The Sheila Variations

The day

I wrote this last year and I'm posting it again.

It's a self-absorbed post, my favorite kind. It is about what I remember. I mean - all I remember NOW is that it was Cashel's birthday. But this is not what the post was about, originally. It's about what I remembered from the day before, and the day of ... 2 of the most vivid and freaky days I've ever had in my life.

I wanted to write it from a ground-level perspective - which is hard - because I keep wanting to put in retrospective comments, stuff I've learned, how it all turned out, how I realize NOW that such and such ... but no. That was not the point of the post.

THE DAY

The clock was ticking. It had been ticking for months. The anticipation was tremendous, unbearable. As the day approached, it was as though the upcoming event washed away all other thoughts and concerns in my mind, and in the collective mind of my whole family. We could not talk of anything else.

The baby was coming! The baby was coming! The baby was coming! We didn't know if it was a boy or a girl ... but we knew that it was coming, and we loved it to death. It was the first grandchild to be born - on Brendan's side, and on Maria's side. We were al lout of our minds.

This is a post about what I remember about that day. And it involves the day before (it always does, doesn't it?) But it's really about that day. THE day. Certainly one of the most important days of my life, because it was the day that Cashel was born. Cashel, whose birthday is today.

I was in grad school. It was a vigorous and energetic time. I was living in Hoboken with my dear friend Jen. It was the late 1990s and my sister-in-law, the one who was carrying the most IMPORTANT BABY WHO WOULD EVER BE BORN, had gotten me a freelance gig my first year in New York, to make extra cash while I was slogging away in grad school. This was the dot com era, and there was major money to be made for doing ... basically ridiculous meaningless things. What were we doing? Or selling? Nobody knew. It was the something "new", the new thing! She got me a freelance gig, doing Rainman programming for AOL, and it paid 30 bucks an hour. I made friends doing that insane gig that I still have today.

Our dot com was affiliated with New Line Cinema so our offices were a floor below New Line corporate. You would walk up the spiral staircase into New Line proper, and there you were surrounded by cubicles, fluorescent lights, white boards, pie charts, Power Point, and perky girls in form-fitting suits and alligator pumps. You know. Civilization. But down that spiral staircase? You were full-on in wacko dot com world. There were mannequins dressed in school girl slut clothes. There were no overhead lights. There was more than one lava lamp. Dart boards were on the wall, beanbag chairs were on the floor. We were barely presentable. If "corporate" was coming down to visit, we'd really have to clean up the place, and make it look just a little bit like a real office. You know, like take the cigarette out of the mannequin's hand.

I used to work beside a guy named Pat, who was a surfer, a writer, a music-lover, and kind of brilliant in a very chaotic way. He also was kind. He was an online personality. He was born to be an online personality. He had nutso hair that was a different color each week, and he was doing literally MEANINGLESS things online on a daily basis, hosting chats, writing articles about stuff that he found interesting, and he made shitloads of money. He was a crazy Irishman. He's now married to a no-nonsense tough Irish chick who grew up with 8 older brothers. Her brothers were always beating guys up because they were being protective towards her. She finally had to be like, "Guys, STOP BEATING UP MY BOYFRIENDS." She is PERFECT for Pat, because she knows how to handle men. She ought to, with 8 brothers! But she doesn't play headgames, she's able to be one of the boys, she's a huge sports fan ... Perfect girl for him.

When I knew him, though, during the dot com mania, he was single and he's the kind of guy I click with, guys like that always get along with me really well.

We were friends. We sat side by side, at our respective computers, and he would reach out with his left hand and play with my ear lobe as we worked. He never asked permission. We never discussed it. It's strangely bizarre when I look back on it ... but that whole time was bizarre.

Upstairs was corporate America. Downstairs was Pat, with jet black hair standing up straight, or blonde streaked surfer dude locks, or totally bald having shaved it all off in a drunken frenzy. Downstairs was Pat touching my ear lobe as he typed with his other hand. I never said, "Uhm ... what's up with my ear lobe?" I can't remember the first day he did it, but I didn't slap him away, and so the ear lobe thing went on the entire time we both worked there, as darts flew towards the bullseye behind our heads, as people sat around us working at their computers with huge headphones on listening to music, as people lay in the beanbag chairs eating Krispy Kremes and having "integration meetings" ... and we all were working on ... what, exactly?

None of the companies I originally worked for are in existence today.

I told you this would be a post about what I remember.

When I think about "that day" - all of this stuff surrounds it. Dim lights, crazy offices, free-spirited funky dot com people, and Pat playing with my earlobe as he ran online chats. I worked 20 hours a week, I think ... taking the subway to 59th Street from my school in the Village. And I had a full course load.

I would spend my weekends out in Park Slope with my brother and Maria ... and her belly was growing ... and we would feel the baby kicking ... and the baby was so REAL to us ... I had a relationship with the baby from the moment they told us she was pregnant, of course. I didn't know who it was in there, but I couldn't WAIT to find out. But meanwhile ... during the pregnancy ... I had a huge huge love for the creature in there. I loved it so much.

The C-section was scheduled, finally, for October 31. Calendars were marked throughout the O'Malley and Sullivan family. That was THE day.

Maybe 4 or 5 days before Halloween, I was at my freelance job, getting my earlobe stroked by Pat the surfer, doing my work. I called my voice mail service to get my messages.

And - like a bolt from the blue - I heard an all-too-familiar voice. A voice that made my heart burst out of my chest. A man I once loved (you know, this one). I still loved him, I guess - But it was over, so, you know, life goes on. You slog on. You do the best you can. You MOVE. I had moved. It wrenched us apart geographically. He had my number, but never called it. It was over. It was over in the biggest way possible. But there was his voice ... there was his voice ... telling me that he would be in New York for one day only to do a show ... and want to get together? I could barely understand the message because I went out of my mind at the sound of his voice. I lurched forward in my seat, clutching the phone. The earlobe-stroking stopped as Pat looked over at me, curious as to my response. I was saying into the phone as I listened, "Oh my God. Oh my God." Surfer Pat mouthing at me, "What? Who is it?" All I heard was that HE would be in town for one day. And he was calling me to let me know that and to let me know the hotel he would be staying in. I was instantly a wreck. I had to listen to the message again because I had barely understood a word. I wrote down the address of the hotel. He also gave me his itinerary, he had to be here at this time, and there at that time, he would be checking in at that time ... and his voice was so jaunty and cheerful (Like always, I knew exactly what he was going through. He knew I would flip out when I heard his voice, so he wanted to sound unthreatening, unemotional, and ... happy. Like this would be no big deal. No big deal, right? We're friends, right? Happy happy joy joy!)

His jaunty cheerful voice: "So ... I know you're ... like, a really busy ACTRESS and everything ...but ... if you're around ... well ... that's where I'll be ..."

I made Pat the surfer-dude listen to the message so I could hear what he thought. I hadn't told Pat about him or anything - but I just gave him a quick bullet-point list of the situation and then said, "LISTEN TO THE MESSAGE." As though he were my best girlfriend or something. Why I loved Pat was that he - a rough-round-the-edges straight Irish boy - listened to the message seriously, no expression on his face, hung up the phone, said in a flat tone, "The dude's in love with you," and turned back to his computer screen, reaching out for my earlobe.

So.

October 30. He would be in town on October 30.

It was so bewildering to me, so intense ... and not altogether welcome. My main focus of that autumn had been the upcoming birth. It was beautiful, hopeful, so exciting. And ... to have ... him come to New York ... which he never did ... and to have it be on the day before this momentous event ... I guess you could say some of the ol' circuitry got a little botched up in my nervous system. I was wound tight as a top, man. I mean, I'm always wound tight as a top - but this was even more nuts than usual. My heart constricted into a tiny fluttering laser-beam of movement. Okay. Okay. You're gonna see him. Get ready. Ya ready?

I had class the morning of October 30. Classics. My outfit had been painstakingly chosen, with much help from my roommate. I wore a tight houndstooth skirt, and high brown heels - very retro - a fitted brown sweater. The outfit was very 1940s leading lady. Womanly.

I had a great class, I remember. And then I walked out into the blinding autumn morning, the flaming leaves in the trees, and headed uptown to go meet him at his hotel. I was completely consumed with keeping myself together, and not flying off into a million bits into the universe. Breathe ... breathe ... one foot ... in front of the other ... stay calm. Stay calm.

I walked into the hotel lobby. It was a fancy hotel, but intimate, small, lovely - with deathly slippery marble floors ... and I remember this part perfectly. It's going to be hard to describe - because it depends on the visual, it was such a cinematic moment. But this is just how it happened:

Slippery marble floors. I could barely breathe, I was so freakin' TENSE about seeing this man again. I was having cardiac arrest ... we had no meeting place or time ... I didn't know where he would be, he didn't know if I would show up, I hadn't responded to his phone call because he hadn't given me a phone number (and I didn't have his number) ... so it was either going to happen or it wasn't ... He had told me where he would be, and when ... and if I was free ... I could show up at that time. Right on schedule, I walked into the lobby, palpitating, he could have been ANYWHERE ... but I had to keep my exterior calm and cool, in case he saw me before I saw him ... so I tried to look around, casually, for his face. And I remember these workmen walked by, carrying an enormous decoration of some kind, perhaps on their way to a private party room, for a wedding reception or something. The decoration was so big that it was almost like a stage set, it took 3 guys to carry it ... and it was all silvery and covered in pearls, and there were long streaming silver ribbons, and sparkley gems covering it ... All silver and white. It took up the whole lobby, and I stopped, watching it pass by, it seemed so odd ... it wasn't a Halloween decoration, and I was so hyped up that pretty much everything in the world was coming at me in vivid 3-D technicolor ... and then - once the decoration had passed by ... there he was. It was as though the silver-glitter thingamabob was a curtain or something - going up - signifying the start of the theatrical event that would obviously be our day together.

