The Sheila Variations

Childhood books!!

List 5 books that played an important role in your childhood and explain why

Dan tagged me! Eons ago and I'm just getting it now because my trackback functionality basically doesn't exist. And to everyone out there - consider yourself tagged, if you want to play along. I always LOVE to hear about people's favorite childhood books. I love to see how we (at least people in my generation) overlap ... but then it's cool also to see the ones that span generations ... and also to encounter titles I've never heard of, but which mean a lot to somebody else. I love it. I love Dan's memories about his books. Very cool.

My first response to the "meme" is - only 5??

List 5 books that played an important role in your childhood and explain why

Harriet the Spy - by Louise Fitzhugh. This is probably my most favorite book ever written. Period. I love it because of the long-lasting impact it had on me - but I also just love it because it's so damn good, and she's such a good writer - and all of those characters literally live on in my brain. I wrote a whole post about Harriet. (And also here's an excerpt from it)

Charlotte's Web - by EB White. I cannot discuss this book rationally or with any distance. I read it to tatters. I think it was read to our class in 3rd grade, and from the very first sentence (which I still can recite from memory - anyone else know it?? Come on. Give it up if you know it.) And then there's the last paragraph of the book which I cannot even think about without getting tears in my eyes. One of the best books ever written.

Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfield - and part of a series of books with different heroines (Theatre Shoes, Dancing Shoes, etc.) They were all books about little girls who ended up being very good at something - ballet, tennis, etc. They were always English, and for the most part - the environment of the books was grim either pre-World War II or post-war England. (Ballet Shoes was published in 1937, a grim time indeed). And that atmosphere is in the books, although the focus is on the ballet school. It's a dark time, hard times, penny-pinching times. This sounds so pedantic and so stupid but these books are really quite wonderful - Ballet Shoes, in particular. It was made into a Masterpiece Theatre mini-series which (holy crap) I just found on Netflix and ordered! It won an Emmy at the time and I remember loving the series - I approved of their adaptation of my favorite book, basically. Haha, I was 9 years old, saying ponderously, "Yup. That's okay by me."

Ballet Shoes is about three orphan girls - unrelated - Pauline, Petrova, and Posy - who were adopted - not by a married couple but by an unmarried woman who takes them in. Times are so tough, and money is so short - that it is suggested that perhaps the girls should be enrolled in the school of dramatic arts in London - get their "licenses" and start working as child actors - to make a bit of money. Posy ends up being what they would call a genius ballerina at the age of 9 years old. A Margot Fonteyn in the making. This book was not just a book to me, though. It was a guide-book. It was instructions to me, at age whatever, of how I wanted to live my life. This was going to be my life. It was a serious business. It is a craft to be studied - and there are options. Meaning: if you want to do this, you can. I was going to devote my life to my art. Just like Pauline, Petrova and Posy. I still own this book. Streatfield's a very good writer, too. I have probably made the book sound rather silly - but it's really about these 3 girls, and their anxieties about making money, about not being a "burden" on their adopted parent, about how to scrimp and save for audition dresses ... Meanwhile, it was a whole different world being presented to me as a kid. Galoshes, "macks", the Cromwell Road, streetcars, and organdy dresses ... not to mention the entire business of Theatre. I read Maurice Maeterlinck's The Blue Bird at age 10 because of Ballet Shoes. The girls were in a production of it. Marvelous world created. This is the best of the series. (Excerpt here)

A Wrinkle in Time - by Madeleine L'Engle L'Engle is one of my personal idols, and this book started it all. What a vision of the universe. I still can't live that truth on a day to day basis ... although dammit, I do my best. It is the goal, it is what I struggle to do. What a healing vision of what makes the whole operation tick, and how it works. The power of love. The strength of love. Evil exists, and it throws a black cloud over all of us ... but never underestimate how much love really matters. It is never irrelevant or meaningless. I share many of her views on tough topics - not all of them - but many of them (when she gets overly pious, I roll my eyes - because her writing gets yawningly boring then. I kind of get into it here - with her whole "sodomy" thing - where I feel she was, frankly, WAY out of her depth, as an author - and I rarely feel that about her.) By tough topics I mean, essentially, that I can't not believe in the goodness of people. And I won't let anyone take that from me - and they try! You have to WORK to remain optimistic, and faith-full, and to maintain a belief in redemption. You have to hold onto that shit because it drives people lnuts and they want to take it from you. I am not cynical. I hear all the weary "oh what is the world coming to" drivel from people, or "Oh, people are so much worse now than they were back in the golden days of my youth" and I seriously find that crap spiritually grating to listen to. Or not just grating - but almost dangerous. Like I need to protect my hope, my belief in people's goodness (thank you, Anne Frank) and that sort of weary hopeless cynicism goes against my core beliefs, and how I want to live my life. L'Engle has helped show me the way. Read her book about going back to the time of Noah (Many Waters - wonderful book). And all of those Biblical-era people come to life in that book- with the same loves and hopes and fears and biases and stubbornness as people now. It's a beautiful vision of a continuum of humanity.

And so I always read what she has to say, because I can guarantee - even if I disagree with it - it will be better written than most anything else out there. Her religious books are actually awesome - her Genesis trilogy is something I go to time and time again - but then she wrote a book about Christian art and I found the whole thing not just tiresome but also disgusting. I was disgusted by her views. Madeleine! My idol! Yup. However I read every repulsive word. That's a rare author.

Wrinkle in Time - her big "break" - isn't, I don't think, my favorite of her books. I would probably choose Ring of Endless Light as my favorite of all of her books - but Wrinkle in Time was my introduction to this marvelous thought-provoking creative author. This woman who really thinks about things, ponders them, feels them, goes there. Nothing about her is facile or easy. She is tough, and I love love love her for that. God, she's good. I cling to her work, at times. The vision that she articulates ... the grief and hope living side by side - the possibility of redemption, even here on earth - how you must never ever ever think that your love doesn't matter ... I find her stuff very very healing. I was only 10 when I read that book, but it made a lasting impression on how I see the world. (Excerpt here)

From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - by EL Konigsburg. MAGIC. This was another one of those great books that feature kids with very little adult supervision, like Harriet. I loved that. They run away, and they camp out in the Metropolitan Museum in Manhattan (those illustrations!), hiding in the bathrooms until the janitorial staff leaves, and then they have the run of the entire place. They take baths in the fountain, and gather up the pennies dropped at the bottom, so that they have funds. Another one of those books that really challenged me as a kid. Remember the narrative voice of that book? That older woman, slyly knowing, with occasional asides to Saxonburg? The voice of this book suggested a whole other world. It did not pander to me because I was 9 years old. It figured I could handle it. And you know what? I could. Not only could I handle it - but I re-read this book recently and remembered certain passages almost word for word. (Excerpt here)

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Okay - I was young enough when I first read this book that I remember reading it out loud to my mother - or maybe to somebody else, and my mother overheard me - and Meg, at one point, says this line: "But I am afraid I don't!" And this was my first experience of a contraction, believe it or not. Or maybe I had seen one - but had never put it together - and I pronounced it wrong. I didn't get it. I didn't know what "don't" was, at least not written down - so I said "don't" as though it were "dahnt". I didn't get that it was "do not" shortened. That that's what that looked like. So I had to be very young. I remember my mother saying, "That should be 'don't' - which is really two words shortened into one. It's really saying 'do not'." And I completely remember this almost exhilarating shiver going over me ... it seemed so cool, like a secret password to another level of language, a trick, a key to some sort of code. "Don't" really means "do not". Wow! And you say it "doh-nt" not "dah-nt". Revelation. So I am thinking I had to be 7 or 8 when I read this book.

I can't even say I read Little Women. I lived it. I read it and read it and read it ... and then when I read it as a teenager of course I understood so much more, all the romantic nuances, etc. I will NEVER be reconciled to the stupid stuttering German - I always wanted her to be with Laurie - I believe we have covered this - and I know the arguments, I know that Laurie isn't really right for Jo ... but it was only later when I learned that Alcott was pressured to marry Jo, that SHE wanted Jo to be a "bachelor" - like Alcott was - but oh no no, that would not do. Jo must be domesticated! Knowing what Alcott's true desire was, in terms of that character, makes a lot of sense to me. I can't even count how many times I have read this book. And what's amazing about it is that the same scenes get me ... every single time. Waiting for Marmee to return when Beth is sick - and Laurie gives Jo wine to calm her down. When Beth is given the piano. (See? I have goosebumps just writing this down). When Amy falls through the ice - but more than that: when Jo sits by her sick bed afterwards, and torments herself about her terrible temper. I had a terrible temper as a child, and I still struggle with it. It's like I get tunnel vision in those moments, the feeling of threat is so huge, the feeling of rage so enormous. Marmee's advice to Jo in that one scene is advice I took to heart, too. When Jo bursts out crying after selling her hair and Meg, of course, Meg is the sister who would "get it". Meg knows. Meg has her little vanities, her girlishness ... and she doesn't think Jo is silly for mourning her hair. I love love love Meg in that scene. I can't even say what the book gave me, or why it's important. It just LIVES, and continues to do so. (Great conversation here about Louisa May Alcott. I love talking about these shared beloved books with others who love them. It's such a huge pleasure.)

The Diamond in the Window - by Jane Langton. What a book. It's about a brother and sister - Eleanor and Eddy, who live in Concord Massachusetts, with their crazy uncle and weary aunt (who are also brother and sister - neither of them married). The uncle is an Emerson freak - who has kind of lost his mind, he can no longer live by himself, and he kind of believes he IS Emerson. The aunt is the responsible one, giving piano lessons, worrying about money, and not living her own life, even though she is a young woman. One day, when looking up at their house, Eleanor and Eddy notice a window shaped like a keyhole up in the roof. A window they have never seen before even though they have always lived in that house. They do a bit of exploring and discover a secret room in the attic, filled with old treasures and a toy chest and 2 small single beds - but no one will explain what it means. It is an unmentionable topic. Something unspeakable occurred in the past, apparently ... and Eleanor and Eddy need to be shielded from it. Both of them start having dreams - dreams which become increasingly real (for example - Eleanor falls out of a tree in one of the dreams, and wakes up to find that she has a big bloody scratch on her arm). All of the famous characters of Concord show up in these dreams - as guideposts, clues, messages .... Emerson is there. Thoreau is a character. Louisa May Alcott comes into a dream as well. It is an extraordinary book. I loved it so much it almost made me nervous. It doesn't talk DOWN to kids. I LEARNED stuff when reading this book. The whole transcendentalist movement is mentioned extensively in the book - because Uncle Freddy wants to bring it back - to honor his heroes of days gone by. Fantastic. (Excerpt here.)

Crap. That's already more than 5.

"i need nothing in return, but i am receptive to much"

I bet you are, buddy. Jess got a Myspace message which is kind of hysterical. I love the dude's signoff, too: "Best, phil". It's hilarious - so polite and formal. "Best, Phil." What???

Black Snake Moan

Wow. That's a helluva review by one of my favorite critics. I think I'll have to see it. The poster, which is everywhere right now, didn't appeal to me ... although I love Ricci, Jackson and Timberlake (ha, quite a trio). I thought Hustle and Flow was amazing - brave - riveting - Terrence Howard is, to my mind, one of the best actors working today - and the film had some acting as good as acting gets. And I credit a lot of that to Craig Brewer, the director - and how he filmed it. The moments don't look planned. It looks like you are looking at things really happening - and that's when stuff is exciting, that's where certain types of actors can thrive. Actors who know their craft, who know how to play scenes out from beginning to end - who understand arc, who've got that fire in the belly, and some intelligence in how they approach their roles. Without the films of the 70s, films that looked like they were really happening - films that were interested in the grit, the rawness, the realness of life - actors like DeNiro, Pacino, Hackman, Duvall might not have had their chance. It was the perfect moment - the perfect melding of acting style and directing style. A zeitgeist moment. 99% of directors are control freaks and too scared to let go of the reins that much. But the ones who do? Sometimes it can result in crap, sure, but sometimes it can result in pure movie magic. That last scene in Hustle and Flow when he bursts back into the apartment and kisses his long-term crack-ho - that big juicy sexy kiss??? No - it's more than sexy. It's romantic. And to see a moment like that - of pure romance - in an environment like that ... It just killed me. Yay - I found a screenshot of it.

I had no idea it was coming, didn't see it coming at all - and the impact of it pretty much knocked me flat. I couldn't believe the love that was there. The love. And what a kiss like that means to people in such circumstances. What a kiss means to a woman like that. I have a lump in my throat just thinking about it. Amazing moment. Having read Berardinelli's review of Black Snake Moan - I am now really excited to see it.

Mailbox art

I love it when Johnny Virgil takes his camera out and about with him in his 'hood. This time - he goes out and photographs all of the mailboxes in his area. Hilarity ensues.

I like this quote, underneath a photo of one of the mailboxes:

This next one raises an interesting question: Should your mailbox be nicer than your actual house?

score!

Allison just informed me that she heard from the manager of the bar - who tallied up the scores on the Oscar ballots - and I won the Oscar pool! (I had had a feeling I might win something - but I won the whole damn thing.) (Actually, to be honest, Allison informed me in this manner: "You bitch. You won the Oscar pool." hahaha) I have never won anything in my life. I don't even know what the prize is yet, but I am so excited!

Funnily enough - I also just got an email from my sister Siobhan - and she won the pool at the bar where she worked!

And so the O'Malleys are rockin' the Oscar pools in the 5 boroughs.

Darth Vader ...

.... fabric.

Genius.

There appears to be a theme

running through my life these days .. an Idi Amin theme ... Suddenly he's everywhere.

First of all - Ryzsard Kapuscinski was working on a book about Idi Amin when he died - Or maybe he finished it, not sure. One of the chapters in his book about Africa was devoted to Idi Amin - awesome, it was my favorite chapter.

Second of all - Forest Whitaker's brilliant piece of acting - which just won him an Oscar. I'm so happy. That guy (Whitaker, I mean) has been around forever and ... I'm just always so happy to see him. He makes a movie better just by being in it. (Ahem. Ahem. However, even he couldn't save this monstrosity - but I consider that a point in his FAVOR, actually.) Integrity oozes off of him.

Third of all - I added Barbet Shroeder's documentary about Idi Amin on my Netflix queue (hahaha, I have to keep reminding myself of the coolness of my Netflix queue - Yeah, whatever, I have a Netflix queue, yeah, uh huh, it's not a big deal, whatever) ... but anyway. I've heard about this documentary for years - it sounds chilling, and ... well, right up my alley. Wacko dictator? Throbbing personality cult? Corruption, violence, political insanity? Count me in. So that will arrive whenever.

Fourth of all - I go to one of my favorite sites this morning - and see this.

Oscar rundown!!

By my dear friend Alex. I'm with her: "I loved every long, stretched out, egocentric minute of it. It is indeed, the Granddaddy of awards shows, and I look forward to it every year." Ha. Yup. Lots of people think I'm a moron for that (judging from 3 of the emails I have received in the last 2 days) - and to quote Alex: "I couldn't care less." I'm in good company.

Also, Alex refers to Dakota Fanning as Dakota Darkside Fanning. hahahahaha

Happy Birthday - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow!

"Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not; and oftimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad."

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Words to live by, as far as I'm concerned.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born today in 1807 in Portland, Maine. He was one of those rare things: a poet famous during his own lifetime. A bit of a celebrity he was. I have his collected works at home. "Evangeline" and "Song of Hiawatha" are often the ones that are excerpted, or included in larger anthologies of American verse. But his "Paul Revere's Ride" is my favorite. I have written about it quite a bit. The first stanza gives me goosebumps. Always. Here it is - I never "get over" this poem.

Part of the reason I love this poem is because of the story, of course - but there's also something thrilling in Longfellow's language, his perfect rhythm, his immaculate rhyme scheme. It has a ring of inevitability to it. It's meant to be read out loud. When you do, you can hear the galloping horse hooves in the rhythm.

Paul Revere's Ride

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

SO SATISFYING. "It was one by the village clock ..." "It was two by the village clock ..." "For borne on the night-wind of the Past ..." Ringingly satisfying.

The O'Malley family has passed on the love of that poem to the next generation. Here's something I wrote about Cashel, and Longfellow's poem that I read on a radio program here in New York a couple years ago. Cashel was 5 years old at the time. It seems to me it would be quite a fitting tribute to one of the most popular American poets we've ever had.

One If By Land

Cashel and I colored for a while as we waited for the pizza to arrive. Cashel commanded me to draw a house. So I did. Cashel was basically the architect and the interior designer. Telling me what he wanted to see.

"Put a playroom in the attic."

"But Auntie Sheila -- where are the stairs??"

I drew the bathroom, and the mere sight of the toilet caused Cashel to dissolve into mirth. Yes. Toilets are hilarious.

I drew a spiral staircase which blew Cashel away. "That's so COOL." Then I drew the living room. I said, "I think there needs to be a picture on the wall. Or a portrait. Whose picture should be on the wall, you think?"

Cashel said bluntly, "Einstein."

Okay, then. Einstein. So I drew this little cartoon of Einstein, with the crazy hair coming up, and Cashel said seriously, with all of his knowledge, "That really looks like Einstein."

We ate our pizza together, talking about stuff. Star Wars, Ben Franklin. Cashel informed me, "Ben Franklin discovered lightning."

Cashel is a wealth of information. Randomly, he told my parents that Vincent Van Gogh never sold a painting while he was alive, but that after he died, he became famous.

I read him a story. It was from the book of "Disney stories" which I had given him for his birthday. He loves it. He pulled it out of the bookshelf, and I said, "Oh! I gave that to you!" Cashel said, a little bit annoyed, "I know that."

He had me read the story of the little mouse who hung out with Ben Franklin, and basically (in the world of Disney) was the inspiration for all of Ben Franklin's famous moments. Cashel would shoot questions at me. "Why is Ben Franklin's hair white?" "Well ... he's old now. But also, in those days, men wore powdered wigs. I think." Cashel's little serious face, listening, sponging this all up. Probably the next day he informed his friends that men in the olden days wore powdered wigs. He's that kind of listener, that kind of learner.

Then he put on his Obi Wan Kenobi costume which Grandma Peggy made him for Christmas. A long hooded brown cloak ... and he hooked his light saber into his waist, and galloped off down the hall. Making me laugh. A mini Jedi knight.

I had him pick out three stories to read before bedtime. He sat beside me, curled up into me, looking at the pictures as I read to him. The last one we read was Longfellow's poem "Paul Revere's Ride". This poem was a favorite of ours, when we were kids. My dad would read it to us, and even now, when I read the words, I hear them in my father's voice. A magical poem. Really. The way my dad read it to us (along with Longfellow's help) made us SEE it. The clock tower, the moon, the darkness ... the sense of anticipation, of secrecy, of urgency. It was thrilling. So I love that this is being passed on to Cashel! I've never read the poem outloud before ... so I had one of those strange moments of the space-time continuum bending ... me stepping into my father's shoes, Cashel 5 years old beside me, feeling the ghost of my own 5 year old self listening.

I also remember how Brendan and I used to chime in gleefully: "ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF BY SEA!" And Cashel did the same thing. I paused before that moment in the poem, glanced down at him, and he screamed it out.

There was also a subtlety of understanding in Cashel ... I read this section:

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

And Cashel exclaimed, in a sort of "Uh-oh" tone, "They're comin' by sea!!" Now the words don't actually SAY that, but he remembered the "one if by land two if by sea" signal, and puts it all together. That's my boy!

I remembered the first lines from memory:

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

Again, those are just words on the page. But to me, they are filled with the echoes of my father's voice. I have tears in my eyes.

Cashel and I, as we went through the poem, had to stop many times for discussions.

There was one illustration of all the minute-men, hiding behind the stone walls, with a troop of Redcoats marching along, walking straight into the ambush. Cashel pointed at it, and stated firmly, "That's the civil war."

"Nope. Nope. That is actually a picture from the American Revolutionary War."

Cashel pondered this. Taking it in. Then: "The minute-men were in the civil war." But less certain.

"Nope. The minute-men were soldiers in the American Revolution. Do you know why they called them that?"

"Why?"

"Cause they were just farmers, and regular people ... but they could be ready to go into battle in a minute."

Again, a long silence. As Cashel filed this away for safekeeping. He forgets nothing.

"So ... Auntie Sheila ... what is the difference between the Revolutionary War and the Civil War?"

Woah. Okay. This will be a test. How to describe all of that in 5-year-old language. I mean, frankly, Cashel is not like a five-year-old at all. But still. Everything must be boiled down into its simplest components.

"Well. America used to be a part of England, and the American Revolutionary War was when America decided that it wanted to be free ... and Americans basically told the Brits to go home." Uh-oh. Brits? This is an inflammatory term. I corrected myself. "America told Great Britain that it wanted to be its own country. And the Civil War ... " Hmmm. How to begin ... what to say ... I know it was about more than slavery, but I decided to only focus on that one aspect. Economic theory would be too abstract. "In those days, Cashel, black people were slaves. And it was very very wrong. Can you understand that?"

He nodded. His little serious face.

"And the people in the South wanted to keep their slaves, and the people in the North said to the people in the South that they had to give up their slaves because it was wrong. And they ended up going to war. And eventually all the slaves were free."

Cashel accepted this explanation silently. Then he pointed back to the Paul Revere poem. "Read." he commanded.

the country of the Houyhnhnms

Check this out: a really cool map!! I just finished Gulliver's Travels - and it is the kind of book where you make maps in your head, to try to get the lay of the land.

So there's this brand-new thing?

It's called Netflix? Maybe you've heard of it? No??

I think it's gonna be huge, you guys! Seriously. I have a feeling about these things. I like to be on the cutting edge of technology, I really do. You know. Like when I got a DVD player last summer - a DVD player that someone else had to buy FOR me. But you know. It was my first DVD player, and it was 2006, after all ... so obviously I am FAR ahead of everybody else, in terms of gadgetry.

And so I am here to tell you that this ... Netflix thing? Unbelievably cool!!

No, but seriously. I just signed up with Netflix last week. For the first time ever. Much to the amazement of pretty much everyone who knows me.

Everyone who knows me: "You're not on Netflix? What is your problem???"
My answer: "How much time have you got?"

So I signed up. And holy crap, it's like the best thing ever invented. I can't believe it. I feel almost a little nervous about the whole thing because I could get completely out of control - and already am a little bit. But I am just browsing through, to my heart's content, remembering: "Oh yes! I need to see that movie again!" Or ... "Hmmm ... let's see what Greta Garbo movies they have, shall we?" It's just heaven. No longer do I need to rely on my local video store's goodwill in keeping their paltry "classics" shelves stocked. Now I can go hogwild.

And just the system itself should win awards for efficiency and convenience. It's idiot proof. I love it. Go, Netflix. I'll get over it soon, I'll get used to it, but for now? I'm all about Netflix. And how cool it is.

I have already watched my first 2 choices ... my "baptism" into Netflix consisted of The French Connection and Dane Cook's The Vicious Circle.

And now ... let the games begin. My queue grows exponentially every day. I am sure this is comPLETEly fascinating to EVERYone. it was so funny, though - I casually mentioned it last night to Allison (and she was one of the Netflix evangelists) - I tried to throw it in the conversation casually, "Yeah, so on my Netflix queue ..." and Allison pounced. "Your what?? Your Netflix queue?? You're on Netflix? Isn't it so AMAZING??"

So here's my queue. I look at it and shiver with the knowledge that, to me, it is an absolute work of art. Many of these I have seen - but because of the general suckiness of video stores .... I haven't been able to see them in YEARS. I'm so excited. Also THRILLED to see Way Down East - directed by DW Griffith - starring Lillian Gish and Richard Bartelmess (I will always think of him as the new pilot in Only Angels Have Wings - that was his "comeback") - but anyway - Way Down East has this scene of Lillian Gish floating along an icy river, lying down on an ice floe - as Bartelmess tries to get to her. I'm sure you've seen the clip - it is regularly included on any "greatest scenes ever filmed" list.

This was shot on location, that is really Lillian Gish - it was a truly dangerous stunt - and I've only seen the clip, never the whole film. I can't wait!!

La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc - 1928 - directed by Carl Theodor Dreyer

Sudden Fear - 1952 - directed by David Miller

Marie Antoinette - 2006 - directed by Sofia Coppola

Alice Adams - 1935 - directed by George Stevens

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly - 1966 - directed by Sergio Leone

L'Histoire d'Adèle H. - 1975 - directed by François Truffaut (Emily, speaking of Truffaut!!! Ha. There's a lot of his movies on here, coincidentally. I love this movie - and Isabelle Adjani is incredible in it. It's just been years since I've seen Truffaut's movies, so I'm gorging myself now that I have discovered Netflix.)

Nosferatu - 1922 - directed by Murnau

The Searchers - 1956 - directed by John Ford

Patton - 1970 - directed by Franklin J. Schaffner

Rocky Balboa - 2006 - directed by Sylvester Stallone (this one is released in March some time - but I've pre-ordered it)

The Lady Eve - 1941 - directed by Preston Sturges - I've never seen this movie, and I'm really psyched. Peter Bogdonavich loves this movie - and includes it in his "Movie of the Week" book and it sounds like my kind of film.

Richard Pryor: Live in Concert - 1979 - directed by Jeff Margolis

Metropolis - 1927 - directed by Fritz Lang

Steamboat Bill, Jr. - 1928 - directed by Charles Reisner and Buster Keaton

Breathless - 1960 - directed by Jean-Luc Godard

General Idi Amin Dada - 1974 - directed by Barbet Schroeder

Mean Streets - 1973 - directed by Martin Scorsese

Stranger than Fiction - 2006 - directed by Mark Forster

Rio Bravo - 1959 - directed by Howard Hawks

Half Nelson - 2006 - directed by Ryan Fleck

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington - 1939 - directed by Frank Capra

A Clockwork Orange - 1971 - directed by Stanley Kubrick

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - 1969 - directed by George Roy Hill

The General - 1927 - directed by Buster Keaton

The Third Man - 1949 - directed by Carol Reed

Queen Christina - 1933 - directed by Rouben Mamoulian

Touch of Evil - 1958 - directed by Orson Welles

Tootsie - 1982 - directed by Sydney Pollack

Lock Up - 1989 - directed by John Flynn

Paper Clips - 2004 - directed by Elliot Berlin and Joe Fab

The Seventh Seal - 1957 - directed by Ingmar Bergman

Tango & Cash - 1989 - directed by Andrei Konchalovsky

Idiocracy - 2006 - directed by Mike Judge

The Specialist - 1994 - directed by Luis Llosa

Jules et Jim - 1962 - directed by François Truffaut

Pirates of the Caribbean: Black Pearl - 2003 - directed by Gore Verbinski

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest - 2006 - directed by Gore Verbinski

Mildred Pierce - 1945 - directed by Michael Curtiz

Inside the Actors Studio: Icons: Barbra Streisand

Kolya - 1996 - directed by Jan Sverák

Persona - 1966 - directed by Ingmar Bergman

F.I.S.T. - 1978 - directed by Norman Jewison

Kiss Me Deadly - 1955 - directed by Robert Aldrich

M - 1939 - directed by Fritz Lang

The Bicycle Thief - 1948 - directed by Vittorio De Sica

La Dolce Vita - 1960 - directed by Federico Fellini

Short Cuts - 1993 - directed by Robert Altman

The Young Lions - 1958 - directed by Edward Dmytryk

The 400 Blows - 1959 - directed by François Truffaut

Triumph of the Will - 1935 - directed by Leni Riefenstahl

Rambo: First Blood - 1982 - directed by Ted Kotcheff

Rambo: First Blood Part II - 1985 - directed by George P. Cosmatos

Rambo III: Ultimate Edition - 1988 - directed by Peter MacDonald

Nashville - 1975 - directed by Robert Altman

Living Out Loud - 1998 - directed by Richard LaGravenese

Way Down East - 1920 - directed by DW Griffith

Broken Blossoms - - 1919 - directed by DW Griffith

Saboteur - 1942 - directed by Alfred Hitchcock

The Best Years of Our Lives - 1946 - directed by William Wyler

Gilda - 1946 - directed by Charles Vidor

SNL: The Best of Steve Martin

State and Main - 2000 - directed by David Mamet

Jackass: The Movie - 2002 - directed by Jeff Tremaine

The Heiress - 1949 - directed by directed by William Wyler

The Big Heat - 1953 - directed by Fritz Lang

Shane - 1953 - directed by George Stevens

Lawrence of Arabia - 1962 - directed by David Lean

The Wild Bunch: Special Edition - 1969 - directed by Sam Peckinpah

Chinatown - 1974 - directed by Roman Polanski

Tomorrow - 1972 - directed by Joseph Anthony (this is starring Robert Duvall - I have never seen it - and my father has been urging me to see it for, what, 10 years? I have just never got around to it ... or I keep forgetting. So now! Finally!!)

The Deep - 1977 - directed by Peter Yates

MASH: Season 11: Disc 3 (finale of series)

Don't Bother to Knock - 1952 - directed by Roy Ward Baker - a Marilyn Monroe tour de force

I look back over this and am amazed at how awesome Netflix is. I am so glad I discovered it. 3 years after everybody else did. And, in typical Sheila fashion, the choices run the gamut. From Queen Christina to Jackass.

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery. Another excerpt! It will be the last. Sniff. We must leave our Blue Castle behind. Valancy and Barney go along with their lives - in a montage of the seasons ... and then comes the big moment. The revelation moment. Valancy had been told by her doctor that her heart was so bad that any sudden shock could kill her instantly. She is always aware of keeping her stress level down - which, of course, on Barney's island, is not hard at all. But one day - Valancy and Barney are walking home from town, along the railroad tracks, and Valancy's heel gets caught in the rails ... and naturally, at that moment, a train decides to suddenly appear around the corner, bearing down right at them. Valancy is stuck! Damsel in distress! She calls out to Barney - who drops everything and runs to her, desperately trying to get her heel loose. Valancy, panicked, begs Barney to save himself - let her die - she who is going to die soon anyway - but to save himself! Barney, of course, ignores this and keeps tugging at her foot. With seconds to spare - or milliseconds - Barney frees Valancy's foot and pulls her away - just as the train races by. Okay, so this is the big moment. The two of them stroll home, lost in their own thoughts. Valancy is thinking, with a sick kind of realization: I can't have a bad heart ... because if that moment didn't kill me ... if that moment wasn't a "sudden shock" I don't know what is ... the doctor must have made a mistake ... This makes her sick to her stomach because her whole marriage to Barney is based on the fact that she is going to die in about a year. If she's not going to die? Would Barney think she had tricked him into marrying her? Etc. Valancy feels ill. And Barney is lost in thought, too. Valancy assumes that he is thinking what she is thinking: If THAT didn't kill her, then she can't be all that sick ... However, it turns out (we find this out later) - that Barney is actually lost in thought, and kind of distant - because he realized, in a flash, at the prospect of losing Valancy - that he was in love with her. Instead of declaring himself, he instead becomes consumed by the thought that he must go talk to doctors about her heart condition, get the best specialists, try to save her, do anything ... ANYthing to save her! But he doesn't tell Valancy any of this. He just disappears into the night. The next day, Valancy goes to visit the doctor who gave her the diagnosis - and she asks him if there could be any error ... and blah blah ... turns out, he was flustered on that day he saw her - for personal reasons - and gave her the diagnosis meant for another woman, who had a similar name. Valancy had nothing wrong with her heart, then. And would probably live a very long and healthy life. Instead of jumping for joy at this news, Valancy is horrified. Full of dread. To avoid the confrontation with Barney, she writes him a note - telling him what happened - and that she didn't mean to trick him - and leaves her Blue Castle, and goes home to live with her horrible mother. Valancy is so changed now - she has known love and freedom - she has shed her old dowdy skin. She bobbed her hair. She bought a bathing suit. She tramps through the woods on snowshoes. She reads all day long if she feels like it. But now, there is nothing for her to do but go home. Her heart is broken. It is a defeat of her spirit. And her mother is so smugly self-satisfied when "Doss" returns. Her mother is a "serves you right" type of moron.

This last excerpt is Valancy, staring around her old room, saying good-bye to her happy life with Barney.

Naturally - through twists and turns of the plot - it all works out in the end ... but those chapters are more plot-driven than character-driven (as well they should be) ... and so not as excerpt-able, in my opinion.

Here is Valancy. "Home" again. Knowing she will not live a long long life ... and yet without Barney, without the beautiful island ... she will live a long life, trapped in the bosom of her horrible family. The dream is over.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

Valancy looked dully about her old room. It, too, was so exactly the same that it seemed almost impossible to believe in the changes that had come to her since she had last slept in it. It seemed - somehow - indecent that it should be so much the same. There was Queen Louise everlastingly coming down the stairway, and nobody had let the forlorn puppy in out of the rain. Here was the purple paper blind and the greenish mirror. Outside, the old carriage-shop with its blatant advertisements. Beyond it, the station with the same derelicts and flirtatious flappers.

Here the old life waited for her, like some grim ogre that bided his time and licked his chops. A monstrous horror of it suddenly possessed her. When night fell and she had undressed and got into bed, the merciful numbness passed away and she lay in anguish and thought of her island under the stars. The camp-fires - all their little household jokes and phrases and catch words - their furry beautiful cats - the lights agleam on the fairy islands - canoes skimming over Mistawis in the magic of morning - white birches shining among the dark spruces like beautiful women's bodies - winter snows and rose-red sunset fires - lakes drunken with moonshine - all the delights of her lost paradise. She would not let herself think of Barney. Only of these lesser things. She could not endure to think of Barney.

Then she thought of him inescapably. She ached for him. She wanted his arms around her - his face against hers - his whispers in her ear. She recalled all his friendly looks and quips and jests - his little compliments - his caresses. She counted them all over as a woman might count her jewels - not one did she miss from the first day they had met. These memories were all she could have now. She shut her eyes and prayed.

"Let me remember every one. God! Let me never forget one of them!"

Yet it would be better to forget. This agony of longing and loneliness would not be so terrible if one could forget. And Ethel Traverse. That shimmering witch woman with her white skin and black eyes and shining hair. The woman Barney had loved. The woman whom he still loved. Hadn't he told her he never changed his mind? Who was waiting for him in Montreal. Who was the right wife for a rich and famous man. Barney would marry her, of course, when he got his divorce. How Valancy hated her! And envied her! Barney had said, "I love you," to her. Valancy had wondered what tone Barney would say "I love you" in - how his dark-blue eyes would look when he said it. Ethel Traverse knew. Valancy hated her for the knowledge - hated and envied her.

"She can never have those hours in the Blue Castle. They are mine," thought Valancy savagely. Ethel would never make strawberry jam or dance to old Abel's fiddle or fry bacon for Barney over a camp-fire. She would never come to the little Mistawis shack at all.

What was Barney doing - thinking - feeling now? Had he come home and found her letter? Was he still angry with her? Or a little pitiful. Was he lying on their bed looking out on stormy Mistawis and listening to the rain streaming down on the roof? Or was he still wandering in the wilderness, raging at the predicament in which he found himself? Hating her? Pain took her and wrung her like some great pitiless giant. She got up and walked the floor. Would morning never come to end this hideous night? And yet what could morning bring her? The old life without the old stagnation that was at least bearable. The old life with the new memories, the new longings, the new anguish.

"Oh, why can't I die?" moaned Valancy.

The ballots

Allison was smart. We filled out our ballots - checking off everything we thought would win - and then, of course, you have to pass them in. There are prizes and everything - and, not to jinx myself, but I think I might win something. I was guessing pretty much everything correctly. I got the Dutch poet one wrong ... but other than that, I was pretty much scoring. But anyway - before Allison handed in her ballot, she scribbled down on a napkin all of her choices - because sometimes it's hard to remember what you actually chose for Sound Editing, Sound Mixing, Makeup, etc. For some reason - I loved the look of her napkin on the bar, and her fevered scribbling - so this comes to me, via Allison's cell phone. It kind of gives the spirit of the night. Oh, and it snowed! Beautiful fluttery snowfall, my favorite kind.

Homage to New York

From Blue Blood - by Edward Conlon, a marvelous book I am tearing through at the moment (it's so good, I can't recommend it highly enough):

There is so much to the City, so many little worlds on the wax and wane, pulling you in and pushing you out. You might be met by a wary eyeball through the peephole, or with wide-armed welcome, if you have a pretty face, a pocketful of cash, the name of a friend. The dress code could be black tie, or you might have to leave all your clothes at the door, or a simple weapons check would do. There are cafes and clubs where you can speak Amharic, Bulgarian, or Catalan, and next door to each there are others where you can leave the mother tongue and mother country behind. People come here to be dancers, bankers, witches, chefs; to take jobs that have been just invented or long forgotten, union jobs and city jobs. New York maintains civil-service positions for ostlers - they take care of the municipal horses - and may be the only city to do so since the Kaiser left Berlin. If you require other Bulgarian ostlers so as not to feel lonely, you might have a problem, but we have both Bulgarians and ostlers. And there may well be an enclave of Bulgarian ostlers - in Queens, most likely - that I just haven't come across, because I haven't looked. You can never get lost in New York, as long as you keep on moving, but you can get stuck sometimes. It depends more on your stamina more than sense of direction.

If you yearn to be with your own kind, then you can find it here. One Sunday a month, a small bar in the east Village has a ukelele festival in their backroom, and you have never seen such a packed bar in your whole life. Every guy was dressed like Robert Crumb, and the girls wore seamed stockings, and everyone had a ukelele and it was bedlam. Ukelele-driven friendly bedlam. Lonely ukelele players, through the five boroughs, waiting eagerly for the next gathering ... and then descending on the joint like gangbusters, having held in their fervor until they could be amongst their own kind.

Tonight I will be with my own kind. What a relief. To not have to explain, to defend WHY I am love this night of nights, to build a case in order to make someone else who is inherently hostile towards the whole thing understand. Boring. Let me hang out with other enthusiasts who are into it, who bet on it, who have scoring cards, who cheer when their favorite has won, who discuss, who have "predictions" laid out in front of them, who whoop it up, who do not condescend, who do not snark and bitch, who are blatantly INTO it, because it's fun, it's interesting, and it's what we're about.

It's going to be riotous. Allison and I, belly-up to the bar, filling out our score cards, chatting with strangers (most of whom have Irish accents), ordering food, talking like maniacs, watching, discussing, picking apart, analyzing ... and, in the end? Appreciating. Appreciating the event, in and of itself. We do this every year, and it is always hysterical.

Snowy grey skies. But the bar will have a fire blazing in the fireplace. A bar where everybody knows your name. And where there are people who have FIERCE opinions about who should win Best Makeup. People who will ask you to "step outside" if you think Babel should win Best Picture. People who not only have seen every entry, but can list who was the gaffer on each picture. People who will literally raise their voices over the Best Animated Short. My kind, indeed.

Happy Oscar night!!

In honor of the first Sunday of Lent

... here is my impression of Heaven.

Michael - I am dying to talk with you about Paradise Alley. Holy crap! His writing is what really struck me. It's almost pure Odets. Amazing. I realize that I am communicating with you through my blog which is strange and dysfunctional ... but whatevs. Paradise Alley!!!

Vintage ....

What a FUN post. Vintage dresses suggested for certain present-day stars - in preparation for this Sunday's Oscars ceremony. How fun!!

Diary Friday

High school journals have obviously lost their humor for me, recently. I'm all about Chicago now. I know a lot of readers like the adolescent entries - and I'll eventually get back to them - but for now, Chicago. And M. is on the ol' noggin, naturally, so here's another M. entry. This is from 1995. We had known each other 3 years by this point. I think it's March, 1995 in this entry... and I made the decision to move to New York in, I think, April or May -so things are already turbulent here. The ice is starting to break up, so to speak, and I'm starting to look at other options. Or - I'm not even aware that I'm looking at my future and which way I want to go ... but I AM. When the decision was made, boom, that was it. Naturally, I had some setbacks along the road, emotionally, including the 103 degree fever 4 weeks before I moved ... but that's all just how I operate. Always has been, always will. Also - M. and I, at the point of this entry, are about to have a huge blow-out at a place called Gingerman Tavern - that place will always be infamous in my memory, me storming home at 3 in the morning, then speaking to him like he was a halfwit when he called me at 4 in the morning wondering where I had gone - I even slowed down my speech, so he could understand - Bitch!!!, and then refusing to take his calls thereafter, etc. - I can't remember when that occurred - must have been shortly after this entry (I can feel it coming as I re-read this entry - I'm getting annoyed with him already) - and I didn't talk to him for months because of "the night of the Gingerman". Hahahaha So absurd - if the bar was called anything else it might not be so absurd. But once my plans to leave for New York became more and more definite, and I started uprooting myself ... he and I made up, I have no memory how that came about ... but I know I felt like - Okay, this is ridiculous. I'm LEAVING. I'm not gonna hold a grudge and deprive myself of seeing M.

This entry came to my mind today because I watched Dane Cook's Vicious Circle last night - which I love - and he has all of this hiLARious relationship observation stuff, which never ever gets old. That man (on my bench as he is) makes me LAUGH. His whole "you girls are brain ninjas" thing - and his observation about girls getting snacks at the movies (it's so right ON - makes me LAUGH!!!!! - both sides of his observations - the girl side and the guy side. Beautiful.) And also the differences in how the sexes argue. Man, he's so damn funny. But anyway, a lot of this entry reminded me of Dane Cook's observations, so I thought - Okay. I'll post this. Really NOTHING happens ... but it's chock-full of that kind of observational specificity. I am amazed at how I wrote in my own journal back in those days. The obsessive detail. I would never write like this now. Not in a journal, anyway.

MARCH??? 1995

I felt the rumblings of codependence with M. the night at Higgins. There was one point where I felt like I was him. I felt sick to my stomach. I could not enjoy myself with him - he seemed into oblivion, or something. I don't find him to be a closed person, actually. I am way more closed than he is - but there is an element to him that remains mysterious. Holed up in some tower. P. came up. [This was an important ex-girlfriend. A big deal in his life] Let me try to dredge up the source. He would reference her - and I would ask him ?s about what he said. I want him to feel like he can talk to me - I'm not gonna get jealous and hissy - (although I was jealous and hissy about that crazy bitch at Jazz Bulls, that's true).

See? Codependent. He is the last person I need to be codependent with. His behavior can be so FUNKY and strange.

I told him that I did feel a bit awkward at Bitches [this was a show I had gone to see - Mitchell was in it, a bunch of my friends, and also a guy I had gone on a couple dates with. A guy I had to let down easy - like he really thought we were "dating" - and blah blah ... I wasn't into it, though, and had to have a "talk" with him. It was ikky. Anyway, I had told M. all about it.]

M. said, and this was kind of a cute moment, "Oh, because of your old boyfriend?" Boyfriend! We had gone thru the "How could he be in Bitches? Aren't they all gay?" exchange - but I finally got him to understand it was a mix of sexualities in the show. I said, "Yeah, I felt a little awkward - especially since I was dashing here to meet you after." He said, "So you didn't hang out after the show to say hi to him?" I shook my head. M. scolded me. "Sheila! He was probably expecting to see you!" I said, "I know. I feel bad about it now."

What else can I say. I called B. and apologized a couple days later. I should have hung out to at least say Hi to him. It was my duty since I was the one doing the breaking up. I actually, oh God, I have to admit it, rather enjoyed being scolded by M. There was something endearing about it.

When he saw that I knew he was right, when he saw me concede that he was right - my attitude was: Well, it's done now, I feel bad about it, but what can I do now? When he saw that expression on my face, he let me off the hook and said, "Well, I know how you feel actually. I mean, I still see P. maybe once a month - but I don't tell her I'm seeing you or anything - I just leave that stuff unsaid."

He said, "I like simplicity. Simple situations. Simple ... simple ... simple ..." with long slow flat-line gestures with his hands. On his right hand, up near the first knuckles on his index and middle finger is a brownish-yellow stain from cigarettes. I grab his hand and inspect it - holding his fingers 1/2 an inch away from my eyes. It's kind of gross, and yet I am also mesmerized by it.

I don't know what it was - but over the course of the night - I felt M. getting disturbed - but he was pushing it away - As far as I was concerned, he was emanating pain. I felt something very different about him this night. I didn't push him. I didn't want to shatter the spell - I made my inside very very still, and just focused on him. I was a safe pool. And I sent him brain waves. Leap in, the water's fine. I'm safe, M., I'm safe. But he kept trying to shuck off the mood he was in - I don't know, I guess we just don't communicate very well on that other level. As I said before, I'm really not into de-focusing. I can't do it. [Give it time, Sheila. You will turn "de-focusing" into a true art form] He, having made me sad, tried to jostle me out of it. I said, "I'm okay, M. You don't have to cheer me up. I'm just sad sometimes, when I'm with you." He was very kind, very kind. I can't think of another word to use for what he was then. Kind. Assuring me that he was all right. He wasn't angry with me, which I thought he might be - he hates being "pitied" - but he actually seemed to really appreciate the fact that I might feel sorry for him. He validated it.) "I'm really okay, Sheila - don't worry so much about me. Okay? Sheila?" Nudging me. "Okay?"

