douglas Haig Marwood having made a safe landing on the shores of time. Gertrude was still pacing restlessly but Mrs. Blythe and Susan had reacted from the shock, and Susan was already planning a new line of defence for the channel ports.

"I heard up at Marwood's of the line being broken," said the doctor, "but this story of the Germans shelling Paris seems to be rather incredible. Even if they broke through they were fifty miles from Paris at the nearest point and how could they get their artillery close enough to shell it in so short a time? Depend upon it, girls, that part of the message can't be true."

This point of view cheered them all a little, and helped them through the evening. And at nine o'clock a long-distance message came through at last, that helped them through the night.

"The line broke only in one place, before St. Quentin," said the doctor, as he hung up the receiver, "and the British troops are retreating in good order. That's not so bad. As for the shells that are falling on Paris, they are coming from a distance of seventy miles - from some amazing long-range gun the Germans have invented and sprung with the opening offensive. That is all the news to date, and Dr. Holland says it is reliable."

"It would have been dreadful news yesterday," said Gertrude, "but compared to what we heard this morning it is almost like good news. But still," she added, trying to smile, "I am afraid I will not sleep much tonight."

"There is one thing to be thankful for at any rate, Mrs. Oliver, dear," said Susan, "and that is that Cousin Sophia did not come in today. I really could not have endured her on top of all the rest."