He saw me. I saw him. The whole thing was wordlessly dramatic, and rather awkward. We were always bad at greetings and goodbyes, we never hugged, or gave casual kisses, or anything. We had a hard time just saying, "Hey, what's up" or "How have you been?" to each other. We just couldn't do it. We were like hot stoves to each other. You can't really cuddle up to a hot stove ... it's too dangerous. But seeing each other after all that time ... seeing each other in the strange unfamiliar lobby ... with a silver floating stage set going by like some Busby Berkeley fantasy dream-sequence ... He and I had a full greeting. Even with no hug. Even with no words. We needed neither.

Within 10 minutes it was as though we had never been apart. We were just in sync. Always. However, everything was different now. We knew that. We didn't speak of it, we didn't have to. It was there at all times.

He had hours free until he had to do his show. He said, "I kinda wanna see your school. I want to see where you spend all your time. Show me the coffee shops where you go. So I can picture it."

And so that's what we did.

I took him downtown and I "showed him my school". I took him into my classrooms, I introduced him to my acting teacher. I took him to my coffee shop. He walked into the joint (which was completely generic - you would find such a coffee shop in any town anywhere) ... and he walked into it, stared around him, taking it in, and then nodded, to himself. Like: "Okay. Got it." Like he had memorized it for safe keeping.

I knew I would cry about such moments later.

We walked and walked and walked. We talked. He made me laugh so hard I cried. He went off on the "lack of enthusiasm" in "kids today". He went off on it for a good 20 minutes. I egged him on, I completely agree with him, and suddenly he heard himself and said, "Oh man. I sound like such an old fogey. These kids today!" The sun was shining, it was Indian summer, everyone was out, the NYU students, the locals ... it was a day when you suddenly were happy to be alive. It was also as though New York City put on its best outfit ... just for my guest.

I remember we went to Washington Square Park. We watched the street performers. We sat on a stone bench, and soaked up the atmosphere. Time stood still with him. It stretched out. It couldn't have only been 5 hours that I was with him. That CANNOT be right.

We had no deep conversations. We never really did. We didn't have to. We talked about books and music and told funny stories.

A drug dealer wearing a Rasta hat came up to us. His eyes were marbly-glazed and red, but he had a really friendly reggae-drenched smile. "Smokes, smokes?" he offered.

The two of us smiled at him regretfully. "No thanks," we said together.

He shrugged, sadly, and then took another look at us. He took us in. Then he stated, "You two are in love."

We froze. Neither of us knew what to say or do. We didn't respond. We sat there, consumed with awkwardness. Seriously. It wasn't delicious awkwardness, or flirty awkwardness ... It was this unspeakable thing that had been spoken by A DRUG DEALER. A freakin' stoned drug dealer saw the love. We had been fine until that moment.

We both kind of awkwardly said, "Oh ... well ... you know ...." He had plunged us into this psychodrama which we couldn't even reference ourselves, not if we wanted to get through this day without a huge scene.

Rasta guy said, seriously, not looking at me, but looking at my companion, "She's the only woman for you, my friend."

We both laughed (oh, they were the fakest laughs in the world) and my friend kind of awkwardly put his arm around me. It was an act. Maybe if we validated Rasta's observation, and said, "Yes, that's true" then drug dealer would go away and stop TORMENTING US WITH MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS. His arm around me was like a stiff robot arm.

It worked. Rasta guy walked away, and then called back at us, "Today is a day for lovers, you know!"

And he was gone. Leaving us silent, and totally awkward with each other.

Suddenly, after hours of nonstop talk ... silence. We didn't know where to look (certainly not at each other), we drank our sodas, looking around us, pretending to be people-watching, trying to pretend that that didn't just happen, nibbling on pretzels ... We might as well have started whistling, staring up at the sky "nonchalantly". It was that cliche.

We went on like this for a good 5 minutes until ...

"Wanna go see The Bottom Line?" I asked. I was desperate. I had to do somehing to save us.

He leapt up, all excited and not awkward anymore. "Yes!!"

We walked around the city for a couple more hours. I showed him stuff. We staggered around laughing. He asked questions. I answered. I asked questions. He answered.

I didn't realize until that gold and blue October day how much I really missed him.

We said goodbye on a corner near his hotel. We were suddenly very formal with each other. We had a stiff hug (like I said, we're not huggers. We can't touch casually, AT ALL. Still can't. Even now when we see each other, we can't just have a friendly normal hug. Nope. No way. Not because of animosity but ... well, you'll just have to figure it out yourselves, people.) - "Good to see you!" "Oh, it was so great to see you in your element!" "Have a great show!" blah blah blah.

Casual! Happy! We're old friends visiting! Yay!! Fun fun!

And he was off. And I was off.

As I walked back to school, it was as though I had an anchor, suddenly pulling me down into the cold blue deep. Literally, the second I turned away from him I could feel myself fall. And it was a far fall, man. It just kept going down. And down. And down.

I came back to Hoboken that night ... the day before THE DAY ... and cried myself to sleep. Pressing down on my heavy heart, with my own hands, trying to soothe the hurt there, which was searing. I was proud of myself, though, that I had kept it together during our time that day. There were no meltdowns. I hadn't "gone there". We kept it together. We had a nice time. We enjoyed each other's company. We kept it light. We made jokes. We laughed, we didn't ruin it. I was proud of both of us for that.

I woke up the next morning.

It was THE DAY. The day we had all been looking forward to for so long.

But God. How differently I suddenly felt. My whole hopeful autumn had been knocked out of me, leaving a puffy-eyed pale-faced girl with an anchor round her foot.

I made my way to the crazy New Line office, with its mannequins wearing kilts and biker boots, and its low lights, the glimmering screens of the monitors ... I sat at my computer, wearing my sunglasses inside because my eyes were so messed up from crying and I was embarrassed. I had a couple of hours there before I headed down to the hospital where I would be there for the birth.

The birth! Is the day really here? Is it really happening? What the hell? Did yesterday even happen?

Weird what you remember. I remember going to work that morning and I remember looking forward to Pat playing with my earlobe. The earlobe thing had become a normal part of my everyday life, and I took it for granted. But suddenly, on Halloween, on THE DAY, I needed it. I needed a nice tender friendly touch that day. And I needed not to ask for it. I needed a touch that demanded nothing of me in return. A touch that was gentle, but with gentleness that did not hurt me. And there he was. Now that I'm actually thinking about "the earlobe thing", I think that why it was so cool is that it wasn't sexual. It wasn't a come-on. It started as an affectionate joke thing, or like he was my little brother trying to bug me as I tried to work, and he just kept doing it, until it morphed into ... almost a trance-like thing, where we weren't even aware we were doing it.

So I sat there, on THE DAY, with my heart down in the cold blue deep, thudding painfully against my chest, doing my Rainman programming for 30 bucks an hour, drinking up the touch of Pat's hand on my earlobe, with tears rolling down my face. A constant flow of tears. Pat never mentioned the tears. He was too much of a gentleman for that.

Then.

It was time.

The moment we all had been waiting for. For nine months.

I left the office. It was 5 o'clock at night. I was kind of hysterical, truth be told. I hadn't fully segued yet. I was still trying to get back up to the surface. Believe it or not, I had completely forgotten it was Halloween. The really important event of that day was the birth. So I emerged onto the street, and I remember watching a witch walk by me, with a tall pointed hat, and then I remember watching a guy come towards me, fully dressed as an Oompa Loompa, with a bright orange face. I was so out of it, so absorbed with my own pain, that I didn't know what was going on for a second. Why is there a witch on the sidewalk ... oh my God, why is there an Oompa Loompa? I remember, too, that it was sunset, and the sky was a bright PINK. A crayola pink. With no other colors blended in, no soft wash of lavenders or lilacs ... no. Just a flat Pepto Bismol pink sky. With witches and Oompa Loompas coming at me.

Of course I remembered in the next second second that it was Halloween, but for those few moments when I had forgotten the world seemed like a completely insane place. With no rules I recognized. I had never seen a sky that garishly pink before. The streets were full of ghosts and ghouls and people with masks. Reality had shifted.

Oh, but no. It was just Halloween. I started walking down one of the Avenues - I had time to walk - I didn't feel fit to get onto the subway. I was too hysterical. And the sky was a glaring pink, and goblins and ghouls filled the streets. Everything was so WEIRD. NOTHING was normal. People in masks, ghosts, wizards, warlocks, vampires, Medusas ... strolling up 6th Avenue under the pink sky.

Truth be told, I kind of felt like I was losing my mind for about 20 minutes.

But it was good that I walked, because by the time I reached Beth Israel Hospital, the segue was finished. It's a long walk. I left the hysteria behind on the walk, I remember the breathing, the letting go ... and I came out of tragic mode and went into celebration mode. The goblins and ghouls had helped, turns out. Nothing was normal. And so it was COMPLETLEY fine that I was crying as I walked down the street. I cried as I walked. I didn't have to hold the tears back, which always makes things worse. I could just cry. And the goblins passed me by, not noticing. What did they care? They were goblins.

It wasn't ALL out by the time I reached the hospital, but let's just say the first wave was out. I had no idea how much feeling I would eventually have when that child arrived. I mean, I was excited, and I had SOME idea, but until it happened ... I just couldn't know what was coming.

I made my way to the maternity ward, and ... slowly ... as I took the elevator up ... I shed the day before like an old snake skin ... I let it go ... and I accepted the day I was actually in. It was the day. The day of our dreams.

The substance of things hoped for.

My heart was no longer an anchor sitting at the bottom of the ocean. It pounded against my rib cage ... the adrenaline rushing back in ...

It was time ... it was time ...

My parents were there in the waiting room. Maria's parents and brother were there in the waiting room. I joined them. There were other families waiting there, too. We got very involved in their stories. We shared our stories. We waited. We paced. We talked about nothing. We made chit-chat. We were completely in the moment. ALL we were doing was WAITING.