I said, "Sometimes you just strike me as a very sad person. And that makes me sad."

He - still with this kindness towards me - didn't say anything - but gave me the most common M. look in his lexicon of looks - the incoherent (yet totally clear, to me) fill-in-the-blanks look. I filled in the blank with: "Thanks for thinking of me that way, but it's not necessary. There's nothing I can do about how you see me." I shrugged back at him, giving him my own version of the fill-in-the-blanks look - and my look said, "I can't help but feel the way I feel. You are sad."

We left it at that. [I think it's so curious that I thought we "didn't communicate very well" and here I am - 2 seconds later - describing what is basically an entirely telepathic conversation.] However, we could not get away from this feeling between us. I'm sure a lot of that had to do with me. I won't pretend I'm not feeling something. I'm okay with sadness, and ... that night I felt a piercing sadness. He brings that sensation in me sometimes. It was manageable, no big deal. I deal with my stuff. And I don't think he does.

He's dangerous for me because he can elicit such a motherly fix-it response from me. I want to soothe him, help him rest, give him a respite, help him ... I can't help it when I am with him. He couldn't find a stapler and I looked for one with him with a vengeance. So at Higgins - I suddenly just became preoccupied with M.'s life. And - I was down for the count. Everything he did after that struck me as more evidence of his sadness, how lonely he is, how stuck ... the potential is within him - He is a genius, actually. He's talented, he's opinionated, he's a poet, his MIND! He said - putting himself out to me - trying to shake me out of my mood - "I'm gonna be fine, Sheila, okay? Please don't be sad anymore."

I found myself in a crumpled kind of mood. Very tired, pensive, introspective, and a little bit sad. And none of these moods are condusive to time with M. And I didn't feel like pretending. I should have just gone home. He kept looking over at me - and once, I looked back - and we looked at each other for a while, and then he commented, kind of laughingly affectionate, "You have the most incredibly concerned look on your face." He ended up being very gentle with me, which surprised me. I thought he would get frustrated - but he started treating me as though I were the sad one. He was taking care of me.

The whole thing was so dysfunctional. I am so sucked into this now. I am him, he is me.

M. mentioned to me a couple of times over the night that he wasn't feeling well.

I had - on the night we met up at Southport Lanes - stopped at Osco on the way - I bought myself a Peppermint Patty and I bought him a Snickers. Or maybe it was a Milky Way. He was so pleased and cute, putting it in his pocket. So he, 3 days later at Higgins - put his hand on his stomach. "I don't feel well."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, it's not that. Something besides that."

"Have you eaten anything all day? What have you eaten today?"

He truly thought about this. "Not much. I ate the Snickers you gave me."

"Is that it?"

I think he nodded. I was horrified. And also angry. It was then that I truly took him on. At least for that night. As my responsibility. I had had it.

"M., what is your problem. You are killing yourself. You have to eat." I stood up and jerked on his arm. "Come on. Let's go. Let's go get you some food."

He had mentioned earlier (as though it were some far-off unattainable dream) that he craved an omelette from some all-night joint on Ashland, a place I never heard of. He told me in 3-D detail what he wanted. Exactly. He probably mentioned it 2 or 3 times, in the way that he gets stuck on such things. Dry Sol. Coffee tables. Razors. It was that kind of thing. He spins his wheels. It takes him forever to take action. So I am very proactive with him. To balance things out. I get very butch. I decided that we should go to the all-night joint and put some food into him. Fill him up with a 3-egg omelette like he said he wanted.

I stood up. I suddenly could not stand to be in that fucking bar for one more second. M. hadn't finished his drink.

"Come on, M. Let's go. Let's get out of here and get you some food. You haven't eaten in 24 hours. That is bad." He hesitated - and I went through the roof. "Come ON. Let's GO." I wanted to smack him.

We left. The line of winos sitting at the bar all called, "BYE, M.!!" He's Norm from Cheers.

As we walked out, I geared myself up for the next inevitable confrontation. He parked right outside the door, illegally, of course. The sidewalk was streaked with ice - thick ice. When we got out there, I said, totally friendly, nonthreatening, no big deal, "M., why don't you let me drive." (This is a story I will never tell my parents.) [Hi, Mum and Dad!]

He reacted as though we had had this confrontation 100 times, even though this was the first. He never got angry with me, or defensive, or hostile. He remained affectionate, friendly, amused thru all of this. Kind. But still. He would not give me the keys. He held them back (all 75 keys) from my outreaching hands. "No no no no no no - I'm fine."

"Come on. It's not a big deal. Just let me drive." I wasn't being hostile or threatening. "Humor me, then. Maybe I'm being paranoid - but humor me. Okay?"

He kept holding the keys up over my head - and I started to reach for them - and got a hold of them. We wrestled briefly for them. It became a serious scuffle.

"Sheila - no -"

I then slipped on the ice and fell on my ass onto the sidewalk, which pissed me off. I had a huge bruise on my butt the next day. When I went down, he started laughing and went to help me up but I was too mad at him by that point - and pushed his hands away - got up myself - fuming. "Do you think I can't drive? The diner is 3 blocks away. Give me the goddamn keys."

"No. This car - there are traction issues that you just can't understand." (It was only afterwards that I realized how funny this was.)

"I've driven cars like this one. I can drive a stick. Give me the goddamn keys."

I should not have gotten into that car. I was a 10 minute walk from my house. The tenor of the whole evening was so bizarre. By this point, M. didn't seem drunk at all - our wrestling seemed to sober him up - but still. It was like we were friendly and yet serious opponents. 2 pirates on separate ships. He assured me, "I'm fine. Don't worry." And he opened the door for me, standing there, holding it open for me.

Oh no, wait, I just remembered the worst part - and in the millisecond of remembrance I felt the same flutter of fear and alarm that I felt then. This was when it stopped being a joke to me. Or, it hadn't been a joke - I really did want him to give me the keys - but it hadn't really become a fight yet. When it became a scuffling match, he was holding the keys up and away from me - and I was reaching and jumping - saying, "Give them - oh, Christ - come on - it's not a big deal ..." This was the kind of stuff I was saying. And there was still an element of laughter in all of this - even when I fell. And then he said, teasing, in this evil sing-song (and I get a chill remembering it), "Tonight's the night you die!" With a taunting face.

The second he said it he was sorry. But that was way too late for me. And I went fucking ballistic. I started screaming at him. "HEY. Don't you EVER talk to me like that! My GOD! What a HORRIBLE thing to say to me - "

He didn't mean to say it - and as I went crazy, he immediately started trying to take it back. So underneath my explosion, he was saying, "Oh, hold on a second ... I didn't mean that - No no no - Sheila - no - " responding directly to my fear, and I was afraid. I hated how he said that "tonight's the night you die" to me. It was so so awful. I was in tears - and he was grabbing hold of me - trying to calm me down, but he had really shaken me up with that comment - and I was shaking him off, smacking at his hands, shouting up into his face, "Maybe you don't like your life, but don't you DARE fuck with mine." He was gentle and sorry and soothing - "I'm sorry - you know I didn't mean that - I'm sorry ... Please please forgive me ..." I was tense and tight.

He held the door open, giving me the kindest most reassuring look. "I'm fine. Okay? I'm fine."

I got into the car. I have nothing to say in my defense. As I got in, I didn't want to be a hypocrite and start praying, since I was at that moment exercising my free will - but I was still filled with this sensation of "Please" - sending out - yes, they were prayerful vibes. I was all aggressive with M. too. I slammed the door as I sat down, slammed it in his face.

M., as he started the car, kept up this steady stream of reassurances. "You can have confidence in me. I am a very good driver--"

"Please shut the fuck up and concentrate on what you're doing. Thanks."

[My GOD. Mean Sheila!! M. actually wasn't all that drunk and I wasn't drunk at all ... I remember this night very well. He was driving me crazy - and I was trying to wrench back some control. We never fought. We were not a fight-y type couple. We were relaxed, improvisational, non-judgy, and ... well, believe it or not, he was always - and probably still is - a safe haven. And me for him too. But things spiralled this night. And the Gingerman is a couple weeks in our future. No surprise.]

I felt like I had to be as alert as possible. It was like I was trying to drive the car thru my brain waves. I watched him like a hawk. I put all of my energy into being a total BITCH. [hahahaha]

He drove totally fine, by the way. I won't ever do that again - but he did drive calmly, reasonably, and didn't make one error. He didn't tease me by going too fast, or revving the engine, swerving on purpose - switching the headlights off - He did none of those things. He could sense I was NOT in the mood to be teased. I had put my life into this maniac's hands. I will not be that stupid again. If I was killed in a drunk driving accident, and M. lived - that would ruin his life. [Wow. Notice my codependence here. If I die - HIS life would be ruined. Man!!!] So no. I will never do such a thing again. I don't live my life with that level of denial.

He pulled out of his illegal parking space. I expected to get into a fiery wreck immediately. I gave him orders like an Ice Queen from the Planet of Bitch-Land.

"Stop sign."

"Slow down."

"Stop sign again."

I was being as annoying as I possibly could be. Oh, and I actually made a mistake. We stopped at a stop sign. He signalled to go right and I jumped all over him: "What are you doing? This is a one-way street." He got very cold and contained and controlled. Said to me, "Look closely at that sign and tell me what you see."

I did and I was totally wrong. It was a one-way sign but it was twisted around so it appeared to be facing us and referring to the cross-street - but it wasn't.

I subsided. "Oh. Sorry."

The whole evening's cumulative effect was upsetting. I was depressed. He was being so nice to me. It was killing me. His niceness, conciliatory - I could not WAIT to be at his apartment and to be off the fucking road. I knew I was not being true to myself. This is not how I live my life.

We drove up Belmont towards Ashland. He drove very moderately. I was wound tight as a top. Fuming. Sad. Anxious. Alert - eyes fixed on the road. He started trying to talk to me about something else, and I didn't even hear him. He realized I didn't and then he got all worried about me. For real.

"Heyyyyy --" he said, reaching out and taking my hand. He was serious. "What's wrong?" I couldn't answer. So much was wrong. When I didn't answer, he got even more nervous and prodding - gentle. "Hey." He held my hand tighter - looking over at me - alternatiing watching the road and looking at me.

When he'd look at me, I'd snap, "Please watch the road."

He ignored me and said, "Okay. Sheila. You're very upset right now with me. What is it? Is it me? Or ... is it that stupid thing I said back there? What is it?"

I couldn't look at him because I was too busy driving the car with my brain waves. "I am upset. You make me upset." [Horrible answer. Dane Cook would have a field day with that one, and rightly so.]

He launched into a monologue of justifications, still holding my hand in his lap. Telling me he was fine, he's a good driver, I didn't have to worry about him. He tried to make a joke - it fell flat - I was consumed. He jostled my hand, friendly, trying to perk me up. "Hey! That was a joke!" He seemed really worried about how mad I was, how detached I had become from him.

Even though, this whole thing was sincere - neither of us were playacting at all - but in retrospect, I was aware of my 3rd eye observing this whole thing, watching, commenting on it, enjoying it in a weird way. Watching M. being nervous, soothing, reassuring - it was very interesting to me. He turned right on Ashland and then we hit the diner (no, not literally). The diner was actually called something like the 3-Egg-er.

He parallel-parked on School or Roscoe - brilliantly, of course. He could bring moonlight into a chamber. [Oh my God, you did NOT just quote "Midsummer Night's Dream" to describe M.'s parallel parking skills.]

By this point, I had chilled out slightly. He was driving so responsibly, so normally, that I felt pretty positive that we'd at least make it the block and a half back to his place. I still did not like the situation and I was not happy with myself at all.

We both got out and went into the diner. It was almost 3 in the morning. This diner was BOMBED by flourescent light. Horrific. Like an electrocution. There were about 3 booths and a curving counter. Open kitchen and greasy grill. The waitress was in her 60s, silvery-blue eye makeup caked on her eyelids, clearly fake teeth, no lips. M. and I walked in. The whole night we were in this constant state of bickering. Never unfriendly outright - until the keys moment - but we were definitely getting on each other's nerves.

There was a booth full of wandering Generation X-ers. M. and I had a whole different edge to us. I was now part of the Chicago underbelly. I was in a diner at 3 am with my black-haired pale-skinned man. M. and I stood, staring up at the menu on the wall.

"What do you want?" he said to me. The air was now clear between us. (Or clear-er). Once I was out of that damn car.

"Oh, I'm not gonna have anything." I said.

"Really?" He was all concerned and worried again. Why wasn't I eating? What did that mean? Was I upset again? He took it very personally.

"Yeah, I'm not that hungry." Which was a lie. I was hungry. Not for anything cooked on that nasty grill, though. Also, I was totally doing that weird female "Oh, I have no appetite" behavior that drives M. insane. [And Dane Cook as well. Ha]

"Really? You're not gonna get anything?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Really. I'm not hungry."

"Well ... then ..." he was at a loss. Part of his reality had been that we both were ordering food and I was shaking up that plan. He wanted me to order food. I actually was very close to ordering something to make him happy but I refrained. The whole night I was so mixed up. I should have ordered to make me happy. I hadn't had dinner - I was very hungry! [I love how I bitched him out for his eating habits and there it is - and it's 3 am and I probably hadn't eaten since 4:30 pm the day before. Ahhh, being young and hypocritical and self-righteous - and to be forgiven for it!]

M. was disgruntled. He felt weird about ordering food without me. Like it was rude and ungentlemanly or something. He ordered mounds of food (none of which was an omelette). [hahahahaha] He ordered 2 cheeseburgers, french fries, chili, onion rings - He went insane. He was very cute ordering. Despite everything, I still was finding him so cute. Like: Ohhhh, look at M. ordering food. It was that kind of thing.

We sat at the counter waiting. He was still acting all worried about me, worried I was mad at him. He sat right next to me, being very touchy with me (as in affectionate), nudging me, kissing me, stuff like that.

I began to play a part, randomly, just to amuse myself and him. I became this tough swaggering greaser girl - like Rizzo. I was wearing my leather jacket, had the red lips, so I became this Rizzo girl, squinting up at the menu on the wall, being surly and uncooperative. I was making M. laugh. With every change of expression, he'd burst out laughing - "What was that face?"

He was smoking. [Smoking inside!! Ahhhh ... the long-ago days ...] He looked like death warmed over. I wanted a cigarette as a prop for my character. Rizzo was definitely a smoker. I reached across his arms for his cigarette - we were comfortably sprawled and draped all over each other - "Gimme a drag," I demanded.

He suddenly got totally serious. "No." And it was not a "No, I don't want to share" No. There was more to it.

"Come on," I said. "Give me your cigarette."

He held it back, like he had done with his keys. But he wasn't amused. He was so serious.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Don't ever joke about smoking, or start it as a joke. It's not something you should kid about. I've licked the coke addiction - but cigarettes? Don't even kid about it, Sheila. I'll kick your ass if you start smoking."

"Have you ever tried to quit?"

"About 10 times."

"Really?"

"I wouldn't wish this addiction on my worst enemy."

"Okay, okay."

He got his 2 big white bags of greasy lardy food, and we were off. He now seemed totally sober. We drove back to his place. The TV was on. N. was not home. [Okay. That alone is hilarious to me.] We sat in the living room. It was 4 in the morning by this point.

He sat on one couch, and I lay down on the other one. He grinned at me. Happy that I seemed happy again. "Isn't that the best couch?" he said. Next thing you know, he'd start going off on the best Coffee Table in the World.

"It's amazing. It's so long." I stretched like a cat.

We watched TV. M. sat, pulling the food out of the bags, spreading it out all over the already cluttered infamous table. I was kind of tired, but also kind of wired too because of the "tension" in the air. My brain was still very alert. M., as he unpacked all his food, started telling me about this National Geographic show he had seen about lions. He described it to me, in detail, for about 15 minutes. It was one of those times when he could have gone on for 45 more minutes and I still would have been a rapt audience. He was too fucking adorable for words. He was telling me how "the pride" works. He told me some of the scenes that blew him away - the lions lying on tree branches - he told me all about the lion/hyena dynamic and how that all breaks down.

Enough said. M. talking to me about lions was one of the best moments of the night. He described to me how AMAZED he was by their heads and how huge they are and also the expressions in their eyes.

"They really do have expressions, don't they," I said.

M. said, in a very final and-that's-all-there-is-to-say tone, "They're human beings."

As he was talking to me, telling me stories about lions, I had a couple of impulses to crawl over my couch to his couch and smother him with kisses. So fucking CUTE. Meanwhile, he was unwrapping vile-looking grey hamburgers. He glanced at me at one point, "It's because of behavior like this that I'm gaining weight."

"This is true."

Here's a part that cracks me up - and how I knew I was doing that "Oh I'm not hungry" bullshit that girls do sometimes.

He took out the fries, and the styrofoam cup of chili. He took the cap off the chili. Suddenly I was ravenous and I knew I had to have some of that chili. Oh, and I'm sorry to be so fucking crazy - but he did not get French Fries - they were actually homefries. And when he took those out and I saw them - browned, actual little potatoes - just how I like them - I knew I had to have some of those too.

I was a bit embarrassed since we had had such a scene at the diner over me not being hungry. Yet there I was, drooling like a lion on a tree branch, over his homefries and chili.

I was very tentative about asking for anything, thinking I might get a passive-aggressive refusal. "No. You had your chance. This is my food." But M. happened to look over at me, and saw the blatant desire on my face. He immediately became Mr. What's Mine Is Yours. Eat, Papa, Eat! Not a speck of attitude.

"You're hungry, aren't you? Eat! Have whatever you want!"

"Can I have some chili?"

"Yeah! Have some! You want a hamburger? I have 2!"

"Those homefries look good."

"Eat as much as you want. Here's a spoon for the chili. I can't eat all this. You sure you don't want a cheeseburger?"

"No. This is fine. Thank you." I took up the spoon and settled down to having some chili. M. was being very solicitous, offering me everything, like a maitre d. "You want a bite? Do you like onion rings? Do you want some?"

"Ohhh, this chili is good."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. I'll save you some. Don't worry."

"Oh, it's okay. Eat it all if you want."

He was Mr. Share Boy.

We clearly blended boundaries a little bit over the course of this evening. I was so ready to go home the next day - and get back to myself. But - for those brief hours I was in it - it was kind of nice. I've become such a separatist in my relationships with men and there was something satisfying (even though sometimes upsetting) about getting under each other's skin, the way we did.

We drank flat soda.

Once we finished eating, M. became suddenly curious about the couch he was sitting on. "It came with the apartment. Apparently it's a pull-out bed too. I've never pulled it out though."

The next thing you know the 2 of us were moving the massive coffee table so that we could pull out the bed. Then M. was trotting back to his room to get sheets and comforter. We made the bed. The second the bed was out and made, I knew I had to go to sleep immediately. It was an instant reaction. I need to get into that bed and I will be fast asleep in about 5 minutes.

We had started to watch a kung fu movie, as well as Planet of the Apes, going back and forth. [And there, folks, is one of my definitions of heaven] So we lay in bed, watching, laughing. It can be so comfortable for the two of us. I am not self-conscious at all with him.

Finally, I was drifting off with such a vengeance that I climbed under the puff. M. followed my lead. We left the TV on, sans sound. All the lights were off. I was halfway gone and I could feel M. tucking the puff around my back, making sure I was snug, then he lay down, with his arm on top of the puff.

"Where's your arm?" I asked.

"What arm?"

"The arm that should be under the covers and holding me."

This made him laugh. I was almost asleep, and still making demands.

He said, "Is my leg too heavy? Is it bothering you?"

"Oh no. I love it."

"I'm glad. P. was so ... small ... she always felt like I was crushing her."

I lay in the dark, suddenly awake, and now kind of insulted, because I obviously was not "small". That was his implication. "Thanks a lot," I grumbled.

He hastened, all nervous, - "No!--"

I started laughing. I seriously was almost asleep by this point. "I know, I know, I'm kidding ..."

He kept going - "No ... no ... you're ... you weigh more than 90 pounds. And that's good. You're a human being - not a pipe-cleaner doll."

I started guffawing.

So I fell asleep - and I could feel his heartbeat against my back. Through his skin. I could feel it pulsing. My heart just went out to his heart. I wanted so badly to reach in there and make it all better, take away his pain - It wasn't really a coherent thought. It was just an impulse. I love his heart. I love his life. I love the fact that he is alive. And I will protect his life. I will stand on the side of his health, his life. That's my decision.

We totally fell asleep in about 2 minutes.

And N. came home, at one point. [Gotta love all of this youthful out-at-5-am stuff. I would be flattened for days if I behaved like this now.] I had already been asleep, and the sound of the keys in the door woke me up. I did not look up as N. came in. I pretended I was still asleep. M. and I both played dead. This is actually a pretty funny moment. N. [who is now famous. I just chuckle at this.] comes into his own aparment - at 5 am or whatever - and was confronted with his own living room overtaken by me and M. crashed on a pull-out bed when M. has a perfectly good bed down the hall. N. stood over us, at the side of the bed for a second, looking down at us, and then said, quietly, to himself, "What the hell is going on?"

I almost laughed out loud.

Then he went down the hall to his room. And he left before we woke up.

I woke up first and I was ready to go home. I was wiped OUT. Gave him a quick kiss and left. Squinting into the daylight like a mole. When I got home, I felt like Return from Oz. I was so glad to see my house, my room, Samuel. I was like - where did I just GO?

Mess

Ronny Cammameri:

Loretta, I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn't know this either, but love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed!

I referenced this speech just now in an email to someone ... it's been on my mind quite a bit, this speech.

Thanks for the words of wisdom, Ronny.

"I remember daring, yes daring, to think we were going to win...."

A beautiful personal remembrance of that game. Like I said - I never get enough of the personal stories about this one particular event. Thanks, Dave E!!

In praise of Claude Rains

I love the "5 for the day" series on House Next Door - and today the focus is on Claude Rains - one of my favorite actors ever.

With an entire career of great performances - my favorite has to be Notorious - merely because it's so ... psychosexual and bizarre ... and subtle ... and ... messed UP. Seriously. Sebastien is a fascinating villain - with strange Oedipal overtones - and Rains is absolutely BRILLIANT in that part.

Anyway, go over and enjoy. It's hard to choose "5 for the day" because he had such an incredible career - but that's part of the fun of the "5 for the day" series. It's a great jumping-off point for conversation.

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery. Another excerpt!

Yet another Valancy/Barney montage.

I love this one because ... with the crisis at the end of the excerpt - you can see that Barney basically lets Valancy love him with all her heart. He may not love her back in the same way (not yet anyway) - and he may kind of tease her about her intensity - but he doesn't try to hold her back, or make her not love him, or keep her calm, or talk her down from her feelings ... I guess I'm just speaking from my own experience where ... you know. When I'm in love, I am in LOVE, man. I'm an old-fashioned girl. I am not a modern woman. And so it is devastating when a guy - who also has feelings for me - tries to get me to calm down, be more cool about it, and not "let" me just go there. Go hot and cold, put on the brakes, whatever. Perhaps Barney feels safe in letting Valancy "go there" because as far as the two of them are concerned - this is not for a lifetime. Valancy will soon die ... so maybe he figures: "in the meantime, I'll just let her be in love with me. It's okay that she loves me that way."

Oh, and girls: in this excerpt it is quite explicit that they sleep in the same bed. I can't imagine either of them could lie there and not ... you know. Not that it's all about the sex, but I know it's on ALL of our minds!!!

(I love the cat Banjo. Lucky's cool, too - but I especially love psychotic split-personality cats like Banjo. They crack me up.)

Also, sorry, one more thing:

"empery of silence"

Lucy Maud's words. Jesusmaryandjoseph, that is gorgeous. It gives me the "flash". "Empery of silence". I wish I had come up with that.

Oops, one last thing: Knowing the misery of Lucy Maud's marriage, the unrelenting misery, passages like these make me ache with sympathy. She never sat around and talked with her husband, for hours on end, about books, and the world, and life. He was barely interested in anything outside of his own feverish conviction that he would burn for eternity in hell. He was, obviously, a barrel of laughs. She married him because ... uhm ... why? But he was no companion. He was no mate. He had ZERO sense of humor. He resented her writing. Etc. The guy was a jackass, sorry. I know he was ill, but man. I'm on her side, completely. So these long passages of companionship have an intensity to them that perhaps might not have existed if that part of Lucy Maud were satisfied in her real life. At least that's what I like to believe. Lucy Maud's life was hell - in many ways. But if it had been easier, perhaps she wouldn't have written so much or so poetically? She taps right into our deepest longings, dreams ... and maybe that's because she lived mainly in her dream-land in her head, too.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

New year. The old, shabby, inglorious outlived calendar came down. The new one went up. January was a month of storms. It snowed for three weeks on end. The thermometer went miles below zero and stayed there. But, as Barney and Valancy pointed out to each other, there were no mosquitoes. And the roar and crackle of their big fire drowned the howls of the north wind. Good Luck and Banjo waxed fat and developed resplendent coats of thick, silky fur. Nip and Tuck had gone.

"But they'll come back in spring," promised Barney.

There was no monotony. Sometimes they had dramatic little private spats that never even thought of becoming quarrels. Sometimes Roaring Abel dropped in - for an evening or a whole day - with his old tartan cap and his long red beard coated with snow. He generally brought his fiddle and played for them, to the delight of all except Banjo, who would go temporarily insane and retreat under Valancy's bed. Sometimes Abel and barney talked while Valancy made candy for them; sometimes they sat and smoked in silence a la Tennyson and Carlyle, until the Blue Castle reeked and Valancy fled to the open. Sometimes they played checkers fiercely and silently the whole night through. Sometimes they all ate the russet apples Abel had brought, while the jolly old clock ticked the delightful minutes away.

"A plate of apples, an open fire, and 'a jolly goode booke' are a fair substitute for heaven," vowed Barney. "Any one can have the streets of gold. Let's have another whack at Carman."

It was easier now for the Stirlings to believe Valancy of the dead. Not even dim rumours of her having been over at the Port came to trouble them, though she and Barney used to skate there occasionally to see a moive and eat hot dogs shamelessly at the corner stand afterwards. Presumably none of the Stirlings ever thought about her - except Cousin Georgiana, who used to lie awake worrying about poor Doss. Did she have enough to eat? Was that dreadful creature good to her? Was she warm enough at nights?

Valancy was quite warm at nights. She used to wake up and revel silently in the cosiness of those winter nights on that little island in the frozen lake. The nights of other winters had been so cold and long. Valancy hated to wake up in them and think about the bleakness and emptiness of the day that had passed and the bleakness and emptiness of the day that would come. Now she almost counted that night lost on which she didn't wake up and lie awake for half an hour just being happy, while Barney's regular breathing went on beside her, and through the open door the smouldering brands in the fireplace winked at her in the gloom. It was very nice to feel a little Lucky cat jump up on your bed in the darkness and snuggle down at your feet, purring; but Banjo would be sitting dourly by himself out in front of the fire like a brooding demon. At such moments Banjo was anything but canny, but Valancy loved his uncanniness.

The side of the bed had to be right against the window. There was no other place for it in the tiny room. Valancy, lying there, could look out of the window, through the big pine boughs that actually touched it, away up Mistawis, white and lustrous as a pavement of pearl, or dark and terrible in the storm. Sometimes the pine boughs tapped against the panes with friendly signals. Sometimes she heard the little whisper of snow against them right at her side. Some nights the whole outer world seemed given over to the empery of silence; then came nights when there would be a majestic sweep of wind in the pines; nights of dear starlight when it whistled freakishly and joyously around the Blue Castle; brooding nights before storm when it crept along the floor of the lake with a low, wailing cry of brooding and mystery. Valancy wasted many perfectly good sleeping hours in these delightful communings. But she could sleep as long in the morning as she wanted to. Nobody cared. Barney cooked his own breakfast of bacon and eggs and then shut himself up in Bluebeard's Chamber till supper time. Then they had an evening of reading and talk. They talked about everything in this world and a good many things in other worlds. They laughed over their own jokes until the Blue Castle reechoed.

"You do laugh beautifully," Barney told her once. "It makes me want to laugh just to hear you laugh. There's a trick about your laugh - as if there were so much more fun back of it that you wouldn't let out. Did you laugh like that before you came to Mistawis, Moonlight?"

"I never laughed at all - really. I used to giggle foolishly when I felt I was expected to. But now - the laugh just comes."

It struck Valancy more than once that Barney himself laughed a great deal oftener than he used to and that his laugh had changed. It had become wholesome. She rarely heard the little cynical note in it now. Could a man laugh like that who had crimes on his conscience? Yet Barney must have done something. Valancy had indifferently made up her mind as to what he had done. She concluded he was a defaulting bank cashier. She had found in one of Barney's books an old clipping cut from a Montreal paper in which a vanishing, defaulting cashier was described. The description applied to Barney - as well as to half a dozen other men Valancy knew - and from some casual remarks he had dropped from time to time she concluded he knew Montreal rather well. Valancy had it all figured out in the back of her mind. Barney had been in a bank. He was tempted to take some money to speculate - meaning, of course, to put it back. He had got in deeper and deeper, until he found there was nothing for it but flight. It had happened so to scores of men. He had, Valancy was absolutely certain, never meant to do wrong. Of course, the name of the man in the clipping was Bernard Craig. But Valancy had always thought Snaith was an alias. Not that it mattered.

Valancy had only one unhappy night that winter. It came in late March when most of the snow had gone and Nip and Tuck had returned. Barney had gone off in the afternoon for a long, woodland tramp, saying he would be back by dark if all went well. Soon after he had gone it had begun to snow. The wind rose and presently Mistawis was in the grip of one of the worst storms of the winter. It tore up the lake and struck at the little house. The dark angry woods on the mainland scowled at Valancy, menace in the toss of their boughs, threats in their windy gloom, terror in the roar of their hearts. The trees of the island crouched in fear. Valancy spent the night huddled on the rug before the fire, her face buried in her hands, when she was not vainly peering from the oriel in a futile effort to see through the furious smoke of wind and snow that had once been blue-dimpled Mistawis. Where was Barney? Lost on the merciless lakes? Sinking exhausted in the drifts of the pathless woods? Valancy died a hundred deaths that night and paid in full for all the happiness of her Blue Castle. When morning came the storm broke and cleared; the sun shone gloriously over Mistawis; and at noon Barney came home. Valancy saw him from the oriel as he came around a wooded point, slender and black against the glistening white world. She did not run to meet him. Something happened to her knees and she dropped down on Banjo's chair. Luckily Banjo got out from under in time, his whiskers bristling with indignation. Barney found her there, her head buried in her hands.

"Barney, I thought you were dead," she whispered.

Barney hooted.

"After two years of the Klondike did you think a baby storm like this could get me? I spent the night in that old lumber shanty over by Muskoka. A bit cold but snug enough. Little goose! Your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket. Did you sit up here all night worrying over an old woodsman like me?"

"Yes," said Valancy. "I -- couldn't help it. The storm seemed so wild. Anybody might have been lost in it. When -- I saw you -- come round the point -- there -- something happened to me. I don't know what. It was as if I had died and come back to life. I can't describe it any other way."

"Do YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?? YES!!!!!!!"

27 years ago today, the US Olympic hockey team beat the "unbeatable" Russian hockey team at Lake Placid. The Miracle on Ice.

That famous photograph of the team FREAKING OUT features, in the foreground, defenseman Jack O'Callahan, straddling defenseman Mike Ramsey (in the HBO documentary Do You Believe In Miracles? - Ramsey says, with this look on his face which brings a lump to my throat just mentioning it: "I'll take that picture ....... to my grave with me.") ... with absolute MAYHEM behind them. I've looked at that photo so many times and yet - it still seems fresh to me. Their joy is still infectious, so many years later.

Like most of us who were alive at that time, and at all aware of anything, I have vivid memories of the 1980 Winter Olympics, and of these college kids who came along and slayed the Russian dragon. I was particularly into the whole thing because of the Boston presence on the team. My family's from Boston. There was a regional component to our triumph, as well as a national component.

However, it is only in retrospect that I realize just how HUGE the whole thing actually was. I didn't really get the context of it while it was happening - the Cold War context, and also the hockey context - just how huge a dynasty the Russians had, in terms of how they played the game, how they dominated international hockey, etc.

I must say to EVERYONE out there who has televisions (speaking as a chick who had no TV for 2 years, I totally understand - and as someone who no longer has a TV, I get it) ...Keep an eye open for the documentary I mentioned: "Do You Believe in Miracles" - or perhaps it's on Netflix. I own it, naturally, but I'm sure it is available otherwise. Even without the topic, which I love - it is one of my favorite documentaries ever made. I watch it so often that it's embarrassing. But it NEVER. gets old.

Narrated beautifully and simply by Liev Schrieber - with interviews with Jim Craig, Herb Brooks, Jack O'Callahan, Craig Whitney, Eric Strobel, Dave Silk (who was my personal favorite, I admit it) - and many others - the documentary just GETS the big-ness of the event. It GETS the magnitude. I get goose-bumps watching it.

I remember having a discussion here on this blog about the greatest moment in sports history. The general consensus was that the miracle on ice HAD to be # 1. There were no other contenders, really.

Al Michaels, the dude who made the famous "Do you believe in miracles?" call (which - when you listen to it - in the moment - AS the game is going on - you just can FEEL the emotion, the amazement - the guy is absolutely flipping his lid - it's awesome). But anyway, he is also interviewed quite a bit in the documentary - and he said at one point, in terms of how the game happened at 5 pm on a Friday night - and the network made the unprecedented decision to tape it and then re-play it that night at 8 pm - because by that point, everybody wanted to see this match-up - He said, "And so on Friday, you had this bizarre circumstance of people filing into the arena for what was, essentially, a matinee. Little did any of those people know that they were about to witness one of the greatest sporting events of their lives."

I've posted a bunch of stuff on the miracle on ice - mainly as a lead-up to the film coming out - which I was excited and anxious over ... The story means so much to me, and I was terrified they would mess it up (I don't feel they did - by the way - loved the movie - but it can't hold a candle to that documentary, and seeing the real thing. MAN.)

I will not apologize...

Do you believe in miracles?

The greatest moments in sports history

The Russian side of the story

Herb Brooks

Happy place.

Incongruous iPod shuffle

iPod shuffle hilarity. Just for fun, I took down note of the songs that came up today on "shuffle". It's too funny - as I was writing this crap down to share on the blog (because it's fun, and because I love to hear people's music choices - and what they like, or don't like) - but anyway - I read somewhere else today where someone was complaining about having to read about someone's private life - "Why do I have to read about you snuggling with your boyfriend?" Uhm - the operative word in that question is "have"? Who says you HAVE to read it? Do you even hear yourself? Don't be a moron. If you find people babbling about their personal lives silly - then ... uhm ... go read The Wall Street Journal. But it is amusing to me - because I did hesitate to put this up - it is the definition of banal. And personal. Why should anyone care about what the freck comes up on my iPod shuffle? Oh well. Sue me. I find my own life endlessly fascinating.

Moving right along.

The strange incongruity of today's Shuffle choices. With some commentary. Scratched down on a notepad as I waited in various lines for various reasons throughout Manhattan this morning. As I raced along on the ellipticals, etc. The shuffle was amusing me. So I'm sharing it.

I'll add to it as I go.

You're Nobody Til Somebody Loves You - Dean Martin (nothing like walking through a sunny morning, melting snow banks, birds going NUTS in the bare tree branches, the Hudson so bright with reflected sunshine that it is blinding you ... and hearing this song. Seriously. Beautiful.)

Comfort Eagle - Cake (ha. I LOVE this song. It's so audacious - especially the beginning of it, those chords.)

Ball & Biscuit - White Stripes (talk about audacious. I love this one too.)

Baby, It's Cold Outside - Dean Martin (More Dino! I love this one because the girl's part in this song is not sung by ONE female, but a whole chorus of women. So it's like Dino is trying to convince 20 women to sleep over his apartment because it's "cold outside". Man, that guy is smooth. He makes it look so easy that people forget just how good he really is. I have Mr. Bingley to thank for this Christmas with the Rat Pack CD. I love it!!)

Glory - Liz Phair (this is from "Exile to Guyville" - which, as far as I'm concerned, doesn't have one bad song on it.)

Conversations with my 13 Year Old Self - Pink (sniff. I love this one. I love her voice, too. It is the perfect rock and roll voice. Perfect pitch. Perfect tone. She's amazing.)

Gambling Man - Pat McCurdy (during some song he played last Friday, I turned to Jen and said, "Uhm ... can you tell he's into Gilbert & Sullivan?")

If the House is Rockin' - Lee Roy Parnell (yeah, whatever, this is okay. Not as good as Stevie Ray Vaughn though.)

Kim - Eminem (I think this song - and his performance of it - is absolutely brilliant. I can't think of another star - rapper or otherwise - who would do such a thing. Would act out such a fantasy - and let us in on that part of himself. I can see people letting us in on those fantasies where they always come off looking like a big tough guy. You know: wish fulfillment kind of stuff. But that's not what's happening here. THAT'S why I think this piece is scary brilliant. He starts crying - the tears turn to rage - he has a moment where he sobs - and it's real - I think Marshall did this song in one take - and you can tell. But anyway - he sobs - "You think I'm ugly, don't you ... you think I'm ugly ..." It's naked. He's screaming at one point: "I HATE YOU. I FUCKING HATE YOU ..." and then it all just shatters, and he starts sobbing, "God, I love you ..." I seriously have said those words in exactly that order. Insisting I hate someone who has hurt me - and then crumbling into what is really going on, which is that I am as hurt as a tiny little girl. The song has an internal and emotional logic to it ... it's terrifying, sure - it's a fantasy. I have some pretty terrifying fantasies too. Or I would call it more of an exorcism. It's messed UP. And there's also a weird humor to it. The sing-song chorus, where he sounds completely psychotic. "SO LONG. BITCH YOU DID ME SO WRONG ..." It makes me laugh. It's so sick. But here's why I think he's so damn brilliant: what I hear throughout is the hurt. He's hurt. Sure we get the cover-up - which is the rage - but he lets us in there on the hurt. Again, I can't think of anybody else out there - especially male rappers - who would do that in such a naked way. It's strange though, to listen to this psychopathic exorcism as you stroll through the melty snow, buying coffee, and shopping for pillows at TJ Maxx. You feel like you will be arrested at any moment for even listening to the damn thing)

Perfect World - Liz Phair (again. It's rare that I come across a Liz Phair song that I am not psyched to hear. This one is off "whitespacechocolateegg" and I love it.)

U Got the Look - Prince (Please. Prince. What else needs to be said. The dude is beyond awesome. Always and forever.)

Angry Inch - John Cameron Mitchell (hahahaha. I love the self-involved tortured line at the very beginning, in the vague Eastern Block accent: "To be free ... one must give up a little part of oneself." This song makes me wince. Just cause of the topic. Ouch??)

Rich, Young, Pretty & Tan - Pat McCurdy (ah. Memories of Summerfest - and teaching Phil and Kenny how to jitterbug for our "choreography" that Ann and I made up - hahahahaha)

Crash Into Me - Dave Matthews (this is the live version from the Live at Luther College double disc - which I can honestly say is one of the most self-indulgent albums of all time. I do enjoy some of it - but others? Yawn. The live version of Crash Into Me on this album - with just 2 guitars playing - no other instruments - is better than the "real" one, though, I think. I LOVE it.)

Comedy Impersonations - Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin & Sammy Davis - hahahahahaha One of their age-old bits. Sammy keeps trying to do impressions, and the other two dudes keep taking over. Frank as Cagney ("you dirty no-good ..." etc.) Dean Martin as a ridiculous and very funny Cary Grant ("Judy Judy Judy you cahn't take a baby out of a man's life and expect him to go on living the way he has been ..." - What? When did Cary Grant ever say such a thing? Dino is so funny. It makes me laugh every time I hear it.) Oh and Dino as Clark Gable. Classic. "I'm crazy about you, Scarlett ..."

Since U Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson - Oh HELL yes.

Master of Puppets - Metallica - now this is the version off the S & M album - the live one - the live concert with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra backing them up. I think it might be my favorite of all of their albums. The ROAR (literally) of the crowd - the strings, the horns ... the SOUND ... Awesome.

What Child Is This? - some woman This is off one of my favorite Christmas albums of all time - it's a live concert Jane Siberry gave at the Bottom Line (sniff, sniff. The Bottom Line) ... with a whole cast of characters - and the album is a double album, Siberry does monologues - tells us about going to midnight mass - other great stories - but then there are the songs. Live. Lots of different singers. Whoever sings the "What Child Is This?" (which is one of my favorite carols) is obviously a black gospel singer. She's marvelous. Deep rich sincere voice.

Good Times, Bad Times - Led Zeppelin Let's give it up for Led Z. Sometimes I find their songs too arduous (or sexy, let's be honest) for casual listening. Like it comes on and I feel like doing crazy shit left and right, no matter where I am. ha. I love the opening to this song.

Overture - "Big River" - this is one of the times when you just have to laugh at what the Shuffle brings up. Led Zeppelin to the freakin' OVERTURE of "Big River"

The Stuttering Lovers - The Clancy Brothers - hahahahahahaha Again with the ridiculous-ness of shuffle - All together now!
A wee bit over the lee, me lads
A wee bit over the green
The birds went into the poor man's corn
I fear they'll never be se-se-se-seen, melads
I fear they'll never be seen
Then out came a bonny wee lass
And she was so fair
And she went into the poor man's corn
To see if the birds were the-the-the-there, melads
To see if the birds were there
Etc.
Exeunt.

You Must Trust Someone - Pat McCurdy - lovely - this is from Intimate Pat - which reminds me that someone at the show last week asked me to burn that CD for him. I will do so tonight. Pat sings like a freakin' BANSHEE on this one.

Big Fat Idiot - Pat McCurdy - Okay, okay. Enough with the Pat. However, this song is so stupid and so funny. The chorus: "I'm stupid as shit and I'm proud of it."

Piano Concerto in E Flat - Mozart - Ha. Please look at the lack of segue from the song before to this one. I'm shaking with laughter.

You Oughta Know - Alanis Morrisette - this is actually the version she did on the Grammys that year. With violins in the background ... I think she was already backing off from the true immature rage in that song - feeling embarrassed by it. I got the sense that she was trying to be a bit more above the childish sentiments expressed (no less truthful, by the way - just because they're childish doesn't mean they're human or shouldn't be expressed). We all think, at one point, "I am here to remind you of the mess you left ... IT'S NOT FAIR ..." etc. Or whatever - I certainly have thought of those things. I'm feeling that right now. I know it's childish, but whatever. Some shit is just flat out unfair and it pisses me off. If you think you're "above" that crap, then good on you for being so evolved and grown-up. But that's why we have artists who can express stuff that maybe we ain't so proud of. But Morrissette has pretty much declared that she's way over that song - you know, now she's all "let's all love each other in an eternal loving utopia" - and that's fine - I'm not all that crazy about "You Oughta Know" actually - definitely not as much as I am about some of her other songs - but I really like the Grammy's version of it for some reason.

Forever Texas - Robbie Williams - I love this guy. ROBBIE, CAN YOU HEAR ME FROM REHAB?? ROBBIE. PLEASE GET WELL. THERE ARE THOSE OF US IN AMERICA WHO LOVE YOU. WE LOOOOOVE you. The guy is completely insane. And cheesy. And outrageous. And campy. And offensive. I love it all. Excerpt from the song:
The reason I'm doing you is cause your friend said No
I've been suicidal since God I don't know when
So get down on your knees
Let's say our prayers
Amen
Baby I'm crazy
Maybe I'm lazy
Amaze me.

Cheese-ball. Love him. I hope he gets his act together. I love his whole schtick.

11:11 - Rufus Wainwright Ahhhh, I love this one. Lilting, lyrical, with a strain of melancholy ... I adore him.

Easy and Slow - Clancy Brothers -I just love the Clancy Brothers but I have so much of them in my library that they do come up quite a bit. They barge their way in all over the place. Along with Liz Phair and Pat McCurdy. I mean, I just love a song that begins with the line:
"It was down by Christchurch that I first met with Annie ..."
And you know, you can just take it from there. To moments like this: "I rolled up her petticoat easy and slow ... and I rolled up my sleeve ... to buckle her shoe ..."

