The Sheila Variations

Snapshots quick quick

-- Finished Decline and Fall (I talked about it here). In the last 5 pages, Waugh breaks out the brilliance of his message, going from covert to overt. He truly amazes me. I never stopped laughing - but the ending is so perceptive you almost want to shield your eyes. Poor Paul Pennyfeather. Imagine accidentally becoming an international white slave trader. Imagine being unaware that what you were actually doing was trafficking in white slaves - at the behest of your rich fiancee? It's so obvious what is going on - as Paul races all over Europe, trying to get this girl out of hock, that girl ... so when he is finally arrested and sent to jail you are not surprised. Also, this was the man who found himself, through a series of unfortunate events, running across the Quad without trousers on at Oxford and being expelled. But he really had LOST his pants! No matter. Expelled. Paul Pennyfeather takes things pretty easy though. He enjoys prison quite a bit. He finds it intensely relaxing. And also, I LOVED the head of the prison with all his hi-falutin' ideas about rehabilitation ... he believes that every single crime, even multiple slaughter, can be traced back to thwarted creative impulses. So, in this prison, mass murderers are given hammers and pens and sharp objects - to 'create' with ... and naturally, the mass murderers use them to, you know, kill again. Or escape. Paul Pennyfeather gets caught up in circumstances beyond his control. He wants to be a priest. That is his calling. Instead, he finds himself running nude across the Quad at Oxford and trafficking in white slavery by accident. It's hilarious.

-- I have a lot of worries right now. I worked really hard today. I'm on a break.

-- Thankfully I have new neighbors and they have sex on an almost constant basis, so I find that completely relaxing to listen to. Not that I have a choice. Last night I believe I heard the resounding whap of him slapping her ass emanating through the calm night air of my neighborhood. Now it's summer so their windows were open so the whole courtyard could hear the entire event. I love urban living. I'm not even being sarcastic.

-- Picked up Enduring Love by Ian McEwan and that first chapter has to be one of the greatest opening chapters of all time. My God. He is so so so good. I'm not going to be able to put it down, I can feel it. I'm already on Chapter 4. Strangely enough it was written before September 11 - but so much of it is reminding me of that day. And McEwan of course went on to write really the first major novel having to do with September 11 - but weirdly, Enduring Love feels like a rehearsal for it, even though it pre-dates that moment in history. It's not about world events or anything like that. Just something horrible that 5 or 6 people witness in a field outside of London and how their lives are irrevocably changed and intertwined. But there is a man falling through the air. And there is a recurring dream that the main character has:

What came back to me was a nightmare I had occasionally in my twenties and thirties, from which I used to shout myself awake. The setting varied, but the essentials never did. I found myself in a prominent place watching from far off the unfolding of a disaster - an earthquake, a fire in a skyscraper, a sinking ship, an erupting volcano. I could see helpless people, reduced by distance to an undifferentiated mass, scurrying about in panic, certain to die. The horror was in the contrast between their apparent size and the enormity of their suffering. Life was revealed as cheap; thousands of screaming individuals, no bigger than ants, were about to be annihilated, and I could do nothing to help.

I can already tell this book is going to be a major ride. He is so good. And the first chapter! It DARES you to not go further. It's also written in a tone of knowing desolation. Joe Rose, the narrator, knows how it all ends. He knows what's coming. He says things like, "My first mistake on that day was to such and such ..." It gives a chilling effect. We react to events, without thinking sometimes ... and we often make mistakes. Usually the mistakes don't have such overwhelming consequences, but when they do, sometimes people just keep going back over and over the event ... trying to work it out, forgive themselves, justify it, whatever ...