We loved our baby so much. We couldn't wait to meet ... him? Her?

The other family, whose daughter had had a labor of 24 hours or something and then had to have an emergency C-section, was anxious and exhausted ... and I think it rubbed off on us. I held onto my dad's hand as we waited. The anticipation was unbelievable.

And then ...

The moment came.

Brendan, in his doctor's scrubs, came out of the delivery room wheeling a little tub ... We all LEAPT to our feet. The moment was indescribable. I can't do it justice.

In the tub ... was a small cocoon. A white cocoon of a human being. With HUGE eyeballs staring out of it. HUGE STARING EYEBALLS.

Brendan whispered at us, excitedly, "It's a boy!"

Oh, we had never heard such miraculous words. Never! The burst of emotion that followed ... was operatic. I saw Maria's mother turn to Maria's father and throw her arms around him in a total abandonment of joy. My parents hugged each other, hugged my brother, hugged Maria's parents, I was hugging Brendan, with tears streaming down my face ... different tears now ... glad tears ... The joy I felt was ferocious, a stabbing knife of life-affirming joy. The anxious family, waiting for word of their daughter, got caught up in our celebration, and hugged each other, hugged us. And we all just kept peeking at the small white cocoon ... this PERSON ... this person we had all been waiting for, and loving so hard for 9 months ...

this wee white-swaddled being with HUGE STARING EYEBALLS ...

who was now ... undeniably ...

HERE.

montage of Screaming faces

... For Halloween.

You'll recognize a lot of them.

Alex has gone all out. That must have taken FOREVER. She's the horror flick queen, much to Chrisanne's dismay (ha) ... but go check out the images she's found.

Part 1

Part 2

Beauty

One of those moments to just cherish. Humanity.

Okay. This is genius.

Kate Winslet (one of my faves) and Hugh Jackman (I love him for Kate & Leopold and I don't care who knows) are in a new movie together called Flushed Away - and apparently - they arrived at the premiere in New York by sliding down this huge blown-up slide. The pictures are absolute genius - and I have been laughing out loud just looking at them. Here's my favorite one, below the jump. Look at how hard she is laughing. And him! They are HOWLING. It makes me laugh just to look at it!!

More in this series of photos here - they're all hysterical, as far as I'm concerned. (Open up the 4th one in the top row - and just get a load of both of their faces. HAHAHA) It made my morning to look at those pictures. The movie sounds kinda dumb - but I love those two - and I love their energy here.

The Books: "Emily Climbs" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

Emily Climbs - by L.M. Montgomery Excerpt 2!!

The chapter "In the Watches of the Night" is one of my favorite chapters in any Lucy Maud book ever. It's deep, wide, terrifying, romantic - it's like all of Jane Eyre compressed into one chapter. Lucy Maud starts the chapter by telling us where we are going to go:

Some of us can recall the exact time in which we reached certain milestones on life's road - the wonderful hour when we passed from childhood to girlhood - the enchanged, beautiful - or perhaps the shattering and horrible - hour when girlhood was suddenly womanhood - the chilling hour when we faced the fact that youth was definitely behind us - the peaceful, sorrowful hour of the realisation of age. Emily Starr never forgot the night when she passed the first milestone, and left childhood behind her forever.

And so she then takes us thru what happened - step by step by step. It is completely specific - there is nothing generalized about this. We all may have these moments - but each of us will have a completely different story to tell. This is Emily's story. And Lucy Maud just made all of this stuff up in her head. It's amazing. The chapter begins on a hot July night. It's a weeknight - and Emily and Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Laura are sitting in church at a prayer meeting. Emily is bored out of her mind. So to entertain herself, she starts looking around at the congregation, and basically people-watching. We hear her thoughts. She sees into people's souls - she can SEE the wife that despises her husband - she can SEE people's struggles, and silent worries. Her thoughts about the congregation go on for many pages. They are very entertaining. Oftentimes mean. She is merciless toward others (when they deserve it). Lucy Maud lets it go on for so long to really give the sense of Emily LOSING herself in this activity. And she does. Oh and I forgot - after prayer meeting, Emily was going to go and have a sleepover at Ilse's house. This is very important later. So - the prayer meeting ends. Everyone is secretly relieved - because nobody really likes the minister. They all start to jostle out of the church. Emily is still half-in her people-watching reverie - and forgets to bring her hymn book with her. She is outside the church - there's a big crowd - Elizabeth and Laura have gone off without her (knowing that she will be going home with Ilse) - but Emily can't find Ilse for a second in the throng - and before she forgets - she runs back inside to get her hymn book. Slipped inside the hymn book is a little piece of paper on which she had put down a couple of notes about her people-watching - notes that she would not anybody else to see. This is why the hymn book is so essential. Emily goes to the pew - the church is now empty - and the caretaker is putting out the lamps. Emily grabs her hymn book ... but her scrap of paper is not in it. Panic. Emily gets down on her hands and knees to look for it on the floor (which means - if anyone had looked into the church it would have looked empty) ... and in that fateful moment - the caretaker goes to the front door of the church, walks out, and locks the door behind him. Locking Emily into the dark church. It takes a while for Emily to realize her predicament ... and by that time, the thunder that had been growling all night - breaks out into a full storm. Emily is irrationally terrified of thunderstorms. So now begins her long night of utter terror. She stands at the door screaming (even though everyone has left): she screams for Elizabeth, Ilse, Laura ... and then, desperately, for Teddy.

Nobody hears of course. Ilse would assume that she decided not to sleep over and went home. Elizabeth and Laura would assume she was with Ilse. She would not be missed. For a while, she basically falls apart. She sits on the steps up to the church gallery, shivering, wincing, terrified. Finally, she pulls herself together. Finds her backbone. And also - the writer in her comes to life. Wouldn't this be interesting to write about someday?? She decides to go back into the main church, sit in a pew, and just wait it out. But as she goes to put her hand on the stair railing - she doesn't touch wood - she touches something hairy. This is the worst moment of the chapter. The horror that goes thru Emily ... then in a flash of lightning she sees a dog walk by. A dog. A dog somehow got locked in the church too. It takes a while for Emily to recover her equilibrium after touching him in the dark. She doesn't know whose dog it is - but he seems friendly - so she makes her way, in the dark, into the church and sits in a pew. Only a couple seconds go by before Emily just gets the sense that she is not alone. She knows that somebody else is in that church with her (besides the dog). And in a flash of lightning - he is revealed. (Terrifying moment). He is known as "Mad Mr. Morrison". He was once a normal man - but he lost his wife - and never recovered. He is now insane - and homeless - and is constantly "looking for his wife". As a matter of fact, he will go up to random women, and start stroking their hair, caressing them, thinking that she is his dead wife. He is known to be harmless - he would never HURT anybody - but still, he's kind of a creepy person and you do not want to be locked in a church with the dude. So Emily sees him in the flash of lightning - he is standing right in front of her - hands outstretched to touch her. Emily screams and runs. But there is nowhere for her to go. Then follows an agonizing hour? Couple of hours? With Emily hiding in between pews - as Mad Mr. Morrison searches for her. She has to keep moving - because he will catch up with her. This goes on forever. The way Lucy Maud describes Emily's terror is palpable. Emily has no critical mind left - or rationality. She is just a cringing little bundle of terror, trying to survive into the next second, without Mad Mr. Morrison getting her - in that dark empty church.

And then ... from the outside of the church ... she hears a voice calling, "Emily? Emily?"

It is Teddy. Teddy. Who heard her cry out for him. Only ... he was a couple of miles away. That's what's weird about it. He heard her cry his name ... and knew that he had to go to the church ... and so he left his house without his mother knowing, and came to 'save' Emily. It is all quite peculiar.

So Emily hears the voice - and screams - HELP HELP TEDDY TEDDY - she is out of her mind. Out. Of. Her. Mind. It's wrenching to read - because by now we love Emily. It's horrible to think of her so terrified and helpless.

Emily runs to the door, screaming out to Teddy about Mad Mr. Morrison being in there with her. Teddy shouts back that the key to let her out is hanging on the inside wall - if she can't find it he will break a window. In a flash of lightning - Emily sees the key, grabs it, opens the door - and falls out into Teddy's arms - just as poor Mad Mr. Morrison lunges at her from within the church. Teddy holds Emily - and scolds Mad Mr. Morrison about frightening Emily. Mad Mr. Morrison suddenly looks broken, desolate - and says, "I only wanted to find my beautiful Annie." And something in Teddy's heart has compassion for this poor man - it's heartbreaking - so Teddy says, "You'll find her someday." Emily, meanwhile, is still screaming, and sobbing, and shivering, and thrashing about in Teddy's arms. The terror she went thru has dissolved her self-control.

Teddy leads her over to the graveyard. By this point - the main thunder and lightning storm has passed ... and the moon has tentatively come out ... leaving the world a moonlit wonderland. They sit on one of the big slabs in the moonlight, and Emily cries in Teddy's arms. Teddy holds her. They talk about the weirdness of Teddy "hearing" her. Emily keeps saying, "But you couldn't have heard me ... you were too far away ..." And Teddy sticks to his guns. "I don't care. I HEARD you." There doesn't seem to be much else to say. Emily is slowly starting to calm down ... and suddenly ... she becomes completely aware of Teddy's arms around her ... of Teddy beside her ... the whole night trembles with romntic possibility. Teddy holds her ... looks down at her ... and says, "You are the sweetest girl, Emily" and leans in to kiss her. Emily has never been kissed - although someone at school TRIED to kiss her and she slapped him upside the head. Teddy had heard about that - but he somehow has a feeling that he won't get slapped.

