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 l