Muddy Water - from "Big River" I still get a strange thrill with this song. Huck and Jim going down the river, singing a rousing duet.
"I got a need for goin' someplace ... I got a need to climb upon your back and ride ..."
White voice and black voice - both male - singing harmony. There's something exquisite and kind of emotional about it. Great song. However ... coming on the heels of yet another Clancy Brothers song ... it just makes me laugh.

Act One Finale - from "Urinetown" LOVE this. Ridiculous, TOTALLY over-the-top - operatic, suspenseful ... Great. I remember seeing the show and laughing out loud as the song came to a close - because it was so unbelievably over the top - with sopranos SHRIEKING ...
"Don't give us tomorrow ... just give us today ..." Kind of a parody of the end of Act I of Les Miz ... very funny.

Thank God It's Christmas - Queen - I LOVE this Christmas song. Freddie Mercury just WAILS. He reminds me of Judy Garland. Guy said to me when we were watching some clip of Garland sing: "She sings every song as though she is going to die immediately after she finishes." It has that urgency, that passion ... that life-force ...

Peaches and Cream - Domestic Science Club You know, this reminds me. I need to delete this song. I liked it for about 2 seconds many years ago ... and now it annoys me. It's from a CD of some women's music festival - and actually there are a LOT of songs on the CD that are awesome - Cheryl Wheeler, people I love - but this song? Ew. I want to put a frog in these girls beds. Get all tomboy on their girlie asses.

Kill You - Eminem. I swear to God. "Kill You" is the next song after the song about wanting a man like "peaches and cream". I am dying. SO ABSURD. The chicks (or, like Pat McCurdy would say - the "chyx") from Domestic Science Club would freak OUT. I love Eminem. Does the word "Vicodin" appear in any other song, I wonder?

Why Don't You Do Right? - Sinead O'Connor - this is from one of my favorites of her albums. God, I love her. Even when she willingly ruined her career. Trashed it. Quite astonishing to me, still. However - in my opinion - the albums she came out with AFTER trashing her career - were far superior to the ones before. Universal Mother is one of my favorite albums, and I love Faith and Courage too. Some of my favorite songs are from those albums. And yes, Sinead, I will keep supporting you, even now, even though I don't really like reggae, and now, apparently, you feel that you are Bob Marley reincarnated. I'll stick up for that crazy bald broad, I don't care. But anyway - this is from her album of covers - Gershwin and Cole Porter -and other standards. It's a bit hit or miss, for me - but this particular song 'Why don't you do right'? The big band? Her crooning kind of scary voice? Where she turns nearly every song into some kind of ominous threat? She's not pleading "Why don't you do right?" She is rather frightening as she asks that question ... over and over and over again. It takes on a kind of Fatal Attraction feeling to it. It's terrific.

Song for Ireland - Dick Gaughan - falcons, silver wings, green green fields, sing a song for Ireland, freedom, brides, western shores ... You want to puke with the "oh, sing a song for Ireland" sentimentality. But dude can SING, dude can SING.

Love of My Life - Queen I mean. Queen. Honest to GOD. Can we just all sit here and contemplate the amazing-ness of QUEEN for a second? I never get over them. I'm never "over" Queen.

Little Girls - Dorothy Loudon - from "Annie" - original Broadway sountrack Okay. You want to see a Broadway workhorse bat one out of the freakin' park? Check out Loudon here. This is a SICK song. Miss Hannigan is SICK. The trills, the self-involved swoops, the sudden "grrr" of hatred ... and then when she goes all gutteral at the top of her register:
"Some women are drippin' with diamonds
Some women are drippin' with pearls ..."
Dorothy Loudon is an absolute LUNATIC and thank God for her.

I Was Hoping - Alanis Morrissette I like her. Don't hate me. I don't like ALL of her songs ... but I do like this one. I have no idea what the hell she is talking about because she has that weird stupid way of breaking up words and syllables so that her lyrics are incomprehensible ... but whatevs. It's got a good tune.

Carry That Weight - The Beatles For some reason - hearing this song out of sequence with the other ones on Abbey Road makes it sound strange. It doesn't seem like a real stand-alone song.

Excuse Me Mr. - No Doubt I think I over-listened to this song when it first came out. This whole album, actually. But I love Gwen. I look forward to her coming back to the No Doubt fold because Gwen? Your latest album? It's a stinkbomb. Honestly. Come on back, girlie. You've got fans out here who are sticking by you as you experiment. That's cool. But enough. Mkay? Enough.

Original of the Species - U2 Yawn. And I'm a HUGE U2 fan. Not really wacky about that particular album, though - there's just something ... muted about it. Or something.

Ebony Eyes - The Everly Brothers Basically I am now laughing at my own music collection. I do love this song, though. I remember being a bit tormented about it when I first heard it as a kid. Noooooooo!!! Flight 1203!!! It's doomed! "Beautiful ebony eyes" goin' down! Nooooo! I mean, honestly. And then the bridge, with the "monologue" - the way they used to do in songs back then. A sort of exposition, if you will. hahaha "The airplane was late ... the beacon whipped through the sky ... as if it were searching for ..." Chorus: "EBONY EYES ...." etc. Poor flight 1203.

Go Now - Patty Griffin You know, I'm not crazy about this album (it's the "Flaming Red" album) - not compared to her first one - but I do like this song. It suits her. That kind of ... bluesy big-band-y sound. Patty Griffin is, what, 5 feet tall? Huge voice, a voice to be admired. So so fluid and expressive.

Rock Me - Liz Phair - see what I mean with the Liz Phair?? This is actually one of my all-time favorite songs of hers. The lyrics always remind me of my relationship with Michael. Or something about the spirit of the song. Love it.

Been It - The Cardigans - For some reason I bought one of the Lilith Fair albums - it's actually a double album - and there are a lot of women on there I love - but the album itself sucks. I don't know what it is ... the live versions of the songs I LOVE just ... It's totally lacking. The exception on the entire album is this song - "Been It" by the Cardigans. They ROCK, first of all ... it's the opposite of introspective or poet-girl dreaming by a rainy window ... there's a BEAT there ... Great song. I actually don't know much about the Cardigans - but I saved that Lilith Fair album for this one song alone.

All Babies - Sinead O'Connor - this is from "Universal Mother" - aweeesome album, post SNL debacle - i think it might be one of my favorite albums ever made, actually. That's not too hyperbolic. This is one of the most haunting songs on the whole thing. It makes me want to cry.
"All babies are born saying God's name ..." Haunting tune. Terrific album, all in all.

No News - Lonestar I love this song. It's on every mix I make for myself ... I just love it. It's so funny, the lyrics are great - and there's just something really catchy about it. "on the road with Pearl Jam" ... LOVE it. Great song.

Tonight We Fly - by The Divine Comedy Oh how I love The Divine Comedy. And this song especially. What a VOICE this guy has. I first became aware of him because Siobhan put his wonderful "Gin-Soaked Boy" on a mix she made for me. She had seen him perform in Ireland and just fell in love with him. Then - a couple years ago - Pat McCurdy - the guy who keeps barging his way into this mix - sent me 'The Best of Divine Comedy' - completely randomly. He thought I would like it. Every. Song. is special. One of my favorite albums of all time.

Red Football - by Sinead O'Connor Wow. It's a Sinead type day. It's also another song from Universal Mother. This is a furious song (does she sing any other kind??) I LOVE this song. It's terrifying.

Spanish Lady - The Irish Tenors Sue me. I like this album. Even though it's stupid. And yes. I like this one especially. HUGE horns in the back ... MAJOR band going on ... I find it quite satisfying. And yes. Self-indulgent and stupid.
"Whack for the toora loora lay.
Whack for the toora loora laddy,
Whack for the toora loora lay ...."
Geek. I am a geek. Sinead would hate that this song came after hers. Ha.

If Love Is a Red Dress - Maria McKee This chick can sing. What a voice. Man. It could cut through glass. Powerful. The song itself is forever linked to the "get out the gimp" scene in my head ... so it always gives me a shiver of medieval torture chamber terror. More incongruity.

Dumb - Nirvana This reminds me. It was just Kurt Cobain's birthday. Happy birthday, you gorgeous genius dumbass. I love this song. Classic Nirvana.

Something - The Beatles Another Abbey Road classic! This one is definitely a stand-alone song. That guitar swoop up the scale ... I don't know how to talk about music ... the phrase that begins the song, and that keeps repeating itself throughout ... I find it transportive. With Ringo's drumming beneath it. To me, it is perfection.

Oh George - The Foo Fighters This is from that astonishing first album - that they recorded in, what, 3 days? Where Dave Grohl basically came out of the huge shadow he had been put behind ... UnbeLIEVable. I still remember when this album came out. How people whispered about it, talked about it with this hushed amazement ... and the songs!!!

Come Together - The Beatles - I think my iPod has a crush on "Abbey Road" today. This song used to really really scare me when I was a child. I don't know why. Toe jam? Feel his disease? Scary. I thought these might be mean men. I loved the Beatles, but this song scared the crap out of me.

Lo and Behold - James Taylor - This song reminds me so much of my childhood. That album, his face, the songs on it ... it's just an amazing time-traveler to me.

Nightmare - from "The Aviator" soundtrack - This is the music that was playing as Hughes slowly went insane in the screening room. A long slow jazzy film noir-ish sound. But I can't hear it as just a song. All I can see in my mind's eye is Leo DiCaprio, naked, with long fingernails, a long beard, and milk bottles full of urine lined up against the wall. Nice!!

Cupid Complained to Venus - Mike Viola and the Candybutchers Ahhhh. I am hard pressed to think of a Mike Viola song that I don't like. I have Siobhan to thank for introducing me to him. Marvelous.

Ruin My Life - Pat McCurdy - This is the "Gilbert & Sullivan" song from last week's show - I think he opened with it. (Okay, just checked. Yup. He opened with it. I am insane. At least I'm not alone.) People go NUTS when he plays this. We all know all the words. We sing like maniacs. We jump up and down. We chant like members of some bizarre cult.

Holiday - Green Day - I think this might be one of my favorite songs written in the last 10 years. Maybe even 15. Unbelievably great song.

When You Say Nothing At All - by Alison Krauss This song has been pretty much co-opted by "Notting Hill" - which is fine by me, since I love that movie more than words can express. No shame. Great film. Krauss has less of a sentimental take on the song than whoever sings it in the soundtrack to that movie - I know it's someone famous, but I'm not really a fan, I guess, whoever the dude is ... Krauss' voice is so pure. I love it.

I'll Crawl Back To You Again - Pat McCurdy - I swear, he comes up this often in any shuffle and ... it's a bit much, frankly, but what can I do?? I have 25 albums of his with 500 songs per album, or whatever. The odds are that he'll come up. He and the Clancy Brothers should go on tour.

Roll Over Beethoven - The Beatles This is off of an awesome mix my brother gave me for Christmas. Awesome early Beatles. Makes you want to have guilt-ridden yet kind of hot sex in the backseat of your boyfriend's car after some sock hop. And then you cry as you pull your dress down over your knees. And have him hold you and tell you he loves you. Before he drops you off at your house and you go inside and curl up in bed, happy and mushy inside, but also wondering if you're now a slut. And he goes out and meets his friends and brags about what he just did with you. But inside, he's feeling all mushy too, and he can't wait to see you again. That's what this song makes me want to do.

The Needle Has Landed - Neko Case I have Carrie to thank for introducing me to her - and to this song in particular. Carrie told me she thought I would like it ... and I do. Beautiful.

Prologue to "Ragtime" - I love this musical. I love the prologue, too - it's robust, it's not just orchestration - you get the whole set-up of the musical: the white people, the black people, and the immigrants ... The music reflects the shifting characters. It's quite intricate, and also rather catchy, I must say.

High Fidelity - Elvis Costello & the Attractions I think I over-listened to Elvis Costello about 20 years ago - seriously - he was ALL I could listen to for ... what ... 2 years? Insane. I've seen him a ton in concert ... as much as I can ... but I kinda burned myself out on the Elvis thing. So I can only take him in small doses ... which bums me out. I love "High Fidelity".

Living On My Own - Queen The beginning of this song ... I just love it. I could see it be the background music to some Miami Vice movie nightclub scene - with some horrible murder happening on the dance floor - as everyone gyrates around, strobe-lit, oblivious.

Not So Bad At All - Mike Viola and the Candybutchers From the nearly perfect album "Hang On Mike". Or no. Not "nearly" perfect. It is perfect.

Send Me The Pillow You Dream On - Dino LOVE him doing this. Makes me feel all romantic and stuff. You know. Stuff.

Coalhouse's Soliloquy - from "Ragtime" Coalhouse Walker goin' nuts, getting ready to kick some ass! I actually never saw this show on Broadway - kinda bummed I missed it. Audra McDonald - man, oh man, wish I had seen her!

The Unwelcome Guest - Billy Bragg & Wilco I love this whole album. Mermaid Avenue. It always makes me think of Cashel's birth and his first year of life - because we all were so into that album during that year - and we would play it as we sat and watched infant Cashel do the most AMAZING EARTH-SHATTERING things like drool, gurgle, and play with his toes.

Saturday Night - The Raunch Hands
Oh you blind fool
You stupid fool
You fool why can't you see
That's nothing but a chamber pot me mother sent to me
Well many a mile I traveled
A thousand miles or more
But a chamber pot size six and seven eighths I never saw before.

Welcome to the O'Malley childhood.

What Kind of Woman - from "Ragtime" Mmmkay, guess we're having a "Ragtime" kind of day. The lovely Marin Mazzie being all tortured about the "newborn Negro child" and mother standing on her doorstep. But you can also hear a smidgeon of anger because her husband leaves her without instructions on what to do. A bit of a boring song, out of context, gotta be honest. Now a song like "Til We Reach That Day" from Ragtime? That song is a flat out good song, no matter where it falls in the plotline of the musical.

A Little More Love - Olivia Newton John AWESOME SONG. AWESOME AWESOME. I love her voice. I love the jamming ridiculous guitars beneath everything. I love the chorus of a million Olivia Newton Johns joining in ... I adore this song.

River of No Return - Marilyn Monroe Ohhhh, I love love love it when Marilyn shows up on shuffle. She is just so liquidy delicious. I love her vibrado - and I love it when she has a chorus of male voices behind her. It's perfect. She shouldn't sing with women backups ever. She's too powerful.

Trieste

Naturally, I see this and immediately think of James and Nora. In exile.

God, I love maps. That's such a great site.

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery. Another excerpt!

The heavenly third act of the book (first act: Valancy at home with her family, second act: Valancy living with Abel and Cissy) is when she moves out to Barney's island, after the death of Cissy Gay. It's shocking. Cissy dies - and so Valancy is faced with a choice. Or, seemingly, she has no choice. She has to go home and live with her disapproving family again. Go back to her old cringing shy spinster self. But too much has changed. She now only has 8 months to live, or whatever it is ... and so ... she makes up her mind. And she asks Barney Snaith to marry her. I mean - go, Lucy Maud, with the shocking-ness!! Valancy tells the truth to Barney: Look, I only have 8 months left to live, and I love you. I know you don't love me ... but would you be willing to marry me and be with me until I die? Would you do that for me? And he contemplates it ... and he finally says to her, "You know I don't love you ... I've never thought of being in love. But you do that I have always thought you were a bit of a dear." And he agrees. So Valancy marries Barney Snaith. To the absolute HORROR of her family, who all remain convinced that Snaith is some sort of embezzler, or murderer, or man on the run. Lucy Maud does not, of course, take us into the marriage bed - but she suggests it ... and it's an interesting situation because: Valancy loves Barney but Barney does not love Valancy. However, he accepts her fully into his life - there's one room in his cottage that he will not allow her to go into (this all becomes clear later - he calls it Bluebeard's Chamber, as a joke) - but other than that - Valancy is perfectly free to do whatever she wants. And they obviously have a romantic relationship. Her family catches glimpses of her riding around town in the jalopy with Barney. Or - HORRORS! - eating out at a Chinese restaurant. There is a whimsy in the relationship ... which just comes off as so appealing. It reminds me a bit (without the neuroses and the torture, of course) of the love affair in Notorious. Ingrid Bergman says to Cary Grant, "This is a very interesting love affair." He asks, "Why?" She says, "Because you don't love me." He says, "Actions speak louder than words." Valancy and Barney are unconventional. Completely.

So here's an excerpt (the book has a lot of chapters like this ... almost like montage shots ... Valancy's time on the island, her marriage to Barney, what the two of them do together, how easy it is between them - but Lucy Maud is so good at this kind of writing - It's a montage, yes - but it never loses its specificity. We never feel like, as in some montages, that this is an author being LAZY, being unable to get us from point A to point B logically - so they resort to a montage. Lucy Maud uses these montage sequences very deliberately - and you really get the sense of this relationship. Of the seasons passing, of their feeling for each other growing, etc.)

These montage-chapters are absolutely sensuous.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

Valancy toiled not, neither did she spin. There was really very little work to do. She cooked their meals on a coal-oil stove, performing all her little domestic rites carefully and exultingly, and they ate out on the verandah that almost overhung the lake. Before them lay Mistawis, like a scene out of some fairy tale of old time. And Barney smiling his twisted, enigmatical smile at her across the table.

"What a view old Tom picked out when he built this shack!" Barney would say exultantly.

Supper was the meal Valancy liked best. The faint laughter of winds was always about them and the colours of Mistawis, imperial and spiritual, under the changing clouds, were something that cannot be expressed in mere words. Shadows, too. Clustering in the pines until a wind shook them out and pursued them over Mistawis. They lay all day along the shores, threaded by ferns and wild blossoms. They stole around the headlands in the glow of the sunset, until twilight wove them all into one great web of dusk.

The cats, with their wise, innocent little faces, would sit on the verandah railing and eat the tidbits Barney flung them. And how good everything tasted! Valancy, amid all the romance of Mistwis, never forgot that men had stomachs. Barney paid her no end of compliments on her cooking.

"After all," he admitted, "there's something to be said for square meals. I've mostly got along by boiling two or three dozen eggs hard at once and eating a few when I got hungry, with a slice of bacon once in a while and a jorum of tea."

Balancy poured tea out of Barney's little battered old pewter teapot of incredible age. She had not even a set of dishes - only Barney's mismatched chipped bits - and a dear, big, pobby old jug of robin's-egg blue.

After the meal was over they would sit there and talk for hours - or sit and say nothing, in all the languages of the world, Barney pulling away at his pipe, Valancy dreaming idly and deliciously, gazing at the far-off hills beyond Mistawis where the spires of firs came out against the sunset. The moonlight would begin to silver the Mistawis. Bats would begin to swoop darkly against the pale, western gold. The little waterfall that came down on the high bank not far away would, by some whim of the wildwood gods, begin to look like a wonderful white woman beckoning through the spicy, fragrant evergreens. And Leander would begin to chuckle diabolically on the mainland shore. How sweet it was to sit there and do nothing in the beautiful silence, with Barney at the other side of the table, smoking!

There were plenty of other islands in sight, though none were near enough to be troublesome as neighbours. There was one little group of islets far off to the west which they called the Fortunate Isles. At sunrise they looked like a cluster of emeralds, at sunset like a cluster of amethysts. They were too small for houses; but the lights on the larger islands would bloom out all over the lake, and bonfires would be lighted on their shores, streaming up into the wood shadows and throwing great, blood-red ribbons over the waters. Music would drift to them alluringly from boats here and there, or from the verandahs on the big house of the millionaire on the biggest island.

"Would you like a house like that, Moonlight?" Barney asked her once, waving his hand at it. He had taken to calling her Moonlight, and Valancy loved it.

"No," said Valancy, who had once dreamed of a mountain castle ten times the size of the rich man's "cottage" and now pitied the poor inhabitants of palaces. "No. It's too elegant. I would have to carry it with me everywhere I went. On my back like a snail. It would own me - possess me, body and soul. I like a house I can love and cuddle and boss. Just like ours here. I don't envy Hamilton Gossard 'the finest summer residence in Canada.' It is magnificent, but it isn't my Blue Castle."

Away down the far end of the lake they got every night a glimpse of a big, continual train rushing through a clearing. Valancy liked to watch its lighted windows flash by and wonder who was on it and what hopes and fears it carried. She also amused herself by picturing Barney and herself going to the dances and dinners at the houses on the islands, but she did not want to go in reality. Once they did go to a masquerade dance in the pavilion at one of the hotels up the lake, and had a glorious evening, but slipped away in their canoe, before unmasking time, back to the Blue Castle.

"It was lovely - but I don't want to go again," said Valancy.

So many hours a day Barney shut himself up in Bluebeard's Chamber. Valancy never saw the inside of it. From the smells that filtered through at times she concluded he must be conducting chemical experiments - or counterfeiting money. Valancy supposed there must be smelly processes in counterfeiting money. But she did not trouble herself about it. She had no desire to peer into the locked chambers of Barney's house of life. His past and his future concerned her not. Only this rapturous present. Nothing else matterred.

Once he went away and stayed away two days and nights. He had asked Valancy if she would be afraid to stay alone and she had said she would not. He never told her where he had been. She was not afraid to be alone, but she was horribly lonely. The sweetest sound she had ever heard was Lady Jane's clatter through the woods when Barney returned. And then his signal whistle from the shore. She ran down to the landing rock to greet him - to nestle herself into his eager arms - they did seem eager.

"Have you missed me, Moonlight?" Barney was whispering.

"It seems a hundred years since you went away," said Valancy.

"I won't leave you again."

"You must," protested Valancy, "if you want to. I'd be miserable if I thought you wanted to go and didn't because of me. I want you to feel perfectly free."

Barney laughed - a little cynically.

"There is no such thing as freedom on earth," he said. "Only different kinds of bondages. And comparative bondages. You think you are free now because you've escaped from a peculiarly unbearable kind of bondage. But are you? You love me - that's a bondage."

"Who said or wrote that 'the prison unto which we doom ourselves no prison is'?" asked Valancy dreamily, clinging to his arm as they climbed up the rock steps.

"Ah, now you have it," said Barney. "That's all the freedom we can hope for - the freedom to choose our prison. But, Moonlight" -- he stopped at the door of the Blue Castle and looked about him - at the glorious lake, the great, shadowy woods, the bonfires, the twinkling lights -- "Moonlight, I'm glad to be home again. When I came down through the woods and saw my home lights - mine - gleaming out under the old pines - something I'd never seen before - oh, girl, I was glad - glad!"

But in spite of Barney's doctrine of bondage, Valancy thought they were splendidly free. It was amazing to be able to sit up half the night and look at the moon if you wanted to. To be late for meals if you wanted to - she who had always been rebuked so sharply by her mother and so reproachfully by Cousin Stickles if she were one minute late. Dawdle over meals as long as you wanted to. Leave your crusts if you wanted to. Not come home at all for meals if you wanted to. Sit on a sun-warm rock and paddle your bare feet in the hot sand if you wanted to. Just sit and do nothing in the beautiful silence if you wanted to. In short, do any fool thing you wanted to whenever the notion took you. If that wasn't freedom, what was?

Art of communism

God, I love this crap. He's got a whole series of posters/pamphlets/propaganda - so interesting.

Great improvisers

I love this site: Improv Interviews - I've barely gotten through any of it, but what a terrific idea: long multi-part interviews with influential improvisers. The interviewer does a terrific job, too. I like the questions asked - they are condusive to in-depth answers. So far I've only read the ones of the dudes I actually know from way back when - but there's a ton more there. The most recent one is an interview with Gary Austin.

Rufus on the ascendant

[This photo is actually from Rufus re-creating Garland's concert at Carnegie Hall]

So Rufus just played the Palladium.

Garland's 1961 legendary comeback concert at Carnegie Hall became one of the most popular live albums of all time, winning five Grammys.

Wainwright, who is as self-confident as it is possible to be without running for president, had the brass neck to perform the exact same show on the same New York stage last June, where it was received favourably enough for him to bring it to London and Paris this month.

He has got away with it because this was not an inferior singer putting himself on the same pedestal as a legend.

Honest. to GOD.

Seriously, the balls. The unbelievable BALLS. I LOVE him for it. I've loved him ANYway - and seeing him play on Valentine's Day 2002 at Town Hall here in New York was just really special ... but to watch him take his career to THIS place? Who else??? Who else would do this??? To quote Mitchell: "He is just HAVING IT ALL right now." Rufus is totally having it all. And "having it all" probably ALSO means: "having a TON of sex, or at least the OPPORTUNITY to have tons of sex, whenever he wants it." I mean ... this dude is a hot property. BeLOVED by a very specific set of people. Also, having seen him in person, I can attest to the fact that the boy loves his wine. He loves a party. Great banter, funny, anecdotalist, and not at all uptight. He loves to chatty chat, flirty flirt, spilling red wine on his fantastic boots by accident, and laughing, as though he's about to get in trouble. He's adorable. He is having so much sex. You just know it. But anyway: LOVE him. I just love all the descriptions of it too ... not trying to COMPETE with Judy. Not even trying to put himself in the same pantheon - although, just by the scope of the project, obviously he is ... but as a FAN. As a guy who has become successful enough that he can say, "Okay ... wanna know what I want to do next? I want to re-create Judy Garland's big come-back at the London Palladium ... wouldn't that be fun??" and people say back, "Yes, Rufus, that sounds great!"

Sigh. AWESOME.

I can only hope that these performances are released on DVD so I can catch a bit of Rufus magic.

Love it, too - I've been surfing the Web looking for people who were there at the Palladium, just to get their reactions - and I came across an article that was titled: 'WAINWRIGHT EXPLAINS HIS GARLAND OBSESSION'.

That made me chuckle.

As though it needs to be explained. As though it is just so WEIRD to be obsessed with, uhm, one of the greatest singers who has ever lived? God ... you're obsessed with Judy Garland??? God. That is so WEIRD.

Also - just from having seen him live - he's got the most endearing personality. You just fall in love with him. He's funny, self-deprecating - but then when it comes time to put up or shut up - my GOD, that voice. And his presence! He's having it all, is basically what I'm saying. And I think it's awesome.

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery. Another excerpt!

One of my favorite parts of the book is the following excerpt. It stands out, as far as I'm concerned - in Lucy Maud's work. It's pure conversation ... meandering ... nowhere to go, nowhere to be ... and yet you can feel something blossoming beneath the words. It's beautiful.

Valancy is at a dance "up back" - meaning: "rough" - and things get a bit crazy and, in the world of Lucy Maud, scary. A bunch of drunken rowdy guys show up - and they all start wanting to dance with her, and she starts to feel a little bit threatened actually. (This is actually one of the only times that any threat of male violence against women ever shows up in her books. Rape is just not a thing discussed in Lucy Maud's books ... but the threat of it is there at the dance in Blue Castle.) And thank goodness - Barney Snaith, Valancy's secret crush, shows up - and basically drags her away to take her home. Abel Gay has to stay on, because he's part of the "band" (basically a trio of fiddlers) - so Snaith rescues her. And drives her home in his beat-up jalopy that he calls "Lady Jane" who, naturally, breaks down. So they sit and wait for another car to drive by (they're in the woods, basically) - and they have never been alone before, these two ... and Valancy obviously has a huge crush on the guy (in a kind of adolescent fan-worship way - his life, and how he bucks convention, really means something to her).

The excerpt below is the two of them sitting in the car, waiting. I find this excerpt strangely sad. Or maybe it's just my mood. Perhaps bittersweet is a better word choice than "sad".

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

"We'll just sit here," said Barney, "and if we think of anything worthwhile saying we'll say it. Otherwise, not. Don't imagine you're bound to talk to me."

"John Foster says," quoted Valance, " 'If you can sit in silence with a person for half an hour and yet be entirely comfortable, you and that person can be friends. If you cannot, friends you'll never be and you need not waste time in trying."

"Evidently John Foster says a sensible thing once in a while," conceded Barney.

They sat in silence for a long while. Little rabbits hopped across the road. once or twice an owl laughed out delightfully. The road beyond them was fringed with the woven shadow lace of trees. Away off to the southwest the sky was full of silvery little cirrus clouds above the spot where Barney's island must be.

Valancy was perfectly happy. Some things dawn on you slowly. Some things come by lightning flashes. Valancy had had a lightning flash.

She knew quite well now that she loved Barney. Yesterday she had been all her own. Now she was this man's. Yet he had done nothing - said nothing. He had not even looked at her as a woman. But that didn't matter. Nor did it matter what he was or what he had done. She loved him without any reservations. Everything in her went out wholly to him. She had no wish to stifle or disown her love. She seemed to be his so absolutely that thought apart from him - thought in which he did not predominate - was an impossibility.

She had realised, quite simply and fully, that she loved him, in the moment when he was leaning on the car door, explaining that Lady Jane had no gas. She had looked deep into his eyes in the moonlight and had known. In just that infinitesimal space of time everything was changed. Old things passed away and all things became new.

She was no longer unimportant, little old maid Valancy Stirling. She was a woman, full of love and therefore rich and significant - justified to herself. Life was no longer empty and futile, and death could cheat her of nothing. Love had cast out her last fear.

Love! What a searing, torturing, intolerably sweet thing it was - this possession of body, soul and mind! With something at its core as fine and remote and purely spiritual as the tiny blue spark in the heart of the unbreakable diamond. No dream had ever been like this. She was no longer solitary. She was one of a vast sisterhood - all the women who had ever loved in the world.

Barney need never know it - though she would not in the least have minded his knowing. But she knew it and it made a tremendous difference to her. Just to love! She did not ask to be loved. It was rapture enough just to sit there beside him in silence, alone in the summer night in the white splendour of moonshine, with the wind blowing down on them out of the pine woods. She had always envied the wind. So free. Blowing where it listed. Through the hills. Over the lakes. What a tang, what a zip it had! What a magic of adventure! Valancy felt as if she had exchanged her shop-worn soul for a fresh one, fire-new from the workshop of the gods. As far back as she could look, life had been dull - colourless - savourless. Now she had come to a little patch of violets, purple and fragrant - hers for the plucking. No matter who or what had been in Barney's past - no matter who or what might be in his future - no one else could ever have this perfect hour. She surrendered herself utterly to the charm of the moment.

"Ever dream of ballooning?" said Barney suddenly.

"No," said Valancy.

"I do - often. Dream of sailing through the clouds - seeing the glories of sunset - spending hours in the midst of a terrific storm with lightning playing above and below you - skimming above a silver cloud floor under a full moon - wonderful!"

"It does sound so," said Valancy. "I've stayed on earth in my dreams."

She told him about her Blue Castle. It was so easy to tell Barney things. One felt he understood everything - even the things you didn't tell him. And then she told him a little of her existence before she came to Roaring Abel's. She wanted him to see why she had gone to the dance "up back".

"You see - I've never had any real life," she said. "I've just - breathed. Every door has always been shut to me."

"But you're still young," said Barney.

"Oh, I know. Yes, I'm 'still young' - but that's so different from young," said Valancy bitterly. For a moment she was tempted to tell Barney why her years had nothing to do with her future; but she did not. She was not going to think of death tonight.

"Though I never was really young," she went on - "until tonight," she added in her heart. "I never had a life like other girls. You couldn't understand. Why" -- she had a desperate desire that Barney should know the worst about her -- "I didn't even love my mother. Isn't it awful that I don't love my mother?"

"Rather awful -- for her," said Barney drily.

"Oh, she didn't know it. She took my love for granted. And I wasn't any use or comfort to her or anybody. I was just a -- a -- vegetable. And I got tired of it. That's why I came to keep house for Mr. Gay and look after Cissy."

"And I suppose your people thought you'd gone mad."

"They did -- and do -- literally," said Valancy. "But it's a comfort to them. They'd rather believe me mad than bad. There's no other alternative. But I've been living since I came to Mr. Gay's. It's been a delightful experience. I suppose I'll pay for it when I have to go back -- but I'll have had it."

"That's true," said Barney. "If you buy your experience it's your own. So it's no matter how much you pay for it. Somebody else's experience can never be yours. Well, it's a funny old world."

"Do you think it really is old?" asked Valancy dreamily. "I never believe that in June. It seems so young tonight - somehow. In that quivering moonlight - like a young, white girl - waiting."

"Moonlight here on the verge of up back is different from moonlight anywhere else," agreed Barney. "It always makes me feel so clean, somehow - body and soul. And of course the age of gold always comes back in spring."

It was ten o'clock now. A dragon of black cloud ate up the moon. The spring air grew chill -- Valancy shivered. Barney reached back into the innards of Lady Jane and clawed up an old, tobacco-scented overcoat.

"Put that on," he ordered.

"Don't you want it yourself?" protested Valancy.

"No. I'm not going to have you catching cold on my hands."

"Oh, I won't catch cold. I haven't had a cold since I came to Mr. Gay's - though I've done the foolishest things. It's funny, too - I used to have them all the time. I feel so selfish taking your coat."

"You've sneezed three times. No use winding up your 'experience' up back with grippe or pneumonia."

He pulled it up tight about her throat and buttoned it on her. Valancy submitted with secret delight. How nice it was to have some one look after you so! She snuggled down into the tobaccoey folds and wished the night could last forever.

Alice McDermott

I read and loved Alice McDermott's book Charming Billy (I babbled about it a bit here) - and there are a couple of her other books on my shelves that I have yet to get to. Charming Billy is about a big Irish family in Queens, who gather for the wake of their relative "Billy" - and they tell stories, and truths are revealed, and some truths are not revealed - but what I loved so much about the book is how much it really GETS big families, especially Irish families, with all the chatter, and all of the elaborations - stories get larger, the fish they caught get bigger ... the point isn't the truth. The point is: Is it a good story?? Sacrifice the truth if it will make the story better. Her writing has such a great feel for that very specific Irish trait.

Here's an excerpt from Charming Billy - This is a remembrance of Billy Lynch as a young man - running into his cousin Dennis on the subway. You can see how past and present are woven together here. We get the sense that we are in the here and now, looking back, trying to "picture" Billy as he was then ... and then, the memory takes over, in all its 3-D specificity.

It would take an act of will to picture him now as he was then: to put aside every image that had come in between, including that dark, stiffly bloated remnant of his face that was Billy in death, and remember him clearly: thin and handsome in those days, the dipped brim of his fedora over the blue eyes and the rimless glasses, a nick of dried blood on his smooth cheek, a red blush from the cold. A lingering scent of the church he had just come from on his overcoat, and a taste of the Eucharist still on his breath as they stood together in the crowded subway car, hand over hand on the same white pole, exchanging shouted bits of news or falling into silence as the train rattled and screeched and tried to knock them off their feet. As glad for each other's company as if they'd long been deprived of it.

I adore her writing. It's so so good.

Here's a very interesting interview with McDermott - about her latest book After This, which I will definitely have to read. And I love the interview. She sounds like my kind of person. Practical, passionate, a tiny bit impatient with silly questions, and totally into her art. I love how she talks about writing.

Beauty

Sheer beauty. Swear to God. It's rare the photograph that makes you feel like you are actually there. And not in an intellectual way. I mean a sensoral way. The cold, the sun, the sound of the hooves, everything ... She's marvelous. I know I link to every one of her posts but I find I cannot help it.

A good horse will basically lock eyes with the animal, staying focused until it's sorted off from the rest of the herd. They know exactly what they're doing.

Her writing doesn't suck either, as you can see. It's terrific. My new favorite blog. I feel kind of like a geek. A pioneer woman fan geek.

essential

Essential
by Beverly Rollwagen
from She Just Wants. ? Nodin Press.

She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane, the
unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his
wife. A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.

Comfort food

My equivalent of it, anyhow. (Oh! And speaking of this version of comfort food - I watched Demolition Man last night. I LOVE it. It is just what it should be, as far as I'm concerned. No more, no less. What an awesome escape. So much fun - and surprisingly very funny. Him high-fiving the cop who has no experience with human contact. Stallone saying, as he passes by, "Hey, how ya doin' ..." as everyone stares on horrified. It's hysterical. Stupid, but hysterical. Satisfying, too, with Stallone as the sort of primitive man - yet truthful man - in the middle of an army of sterile politically correct nitwits. Awesome. I really enjoyed it. Maybe I'll write more about it later. I thought it was great - just what I needed last night - as the icy wind literally blew trash cans over the fence into my backyard - and all I could hear was the cans clattering about, crashing, smashing, rolling ... I kept fearing they would be lifted up in the air by a random gust and come barreling thru my windows.)

So. Comfort. On this cold cold day.

First scene. Rocky in the corner of the ring - with the corner dude giving him bad advice - and the spectator coming up and asking Rocky when he thinks the fight'll be over. The sleazy side of the sport. The way this first scene is filmed - the grit - the lack (or seeming lack) of editorial choice - meaning, the camera doesn't seem to be saying to you: HERE is who this guy is and HERE is how you should feel about him ... It has a more documentary feel to it ... and Stallone is brilliant. He has no lines, of course, he's just the boxer in the ring, getting the shit kicked out of him. But he is riveting.

Check out Rocky's glasses. I just love love that detail - perfect character moment. Not explained ... but totally logical. Of COURSE he would have glasses like that.

I love how Rocky is TRYING to complete his joke here - but Adrian is too shy to even look at him - so he is reduced to reaching out and poking her on the shoulder for her attention, like a little kid.

Forgive me, but this small scene in the locker room where Rocky learns that his locker has been given away to someone else - and his stuff has been hung up "on skid row" - is one of my favorite quiet little scenes in the movie. You want to watch an actor truly listening, truly thinking, and having things actually occurring to him ... as opposed to acting like he's thinking? Watch Stallone in this whole scene. The realization that he has been booted out of his locker is slow to come ... and his response to it is slow at first, even hurt ... but it's all in the eyes, and all in how he listens. None of it is in the dialogue. Brilliant.

Okay, so here's the scene where Mr. Gazzo, the loan shark, played by Joe Spinell (who also had a small part in Taxi Driver the same year as the dude who hires Travis Bickle) bitches out Rocky for not breaking the guy's thumbs. Funny thing - Stallone and Spinell had been extras together on some movie back in New York and Stallone had kind of fell in love with him. Loved his whole THING - how funny he was, how "completely insane" (Stallone's words), how he could be either dangerous or sweet - very unpredictable - also a great improviser, Stallone loved acting with him because he never knew what would come out of the guy's mouth - so a couple years later when Stallone had this opportunity with Rocky, he called up Spinell and was like, "So ... from one former extra to another ... you wanna play Mr. Gazzo??" I love that. And I also love that Spinell gave Mr. Gazzo asthma. I have no idea why - it is not referenced in the script - but there he is - chuffing on the inhaler right before he bitches Rocky out - and I LOVE THAT DETAIL. I love the creativity of people, never fails to just fill me with delight. And he does it in a no big deal way. I know people with asthma, and they don't make a "bit" out of the inhaler. They freakin' take a puff when they need one. That's how he does it. So maybe Spinnell himself had asthma, who knows ... but it's just a great moment. One of the many many reasons why I think actors can be such miraculous awesome creatures. I love to watch inventiveness like that.

The Italian Stallion - in the first scene in the grimy club. Nice shot. Not dwelt on, again, not made into a big deal, not like: OOOOOH, foreshadowing of what that name will mean!!! Nope ... it just looks like Rocky's clinging to some sort of identity, something that will separate him from the pack ... and if it only can be the name ... then it'll be the name. He isn't Rocky Balboa. He is The Italian Stallion. Later in the film it takes on a ring of destiny for him - as Apollo Creed starts to talk about him - THAT'S why he was picked - "It's the name, man ... the media'll eat it up," raves Apollo. But in the beginning ... all we know is that this guy, this down and out guy, bloody, battered, unsmiling, has a robe with that name on it ... and maybe in the beginning of the film it seems a little sad, that name, on that ratty robe, in that ratty place. It's like the shred of a dream, or a fragment, the only thing left over from who he used to be, a scrap of a dreamt-of glory from years and years ago.

In the words of Langston Hughes:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"Are there any regrets?"

Christine Lavin. Songwriter, folk singer, supporter of the independent folk scene, a total legend. My group of college friends all used to be so so into her, I've seen her play a bazillion times and I have discovered other musicians I absolutely adore because of her. Cliff Eberhardt mostly - God. I just love that man and his music. But also Lucy Kaplansky. These are people I see whenever they come within a 50 mile radius of New York City - but it all goes back to Lavin. I got into her in college - and introduced her music to my boyfriend at the time - and he loved it. We saw her play a million times together. If you've never heard any of her stuff - I highly recommend it. Some of it is absolutely hilarious - her song about only dating guys with air conditioners really hit a nerve with me. And her song (a true story) about playing baseball for the first time - as an adult - and the WHIRLWIND of ensuing emotions is a true classic - and it brings me to tears at the end almost every time I hear it. She also has a way of capturing tiny moments ... snapshots ... indelible images ... the fleeting quality of beauty, or love, or peace ... She really knows how to write about that stuff.

Here's the lyrics to one of her songs.

The Kind of Love You Never Recover From
© 1990 Christine Lavin

I know a couple
She sits in a rocking chair working puzzles
He watches TV upstairs
She has a secret she has never let out
A man she thinks he never knew about.
She hasn't seen him in 30 years
The mention of his name doesn't brings on tears
If you ask her "Are there any regrets?"
She'll tell you "No"
But she never forgets.

It was The Kind of Love You Never Recover From
Even though she found another one to take his place
She never will escape the truth
At times like this
When the moon is bright
When the air is foggy like it is tonight
She'll think about what might have been
If she had just held on to him.

I know a man who has done it all
He sailed the oceans
Climbed the mountains of Nepal
He lives high up on the Avenue
With a beautiful wife
Lovely children too.
But there's a woman he still dreams about
Certian thing's he's learned to live without
If you ask him "Are there any regrets?"
He'll tell you "No"
But he never forgets.

It was The Kind of Love You Never Recover From
Even though he found another one to take her place
He never will escape the truth
At times like this
When the moon is bright
When the air is foggy like it is tonight
He'll think about what might have been
If he had not let her
Slip away from him.

I read about a woman who said
She never regretted
Anything she's ever done
Such arrogant words always seem to be spoken by those
Who then die young.

So here am I
Looking at you
Oh tell me
What are we gonna do?
Am I destined to be your regret
Are you that one I will never forget?
Years from now will we curse the day
You let me let you walk away
Isn't this too dear a price to pay
For the freedom
Of going separate ways?

This is The Kind of Love You Never Recover From
Don't tell me that I'm gonna find another one to take your place
I never will escape the truth
At times like this
When the moon is bright
When the air is foggy like it is tonight
I'll think how sweet life could be
If you would stay with me
Oh stay with me
This is The Kind of Love You Never Recover From
Don't tell me that I'm gonna find another one to take your place
And try to face the truth
Let me hold you close tonight
The fog has lifted
And the moon is so bright
Think how sweet life could be
If you would stay with me
Oh stay with me
This is The Kind of Love You Never Recover From.
This is The Kind of Love You Never Recover From.

A Tale of Two Coats

She said later, "Champagne and vodka do not mix." She was at the club to see her friend perform and was there with a group of friends. She was kind of drunk and having a great time. She "dropped her wallet 17 times". After her friend performed, she went to the coat rack, grabbed her coat - a big puffy long black down coat - and left with her group of friends. They went to a nearby restaurant, sat around, and ate and drank and talked.

Meanwhile, down the block, at the club she had just left - I was also kind of drunk and dancing around like a maniac with my friends, draped in Mardi Gras beads, singing at the top of my lungs.

At the restaurant down the street, the vodka flowed. Life was beautiful! Eventually, she got up with her friends to leave, to head home. She put her hands in the pockets of the coat and suddenly ... felt confused. Wait ... there's an iPod in here? Whose iPod is this? Wait ... is this MY coat?

She and I had identical coats. Literally. We checked later, when we finally met. Same Land's End brand. Same hood. Etc. The coat rack was over to the side of the club - and she went, saw what looked like her coat, put it on, and walked out. I danced around, oblivious. I wasn't there to see her friend, who went up at around 9:30. I was there to see the headliner, who was going up at 10:30, 11.

She came back down into the club, replaced the coat onto the rack, found HER coat and left with her friends. Thinking all was well.

10 a.m. the following morning, I am deep in a black pit of slumber, seriously it is as though an anvil was tied to my ankle at 4 a.m. and took me down down down into the dark ocean deeps. But somehow ... I was called up out of that blackness ... by a loud sound. It was surreally loud and had nothing to do with anything that was familiar or known to me ... It was the Ghostbusters theme. Blaring through the ocean depths. My eyes were stuck together with sleepiness - It took me forever to figure out what was happening. Did my phone's ring somehow magically change to the Ghostbusters them? I groped about for my phone but no ... twas not ringing. I thought ... could somehow my iPod be ... playing? But ... the sound isn't muffled, it's not coming through iPod headphones, it's LOUD ...