But in that moment ... before their lips meet (DAMMIT) - suddenly Mrs. Kent - Teddy's insanely jealous mother - appears in the graveyard. She had heard her son leave the house - and she followed. Mrs. Kent hovers about her son - and considers anything that is a threat to their relationship - a threat. For example - he had a kitten he loved. Mrs. Kent drowned it. So, uhm. This is not a well woman. So to see Teddy making out with Emily in a graveyard ... this is a tragedy. A betrayal. Teddy is 15 years old at this point, 16 ... he should be allowed to have his own little romances if he wants - but not in Mrs. Kent's world. And from this night on - Mrs. Kent despises Emily. Emily is the threat. Emily is the one she needs to destroy.

Anyhoo - that's where I'll start the excerpt. With what happens at the very end of the chapter - when Mrs. Kent shows up.

Emily ends up having a shining moment here. Truth-teller. But of course - this truth-telling is the main reason why Mrs. Kent looks upon her as the most dangerous threat of all.

Excerpt from Emily Climbs - by L.M. Montgomery

"So you are trying to steal my son from me," she said. "He is all I have and you are trying to steal him."

"Oh, Mother, for goodness' sake, be sensible!" muttered Teddy.

"He - he tells me to be sensible," Mrs. Kent echoed tragically to the moon. "Sensible!"

"Yes, sensible," said Teddy angrily. "There's nothing to make such a fuss about. Emily was locked in the church by accident and Mad Mr. Morrison was there, too, and nearly frightened her to death. I came to let her out and we were sitting here for a few minutes until she got over her fright and was able to walk home. That's all."

"How did you know she was here?" demanded Mrs. Kent.

How indeed! This was a hard question to answer. The truth sounded like a silly, stupid invention. Nevertheless, Teddy told it.

"She called me," he said bluntly.

"And you heard her - a mile away. Do you expect me to believe that?" said Mrs. Kent, laughing wildly.

Emily had by this time recovered her poise. At no time in her life was Emily Byrd Starr disconcerted for long. She drew herself up proudly and in the dim light, in spite of her Starr features, she looked much as Elizabeth Murray must have looked over thirty years before.

"Whether you believe it or not it is true, Mrs. Kent," she said haughtily. "I am not stealing your son - I do not want him - he can go."

"I'm going to take you home first, Emily," said Teddy. He folded his arms and threw back his head and tried to look as stately as Emily. He felt that he was a dismal failure at it, but it imposed on Mrs. Kent. She began to cry.

"Go - go," she said. "Go to her - desert me."

Emily was thoroughly angry now. If this irrational woman persisted in making a scene, very well: a scene she should have.

"I won't let him take me home," she said, freezingly. "Teddy, go to your mother."

"Oh, you command him, do you? He must do as you tell him, must he?" cried Mrs. Kent, who now seemed to lose all control of herself. Her tiny form was shaken with violent sobs. She wrung her hands.

"He shall choose for himself," she cried. "He shall go with you - or come with me. Choose, Teddy, fo ryourself. You shall not do her bidding. Choose!"

She was fiercely dramatic again, as she lifted her hand and pointed it at poor Teddy.

Teddy was feeling as miserable and impotently angry as any male creature does when two women are quarreling about him in his presence. He wished himself a thousand miles away. What a mess to be in - and to be made ridiculous like this before Emily! Why on earth couldn't his mother behave like other boys' mothers? Why must she be so intense and exacting? He knew Blair Water gossip said she was "a little touched". He did not believe that. But - but - well, in short here was a mess. You came back to that every time. What on earth was he to do? If he took Emily home he knew his mother would cry and pray for days. On the other hand to desert Emily after her dreadful experience in the church, and leave her to traverse that lonely road alone was unthinkable. But Emily now dominated the situation. She was very angry, with the icy anger of old Hugh Murray that did not dissipate itself in idle bluster, but went straight to the point.

"You are a foolish, selfish woman," she said, "and you will make your son hate you."

"Selfish! You call me selfish," sobbed Mrs. Kent. "I live only for Teddy - he is all I have to live for."

"You are selfish." Emily was standing straight: her eyes had gone black: her voice was cutting: "the Murray look" was on her face, and in the pale moonlight it was a rather fearsome thing. She wondered, as she spoke, how she knew certain things. But she did know them. "You think you love him - it is only yourself you love. You are determined to spoil his life. You won't let him go to Shrewsbury because it will hurt you to let him go away from you. You have let your jealousy of everything he cares for eat your heart out, and master you. You won't bear a little pain for his sake. You are not a mother at all. Teddy has a great talent - everyone says so. You ought to be proud of him - you ought to give him his chance. But you won't - and some day he will hate you for it - yes, he will."

"Oh, no, no," moaned Mrs. Kent. She held up her hands as if to ward off a blow and shrank back against Teddy. "Oh, you are cruel - cruel. You don't know what I've suffered - you don't know what ache is always at my heart. He is all I have - all. I have nothing else - not even a memory. You don't understand. I can't - I can't give him up."

"If you let your jealousy ruin his life you will lose him," said Emily inexorably. She had always been afraid of Mrs. Kent. Now she was suddenly no longer afraid of her - she knew she would never be afraid of her again. "You hate everything he cares for - you hate his friends and his dog and his drawing. You know you do. But you can't keep him that way, Mrs. Kent. And you will find it out when it is too late. Good-night, Teddy. Thank you again for coming to my rescue. Good-night, Mrs. Kent."

Emily's good-night was very final. She turned and stalked across the green without another glance, holding her head high. Down the wet road she marched - at first very angry - then, as anger ebbed, very tired - oh, horribly tired. She discovered that she was fairly shaking with weariness. The emotions of the night had exhausted her, and now - what to do? She did not like the idea of going home to New Moon. Emily felt that she could never face outraged Aunt Elizabeth if the various scandalous doings of this night should be discovered. She turned in at the gate of Dr. Burnley's house. His doors were never locked. Emily slipped into the front hall as the dawn began to whiten in the sky and curled up on the lounge behind the staircase. There was no use in waking Ilse. She would tell her the whole story in the morning and bind her to secrecy - all, at least, except one thing Teddy had said, and the episode of Mrs. Kent. One was too beautiful, and the other too disagreeable to be talked about. Of course, Mrs. Kent wasn't like other women and there was no use in feeling too badly about it. Nevertheless, she had wrecked and spoiled a frail, beautiful something - she had blotched with absurdity a moment that should have been eternally lovely. And she had, of course, made poor Teddy feel like an ass. That, in the last analysis, was what Emily really could not forgive.

Kung Food Guy!

No - there is not a new movie out - but there WILL be.

And here's the trailer! Just to whet your whistle.

It's especially great - because I am posting this on the filmmaker's 9th birthday. So it's all just even MORE cool!!!

I have many comments about the trailer - my favorite parts, etc., (I love the last close-up which kind of comes out of nowhere) but I will save them for later.

Refresher:
Kung Food Guy - part 1

Kung Food Guy - part 2

Happy birthday to our second President ...

.. the often underappreciated (although never by the O'Malley family) John Adams.

Poor man. No matter WHO came after George Washington would suffer by comparison. John Adams spent the rest of his life trying to reclaim some legacy for himself - but the Alien & Sedition Act kind of cast a shadow over everything (that lasts to this day - I have heard people bring it up NOW as a way to discount all the amazing things he did. HA.)

I love John Adams BECAUSE of his flaws. I love him for his brilliance, and his dedication - I love him for his relationship wtih Abigail - and I love the two of them for being so FREE in their correspondence with one another so that we, centuries later, can read their letters and get to know them both. I love him for defending the British soldiers in the aftermath of the Boston massacre in 1770. It gives me a chill - his ability to detach, his ability to see the larger picture. In later years, Adam said that that controversial act of his was one of the things he was most proud of. That, to me, says so much about who this man was. John Adams said that this new nation should be a government "of laws, not of men". Of course, he was a lawyer, so he WOULD say that ... but by defending the redcoats - and by WINNING - he took a stand on the side of law and order against the mob. Even though he agreed with the sentiments of the mob. Extraordinary. It was the same thing as Alexander Hamilton (Adams' sworn enemy later on) lambasting the mobbing people on the college lawns in New York, clamoring for the head of the President - known to be pro-British. Hamilton was a revolutionary by this point - and totally not pro-British - but mob violence was not the way to go, and he stood on the steps of the college and shouted at the mob to disperse. Amazing.

I love him for his fragile ego. I love him for his capacity to get his feelings hurt. Until the end of his life - he maintained that capacity. How many people get burnt by certain events along the way ... and close themselves off to future hurts? He never did. He remained juicy, alive ... read his letters back and forth to Jefferson at the very end. He is boisterous, fearless ... and then, at times, reflective, contemplative.

I love his nervousness about his own legacy and how he kind of had a sense that he would not get the props he felt he deserved (uhm ... quoting Eminem in a John Adams post, Sheila?)

I love him for his reliance on Abigail.

I love those damn LETTERS.

I love that the Constitution of Massachusetts - written by him (completed in 1779) is the oldest functioning written constitution in the world. Go, John.

Anyway. My affection for him knows no bounds. I suppose part of it has to do with the fact that he was a Bostonian - and that I have family who live in Quincy - so every time we would go to Thanksgiving dinner at their house, we would pass by the Adams homestead. He's not a historical figure. He's almost like a family member - that everyone passes on stories about. It seems like he is actually remembered. I remember Bingley telling me once a story about going to college in Virginia - and having people talk about "Mr. Jefferson" - as though he was in the next room and could walk in at any moment. Yes. Growing up with a Boston family makes you feel like the Adams family is still alive, present, pulsing in the air around you, absorbed into the cobblestones where they walked ...

They are not dead. Not really. They are in the air we breathe, they are all around us still.

Happy birthday, John Adams. Thank you, thank you.

Here's a quote-fest from Adams ... The dude was so quotable. If you haven't read his letters (to his wife, and also the collection of letters between Adams and Jefferson) - I can't recommend them highly enough.