-- Speaking of that kind of situation - where people are somehow frozen in time by a singular event which breaks their lives up into Before and After sections, I watched Picnic at Hanging Rock the other night. I saw that movie when I was 10 years old. It was on television, and I must have caught it on some rainy day matinee. I had no business seeing that film. It scared the SHIT out of me and I could not even tell you why ... and it scares the shit out of me now. Peter Weir directed. His first international hit. A finishing school for girls in Australia goes on a day trip to a place called Hanging Rock for a picnic. 4 girls traipse off for a little hike around the rock. Three of them, plus a teacher, disappear. One of them is found a week later, lying in a cave, dehydrated, near death. She has no memory of what happened. She has obviously been traipsing over the rocks and dirt - but the bottom of her feet (she has no shoes) are clean and unscratched. It's a mystery. The other three people are never found. The disappearance has a profound effect on every person who was there, changing their lives forever. It is a film which refuses to come to a conclusion and I think that's one of the reasons why I found it so excruciating as a small child (and I'm sure the Victorian sexual hysteria underneath those corsets went right over my head - or at least made me feel extremely uneasy) ... and when the film was released on DVD, finally, after years - Peter Weir went back in and made some cuts, taking 7 minutes out. Most directors, even good ones, put stuff back IN, their "darlings", the scenes they were sad to leave out. Not Weir. He was pushed, at the time, to edge towards some kind of resolution, at least surmise what happened to the girls ... but he refused. And his "director's cut", his removal of 7 minutes, was more of the same - taking out anything that might even hint to the audience, "Ohhh, so THAT is what happened." It's a truly disturbing film. Many of the young girls have very few credits to their names. They lie about in the dust on the rock, in their white dresses and black stockings, and there is something ritualistic about the images, something inherently mysterious. One of them seems to know that she will not come back from the picnic. Why? What on earth? Was it an alien abduction? What the HELL? I don't even think I made it through the whole movie as a kid - although I remember vividly the girls in their long hair and puffy white dresses dancing through the sunshine before disappearing off the face of the earth ... and found it endlessly interesting and disturbing to watch as an adult. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.

-- It is possible to go into a fugue state at the iTunes store. I really feel like I am not responsible enough to handle having access at all times! Is it necessary to have every single Shirelles song ever recorded? Well, frankly, yes. And I must have them NOW. Do you "need" to have Red Hot Chili Peppers' recording of Stevie Wonder's "higher Ground"? Need it, Sheila? Well, YES, dammit and I need it instantly. Like TWO MINUTES AGO. Seriously. It's a problem. I wake up from my fugue state for tinhorns and have 75 new songs in the Library.

-- Michael, the favorite ex, emailed me to say, "Just wanted you to know I've been thinking of you. Maybe it's because of Sydney Pollack and Harvey Korman dying, but you've been on my mind." I love that. I love that cause it was the same for me, too. Speaking of Harvey Korman, here is a wonderful tribute.

Thought for the day before I go out and meet all that it has to offer

You must learn now, that the important lesson - as long as you have your health - is that the divide is not between the servants and the served, between the leisured and the workers, but between those who are interested in the world and its multiplicity of forms and forces, and those who merely subsist, worrying and yawning.

-- Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, A.S. Byatt (excerpt here)

In other words, try to remember what it was like to be her:

Polkadot junction

A glorious montage.

Diary Friday: A Chicago Winter

Not really full diary entries, just quotes and snippets and fragments I scribbled in the back of notebooks that I kept during a 4 month period in Chicago. I've posted some of this before. Some make me LAUGH, others make that whole time just spring back to life in a weird way. It was so intense, good lord. It was from a particularly manic winter of my life which I look back on fondly, although it was completely insane and ended up with me making the decision, in around March I think it was - to pick up and move from Chicago and go to New York City. So it was a crazy time.

I won't give too much background - it's funner to post these things without context, I think - except to say that the guy I reference as "M" was my main flame in Chicago, a particularly insane person (the one who would climb through my window at 3 o'clock in the morning) - and he and I had stopped seeing each other for a couple of months - and the details of it all escape me, although I do know that it involved him blocking me out of his bedroom by putting a humidifier against the door - and then me deciding that a good way to retailiate would be to leave a daily haiku on his answering machine. For FORTY DAYS. It was that kind of time in my life. Full of focused and committed frivolity.

Anyway, it appears from the fragments below that M. had reappeared - as he always did, actually - for years on end ... and we had reconnected and were once again thick as thieves. If memory serves, this brief reconnection would be interrupted by a glitch known to me as "The night of the Gingerman" where I refused to speak to him for, oh, 4 months? But again, I'll leave all that unsaid. It's funnier, actually.

Ann and I are obviously up to NO GOOD throughout most of this time, and it is making me LAUGH. We are always scheming and I am cracking up. Most of the quotes below involves the two of us "weaving webs of lies" because you know why? Because it was fun. It is fun to "weave a web of lies".