Eventually all became clear. I had somebody else's phone stuck in the inside pocket of my coat. I never use that pocket - so that's why I hadn't noticed it the night before. I had gotten almost zero sleep so I was disoriented - I tried to figure out if it was one of my friends phones ... did they stash it in my pocket, or ... I flipped through the "photo gallery' on the phone and recognized nobody. Then I checked the number of the phone itself - knew that I did not recognize that number. So however it all came about, I had no idea ... but I called that phone, and said, knowing that she could call into her own phone and get the messages, "Hi ... you don't know me ... but I have your phone ... it was in my coat ... I was at the Ace of Clubs last night ... and somehow ... I have your phone ..." I still had that anvil around my ankle, so I probably sounded insane. But I left my number.

Within moments, my phone rang. "Hello??" "Hi ... uhm ... you have my phone??" Then began an amusing conversation where we re-traced our steps - and she told me that she had basically gone out to eat wearing my coat (which ... would have been a disaster if she had gone home wearing it, unaware that it was not hers. It was freezing on Friday night. And, like a total asswipe - I had my iPod, my own phone, and my freakin' house keys in the pockets of my coat. If she had walked off with my coat, I would have been so fucked, in so many myriad ways.) So she told me about leaving wearing my coat, and I gasped, "Oh no!!" - then she told me about the discovery of the iPod - and the dawning realization ("through the champagne and vodka haze") that ... Hmmm. This ain't my coat.

So. BLESS HER. She came back to the club, returned my coat to the rack, found hers, and left. Yes, she had left her phone in the pocket by accident ... but BLESS HER. And of course she was thinking on her end the whole morning: "Oh God. I just hope that I can believe in the goodness of people ... I hope whoever has my phone is a good person ... and tries to get it back to me ... you know, you just want to believe that most people are good."

And then I call. So she was like: BLESS YOU for tracking me down!

We were laughing about it. I said, "If someone found MY phone, I would hope that they would do their best to get it back to me."

I told her where I would be on Sunday ... and it would be early ... but if she wanted to meet me at Grand Central ... would that be totally a hassle?? She said, "Oh God, seriously, whenever is good for you. You're saving my ass here. If you need to meet me at 8 a.m. at Grand Central, I'll be there."

So that's what we did. We knew that each of us would be looking for a woman wearing an identical coat.

I stood by the clock in Grand Central, our meeting place. And I saw her approaching - and the second we saw each other's coats - and she also was a redhead - we both just started laughing. I held out her phone - and that sweet woman gave me a Starbucks gift card!! For keeping her phone safe. She didn't have to do that! I thought that was the nicest thing. Seriously.

We stood there and laughed about our various drunken bacchanals that Friday night - and her drunken shenanigans, strolling about in the East Village wearing my coat, and my drunken shenanigans, staggering across the icy sidewalks with somebody else's phone in my coat pocket.

"It's just nice to know there are good people in this world, you know?" she said to me.

Yes. I know.

Army of angels

I find this story and the accompanying image really comforting today. It begins to seem strangely abstract - if you stare at the picture long enough ... they don't seem like a bunch of people ... it's almost like trying to really take in the whole Milky Way, and see it as it is. Hard to do, it detaches itself into an abstraction almost immediately. . And so my mind just went OFF, as I stared at those thousands of little human starfish, surrounded by white. I wish I had been there.

10:15 a.m. crisp morning

breathe ... breathe ... Long meandering weekend days and nights. So I have time to bounce back. Laundry. Cooking. Murphy's Oil soap that you squirt directly onto the floor. Heaven. Gave myself a facial yesterday. Easy. Be gentle. Mani-pedi today. Gym. Steam room.

But for now: Morning. The vaulted halls of Grand Central ... everything blurred out because of the general suckiness of my phone, but also because of the morning light streaming in the windows. That place is psychedelic. Classical. Built for contemplation. Transition. An emptying out of anxiety. Forward motion. Upward looking.

"On the Blogosphere"

He, teasing, trying to show how smart he was: "So. Will you blog about this?"

Me: "Gimme a break, please."

He: "No, seriously. Will this be blogged?"

Me (starting to laugh, in spite of myself): "Shut up. 'Will this be blogged'??? Do you even know what a blog is?"

He: "Will you write about this on the blogosphere??"

Me: (bursting into laughter) "ON the blogosphere? What?? You have NO idea what you're talking about, do you?"

He: "Absolutely no idea."

So here I am. Putting this ON the blogosphere.

"she was for him, she was to do with him"

From Possession, by A.S. Byatt:

As a young man he had been much struck by the story of Wordsworth and his solitary Highland girl; the poet had heard the enchanted singing, taken in exactly as much as he had needed for his own immortal verse, and had refused to hear more. He himself, he had discovered, was different. He was a poet greedy for information, for facts, for details. Nothing was too trivial to interest him; nothing was inconsiderable; he would, if he could, have mapped every ripple on a mudflat and its evidence of the invisible workings of wind and tide. So now his love for this woman, known intimately and not at all, was voracious for information. He learned her. He studied the pale loops of hair on her temples. Their sleek silver-gold seemed to him to have in it a tinge, a hint of greenness, not the copper-green of decay, but a pale sap-green of vegetable life, streaked into the hair like the silvery bark of young trees, or green shadows in green tresses of young hay. And her eyes were green, glass-green, malachite green, the cloudy green of seawater perturbed and carrying a weight of sand. The lashes over them silver, but thick enough to be visibly present. The face not kind. There was no kindness in the face. It was cut clean but not fine - strong-boned rather, so that temples and slanting cheeks were pronounced and solid-shadowed, the shadows bluish, which in imagination he always touched with green too, but it was not so.

If he loved the face, which was not kind, it was because it was clear and quick and sharp.

He saw, or thought he saw, how those qualities had been disguised or overlaid by more conventional casts of expression - an assumed modesty, an expedient patience, a disdain masking itself as calm. At her worst - oh, he saw her clearly, despite her possession of him - at her worst she would look down and sideways and smile demurely, and this smile would come near a mechanical simper, for it was an untruth, it was a convention, it was her brief constricted acknowledgement of the world's expectations. He had seen immediately, it seemed to him, what in essence she was, sitting at Crabb Robinson's breakfast table, listening to men disputing, thinking herself an unobserved observer. Most men, he judged, if they had seen the harshness and fierceness and absolutism, yes, absolutism, of that visage, would have stood back from her. She would have been destined to be loved only by timid weaklings, who would have secretly hoped she would punish or command them, or by simpletons, who supposed her chill look of delicate withdrawal to indicate a kind of female purity, which all desired, in those days, at least ostensibly. But he had known immediately that she was for him, she was to do with him, as she really was or could be, or in freedom might have been.

And then there are days ...

... strange and rare days ...

when it feels as though time has stood still.

This is one of those days.

Exciting. Yet odd. Rare. Time curves back in on itself.

To quote Ann Marie (wish you could be here!!): "Hm. Weird."

Literary greats ...

confess their guilty pleasures.

I think the H.L. Mencken one is my favorite.

Mustangs

Oh man. Absolutely spectacular. Ree - in case you haven't noticed - I'm a huge fan. Of you, your way of writing (gorgeous, emotional), your photos, your whole site. Terrific. Those horses!!!

Her way of describing the sound of the hooves, the sensory overload that such an image presents ... reminds me of one of my all-time favorite memories. Ever.

"Aaron, Bring it."

Hilarious correspondence: Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr - First Year College Roommates .

I am howling. I liked when Hamilton wrote: "I wrote to the RD and asked for another roommate. Guess who I'll be rooming with? George Mother F***ing Washington. Eat it. Alexander."

I'm dying.

(Member when we all speculated about how George and Aaron and Alexander would be text messaging each other??) This is genius.

Thanks, ricki, for the link!

Mitchell: another photo for you

Two more people you love ... together.

1992 Diary Flotsam and Jetsam

"That's how I got my bum eye." - Christian

Scenes: Be IN the event. You gotta want it.

"Oh, look. A whore. Running." - M. [I am laughing out loud. Too long a story to set up but I had completely forgotten about it - and he was referring to ME - but obviously it was a joke - and the dry way he said it - with all those end stops - "Oh look. A whore. Running."]

Paul: "Sheila - do you have something about colored tights and sweaters?"
Bobby: "It's called fashion, Paul."

Mitchell on Shane: "He's a pathological Barney Rubble ... He's ... squat ... and uptight."

Jackie: "You can sit on the back porch and drink wine in a gingham slip."

10/8/92
"I PAINT WHAT I SEE." - Bill Hurt

"Nice necklace. Deal with me, bitch!"

"I'm not friendly. I'm just a siren." - Me

Jackie: "How long are you gonna stay here?"
Me: "As long as it takes, baby."

Christian: "I didn't know DNA could do that."

"You're totally slut-hetero."

Me: "I think P. likes me!"
Mitchell: "Sheila, I think he recognized you."

"He called me 'babe'."
"Why do I have to deal with that?"

Samuel is just the dearest little cat - so cuddly, so warm. He and Mitchell bonded instantly. He's a good companion. I must rattle on like a bimbo. This is what my journals have become about. I just CANNOT write about the big bad wolf. Can't. Some people use journals to hash shit out. I used to use my journal in that way. And now all I do is talk about boys. Golden Boy is teaching me so much - and not just about acting. It's about escape. The value of escape. I write and write and write about all of my BOYS. Gives me ... joy? Maybe not joy. But I have not one iota of desire to write about my demons in here. I need to push them away.

I will rave about men and analyze the tiniest encounters and dwell obsessively upon miniscule moments and have entire relationships in my head - beginning middle end ... I am fucking evolved enough. Time for escape. Escape thru P.M. and the M. Saga. Last night, Jackie, David, Mitchell and I went to see P.M. - I made them go - and it was his birthday at midnight - we all got noise blowers - there was cake - bagpipes - a girl riverdanced for him - He blew out the candles. I wonder what he's really like, and if I will ever get to know him.

But meanwhile. I am in total M. Mania. He truly is a sweetheart. He is. Drunken bacchanals notwithstanding. He is a totally fucked up sweetheart. He's got a good heart pounding in there.

A sad heart - but a good one.

-- Bryan smoking smoke rings
-- Amelia in white - she looks so fragile - absolutely breakable
-- Michael - hair slicked back - he bruised a couple ribs over the weekend - now walks like an old man. I am bonding with Michael. We make each other giggle like irresponsible maniacs and Bobby has to tell us to shut up.

10/1
*Listen - so that you're ready to go when you talk - Listening is forward-propelled

Sc. 2 - Get back the drowsiness - until later in the scene
Fight: don't play the end of it. Go hit by hit
Play the fullness of being involved

Sc. 5 - Don't hug Poppa
"Gee, Poppa" - Action: asking Poppa if I can come over to him

My illnesses always seem to be psychosomatic. Germs assault me after a catharsis ... so now I am sick sick sick. And this is the closing weekend of Golden Boy. Lots of anxiety and sadness about that. But right now I am battling these germs with every ounce of energy I have. Clenching up again. My skin is peeling, my nose is chapped. I feel gross. Woke up groggy 2 nights ago, fucked up from Nyquil but aware too that something was SERIOUSLY WRONG. I felt AWFUL. Stumbled blindly to the toilet and proceeded to get sick for half an hour. I'm just breaking down all over the place. Systems fucking shutting DOWN. When I get sick, I get sick like I do everything else in my life. I do it BIG. With a fucking flourish.

10/15
Innocence upsets Neil. He feels he must attack it, tarnish it, bring it down.

Mitchell bought an entire Vanity Fair mag. simply because there was a Calvin Klein Marky Mark ad in it. Whatever works, babe. Whatever works.

I keep running into old flames. I've only lived here for 6 months and I already have heaps of old flames, scattered up and down the Lake shore.

Happy place

Sigh. Happy happy.

(Oh, and the anniversary of the Miracle on Ice is coming up - it's next week.)

Can you say ...

I am so freakin' there?

The story of this film - and the botched edited version that was released to the public - is legendary. Everybody knows about what was done to that movie - and everybody regrets it. I have wanted to see the REAL version of this movie ever since I read Ebert's review back in 1984 when I was 16 years old or however old I was. I felt a sense of loss. I felt betrayed. I don't WANT to see the botched version that the executives deemed was appropriate for me, the dumb American audience member. I want to see what Sergio Leone wanted me to see! Roger Ebert saw the original version at Cannes - and his review tells the tale. He refers to it as a "murdered movie". Great review, by the way. I read it when I was in high school, and I still remember some of the lines of that review by heart. He pulls no punches.

I have never seen the director's cut, actually - just the botched version which ... you just can tell it has been decapitated, you can FEEL it in the film ... and although nothing can restore all of that which has been lost - the director's cut which they finally released a while back is, indeed, closer to the original intent of the movie and Leone ... before the unimaginative nitwits in suits tried to "straighten" it all out. And in so doing, removing all the poetry.

So. February 22nd. Film Forum. Director's Cut of Once Upon a Time in America.

Heart palpitations. Cannot WAIT.

A good luck charm

I'm so proud.

Thanks, Mejack, for the wonderful link!

A peek into my tiny world

Bill made a joke the other night that my apartment, in the eyes of the blog world, is "mythical". hahahahaha We were laughing, he said - "No, but seriously ... you just know people are wondering: just how small is it???" So ridiculous and funny. Anyway, here are a couple of peeks. At corners of it anyway.

The corner. With my often ice-cold radiator. And my beautiful dark curtains. And my random 8-ball - given to me as a gift by a cast member in the last show I did. Oh, and my plant. His name is Andrew. He was given to me over 10 years ago when he was a teeny Dr. Seuss-esque stalk. He is now a glorious (and rather twisted) tree.

Tooooo many books. This is my history (world history as well as American history) bookshelf - as well as my Founding Fathers Biography bookshelf (I keep them separate from other biographies.) I LOVE my hat box (on the top of the bookcase). Jean gave it to me. It's filled with letters and photographs.

Over the door into the kitchen ... a photo by the wonderful Sam Shaw of 2 of my idols and inspirations - John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands. (And in the background - you can see how I, like all urban dwellers, must store things in plain sight - and high up. I've got my summer fan on top of my kitchen cupboards, and my picnic basket that Ann Marie gave me - oh and my George Foreman grill as well. Thank God for random high-up storage space.) Now this is ridiculous - but that photo was in an Interview magazine many years ago - and it was spread across 2 sides of the magazine. I loved the photo so much that I ripped it out - trying to keep the two sides intact, but they ripped. I got it Xeroxed, as is - and somehow I really like the rip down the center. It gives it an oddly authentic feeling. I've had this photo on my wall for almost 20 years now. When I freakin' die, that photo will be on my wall. I can say, with all honesty, that not a day goes by that I don't look up at it, and just contemplate it, for a few happy reflective moments.

Another bookshelf - literally jammed into the only corner I had left for it. Which means I cannot stand in front of it, perusing my books - the dresser is in the way - but c'est la vie. That's what happens when you live in a 2 room apartment with 1800 books. I just love this view, though. I love my little ivy plant coming over the top ... I love the things on the side of the bookshelf - each item has its own personal meaning ... my favorite photograph of the World Trade Center is at the bottom - two people are kayaking in the Hudson, a slate-grey Hudson, with a slate-grey sky - and the towers look huge and glowering ... there's also a quote about being an artist from John Cassavetes - printed in the middle of a huge spotlight - a painting of a white dove - that one makes me feel better and peaceful every time I look at it. Oh yeah, and then all my books. That's my adult fiction shelf, by the way. Or, one of them.

Love.

This is what love feels like. My city is buried in slush right now and all hell is breaking loose at Penn Station due to stalled trains and throngs of people and I need to figure out a way to get home. Path? That might be the best. But it is difficult to describe the chaos in the streets. The 3 foot deep puddles which APPEAR to be flush with the rest of the street, so you go plummeting to your doom. I have to go pick up a thing I got framed in Hoboken ... but ... suddenly travel is complicated. A to B is no longer possible.

But I'm all about love today. And when I think of love - I think of all kinds of personal stuff, of course ... but I also think of this.

It makes me feel like everything might, after all, be okay.

1997/1998 Acting Notebook

A continuation from this. I've gotten a lot of emails and personal comments about these notebooks - people appreciating them, and feeling inspired by them. So here's another notebook, picking up where that last one left off. It's devastating too because I begin rehearsals for the Macbeth In Half an Hour monstrosity. I shiver in remembrance.

I had so many different projects going on - that I think the notes I kept was my way of keeping myself on track. I probably would not need to take such detailed notes now. But God - it all just rushes back to me, seeing all of this.

PD Unit
Hello Out There - Sam: "2 damaged people find a moment of magic."

11/6 Classics
Rent: Rob Roy - study Tim Roth. His manners. Negotiating status.

11/11 Classics
"hidden direction" in Shakespeare's verse

Hamlet's speech to the players: Live by it.

What is your intention?
To get onto the stage, dear boy. - Sir John Gielgud

"instinctive apprehension of situations" - on Elizabethan actors

1st scene in Merchant - "Ham it up a bit"

"Theatre is nature highly organized." - Ben Kingsley

11/11 PD Unit

"The PD ... boring or otherwise ..." - Sam

"While she's making all this $ on a soap opera, she can do her creepy parts off-Broadway." - Sam

"Don't try to pull yourself together. Fall apart." - Sam to K.

"I feel like a two-bit whore. Next!" - Sam

11/13 Classics

My monologue: don't lie! Keep it simple. Let it go. Plow right through the list - don't linger. Get it out.

Beware of parallel choices, in terms of preparation.

Doug on Ernie Martin: "He ran Actors Studio West with so much love" -

Stimulus - response
Method: create the stimulus - not the response. Pavlov's Dogs, etc.

Doug on inner thought processes of actors: "I'm not a good actor ... I can't create ... my mom and dad will withhold love ..."

Create a situation where you do what the character does.

Doug: "I don't think Polonius ever speaks in prose. He was born speaking in verse. He probably cried in verse."

Doug, on engraving of William Shakespeare: "I mean, this guy looks like a dork."

"We made out inappropriately ... and then he had a moment ..." - Leslie, on Ophelia's speech about Hamlet attacking her

11/13 German Lullaby rehearsal
How long has Polly been gone?
How overdue is she?
It's 3 a.m.
Something's wrong and I know it.
Anxiety.
Smoking?

11/18 Classics

We speak in sound bytes and subtext.

Doug: "Get into a state where you release all of who you are so that control is not an issue."

Doug: "That's the risk. That's the job."

Doug: "Do everything you're scared to do. Go crazy!"

Over-acting is doing more than you feel.

Doug, on failed love: "You may be able to deal with it better, but you don't get over it. You have a hole in your heart forever."

11/18 PD Unit

After the Fall - just relax. Speak. Don't do more than you feel. Be open.

11/20 Classics

"Shakespeare scares you? Why should you teach yourself to run from these things?" - Doug

Incorporate rhetoric into truthful behavior.

If you get the thoughts right, you'll start doing what the character does.

Balanchine's favorite dancers were the ones who spun into walls. Not so careful, not so aware of where they were.

Robin Williams/Jim Carrey - fearless. Moment to moment. Literally second to second expressing what is in their heads.

"Gentle! God! You can call me anything but don't call me gentle!" - John describing a fellow spear-carrier's improvisation during a production of Julius Caesar - they all called him the "Gentle God guy"

11/25 Classics

Doug: "So how was that for you?"
Eileen: "I had fun ... for a chance.

!! Always make the choice that the character is as smart as you or smarter. You may be playing an idiot - but he is negotiating life to the best of his facilities.

Every character has a hidden agenda or secret. Meryl Street in Bridges of Madison County - her secret was she never loved her husband. Make the secret as a conscious choice - and then let it do its work. Use this in As You Like It. I love him. I'm a woman.

"I just gotta get thru the scene." - Al Pacino

"What's it about?" - Doug to Amanda, on her book called Trusting God
"It's about herb gardens." - Amanda

11/25 Macbeth
Try the speech like a telegram - look for only the operative words
What are the most important words to get across the message

11/25 PD Unit

"I don't think it's self-indulgent unless it's self-indulgent." - Sam on crying in stage

Loss. Immediate sensory responses?
WTC bombing.

"Tom?"
"Never mind."

K. says that everything is a "double-edged sword". He uses that phrase all the time. He's so fucking stupid and he thinks that makes him sound smart. Let's count how many times he says "double-edged sword" in the next 3 hours.

"If she's peeing loudly, that's a beer-drinkin' woman." - Tom

Eileen: "I know that women are bad lays, too."

"Are you a spy from Juilliard?" - Sam to Brenda

Sam: "The 'chink in the armor' is not a racial slur ..."

Lesley began throwing paper airplanes at Christine. Everyone is falling apart.

Acting in film:
Think loud.
Talk low.

Sam: "Every scene is Fight or Fuck. Make a choice. Do you want to fight the person you're in the scene with? Or do you want to fuck them? Fight of fuck. Choose."

"You were doing some oddly inappropriate emotional work ..." - Sam to Tom

"in the hallowed halls of ivy ..." - Sam

12/2 PD Unit

"I'm totally confused from an organizational point of view." - Sam

"Totally uninhibited. No apologies. Go." - Sam

Liz: "Every woman in this room has gotten their period --"
Sam: "I don't want that kind of talk here."

According to D., there is only one play in the world. 2 Trains Running. Hamlet? Hedda Gabler? Forget about it. There's only one goddamn play in the world, apparently.

12/4 Classics
Tell the truth.
If you're awkward, give it to the audience with no more or no less than what you feel.

Parenthetical: think of it as an aside

Doug: "Sometimes physicalizing it dissipates the impulse to express it in complex long sentences."

John: "Should I talk about all of my fears before I start?"

Heaven stands in for God (somtimes) - check the edited editions to see what the consensus was

Let the verse direct you

Words at end of lines (with no punctuation): to be punched, accented, but keep going. The operative words at end of line
Mary had a little lamb whose
fleece was white as snow ...

12/4 PD Unit

"Do you want to speak, Richard, or are you just breathing?" - Sam

Brenda told Sam that she is a soprano. Sam said, "I don't care what you call yourself, your high notes stink."

"Life is short. Keep moving." - Sam

Brenda: "Should I use my body?"
Sam: "If you don't use it, I will."

Sam on Method acting: "I'm flopping around honestly in my moments."

Sam: "The punchline is 'The cocksuckers are throwing paper clips' - so you can work your way backwards from there."

I am so sick at heart today for some reason. I hurt all over. My heart hurts. I want to get out of here

12/9 Classics "It came and went ... but it kept going." - Leslie

Cover yourself with the choices you made.

Everything is useful.

Leslie and Amanda - Juliet and the Nurse
obstacles in the scene. "Peter, stay at gate."
"Where is your mother?"

"saying goodbye" - Leslie

Tom "To be or not to be"
musical notes.
1st line: The actor knows his action from the 1st line, 11 beats
Question (capitalized): That is the Quest-ion. Search.
Whether 'tis - contractions are rhetorical figures of speech

Tom: "I'm like racin' ahead on this shit."

Tom: "So should I take it back to the same tired part of the thing?"

Doug: Sublimate means to take your pain, and to make it sublime.

"The demon is smiling because it's being exposed." - Doug to G.

12/9 PD Unit

If you really go after your objective, that takes care of the pacing.

"If you 2 ever decide to start a theatre company ... count me in." - Sam

"Go out, say the line, and get the hell off." - Sam

"They need you to go Ping when it comes up." - Sam on playing the triangle in a huge orchestra

Have you read about Jack Nicholson on the Terms of Endearment set?

"If Alaska is germane to your piece ..." - Leslie

12/9 Macbeth

Gene: "Don't take anything for granted when you're fucking with witches."

12/11 Classics
Taming of the Shrew - Doug told me after I stole his heart. Hugged me after class. "And you ... you stole my heart."

12/11 PD Unit
"I hate it when I don't get jokes." - Elena

There's something weird going on today.

Cosmology. Meryl Streep in House of Spirits

Sam: "Trust yourself. Don't be conservative. Go out on a limb."

Kara: "There's something almost superior to people who are spiritually intact."

Sam: "It's always a mistake for an actor to fight his own instrument. It is like a violin saying, 'I wish I was a piano.'"

"Get Strasberg out of your ass and think about somebody else for a second!" - Sam

"You can't be like - 'I'm not ready for the moment to end' ..." - Sam on being in Les Miz

12/12 Gertrude Down rehearsal
warehouse
outskirts of huge metropolis
Blade Runner
Morning After
Glengarry Glen Ross
Reservoir Dogs

Gertrude: knowledge.
How do you get to Gertrude? The little piece of paper from Gertrude means you're set

Vix: like Michael Madsen. Cool She is the only character who speaks correctly, with proper grammar.

The allegiance of thieves
Territory. Struggle for power
Aggression - get what you want

Lenny's a loose cannon

Chain of command:
Gertrude
|
Her crew
______________________
|
Vix
|
Beadie
|
Huff
|
Lenny
|
Dimples

Vix: am I gay?
"I took an oath" ??

Huff deliverws the plans
Margharitte: who is she?

12/16 PD Unit

"Is that that long-lost play by Chekhov?" - Sam

"I'm a little afraid of my boss." - Barbara

Hamlet to the players: Do not saw the air.

12/16 Gertrude Down Margheritte: did she used to be one of us? Are we missing someone?

I want to break the patterns of my life.

The library: do we normally meet in the library? Leaving messages in books, periodicals? Is Gertrude a librarian?

Whatever my relationship is with Margheritte (lovers?) - it determines how I see Beadie

After the Fall: Notes
Center of attention
Light seems to come from her
She glows
She laughs in the center of her circle of light and love
She looks like an ordinary girl - became American dream girl - she had to dream herself up
Champagne, silver coloring
She feels the image - lives it. I become my own fantasy
Restless and alive
The Misfits: across breakfast table from Clark Gable. She looks at him and says, "You really like me, don't you?"
Walks like a cat in a new house
She is possessable - men sense it
a wild spirit -
like meringue - alabaster -
Innocent. "Here was a girl you'd think would be super aware of guys coming onto her - and she went right past that into another space - far more childlike and interesting."
Modest
I'd rather be a symbol for SEX than some of the other things people are symbols for
Orphan.
Sex is not a dirty word to her - it is others who make it dirty. By itself, it is the purest thing in the world.
She was able to walk into a crowded room and spot anyone who had spent time in orphanages. "Do you like me?" in the eyes - an appeal out of bottomless loneliness

PD Unit
I love how Sam interrupts scenes.

Sam: "So I saw that you had such ecstatic oneness with the part that you were barely in the room with us."

Sam: "The scene lays a royal egg. And I'm thinking: This is not what Stanislavski had in mind."

After the Fall: Notes
Her footprints on a beach are a straight line - this throws pelvis in motion.
Only understands literal truth. Nuance and irony are lost on her.
Raped
Sense of humor collapses when painful images come up
Ludicrously provocative in how she dresses.
ee cummings poem: laughs in thoroughly unaffected way at "it's spring!" - lame balloon man - naive wonder
Surrounded by darkness
She senses she is doomed
She never had the right to her own sadness
No faith
Sees all men as boys with needs for her to fulfill - she just stands aside observing herself
Frigid sexually. No orgasms.
Men = their need
She is incapable of condemning other people
Has no common sense
She knows that men only want happy girls.
She likes old men. Aged men evoke in her an intense awareness of her own power - it turns to pity, love - this is security
Yawning terror
unrelenting uncertainty
can't rest or sleep - addicted to pills, bourbon
adores children and old people - everybody else is dangerous and have to be disarmed by her sexuality
Given power over others by mysterious common consent - no one knows why
quick to laugh
she demands a hero
crazy nobility
uncanny instinct for threat - no reserves to withstand it
Botticelli's Venus
doesn't believe in her own innocence
cursed by her mother

Remember how she listens in Bus Stop

After the Fall: Notes
Quentin's quest for connection to his own life
Tenuousness of human connection
Suddenly - after being loved - you can be thrown into the street - abolished
Play is in the form of a confession
Maggie: seeming truth-bearer
Quentin: constricted, mind-bound - looks to her for the revival of his life
Miller searching for a form that would unearth the dynamics of denial
Unstated question in Camus' book: not how to live with a bad conscience - but how to find out why one went to another's rescue - only to help in his defeat by collaborating in obscuring reality

Camus' The Fall:
about trouble with women - but this is overshadowed by the male narrator's concentration on ethics
How can one ever judge another person once one has committed the act of indifference to a stranger's call for help?

The play: stream of consciousness, abrupt disappearances, verges on montage
Survivor Guilt

After the Fall: Fact Sheet
I work at the switchboard of a law firm in NY
They don't allow dogs where I live. Is it a hotel? SRO?
I don't have a refrigerator
Just bought a phonograph - paying in installments - I only have one record (what record is it?)
"They laugh. I'm a joke to them." They/Them: Men
"I had about 10 or 20 records in Washington but my friend got sick and I had to leave." What does that mean? Washington? What's that about?
Judge Cruise - dying - I tried to say goodbye - Family offered me $1000 - Alexander the chauffeur drove me out to his grave
I left Judge a couple times, but he didn't want me to leave
Used to demonstrate hair preparations in department stores
Sent to conventions - supposed to entertain businessmen - (call girl)
I sleep in the park when it's hot in my room
Quentin: "She's quite stupid, silly kid. She said some ridiculous things. But she wasn't defending anything, or accusing - she was just there, like a tree or a cat."
Quentin: "It would have been easy to make love to her."
Never graduated high school
I like poetry
In the top 3 as a singer
Being courted by a prince - met him at El Morocco
"went up" to see my father - where's up?
My father left when I was 18 months - said I wasn't his
Christening a submarine in Groton shipyard - public appearances
I go to an analyst
Mother used to get dressed in the closet (modest() and smoke in there. She was very moral. She tried to kill me once with a pillow on my face cause I would turn out bad because of her
Masseurs say I have a good back
I disguise myself when I go out
My fake name: Miss None. Like nothing. "I can never remember a fake name, so I just have to think of nothing and that's me."
Sex: "I was with a lot of men, but I never got anything for it. It was like charity, see. My analyst said I gave to those in need. Whereas, I'm not an institution ..."
"She was chewed and spat out by a long line of grinning men."
"You seem to think you owe people whatever they demand."
The worst thing I ever did: I slept with 2 men on the same day. I am haunted by this.
Cream puffs, birthday dress, apples
Tried to die long before I met Quentin
"I been killed by a lot of people. Some couldn't hardly spell."
Who is Frank?

Transition Idea:
2nd scene: Bathrobe lying on mattress
Flowers
Drink/glasses - one drink already poured
I walk out of first scene
"Little Girl Blue" plays
I am in the new set - lights dim - I want to be a sort of silhouette
Take off shoes - unbutton dress - take off dress - take off bra - put on robe - tie robe - drink from drink already poured - sit on bed - Quentin enters
White terricloth robe with hotel insignia - too big - it's important that my pajamas be too big - obviously belonging to a man
Need: 50s bra. Half-slip. Or maybe full slip? Like Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?

Notes from Mitchell:
Trust Sheila's innocence. Don't try to show her innocence. Trust that it is already there. She is you already. She's you without your edge.

1/7/98 After the Fall
Is Quentin different? What about him is different? What is Quentin? Not who?
Why did mom get dressed in the closet? Shame, rigid, repressed - or ashamed of smoking?
Where is my mother now?
Refrigerator references: I have no refrigerator in the first scene, and 2 freezers in the second scene
What is the relationship with my agent? I'm obviously sleeping with him. Or blowjobs in return for professional protection and career management.
Focus on Quentin. Full focus. Do not get distracted by my own stuff. Eyes always on him. Soak him up

Her line of logic - like a child.
Dog - refrigerator.
It makes perfect sense to me

Page 5: "Why, they going to fire me now?"

Open book. "How could I keep a dog?" (Come on, you know my life!)

Who is Judge Cruze?

"NOW" - in the moment impulsive
Conscious afterwards (Scuse me about my hair ...)

2nd scene: What is frightening me?

I call Quentin - not expecting him to answer - it is midnight. I ask him Can you come over? Why?
The mother story: what is the logic of it? She is "absorbed in her own connections" - what is that about?
Does Maggie know she is smart?
"You're like a god" - what do I mean by this?
My entire life has happened because of him - why?
"You're very moral" he says to me. No one has ever said that to me before.

What do I want from him in this scene?

"They laughed" - it is a stab in the chest (Betty the Loon) - where is my self-esteem?

She is not philosophical about herself.

"I hate the taste" - what do I love about the effect of alcohol? Be specific. Why do I bring it up? How much have I had before this? Is it a martini?

What would other men in this situation do to me? How would they behave as opposed to Q?

Am I testing him at all?
I respect him for not making a pass at me - but do I feel rejected too?
What role dow sex play in my life? What do I get out of it?

1/9/98 After the Fall

1st scene: What usually happens in this sort of situation - talking to strange men? It's not happening her. This surprises me. Who is this man?
--Dirt from Judge's grave - why?
--What is the relationship with Alexander? Give him a blowjob so that he will take me to the grave
-- Why did I leave the judge a couple of times?

2nd scene: Try to use sex to make my panic go away
Panic attack
Need for physical contact - it makes the bad stuff go away - sex is the only remedy
Drunkenness - don't forget she's drunk

p. 9: "What did you mean - it gave you a satisfaction?"
-- where does that come from?
-- It's a clear shift in thought - a gear shift

p. 11 "I don't know anybody like that" - cover up disappointment - he won't be staying with me. I did call someone, asshole! I called you!

Would you open the closet door? Everything stripped away.

Do I normally spend my time with men ignoring my fears so I can alleviate theirs?

It's okay for you to be a man with me, Quentin

2nd scene: If this scene didn't happen, what would I be doing?
My agent is in Jamaica - am I in his house? Who usually deals with my loneliness and depression and where are they now? Why don't I call my analyst? Is he in California? Or is Quentin the last person I called? What would have happened if he didn't answer?

1st scene: What am I doing in the park? Does it have to do with Judge Cruze's family?
Dirt: Have I been carrying it around with me for a while? Did I just come back from the grave?

1/12/98 Gertrude Down
Don't look for approval from anyone

Bank heist
-- Beadie is in the middle of telling the story

You have to have arrogance to survive in this world

Down the rope - close to Gertrude - Knowledge - Power

Vix: Narcissist. Self-involved. It's all about me.

I'm late to the meeting. Why am I late?
We are all operating on different levels of knowlege - Secrets - Everything has meaning

Don't get distracted. Be like a lion staring at an unaware zebra.

1/13/98 Actors Studio Session
Estelle Parsons moderating

1st scene: director Pete Masterson
Tom and Kelly
Okay, what is happening in this scene? Is this an improv? What is the objective?
Acting on your impuluses only is not acting. Remember John Strasberg. I'm just seeing impulse going on.
Relationship?
Her gum?

Pete: letting the actors explore the scene. This is beginning work.

God, you really just have to be so honest up there. Don't pull your punches - don't defend - talk about your choices

How do you effectively say what you worked on.

Arthur Penn's here too.

How to talk about your work without just talking about the plot, or explaining the script.

Estelle: "You talk about him, you talk about the play ... what about you?"

*What did you work on today?*

Just answer the ?
I feel like she judges the character. I feel like she thinks the character is stupid.

Estelle: "A lot of the work was very general."

Harvey Keitel is moderating on Jan. 27

2nd scene - improv
He belches. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Belch. "You motherfucker."

"You're a fuckin' fruitcake, you know that?"

"Whatsa matter, guru?"

"You don't know, Mr. Skirt Man, what I'm gonna do to you."

"Let's see what it does to me. Don't impose. And I really succeeded in that."

"I did not trust my own quiet. I didn't trust that I didn't want to speak."

Arthur Penn: "That was so intensely joyful to watch. I could have stayed here for days. I could have had sandwiches brought in."

I am in love with him!!
Now that is an actor.

"My character has a problem."

"Well, I've been known to make weak chocies."

"Well, when you put it that way ......" Laughter. "Always nice talking wtih you, Arthur."

If you try to avoid cliches ... you go into Cliche-Land.

1/14/98 After the Fall: Notes I've always wanted people to see me, the real person You know why I make fun of myself? So I'll do it before they do. That way it's not so bad, doesn't hurt so much. It's either commit suicide or laugh. Gemini hold nothing back. "She personalized the whole world." Monroe freaked out once about eating a chicken - started weeping: "It had a mother." Intense identification with animals. No shame She could be so subverient and helpless and yet she wound up dominating everyone Her life was like a war zone. She was parasitic. Take take take take. Demand. Live off the juice of others. She's a good liar. Life is balck and white - all or nothing - life is intense. She never forgets, and never forgives. Obsessed with finding Freudian theories for everything.

countless abortions
rapes
no self-consciousness about her body
not a material girl

* What would happen if she allowed herself to be strong? Could anyone tolerate it?

2nd scene: "I have to initiate relationships. With men it's hands off. They don't know what the hell to do with me. After they get me, they don't know what to do either."

She has the psychology of a loving woman who has been treated like a whore her whole life

Help Help Help
I feel life coming closer
When all I want is to die

I saw a star slide down the sky,
blinding the North as it went by,
too burning and too quick to hold,
too lovely to be bought or sold,
good only to make wishes on
and then forever to be gone.

1/18/98 Gertrude Down
Gautier wardrobe, maybe?
Men's suits tailored for women
Elastica

1/20/98 Classics
"Rules are designed to minimize thinking." - Doug

Concentration is a barometer. It's God's way of telling you you didn't make a strong enough choice.

Don't apply yourself to the task if it's not working. Change the task.

After the Fall: Mitchell's notes

"See what happens if you do one rehearsal just as Sheila."

"This is a woman who hasn't learned not to play the subtext."

-- dresses too sexy for office
-- lays it too much on the line

"You open yourself up for attack if you play the subtext."

Think about me, and my role at Lounge Ax with P.: that line I was afraid to cross of being perceived as a joke, a bimbo, a whore. Paranoid about how I was perceived. Am I a joke? What are people saying about P. and me? I have to be in control of that - of how I am perceived - so make a joke out of myself before others can. The point is is that I am in on the joke.

"Men are at the mercy of her sexuality - and so is she."

1/20/98 PD Unit "And if you're a talented prick, who needs you?" - Sam

You aren't only emotionally connected in naturalism

Lee Strasberg: "Your trump card is always the disaster that's befalling you in the moment."

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery. Another excerpt! So. Valancy is now behaving like a lunatic (according to her family). She is (gasp) speaking her mind, doing what she wants, not living by her mother's silly rules. But this is not even the beginning of the upset precipiated by Valancy learning she only has one year to live. Valancy is vaguely fascinated by a man named Abel Gay - a drunken free-spirit - who careens thru the upstanding town in his smoking bellowing jalopy. She somehow likes him. He seems to not live by society's rules. Valancy is jealous. Abel Gay (nicknamed "Roaring Abel" for obvious reasons) has a daughter - a young woman - who is dying of tuberculosis. Her name is Cissy. Cissy is a "fallen" woman - had a child out of wedlock (nobody knows who the father was) - and the child died. Because of this "sin" - Abel cannot get a nurse to come out and take care of Cissy. He does the best he can, in between bacchanalian binges. In conversing briefly with Abel - an idea suddenly comes into Valancy's head. She will go live with Abel and Cissy, and take care of Cissy in her final illness. And so that is what she does. Her family is beyond shocked. It's almost like - they didn't notice her for 29 years - and now she is all they can think about.

Valancy, meanwhile, goes off to the cabin in the woods - and settles in to her new free life. Barney Snaith (a supposed reprobate - mysterious, handsome) is a common visitor - he's as much of an outcast as Abel Gay. Valancy has had a crush-from-afar on Snaith for a while ... so suddenly she finds herself in his company and finds herself really falling for him. He remains mysterious, the opposite of an open book ... but even that Valancy doesn't mind. She's never had a beau. And she doesn't want one now - because she's dying. But she finally allows herself to just fantasize like crazy about Barney. She no longer is ashamed of imagining what he's thinking about, or what it would be like to kiss him ...

Valancy really starts to blossom, out there in the woods with the rejects.

And she just loves Cissy. A sweet bed-ridden woman, who just loves having Valancy there - loves the female company, and loves Valancy's sympathetic presence.

Here's an excerpt from the "living with Abel Gay" section of the book.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

When Abel Gay paid Valancy her first month's wages - which he did promptly, in bills reeking with the odour of tobacco and whiskey - Valancy went into Deerwood and spent every cent of it. She got a pretty green crepe dress with a girdle of crimson beads, at a bargain sale, a pair of silk stockings to match, and a little crinkled green hat with a crimson rose in it. She even bought a foolish little beribboned and belaced nightgown.

She passed the house on Elm Street twice - Valancy never even thought about it as "home" - but saw no one. No doubt her mother was sitting in the room this lovely June evening playing solitaire - and cheating. Valancy knew that Mrs. Frederick always cheated. She never lost a game. Most of the people Valancy met looked at her seriously and passed her with a cool nod. Nobody stopped to speak to her.

Valancy put on her green dress when she got home. Then she took it off again. She felt so miserably undressed in its low neck and short sleeves. And that low, crimson girdle around the hips seemed positively indecent. She hung it up in the closet, feeling flatly that she had wasted her money. She would never have the courage to wear that dress. John Foster's arraignment of fear had no power to stiffen her against this. In this one thing habit and custom were still all-powerful. Yet she sighed as she went down to meet Barney Snaith in her old snuff-brown silk. That green thing had been very becoming - she had seen so much in her one ashamed glance. Above it her eyes had looked like odd brown jewels and the girdle had given her flat figure an entirely different appearance. She wished she could have left it on. But there were some things John Foster did not know.

Every Sunday evening Valancy went to the little Free Methodist church in a valley on the edge of "up back" - a spireless little grey building among the pines, with a few sunken graves and mossy gravestones in the small, paling-encircled, grass-grown square beside it. She liked the minister who preached there. He was so simple and sincere. An old man, who lived in Port Lawrence and came out by the lake in a little disappearing propeller boat to give free service to the people of the small, stony farms back of the hills, who would otherwise never have heard any gospel message. She liked the simple service and the fervent singing. She liked to sit by the open window and look out into the pine woods. The congregation was always small. The Free Methodists were few in number, poor and generally illiterate. But Valancy loved those Sunday evenings. For the first time in her life she liked going to church. The rumour reached Deerwood that she had "turned Free Methodist" and sent Mrs. Frederick to bed for a day. But Valancy had not turned anything. She went to the church because she liked it and because in some inexplicable way it did her good. Old Mr. Towers believed exactly what he preached and somehow it made a tremendous difference.

Oddly enough, Roaring Abel disapproved of her going to the hill church as strongly as Mrs. Frederick herself could have done. He had "no use for Free Methodists. He was a Presbyterian." But Valancy went in spite of him.

"We'll hear something worse than that about her soon," Uncle Benjamin predicted gloomily.

They did.

Valancy could not quite explain, even to herself, just why she wanted to go to that party. It was a dance "up back" at Chidley Corners; and dances at Chidley Corners were not, as a rule, the sort of assemblies where well-brought-up young ladies were found. Valancy knew it was coming off, for Roaring Abel had been engaged as one of the fiddlers.

But the idea of going had never occurred to her until Roaring Abel himself broached it at supper.

"You come with me to the dance," he ordered. "It'll do you good - put some colour in your face. You look peaked - you want something to liven you up."

Valancy found herself suddenly wanting to go. She knew nothing at all of what dances at Chidley Corners were apt to be like. Her idea of dances had been fashioned on the correct affairs that went by that name in Deerwood and Port Lawrence. Of course she knew the Corners' dance wouldn't be just like them. Much more informal, of course. But so much the more interesting. Why shouldn't she go? Cissy was in a week of apparent health and improvement. She wouldn't mind staying alone in the least. She entreated Valancy to go if she wanted to. And Valancy did want to go.

She went to her room to dress. A rage against the snuff-brown silk seized her. Wear that to a party! Never. She pulled her green crepe from its hanger and put it on feverishly. It was nonsense to feel so -- so -- naked -- just because her neck and arms were bare. That was just her old-maidishness. She would not be ridden by it. On went the dress - the slippers.

It was the first time she had worn a pretty dress since the organdies of her early teens. And they had never made her look like this.