JOHN ADAMS QUOTE FEST ... Okay, I just threw these in hastily - these are my favorites - sorry about how the formatting is different - with some blockquotes, some not - whatever - I don't have time to iron that all out. It's the quotes that matter.

Enjoy!!!

-- "In my many years I have come to a conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress." (hahahahaha)

-- "If the way to do good to my country were to render myself popular, I could easily do it. But extravagant popularity is not the road to public advantage." -- John Adams, after becoming President by only three votes

-- "I never shall shine, 'til some animating occasion calls forth all my powers." -- John Adams, 1760

-- "The story of B. Bicknal's wife is a very clever one. She said, when she was married she was very anxious, she feared, she trembled, she could not go to bed. But she recollected she had put her hand to the plow and could not look back, so she mustered up her spirits, committed her soul to God and her body to B. Bicknal and into bed she leaped -- and in the morning she was amazed, she could not think for her life what it was that had so scared her." -- Journal entry of John Adams

-- Adams' description of the first meeting of the Continental Congress, in 1774 - in a letter to Abigail:

"This assembly is like no other that ever existed. Every man in it is a great man -- an orator, a critic, a statesman, and therefore every man upon every question must show his oratory, his criticism, his political abilities. The consequence of this is that business is drawn and spun out to immeasurable length. I believe if it was moved and seconded that we should come to a resolution that three and two make five, we should be entertained with logic and rhetoric, law, history, politics, and mathematics concerning the subject for two whole days, and then we should pass the resolution unanimously in the affirmative."

hahahahaha

-- "If we finally fail in this great and glorious contest, it will be by bewildering ourselves in groping for the middle way." -- John Adams

-- "It has been the will of Heaven that we should be thrown into existence at a period when the greatest philosophers and lawgivers of antiquity would have wished to live ... a period when a coincidence of circumstances without example has afforded to thirteen colonies at once an opportunity of beginning government anew from the foundation and building as they choose. How few of the human race have ever had an opportunity of choosing a system of government for themselves and their children? How few have ever had anything more of choice in government than in climate?" -- John Adams

-- "Is there no way for two friendly souls to converse together, although the bodies are 400 miles off. Yes, by letter. But I want a better communication. I want to hear you think, or to see your thoughts. The conclusion of your letter makes my heart throb more than a cannonade would. You bid me burn your letters. But I must forget you first." -- John Adams to Abigail - amazing. Romantic. Moving. "But I must forget you first."

-- "Thanks to God that he gave me stubbornness when I know I am right." -- John Adams

-- "In general, our generals were outgeneralled." -- John Adams' comment after the disastrous battle on Long Island

-- "He means well for his country, is always an honest man, often a wise man, but sometimes and in some things, absolutely out of his senses." -- Ben Franklin, 1783, about John Adams (in a letter to Robert Livingston)

-- "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study paintings, poetry, music, artchitecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain." -- John Adams

-- "You are afraid of the one, I, the few. We agree perfectly that the many should have full, fair, and perfect representation [in the House]. You are apprehensive of monarchy; I, of aristocracy. I would therefore have given more power to the President and less to the Senate." -- John Adams to Thomas Jefferson

-- "Gentlemen, I feel a great difficulty how to act. I am Vice President. In this I am nothing, but I may be everything." -- John Adams

-- John Adams to Jonathan Sewall, July 1774:

"Swim or sink, live or die, survive or perish, [I am] with my country. You may depend upon it."

-- Thomas Jefferson, remembering John Adams' speeches at the Continental Congress:

"John Adams was our Colossus on the floor. He was not graceful nor elegant, nor remarkably fluent but he came out occasionally with a power of thought and expression, that moved us from our seats."

-- John Adams, in a letter to Jefferson, 1812:

"Whether you or I were right posterity must judge. I never have approved and never can approve the repeal of taxes, the repeal of the judiciary system, or the neglect of the navy. Checks and balances, Jefferson, however you and your party may have ridiculed them, are our only security."

-- John Adams, in a July 3, 1776 letter to Abigail, after the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 2:

The Delay of this Declaration to this Time, has many great Advantages attending it. ? The Hopes of Reconciliation, which were fondly entertained by Multitudes of honest and well meaning tho weak and mistaken People, have been gradually and at last totally extinguished. ? Time has been given for the whole People, maturely to consider the great Question of Independence and to ripen their Judgments, dissipate their Fears, and allure their Hopes, by discussing it in News Papers and Pamphletts, by debating it, in Assemblies, Conventions, Committees of Safety and Inspection, in town and County Meetings, as well as in private Conversations, so that the whole People in every Colony of the 13, have now adopted it, as their own Act. ? This will cement the Union, and avoid those Heats, and perhaps Convulsions which might have been occasioned, by such a Declaration Six Months ago.

But the Day is past. The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. ? I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfire and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more.

You will think me transported with Enthusiasm, but I am not. I am well aware of the Toil, and Blood, and Treasure that it will cost Us to maintain this Declaration, and support and defend these States. Yet, through all the Gloom, I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means, and that Posterity will triumph in that Day's Transaction, even though We should not rue it, which I trust in God We shall not.

-- John Adams, in a 1793 letter, responding to the revolution in France:

"Mankind will in time discover that unbridled majorities are as tyrannical and cruel as unlimited despots."

-- "I think instead of opposing systematically any administration, running down their characters and opposing all their measures, right or wrong, we ought to support every administration as far as we can in justice." -- John Adams

-- John to Abigail: Hartford May 2d 1775 - on his way down to Philadelphia. Adams is hoping that the disaster growing in Boston will bind the colonies together. That's eventually what happened, but at the time, he wasn't sure if it were a done deal.

"It is Arrogance and Presumption in human Sagacity to pretend to penetrate far into the Designs of Heaven. The most perfect Reverence and Resignation becomes us. But, I can't help depending upon this, that the present dreadfull Calamity of that beloved Town is intended to bind the Colonies together in more indissoluble Bands, and to animate their Exertions, at this great Crisis in the Affairs of Mankind. It has this Effect, in a most remarkable Degree, as far as I have yet seen or heard. It will plead, with all America, with more irresistible Perswasion, than Angells trumpet tongued.

In a Cause which interests the whole Globe, at a Time, when my Friends and Country are in such keen Distress, I am scarecely ever interrupted, in the least Degree, by Apprehensions for my Personal Safety. I am often concerned for you and our dear Babes...

In case of real Danger, of which you cannot fail to have previous Intimations, fly to the Woods with our Children."

-- JOHN ADAMS, journal entry, 1770:

"Ambition is one of the more ungovernable passions of the human heart. The love of power is insatiable and uncontrollable.

There is danger from all men. The only maxim of a free government ought to be to trust no man living with power to endanger the public liberty."

And lastly - one of my favorite Adams anecdotes. I love it because it came straight from his journal - so it's a first-person account - and it feels like I actually can hear Adams speaking, I can feel his humor, his emotions ... in a way that I never get with Jefferson or Washington - also great men, but just not personable writers. They had much more formality in their language. Adams had almost none, at least not in his journals and letters:

John Adams is sent as a delegate to France, to join Ben Franklin and Silas Deane (the stories of Silas Deane in France are hysterical - trying to be "undercover" - and yet barely speaking a word of French, etc.) Ben Franklin is living the high life (John Adams describes in his journal Franklin's leisurely schedule with haughty scorn). John Adams was more stern, more simple, more "republican", as he called it. He was talking as an anti-monarch.

Adams was overwhelmed by the politeness of the French, and by how eager they were to please the Americans. John Adams keeps all of his impressions of France, and the French people, in his journal, and in letters home to Abigail.

On his second or third night in France, he is at a dinner - and has the following exchange with a French woman, who asks him a particularly "brazen question". John Adams blushed his way through the conversation, not being used to women with open and free airs, but his ANSWER to her question - how he ANSWERS the French woman's question ... It kills me.

It's a perfect description of sexual chemistry.

John Adams' Journal, 1778 April 1 Wednesday

One of the most elegant Ladies at Table, young and handsome, tho married to a Gentleman in the Company, was pleased to Address her discourse to me. Mr. Bondfield must interpret the Speech which he did in these Words "Mr. Adams, by your Name I conclude you are descended from the first Man and Woman, and probably in your family may be preserved the tradition which may resolve a difficulty which I could never explain. I never could understand how the first Couple found out the Art of lying together?"

Whether her phrase was L'Art de se coucher ensemble, or any other more energetic, I know not, but Mr. Bondfield rendered it by that I have mentioned.

To me, whose Acquaintance with Women had been confined to America, where the manners of the Ladies were universally characterised at that time by Modesty, Delicacy and Dignity, this question was surprizing and shocking: but although I believe at first I blushed, I was determined not to be disconcerted. I thought it would be as well for once to set a brazen face against a brazen face and answer a fool according to her folly, and accordingly composing my countenance into an Ironical Gravity I answered her.

"Madame My Family resembles the First Couple both in the name and in their frailties so much that I have no doubt We are descended from that in Paradise. But the Subject was perfectly understood by Us, whether by tradition I could not tell: I rather thought it was by Instinct, for there was a Physical Quality in Us resembling the Power of Electricity or of the Magnet, by which when a Pair approached within a striking distance they flew together like the Needle to the Pole or like two Objects in Electrical Experiments."

When this Answer was explained to her, she replied, "Well I know not how it was, but this I know it is a very happy Shock."

I should have added "in a lawfull Way" after "a striking distance," but if I had her Ladyship and all the Company would only have thought it Pedantry and Bigottry.

Happy birthday, Mr. Adams, dear Mr. Adams. You are obnoxious and unpopular, it can't be denied ...

Or, another quote from 1776, a favorite musical (whoda guessed):

"SIT DOWN, JOHN
SIT DOWN, JOHN
FOR GOD'S SAKE JOHN, SIT DOWN!"

And for fun - here's the song lyrics to "But Mr. Adams" - where it is hashed out who will write the Declaration. Naturally, it is quite a self-serving story Adams told (he's the one who suggested Jefferson) - but still: SO funny. I love this song. I'm listening to it right now.

