The Sheila Variations

The giant

In retrospect, 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 go back ... it would be so easy to go back ... that old self is right there, I can still feel her in me, I can 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 him 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, apparently. 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. Elron Hubman's got nothin' on me. 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 - being in this highly domestic relationship, where we cared about futon covers and teflon and shower curtains and getting our pitcutres framed - 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 (albeit with a strange tilt to it - if two people sleep in it, you feel like you are sliding off a cliff together), and a box spring, and I have a really nice dresser with a swivel mirror that I adore. But that obsession with domesticity, that need to have everything just so, 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, 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 ... Ann Marie was a couple of months in my future. 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 my old Holly Hobbie jumper I had, a lavendar Holly Hobbie jumper, billowing, shapeless, wearing 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. And so I cracked at the seams.

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." This is why I say that perhaps John had that rolling-eye response to my press conference about who I was. "Sure, she says that now ... but after a couple months ... she'll settle into girlfriend mode..." 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. Hysterically. 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 cannot 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 clothes hung off of me, my old pajamas suddenly looked like they belonged to a man three times my size. 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 floor, 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. And I, in my bludgeoning honesty, said that to him later, "You just made the move first." This was the truth. But he said, "Well ... what if Donald had made the move first?" "Uhm, I totally would have gone out with Donald." I saw no point in lying to him. I wasnt having a relationship wtih him, where it seemed to be required that you lie, gently, in order to salve the other person's hurt. 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 know that. You asked first." It was a brutal place I was in, a place of pared-down morality. 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. He 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. I was like the "new girl" in 11th grade. By that point, everyone in the school not only knew everybody else, but was totally OVER everybody else. So a new girl comes to town? 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 were more good-looking (uhm, Donald) - 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 was not one of those people. He had beautiful piercing blue eyes, he was pale (one might even say pasty), 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. Perhaps because he wasn't of the Johnny Depp (or, uh, Donald) variety, he had compensated by developing 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 (uhm, Donald), he, like the rest of them, wanted to get as much tail as he possibly could ... but if you 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. Even though we also are interested in sex, and being seduced. 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 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. 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 involved means. Involved means teflon and 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. 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. So maybe it was an afternoon break. Perhaps I was going to a nearby deli to gorge myself on Lipton's cup-a-soup. But 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 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.

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. 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. Nope.

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. In retrospect, it'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 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 played pool with the night previous, 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. 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. You are toast, buddy.

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. 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 this stunned silence. I was so wrapped up in myself, so much of an ID at this moment, that it had never once even occurred to me that he would be surprised by this 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 ... out of my life for good ... 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. I was always OFF. Later, much later, when we ran into each other again, he said, "You are so detached. I could never get to you."

I have not since treated anyone with the coldness and nothingness 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.

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 cold and 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

We watched Carnal Knowledge last night. I've seen it before, naturally - but whenever I watch that movie, 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" Huh???. 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.

Also, Candice Bergen is just great. They're all great in that movie but I was particularly struck, this go-round, by her performance. 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 - and I was quite amazed by what I saw. The rawness and reality of what she was doing. She was laughing so hard that tears were were in her eyes. It was real. You know when you start to laugh so hard and you realize: Oh. I have now reached the point of no return. I am now going to be laughing like this for a good 20 minutes. Candice Bergen is having THAT kind of a laughing fit. 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. Think of scenes where people literally have to stagger around laughing, out of control. It's hard to get right. There's one long extended scene of laughter in Crimes of the Heart - which is not a very good movie - but that laughing scene is hiLARious and I howl every time I see it. Those three actresses are really laughing and it is infectious. We had to rewind the Bergen scene to watch it again. Amazed by how real it was, and how - 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.

(love my screen capture thing) Look at her there. Man. And 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.