If she only had a necklace or something. She wouldn't feel so bare then. She ran down to the garden. There were clovers there - great crimson things glrowing in the long grass. Valancy gathered handfuls of them and strung them on a cord. Fastened above her neck they gave her the comfortable sensation of a collar and were oddly becoming. Another circlet of them went round her hair, dressed in the low puffs that became her. Excitement brought those faint pink stains to her face. She flung on her coat and pulled the little, twisty hat over her hair.

"You look so nice and -- and -- different, dear," said Cissy. "Like a green moonbeam with a gleam of red in it, if there could be such a thing."

Valancy stooped to kiss her.

"I don't feel right about leaving you alone, Cissy."

"Oh, I'll be all right. I feel better tonight than I have for a long while. I've been feeling badly to see you sticking here so closely on my account. I hope you'll have a nice time. I never was at a party at the Corners, but I used to go sometimes, long ago, to dances up back. We always had good times. And you needn't be afraid of Father being drunk tonight. He never drinks when he engages to play for a party. But -- there may be -- liquor. What will you do if it gets rough?"

"Nobody would molest me."

"Not seriously, I suppose. Father would see to that. But it might be noisy and -- and unpleasant."

"I won't mind. I'm only going as a looker-on. I don't expect to dance. I just want to see what a party up back is like. I've never seen anything except decorous Deerwood."

Cissy smiled rather dubiously. She knew much better than Valancy what a party "up back" might be like if there should be liquor. But again there mightn't be.

"I hope you'll enjoy it," she repeated.

Valancy enjoyed the drive there. They went early, for it was twelve miles to Chidley Corners, and they had to go in Abel's old, ragged top-buggy. The road was rough and rocky, like most Muskoka roads, but full of the austere charm of northern woods. It wound through beautiful, purring pines that were ranks of enchantment in the June sunset, and over the curious jade-green rivers of Muskoka, fringed by aspens that were always quivering with some supernal joy.

Roaring Abel was excellent company, too. He knew all the stories and legends of the wild, beautiful "up back," and he told them to Valancy as they drove along. Valancy had several fits of inward laughter over what Uncle Benjamin and Aunt Wellington, et al., would feel and think and say if they saw her driving with Roaring Abel in that terrible buggy to a dance at Chidley Corners.

Unfortunate Valentine's Day cards

The images ... the commentary ... I don't know what is funnier. Keep clicking. There are some truly disturbing images included.

Thanks for the link, Ann Marie!

The Man in the Mirror

Big essay coming. I've been working on it for 2 weeks now.

Mirrors. So often they are associated solely with the world of women. Especially in art. Women are the ones who are represented looking in mirrors. Primping, preening, turning, looking for reflection, or maybe satisfied with what she sees, calm contentment in her self-contained beauty, but more often than that - looking for enlargement, or confirmation of something. That she is worthy, beautiful, that the outer image of beauty can be created, again and again. Searching for the fantasy that she is erecting of herself. Looking for it in the glass. This has not been men's way, or their role in art. Narcissus is the exception, and look what happened to him.

But in the 70s and early 80s there was a sea-change in the culture, our culture, great shifts, still not completely understood, or seen fully - and naturally these shifts were reflected in the films of the time, and the characters being created. Especially the male characters. How do we see ourselves? How do we reflect upon ourselves? Our roles? Who we are as we navigate our lives?

Women looking in the mirror is a typical image, and for the most part, we know what she is doing when she looks upon herself. She applies her mask. It is an armoring up, rather than a stripping away. But when a man looks at himself in the mirror - (and not in a perfunctory practical "let me straighten the knot in my tie" way) - there are completely different connotations.

It has a supremely unbalancing effect on the audience.

The vulnerability makes some of these moments nearly unwatchable (and therefore iconic images in American cinema). We do not expect this silent questioning self-regard of men - it was unprecedented, at least in our cinematic history. It's not vanity that is going on here. Not just vanity any way. Something else is happening.

That's what my essay is about.

Michael: this whole thing was inspired by something you said to me recently. So I suppose ... this will be for you, when the damn thing is finally finished. I have a photo of the two of us - which is connected to my theme of reflection and fantasy and contemplation, in its own way. Silly, really, but I'll include it.

The silhouette

There's something archetypal about these shots - it turns the character, a real guy, into an iconic image. Or maybe like something out of a folk tale, or fairy tale. He is that real guy, in a real city ... yet symbolically, within these images, he seems to take on more meaning, or weight. That's what good art can do. The beginning of the movie is filled with images like these ... once he begins to be connected to others halfway through the film, to Paulie, to Adrian, to Apollo Creed - these shots of isolation and lonely silhouettes disappear. One of the things I love about these images is that there isn't a FUSS made about them in the movie. Nothing is lingered over. Nothing calls attention to itself. It is the story that is being told that is always in the forefront. There isn't a self-congratulatory shot in the whole film. Yet make no mistake about it - the layers are there, they exist beneath the surface. They work on the audience subconsciously.

Another thing to notice: Philadelphia is strangely empty throughout this film. You don't see any busy street scenes, with lots of people crossing back and forth. It is a strangely uninhabited city. Even the ice skating rink is empty. A lot of this had to do with the low budget nature of the movie. They couldn't afford to pay a bazillion extras. But they also did NOT want the movie to have that sense of reality to it. It is more of a folk tale than an actual urban drama - and Stallone was aware of that, Avildsen was aware of that ... and so instead of surrounding Rocky with bustling street scenes, with random crowds - they isolate him. For example, nobody else appears to live on the block where Rocky lives.

His silhouette - the hat, the black shoulders, the black legs, the boots - stands out. A black paper cut-out against the urban background.

Sunny Saturday afternoon, Feb. 2007

Corner of 7th Ave and Greenwich.

These are just a couple of the tiles on the fence (tiles created by people all over the country) ... which stretches off down the block ... a mosaic ... this memorial has been there for years now, without one tile being stolen.

Ibid.

Uh huh.

Rocky II

The thing about me is:

I am completely forgiving. If I love something ... then I'll stick it out, even if it doesn't live up to my expectations of it. (Tori Amos, I am looking at YOU, beeyotch!)

I have a big post I want to write about Rocky II.

But the main thing I am aware of is: I recognize the creeping cheesy element that starts to come in here ... which was absent in the rawness of the first one. I can see those moments - but I am detached from them. I don't throw out the baby with the bathwater. I've always been that kind of fan - I'm no fair-weather fan. Sometimes I wish I were. That would mean that I wouldn't have to suffer through movies like Touch of Mink (no offense). HOWEVER. That's who I am. Always been that way.

Besides all of that, though - besides the creeping cheese ... I think Rocky II has a lot of awesome things about it. Not so much as a WHOLE - like the first movie I love as a WHOLE - but for me, Rocky II has magic in some of the PARTS. The whole doesn't quite add up ... but it has moments, tiny moments, that are just as effective as the first one.

Like the scene between Mickey and Rocky in the dark stairwell outside of Mickey's apartment. When Rocky tells Mickey he's thinking of fighting again ... and Mickey tries to dissuade him. If he fights Apollo again, he won't just get "hurt bad"- "He'll hurt you poimanent." says Mickey. With that battered nose in the bare lightbulb-lit hallway, the dankest hallway known to man. Stallone is so beautiful in this scene - even just the way he's shot. But more than that: there's this ... pride thing going on in Rocky, something that's hard for him to admit ... Adrian has gone back to work because they need the money, and this just eats at Rocky ... he's feeling the need to fight again, but he could go blind ... and Mickey has this moment where he gives Rocky a little eye test - moving fingers back and forth in Rocky's line of vision. Rocky lies and says, "Yeah, I can see the finger now ..." They go back and forth a couple more lines, and then suddenly - out of nowhere - Mickey slaps Rocky. Hard. On the left cheek. Mickey says later, "You didn't see that coming, did you? Now ... I'm an old guy hitting you. Imagine what someone like Apollo could do." But the moment that I love here ... is Rocky's response to being slapped like that. There are no words, almost no anger - but it's a humiliating moment ... He tries to get himself together, get the macho facade back up - but Mickey has made his point - and Rocky just has to ... stand there and accept it. I don't know - it's a small cornucopia of 100 emotions that flicker and twitch over Stallone's beautifully lit face ... and I love it. It's fascinating acting.

This is what I focus on. And I forgive the other stuff.

There's more. I'll write more later, but I'm going to meet Jackie in the city.

It's a gorgeous day. And the Hudson is half frozen! I love it when it gets like that. You can see the line of white ice meet the line of blue water ... It looks frigid, dangerous, and totally awesome.

The following image ...

just makes me ACHE.

The love I have for this city ...

It ambushes me sometimes. Still.

What an image. The Dakota ... with nothing else around it ... the winter wonderland of Central Park ... the black-silhouette ice skaters ...

Ohh God.

Valentine's Day ...

So I'm so proud of my friend Liz (she of the words of wisdom here). She has been writing pieces for AM New York for about a year now - working her way through the trenches, writing stuff on assignment, and doing a great job. I'm so proud of her. And in today's paper (in the print version, and online) - she has a massive Valentine's Day Gift Guide. One of the things about the assignment was that it had to be gifts that maybe you wouldn't think of - not just chocolates or candy or whatever. More creative types of gifts were asked for. And Liz came up with some truly awesome ideas. Here's a link to it - but you want to click on the slideshow over to the right to see the true glory of all of her work! I loved picking up the paper outside Port Authority today - in the blistering wind - with the smell of hot pretzels mixing with the smell of exhaust from the busses - flipping thru the paper as I walked, and finding her 4 page spread. I felt famous by proxy.

Ya done good.

Diary Friday

This one's for Mitchell. Well, you all can read it too ... but he left me a message yesterday about how we were always "partners in crime" ... which ... we just WERE. The adventures he and I had. Nuts. (Someday I have to tell the story of Mitchell shouting at someone we had just met - yes, SHOUTING - "Look. I am a shrieking Zionist!!" I was like: Wow, we just started talking to this person 5 seconds ago ... and we're already here at this point? Well, all righty then. Oh - and that guy deserved it. We kept running into him over the years, and we ALWAYS referred to him as "PLO Guy." No matter WHAT good things the guy ever did ... he was always "PLO Guy". "Oh guess who's here." "Who." "PLO Guy." "Oh, shit. Has he seen us?" "I don't think so." "Let's escape into the night then.") But also: You know that whole "wingman" theory of modern human courtship? Mitchell is literally the best wingman a girl could ever have (even though girls aren't supposed to have wingmans, I guess). But seriously ... you need a wingman? Mitchell is your guy. He's so brilliant that you never even REALIZE that you are dealing with a wingman. He's that good. I've been approached by wingmen before ... and they should be wearing a sign around their neck: "HI. I AM A WINGMAN." This is tiresome. But someone who can do it undercover? That is impressive.

This diary entry is a sequel to the one I posted last week. It's the next time I saw M., I think - at least according to the ol' journal. M., the brawny man who's been on my brain for a bit. Just because of such and such. The first sentence of the following entry kind of sums up my entire emotional state that summer and fall.

OCTOBER

Okay, now, what's my next adventure. Oh yes. Jackie was performing at the Wrigleyside that Thursday - and finally I could go to see her! Being freed from Golden Boy - and David and Mitchell were going - Jackie, Phil, Bridget - it was also MJF's birthday, all kinds of things.

I came home from work. MJF and David had met for coffee. I primped for 2 hours before meeting them. [hahahahahahaha I am shaking with laughter. Ah, youth. First of all: that you would primp for 2 hours. Second of all: that you would then recount that fact in your journal. hahahahaha] I was out of control. By the time I left the apartment, I was a sight. Later that night, M. said I looked "scalding". Thank God. Time well spent. [hahaha Honest to God. I had never been called "pretty" before though - never. So I cut my vain self some slack here. My first boyfriend said he liked my looks because they "weren't classically beautiful". Any woman knows that this is not a compliment. He never called me "pretty". But M. did. From the start. At first I was like: "I'm sorry ... what is this word pretty ... I do not speak that language." So if I sound vain ... that's because I kind of was. I was getting some self-esteem is what was happening. I calmed down eventually. But this diary entry is from the middle of that whirlwind.]

I went to meet MJF and David at a coffee shop up near the Wrigleyside. Bobby was with them. Bobby was actually going to go out with us. I was in a riotous mood. David had just gotten a root canal [Oh man. I remember that now. He was in agony!!] and his face was all swollen and he was in some major pain.

We headed for the theatre - Bobby marvelled at our group dynamic. He had never met MJF before. We arrived at The Wrigleyside. I remember thinking - "What if all THREE of them - Phil - M. - Rob - are there?" [Okay ... this can't be explained with any brevity. I was a playah, apparently.] I kind of hoped they all would be. To add intrigue and awkwardness and excitement.

I was so excited to see Jackie perform. It made me feel a little sick inside - watching friends onstage always does - even when I fully trust their abilities, as I do Jackie's.

We got a front row table. The place was packed and loud and wild. Just how I like it. [Oh shut up. ] Jackie came over to us. She did so well, by the way. We were all VERY proud of her. Bridget and her friends came - we pulled up a table - Phil showed up - he has a goatee now -

I spotted M. wandering around in the back, drinking a beer. He had on this big floppy jacket he got in New Orleans [I am laughing out loud - it's the multicolored coat!! Immortalized here, years later!] - "It's a banana picker's coat," he told me. (Whatever that means) It has big different colored squares - of red and black - picked out with gold thread [I am shaking with laughter. The thing was just as hideous as it sounds, and he wore it pretty much every day for 4 years. But underneath the jacket - he would wear a white T-shirt, and battered jeans. Like - the dude NEVER dressed up. I am just laughing - this is the first mention of the "banana picker's jacket" - I eventually would get so annoyed when he would re-tell me the story of how he bought it, and the story behind it that I would interrupt him and say, "M. You have told me this story 800 times. Yes. It's from New Orleans. Yes. Banana pickers wore it. Please don't ever tell me the story again." But at this moment - it was all new.] - it's very flashy. He had it on that first night we met out at Wise Fool's Pub [I guess that was our first date? I have no memory of it, believe it or not]. He had on this bright turquoise T-shirt under that - and black pants - and big sneakers.

I could feel him see me right away. Like radar.

Then Rob arrived. We were sitting right at the head of the stairs - I turned around just as he was emerging - so I was the first person he saw. He actually was amazingly cool (for one of the most neurotic people I've ever met) - he saw me and his face lit up in recognition and greeting - there was very little weirdness.

The show, in general, was pretty bad. M. and Co. did not perform. There were some pretty agonizing moments - 2 or 3 people did really good work, Jackie included - Jackie did a wonderful Rogers and Hammerstein song - I was very very proud of her - she was "on" - and what's even cooler - is she knew she was on. When you can start gaging yourself that way - it's a good sign. So she could feel herself being connected. She was confident. She felt good about her work. I was so glad for her.

Rob performed. I'd never seen him perform before - he was GREAT! The dude always could make me laugh. [hahaha I went on one date with him and I'm talking about him as though we had been married for 17 years.] The very first time he opened his mouth - we all ROARED. The subject for the night was "Panic" - and each person stepped out of the line and said something they were panicked about - and Rob stepped out and said calmly, "I don't know if my sweater is for a boy or a girl." There was this thunderclap of laughter - Oh, and it really was a very very bad sweater (for a boy or for a girl) - and I could just tell that people had been giving him grief about the sweater all day. [And how about the banana picker's coat, Sheila? You gonna comment on THAT sartorial choice, or are you gonna let it slide - because it's M. wearing it?]

M. ran the whole show - did the intro - explained the rules - told us, as the audience, what was "expected" of us - he ran the dream [This was a very fun improv game. What it was was: They would ask someone from the audience to come up and tell about their day. Someone from the improv group - in this case M. - would ask questions. "What did you have for breakfast?" "And then what did you do?" "And then what?" Etc. Then the audience member would go sit down - and the improv team, based on what the audience member had revealed - would act out, collectively, "So and So's Dream". And it was all of those daily events twisted - or magnified - or morphed - it was always hysterically funny.] I got to just sit back and feast my eyes on M. M. is a big and, as David described him, "thick" guy - with manic blue eyes - that seem to shoot laser beams of light off the stage - they really do - his eyes are electric and wild - Especially when the lights hit him, and he's laughing, or whatever he's doing. They are amazing eyes. [They are.] Holding a beer bottle loosely by the neck in his hands - he's kind of gangly - and the VOICE. Like I said before I even knew this guy - I could pick his voice out of a crowd. His voice - his phrasing - the hugeness of his voice - the way his jaw kind of juts out - so that sometimes he bumbles words - That doesn't sound attractive at all - BUT IT IS. And the hair. The insane black hair. However, he could be totally bald and I would still find him hot. [Lucky M.] The voice reverberates. And the more I watch him - especially sitting in the audience - being able to really sit back and SEE him ... the more I can see this ... almost fragile honesty and openness. I know that sounds like a jerky thing to say - and it's not always true. Because he does have a kind of swagger about him as well. Yes, that is a very good word for it. He has a swagger. But just the way he was asking the volunteer from the audience questions about her day - and reacting to her - listening to her - picking up on things she wasn't aware that she said - but never making fun of her. His expression had this gorgeous honesty - or openness - He can't help it or hide it. He may try to cover it up with swagger, or drown it with alcohol - but it doesn't matter. It is so there. MJF even noticed it. Something about M. made him turn around and say to me, "He's a nice guy, isn't he?" Because it's not always immediately apparent that M. is nice. But ... he is. He touches me. Surprising. I don't know what it is, but for the most part he is "big, dumb, and embarrassing". For the most part, he is a very sad guy, pretty isolated, pretty inside of himself. But the look of him talking to Sarah, or to Mick - or to me, too - that look that comes into his eyes sometimes ... It just kills me. Does everyone see it? I think a lot of people miss that about him. They see the swagger and nothing else.

David left early because the pain in his mouth became too huge. After the show, Bobby took off - I had to pee so bad so I said to MJF - "Tell Jackie to meet me downstairs." The bathroom is down in the bar so I charged downstairs, went into the bar, and ran smack into M. He got that crazy "gumbo" look in his eyes when he saw me. [Why does that statement make total sense. I don't know, but it just does.] We reached out, and touched each other hello - I said, "Hey" - and he looked like he was about to either do a bird call or take my nose in his mouth, or scream, "GOOD GUMBO." I went on my way to the bathroom and he probably went straight to the bar and proceeded his self-destruction for the evening. But - there was no awkwardness. None. The only "awkwardness" I felt was before we made contact - we both knew the other one was there - because there is NO reason to be awkward. Or insecure. It doesn't even occur to me to be either of these things when I am talking with this boy. I never duck and hide. [Not yet. But eventually you will. Once you become closer - you will start to ignore him in public. Because you're nuts.]

So for a brief second we kind of circled each other - in passing - my hands on his stomach - his hands touching my neck - and then the night careened on.

We all (me and Phil and Jackie and MJF and Bridget) hung out and drank and had fun. (I drank FAR too much.) The place was packed. The music was enormously loud. MJF and I screamed over the music at Jackie about her work and how proud we were of her.

Oh, at one point during the show - the atmosphere on stage was growing increasingly hostile towards women. Hostility like that has a scent. There were 2 women up there (Jackie wasn't one of them) to the 10 men up there - and it was scary to watch the men (in very subtle insidious ways) turn on the women - they closed ranks on them - put them down - used the women as the butts of their jokes ... all kinds of misogynistic bullshit going on. It's a fine line - but it was definitely crossed. It was scary. And the women up there were talented - had every right to be up there - much better than the majority of the guys up there attacking her (again, it was all very subtle). And one guy - whom MJF and I instantly loathed - he's up there only for himself - and, as MJF said, "He is not nearly as cute as he thinks he is" - his whole thing is setting up funny moments for himself. He's just the kind of improviser that M. despises. The ones who are only out for themselves. But anyway - this guy said this hugely hostile thing - now, I am as rude as anyone - I'm not a prude - and like I said, it's a fine line - When jokes like that are not meant to put me down, dismiss me, threaten me, embarrass me, narrow me down to what I've got between my legs ... I'm fine with them. But this guy said something about this one girl's "titties - and it totally went over the line - you could feel it in the room - other audience members reacted too, not just me - It was just not embraced as a funny remark. And I suddenly was so enraged at what was taking place on that stage. Fuckers. Making that nice talented girl up there feel embarrassed - it was a remark meant to put her in her place. "Don't think you can play with the big boys. You're just titties to us." That's what was going on up there. He used her - a fellow improviser - to get a cheap laugh - which he didn't get anyway. I couldn't help it - I "Boo"ed loudly - and a bunch of people applauded my Boo. [hahahaha I'm stirring up shit in the improv club.] It needed to be done. I felt it needed to be done. Hostility towards women isn't okay. I won't be a part of it, I won't be in the presence of it and not say anything. I don't give a fuck.

I felt kind of weird after - I hoped that the girl didn't think I was booing her - I was booing specifically the hostility of that boy. I mentioned to Bridget how torn I felt about it - and she said that she was glad I did it - she had felt the same way - and she had gone into the bathroom after that one improv - and the improv girl was in the bathroom, too, totally upset and crying.

All of this is a lead-in to another story. 2 guys on Jackie's team came over and joined our group. Nice guys, I guess - but they seemed open and friendly - but I ended up getting into a huge fight with one of them about the "Boo" issue. And my anger is not "graceful" - MJF said he turned away for 2 minutes, turned back, and I was reading that one guy the riot act. Anyway, those guys did not know what they were getting into when they called me "defensive", and when that one guy said the girl up there "started it". I went in for the kill. I was not out of control - I was very articulate - and then one said, "You're defensive." I replied, "No. This is not defensiveness. This is anger. There's a difference." MJF leapt in, at one point, calmly - backing me up - he confirmed the hostile atmosphere towards women up on that stage - and wouldn't ya know, once a GUY said it, they shut up. Sexist fuckers. I know no reticence right now - when it comes to speaking my mind. This phase needs to happen though. It'll chill out, eventually.

The second they saw how angry I was - they did 2 things: They closed ranks on me, ganged up on me. But then, in the next second - after I said the "this is anger" thing - they dropped the subject like a hot potato.

MJF said, "They totally conceded your point, do you realize that?"

Jackie and Bridget took off, MJF and I stayed so he could finish his drink. It was his birthday! So finally MJF and I got up to go. I was coherent, lively, but make no mistake - I was very drunk. ["Make no mistake"?? Hahahaha Who ya talkin' to?] MJF and I walked all the way home from the Wrigleyside - it was freezing cold and very windy - neither of us really recall the walk. It's like there was a wrinkle in time, and suddenly we were in the apartment, the walk having been walked.

But there is one more M. encounter to dwell upon and pick apart. [hahahaha Honest to God. ] M. was sitting at the bar. By himself. A. was standing by the door with some popcorn. I don't know why - but that was the tableau that was going on as MJF and I walked towards the door to leave. As I swooped by M., I kind of grabbed him from behind - on his waist - briefly - as I went by. "See ya" - and kept going. He reached out for me. "Where you going?" he asked. (Oh, for Christ's sake. I have been sitting here all night and you haven't spoken to me. So I'm leaving now.) He tried to stop me. Oh, so NOW you pay attention to me! But I kept walking. Nope. Too late. [Sheila! You're hard core! I think this was part of the reason M. liked me. I was not a pushover. I was WEIRD, most definitely - but no pushover.]

A. stopped us at the door. He recognized me from the last time. He offered us some popcorn. We told him good show. Or - the first thing I said to him was, "Good show tonight."

He gave me this deadly serious stare - one eyebrow cocked up - and he said to me, in the voice of a cowboy in an old Western movie, "Yeah, well, I think you need to make your peace with that man over there, little lady." Gesturing at M.

WHAT?

I told MJF that later, and MJF said, "What does that mean?"

That was my reaction too. They all talk like that, too - as if they're in some gangster movie, or Western, or film noir - or some hardened detective who's seen too much too soon. I was talking to G. once, and he was telling me about some girl he was into. I said, "What's she look like?" And he said, "She has a face that could make a priest kick a hole thru a stained glass window." Ha. And I met her - and you know what? She did!

But these guys - they narrate things - they jump out of conversations that are going on and suddenly narrate to an invisible audience - They do inner dialogues of conflict, but they say it out loud - It's hysterical. And you know, too, that they see themselves that way - with stark dramatic lighting, clouds of cigarette smoke, and bursts of terrifying music. This is the imaginary world these guys swagger through.

So A. was just looking out for M., I guess. Taking care of his friend. Had they spoken about it? A. had obviously noticed that M. and I hadn't said 2 words the whole night. Make my peace with him, though? What?

So. I walked back over to M. MJF very deftly kept talking to A., eating A.'s popcorn. Said to me later, "Did you notice how I kept the friend occupied?"

(This is just how I imagined it would be when MJF moved to Chicago - the 2 of us setting each other up with men - and then talking later, manically, about every detail.)

So. I leaned on the bar next to M. Smiling at him. No words between us. His eyes kind of stun me. So I said, "How was detox?" (I plunged in as though no time had gone by at all.) And he took no time at all to leap into the here and now with me. No think time needed. No small talk. Ever.

He said emphatically, with utter commitment, "Oh, GOD. It was AWFUL. It was just TERRIBLE. No drinking, smoking, or eating for 4 days - just water. It was like being dead. And all through the 4th day, all I could think about was getting back into the race again."

When he said, "It was AWFUL", I said - sympathetic, "Oh, honey." It kind of just slipped out. I never called him "honey" before. No wonder why he looks at me with confusion and curiosity.

We talked about the show. I was talking, and he interrupted me bluntly, and said, "You look scalding hot tonight." This shut me up for a second. I couldn't respond. And then I kept talking about the improv show as though that interruption hadn't even happened. I confessed that I was the one who Booed. I didn't want him to be mad at me for that. So I explained why I Boo'ed. I mentioned the difference between the guys he works with - and that loathsome guy. I never ever feel like M. and his friends dislike women. I never watch their shows and feel like they use women for cheap jokes. Even though there's lots of rude macho swagger - it doesn't have that snippy hostility ... fine line. Also: you can make fun of women, as long as it's funny. Do whatever you want to do - but it sure as shit better be funny. I said to M., "It seems like with you and your team - you are so in sync - you never go for the easy laugh. It's all so intelligent, and connected - It's like you guys can read each other's minds or something." He said, "It's not that we read each other's minds. We just DO it. We know how to do it. We know the craft and we DO it. We're not up there for ourselves, or to do punch lines." I said, "You trust each other. That's obvious."

M. said that he didn't like running the shows - he did well, though and I told him so.

I asked him what he was doing for Halloween. I saw this brief ... thing ... flicker in his eyes - a thing I did not like. Something I can't put my finger on - but I responded to it, in a tired voice, "Don't worry. I'm not asking you out."

This stopped him short, and he gave me this ... weird inner-directed look. Like - he had been busted, or something - like I had read his mind, and it made him feel uneasy. I didn't say anything. I just let him stew in his own awkward juices. He said, "I'll be here. There's a Halloween party after the show that night."

I said, "I'm going to a party D.C. is having." [Now this was odd - but D.C. was a friend of my friend David's - great guy - and somehow we discovered, thru conversation, that D.C. had gone to high school with M. This was when I still knew ZERO about M. Oh - and that party? It was the Woody Allen/Mia Farrow party. I have more to say about ... this whole "don't worry, I'm not asking you out" thing. Fascinating. More so now than ever. ]

I gestured at MJF and said, "That's my new roommate over there. We're going as Woody Allen and Mia Farrow."

The Woody/Mia thing didn't register - all he heard was the word "roommate".

"Roommate? You have a roommate? Sheila, all you have is a room. That is not an apartment. It is a room."

"He's my best friend. He just moved here."

M. was totally overwhelmed trying to imagine 2 people living in my apartment. He said again, "But it's just a room."

A. and MJF eventually came over. I said, "M., this is MJF." They shook hands. My heart cracked in a million pieces.

I said to MJF, "He can't believe I have a roommate - with the size of my apartment being what it is."

MJF said to M., "Oh, that's right! You've been in that room!" (As though it were just occurring to him. I love him.)

M. is this big thuggish open-faced guy - with eyes that kind of wince and squint at you - trying to figure you out - weighing you in the balance - trustworthy or no? - also, like - well, like he said, "I'm beyond the point of small talk." Why is he so endearing to me? Somehow, the thing has not imploded into awkwardness. [Oh - and years later - circa 2003 - over 10 years after this - M. and I relived a lot of our first encounters, just in conversation - and just LAUGHED at how WEIRD we both were.]

As we all talked, A., again, was as alert as a high-beam. He watched everybody closely.

MJF and M. bonded in annoyance about Samuel. [hahahaha That was my awesome awesome cat.] Samuel and MJF have totally bonded - Samuel loves MJF much more than me - but there are times when MJF wishes Samuel would LAY OFF in his tireless pursuit of love and closeness.

M., on the other hand, just doesn't like cats. Samuel did not perceive this, however, and insisted upon curling himself around M.'s ankles, and meowing pointedly up at him, like: "I DEMAND LOVE FROM YOU!"

M. said, "That cat is only interested in shedding all over you. That's it."

He couldn't get over me having a roommate. He called me "Room" - just to bust my balls. Finally, MJF and I decided to leave. We said bye - and M. said, "See you around ............ Room."

[See, this still cracks me up.]

Bye, M. Bye, Mr. No Small Talk. Bye, Mr. Social WEIRDO.

But all in all. Not a lot of awkwardness. [WHAT????? No awkwardness? Are you kidding me?? I'm glad YOU'RE oblivious to it, Sheila!!]

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf ...

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

Excerpt 2! Of our favorite book, ladies! Yay!!! Spinsters everywhere: take hope! Valancy finds her Blue Castle! So can we!

Okay. So the next excerpt is hilarious. Valancy has gotten her "you have one life to live" letter. She has told no one. She doesn't inform her horrible mother that she is deathly ill. And although Valancy is scared, and sad ... that her life will end ... she suddenly wakes up to her own misery. She is no longer a victim. She starts to do things she has always wanted to do. Small at first: like sliding down the bannister. Her family is uptight enough that they are horrified by things like that. Then comes some kind of big family dinner. This is the moment. The entire Stirling realizes, at this dinner, that "something is wrong with Valancy". Of course the funny thing is (for this reader) that you start to realize that no, nothing is wrong with Valancy - her behavior at this dinner is perfectly rational. These people are annoying repetitive bores. Any right-minded person would be bored by their pompous irritating personalities. Valancy suddenly, at this dinner, without being cruel - or vicious - stops "playing nice". It's just that she suddenly sees with clear eyes - she has always been afraid of her family. And looking around at this dinner, she realizes: I was afraid of these boobs? Are you kidding me?

The story of the dinner goes on for multiple chapters - it's so funny - so I'll excerpt just a part of it.

Oh - and one of the jokes here - is that every time Valancy sneezes - every time - her mother reprimands her. And says, "A person should always be able to suppress their sneezes." These people are morons.

The moment when Valancy calls her uncle "old dear" and the response that gets makes me laugh out loud. Again: Lucy Maud is merciless with these people. They do not deserve mercy, in the context of this story. We don't try to understand the Wicked Stepmother, or try to see her side of things. Nope. She's evil. Get away from the beeyotch. This is the kind of story Lucy Maud is telling here. I particularly despise Uncle James. I know people like that. Horrible.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

Meanwhile the dinner in its earlier stages was dragging its slow length along true to Stirling form. The room was chilly, in spite of the calendar, and Aunt Alberta had the gas-logs lighted. Everybody in the clan envied her those gas-logs, except Valancy. Glorious open fires blazed in every room of her Blue Castle when autumnal nights were cool, but she would have frozen to death in it before she would have committed the sacrilege of a gas-log. Uncle Herbert made his hardy perennial joke when he helped Aunt Wellington to the cold meat - "Mary, will you have a little lamb?" Aunt Mildred told the same old story of once finding a lost ring in a turkey's crop. Uncle Benjamin told his favourite prosy tale of how he had once chased and punished a now famous man for stealing apples. Second Cousin Jane described all her sufferings with an ulcerating tooth. Aunt Wellington admired the pattern of Aunt Alberta's silver teaspoons and lamented the fact that one of her own had been lost.

"It spoiled the set. I could never get it matched. And it was my wedding-present from dear old Aunt Matilda."

Aunt Isabel thought the seasons were changing and couldn't imagine what had become of our good, old-fashioned springs. Cousin Georgiana, as usual, discussed the last funeral and wondered, audibly, "which of us will be the next to pass away." Cousin Georgiana could never say anything as blunt as "die". Valancy thought she could tell her, but didn't. Cousin Gladys, likewise as usual, had a grievance. Her visiting nephew had nipped all the buds off her house-plants and chivied her brood of fancy chickens --"squeezed some of them to death, my dear."

"Boys will be boys," reminded Uncle Herbert tolerantly.

"But they needn't be ramping, rampageous animals," retorted Cousin Gladys, looking round the table for appreciation of her wit. Everybody smiled except Valancy. Cousin Gladys remembered that. A few minutes later, when Ellen Hamilton was being discussed, Cousin Gladys spoke of her as "one of those shy, plain girls who can't get husbands," and glanced significantly at Valancy.

Uncle James thought the conversation was sagging to a rather low plane of personal gossip. He tried to elevate it by starting an abstract discussion on "the greatest happiness." Everybody was asked to state his or her idea of "the greatest happiness".

Aunt Mildred thought the greatest happiness - for a woman - was to be "a loving and beloved wife and mother." Aunt Wellington thought it would be to travel in Europe. Olive thought it would be to a great singer like Tetrazzini. Cousin Gladys remarked mournfully that her greatest happiness would be to be free - absolutely free - from neuritis. Cousin Georgiana's greatest happiness would be "to have her dear, dead brother Richard back." Aunt Alberta remarked vaguely that the greatest happiness was to be found in "the poetry of life" and hastily gave some directions to her maid to prevent any one asking her what she meant. Mrs. Frederick said the greatst happiness was to spend your life in loving service for others, and Cousin Stickles and Aunt Isabel agreed with her - Aunt Isabel with a resentful air, as if she thought Mrs. Frederick had taken the wind out of her sails by saying it first. "We are all too prone," continued Mrs. Frederick, determined not to lose so good an opportunity, "to live in selfishness, worldliness, and sin." The other women all felt rebuked for their low ideals, and Uncle James had a conviction that the conversation had been uplifted with a vengeance.

"The greatest happiness," said Valancy suddenly and distinctly, "is to sneeze when you want to."

Everybody stared. Nobody felt it safe to say anything. Was Valancy trying to be funny? It was incredible. Mrs. Frederick, who had been breathing easier since the dinner had progressed so far without any outbreak on the part of Valancy began to tremble again. But she deemed it the part of prudence to say nothing. Uncle Benjamin was not so prudent. He rashly rushed in where Mrs. Frederick feared to tread.

"Doss," he chuckled, "what is the difference between a young girl and an old maid?"

"One is happy and careless and the other is cappy and hairless," said Valancy. "You have asked that riddle at least fifty times in my recollection, Uncle Ben. Why don't you hunt up some new riddles if riddle you must? It is such a fatal mistake to try to be funny if you don't succeed."

Uncle Benjamin stared foolishly. Never in his life had he, Benjamin Stirling, of Stirling and Frost, been spoken to so. And by Valancy of all people! He looked feebly around the table to see what the others thought of it. Everybody was looking rather blank. Poor Mrs. Frederick had shut her eyes. And her lips moved tremblingly - as if she were praying. Perhaps she was. The situation was so unprecedented that nobody knew how to meet it. Valancy went on calmly eating her salad as if nothing out of the usual had occurred.

Aunt Alberta, to save her dinner, plunged into an account of how a dog had bitten her recently. Uncle James, to back her up, asked her where the dog had bitten her.

"Just a little below the Catholic church," said Aunt Alberta.

At that point Valancy laughed. Nobody else laughed. What was there to laugh at?

"Is that a vital part?" asked Valancy.

"What do you mean?" said bewildered Aunt Alberta and Mrs. Frederick was almost driven to believe that she had served God all her years for naught.

Aunt Isabel concluded that it was up to her to suppress Valancy.

"Doss, you are horribly thin," she said. "You are all corners. Do you ever try to fatten up a little?"

"No." Valancy was not asking quarter or giving it. "But I can tell you where you'll find a beauty parlour in Port Lawrence where they can reduce the number of your chins."

"Val-an-cy!" The protest was wrung from Mrs. Frederick. She meant her tone to be stately and majestic, as usual but it sounded more like an imploring whine. And she did not say "Doss".

"She's feverish," said Cousin Stickles to Uncle Benjamin in an agonised whisper. "We've thought she seemed feverish for several days."

"She's gone dippy, in my opinion," growled Uncle Benjamin. "If not, she ought to be spanked. Yes, spanked."

"You can't spank her." Cousin Stickles was much agitated. "She's twenty-nine years old."

"So there is that advantage, at least, in being twenty-nine," said Valancy, whose ears had caught this aside.

"Doss," said Uncle Benjamin, "when I am dead you may say what you please. As long as I am alive I demand to be treated with respect."

"Oh, but you know we're all dead," said Valancy, "the whole Stirling clan. Some of us are buried and some aren't - yet. That is the only difference."

"Doss," said Uncle Benjamin, thinking it might cow Valancy, "do you remember the time you stole the raspberry jam?"

Valancy flushed scarlet - with suppressed laughter, not shame. She had been sure Uncle Benjamin would drag that jam in somehow.

"Of course I do," she said. "It was good jam. I've always been sorry I hadn't time to eat more of it before you found me. Oh, look at Aunt Isabel's profile on the wall. Did you ever see anything so funny?"

Everybody looked, including Aunt Isabel herself which, of course, destroyed it. But Uncle Herbert said kindly, "I -- I wouldn't eat any more if I were you, Doss. It isn't that I grudge it -- but don't you think it would be better for yourself? Your -- your stomach seems a little out of order."

"Don't worry about my stomach, old dear," said Valancy. "It is all right. I'm going to keep right on eating. It's seldom I get the chance of a satisfying meal."

It was the first time any one had been called "old dear" in Deerwood. The Stirlings thought Valancy had invented the phrase and they were afraid of her from that moment. There was something so uncanny about such an expression. But in poor Mrs. Frederick's opinion the reference to a satisfying meal was the worst thing Valancy had said yet. Valancy had always been a disappointment to her. Now she was a disgrace. She thought she would have to get up and go away from the table. Yet she dared not leave Valancy there.

Aunt Alberta's maid came in to remove the salad plates and bring in the dessert. It was a welcome diversion. Everybody brightened up with a determination to ignore Valancy and talk as if she wasn't there. Uncle Wellington mentioned Barney Snaith. Eventually somebody did mention Barney Snaith at every Stirling funciton, Valancy reflected. Whatever he was, he was an individual that could not be ignored. She resigned herself to listen. There was a subtle fascination in the subject for her, though she had not yet faced this face. She could feel her pulses beating to her finger-tips.

Of course they abused him. Nobody ever had a good word to say of Barney Snaith. All the old, wild tales were canvassed - the defaulting cashier-counterfeiter-infidel-murderer-in-hiding legends were thrashed out. Uncle Wellington was very indignant that such a creature should be allowed to exist at all in the neighbourhood of Deerwood. He didn't know what the police at Port Lawrence were thinking of. Everybody would be murdered in their beds some night. It was a shame that he should be allowed to be at large after all that he had done.

"What has he done?" asked Valancy suddenly.

Uncle Wellington stared at her, forgetting that she was to be ignored.

"Done! Done! He's done everything."

"What has he done?" repeated Valancy inexorably. "What do you know that he has done? You're always running him down. And what has ever been proved against him?"

"I don't argue with women," said Uncle Wellington. "And I don't need proof. When a man hides himself up there on an island in Muskoka, year in and year out, and nobody can find out where he came from or how he lives or what he does there, that's proof enough. Find a mystery and you find a crime."

"The very idea of a man named Snaith!" said Second Cousin Sarah. "Why, the name itself is enough to condemn him!"

"I wouldn't like to meet him in a dark lane," shivered Cousin Georgiana.

"Murder me," said Cousin Georgiana solemnly.

"Just for the fun of it?" suggested Valancy.

"Exactly," said Cousin Georgiana unsuspiciously. "When there is so much smoke there must be some fire. I was afraid he was a criminal when he came here first. I felt he had something to hide. I am not often mistaken in my intuitions."

"Criminal! Of course he's a criminal," said Uncle Wellington. "Nobody doubts it" -- glaring at Valancy. "Why, they say he served a term in the penitentiary for embezzlement. I don't doubt it. And they say he's in with that gang that are perpetrating all those bank robberies round the country."

"Who say?" asked Valancy.

Uncle Wellington knotted his ugly forehead at her. What had got into this confounded girl, anyway? He ignored the question.

"He has the identical look of a jail-bird," snapped Uncle Benjamin. "I noticed it the first time I saw him."

"'A fellow by the hand of nature marked,
Quoted and sighed to do a deed of shame.'"

declaimed Uncle James. He looked enormously pleased over the managing to work that quotation in at last. He had been waiting all his life for the chance.

"One of his eyebrows is an arch and the other is a triangle," said Valancy. "Is that why you think him so villainous?"

Uncle James lifted his eyebrows. Generally when Uncle James lifted his eyebrows the world came to an end. This time it continued to function.

"How do you know his eyebrows so well, Doss?" asked Olive, a trifle maliciously. Such a remark would have covered Valancy with confusion two weeks ago, and Olive knew it.

"Yes, how?" demanded Aunt Wellington.

"I've seen him twice and I looked at him closely," said Valancy composedly. "I thought his face the most interesting one I ever saw."

"There is no doubt there is something fishy in the creature's past life," said Olive, who began to think she was decidedly out of the conversation, which had centred so amazingly around Valancy. "But he can hardly be guilty of everything he's accused of, you know."

Valancy felt annoyed with Olive. Why should she speak up in even this qualified defence of Barney Snaith? What had she to do with him? For that matter, what had Valancy? But Valancy did not ask herself this question.

"They say he keeps dozens of cats in that hut up back on Mistawis," said Second Cousin Sarah Taylor, by way of appearing not entirely ignorant of him.

Cats. It sounded quite alluring to Valancy, in the plural. She pictured an island in Muskoka haunted by pussies.

"That alone shows there is something wrong with him," decreed Aunt Isabel.

"People who don't like cats," said Valancy, attacking her dessert with a relish, "always seem to think that there is some peculiar virtue in not liking them."

"The man hasn't a friend except Roaring Abel," said Uncle Wellington. "And if Roaring Abel had kept away from him, as everybody else did, it would have been better for - for some members of his family."

Uncle Wellington's rather lame conclusion was due to a marital glance from Aunt Wellington reminding him of what he had almost forgotten -- that there were girls at the table.

"If you mean," said Valancy passionately, "that Barney Snaith is the father of Cecily Gay's child, he isn't. It's a wicked lie."

In spite of her indignation Valancy was hugely amused at the expression of the faces around that festal table. She had not seen anything like it since the day, seventeen years ago, when at Cousin Gladys's thimble party, they discovered that she had got - SOMETHING - in her head at school. Lice in her head! Valancy was done with euphemisms.

Poor Mrs. Frederick was almost in a state of collapse. She had believed - or pretended to believe - that Valancy still supposed that children were found in parsley beds.

"Hush -- hush!" implored Cousin Stickles.

"I don't mean to hush," said Valancy perversely. "I've hush-hushed all my life. I'll scream if I want to. Don't make me want to. And stop talking nonsense about Barney Snaith."

Valancy didn't exactly understand her own indignation. What did Barney Snaith's imputed crimes and misdemeanors matter to her? And why, out of them all, did it seem most intolerable that he should have been poor, pitiful little Cecily Gay's false lover? For it did seem intolerable to her. She did not mind when they called him a thief and a counterfeiter and jail-bird; but she could not endure to think that he had loved and ruined Cecily Gay. She recalled his face on the two occasions of their chance meetings - his twisted, enigmatic, engaging smile, his twinkle, his think, sensitive, almost ascetic lips, his general air of daredeviltry. A man with such a smile and lips might have murdered or stolen but he could not have betrayed. She suddenly hated every one who said it or believed it of him.

"When I was a young girl I never thought or spoke about such matters, Doss," said Aunt Wellington, crushingly.