Franklin:
Mr. Adams, I say you should write it
To your legal mind and brilliance we defer
Adams:
Is that so? Well, if I'm the one to do it
They'll run their quill pens through it
I'm obnoxious and disliked, you know that, sir
Franklin:
Yes, I know
Adams:
So I say you should write it Franklin, yes you
Franklin:
Hell, no!
Adams:
Yes, you, Dr. Franklin, you
but, you, but, you, but
Franklin:
Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
The things I write are only light extemporania
I won't put politics on paper; it's a mania
So I refuse to use the pen in Pennsylvania
Others:
Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania, refuse to use the pen
Adams:
Mr. Sherman, I say you should write it
You are never controversial as it were
Sherman:
That is true
Adams:
Whereas if I'm the one to do it
They'll run their quill pens through it
I'm obnoxious and disliked, you know that, sir
Sherman:
Yes, I do
Adams:
So I say you should write it, Sherman, yes you
Sherman:
Good heavens, no!
Adams:
Yes you, Roger Sherman, you
but, you, but, you, but
Sherman:
Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
I cannot write with any style or proper etiquette
I don't know a participle from a predicate
I am just a simple cobbler from Connecticut
Others:
Connecticut, Connecticut, a simple cobbler he
Adams:
Mr. Livingston, maybe you should write it
You have many friends and you're a diplomat
Franklin:
Oh, that word!
Adams:
Whereas if I'm the one to do it
They'll run their quill pens through it
Others:
He's obnoxious and disliked; did you know that?
Livingston:
I hadn't heard
Adams:
So I say you should write it, Robert, yes you
Livingston:
Not me, Johnny!
Adams:
Yes you, Robert Livingston, you
but you but you but
Livingston:
Mr. Adams, dear Mr. Adams
I've been presented with a new son by the noble stork
So I am going home to celebrate and pop the cork
With all the Livingstons together back in old New York
Others:
New York, New York, Livingston's going to pop a cork
Jefferson:
Mr. Adams, leave me alone!
Adams:
Mr. Jefferson, dear Mr. Jefferson
I'm only 41; I still have my virility
And I can romp through Cupid's Grove with great agility
But life is more than sexual combustibility
Others:
Combustibility, combustibility, combustibili...
Jefferson:
Mr. Adams, damn you Mr. Adams
You're obnoxious and disliked; that cannot be denied
Once again you stand between me and my lovely bride
Oh, Mr. Adams, you are driving me to homicide!
Others:
Homicide, homicide, we may see murder yet!

BRILLIANT!

Snapshots

Woke up to a monsoon battering my window. The trees were bent horizontal. Now it's bright sun and everything's all greeny glowy happy. Please make up your mind, nature.

Had a massage on Monday night. I was so freakin' stressed out that it basically HURT when he touched my neck and shoulders. I mean, it's ridiculous. So it was rather, uhm, intense - "Ouch! OW! OOOF ... OUCH ..." but I walked out of there feeling almost like I was TALLER. Everything felt all straightened out and aligned. He called me the next day to see how I was doing. I love a massage therapist who, you know, calls you at home to see how your neck is. It's hysterical, but I love it.

The weather has been freezing - with massive winds battering down the avenues of New York. American flags looking almost like they are going to be ripped off their poles - it's rather alarming. Then there's been the whitenss of the sky - with stray golden GLEAMS coming out of it - so you can see where the sun is. A wintry sun, hiding.

Went out to Brooklyn to see my friend in Urinetown. She played Pennywise and she was absolutely brilliant. That song "Privilege to Pee" has got to be so damn hard - and she has an incredible soprano already - but to see her just kick some BUTT with that song - and be funny and angry - was so much fun. So much fun. The show was quite good. Brooklyn-ites, you have 2 more weeks to check it out.

Tonight going to see my good friend Bill in a revival of a show he did last year - and I had heard a ton about his performance - but I had missed it because I was in a show as well. Bill is such an amazing actor - one of the best I personally have ever worked with. We did a two-person show a couple years ago that I think was one of the most satisfying acting experiences I've ever had. He's a good friend. He's insane.

Cashel's birthday coming up. I'm so bummed I won't be out there for it. But I'm thinking of going back out to LA in December - so I can see him again then. More word problems to solve?

Domestic stuff today involving Woolite, and Endust and - ohmygod - breaking out the flannel sheets. The day I break out the flannels is one of the happiest days of the year for me. I love the cold. I love fall and winter. I love cozy flannel and fleece and all that.

The diet is going well. I've been surprisingly dedicated to it - even with traveling to LA and all. I haven't slipped too much. Haven't gotten on a scale yet, but I will say this - my clothes are loose.

Had a great conversation with another writer friend last night. She's been getting her poems published here and there - and has started to do readings in Manhattan. She also teaches a writing class online, and in general is a great person to talk to about all this stuff. I feel pumped. Pumped about this Sewanee thing - but not just about that - pumped about what will come NEXT.

Oh - member my Internet experiment? It worked.

Fiction ....

Which fictional character frightens you the most?

Cathy from East of Eden. She haunts me. I've written about her multiple times - usually in other contexts (here - in a post about Leslie van Houten. And here. That one started with a discussion about Scott Peck's People of the Lie) My fascination with Cathy is akin to my fascination with Stalin. It's hard to look away from people like those two.

Which fictional parents do you most wish you had?

Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Murry in Wrinkle in Time. Or - to go further down in that family: Meg and Calvin in the rest of the books. They seemed like pretty cool parents.

Which fictional character has the most balls?

I guess Captain Ahab is coming to mind.

To which fictional character?s house would you most like to be invited for dinner?

The Professor's house in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

If you could invite 3 fictional couples to your home for dinner, who would they be?

Leopold and Molly Bloom - now THAT would be interesting

Samuel Klayman and Josef Kavalier from The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay - I know they're not a couple - but they go together in my mind ... maybe they would bring along Rosa ... The three of them, actually, qualify as a "couple" - 3 of my favorite characters of all time

Nelson Denoon and ... nameless woman (uhm - more on them here)

Which fictional character could probably entice you into his/her bed?

Yossarian. Probably?

Which fictional character would most likely have broken your heart?

Nelson Denoon

Mr. Darcy too. Of course.

In which fictional character?s home would you most like to live?

Lake Mistawis - Barney Snaith's house on the island in The Blue Castle

Close second: Kerewin's tower on the beach in The Bone People

I got this fun meme here!

Diary Friday

I know. It's been a while.

It comes in waves - my desire to do the diary thing. I can't do it if I'm not in the mood - it's too exposing. I need to be in the mood for that kind of thing.

Okay, so here's one from my sophomore year in high school. It's mortifying (and fun) for me to share this.)

JANUARY 7

J. came home with me today. I cannot explain the fun. [And then I proceed to "explain the fun"]

17 says that a hearty laugh is equal to a 3-mile run. [And we all know that we must do whatever Seventeen magazine tells us!!] If that is so, then why am I not anorexic?

We watched GH [those initials should need no explanation] and almost cried when Noah hurt Tiffany. [hahahaha Noah!!!!]

We went up to my room and oddly enough we talked seriously for a long time. About prejudice and the Ku Klux Klan. [Like I said in the first paragraph - "I cannot explain the fun". The FUN of discussing the KKK!] I am terrified of those men. I have horrible nightmares and I hate them so much. How -- HOW can someone not like someone because - OF THE COLOR OF THEIR SKIN!!! Or their religion? It is totally unfathomable to me. And it makes me so mad. I could never put the feelings into words. It really really scares me. [Still does, hon. Let's add "sexual orientation" onto that list - and we'll be completely up to date with my current-day feelings.]

We were called downstairs at 5:30 and I had 3 pieces of pizza!!! [Hence, the lack of anorexia] I am so ashamed.

We left right after for Tootsie.

Guess who was there? Mere, Beth, Michelle and Jayne! [Okay, now that is completely BIZARRE. That is exactly the grouping that got together last Saturday for Mere's black-belt graduation. Ah, continuity. How I love thee.] We all sat together. I think it was better the second time, because I knew what to expect - and none of the lines flew by me. When Bill Murray said, "You slut" - I swear, Mere and I were leaning over, holding our stomachs, and just LAUGHING. It was great.

When we got home, J. and I went into the den and - I revealed some deep secrets - and I could NOT believe that she did the same thing. I really must sound desperate but, at times, I do pretend that I have a boyfriend. When I'm alone, I act out imaginary scenes with him, and fights, and I turn on Barry Manilow music when we make up. [That is literally the funniest most embarrassing thing I have ever heard in my life.] I lie in bed and pretend that we've just made love. I swear, I am in need of a dildo. [I cannot BELIEVE I knew that word. ??????? I am shocked at myself.] We were laughing so hard though because we both do the SAME things and we never knew about it! I kept going, "I feel as if a great weight has been taken off my shoulders!" We compared stories and laughed endlessly because J. said, "Well, my purple pillow is my boyfriend," and I said, "Well, my backrest is really good cause it sort of has arms." We laughed about that for about 15 minutes. I tell you, I'm laughing now!!! J. kept saying it. "It sort of has arms!" I can't believe that I actually told someone my deep dark secret and found that she did it too. We were lying on the floor in the den, ROARING. But of course we both laugh silently. If anyone had listened at the door, they wouldn't have thought we were in there.

At 1:00, we were still up - so we watched a Barbra Streisand movie that was on: "Owl and the Pussycat."

And now, the sun is "spitting morning" into my face. BYE!

Happy birthday - to Sylvia Plath

Today is Sylvia Plath's birthday, and here's an old post I wrote about her, with some new stuff added. It feels a bit strange to say "Happy birthday" to ... uhm ... someone who was so ultimately unhappy, and someone who took her own life ... But I saw that it was her birthday today and I had to say something.