"But I'm not a young girl," retorted Valancy, uncrushed. "Aren't you always rubbing that into me? And you are all evil-minded, senseless gossips. Can't you leave poor Cissy Gay alone? She's dying. Whatever she did, God or the Devil has punished her enough for it. You needn't take a hand, too. As for Barney Snaith, the only crime he has been guilty of is living to himself and minding his own business. He can, it seems, get along without you. Which is an unpardonable sin, of course, in your little snobocracy." Valancy coined that concluding word suddenly and felt that it was an inspiration. That was exactly what they were and not one of them was fit to mend another.

"Valancy, your poor father would turn over in his grave if he could hear you," said Mrs. Frederick.

"I dare say he would like that for a change," said Valancy brazenly.

"Doss," said Uncle James heavily, "the Ten Commandments are fairly up to date still - especially the fifth. Have you forgotten that?"

"No," said Valancy, "but I thought you had - especially the ninth. Have you ever thought, Uncle James, how dull life would be without the Ten Commandments? It is only when things are forbidden that they become fascinating."

But her excitement had been too much for her. She knew, by certain unmistakable warnings, that one of her attacks of pain was coming on. It must not find her there. She rose from her chair.

"I am going home now. I only came for the dinner. It was very good, Aunt Alberta, although your salad-dressing is not salt enough and a dash of cayenne would improve it."

None of the flabbergasted silver wedding guests could think of anything to say until the lawn gate clanged behind Valancy in the dusk.

RIP Anna Nicole Smith

I wrote some of what I felt over at Alex's- but I'll add a bit here.

It's strange to remember an ad campaign - and normally I don't - but I remember Anna Nicole Smith's Guess campaign, when she first made her splash. It was kind of startling, as I recall. Guess sometimes has a misogynistic feel to their campaigns - the whole heroin chic thing ... but the Anna Nicole campaign did not have that anti-woman feel to it. It was campy. It had a referential quality to it - there was the great photo (which I'm trying to find) of Anna Nicole and a brunette sitting at a table at what was supposed to be an awards ceremony. Anna Nicole is smiling at the camera, spectacular cleavage on display. And the brunette (also gorgeous) is glancing sideways at Anna - looking at her bosoms. There is an actual photograph of Jayne Mansfield [corrected! thanks, Pappi!] and Sophia Loren - sitting side by side - and Loren is surreptitiously eyeing Mansfield's bazoombas. So the ad campaign had a kind of humorous quality to it - I enjoyed them. Also: A woman with those dimensions? When models like Elle McPherson and Linda Evangelista - tall lanky broads - ruled the day? The Guess ads were eye-catching. Truly. I loved them. I loved her kind of silly blonde vibe, there seemed to be a self-effacing quality to the photos. Now I don't think Anna Nicole Smith was truly aware of what she was doing ... she was pretty and all that ... but I don't think that she was like Marilyn Monroe - a true MASTER of print work. Nobody knew how to be photographed like Monroe. I think Anna Nicole Smith used what she had ... and if she was part of a good campaign, that used her properly, she could shine.

But I never got the sense that she was really in charge of her image, like Monroe was.

That was part of the sadness I felt surrounding Anna Nicole Smith. We now live in the era of EX-supermodels. When people like Cindy Crawford and even earlier - lauren Hutton - etc. - have to diversify, go into business, whatever ... Models never were that big a deal in earlier days. They would have their day in the sun on magazine covers - and then disappear into obscurity. No more.

And Anna Nicole Smith never seemed to fit into that post-model thing. Who knows why. I think she was surrounded by bad people who did not have her best interests at heart. I watched only one episode of her reality show and couldn't bear any more. The thought of how blatantly she was being used made me uncomfortable. And like I said over at Alex: Yes, she was complicit. Yes, she agreed to do the show. Yes, yes, yes. I know all the arguments. I think they're all correct. But I still felt sad for her.

I also feel lucky. I feel lucky that I have good friends. That I have had good boyfriends. All of them. That I have a family who gives a shit. I have people in my life who can say to me, "Uhm ... do you really want to do that?" When I've had my depressions (which I don't have anymore, knock wood) - I have people who surround me, with love, support ... they listen, they give advice ... and even if I can't appreciate it in that moment, I am buoyed up. If I am injured (emotionally) - then I have friends and family who can pick up the slack for me until I am better, stronger. I am lucky. I am lucky but also: I chose well. I have the strength of character to choose well.

Anna Nicole Smtih did not have that. And I guess it makes me sad.

Anyway. I went out and found some of my favorite images of that age-old Guess campaign - and I'll post them here, in memory. I remember these images. How long ago was that campaign? Years, right? But the images have stuck in my head. They're just delightful, I think.

I hope you rest in peace, Anna Nicole Smith, and I hope you can hang out with some angels up in heaven who will treat you better than your "friends" did in real life.

Obsession Sunday

-- It was damn cold on Sunday. I finally am getting my share of winter, and I adore it. On Sunday I had heat, and I was happy because it was freezing outside. I'm also insane. Because I bundled up - or layered up, shall we say - and headed out for a run along the cliffs near my house. You know, right near where my dead boyfriend bit the bullet, lo those centuries ago. The wind was frigid, man. I wrapped my face up in a scarf so that only my eyes peeped out. Had the hat jammed on my head. Then the layered workout clothes - and once I started going I warmed up - but if I stopped for just one second, to tie my shoe or whatever, I felt like I would die. The cold seemed even more intense. But it was just so beautiful. The sun gleamed, the city of Manhattan pulsated and glowed across the shining Hudson, everything was bright, and pure, and crisp. I have no idea how far I went - but I was out for over an hour. I felt awesome when I got home - and it was only 9:30 in the morning, and I had already been to freakin' Secaucus and back, or whatever it was. It took me forever to warm up.

-- Allison and I were getting together at around 2, at her place. As always, we had an agenda. Which just cracks me up. I have no other friend like her - and we just value this part of our relationship so much. It's hard to describe - but basically it's like this: I go to her place. And she has DVR'ed a bunch of stuff she knows I would love - so we can watch it together - and we'll pick out a movie that either she has seen and she feels I need to see - or I'll bring a moive that I have seen and I feel she needs to see - and we lie in bed and watch the movie - and basically usher the other person into the obsession. It's hysterical - we've been doing this with each other since we became friends, and it's SO FUN. Like - we want to be there when the other watches the movie that we love. Like when she made me watch The Family Stone with her. It's really fun, by the way. Or when I made her watch The Rookie. This has been going on forever - and is also not just about movies - we do this with books as well (although we don't hover over each other, obviously, as we read each other's recommendations). But we're great sharing partners - it's all about SHOW AND TELL. It's so hilarious - we get a bit manic. Like I will walk into her apartment and she will announce, "Okay, so we have a lot to do today ..." Meaning: a backlog of episodes of 48 Hours or Dominick Dunne's show (we love shows about rich people committing heinous crimes. We love shows having to do with forensic analysis. We love shows having to do with pampered teenagers going on mad Matrix-esque rampages). So then we sit down, and start to watch. We have an agenda. And we get manic. Like - there's a lot of stopping and starting here. Because the person who is obsessed must stop and explain the obsession along the way ... and fill in the other person on what they might be missing, on all of the OCD details acquired along the way. This would drive so many people insane. But we love it.

-- So. Our agenda for Sunday. We had a LOT to get done.

1. I needed to see the last 3 episodes of Extras. I ain't got no TV at the moment ... and Allison and I love that show so much ... and she's already seen them (naturally) but just needed to be there as I experienced them.

2. Allison had saved a 20/20 for us to watch together. I think she had already seen it. But she needed (yes: NEEDED) to see it with me. It had all of the elements that we adore:
1. cults
2. teenagers with guns (preferably good-looking teenagers)
3. bloodshed in small motels - with crime-scene photos of crumpled blood-stained bodies
4. intensive forensic analysis
It is amazing how many shows out there fit that bill, exactly.

So she had saved up a doozy for us.

3. Oh, and she had said to me, "And bring on the Rocky shit. I'm ready." So I brought Rocky over. Allison had seen it when she was a kid, and that was it - saw none of the sequels - said to me, 'This might as well be the first time I've ever seen the movie, for all I remember it." So this would be a THRILLING day.

-- I had really liked getting the blood pumping that morning so I decided to walk down into Hoboken and pick up the PATH from there into Manhattan. This is a 2 mile walk, I guess, something like that. Along an exposed cliff, with all of the city unfurling below. Gorgeous. Wind-whipped. But I kind of overdid it, in terms of the amount of exercise I did this past weekend. I could barely walk on Monday.

-- I arrive at Allison's - and by now, it's ... well, I kind of felt like I would never be fully warm ever again - the cold was in the marrow ... so her place was cozy, with hissing heat, and actual condensation on the windows - because it was so toasty warm inside! Allison was in a tanktop and overalls - and she had pretty much joined the staff of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Her bed was standing up against the wall. She had a screw gun in one hand, and a level in the other. Everything was pushed to the side and she had put another shelf into her exposed brick wall - it looked great. Oscar the dog leapt upon me in a frenzy when I walked in. Charlie the cat sat back and glowered at me resentfully. I tried to give him love but he kind of scorned me. Allison was all about her Murphy's Oil Soap that you spray on the floor directly - (this will change my life) - as well as the vacuum-sucked bags for your sweaters, towels, whatever - if you want to store your stuff and have it not take up any room. Allison showed me how they work, rapturously. Such items will change our lives.

-- We both were hungry so we decided to venture out into the freezing day to find food. Allison put her bed back in place - put it all back together - and we admired her shelf-building handiwork for a bit. We also were kind of aware of the fact that we had a lot to get done that day - we laughed about it. "Okay, I know we have a lot to do today ... but can we go grab some food?" We needed sustenance for our plan of attack.

-- Off to Tavern on Jane. I love it there. It's a real tavern, you know? Dark wood, exposed brick, nice clientele, bar food, shepherd's pie ... Fire in the fireplace. People were there - a nice crowd - but not an insanely packed Super Bowl crowd. We got a table by the wall, and ordered food, and chowed down. Great talk - about our lives, about mediocrity - accepting it, fighting it - about our vague plans for the future - how we don't know how things will work out ... but we know we want to change.

-- Satisfied, we hurried through the increasingly biting wind to Allison's steam-room of an apartment. I had brought my slippers. Because it's just not right to watch hours of television without those fur slippers on. We got ourselves all set up on her bed. We had this serious-eyed focus to us - it just cracks me up. Pillows set up, animals fed ... We decided to start with Extras - we did end up taking a detour into Bloodshed/Cult ... which was a surprisingly easy segue, believe it or not.

-- So. About The Extras. First of all: I adored the first season. Every damn second of it. But I was REALLY pleased to read this - which I think is spot on. Something is going ON in this second season - Gervais and Merchant are taking it to a really interesting and relentless place ... It's truly a cynical show - and yet ... it maintains its humor. It's bitter - but it's not off-puttingly bitter. Fascinating. And the guest-spots. The guest spots!!!

-- Allison had told me about the 3 we would be seeing - "Today, we will be seeing David Bowie, Daniel Radcliffe, and Chris Martin ... and I have to say - this totally shocked me - but my favorite one was Chris Martin ... Wait until you see him. I'm a little bit in love with him now. It's my favorite of all the three - but they are all great."

-- We started off with the Bowie one. Hilarious. Just the horror of that last scene ... with Bowie - BOWIE!! Freakin' David Bowie ... going off on a spurt of creativity at the sight of poor Andy. "Pug ... pug ... Short little loser ..." and with every edit he made - it would get more mean-spirited. Like suddenly he changed a word, so that the new one would be "Fatty" - and you could see Andy hope that maybe ... maybe ... Bowie would say something NICE ... but ... Oh. No. The VIP area has become a horror show. You think it will be great in the VIP area, like your whole life will be different ... but actually it's tremendously terrible, with stars like David Bowie barely giving you the time of day, and then creating a song for the whole bar to sing about what a fat loser you are. I loved how Maggie - so obliviously cruel - she means well, she can't help herself - sat next to Andy, bopping to the beat ... and he kept glancing at her like: "How could you?" and she'd stop herself ... but she always just makes those choices, not out of mean-ness - but just because she's a bit dense ... and has no impulse control. It was hysterical - I loved how Bowie's eyes got all serious and far away as the idea for the new song came over him. Brilliant!!

-- Then came the Daniel Radcliffe one which was - to quote Mitchell - "sheer liquid joy". Honest to GOD. There was so much about it that was absolutely ridiculous, so stupid, SO funny ... First of all: Dame Diana Rigg with a condom on her head. Seriously - only Ricky Gervais. BRILLIANT. The expression on her face too! hahahaha Like - she was barely annoyed. Just kind of flat, dead-eyed. I loved how Daniel Radcliffe just kept trying to be cool and grownup ("I've done it with a girl .... intercourse-wise.") - except he's wearing a Boy Scouts uniform and his mother hovers on the edge of every interaction he has. I really love these big stars who make fun of themselves and their image so openly. It's so FUN to watch. I loved how when Radcliffe suddenly got busted by the dwarf (who was a RIOT) - for hitting on the dwarf's wife - Radcliffe looked down at the dwarf for one instant, had no idea how to handle the confrontation, and then looked up and called out randomly, "MOM?" We howled. I LOVED seeing this young actor futz around with his image, try to smoke, order a "cup of joe", trying to be all cool, announcing that he has "a condom" - but the way he says it you can just tell that the whole thing is a novelty to him. Like - you can only have ONE condom in your lifetime. A condom is a precious thing. Naturally he snaps it across the room like a balloon and it lands on Diana Rigg's head. Also: seeing Ricky Gervais kick a dwarf in the stomach ... look down at the crumpled body ... and then say, as though he's trying to will himself back before the incident, "No ... no ... no ...." Then he calls out, lamley, "It was in self-defense!" WHAT? How on earth could kicking a dwarf be in self-defense?? That dwarf (who works all the time as well) was hysterical. Dressed up in his stupid little leprechaun outfit, and being all offended because people keep hitting on his wife. I thought the whole episode was great. Also because - as far as the tabloids are concerned - Andy has, in the space of a 2 day period - punched a Down's Syndrome kid in the head, and drop-kicked a dwarf across a soundstage. I am howling.

-- But I love this show because there's this undercurrent of true melancholy there. That last theme song ... it's got that ACHE to it, and yet you can't quite point to where the ache IS. It's the human condition. The show is quite genius.

-- Allison was beside herself because the Chris Martin one was next and she was so excited to watch it with me. I'm not a Coldplay fan - or, wait - I was for about 2 seconds, when they first came out - and then I was like: Sigh. Whatever guys, I get what you're going for, and I am totally over it. And there always seemed to be something annoyingly self-consciously sincere about Chris Martin - it turned me off. But my God - the Extras episode with him ... To me, it shows him in a whole new light. I have totally newfound respect for him because he was able to make fun of his own image - and totally mess around with it - and then there was the blooper at the very end of the episode when he and Gervais look at each other, and totally cannot hold it together anymore - and just BURST into laughter. I love Chris Martin now. He's got a sense of playfulness, and also ... he maybe takes his music seriously, as well he should ... but anyone who can go on a show and do THAT ... tells me he is not totally lost in Deeply Ironic Self-Consciously Sincere Land. He was adorable. The version of Chris Martin he played was: completely a careerist, even at the most inappropriate times - like during a photo shoot for some Help Save Africa campaign. He wears a Coldplay T-shirt to the photo shoot - and points to it as the cameras click. He wears sunglasses. He asks the Africa person if maybe it would be a good idea to have the new Coldplay song as the theme for the "Help Save Africa" campaign. It's hysterical ... watch how overly serious he is, but so COCKY, and so ... CLUELESS. I also loved the following line on multiple levels: They're about to take his picture, and he says, arrogantly, "Let's make this quick, okay? I gotta get home. Gwyneth's making drumsticks." I HOWLED at that line. It's such a BUST - on Gwyneth's seriousness, on her vegetarianism ... but it shows a sense of humor about the whole thing that I just found awesome. LOVED it. "Gwyneth's making drumsticks." Allison and I were seriously crying with laughter. And the duet that makes up the final scene of that episode ... you can see Chris Martin - with the sunglasses on - trying desperately to just keep it together and not laugh ... to make it to the end of the song. You could see Gervais sing right next to his ear, in that squeaky voice - and Martin would look off into the distance, and you just KNEW that the guy was DYING to laugh. So that big BURST at the very end, when they finally could not take it anymore - was just beautiful to me.

-- Great show.

-- Oh, forgot to talk about our detour. This happened during the David Bowie one - or maybe in between Bowie and Radcliffe. Oscar the dog stood at the front door of the apartment, staring at Allison, with his head cocked. He looked adorable, quizzical, and ... purposeful. He also had scratched at the bottom of the bathroom door, a clear signal of what he needed. So Allison bundled up - to take him out to do his business - and in the meantime, because she could not bear me watching ANY of Extras without her - set me up with the 20/20 episode.

-- It was about a cult I knew a lot about. Surprise surprise. Allison returned with Oscar 20 minutes later, and I said, "I know all this stuff." However, the intricacies of the murder and the planning thereof - was all new to me. Allison and I watched ... and discussed ... and stopped the show to talk about finer points ... to theorize ... we talked about cults, and brainwashing, and how glad we were that some of them got out, how horrible it must have been, what must it feel like, how we didn't blame the murderer at ALL for what he did. Completely justifiable homicide as far as I'm concerned.

-- Once we started the 20/20 thing, we couldn't stop it - so we watched it through to the end and then went back to Extras.

-- Hours have now passed. We have not moved from the bed. The animals loll about. Charley the cat hangs out on top of the fridge, staring down at us. Oscar the dog cannot bear not to be the center of attention. He is constantly coming over to us - at the peak moment of whatever Extras episode we are watching - and nudging us with a slimy drool-coated baseball. Telling us that it is time to PLAY. When you say "No, not now" - this dog stares at you with ... uncomprehending yet stubborn eyes. Like: No? What? I do not speak that language. It's hilarious.

-- Allison and I order a pizza. Tavern on Jane is now hours in the past and we are hungry again.

-- We are also now facing ... Rocky. It's time. And isn't it so funny that we both were kind of nervous?? I am laughing out loud at our friendship right now. Allison gave me a kind of shy serious glance and said, "So. Are we ready?"

-- So then we watched Rocky. I made her watch the interview with Stallone I have first - just for CONTEXT. Bless Allison for knowing that she needed CONTEXT. That the movie would not be the same without CONTEXT. Allison and I watch movies in exactly the same way. It is truly a kindred spirit type thing. We have the same obsessions, almost the same taste, the same eye for detail, and the same love of certain types of moments.

-- The Stallone interview was awesome and I just had such a great time watching it with her, seeing her discover him, and who he is, and how endearing and articulate he really is. It set up the movie perfectly.

-- The pizza arrived. Chow.

-- Then. The movie. This has been solely a private experience for me - this Rocky thing - except for sharing it on the blog, of course ... but I sit at home, and I watch the thing, and I listen to the commentary, and it's all about ME. So to sit there, with her - someone who didn't remember it - that was key to the excitement - to watch her truly discover it ... It was just AWESOME. So fun!!! Allison's not a boxing fan at all, so to see her - during the last fight - punching the air - as though she were Rocky punching Apollo - hahahahahaha. The movie just works, what can you say.

-- Funny moments I remember:

-- Oscar the dog barking up at the dog in the movie. Every time the dog in the movie barked, Oscar would LOSE IT. He was protecting us from the movie dog. Thank you so much, Oscar. For being SUCH a good guard dog. He stood on the bed, right in front of us - ass in our faces - and barked up at the TV - and all Allison and I could see - our entire field of vision - was Oscar's anus - which made a strange convulsion every time he barked. I didn't ASK to get a close-up of a winking anus but that was what I had to deal with in that moment. But it was so hysterical - the dog in the movie barks quite a bit - so Oscar would rush up to the TV - and stand there - desperately trying to somehow crawl thru the screen to meet his foe, sphincter puckering in the wind.

-- Oh, and this was great. In the scene I mentioned here - the scene where Rocky sits on the couch, and Adrian starts to come on to him and Rocky rebuffs her - so anyway - by this point Allison is totally hooked into this story. You could just tell. It was awesome. So when Rocky pushes Adrian off, Allison cries out - as though it hurt her personally, "Oh no! Is he mad at her?????" (I am laughing as I type this. I love you, Allison!!) And I said, frustrated, "Well, no - it's just that Rocky is realizing that --" Allison suddenly retreated and said, "Oh God. I'm totally being the girl right now, aren't I?" I'm still laughing about this. It was so cute. Like - SCREW whether or not he beats Creed! WHY IS HE BEING MEAN TO ADRAIN? hahahaha But it's great because the movie works on BOTH levels - that's why those scenes are so good. But I just loved Allison's pained shocked gasp: "Is he mad at her??????"

-- There's one scene where Rocky stands on an overpass - waiting for the loan shark to come get him. Behind him is a scene of total urban poetry - there's long sun rays on the buildings - not a speck of green anywhere - but none of this is SET - it's all accidental - and it has that feel to it. Nothing is "lit" professionally - they caught these moments on the fly, this wasn't a normal union film - they didn't have permission to film on the steps, etc. So the shots have a reality to them that bigger budget movies don't have. There's mess there - but there's also beauty. Anyway - it's this one beautiful shot (I need to start doing some screen captures - so I can illustrate my oh so brilliant points) - and Rocky is all in black, the bricks in the black kind of glow in the sunset - and an elevated train rattles by - and Allison (who has always had a very keen and good eye for art direction) said, "God. I just LOVE the look of this movie." You can feel it from that first scene in the boxing club - the grittiness of it - the ... it's borderline amateur, in terms of how it's lit. Like look at the shadows cast by Rocky when he's in his apartment. Those are big stark shadows, obviously from the huge lights pointed at him - those are not shadows from any LAMP he has in his apartment. But it just doesn't matter - because the emotion of the movie, and the reality underlying each and every scene is what REALLY matters. You don't even notice these things. Funny thing, by the way: In the scene where Stallone grabs the little girl out from the group on the corner and walks her home - as the two of them walk away together, you can see the Hertz equipment truck in the background. Hahahaha They didn't have time to move the truck - they only filmed in Philly for 5 days ... so they just left the Hertz truck in, hoping nobody would notice the incongruity of it. I never noticed until Stallone laughed about it in the commentary. But that's part of the movie's charm. What you are seeing is often the first and only take - because they didn't have the money to do 100 takes to get it right. You had to be right in the first take. That's where that sometimes unbearable rawness comes from. You can't BUY rawness like that. It has to be authentic. Don't try to create it, or re-create it, or comment on it, or be ironic about it. Otherwise you look like an ass. Rawness like that is money in the bank if:
1. It is authentic
2. It is used as the backdrop for a really great story

As I remember more of our watching moments I will recount them - but it was just SUCH a fun experience - watching it with her. I re-lived the movie all over again, and seriously, I can't have enough of THAT, now can I?

The funniest thing is this:

Allison, like I said, had seen the movie, the first one, when she was a kid, and never gave it a second thought. Never saw the sequels, had no desire to see them. She also never gave Stallone a second thought - never really thought of him as a "contendah" in terms of acting and stuff.

But needless to say - she just fell in love with the movie.

And the next day I get the following email from her, which made me laugh out loud. I'm still laughing about it:

oh, and rocky bobbed and weaved his way in and out of my dreams last night and i woke up in a panic at one point. rocky and adrianne. adrianne and rocky. do they staty together????? i can't believe i failed to ask you this question. did their romance endure through 2, 3, 4, 5, AND 6? (or were there only 5?). after you left i was talking to my mom on the phone telling her about rocky....and she was like, "yeah, i was never much of a rocky fan." and i was like, "no no no, mom. you don't understand. you just don't understand." at which point i launched into a diatribe about steady cams and a script written in three days and a having to sell the dog and the macho tough with a gentle heart and sets that weren't sets at all and the sweet love affair where gaps were filled and the personal victory of transcending the limitations we set for ourselves and the movie's raw gritty realness that has been so readily eschewed in today's films for florid cinematic polish. at some point i'm pretty sure she put the phone down and went and took a bath or something.

but (in my whiniest most hopeful voice) do adrianne and rocky stay together?

"diatribe about steady cams"

I can't stop laughing. She is now an expert.

There must be some Toros ... etc. etc.

I love the winter. However I have not had heat or hot water for the last 3 days - awesome!! Right? Terrific. This is what happens when you live in a glorified slum. It has been the coldest week of the winter, and I've had zero heat. Zero hot water. I've been showering at the gym, and sleeping in a cocoon of blankets and layers. The problem is being worked on - as we speak - but I am keeping fingers crossed. I want to go home tonight, open my door, and feel warmth emanating from within. I do not want to be faced with an arctic blast in my own foyer.

Last night, I finally just invited myself over to Flynn's and slept there, because I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at around 8 pm ... and suddenly I really saw the craziness of my situation. I was wearing the Nana - which is basically a large fleece BAG with holes for wrists and ankles, a scarf wrapped around my neck - and pulled up over my mouth, also a fleece hat pulled down over my ears, fur gloves, a fleece blanket draped over my shoulders like a squaw ... and lastly: I could see my breath. In my bedroom. I got one glimpse of myself in this getup and suddenly thought; Enough.

Took a cab down to Flynn's, whose apartment is actually uncomfortably warm - you start to feel like a lizard in the Galapagos Islands if you stay there too long ... but it was heaven to me. Also the trickling feng shui-ish rock fountain in his living room was unbelievably peaceful. I felt like a happy purring little cat, reveling in the heat, and the hot tea, and my skin thawing out and feeling soft and rosy again, as opposed to pale and CAKED IN ICE. "Hey, man. I know it's 9 pm ... but can I come over? And can I stay over? And can I stay over tomorrow night if it's still not fixed?"

I actually just got a call to tell me that the problem is fixed - it was some boiler problem ... so. Fingers crossed. Little teeny icy fingers crossed.

The Books: The Blue Castle (L.M. Montgomery)

Next book on the shelf:

The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

OH, how I love this novel. OH GOD. It's one of my escapes, a true fairy-romance that I find transportive ... If I ever find myself stuck, or feeling sorry for myself, or like a spinster (ha! let's retire that word, please) - all I need to do is pick up this magical novel. I find it intensely pleasurable to read - and in a weird way, this is my favorite thing that Lucy Maud has ever written. It is singular. It is its own thing. She never wrote another book like it. It feels like an exorcism ... and it also feels like it transported her. I love the Emily books - but they don't do for me what Blue Castle does - it's just a different experience. I really want this to come out right - because I think Lucy Maud does some of her best writing in this book, and I don't want to make the book sound trivial. In Blue Castle, we have some of her funniest writing, her most intensely gorgeous nature writing, her most brilliant characterizations ... but for me, personally, this book works the way watching, say, Notting Hill does. Or ... Kate & Leopold. I'm listing these romantic comedies that I absolutely LOVE ... movies that have the ability to really put a little hope in my heart, a little ... pep-talk "hang in there, Sheila, hang in there" ... There are many movies that work on me on that primal level, the level that aches for a mate, that doesn't want to give up, that wants to hope ... and for me Blue Castle works on that level.

It makes me feel like a teenager. A lovesick teenager.

The story is simple. And also cliched. But the beauty of it is not in the plot points ... but in HOW we get to the end of the story, the people we meet, the twists and turns ... It's almost archetypal, like a folk tale - if that makes any sense.

Valancy Stirling (her family calls her "Doss" and she despises the name - but they won't stop) is an unhappy 29 year old woman - unmarried, seriously on the shelf, as it were ... and completely dominated by her thoroughly unpleasant family. God, has Lucy Maud ever created such a bunch of relentless ignorant boring nincompoops in her writing career? She's merciless (and yet in a very funny way - I laugh out loud reading about these terrible people). Usually "bad" characters have SOME redeeming qualities in Lucy Maud's world. It's rare the truly bad seed. Miss Browning in Emily of New Moon comes to mind - she is truly a nasty human being, and she balances out the more humanistic approach to other "villains". Because you know what? Some people really ARE just assholes. But in Blue Castle, Lucy Maud takes the gloves off and turns her viciousness on people like Valancy's horrendous family. They are prudish, thin-lipped with decency and decorum ... and look at any sign of individuality (especially in Valancy) as the sign of the coming apocalypse. The book takes place in the 1920s, obviously - because there are mentions of bobbed hair (also seen by her family as harbingers of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse) and jalopies and stuff like that - but Valancy's stick-up-the-ass family clings to the Victorian ways. Valancy has zero freedom when the book opens. She doesn't have a job. She has to do everything her mother says, or else she will get the silent treatment, and Valancy has never before questioned the supremacy of her mother. Valancy is completely cowed by her family. She is who they say she is. She was always a plain little girl, never fit in, couldn't dance, had no social graces, was a dreamy odd-looking girl ... and was always compared unfavorably to her golden-haired smooth-mannered cousin Olive. Valancy could never win the Olive vs. Valancy battle - so she gave up. Valancy is, admittedly, quite a self-pitying thing when the book opens. She feels victimized by everything. And she has no sense of agency in her own destiny. She is victimized by her mother. She is victimized by her entire ridiculous judgmental family. She is single - and she feels victimized by this circumstance. She cannot imagine her way out of this kind of life. She is stuck. Big time. But she doesn't even see that she is stuck. According to Valancy, this is just her "lot" in life. This is the hand she has been dealt.

Until ...

She goes to the doctor (sneaking to the doctor SHE wants to go to, as opposed to going to the family doctor - who will then, naturally, gossip about her physical ailments to her whole family) to ask him about these shortness of breath "attacks" that she has. He examines her. And then tells her, via letter, that she is dying, she has some heart condition, and she only has a year to live. The letter is very blunt and perfunctory - but it is the catalyst. It is what, ironically, sets Valancy free.

She has a horrible night of the soul ... realizing that her life is going to end ... and suddenly she realizes how much she has wasted her life. All she has experienced (from parents, peers, men) has been rejection. She has had a second-hand life. Olive gets the beaux. Olive gets the pretty dresses. And Valancy sits on the sidelines. She has had ZERO first-hand experiences in her life. She has spent her entire time on the planet in a quivery state of fear and anxiety - fear of annoying her mother, fear of what people will say, fear of rejection .... And after that one "night of the soul" - Valancy literally throws out her old self, which was a lie anyway, erected to please her prudish ignorant mother, and begins to act like herself.

And it goes off like an atom bomb through the Stirling family.

Even small things - like Valancy not laughing at her uncle's stupid jokes ... It was always Valancy's role to laugh, obligingly - but she stops. Because she doesn't think the jokes are funny, and she actually thinks her uncle is kind of a stupid man who has never been particularly nice to her. Enough with conventions.

But the changes go deeper than internal ones ... Valancy starts taking some huge risks. She walks away from her family - without looking back - and goes out to live with Abel Gay and his daughter - Abel Gay is a drunken reprobate (and yet somehow a very likable character too) who spends his nights carousing and drinking and whoring (presumably) - and he needs help with his frail daughter, who had a baby out of wedlock - and is now dying (the daughter). So Valancy offers her services as a nursemaid - and goes out to live with these people who have been completely rejected and judged by society. And once she is in the bosom of these rejects, these supposed "losers" (who, naturally, are not that at all - they are warmer, more real, more "moral" than the nasty-minded Christians back home who have only JUDGED anjd shunned them - typical.) ... Valancy really starts to blossom.

It's a great story.

I'm going to do a bunch of excerpts, just because I love this book so much.

First excerpt is from the first chapter - where we meet the cast of characters - Valancy's horrible family.

Excerpt from The Blue Castle - by L.M. Montgomery.

She was glad it was raining - or rather, she was drearily satisfied that it was raining. There would be no picnic that day. This annual picnic, whereby Aunt and Uncle Wellington - one always thought of them in that succession - inevitably celebrated their engagement at a picnic thirty years before, had been, of late years, a veritable nightmare to Valancy. By an impish coincidence it was the same day as her birthday and, after she had passed twenty-five, nobody let her forget it.

Much as she hated going to the picnic, it would never have occurred to her to rebel against it. There seemed to be nothing of the revolutionary in her nature. And she knew exactly what every one would say to her at the picnic. Uncle Wellington, whom she disliked and despised, even though he had fulfilled the highest Stirling aspiration, "marrying money," would say to her in a pig's whisper, "Not thinking of getting married yet, my dear?" and then go off into the bellow of laughter with which he invariably concluded his dull remarks. Aunt Wellington, of whom Valancy stood in abject awe, would tell her about Olive's new chiffon dress and Cecil's last devoted letter. Valancy would have to look as pleased and interested as if the dress and letter had been hers or else Aunt Wellington would be offended. And Valancy had long ago decided that she would rather offend God than Aunt Wellington, because God might forgive her but Aunt Wellington never would.

Aunt Alberta, enormously fat, with an amiable habit of always referring to her husband as "he", as if he were the only male creature in the world, who could never forget that she had been a great beauty in her youth, would condole with Valancy on her sallow skin --

"I don't know why all the girls of today are so sunburned. When I was a girl my skin was roses and cream. I was counted the prettiest girl in Canada, my dear."

Perhaps Uncle Herbert wouldn't say anything - or perhaps he would remark jocularly, "How fat you're getting, Doss!" And then everybody would laugh over the excessively humorous idea of poor, scrawny little Doss getting fat.

Handsome, solemn Uncle James, whom Valancy disliked but respected because he was reputed to be very clever and was therefore the clan oracle - brains being none too plentiful in the Stirling connection - would probably remark with the owl-like sarcasm that had won him his reputation, "I suppose you're busy with your hope-chest these days?"

And Uncle Benjamin would ask some of his abominable conundrums, between wheezy chuckles, and answer them himself.

"What is the difference between Doss and a mouse?"

"The mouse wishes to harm the cheese and Doss wishes to charm the he's."

Valancy had heard him ask that riddle fifty times and every time she wanted to throw something at him. But she never did. In the first place, the Stirlings simply did not throw things; in the second place, Uncle Benjamin was a wealthy and childless old widower and Valancy had been brought up in the fear and admonition of his money. If she offended him he would cut her out of his will - supposing she were in it. Valancy did not want to be cut out of Uncle Benjamin's will. She had been poor all her life and knew the galling bitterness of it. So she endured his riddles and even smiled tortured little smiles over him.

Aunt Isabel, downright and disagreeable as an east wind, would criticize her in some way - Valancy could not predict just how, for Aunt Isabel never repeated a criticism - she found something new with which to jab you every time. Aunt Isabel prided herself on saying what she thought, but didn't like it so well when other people said what they thought to her. Valancy never said what she thought.

Cousin Georgiana - named after her great-great-grandmother, who had been named after George the Fourth - would recount dolorously the names of all relatives and friends who had died since the last picnic and wonder "which of us will be the first to go next."

Oppressively competent, Aunt Mildred would talk endlessly of her husband and her odious prodigies of babies to Valancy, because Valancy would be the only one she could find to put up with it. For the same reason, Cousin Gladys - really First Cousin Gladys once removed, according to the strict way in which the Stirlings tabulated relationship - a tall, thin lady who admitted she had a sensitive disposition, would describe minutely the tortures of her neuritis. And Olive, the wonder girl of the whole Stirling clan, who had everything Valancy had not - beauty, popularity, love - would show off her beauty and presume on her popularity and flaunt her diamond insignia of love in Valancy's dazzled envious eyes.

There would be none of all this today. And there would be no packing up of teaspoons. The packing up was always left for Valancy and Cousin Stickles. And once, six years ago, a silver teaspoon from Aunt Wellington's wedding set had been lost. Valancy never heard the last of that silver teaspoon. Its ghost appeared Banquo-like at every subsequent family feast.

Oh, yes, Valancy knew exactly what the picnic would be like and she blessed the rain that had saved her from it. There would be no picnic this year. If Aunt Wellington could not celebrate on the sacred day itself she would have no celebration at all. Thank whatever gods there were for that.

The Year of Magical Thinking

I had heard Didion was turning her tremendously painful and remarkable book about her husband's death into a one-woman show. An odd thing - hard to imagine - and horrible to know that since the publication of that memoir - Didion's daughter Quintana, a woman in her 30s, also passed away. Just horrifying. The crucible of loss. Unbelievable. Didion threw herself into working the book into a play ... the writer's survival technique, I suppose ... And now I am beside myself with excitement.

I must see this. It opens in March. I will lie in the dirt by the side of the road if that will get me a ticket. I will grovel. I will dance a jig. Whatever I must do. Good GOD. I've never seen Redgrave live before, either ... I tried to see her in Long Day's Journey - and I kept going to the theatre the morning of - to see if I could get tickets - but then she kept taking time off to take care of her sister, who was quite ill at the time ... and I didn't want to see it without Redgrave. I have heard about what it is like to see her in person. Enough with the second-hand news. I must experience it myself.

Happy Birthday - Elizabeth Bishop!

Elizabeth Bishop is one of my favorite poets - and she actually didn't write all that many poems throughout her life - not compared to other poets who lived as long as she did (here's the collected poems) - but the ones she DID write - resonate, reverberate - they're classics. She was independently wealthy - she traveled the world - she was best friends with Robert Lowell - they had a kinship that can only be described as intimate - She lived all over the place, and finally settled down in Key West.

Here's a great biographical sketch of her. Lots of personal tragedy there. But she didn't go the route of confessional poetry - a la her best friend Robert Lowell. Her influences were Marianne Moore and Gerard Manley Hopkins. For a long time she was known as a "poet's poet" - but I think her appeal is much broader than that (although her works may not be as well-known as those with more populist appeal). In my opinion, she's up there with Robert Frost. She's in the same continuum. Her work has that grandeur, and also that ... homeliness. She writes about "small" things - the look of waves, a moose in the darkness, fishing rods - in the same way that Frost writes about "small" things - an axe, a snowfall ... Yet nobody could ever say that these are trivial poets, or "surface" poets. These poets plumb the depths of the human condition itself. And not by focusing on their experiences with electric shock therapy, or their family psychodramas (and there is nothing wrong with those kinds of poets - many of them are my favorites, actually - it's just a different focus, a different "way in", so to speak.) Bishop's poem 'One Art' stands out - it is different from the others. She speaks in an "I" voice - rather than a detached narrator, or observer. You can feel the influence of her soulmate Robert Lowell - even though the expression, the poem itself, is all hers. People who know about poetry love Elizabeth Bishop - and rightly so - but her work is not inaccessible, you don't need Cliff Notes to "get" it ... And yet she is as deep as the ocean. I love her stuff so much.

It's a toss-up what is her best-known poem. There are two that seem to consistently make it into the anthologies "At the Fishhouses" and "One Art" (which I mentioned above). If you read these poems one after the other it is very difficult to not just be in awe of her versatility with language. They are both truly great poems - and yet the voice used in each is so completely specific, and perfect to the subject matter. I love "At the Fishhouses" (I suggest reading it out loud to get the full effect) - maybe I love it because it is familiar to me - as an East Coast girl who grew up 10 minutes from the vast heaving Atlantic. The fishing industry is just a part of the landscape of my childhood - and there's just something about it that Bishop captures - and it's in the images, yes - but ... more than that ... it's in the language. Bishop is truly a master. She makes it look so easy that it is hard to remember just how good she is. And then there's "One Art" - which has this blunt open-faced honesty - and I love the last line - with the italicized word ... She expresses something I know, on such a cellular level. The "art of losing". Disaster. She's marvelous. Here they both are:

At the Fishhouses
Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

One Art
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

But in my opinion - it is "The Moose" that is her greatest poem. Somehow I had forgotten about it - and for whatever reason, my Dad brought it to my attention last year - saying, "Have you read "The Moose"? You have to read it."

So I sat down and read it. Its greatness speaks for itself.

THE MOOSE
From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative. "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

Robots

50 Best Robots Countdown! The commentary ... the comments ... the description of each robot, and what they do, what the specialty is - the angsting over certain choices ... I LOVE people. Look at that damn list.

Ibid.

Idem.

All Rocky posts

Good friends

I went out with Liz last night - wonderful night - talk talk talk talk - mile a minute - as the FRIGID night blustered away outside the warm bar.

Today I emailed Liz to thank her for her support - in terms of my plans for 2007.

She emailed me back today, and this just made me laugh - and also made me feel really lucky:

"You know I support you in anything you want to do, Sheila - except a self-loathing binge. I will not support you in that."

Who can ask for more in a friend.

"silva rerum: the forest of things"

Granta has re-published a long interview with one of its mainstay writers - who just passed away - Ryszard Kapuscinski. I haven't even really processed the fact that he is gone - and that that is it, in terms of his writing. What I have now is what there will be for all eternity. I haven't read the memoir yet, but once I do - that will be it. No more. He has passed. God, what a life, what a talent. Seriously - he is one of my true idols, for so so many reasons.

Anyway, Bill Buford interviewed him years ago for Granta and here it is. Great stuff.

He's one of those people who are higher up than the rest of us. I do not mean in terms of status. I mean in terms of perspective. Very few people can get far enough back from events to really see them - and also to see them without seeing themselves in the picture. I know the writers who I think can do that - Rebecca West being the first onethat comes to mind ... but it's a fascinating and ... sometimes chilling ... view of history. Because it seems inevitable. Tragedy and chaos seem unavoidable. Everything that happens has happened before. It is just the details that change, the geopolitical situations that shift. But people never change. I find this chilling, and yet I also find the practicality of that view very much in line with my own thoughts about things.

Kapuscinski - a man who made his living flying into war-torn countries just as the war was breaking out - has that perspective. From the very beginning - trouble found him. Not because he was a trouble-maker. But because he told the truth - and he was higher up than everybody else.

For example:

Buford: And the most important piece to emerge in that time was in fact written by you.

Kapuscinski: That would be 'This Too is the Truth of Nowa Huta'. Somehow, our paper succeeded in getting my article passed, and it was extremely polemical. Nowa Huta was the showcase steel factory being built near Cracow. It was meant to be our economic triumph. But I had worked there as a student. I had friends there. I knew what the conditions were like, and they were appalling: the plant was mismanaged and the supervisors were frequently drunk. The moment the article appeared, there was a great uproar, and I had to go into hiding.

God, what a man. I miss him already.

Here's an excerpt but go read the whole thing.

Ryszard Kapuscinski: You know, for years, I have been building up a small collection of books, newspapers and photographs about Pinsk. I would like to show it to you. Pinsk, you see, is the town where I was born and where I lived until I was eight, when the entire area, originally part of Poland, came under Russian control.

Buford: The collection is material for an autobiography?

Kapuscinski: I don't know, maybe. No: it's merely part of a landscape, my landscape, the landscape that I came from. It is the landscape of a flat, a very flat, country, a marshland, and there are two things that are important to me about Pinsk.

First: that here in this very provincial town, this town of dirt roads, cut off from everything, was in fact an extraordinary cosmopolitan gathering. Many of the founders of the State of Israel came from my town. There were Jews, Poles, Byelorussians, Ukrainians, Armenians, and every kind of religion,from Judaism to Catholicism to Islam, and we all lived together. The people were called Poleshuks, meaning merely 'people born in the district of Polesie,' and they were a people without a nation and without, therefore, a national identity. And, second, while Pinsk was very international?or, if you like, very 'nationless'?it was also very poor.

I could listen to this guy all day.

Kapuscinski: I'm not forming a manifesto and certainly don't want to appear dogmatic. But I do feel that we are describing a new kind of literature. I feel sometimes that I am working in a completely new field of literature, in an area that is both unoccupied and unexplored.

Buford: The literature of political experience?

Kapuscinski: The literature of personal ... no, that's not right. You know, sometimes, in describing what I do, I resort to the Latin phrase silva rerum: the forest of things. That's my subject: the forest of things, as I've seen it, living and travelling in it. To capture the world, you have to penetrate it as completely as possible.

Marvelous. Here's the whole interview.

I've put up excerpts of Kapuscinski's books over the years. Here's a smattering of them. But if you haven't read his books, or collections of essays ... I seriously can't recommend them highly enough.

In what language ...?

On oil societies

Iranian bus stop

On revolution

On the Armenians

Sting

Reading this post gave me a strange shock of reading something that so reflected my own experience ... it was almost identical. Even down to the staring longingly at the album cover of Zenyatta Mondatta . And I love love the title of her post. Hahahahaha

Frank

Great piece about Frank Sinatra. In-depth analysis, really thought-provoking. And I think spot on:

The other, less obvious surprise that awaits the Sinatra hunter in a music store is where his records are kept. They are in the rack called "Easy Listening," just east of Henry Mancini and just west of the Fred Waring Singers. The assumption seems to be that anything your parents or grandparents listened to when they were young, before the advent of rock, was easy on the ears. But could anything be less easy, more unsettling than hearing Sinatra sing "One for My Baby" or "When Your Lover Has Gone," music that he called "saloon songs" and that critics described as "suicide music"? In these songs and in many others like them, Sinatra sang about life at the bottom of the abyss. He always sounded like he lived there.

No one could sing of loneliness better than Frank Sinatra? unrequited love, love gone wrong, love lost. Observers without number, noting the contrast between Sinatra's life?always tempestuous and sometimes violent?and his tender, evocative, and sensitive singing, have wondered with the novelist Barbara Grizzuti Harrison "whether his life springs from one set of impulses and needs and his work from another, whether... Francis Albert Sinatra?a man bruised and bruising?is so divided as to be crazy." In truth, not madness but loneliness is the key to understanding Sinatra, both the man, who dreaded solitude yet so often felt alone in the entourages with which he surrounded himself and the audiences before whom he performed, and the musician. Even his songs of joy?and no one could express unbounded happiness more thrillingly in his singing than Sinatra?were manifestations of his fundamental loneliness. Just as the athlete who crouches the lowest can jump the highest, so could the singer who sank most deeply into despair express the exhilaration of temporary release from the demons that plagued him more convincingly than anyone else.

Go read the whole thing. It's long - but if you're a Sinatra fan, you won't want to miss it.

Passing notes in church

More hilarity. That's my kinda humor. I've read the post 3 times and I keep laughing at it.

"the swirling, festive melange of totally made-up cultures."

I'm in heaven. Patrick Hughes has gone to a Renaissance Faire again.

I laughed out loud reading the whole thing but this comment in particular made me lose it:

"You are not a dragon. That is not a cave."

(Here's the post of his trip from last year, if you missed it. It's now a ritual, apparently.)

Two posts ...

from the lovely site Trouble in Paradise.

1. Cinema Poster Art - 1929 Musicals

2. Dress Up

There are always beautiful beautiful images to look at over at that blog.

Daily fix

You know.

Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh...

Fun fun fun tribute to John Williams with a great list (75 Reasons I Love The Music Of John Williams). Numbers 31, 30, and 29 kinda gave me goose bumps - but there's so much great stuff there. Williams turns 75 on Thursday.

"You're screaming at me."

Very funny story. With a great ba-dum-ching ending.

The little old lady

This post is one of the reasons why I love Dame Online. I am holding that little old lady in my mind and heart right now ... even though I never saw her. Thank you. The post really made me stop a second. And think.

Fall 1996: Acting Notebook

This was the beginning of my second year in grad school. My second year was all about my acting class with Sam. A man who changed my life - just one of those amazing mentors you find - a real "fan" - and yet a person who will make you work harder, who is such a fan that he can say, 'Well, your acting just really bored me. What is going on?" - making me work harder, probe deeper, and also lighten up, laugh a little bit, trust that I had talent - I didn't have to work so hard - How on earth he was able to do all of this, I will never know, and I don't even care. It was a rough year for me on many levels - but I thank God that I found Sam. He's still there for me. It's intense.

So these are notes from his class - and also notes from the 2nd Year Playwriting/Director's Unit. This Unit was led by David Garfield - it was the beginning percolatings of putting together thesis projects, and it was a big drag, I'll tell you that. Drudgery. It wasn't until the next year that I started doing what I wanted to do, and declaring myself - keeping myself independent from those who wanted to either drag me down (Kate, Mitchell - if you're reading this, please think: "How are you, Isis???"), own me, or ... whatever, freeze me out of projects.

This is the beginning of the Summer and Smoke obsession. Just the beginning. I still get goosebumps thinking about that play.

Sept. 5 Sam's Class

"Acting can be like a hand reaching out in the darkness." - Sam

Sept. 6 PD Unit
Lights off. All seems grey. The sky outside, the roofs below us, the floor. Even the air seems grey. The green blackboard has a greyish tint to it. Good energy here. Quiet. Grey. Cool.

Read Garfield's book History of the Actors Studio

Garfield - taught at the Strasberg Institute - studied with Lee, Meisner, Uta Hagen - in the road company of Fiddler on the Roof with Luther Adler

This unit has got to be terrifying to the playwrights.

Garfield: "I was waiting for some brilliant Kazanian insights ... and he said, 'Do it faster.' And it was better.

Sept. 9 Sam's Class
Maybe work on Beirut with Charley

"I have never subscribed to the 'Colors School of Acting.'" - Sam [This is such a funny statement. Basically - a lot of teachers, and actors - believe that an actor needs to show all these different "colors". That an audition monologue should show different "colors" - your "mad" color, your 'sad" color - and so material is chosen because it shows different "colors". This is almost an accepted creed of the craft. Sam was not a big fan of "colors" - but I just thought it was so funny how he said it.]

Sam: "In every scene, pick an objective. A strong one. ATTACK. SEDUCE. BEG."

Sept. 11 Sam's Class

"The difficult must become habit, habit easy, and the easy beautiful." - Sergei Volkonski

Sam: "Acting craft is there if you need it. It's like any carpenter. You don't obsess about hammers. You can use a screw driver if you need one."

Sam: "This business of sucking ..."

Objective. Play the objective. Don't act. DO.

"It's not that important to know who are you are. It's important to know what you do - and then do it like Hercules." - Stella Adler

Sept. 16 Sam's Class Don't worry about feeling, or emotion. Do.

God, I am so happy here. I can't even express it.

Isolate issues. Then re-combine.

"In what ways are you and the character different?"

Sam: "There is a difference between pushing and expressing."

Mind in 2 places at once.

Behavior - It's not there to be interesting. You do it to explore the predicament of your character.

Sept. 16 MARK RYDELL
- leads Actors Studio West

Sandy Meisner: really doing something, as opposed to imitating doing something.

No one wants to talk about Lee Strasberg!

Rydell worked on As the World Turns as an actor. He said it was great training. "Conversational reality."

Movies: "Movies are like trying to catch lightning in a bottle."

On The Fox - Sandy Dennis - "I was the talk of the town for a minute."

On The Rievers and Steve McQueen: "He was psychotic. A wonderful actor. But he was really crazy."

"The material makes its own demands."

On The Cowboys - "I learned very quickly. You don't say to cows: 'Go.'"

"It's all personal. The work is all personal."

On The Rose:
He said to Bette: "Try to fill the bottomless pit every day."
To the cinematographer: "I want the picture to be like an abdominal operation."
On Bette Midler: "She is so precious that I think she should be protected. Like a National monument. Funds should be taken up so that she remains protected. She's that preciolus to me."

On working with actors: "Find the button that frees them to say, 'Oh! I know what to do now!'

Movies: RECORD THE EVENT. That's it. Be very clear what the event actually is. And then record it.

Sam's class
Sam to Stephen: "You're addicted to suffering."
Stephen: "It's the only thing I know."

Sam to Stephen: "You have a quality of latent aggression and vague intensity." !!!!!

Philadelphia Story
Moment before the scene: I have been talking with Mike. I have read his stories. I find them "damned beautiful, almost poetry." I say to him, "I believe you put the toughness on, to save your skin." I recognize a kindred spirit in him. I offer him my little house in Unionville for a place to work. I'm only there in hunting season. I want Mike to stay with me during my conversation with Dexter.

Me and Dexter
He drank whiskey
His drinking made him unattractive to me
I got drunk once on champagne, climbed out on the roof, stood there naked, and wailed at the moon. I have absolutely no recollection of doing this.
Dexter said it was an "affair of the spirit".
Was I frigid?
I despise weakness.

Summer and Smoke 1916 Glorious Hill, Mississippi On the Gulf

Miss Alma Winemiller - had an adult quality as a child
now prematurely spinsterish
excessive propriety and self-consciousness
nervous laughter
years of playing hostess at Rectory
belongs to a more elegant age
airy, graceful

I have attacks of "nervous heart trouble" - panic attacks? I run over to see Dr. Buchanan at 2 or 3 a.m.

I teach singing. I sing in church, at weddings.
I belong to an intellectual group that meets every Wednesday

Father didn't want me to take Nellie Ewell on as a pupil because of her mother's reputation - but I did it anyway. "No one should presume to judge and condemn anyone else."

I keep saying, 'I have a touch of malaria" - True? I am responding to John's observation that I am shaking.

John and I grew up together. "It used to delight you to embarrass me."

John has been away in medical school (Johns Hopkins) - his father has raved to me about his accomplishments (graduated magna cum laude). How long has he been away? How many years?

My mother had a nervous breakdown when I was in high school. I managed the rectory ever since. "In a way, it may have - deprived me of - my youth."

When I go out - it's to the public library or to the park. I have to be selective.

I say to John: "Most of us have no choice but to lead useless lives." He is wasting his divine gift!

John to me: "Sometimes when I come home late at night I look over at the rectory and I see something white at the window."
Insomnia
Heartache
I wait up till he comes home

Dr. John Sr. is a father-figure to me. I say to him, "I don't think I will be able to get thru the summer."

Do people think: "Miss Alma's fading this summer"?

Roger proposed to me. This may be my last proposal. He is:
-- an active church worker
-- he lives with his mother
-- they just moved here
-- he plays the French horn
-- has a position at the bank

Dr. John Sr. is "the one person in town that I have ever been able to rely on for a kind and honest and understanding discussion of my ----- problems."

I am sexually frustrated. And I cannot picture myself in bed with Roger.

All the girls I grew up with have married.

My aunt: "a mysteriously colorful career" in New Orleans "on the old side of town". Shades of Blanche?

I may accept Roger's proposal. I am afraid of being left "high and dry"

I believe in the possibility of deep love between a man and a woman - but with me it could not be based on physical passion.

It offends me when Roger touches me.

When John touches me, I am not offended. "I am not a cold person."

I watch over him at night - every night - sometimes at daybreak when he comes home, sprawled on the steps - whenever he comes in at night I rush downstairs to peek out at him from behind the curtain

I am pitied. People thnk I am an old maid. "I'm still young!" My mother has taken my youth away from me. She never says thank you.

27 Wagons Blue Mountain, Mississippi gnats Masochism - I like pain Think child!!!

Saint Joan Orders from my Lord - Capt. Robert de Baudricourt is to give me armor/horse and some soldiers - and send me to the dauphin. I am being sent to the Dauphin to raise the siege of Orleans. Bertrand de Porlengey and John of Metz have agreed to go with me.

My Lord is the King of Heaven

Faith!

My real father is a farmer.

The English - hold half of the country - right down to the Loire - they have Paris

The Dauphin is in Chinon - like a rat in a corner - and he won't fight

Rhode Island: zooming in

For some reason, this strikes me as cool. Zooming in on the Map of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, circa 1880. Here's the map itself.

But I like the random zooming in ... I love maps, anyway - they're just so interesting to look at ... I like the one of the Point Judith lighthouse. And the lighthouse at the northern tip of Block Island. But also the coastline - with the names of all of the various rocks ... rocks that I know and love.

Unbelievable

Just unbelievable. Yeah, the main thing I think of when I think of Jane Austen is she "died a spinster".

Speaking of Jane Austen - I flipped through this book while I was in Barnes & Noble yesterday - and had to put it down. Thought I would puke.

Fading

What a beautifully written essay about old flames. Yes, yes, yes, I thought, as I read it.

Sunrise

Exquisite photos by the Pioneer Woman. I love it - she loves winter like I do. She says in another post that she thinks she has reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder - and I've always felt that way too. But those sunrise photos ... you can FEEL the winter in those photos.

For Mitchell:

Check out this photo. Two of your favorite people ... together.

Counterintuitive workout mix

-- You would think that "London Calling" would be an awesome addition to any workout mix. I have found it to not be so. Odd.

-- You would NOT think that "Cool, Cool, Considerate Men" from the Broadway musical 1776 WOULD be a good addition to the workout mix ... but I can assure you. It is. When all the male voices come in singing, as one: "TO THE RIGHT ... EVER TO THE RIGHT ... NEVER TO THE LEFT ..." Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Seriously. It has to be some of the most exciting music I have ever heard in my life. I grew up on this musical - but suddenly - racing to Nirvana on the elliptical at 8 a.m. - I cannot get enough of this one song. Yes, there is the downtime in the middle ... when Dickinson berates Hancock for dancing the gavotte with Adams ... come over here with us ... so yes, it stops a bit ... and in a workout mix this is BAD ... but for some reason, because I know the exhilaration, the transcendent exhilaration of that sudden chorus of male voices: "To the RIGHT ... EVER TO THE RIGHT ..." I can deal with the downtime. Not only can I deal with the downtime, but I start to freak out in excitement about what is coming next, and this helps me to keep going.

-- Alanis Morrissette is kinda horrible for any workout mix.

-- Kelly Clarkson is the opposite of horrible. Kelly Clarkson is essential for the workout mix.

-- Sadly, XTC is NOT good on the workout mix. I thought it would be - especially "Dear God" - especially that last verse when he gets pissed ... but no. It just doesn't get me off. In terms of working out. What is inspirational in normal listening sometimes doesn't have the same effect when you're trying to keep going, stick to it, not give up (and this goes for "London Calling" too - that's a song which - well, I'm hard pressed to find a song that makes me feel more angry, more resolved, more ... restless ... than THAT one ... but it doesn't transfer to the "let's go one more mile" vibe on the treadmill)

-- Madonna's "Impressive Instant" from her Music album is essential. I have it on the same workout mix multiple times. So so inspirational. Just the beat. It keeps you going.

-- You wouldn't think that Elvis Presley's kind of meandering slow-build "If I can Dream" (from near the end of his career) would really work in a workout mix ... but I assure you. It does. It SO does.

-- I thought Lenny Kravitz's "Fields of Joy" would be an essential addition to my workout mix. But it doesn't really work for me. Weird. It's great makeout music, great crush-y I like a boy music - but solitary workout music? No. However, his critically berated "American Woman" is AWESOME for the workout mix.

-- Aerosmith is ... God. You have to be careful with them. They're so damn florid, and so self-regarding ... and yet when they hit it, they hit it GREAT. But you have to be very careful. I have found (oddly) that their "Pink" song - a ridiculous cheesy song - REALLY works in any workout mix you might be putting together.

-- Here's a no-brainer. Rick Springfield's "Red Hot & Blue Love" is awesome. It's an awesome song, in general, I swear to GOD ... and it's also AWESOME when you're sweating and feeling like giving up ... He helps you to say: "No. I am going to KEEP GOING."

-- This is also a no-brainer. Any workout mix without Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" is not worthy of the name "workout mix" and that's final.

-- "White America" by Eminem doesn't work for me on the workout mix, even though I think that's my favorite of his. However: 'Til I Collapse - and Sing For the Moment have become ESSENTIAL workout mix components. I would have totally thought "White America" would be the one ... but no. It is not. And I have (sadly) over-listened to "Lose Yourself". And so it has lost some of its impact. I am staying away from it for a while ... because I need it to get its oomph back.

-- "Sweet Child O'Mine" is a no-brainer.

-- So is "The One" by Foo Fighters. Holy crap. I sprinkle that song thru the workout mix - because I find it so damn inspirational. By inspirational - I mean: it makes me pissed and determined.

-- "Christmas in Sarajevo" by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra is a surprise. But I can't do without it. It starts slow but once it gets going? Watch me fly on the damn treadmill, watch me fly! Chorus of voices: "Sheila's strong now .... won't be long now ... Sheila's strong now ...."

-- "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" by Stevie Wonder is ... also kind of a surprise. I wouldn't have thought of that as primo workout material - but it is. I love the song, regardless ... but when it comes on, I feel this BURST of adrenaline and that is the whole point of a good workout mix.

But this morning - there I was - pounding away on the treadmill, surrounded by others who were pounding away ... and I seriously have tears in my eyes because I am now listening to "Cool, Cool Considerate Men" for the 2nd time ... and I find it so uplifting and inspirational. I had to laugh. The odds that somebody else in the gym is listening to, oh, "Sexy Back" or "Since U Been Gone" are pretty high. But what are the odds that somebody else would be listening to "Cool, Cool Considerate Men"?

A new discovery

Rocky comes into the pet shop every day and tells a bad joke to Adrian, trying to make her smile? (I am convinced that the reason he would fall for a girl like Adrian - or one of the reasons - is that she doesn't roll her eyes at his bad jokes - she's too shy - she's not sophisticated - and that's a good thing - she wouldn't blow him off - she would never make him feel dumb. She may not laugh openly at his jokes ... but she's somewhat of a safe harbor, with all of her shyness. She doesn't make him feel dumb, or like a bum.)

There's a scene where he comes into the pet shop - it's maybe the 5th or 6th scene into the movie. It's nighttime. He comes out of the gym across the street - and walks into the shop. This is the scene where Talia Shire is filmed mainly through the bars of the bird cage. Rocky is kind of aimless here, he has nothing to buy, no errand, nothing even made up. He's just had kind of a bad day, he lost his locker at the gym, and he has no one to talk to. It's so amusing because Adrian never responds to Rocky's conversation and yet you never feel that it's a one-sided thing. She never speaks but he's not hitting a blank wall here. He's not being rejected by her - even though sometimes it's hard work. He likes the work. He likes trying to make this geeky plain woman smile. If she smiles - it makes his day.

He walks into the pet shop. She's busy with the bird cage. He starts talking with her, saying nothing. "Cold night, huh?" No response. "You could get pneumonia on a night like this." No response. He glances at her. "You need help with that cage?" No response. He says again, "Cold night." No response. He glances down at the huge dog in the cage. Says, friendly, "Hey, Butkus, hey." Nothing from Adrian. Rocky then says, "There's a good game down at the Spectrum tonight." No response. Adrian busy at the cage. Rocky is not looking at Adrian, just messing around with that ball he always carries in his pocket. Says, "Want to go to a basketball game?" (If there is a more quietly vulnerable moment on film, I want to know what it is. Anyone who has ever asked anyone out - will know exactly what he's going thru in that moment.) Rocky glances at her. She doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge that she has just been asked out. Shire plays all of this perfectly. You just know that this woman is not a snot ... that's not why she isn't speaking. She isn't speaking because she is shy, she has never been paid attention to, and she is pretty "emotionally battered" (those are Stallone's words for her) - she cringes. She tries to be invisible. She tries to stay out of Paulie's way. She has been "discarded" (those are Shire's words). Rocky somehow gets all of this - and even though Adrian doesn't really give him the time of day - he somehow gets that she just can't. Yet.

After the basketball game moment - Rocky then goes to talk to the birds - which is great. He's taking the pressure off of Adrian. "Don't these birds look like flying candy?" Pokes his finger thru at them and says, making a Rocky kind of joke (ie: bad): "Hey! I'm a giant worm!" But what he is actually doing is making a big show (for Adrian) of being friendly - being nonthreatening - how safe he is to this little shy woman behind the desk. This is what a good lover does when courting a woman. He telegraphs to her, in little ways, "You will be safe with me. I'm okay. No need to worry." (The way she is filmed in this scene it is as though she is in the cage with those birds. And funnily enough, the symbolism isn't too heavy-handed. It's a poetic moment. Sometimes in life you have moments where you embody something bigger - a theme, a metaphor - you look at something and you say, "Wow. That is almost a literary conceit". That's what Adrian in the cage is, for me. It's a gentle reminder of some of the deeper themes of this piece, and how Adrian fits in to the overall story.)

Then Rocky says to Adrian - "You need somebody to walk you home?" She shakes her head no, thru the cage. We now see Rocky's face in the little mirror behind the counter - so we see the back of Adrian's head and Rocky's big mug - with the Band-aids on his eyebrow, the bruise on his eyelid - the black hat - he looks like a thug and a half, I tell ya. But he wants to walk her home. He wants something. He wants to connect. He wants to talk about his day to someone who gives a shit.

It's a lonely cold world out there. Mick gave up his locker today to someone else - and that hurts. It hurts. But Rocky can't say to Mick, "That hurts my feelings." He has no friends. His only "friend" is the loan shark - but he can't open up to the loan shark. Besides - a statement like, "That hurts my feelings" is something that only women get to hear. This is Rocky's world. The woman gets to see the soft underbelly - nobody else. This is like Bogart. Bogart never played a guy with a bunch of male friends. He had verbal sparring partners (like Claude Rains in Casablanca) - or he was a caretaker to someone who was less of a man (like the drunk sidekick in Have and Have Not) ... but these were not intimate male friendships. The most intimate he got was maybe with Sam, the piano player - Sam knows him at his weakest, drunk, and upset ... and it's okay. That man will not hold it against Bogart. But in general, Bogart is alone - solitary - and only the woman gets to see the vulnerability, the hurt, the anger, whatever. And only the right woman. The floozy at the bar in Casablanca is treated like the whore that she is. But the right woman? She gets the key to the palace. Which is not easy to come by, obviously. The women have to work for that damn key.

This is a different sort of reality than some other movies - where the woman is the peripheral (see all of Brian DaPalma's films for examples) - and the REAL relationships are between men. Women are peripheral, kind of silly, only good for one thing, are NOT to be trusted, and have no business mucking around in the male world.

Howard Hawks' movies were all about a woman who can play with the big boys, a woman who submerges her femininity enough to hang out with men. It's an interesting tension - it makes for some damn fine dialogue.

But the Rocky character - like Bogart's characters - is the hard outer-shell guy, with the soft inside. Why do you think Rocky's pets are turtles? You think that's an accident?? He has turtles. Stallone said in one of the interviews on my DVD - "Rocky is capable of great violence in the ring, or when certain buttons are pushed - but inside he is very pliable. Very impressionable."

I believe that this is one of the main reasons why Rocky wouldn't be interested in floozy women. I could see that a woman like that might ... mess him up, emotionally. I don't know how to say it right. Not that Rocky is a weak guy - obviously not - but I think what he is interested in is ... connection - and being listened to. If you notice in his scenes with Adrian - he's not asking her about her life, or trying to draw her out. No - maybe he senses that that is too stressful for her. What he does in those scenes is talk a mile a minute about his own life. This does a couple of things. It takes the heat off of Adrian - she doesn't have to try to converse, or respond ... Rocky doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable. He'll do anything for her to just relax - and so him babbling on and on seems to loosen her up (watch her in the ice rink scene - his courtship methods are working). But can you imagine a floozy hardened woman listening to that chatter? She'd not get it. She wouldn't listen to him. She would think him talking on and on about how he bought the marbles to go in the bottom of the turtle bowl - was stupid. He won't subject himself to that. I would imagine Rocky goes to hookers - that's just a guess - he seems like a practical enough guy to go that route - and it just seems logical, in that crowd, in that world, that that would be how he'd handle loneliness - but he would never make the mistake of falling in love with any of those types of girls.The scene where Rocky goes to take Adrian out - and they walk out of the house, and they're all awkward, and weird with each other, Stallone says in the commentary, laughing at all of the behavior - "You know - she's never been on a date before - he's never really been on a date either ... It's all just awkward."

Back to the scene in the pet shop, which will then set up what I REALLY need to talk about - which is my "new discovery" from the 2nd scene of the film (when Rocky comes home and talks to his turtles after the fight).

After Rocky says, "You need somebody to walk you home?" and she mutely shakes her head - he says, "If I were you, I'd take a cab home. Every other block there's a creep around here." Long pause - you can see him checking in with her - it's so hysterical, so vulnerable - he's trying to say, "I'm not a creep!" - but he's got the black eye, the black hat, the fingerless gloves - it's just so funny.

Then finally he gives up and says, "I guess I'll be going. I'm gonna go home and make up a joke to tell you tomorrow." (My heart just aches in that moment. He's trying so hard with this desperately shy woman. It's so nice. Painful.) Again - no response from Adrian. Then he says, "Good night, Adrian." He opens the door - we see her thru the bird cage - she looks up and says, "Good night, Rocky." That's all she can get out, when she is in his presence. But she says it kindly. There's not a moment where you feel like she's "Oh for God's sake, would this guy leave me alone??" That's a hard line to walk on - it so easily could have tipped over into Adrian being an annoying person - but it never does. You just ache for this poor woman. You so want her to just let go, be happy ... but it's gonna take a huge leap.

It's set up, thru the film, that the way Rocky courts this woman is to make up jokes - and tell them to her. When he's complaining to Paulie about how he's getting nowhere with Adrian - he says, "Every morning I go in there and I tell a joke. Every night I go in there and tell a joke. Nothing. She just looks at me like I'm a plate of leftovers."

Finally, here is my "new discovery":

In the second scene of the film - Rocky comes home after his fight, all beat up. He talks to Cuff and Link the turtles. He wanders around. He has a beer. Then he has this whole fascinating moment at the mirror. I'm sure any Rocky fans will remember this moment. It's terrific acting, first of all. There are all these pictures of Rocky (only they really are Stallone - his 3rd grade picture, his real parents, etc.) stuck on the mirror. Rocky walks over to the mirror - and he's holding the can of turtle food in his hand - and he looks at himself in the mirror (and he looks like hell) - and starts to talk. This is what he says, in a kind of listless voice:

"There were more moths in the turtle food - more flies ... no ... There were more flies than moths in the turtle food ..." (He seems to be blundering about - trying to say something - then he gets frustrated - tosses the turtle food down and says:) "Oh, who the hell cares."

It is then that he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror - the sullen bruised face - and there's the 3rd grade picture right there - he looks at it - looks at himself - looks back at it - This moment feels like it goes on forever. It's heart-breaking. A truly private moment. As private as Travis Bickle's "You talkin' to me?" (a movie which, incidentally, opened the same week as Rocky - Rocky beat it for Best Picture) ... Bickle has the loneliness that has turned him into a psychotic. Loneliness can do that. That's what that fantasy horror moment of "You talkin' to me" is about. At least that's what I see. Like Eleanor Rigby. All the lonely people. If anyone had ever listened to this guy ... would he have turned out this way? If anyone had shown him just a tiny bit of tenderness? Loneliness is not for sissies, man - it can mess you up for good. Rocky's isolation is just as acute - but it has not grown malignant, it has not been turned so far inward that he has become a sociopath. But his long moment of staring at himself in the mirror - with total honesty - no illusions - after babbling something about the turtle food, then giving up on that (whatever it was) - and catching sight of his 8 year old face. Which stops him dead. He overplays NOTHING - but what I see in his face is: What. The hell. Has happened to me. Who is that 8 year old boy? I'm 30 years old. I just got paid 40 bucks to get the shit kicked out of me. My only friends are turtles. What the hell has happened. No self pity. Just isolation, and aware of his own aloneness.

Next scene: it's the next morning. Rocky goes to the pet shop. This is our first time meeting Adrian. And also this is our first time in the movie seeing the other side of Rocky. Up until this point - we've had 2 scenes - and while there is a gentleness and a humor to how he talks to his turtles - we like the guy - what we have mainly seen is a scowling guy, fighting in some dingy club, smoking, with blood dripping down the side of his face, no expression, no fire in the belly, nothing. So then we see his face thru the pet shop window, and he's waving at the little puppies, and giving Adrian (although we can't see her yet) a brief wave and we're like: Hmmm. Who IS this guy?

He comes into the store. I love (and I mean, LOVE) his first line to Adrian. "How you feelin' this mornin'? Full'a life?"

You can suddenly see this man's good heart. "Full'a life?"

Odets couldn't have written it better.

How anyone could look at cringing Adrian, in her maidenly-aunt sweater, her horn-rimmed glasses, her hair pinned back in the largest barrette ever manufactured - and say, as though expecting a "Yes" for an answer, "Full'a life?" is a mystery. She so does NOT look "full'a life". Not in the slightest. But that's the kindness at the heart of this Rocky character. She actually is "full'a life" - it's just underneath all that other stuff.

"How you feelin' this mornin'? Full'a life?"

Adrian can barely look at him. She mutters, "I'm doing fine."

Rocky looks HUGE in that environment. Like he is sucking up all of the available oxygen just by standing there. He says, jovial, loud, "How's the turtle food this week?"

Adrian doesn't look at him. "Fine."

Then Rocky says - and you can so see him just needing her to listen - even though she's not looking - watch how at one point he reaches out and taps her - basically like, "Hey ... hey ... Adrian ... Adrian ... listen ... listen ..."

So he says, "I'm kinda aggravated this week."

Now, what he WANTS her to say is "Why?" He wants her to say "Why?" because (and this is part of my new discovery) - he needs her to set up his bad joke. If she says "Why?" - then that's like the "ba-dum" to his "CHING". It's a little comedy routine he's trying to start here. This is what he does every morning.

But Adrian does not say "Why?" because - that would mean the conversation would have to be prolonged - and she can't bear it - so she says, "I'm sorry."

Dead stop.

Then Rocky says, "Don't you want to hear about it?" Still trying to get her to participate in his joke.

Adrian's boss pushes by him and says something like, "I'll tell you somebody who doesn't want to hear about it."

But Rocky - no guile, no malice - says, "Hey, Loretta, how are you ...", then reaches out and pokes Adrian in the back - "Adrian, don't you want to hear about it?" He is determined. He will tell her this joke, dammit, even though her BACK is to him.

He then goes on to say, "The turtle food last week had more moths in it than flies. And the moths get stuck in the turtle's throats and they cough - and I have to then smack them on the back. And they get what? What do they get?"

Cut back to Adrian, who is having a harder time resisting this onslaught now.

Rocky says, grinning, pushing her, "Come on ... they get what?"

She shakes her head - shy - and he says, "Shell shock. They get shell shock."

Despite herself, Adrian smiles. She tries to hide it, but she can't.

And so this is a good day for Rocky. A very good day.

And NOW I can see that what he was DOING in front of the mirror - was practicing the joke - and trying to come up with the right order of words so that his lame punchline would be funnier. I never put that together before - I thought he was just talking to himself ... maybe carrying on a conversation with himself to fill up the empty air, the silence in his house ... I never really thought about it. But I just realized yesterday that no: he is practicing his joke.

This makes the triumph of getting her to smile in the next scene even more touching. Because look at the look on his face during his "rehearsal" of the joke. He looks hopeless. Nothing ever will change. He is at the bottom of his life, the bottom of the barrel. He's 30 years old. He has no life. And here he is - trying to make up a joke for this woman who won't even look at him - and oh fuck it, who the hell cares.

But then in the next scene - it's bright sunshiny morning - and he walks into the pet shop, it's a brand new day - and boom. He has figured out the wording, the punchline, the fact that it's the MOTHS that are the problem, not the flies, he has worked out how he wants to tell it, and even though she can barely look at him - dammit - this is what he is committed to in this moment: He is telling her a joke.

And for a second - when she smiles - for just a split second - it seems to Rocky that maybe his life is not nothing.

Happy place

Definitely time for a happy place.

More happy places ...

Oh - and here's something else. It had to be done.

Speaking of John Banville ...

Were we? Well, he was mentioned here. The Top Ten: Writers Pick Their Favorite Books is a book I most definitely need to get - and I kind of love Banville's list of his Top 10 Books (which I found here) ... I'd love to read more. I always love to hear writers talk about the books that they love - the books that either inspire them, frustrate them, push them to do better, or just provide an escape ...

John Banville's Favorite Books:

1. Ill Seen, Ill Said by Samuel Beckett

2. Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky

3. Ulysses by James Joyce

4. Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann

5. Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

6. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

7. Austerlitz by W.G. Sebald

8. Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon

9. Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift

10. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray.

Diary Friday

Not a high school entry. Those aren't the notebooks calling to me these days. It is fascinating to me how little I remember about certain things ... but thank God for journals (or - sometimes it's a blessing and a curse. Sometimes things should be forgotten) - but in the case of today's entry, I am so glad I wrote it down in such detail (even though I started to feel anxious just reading it. Holy crap.) But there is quite a bit here that made me laugh out loud, and also that made me filled with this weird fondness of remembrance. Like: wow. How on earth did THIS all work out? It seems so up in the air during this entry (that's because it is), so anxietal ... and yet it did end up 'working out'. So the background is - it's September 1992 - I'm living in Chicago, and in a production of Golden Boy. I met M. that summer - he got my phone number - and we went out. It was very intermittent, though, and ... well, I guess I had forgotten how unsure the whole thing was. I am now looking back on it with the retrospective knowledge that this guy would become one of my most important friends ever. But at the time? He was this unknown - and I was completely nutso about him ... in an out of control pheromonal way that made me feel crazy. We went on a couple of "dates" - to be honest I can't remember much - I know it's all in the journals though - and I realized pretty early on that this guy was WILD. This was not going to be a "dinner and a movie" kind of thing. But I was so fine with that - because I was not in a relationship-y place at ALL.

Anyhoo. My third date with M. was insane - involving a pool hall, "good gumbo", a towed car, and me lending M. 120 bucks to free his vehicle out of the car jail. I didn't know M. that well at all - but whatever, I leant him the money - even though that was probably most of what I had in the bank at that point. And to be honest - there was another layer to it. If I leant him the money - that was a thread of connection between us. He, being who he was, would feel obligated to pay me back. We'd have to see each other again.

This was part of me feeling overwhelmed when I was with him. I was just so into the guy. But I constantly struggled with the fact that maybe I shouldn't be? Oh, and to be clear, we had already had a couple of lunatic making-out sessions, where the combustability I felt in our first meeting came to full fruition. I was not wrong in thinking we would click sexually. We clicked so intensely on that level that I found it hard to concentrate on things a day after seeing him ... like my job, and answering phones, and everyday duties. But anyway. Despite the nights-long clutches we had had ... nothing was "set" yet. We had only been out 3 or 4 times.

Anyway - this entry describes the night where I went to the improv club where he always hung out (he's an improv comedian) - and he paid me back the money I had leant to him.

I know. A life-altering experience, right?

For me, it actually kind of was. I'm an intense person. Or - I'm a sensitive person. Meaning - a tiny breath of wind could conceivably blow me over if I'm in the right space. Like I said elsewhere - I never (even in all the years I knew M.) was "over" him. I never was not in that X-ray vision totally alert state of mind. I found him to be endlessly fascinating. And he eventually figured this out about me ... and it was okay by him. It didn't bother him.

But here - the 4th time I was in his presence - it was all still totally tippity unbalanced scary ... I read this and felt it all over again.

Oh, and a cool and weird thing: I was re-reading this this morning - and all of the peripheral people in this entry, every single one of them, all of his friends - they are all famous now. Names you would recognize. Emmy award winners. Writers. Comedians. It's so wild. At the time I knew them, I was just the "hovering chick" of one of their good friends. They were just kids. 26 year old guys who happened to be extraordinarily funny.

But I'm amazed at how I dissect these moments. It's exhausting and yet I very much admire my analysis. I don't know if I would do that now.

SEPTEMBER

Friday ended up being another "no show" night [for Golden Boy - which was not, sadly enough, a hit. Sometimes we played to 5 people. We would cancel shows if less than 5 people showed up. Horrific.] It broke my heart. I felt crushed. After - when not one soul in this huge city showed up - we all kind of wandered around in a daze, comforting each other. I felt like my heart was cracking. Amelia started cleaning the dressing rooms like a maniac. "I need to do this!" Everyone sat in morbid silence. David went home to Maria. Bryan asked me, "Where'd David go?" "Home. After all, he is a newlywed." Bryan got this very stricken lonely expression. "At least he has someone to go home to."

Eventually, it was just a handful of us - Bobby included - sitting around, reading the stray NY Times lying around. Michael came downstairs, took one look at all of us and said, "Let's get out of here. This is depressing."

So we all went out for Mexican.

D.V. was crying in the darkened theatre and nurturing Earth Mother Kenny was sitting with him. We left word where we would be and took off.

We all had margaritas and a hell of a lot of food. We tried to shake the morose mood. The alcohol helped. There was live music. Bobby seemed to cheer up a little.

We (me, Bobby, Paulie, and Kenny) shared a cab home. It was 10:30 or so. We were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab. Kenny glanced at his watch, made an exclamation of surprise - and said, "You guys - you guys -" and then in perfect Poppa cadences and accent said, "Come. We bring him home. Where he belong." [This was one of his lines in the show. Hahahaha] It was hysterically funny - it was 10:30 - exactly when the show would have ended - it also gave me a pin prick of sadness.

The cab dropped me off at home.

I threw on a little black dress, my bleached jacket - and applied RED lipstick, fire engine red. And I was off again, to catch another cab north to the Wrigleyside. [I am amazed at myself. I used to start my evenings at 11 pm. That would be unheard of now. Or - I'd have to be REALLY in love with someone.]

It's funny. I really am like Becca Thatcher now. [That is the funniest reference ever. I was SO into "Life Goes On" at this moment.] I never was before. Nerves would hold me back from action. They never ever stop me from doing something I want to do now. God! Never!

So I was pretty nervous in the cab. For a couple of reasons and on a couple levels. It all goes back to my expectations and worries about how gorgeous guys behave. Especially when you meet a gorgeous guy on his turf. Up until now, I have managed to meet him on neutral ground. It makes a big difference. But I was prepared for the worst. Which is totally strange because M. has exhibited none of the "gorgeous asshole" signs. He has never treated me that way. But still. Here I was - cruising alone to the Wrigleyside (at least I had a mission - retrieving my money - that grounded me somehow. I wasn't going expressly to see him.) [God forbid you should just want to see him!!] So I kept imagining the worst - him being annoyed I was there, him being condescending to me - and I told myself - "If it's like that - then just get my money - and GO."

Thru this whole thing with M. so far - I have preserved my sense of self. Thank God. If there's one thing I need - it's my self.

But he's not interested AT ALL in playing games. In fucking with me. He's into the NOW of it all. What we do and how we are together is just what he likes and wants. Neither of us get freaked out - and it's strange to me and strange to him.

Also - and this is very weird - I have no desire to call him. None! It's very freeing. And - at this point - I wouldn't be surprised if he did call me. And if the desire strikes to call him, I will. But until then - I don't even think about it. I'm too busy. It's just one of those things that IS. Its existence is solid and tangible - and FINE, just the way it is. No need to monkey with it.

I am dropped off at the Wrigleyside [this was a bar - with an improv club on the second floor].

Oh yes - one thing I was rather apprehensive about - but also curious and eager, too - was the prospect of Rob being there. [This made me laugh out loud. I was SO worried about this. Rob was also a comedian - and I think I had gone out on one date with him - the chemistry wasn't there, even though he was nice and funny ... but I was so terrified, on some level, that Rob and M. would start talking to each other, and comparing notes. It's not like I was cheating on either one of them - I was a free agent - but I was so afraid that I would be hanging out with M. and Rob would be there or whatever. It's so ridiculous. Also - no way on EARTH would M. ever talk to Rob about me - even if he knew we had gone out. M. was a gentleman. The soul of discretion. Way more discreet than I was. Anyway - the whole Rob vs. M. thing was tormenting to me - and yet I also totally enjoyed it, I loved the confusion - after 3 years of sterile monogamy.] I actually kind of wanted Rob to be there - the more chaos I invite into my life the better. I want to have adventures. I want my nights to be a series of bizarre encounters, embarrassing sizzling gaffes, of run-ins, of intrigue, of espionage.

So I kind of hoped to see him. See what would happen. Roll with the punches. Embrace anarchy.

I was in a state of alertness. I felt powerful, edgy - but not tense. [Oh, really, Sheila? You're not tense? Okay.] Just ALERT.

The Wrigleyside was wall to wall people. [The place was always pretty much packed 100% with improvisers. It was an insane place. So much fun.] The noise was deafening. I could barely get into the place. Everyone was screaming and roaring and DRUNK. The jukebox was deafening. The bartenders looked frazzled, and were in states of constant motion. I stood there, scanning the crowd, conscious all the while of the fact that I could be being watched - M. could be there somewhere. Where was he?

Also - another word about M. [I have probably written 150,000 words about M. over the years. He is the star of the journals - more so than anybody else - even guys I was madly in love with. Nobody fascinated me like M.] He's not devious - in that kind of self-conscious way. That kind of elaborate ACT that some guys put on and call a personality. (It's always the gorgeous ones, because they know they have power, and they know they will always be forgiven - because of their beauty) Guys like that hold back, they distance themselves, they veil their eyees, they make sure they always look cool and aloof. M. does NOT behave this way. Not once has he pulled a cool or aloof act. He is who he is. He's not tricky. Or cruel. He's honest - but he's not cruel. He's a good person. He really is. [I knew this from the moment I laid eyes on him onstage. And I wasn't wrong.]

Throngs. I started elbowling my way through, looking for him. The place was so packed that I did have a moment of thinking, "What if I can't find him? What if he's already left?"

There's something very precarious and exciting about the Wrigleyside. [Oh God. That is an embarrassing statement. Sheila - it's a BAR. That's it.] It always feels like something is about to happen. And something always does happen to me when I go there. Nature abhors a vacuum - so even those 15 seconds of looking for M. in the crowds felt fraught with expectancy. Any second, some insane person is going to charge over to me and change my life. Demand to know me. Demand to be known by me. Whatever.

Quick, Sheila. Find him quick.

Finally, I caught sight of him [see - it's so silly - but I feel all nervous just re-living this right now!] - sitting over in the corner in the front of the bar - against the wall. Bandana on that gorgeous head. God. He was talking to some people, nodding, listening ... with that listening look in his eyes ... that serious innocent look.

I saw him. I didn't charge right over (as, undoubtedly, Becca would). [HA!!! Becca became my Model for Living.] I did a couple things at once. [Watch how I dissect this. I am giving myself a heart attack here ...] I know I smiled - in anticipation and excitement for whatever was about to come next - I took a deep cleansing breath - to get "cool" - and keep my power.

[Funny thing: I was the one who did the "cool and aloof" thing in this relationship. I totally thought it was necessary - because I felt like M. had so much power over me ... but turns out, it was just me being scared, trying to protect myself - and, on occasion, just being a total ASS. When I look back on this - I think: maybe all those gorgeous guys out there pretending to be cool and aloof - are actually scared little boys inside, trying to protect themselves? Maybe they're just assholes - I know many of them are ... but still ... I find it interesting that I wrote all that stuff about how I liked that M. wasn't cool or aloof ... and there I was, trying to get "cool and aloof".]

But before I did all that - I quick quick quick flitted my eyes over who he was talking to. One person had long hair and I wanted to make sure he wasn't coming on to some girl when I went over. I felt no jealousy or anything like that. It was a totally practical thought. Well, no, it was just a guy with long hair - and I realized that he was basically talking to his fellow team members [Improv clubs usually have "teams" - people who constantly work together. M.'s "team" were made up of the funniest guys in Chicago. Their shows were un-fucking-believable.] Instantly, I deemed it safe to go over. I didn't give it a second thought. Over I went.

I am "specifically brave". M. is Claude Collier, and I am Mary Grace. [References to "Lives of the Saints" - my favorite novel at that time. I adore it still. "Specifically brave" was a phrase used to describe the volatile nutso Mary Grace - a woman who left men in "crumpled heaps" about the town. A real heartbreaker. And Claude Collier was the kind-hearted heavy-drinking INSANE lead of the novel ... an indelible character.]

I have begun to walk through the world - my world - like I belong in it. I have forever tiptoed thru my life - apologizing left and right - for merely taking up space. No more. I belong here. This is MY world.

My heart was POUNDING. [So much for being "cool"!!] I elbowed my way towards him - he still hadn't seen me - he was talking and listening - talking vigorously with 2 others - the big big black-haired guy with glasses from his team (very very good - they're all very very good) - and the long-haired boy. And here I come! What's it gonna be, M? Scorn or pride? Are you gonna blow me off or welcome me? I love this shit.

His face makes me laugh.

Then he saw me - and his face totally lit up in excitement and joy. [Seriously: I re-read this this morning and sighed in relief. I'm reading about my own damn life - but I didn't remember any of this ... and I found myself thinking: "Oh God, I hope he's nice to her. She sounds so fragile to me!" Yeah. That's yourself you're talking about, Sheila.] Any anxieties I may have had just dissolved when I saw how happy he was to see me, and how open and welcoming his face was.

He had this huge smile. "Hey! Hi!"

"Hi, doll."

"I didn't think you were gonna show." he said.

I held out my hand for my money. [HA! Nothing like cutting to the chase. I have never been a "romantic" person - and I appreciated M. because ... he didn't try to romance me. Romance kinda makes me itch. I love LOVE itself - but romance? I can barely keep a straight face.] He reached into his shirt pocket and slapped me a wad of cash. He looked so happy to see me.

Guys can be so different when they're with their friends - and I did not encounter this - he was the same person.

I interrupted the guy conversation - just by walking over - and M's face lit up in recognition and we had this whole exchange with very few words that ended with him giving me a bunch of money. His 2 friends had no idea what was happening, who I was [I hadn't formally met any of them yet - although I had seen them perform a bazillion times] - or why M. was paying me. The 2 of them sat back - staring at me with curiosity. Also staring at M. With this look of: "Who is she? What is happening?" I glanced at them - and their faces were so expressive I started laughing.