That's a sketch she did of her own hands. She found drawing very relaxing. She would lose herself in it, and spent most of her honeymoon in Spain (a place she found almost unbearably upsetting - Ted Hughes, her husband, wrote a poem many years later called "You Hated Spain") - anyway, she spent most of her honeymoon huddled over a sketch pad. She drew the streets, the fruit baskets, the fishing boats. Was there pleasure in it for her? I don't know. I think it was a way to unhinge her brain for a moment, lose herself in the moment - where all she could do, all she was able to do, was just copy what she saw. She didn't have to find the right word, or struggle with the poetry muse ... she just had to sit down and copy what she saw. Ted Hughes wrote a poem, too, about her drawing.

I haven't yet written a real piece on Sylvia Plath - because I know when I finaly get to it, it'll be a doozy. It'll take me hours of research, and compiling quotes, and snippets, and poems, and yadda yadda. I need to have the time to invest. That's just the deal with certain topics - and Sylvia Plath is one of them. (However - now I have an incentive. RTG basically commissioned a piece from me.)

In honor of the birthday of this eventually astonishing poet (she didn't start out that way, although she was certainly precocious - but NONE of her early work could prepare you for what her work became in the last 2 years of her life - it's like another PERSON came out of her ....) - I have dug up some wonderful old photographs of her. She was a chameleon. She was an all-American girl. She was a bleached blonde beach-blanket-bingo girl. She was an intense prodigy. She was a depressive who had survived a suicide attempt her junior year in college. She was the woman who married the big brash English outdoorsman, and suddenly found herself fishing, and hunting, and tromping through the woods in galoshes. Who was she? I have no idea. But you can take a look at all the photographs and see how startling are the transformations. This is not just about the passage of time, and someone looking different as they grew older ... this really seems to be about a shedding of selves (like she writes in Lady Lazarus, in one of my favorite lines: "my selves dissolving, old whores petticoats") -

I look at the picture of the bodacious blonde at the beach:

This was from her summer of recovery from her suicide attempt in college. She spent months in an institution - and then went back to Smith to finish out her education. When summer came - she bleached her hair. Her mother - the controlling prudish Aurelia Plath - and yes, there's enough information out there on this woman for me to feel completely comfortable labeling her as that - was shocked. She pretended to be supportive - but deep down, she wanted a conventional daughter. Well, sorry, Aurelia, ain't never gonna happen. Sylvia tormented herself trying to be conventional (many of her problems arose from what she felt was expected from her - as a daughter, as a wife, as a woman, in general) - and bleaching her hair was part of a necessary rebellion. Also, she started having sex. Left and right. Willy nilly. No more good 1950s girl. That "be a good girl" thing had nearly killed her. Her doctor at the time encouraged this rebellion, and taught her about birth control, so she could at least have sex safely. This was a revelation to Sylvia. She was a very sexual person, passionate, kind of wild actually - even with all that "ooh, I'm a poetic prodigy" thing - and you know, the thing is - any type of artist will always be on the fringe of polite society. If an artist tries desperately to fit in to some mainstream - if an artist really worries about what an uptight person thinks of how he or she lives ... then that artist just won't survive. The strict rules on women at that time were fetters around Sylvia's wrists. NOT CARING what people thought of her - was one of the biggest breakthroughs in her life. NOT CARING if people whispered, "She's a slut." And they did. Especially when she got to England on her Fulbright. Tapping into her REBEL, into her "I just don't care" persona ... was really important - but ultimately, it didn't matter at all. Because once she got married and once she had kids - these old conventional "roles" started constricting her again (she writes about it extensively in her poems) ... It seemed that there was an incompatability: between the poetess and the woman. Could she be a wife and ALSO a poet? What were the expectations of her? It did not help matters (although she might have thought it would) that she married not just another poet - but one of the most important up-and-coming poets in England - a man who eventually (years later) would be Poet Laureate. Like - Ted Hughes was a big deal. And he was on his way to becoming a big deal when Sylvia met him. How can two poets tryiing to make their names - live together? Was Sylvia expected to be a good 1950s wife? Ted Hughes insists (and he has also written extensively about it) that he did not expect that at all. When he first met Sylvia at a party - they both were drunk - and they basically found themselves in an empty room - making out ferociously. Sylvia bit his cheek so hard she drew blood. They were married 4 months later. THIS was their beginning. There was no nice good-girl 1950s courtship. They didn't go out for sodas and a drive-in. No. They were bohemians, for God's sake. They were poets. People like that don't live by society's rules, nor should they. (Especially if the rules are stupid.) But Ted, in some of his later poems, has described how baffled and hurt he was - after their marriage - when Sylvia suddenly got writer's block. She had writer's block for an agonizing year, year and a half - directly after their wedding. Hmmmm, coincidence? I think not. It seems apparent that Sylvia was so terrified of doing BETTER than her husband that ... everything shut down. She then tried to be the perfect housewife - and ... Ted, again, was hurt and confused by this. Where is that wild poetess? Where is my crazy American girl who shouts out lines of Chaucer to the cows? Why is she in the kitchen, tears running down her face, trying to bake pies? I mean ... what has happened??

Then I look at the picture of her with her two kids (taken a month or so before she committed suicide) -

Actually, I believe her mother took that photograph during her fateful visit to her daughter. Sylvia was living in England - and her husband Ted Hughes had just left her for another woman. Comparing that photograph to the blonde bikini one - it;s hard to believe it's the same person. Perhaps there's something similar in the smile - there's something phony in both smiles, to my eye. Anyway, I find it fascinating - perusing the photos of Sylvia Plath.

Not nearly as fascinating as her poems themselves which have never lost their power - no matter how times I have read them.

I have gone through a bunch of Plath phases - and I am sure I will go through more. I continue to re-visit her work, every couple of years ... and re-read all those 1960-1963 poems again - sometimes in order - sometimes muddling it up - and every single time, even though I always have different responses, and sometimes one poem suddenly seems THE BEST when a couple years before it was another poem that was obviously HER BEST - but anyway, every single time I read those poems from her last 3 years, they take my breath away. They're no picnic - they are bleak bleak bleak - especially if you read them chronologically. If you read them chronologically - you can feel herself get manic - in October of 62 - and she starts cranking out 2, 3, sometimes 4 poems a day. These were not pot-boilers, folks. These poems are now taught in colleges. These are the poems that would make her name. She wasn't just scribbling out insane manic fantasies - these are highly intricate, passionate, unbeLIEVable poems. Obviously manic - when you see how many she was putting out a day ... and then there is a brief falling away for a month - December ... she was still writing, but obviously it was the calm before the storm. Then January and February 1963 came along - and I believe it was the coldest winter London had ever had - and her pipes froze - and she had no help, and two young babies - and things started getting worse and worse in her mind. And her art kicked in yet again - with ferocity and power. She would write these poems at 4 in the morning - her only time to herself. So you can feel the wheels start cranking again - in January, February - she wrote some of her best poems then. They are more frightening, however, than the October poems. She is staring at death, she is beginning to embrace the idea of death ... Death is always a factor in Plath's poems, but it takes on a new form in those last couple of poems. It is no longer just a fantasy, death is no longer a dream-lover in the night ... she is now making plans. The rage of October (which gave us such poems as Daddy, and Poppies in October, and the entire fanTASTIC bee-keeping sequence) is now gone. And you can feel a chilling resolve creep into her work. She is getting ready to go.

I have interspersed the photos of Plath I found with some of my favorite of her poems.

I still need to do a big old Plath fest one day - I have too much to say about her, and need to get my thoughts together better.

In honor of her birthday, here's one that she actually wrote about her upcoming birthday - in 1962. She wrote this poem, now one of her most well-known, on Sept. 30 1962 ... right before the blast of creativity and rage that would fuel her through that painful next month. Sylvia always had a fatalistic thing with birthdays:

A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

That's a picture of Sylvia from 1953 - right before her first suicide attempt. She was living with her mother - and her mother made her take shorthand classes and typing classes (again: there is something evil about that. That very same attitude is why Barbra Streisand has always had such long nails. People laugh at those nails, or make fun of Babs for them ... but I see them, and I love them. Because to her - those nails meant freedom. Her mother was pretty much totally negative about Barbra's actual goals - she wanted to have a normal daughter - so she signed her up for typing classes. In rebellion, Babs grew her nails to extraordinary length so that even if she wanted to learn how to type - she couldn't. The nails got in the way. So when I see those nails now - on a 60 something year old woman - I smile. It's a reminder.) There is a story here - of the mother who truly DOESN'T love her daughter. She doesn't. Otherwise - she would love her for who she actually IS, not who she wants her to be. Aurelia Plath never got that. Sylvia, at the end of her life, was starting to come to terms with that. She writes, quite blatantly, in her journal, "I can never live near my mother again." And her mother comes to visit in Oct. 1962 - right after Ted has moved out - to be with Assia Wevill - the woman he was having an affair with - and Sylvia was absolutely tormented by having her mother see her in such a weak moment. To her, it was unforgivable. She wrote her poem "Medusa" about that experience - which is, you know, shocking in its hatred, and anger. But again: poets who live by society's rules and play well with others are usually not poets to be reckoned with. Sylvia coming to terms with her rage was part of her finding her voice.

"The Moon and the Yew Tree" was written in 1961 - and is considered a breakthrough - by those who have studied Plath's work. In it - she finds some of that cold clear eerie imagery - that she will write about until the very end. She looks out her window and sees a moon, a church, and a black yew tree. It is a beautiful image - and yet ... in the poem ... it becomes a harbinger. Of death, doom.

And personally - I think the first line of this poem is one of her best lines ever.

The moon and the yew tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence

Little Fugue

The yew's black fingers wag:
Cold clouds go over.
So the deaf and dumb
Signal the blind, and are ignored.