I really think that - outside of improv - they lead - well, M. said it - "lame circles" of lives - they hang out at the Wrigleyside and get drunk. [And now they parade up and down red carpets on both coasts, clutching trophies, giving soundbites to entertainment reporters. Amazing!] And here I come - this brand new face - a GIRL too - they're such a macho group, no women - they were staring at M. sending him eye-telegraphs: "Who is this? Who is this? Who is this?" I felt like a celebrity.

I think M. was mostly relieved that I had shown up so that he would no longer have to be under the burden of debt. He fumbled so quickly for the money. "I even kept it in another pocket - separated from my other money - cause otherwise I'd just spend it."

A. - the big black-haired guy - when M. finally introduced us, he said, "Hi. I'm A., and I'm an 8th of a ton." - this was a phrase much repeated over the night. But anyway. A. was the most blatant starer. Once he got over the surprise of this chick in a black minidress coming straight up to M. and being paid - he was full of questions. He wanted to know - and instantly - exactly what our entire story was. He bombarded me with questions.

How did he come to owe you money?
How did you guys meet?
Where was the car towed from?
What? Now - how?
What? Tell me it again?

He kept saying, "Now let me get this straight. You leant this man money?"

A. contemplated the entire situation very seriously, checking me out the whole time, trying to get a line on the whole thing, glancing over at M. to see how he was behaving. The other guy - J. - proceeded to sing a song very loudly, right in my face, trying to get my attention. Then N. came over - he's another absolutely talented guy on the team. He and M., for me, are the best. M. loves N. so much - it is obvious every time he mentions him - Just the thought of the guy makes N. laugh. "The guy inherently knows what is funny." said M.

So M. introduced us (he actually was very good about introducing me this time - he did it right away) - I shook hands all around. I had a moment of awkwardness. Now that I got my $ - should I leave? [Can you imagine how rude and weird that would have been? But that's my dysfunction. I don't tolerate awkwardness well. If I feel it - I disapear in a pouf of smoke. Leaving confused men behind me, going: "Where the hell did that girl go?" Thank God M. was patient with this weirdness of mine.] Does he want me to leave? [Yeah, that happy expression on his face says: "Please leave, Sheila." Sheesh. I was retarded. Or maybe just a quarter tard.]

But then I thought - Fuck it. I'm staying. I ordered a beer. I told M. that no one had shown for our show. His reply: "Ouch." We talked about his show - it had gone really well. M. and N. sat and discussed it - and it was wonderful to listen in. They're so fucking good at it - they respect the form so totally - and they respect each other - they're all about structure - they know that structure serves them rather than limits them. They work together. They talked - about split-second missed moments - and also times when they read each other's minds.

M. loves N. It's obvious onstage and it's obvious off. He trusts him totally. "I knew you could see what I was doing." I drank my beer. I didn't say a word. They were all very welcoming to me, though - very inclusive. Even though there wasn't a woman in the bunch.

M. informed us all that for the next 5 days he was going to be going through an intensive detox. [I'm laughing out loud. Even though it's not really funny] He said, "No drinking, no smoking, and no eating. Just drinking water" and taking this herbal medicine he's really into. "My body needs a purge. It really does."

I said, "Why? You don't feel good?"

"No, y'know? I don't. I'm wrecking myself. So I bought all these herbs from my acupuncturist ---"

A. interrupted. "Your what?"

"My acupuncturist."

"YOUR ACUPUNCTURIST?"

"Yeah, my acupuncturist."

"You have an acupuncturist?"

M.'s eyes can be so serious, so inward-looking. And also, open. He's apocalyptically sexy, I think. [Ha! He's so sexy it's like the end of the world!] We all sat there and discussed acupuncture, making fun of it. The whole thing was like a comedy routine - M. being serious, all of us busting on him. M. is very into it, and would seriously defend it. N. thinks M. is crazy - as far as buying all those herbs goes. N. said, "Fine, if you want to get taken by some pseudo-guru in Oak Park ..." This made M. laugh. God. The laugh. [See what I mean? Overwhelmed by him.]

M. was dreading not smoking. A. started calling M. "Johnny Detox".

At one point, I was standing up against the wall - and A. and M. were both on bar stools. I was drinking my beer, cool as a cuke. There was a lull in the conversation. M. glanced at me, and then didn't look away. He was just STARING at me. With something very kind in his eyes. Something soft. A. was alert as an eagle, watching the whole thing.

M. said, "You're beautiful, you know that?" Reached out and ran his finger along my jaw. Slowly. Then he said to A., "Isn't she beautiful?" He looked back at me, cupped my chin and jaw in his hand. "Isn't this a beautiful girl?"

The whole thing - the action of it - the tenderness - was almost too much to deal with. I couldn't respond. I just stood there and took it.

A. said, "She's blushing."

I was. My face was hot. But weird. I felt beautiful for the first time. Cause of how he was looking at me. [And that's love, folks]

M. kept touching my chin - my jaw line - ran his finger up my jaw bone - ear to chin - said to A., "Look at that. God. Look at that." [I have no memory of this. It's like I'm a racehorse he's assessing or something] I felt mortified - but also GREAT. I didn't move. I just let him examine my jaw to his hearts' content. I was totally alive in this moment. [That sentence chokes me up.] That moment: his touch, the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, A. watching ... Believe it or not, M. was not intoxicated either.

Eventually I got me a bar stool. M.'s eyes kill me. Gotta say it. He was very into detox-ing and kept talking about it. He was dreading it but committed to it. He has this admiration for his acupuncturist - "a phenomenal man" - and suddenly - I wasn't paying attention - M. nudged me and gestured to a plastic cup of liquid put down in front of me. He said, "That was sent over you from Nancy." ! [I think that Nancy is ... actually, I have no idea. It has something to do with that Rob person. But I don't know why I wrote an enormous exclamation point there.] I stared at the drink blankly. Sniffed it. Sure enough - it was that same drink she had sent over the night I met Rob. Holy shit. [so dramatic - ha - I have no idea why it's so dramatic]

Meanwhile, M. became seriously intrigued by what was going on - interested and confused by me - "You know Nancy?"

I nodded. My face was hot. He's got eagle eyes. I avoided him - looked around for Nancy - and there she was - at the other end of the bar - smiling and waving Hello to me. I smiled and waved Hello - but I didn't see Rob with her - however, I suddenly felt very very peculiar. It was a huge gesture on her part - ultimately friendly, I believe, but it had the strange flavor of: "Remember Rob? Remember Rob, while you're over there talking to M." And I know that it will get back to Rob that I was at the Wrigleyside with M. [And this I remember: yes, it did get back to Rob that I was "hanging out with M". Next time I saw him, Rob was all: "YOU LIKE HIM BETTER THAN ME!" I finally had to be blunt and say, "Yes. I do like him better than you." Strangely enough, even after that, Rob and I remained friends. Funny funny guy who looked just like Montgomery Clift. Scary good-looking. Hysterically funny.]

So that was bizarre and gave me heart palpitations.

The evening raged on.

At some point I found myself laughing absolutely hysterically with A. He was roaring - he asked me all about myself - what I did - I mentioned Golden Boy - he said, "Hey, you guys got the Critics Choice, didn't you?" I said, "Yup. Didn't bring in an audience though." At one point I told him to fuck off (I'm so shy) - and we made each other laugh.

M. was totally the same person in the bosom of his friends as he is alone with me. Me being there didn't cause him a conflict in his personality. He doesn't split himself like that. He is who he is - with no pretense. In a kind of fearful way, I expected him to be totally different with his friends. Guys do that. And suddenly you feel like an orphan if you're going out with a guy like that. But I should have known better. M. wouldn't be like that. Pretense doesn't fit with his personality.

I had somehow gotten quite quite drunk. All of these people, including the bartender, bought me drinks. I only paid for one beer. So the drunkenness snuck up on me. And that drink from Nancy - sweet as candy but lethal - pushed me over the edge. When I came home I lay in bed, and the room whirled about me. Anyway, I sat on the stool - feelin' sexy, and carefree, and enjoying life. Next to big galumphy M.

Oh - I caught a snippet of a conversation - they all play basketball together - a raging argument occurred about some play - some controversial game they had had - much dispute. M. kept saying, "I totally dogged you. No question about it. Yes, what you say is also true. But STILL. I dogged you." M. then told this story about when he was in high school, playing basketball, and being courted by colleges - all of these colleges vying for him - I started to listen very carefully - watching his face very carefully. He doesn't talk about himself a lot. So I fill in the blanks.

Or, wait. No I don't.

I accept the blanks.

[Sorry, but I think that's a bit profound. And THAT is why we lasted so long.]

I'm very intrigued. Very moved by him. Crazy, huh. My talent for obsession. [Some things never change.]

M. was standing against the front window. I was sitting, talking to A. There was a pause, and M. said, very pointedly, "Nice legs." My crossed legs in the black tights. "Nice legs." he said again. Then to A.: "Aren't they nice?" [Again, with the racehorse assessment behavior.] Poor A. Trying to be like, "Yes. Nice legs." and still be polite.

We still, though, by this point, had had no real physical contact. It is uncanny. Whatever it is between us is all right. I think, too, in looking back, that I went into that bar - with my paranoias - afraid he'd blow me off - that the whole thing would be a smouldering agonizing event full of hot silences and twitchy neuroses (a word: when have I ever experienced this with M.? Never.) So anyways, I was so determined that the night wouldn't go like that that, at first, I think I was giving off the vibes of aloofness. Not cold aloofness - I'm never chilly - but behind my little wall. My casual "Hey, what's up" wall. I would have loved to just fall upon him and hug him - but I felt the need to not do that. At first. However. I think he wanted to hug and kiss me - it was all over his face when he first saw me - it was in his body language, how he said, "Hey!" He's very unconflicted, and unafraid. So I ended up being the one discouraging him touching me, discouraging him warming up to me. At first. Because it's scary to be on someone else's turf, so completely. But - as usual - I was the one with that attitude. Not him.

So he didn't lunge at me - not for a while - but at the first opening that I gave him, the first softening up of my body language - he did. Then he was hugging me, and yanking me to his side, and all that. It was like we were both feeling each other out, protecting ourselves, circling around each other ... reading subliminal messages, all the while just wanting to hug each other.

Hugging and kissing can be quite complicated (at least if I'm involved in it). [HAHAHAHA]

So we were all talking in a big group. M. said something - the conversation swirled on - but I stopped to ask M. something about his comment. He leaned forward to hear me better - his forehead wrinkles in thought, his serious blue eyes - those listening eyes full of light - intense - and suddenly - with our tiny one on one exchange - he took the sky diving leap. He came across the crowd and wrapped me up in his arms. [Thank GOD he was strong enough to deal with me. I was a mess! So afraid! He could handle it. He also didn't take any of it personally. He knew that my weirdness didn't mean I didn't like him. He knew it meant just the opposite.] He squeezed beside me on my stool - engulfing me in his big eyes. Announced, "Ah. This is much better." Kissed me on the forehead for a very long time. Incredibly sweet. M. noticed A. watching this whole thing. Grinned. I informed A., "I'm good gumbo." (I was drunk.) M. threw back his head and laughed - then bellowed to the entire bar, "YES, BOYS. THIS IS GOOD GUMBO. SHEILA IS GOOD GUMBO. MM-MM." Smacked his lips.

A. was baffled by the dynamic between M. and me. Kept asking us questions.

Oh, this was really funny - M. wanted to sit on my lap [which is so ridiculous - the guy had to be 200 pounds - ] - so we worked it out - he draped his body on my lap - in a way that we could have our arms free, to drink our beers. We weren't kissing or anything, just hanging out, sharing space, being totally happy with it. A. checked the both of us out - looking from M. to me and back. Finally A. said, "Do you guys want to ... talk to each other? ..... Or anything ... like that ...?" [A. was such a funny person. Still is.] It was like A. was giving us suggestions for behavior - trying to help us out - because we hadn't said 2 words to each other in the whole time I was there. It appeared to A. that we were sitting there silently - which was true. But M. and I exist on another level, an existence level, a telepathic level. What you see with us is NOT what you get. [I had known this guy 2 months as I wrote this way. Amazing the confidence with which I believe all of this. And even stranger: I was right. I wasn't just a stalker crazy girl projecting stuff onto this guy ... He really was all that. Hmm. Weird.]

But A. was making a joke - seeming kind of - concerned - anxious to help M. and me interact with each other.

M. and I said, in response, simultaneously: "Oh, we're fine."

M. then said, "That's not what we're about."

And I said, "We don't really talk."

Which completely threw M. into a tailspin. It was hilarious. I felt that M. and I were saying the same thing - but suddenly M. pulled back from me and said to me, "What do you mean? We talk." He was annoyed. Defending himself as though I were saying something bad about him.

I said, "Yeah, we talk - but it's not like I know one damn thing about you or you know one damn thing about me. That's what I meant." (A. is watching this whole thing like a ping-pong match.)

M. had perplexity and seriousness in his eyes. "Well - I think we exist more in the present."

And I said - because I didn't want him to feel defensive - we are in agreement - I said, "I know we do. I love it."

He gave me that look he had given me that pool playing night - that searching piercing look - trying to see into me. Then he stated, "You're lying."

I said, in the emphatic way that I have - "M. I am TOTALLY not lying."

It was important to me that he knew it. Because that living in the present thing is EXACTLY what I value in him - and what I need right now. I don't want it to be anything else.

He kept giving me that searching look - and then apparently was satisfied that I was telling the truth. He said, "Okay." Then he yelled, "So don't give me that We Don't Talk crap!"

And at that point, I believe he took my entire nose in his mouth. We were back to normal.

I said, "So what are you gonna do during detox?"

"Sleep."

The stopping of smoking is the most incomprehensible thing to him. Even more than the drinking. "I can't imagine not smoking, Sheila. It's gonna be so fucking hard." This detox is inherently temporary. I asked him if he had any desire to quit permanently. He said he did, but not now. He can't fathom life without cigarettes. He also knows, though, that he feels like hell most of the time.

A. said something to M. that gave me a chill. He said, "You realize, buddy, that we aren't gonna see 30."

M. balked at that and started talking feverishly about acupuncture and herbs and energy systems. He has the constitution of a 60 year old man. That's when A. said, "Herbs won't do it, Johnny Detox."

They're a scary crowd. On the edge. In their 20s. Reckless. Out of control. They love each other dearly - and deal with each other on a very honest level. But they rage. They rage. On the edge.

M. was going to go home and go to sleep, begin his Detox hell. He is crazy. But he is cute cute cute.

I am drawn to him in such a STRONG way. His face just kills me.

He told me about setting the money aside in his room for me. "I had to keep it separate from my other money - Like: This money is NOT MINE."

He said, "I told you I was good for it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you told me."

He gave me a massive hug which nearly cracked my ribs. He looks at me with friendliness and no fear. Maybe a little bit of confusion. But ultimately warm. He likes me.

He kissed me. His friend of the present moment. And then he went home to bed. And I caught a cab and went home. Drunker than I realized. I realized my drunkenness only when I got off the stool.

But it was a fun night.

Really fun. The touch of his fingers on my jaw bone. No pressure though. I'm, by nature, a hyper person. But I am comfortable with this non-hyper thing that we are inventing for ourselves. And so far, it's all been okay. I would not be surprised if more adventures were to come our way - but I also would not be surprised if I never saw him again.

Oh - and obsessions: one more thing:

One of the most wonderful things about being an obsessive like myself is having your friends know that you are a totally safe place, in terms of THEIR obsessions. You'll never ever hear from me: "Wow. Why are you watching Jackie Chan movies every single day? Move on." Ever. I get it. You'll never hear me say, "Don't you get sick of seeing the same M*A*S*H* episodes over and over?" Nope. I get it. See them all 100 times in a 2 week period. I get it.

So friends come to me. To revel in THEIR obsessions.

A dear friend of mine is now completely obsessed wtih Robert Shaw. It has taken over her life. She must see EVERYTHING he has done. I gave her a couple of suggestions - because I mean, come on, who is better than Robert Shaw (the obsession bloomed in her when she recently saw Jaws - which she had seen before -but for whatever reason, his acting in that one scene where he gives the monologues about the sharks - we all know the one - but anyway, she suddenly realized: He's pretty much the greatest actor WHO HAS EVER LIVED.) I love it when my friends go insane. Anyway. Tomorrow night we're getting together to see Force 10 from Navarone. can't wait. I saw that movie myself - years ago when I was a teenager - and my Harrison Ford thing was EXPLODING through my adolescent consciousness.

And Allison's obsession with HBO's The Extras is moving on quite nicely - and I love watching that damn show with her - she and I just have exactly the same sensibility, we find the same things funny. I have no TV right now. So on Sunday we're getting together at her place for an Extras marathon so I can get caught up.

I just love that. Obsessions all around.

Rocky Rocky Rocky!

More observations to come. It takes a lot out of me - posts like this one. It just takes a lot of time - because ... well, I'm insane, obviously, and I have to gear up for it. And take notes. And formulate my thoughts.

But I've got more to discuss.

Next up?

The scene on the steps in front of Rocky's apartment when he's trying to get Adrian to come inside.

I could probably write a Tolstoy-length book about that one minute of film. I know it's nuts ... but there's just so much going on there!! Watch how he hangs on the broken screen door ... And the script ... "Why you think?" Perfect.

Getting ahead of myself.

Maybe tomorrow. I have to go take a run. Do some writing. Meet up with Flynn. Have some dinner. Rocky can wait. (gulp. I think he can anyway ...)

It hurts

It hurts to read this review of The Seagull and know that I can't see it. It sounds like a once in a lifetime type production.

1997: Acting Notebook

Here is where things start to get a bit manic and insane in the acting notebooks. You can tell the difference from the more earnest first-year notebook. I've written before, I think, about the "PD Unit" - which stands for the "Playwriting/Directors Unit" - which basically met all day on Fridays. Or - I had a class in the morning - and then went to the PD Unit - which was, like, from 12 to 7 - brutal. You started to get slap-happy, stir-crazy, whatever ... and sometimes it was so nuts that NOTHING looked good. Everything started to look like crap work. You lost your sharpness of perception. The PD Unit is where plays were developed, directors presented scenes, and actors jostled for position in projects they wanted to be involved in. Sometimes it was a great experience - sometimes it was grueling. Sam - my acting teacher - was the head of my PD Unit - he's a practical man, years of experience, no problem saying to anybody, "Okay, well THAT stunk. How can we make it better" - which was just what the PD Unit needed. The least precious atmosphere possible. We had a great group in our unit - many of whom I am still friends with today. (Eileen? Are you reading? Some of this shit is going to crack you UP.) I would take notes on whatever scenes people were working on - and also the actors involved in each ... but I wouldn't write down whether I thought it was good or not. I wrote down mainly down funny things that Sam would say in response to the scenework. Or profound things, but mostly funny.

So there was the PD Unit ... and I also was taking a Shakespeare class - with Doug Moston - I wrote about him here, one of my best teachers ever. I adored that class. I had no experience with Moston before that class - so his way of teaching, his blunt ham-and-eggs approach to stuff like Shakespeare and Moliere was just terrific. Great class.

This, again, is a mish-mash. Funny quotes from the insane PD Unit - when things would get tense, or whatever - and that was a funny group of people. Even though we were all focused on one goal, which was serious to us, the hilarity that hovered on the edges of all interactions in there ... was so delicious. I hated and loved Fridays, at the same time.

9/4/97 Doug Moston - Classics

"That's where your juvenile delinquents were manufactured." - Doug Moston on Hell's Kitchen

the power of words -
Don't give a word more power than it can handle
Not every word has the same weight

PD Unit

"It's like you've been thru some sort of horrific marriage." - Sam

"A half-hour where you stink is no great shakes." - Sam

Go back and look at Brando's private moment in Last Tango in Paris

Sam is a born teacher. It is his calling.

Hello Out There - we just got a big ol' green light - move forward with the project

Sam: "I wanted people to be ready to bring in work today---"
Barbara: "Oh, for cryin' out loud."

This room is so dreadful. The lighting. The air conditioning noise. That wavy thing above us. What the FUCK is that?

9/7 German Lullaby rehearsal

Death is present here. Eroticism. Codependent.
Sim: caretaker?
Truth or Dare game

Beginning of scene: so happy to see her! Don't play the subtext. Deny what is going on. It is not happening.

9/9 Classics

"He was known as Midtown Murray." - Doug on his father running the most famous actor's poker game

"I want the work." - Harvey Keitel on why he had invested in Lee's classes

antithetical thought - play the opposites off of each other.
Iambic pentameter - the character acknowledges his own cleverness with that rhythm - and double entendre
No extra words

9/9 PD Unit

Cowboy Mouth - Chaos.

"That's a Greek word." - Sam

Alexander Haig: "I'm in charge here!"

"We could do a merchandising tie-in." - Sam

"We have 2 striving artists yearning to be free." - Sam

Classics
Macbeth monologue:
dead for breath - assonance. It sounds - perhaps the Messenger is out of breath? It has a panting sound to it. "here" "Thane" "had" "breathe" had" "than" ...
Announcing the arrival of the King that night - some urgency perhaps.
Thane - soft vowels, short words

The sense is in the iambic pentameter. Do not invent more. Go to the verse already there.
*To be or not to be
That is the question.*

9/11 Classics

"I'll give you a hint. Boats." - Doug Moston trying to make the class say "Spanish Armada" - After the Armada, Britain ruled the waves - people started investing in boats - strong upperclass emerges - the theatre begins (the Burbidges - John and Richard) - 1576 - The Theatre - built by John Burbidge - round

9/11 PD Unit

Arcadia - Tom Stoppard -
actors: Matt and Barbara

Sam: "The grapes don't solve the problem."

Sam: "Not everything is Hat Full of Rain."

Barefoot in the Park - actors: Elena, Michael

Sam: "It's like trying to revive a 2nd rate dead horse."

I need to re-read Brendan Behan's The Hostage and Moonchildren by Michael Weller

Home Free - actors: Wade and Kara
We see Lawrence in a room alone, tapping the wall with the end of a coat hanger to get the attn. of his "audience" - Claypone and Edna are his students for the moment. Kara's character, at this point, know that she is going to die.
"This play is like 2 panic attacks meeting each other." - Sam
2 scared people trying to find comfort.

"Hoffman's won Oscars playing morons and bums." - Sam

Somehow I think that if actors are bored watching something ... what is the good of doing this? Like Sam said: Recognize when you are bored. It's not that you are being rude to your fellow students by being inattentive. Boredom is a sign that something is not working. It is a valid response.

"The Ski Lift Named Denial." - Jen on doing Streetcar in Vermont

9/16 Classics

"So the idea is - she's not there. She's in between those sticks." - Doug

Lady Anne: Set down, set down your honorable load

"I am not a necrophiliac," said Tom in dead earnest.

Learn enough about Shakespearia so that you look like a native citizen, not a tourist.

Shakespeare controls the traffic onstage with the language. As Doug says, he lets the actors know - "Stop. This broad's makin' a speech."

If it's heightened language - then you choose to speak in heightened language. Heightened state of emotion.

Simple and complex language.
Simple? Keep it simple
Complex? What verbal conceits make it complicated?

Lady Macbeth: The raven himself is hoarse.
Give me the daggers

9/16 PD Unit

Buried Child - actors: Tom, Nina

"Anything can be good. If it's good." - Sam

To extract a scene: it needs to have its own internal arc. Make sense on its own

Am I Blue - by Beth Henley - actors: Michael, Kara, Cheryl
The writing of this play is lousy. Lifeless. You'd have to invent the subtext. With plays like Streetcar or Death of a Salesman - the subtext is IN the lines.

"If there's any poetic dimension to this, it escapes me." - Sam

"She's not a waif physically. She's a waif emotionally." - Sam - on This Property is Condemned)

Breathless - movie - long scenes, jump cuts
The thing that gives it its stature is the legends. When you stand back, you see the universal. It is in the fragments that you ahve the uniqueness.

"Then why these scenes in this specific order?"
Sam: "I have no idea."

St. Joan - actors: Tom, Kelly

"Yeah, fuck you, Rich!" - Sam

"Tom, you fuck-head, listen to me!" - Sam

"Do whatever you want to do. Just don't have a rod up your ass and think you're playing Shaw." - Sam

"Cast well, and then shut up." - Gene, to the directors

"All the plans that you think you've made may be just delusions on your part." - Sam

9/17 German Lullaby rehearsal
The monologue: Did I really kill the cat? Who's the predator in the relationship? Play the ambivalences in the piece. There's a time bomb in this house.

9/18 Classics Lady Macbeth - "infirm of purpose" - complex way of saying you're weak. Heightened state. Shakespeare puts that texture into the text.

12th Night: "This is Illyria, Lady." Beautiful.

Suit the action to the word and the word to the action.

As You Like It
seem ... semen?

If you think it's bawdy, it's bawdy. If you don't think it's bawdy - it's only because you haven't worked it out yet.

9/18 PD Unit
A Loss of Roses - by William Inge - actors: Barbara, Tom
Warren Beatty made his stage debut in this

"I know I've been manipulating you, but I think I've been helpful to you." - Sam to Barbara
Barbara: "You have."

Snow Angel - Elena, Michael
It's one thing to act material - it's another thing to embody material.

"It looks like your soul is adrift in the wrong play." - Sam to Michael

Gertrude Down
Kevin: "What's it about?"
Matt: "It's about a door."

"You talk a little bit like a French art critic." - Sam to Rich

9/18 Hello Out There rehearsal

Looking at myself in the mirror.
His heart is larger than life.
Remember that feeling of: This encounter is going to change my life.
In a world of stick figures, he is a Michelangelo.

9/20 Ludlow Fair rehearsal
Moment before - work on that.
What do I want from her?
What would I be doing if this scene weren't happening?
Really work the flu

9/22 Shirley Maclaine
"We all came out of the same cave."

On dancing: "I loved the regimentation. I loved the freedom."
"I learned how to negotiate movement under duress."

"I was the only virgin on that train."

George Abbott under the pool with her on his shoulders - "to prove how virile he was"

Hitchcock in the audience when she went on for Carol Haney: "You see why I believe in destiny."

The Trouble with Harry - directed by Hitchcock
He said to her: "Before you say that line - dog's feet." (Pause.)

Some Came Running
Frank Sinatra: "Let the kid die, and she'll get the nomination." And that's what happened.

"That's why men don't like to marry actresses!"

She loves sex. It oozes off of her.

On the Rat Pack: "I took the crackers out of their beds."

The Apartment - directed by Billy Wilder
On Wilder: "He had this magnificent yardstick of a brain."
That last scene was done in one take.

On Wilder: "He would watch us run a scene, and he would say, 'That's very good. Now do it again, and take out 13 seconds.'"

Faster is always better.

"It's all about listening, isn't it?"

Sweet Charity -
On Cy Coleman: "He thought with his fingers."

The Turning Point
On Anne Bancroft: "Annie wanted to always be in character."

Terms of Endearment
"So this brings in my other life. Are we ready to go there?"

On Jack Nicholson: "He makes you a constant surprise to yourself."

On moonlight, and writing: "feminine energy of remembrance"

Steel Magnolias
"collective feminine energy"

Postcards
On Meryl Streep: "This woman is truly channeling."

9/23 Classics

"You mean ... Hamlet gets in the elevator ... but he won't go down?" - Leslie

"I think that you have to establish with your robot ..." - Leslie

Do what the character does. Remember Occam's Razor.

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen
Lend me your ears" - rhetoric - he is building his argument through the verse

9/23 PD Unit

There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Cloud Tectonics - by Jose Rivera

"This was a bore." - Sam

"You look like you have parentheses around you at all times." - Sam to Cheryl (??)

Michael G.:
"Will you marry me. Let's get married, Sheila."
Las Vegas. New Year's. 1997.

Sam: "Blackout. Slow fade."

Sam: "Renee Taylor, in reality, is larger than life."

9/25 Classics

"The King comes here tonight." - simple
Use the verbal conceits. Play them all. Iambic pentameter, assonance, alliteration.

Clues in the writing help you to be able to play it.

"Berlady". (By Our Lady) - character from the country, this is a regionalism - it means that the Capulets are nouveau riche - it means that Juliet has to marry Paris. Status. Materialism.

The Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet - count the "I" sounds.

9/28 Hello Out There rehearsal
Passion - as well as loneliness
The fire in the play
Good and evil
prairie out the windows
Isolation
Urgency, stakes

9/30 Classics

"I always get cast as the eunuch or the fool." - John

Sections of Hamlet are very close to passages in the Geneva Bible

Verbal conceits: express passion thru language
figures of rhetoric - Antony's speech
euphemism: "My father passed away" as opposed to "My father died"
stychomythia: rapid-fire dialogue overlapping - alternating liunes
onomotopeia
metaphor

Prose: less precision - but it still can be heightened
Verse: precise - the writer is directing you, telling you where to breathe/pause - tells you what to stress

Don't give up who you are when you get into this - but do give it up momentarily in order to break the code

Use the punctuation. Pay attention. This is where Shakespeare is directing you.

"Double, bubble, toil and trouble." - troche - not iambic

Colon: you can drop your voice - do it in a way that still holds the audience's attention - or a shift of gears. You are still traveling in the same direction, you're just shifting gears.

9/30 PD Unit

Barbara, dressed in green, lying spreadeagled on the floor, trying to relax. Sam said, "You look like a human pool table, Barbara."

10/6 Eli Wallach and Anne Jackson

Anne on her first moment "acting" as a little girl: "I said this poem, I got a laugh, and it was ecstasy - and after, I hid in the cellar."

Her Shirley Temple imitation

Studied with Herbert Berghoff at New School 1944 - he got her a scholarship at the Neighborhood Playhouse

"I have an affinity for the Italians. This is an Italian shirt, actually." - Eli

"We were the only Jews in a sea of Italians." - Eli

"Acting means to ACT." - Anne

Eli - onstage in his first big part - with katherine Cornell: "I cut 14 of her lines." Strasberg's main advice to Eli was: "Wait for your cue!"

Anne hated improvisatiion

"In acting, take nothing for granted. You don't know what's going to happen." - Lee Strasberg

"And for the next 7 years, we did nothing but Tennessee Williams." - Eli

On The Misfits - Eli and Clark Gable fooling around - John Huston: "For Christ's sake, would you guys cut it out?"

Anne: "Please. Let's go on. I'm going to say something profound."

"It's a Method, not the Method." - Anne

Eli, arriving in England: "It's so green here."
Laurence Olivier: "Naturally. It's been raining for the past 300 years."

Marlon Brando in Stella's class: "Chickens don't know about atom bombs."

On The Rose Tattoo - directed by Elia Kazan
Elia experimenting with fantasy (Camino Real)
Written for Anna Magnani - Maureen Stapleton auditioned 6 times
Eli turned down From Here to Eternity for Camino Real

On Camino Real
Kazan: "Go on and make friends." He would pit actors against each other.

Anne's break was with This Property is Condemned

Summer and Smoke - directed by Margo Jones
"It was like music."

"Not a hit in those days meant it ran for 6 months." - Eli

Eli talked about Tennessee's laugh. "Make voyages. Attempt them."

O Men, O Women - Anne had a 20 minute monologue
"The more I cried, the more the audience laughed."

Middle of the Night
Edward Robinson - She went to stand up, he put his hand on her shoulder, shook his head
Josh Logan: "Don't ever get attention with a pause."

Anne on pros and cons of working with Eli: "The pros are obvious. You share the same taxi."

Sir John Gielgud said to Anne, about being onstage with Olivier: "Larry is a terrible giggler." (Anne has a problem with laughing on stage)

Anne on marriage: "We drank Manhattans and we have no memory of our wedding night."

Baby Doll - this was Eli's greatest experience.

The Magnificent Seven - 2 gold teeth
Eli: "I've played a lot of Mexican bandits since then. I wonder why."

Steve McQueen shaking the cartridge - taking attention from Yul Brynner. Eli said, "McQueen was very clever."

The Misfits:

Anne: "Marilyn Monroe was a man's friend. She wasn't a woman's friend."

Eli on Clark Gable: "Clark never had a mother in a movie."

Anne on Clark and Marilyn in The Misfits: "The movie was disturbing to our fantasies of these people."

Monty's first scene in the phone booth: one take

Anne, on going to painful places as an actor: "And we go there with delight!"

Eli took a class with Martha Graham. She shouted at him: "Would you for God's sake walk as though you carry the seed?"

Clifford Odets said, "I always start a play in the middle of a fight."

Eli on working with Milo O'Shea - Eli wasn't nervous about the play until Milo whispered in his ear, right before the curtain went up: "Thank God you've got the first line."

Eli on marriage: "Marriage is not for sissies."

Anne looked at him at one point and said, "This relationship isn't going to last."

Coppola to Eli, on Godfather III: "You are an old old OLD friend of the Corleone family."
Eli: "If I'm such an old old OLD friend of the Corleone family ........ then why wasn't I in the other Godfather movies?"

10/8 German Lullaby rehearsal
This is the death of our relationship. It just takes us a while to realize that.
Eroticism in the air.
The intimacy is in the silences, the gestures.
Who is leaving who here?
I am yours. You are mine.
Who is she to me?
I can be on a precipice. I live on the edge.
The night gives us permission to exaggerate.
*I lose myself in her lush dramatic personality. This is where our sex life goes. I fight for my identity.

It's 3 a.m. She's been gone all day.

10/9 Classics
Characters pursue their objectives verbally

"I'll buy that parentheses and I'll raise you a mid-line ending." - Doug

The conspiracy scene in Julius Caesar - all the "s' sounds ... makes it sound like incessant whispering

Gear changes in thought need to be audible

Suit the action to the word and the word to the action.

Sarah Siddons' Lady Macbeth

10/9 PD Unit
We read German Lullaby - Sam said to Lesley afterwards: "Lesley, you should be very proud of yourself for what you have created."

Wade gave me a backrub.

Sam discussed subtext - for him a play needs subtext - that "subterranean tide pulling us forward."

Sam on PD issues: "The main issue is the bored actors."

Sam: So how are you 2 Irish broads doing?
Me: We were just sitting here appreciating you.
Sam: Oh - really? (he got all excited - stretching his arms)
Me: Yeah. You're not afraid of anything, are you?
Sam: No. (He went right there with me)
Me: I can tell. Have you worked really hard to get that?
Sam: Yes.

God, I love him. That no bullshit honesty. He's so there

10/14 Classics

Romeo and Juliet - Eileen and Rebecca
scene between Juliet and the nurse
Line 1339: Juliet: "I would thou hadst ..." play up the "I" sound
Don't forget the given circumstances
The Nurse: aching bones. Sexual innuendo. Maybe it goes over Juliet's head, but it's for the audience and for herself
"Is it good or bad" - antithetical
"Go thy ways, wench" - perhaps to herself
"Where is your mother" - make sure no one hears

Macbeth - Steven, JM
"Hark, peace" - the owl scares the shit out of her - to the audience? Try to get their sympathy - which is a real task

Shakespeare puts the actor in the position of the character

10/14 PD Unit

Sam to the directors: "Actors at their best are fantastic creatures. If you give them the correct stimuli - character, circumstance, objective - and then Get Out of the Way - they can work miracles."

I want to work on Arthur Miller's Some Kind of Love Story

10/15 German Lullaby rehearsal
I love her for all her big-hearted dramatic qualities - i don't have any of that - and the very thing I love about her will become our point of dissension
alarm bells: she hasn't been eating. She also has never disappeared like this before.
The character has never thought all that much about being German
"She was a Jew!" - this is a surprise when it comes out. I have the capacity to say that? We love each other - this is why it is so disturbing.
I always knew she was Jewish - it was never a big deal
The past is haunting our relationship
The collective guilt of the Germans
Rain is the 3rd character in this play. It is in this room with us. And then when it stops, it's like the silence is loud.
What else is wrong in this relationship?

10/16 Classics
Negotiate each moment. Don't act like you've already made choices. Discover the choices.
If you follow the language correctly - it will create an attitude within you that is the character. It's a direct line to the playwright's head.

This stuff can take you over like a mask if you let it.

Augment the performance with performer's instincts - but don't start there

Caesura: rhetorical pause. Provides audience a chance to catch up. Named for Caesar. He was dyslexic probably and paused a lot.

10/16 PD Unit

Speed the Plow - out of context this scene is hard to follow. The relationship is not clear.

"Relaxation should not be a spectacle." - Sam

10/18 Hello Out There rehearsal
p. 19: establishing myself to him

"Since last night" - testing waters? See if I can tell him what happened last night between us.

Moment before - remember: he has just called me Katey.

"Well, yeah, except me." I am trying to segue here into my more personal stuff.

Mike: "If I'm her knight in shining armor, then she is my angel."

I know that feeling with a man.

p. 23 clear and heightened sense of danger. Urgency growing.

Premonition at the end. "I want to tell you something." I would die for him. I would kill for him.

10/19 German Lullaby rehearsal
watch Night Porter again - the eroticism. Pain = pleasure. That is our relationship.

The moment with the clip-on earrings: seduction, uncertainty

Monocle on a ribbon, maybe. Subtly militaristic outfit perhaps.

10/20 LAUREN BACALL

"I have spent half my life quaking with nerves."

"My childhood was not thrilling."

On her father: "He was a negative factor."

She would read Grimm's Fairy Tales with a flashlight under a blanket

On her high school: "I went to school with five thousand girls."

On Juliet's death scene: "It's supposed to be sad. It's not supposed to be pathetic."

"I would cut school and go see Bette Davis movies in the theatre. I'd sit there and cry and smoke."

She stalked Bette Davis.

Graduated high school at 15.

Went to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts - with Kirk Douglas. "I learned how to fall down stairs. I learned how to walk with a book on my head."

On animal exercises: "Yes. We did animal exercises. Never used it in my life."

"I was an usherette."

"George Kaufman was my friend till the end of his life."

Diana Vreeland put her on the cover of Harper's Bazaar. Howard Hawks saw it. "Howard Hawks said to me: You would be good in a movie with either Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart and I thought: 'Cary Grant!!'"

On To Have and Have Not - "Hawks wanted me to be not tough - but insolent."

On The Big Sleep: "I love that movie because nobody knew what it was about, including us." Who pushed the dude off the pier? "Howard called Raymond Chandler who wrote the book and he didn't know. But it worked."

On Dark Passage: "Bogie was the camera in that movie."

On the Rat Pack: "In he'd come - ring a ding ding - and he'd go right to the bar." - Bacall talking about Frank Sinatra. "Frank loved married couples."

"And I walked into this party and the Hope Diamond was there."

On Key Largo and John Huston:
"If the boom boy had a suggestion, John would listen."
"Huston was also called The Monster. For good reason."

On Young Man With a Horn:
"I had a giant crush on Kirk Douglas."

The African Queen - Katharine Hepburn carrying the full-length mirror in a raft down the river

On Designing Women - this movie was filmed while Bogie was dying at home. "He wanted me to do it. Bogie wanted me to work so that I could come home and have something to talk about."

"Gregory Peck was not bad to look at, you may have noticed."

"Bogie was a last century guy. He lived by the 10 Commandments. I had a great time with him. Some people never have that."

"The 3 people I knew who had such strength of character were Bogie, Katharine Hepburn and my mother."

On The Shootist - filmed while John Wayne was dying: "He never spoke of it."

Lauren to John: "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
John: "Every day you wake up, it's a beautiful day."

On her book: "Writing By Myself was very cathartic. And yes, I wrote every word."

On Barbra Streisand and Mirror Has 2 Faces: "I worship talent. Just being in her presence was terrific. She was terrific."

10/21 Classics

Julius Caesar: Portia: says "ungentle" twice - implying that he is normally gentle with her.

Objective: and then add a Why - see if the objective can't go to another level - personalize the choices.

Stella Adler: "Your talent is in your choices."

"The interest in custard pies is seeing them hit people."

"Our consciousness stands guard at what might be revealed."

Doug on DeNiro: "Robert DeNiro doesn't get to be different anymore."

10/22 PD Unit

Me to Wade: "I went to the Book Fair ..."
Wade burst into laughter.
Wade: "I love you, Sheila."
Me: "Oh, Wade. I love you too."

Sam, at one point: "Who do I have to fuck to get out of here is what I want to know."

Sam: "I'm just trying to keep my spirits up."

Liz on SRO hotels: "You could be killing people in there and no one would care."
Wade: "Where is this?"

Kara: "Are we still not allowed to be naked in school?"

Sam: "All this love of Jesus is just as obsessive as any other form of narcissism."

Sam: "You know who originated this part? It was Geraldine Page."
Kara: "I bet she sucked!"

10/23 Classics
Doug to Eileen: "Eileen, you're brilliant. Now I'm going to ask you not to be."

Measure for Measure - the 1st speech of Duke - the punctuation gives him the sound of a gov't official -

10/23 PD Unit

Sam: "Fences is a masterpiece of structure."

"Do you have the time?"
"What am I, fuckin' Swiss?"

10/28 Classics
Julius Caesar - Heaven - elision, almost always one syllable - heav'n

Doug was Harold Clurman's assistant

"Amanda, you need to watch out for the Nice Girl Police." - Doug

It's not about the answers. It's about the questions.

Make the end of the last thought the beginning of the next thought

10/28 PD Unit

"Speaking of surly and disrespectful, where is Kara?" - Sam

Quote from Gingerbread Lady: "My apartment is on a sublet from Mary Todd Lincoln."

Sam: "If you do a high-class piece that lays an egg, no one will think: 'Boy, that's a high-class broad.'"

Sam: "I wouldn't care if you had them do it on pogo sticks."

Sam to D.: "To whatever degree you can get it up, try to create some authentic misery."

Sam: "Method acting the stereotype is eyeballing your partner, mumbling, breaking up your sentences in illogical ways. You can be 100% full of shit and be a Method actor."

Kazan said to Geraldine Page when directing Sweet Bird of Youth - she was afraid of the audience, terrified - He told her that the more frightened she was an actress, the more she should attack the audience. It's one of her greatest performances.

Sam: "I studied with Strasberg for 21 years and I never felt that gave me the license to be an asshole."
Michael: "So where'd you get your license then?"

10/30 Classics

Lesley: "Let's go from 'Where is your mother' - so you can have your moment where you get horrified."

Doug to Marissa: "Your acting is like a little fake tree. Oh, look how real that looks!"

11/4 Classics

Preconceptions get in the way of your talent expressing itself.

Take the car out of drive, put it in neutral, and see the shape of the land.

tabloid art ...

Check it out. There is so much about that tabloid that makes me laugh - but I'm afraid to even write any of those phrases on my blog because it'll bring the freaks out of the woodwork. But still - every lurid headline - is so hilarious to me! I mean look at the headline across the top! Let's just start with THAT! "Gals"?? I can't take it!!

Happy birthday ...

... to John Ford! (I mean, good lord, check out the resume)

There he is - with his muse - John Wayne.

Howard Hawks said, "If you want to know how to make movies - all you need to do is watch the movies of John Ford. That's it."

Feel free to talk about the movies of his that you love and hold dear in the comments - I'd love to hear! In the meantime - here are some of the anecdotes about this dude that I know off the top of my head.

An impatient producer visited the set of some movie Ford was directing.

The producer said to Ford: "You are two weeks behind schedule!! This is an outrage!"

John Ford then picked up the script, ripped out 20 pages, and barked back, "Now we're two weeks ahead of schedule."

Some funny anecdotes about him in this post - including how mean he could be and how he actually brought John Wayne to tears once.

Here's a post with a link to a terrific Stanley Crouch article on John Wayne and John Ford

And then there are all the quotes from Bogdonavich's essay about John Wayne - that I posted some of here on the blog.

Anecdote

Here Wayne talks about Ford.

Here on how Ford would shoot reaction shots of Wayne

The Wayne thing (really honed and created by Ford - or, it was a joint production. Ford gave him those parts - and Wayne filled them up)

Wayne and Ford's first meeting

I keep meaning to have my own little John Ford film fest - with just me, myself and I ... like I've done with Howard Hawks and Hitchcock and my other favorites.

Happy birthday John Ford (or - should I say: Sean Aloysius O'Fearna??)!

Purty!!

I love the illustration - but then if you follow the link to the book she is referencing, it is a true gold mine. Memories of costume class dance through my head - brown wool leg-wraps, et al - but there are so many other ridiculous stories including fichus and other accoutrements of days gone by ... I really need to write more of that stuff up. That class is really WHY I became such damn good friends with Jackie and Mitchell. I mean, it might have happened anyway - but living through that class with them solidified the deal.