I like black statements.
The featurelessness of that cloud, now!
White as an eye all over!
The eye of the blind pianist

At my table on the ship.
He felt for his food.
His fingers had the noses of weasels.
I couldn't stop looking.

He could hear Beethoven:
Black yew, white cloud,
The horrific complications.
Finger-traps--a tumult of keys.

Empty and silly as plates,
So the blind smile.
I envy big noises,
The yew hedge of the Grosse Fuge.
Deafness is something else.
Such a dark funnel, my father!
I see your voice
Black and leafy, as in my childhood.

A yew hedge of orders,
Gothic and barbarous, pure German.
Dead men cry from it.
I am guilty of nothing.

The yew my Christ, then.
Is it not as tortured?
And you, during the Great War
In the California delicatessen

Lopping off the sausages!
They colour my sleep,
Red, mottled, like cut necks.
There was a silence!

Great silence of another order.
I was seven, I knew nothing.
The world occurred.
You had one leg, and a Prussian mind.

Now similar clouds
Are spreading their vacuous sheets.
Do you say nothing?
I am lame in the memory.

I remember a blue eye,
A briefcase of tangerines.
This was a man, then!
Death opened, like a black tree, blackly.

I survive the while,
Arranging my morning.
These are my fingers, this my baby.
The clouds are a marriage of dress, of that pallor.

The Bee Meeting (this is one of the poems in her famous "bee sequence" - which she cranked out at 1 or 2 a day, during October of 1962.)

Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers ---
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.

I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.

Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.

Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield.

Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children.

Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?

I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,

Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins

Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?

I am exhausted, I am exhausted ---
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

Fever 103 (another Oct. 1962 poem)

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ---

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ---
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ---
To Paradise.

The Couriers (written in Nov. 1962)

The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.

Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one -

Love, love, my season.

I think the following poem is the saddest she ever wrote. Now who can ever say what is in the mind of another - and it is always a dangerous thing to read too much into these poems (at least in a biographical way). They are, after all, art. But I believe that one of the reasons she killed herself is to spare her children a mother whose face was "a ceiling without a star". Not that that excuses her actions. But she wrote this poem in January of 1963, 2 weeks before she put her head in the oven. I find this poem nearly unreadable in its sadness. Yet - wonderful writing as well.

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes - newlyweds. Happier days. What a gorgeous couple they were.

And this is the last poem that Sylvia Plath completed. It's chilling, yes, but standing alone - as a poem - I think there's a lot to talk about here, a lot of stuff - not just biographical.

And I'm sorry - but the line "her blacks crackle and drag" is ... I mean, I can't describe it. It's just fantastic genius-level imagery, that's all. Goosebumps. The last two lines give me goosebumps. So scary. "Her blacks crackle and drag." (And yes ... let me just throw a shout-out to Paul Westerberg - who has also recognized the genius imagery in that line.) It's scary. "Crackle"? "Drag?" All kinds of very frightening images come to mind in those two simple words ... and the internal rhyme of "blacks" and "crackle" make it seem even more eerie. I'm not a literary critic but I will NEVER be done reading this last poem. She completed it on February 4, 1963. She killed herself on February 11.

Edge

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

The Books: "Emily Climbs" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

Emily Climbs - by L.M. Montgomery

This is the second book in the Emily series. There were times when this one was my favorite one out of the three - it's so rich, and funny - with so many of my favorite episodes that Lucy Maud has ever written (Emily going to interview the author - with the crazy dog running wild, Perry kissing Emily, the incident when Emily gets locked in the church, Emily walking the 7 miles home from Shrewsbury ...)

Again, I think that Lucy Maud was just at the top of her game, consistently, with the Emily series. She KNEW this character, this character is completely an individual, a living human being - and there isn't one false note in the whole thing.

I love, too, how a lot of this book - maybe half of it - is made up of Emily's actual diary entries. We get to hear Emily's voice in a really private way. We hear her thoughts, hear how she writes. It's a wonderful device and I think Lucy Maud really carries it off.

I'll do a bunch of excerpts from this one, too. Because it pleases me.

The first chapter shows Emily, in her room, a snowstorm outside - writing in her diary. Then we hear the entire diary entry - which is parts inspirational, part hysterical, part thoughtful. Emily is 13 years old.

Oh, and listen to the first sentence of the book. There's a melancholy in it. Lucy Maud the narrator inserts herself. She knows the future:

Emily Byrd Starr was alone in her room, in the old New Moon farmhouse at Blair Water, one stormy night in a February of the olden years before the world turned upside down.

"before the world turned upside down". World War I. There's a chill in those words, you know? The chill that lies over the stillness and peace of the early 20th century, in looking back on it.

The excerpt below is the last couple paragraphs of the last chapter. I love it - because Lucy Maud comes right out and tells us what she, the author, is doing.

Excerpt from Emily Climbs - by L.M. Montgomery

Emily looked at her candle - it,. too, was almost burned out. She knew she could not have another that night - Aunt Elizabeth's rules were as those of Mede and Persian: she put away her diary in the little right-hand cupboard above the mantel, covered her dying fire, undressed and blew out her candle. The room slowly filled with the faint, ghostly snow-light of a night when a full moon is behind the driving storm-clouds. And just as Emily was ready to slip into her high black bedstead a sudden inspiration came - a splendid new idea for a story. For a minute she shivered reluctantly: the room was getting cold. But the idea would not be denied. Emily slipped her hand between the feather tick of her bed and the chaff mattress and produced a half-burned candle, secreted there for just such an emergency.

It was not, of course, a proper thing to do. But then I have never pretended, nor ever will pretend, that Emily was a proper child. Books are not written about proper children. They would be so dull nobody would read them.

She lighted her candle, put on her stockings and a heavy coat, got out another half-filled Jimmy-book, and began to write by the single, uncertain candle which made a pale oasis of light in the shadows of the room. In that oasis Emily wrote, her black head bent over her book, as the hours of night crept away and the other occupants of New Moon slumbered soundly; she grew chill and cramped, but she was quite unconscious of it. Her eyes burned - her cheeks glowed - words came like troops of obedient genii to the call of her pen. When at last her candle went out with a sputter and a hiss in its little pool of melted tallow, she cane back to reality with a sigh and a shiver. It was two, by the clock, and she was very tired and very cold; but she had finished her story and it was the best thing she had ever written. She crept into her cold nest with a sense of completion and victory, born of the working out of her creative impulse, and fell asleep to the lullaby of the waning storm.

Thursday 13

13 classic books I would like read in 2007.

1. War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy
2. Adam Bede, by George Eliot
3. David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens
4. The Idiot, by Dostoevsky
5. Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot
6. Persuasion, by Jane Austen
7. The Red and the Black, by Stendahl
8. Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo
9. Bleak House, by Charles Dickens
10. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley
11. Complete plays of William Shakespeare
12. Hard Times, by Charles Dickens
13. The complete short stories of Anton Chekhov

(Some of these would be re-reads - but I'm counting them anyway. Obviously I have read all of Shakespeare's plays, in some cases multiple times - but I have been wanting to revisit them again - preferably in the order they were written - as close as can be guessed. Also it's been years since I read Frankenstein - and I love that book, want to read it again.)

(I got this idea here!)

Why we are friends ...

... or partly why ...

This morning we had the following email exchange:

Me in email to Allison:

I HAVE to see this documentary about Jim Jones and the People's Temple - it's at the Quad ... and, I don't know, seems like it's something you and I need to see together. ha!!!

wanna go this weekend? Saturday is out for me - but maybe Sunday?? Wanna go see 900 people kill themselves with poisoned Kool-aid on screen??

Allison in email to Me:

OH MY GOD. MUST MUST. Can not literally think of a better way to spend a Sunday.

Today in history: October 26, 1776

Benjamin Franklin set off on a diplomatic mission across the Atlantic - to get the French governments financial backing for the Revolution. As is well-known, he was a huge HIT with the French (that's him in the royal court above) ... and he wore little fur caps which became all the rage - and there was a certain breath of freedom and independence in his attitude which really appealed to the French. This was not an easy mission for Franklin. France was still a monarchy. I mean, it only had a couple years to go before heads began to roll (ahem), but it was, in 1776, still a monarchy - and so wasn't too wacky about supporting this "experiment" in democracy across the water. However, wouldn't it be fun to stick it to the Brits??? Benjamin Franklin's success in France is now widely recognized as one of the main reasons that we were able to win the war at all. Not only did he win support for his cause - but he also won over the hearts and minds of the French people. He loved it - he loved the wining, the dining, the free and easy ways of the rich French ladies - he was a social animal. He became the darling of the artistocratic set.

But today was the day that his ship sailed.

Here's an excerpt from The First American - something which, I think, gives great perspective on the enormity of what Franklin was attempting - just on a personal level:

For a man of seventy, suffering from gout and assorted lesser afflictions, to leave his home in the middle of a war, to cross a wintry sea patrolled by enemy warships where commanders could be counted on to know him even if they knew nary another American face, was no small undertaking. John Adams declined nomination in Franklin's commission; Thomas Jefferson rebuffed election. Yet Franklin had made his decision that America must be free, and he was determined to pay whatever cost his country required. "I have only a few years to live," he told Benjamin Rush, "and I am resolved to devote them to the work that my fellow citizens deem proper for me; or speaking as old-clothes dealers do of a remnant of goods, 'You shall have me for what you please.'"

And about that voyage:

The passage from America to France was "short but rough," in Franklin's contemporary account. His ship, the Reprisal, had been hastily pressed into the service of the fledgling United States navy, and though it was fast enough to capture two British merchantmen en route, it was hardly suited to the comfort of passengers. It pitched violently for nearly the whole of the thirty-day run, allowing Franklin hardly a night's - or day's - decent rest. The food was poor; he had to rely on salt beef because the chickens served were too tough for his teeth. His boils and rashes returned. In short, he told his daughter and son-in-law later, the voyage "almost demolished me".

The Books: "Emily of New Moon" (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...