And the bit about me crying and how M. handled it ... I'm still laughing. It says who he is (and who I am, actually) perfectly.

DEC. TO MARCH

Joe: "Member in Pulp Fiction --"
Ann: "No, see now, that was Sheila."

Ann: "Is that the one where your hair is different?"
Me: "No, that's your fantasy."

Me: "I'm just gonna be myself--"
Ann: "I think you should. Of course, if you need to be married ..."

Me: "I think M. knew he could show up and I would let him know I wanted him to be there --"
Ann: "Or you'd blatantly ignore him like that night at the Wrigleyside."

Fragments from M.'s improv show
"Thank you, Gore Vidal."

"Gash (like a wound) - is offended."

"I wish I was a deformed midget."

1/13
Guess who crash-bang-boomed back into my life this week? M. I can't discuss the chemistry anymore (but of course I still will) - but it just exists. We're friends. M. is my friend. I really can see myself now paging him from a scary L platform somewhere and he'd come and save me. How do I BEGIN? Being with M. - after a year - is so familiar. It's like my maroon sweater or something. Oh, who KNOWS. I adore him. Like this is a surprise. It's a surprise to him, I think.

Mitchell: "Something has happened that I keep forgetting."

Me: "Isn't it great that M. is back in my life?"
Ann: "I think it's totally great, even though you know this is only going to lead to haikus and humidifiers."

Snippets from M.'s improv show
"I usually save an extra seat for the Narrator."

Roy, the Idiot Man-Child from the Service Station

"You're not even a zoologist!"

"Of course, we need to park on a street where there is a raging fire." - Me and Ann

Exchange between casting agent and M.
Casting agent: "The character is constantly getting into situations he needs to get out of. He's also a hopeless romantic. Do you think you can do that?"
M.: "I like acting."

M. to me, when he wouldn't let me drive his car: "There are traction issues that you just can't understand."

Fragments - from M.'s improv show
"Leave some room, John!"

"I like working with pigs!"

"You're gonna have to wear an eyepatch!"

From Vindication:
I have not the constitution, the education, the ability to concentrate. I fear for my sanity sometimes. There are days when I am on the edge of tears. Sometimes I am so restless I do not know what to do. Sometimes I can talk all night, like King George, you know. I am too, too happy, and in the same day I can be sad beyond hope. Sometimes teaching the girls is all I can do. Sometimes I am magnificent at it. Sometimes I do not know what to do with myself, my hands, my eyes. I want to fling myself down on the grass, embrace it, thank it, each little stem of it. I want a beautiful blue dress, shimmery, the color of the ocean. I want to be the ocean and the clouds. No, not the clouds, that is too far away.

"Well, that will make you more three-dimensional." - Me (weaving a web of lies with Ann Marie)

"You sent the man 30 haikus. I don't think he'll mind if you come to a couple of his shows." - Ann

We were all talking about what our "type" was. I had just come back from a weekend with M. I said, "My type of guy punctuates each sentence with a shot of Rumpelmans."

Me to M.: "I have a kinder-whore appeal ... or at least so I've been told."

Joey, talking to the television, as we watched 30something: "These are nice people, Susannah. They want to like you because they love Garry."

I'm forever under lock and key
As you pass thru me

M.: "There came a point when I was - whatever, it was clear to my parents that I had to be having sex by that time - I was 23, whatever - and my mom said something to me like, 'Well, at least you're not having sex,' and I had to say, 'Mom. Look. I'm having sex.' and she said, 'I'm glad you're not having sex.' Total denial. She couldn't even hear what I was saying. I think my mom could walk in on me actually having sex, and she'd be like, 'I'm so glad you're studying!'"

From the party 12/10
"These Oreos are insanely delicious." - Joey

"You just never know what will happen with broccoli." - Me

"I just kicked a pig." - Ann

Heard simultaneously by Ann:
Me: (with a mouth full of food) "I have an eating disorder."
Mitchell: "I can honestly say I've never slept with ----- oh, wait --- yes, I have."

George and Ann, providing dialogue to an old movie, with the sound turned down:
George: "That's why your dancing frustrates me - because I can't move!"
Ann: "Well, don't you think I understand that? I mean, look at my eyebrows!"

Ann: "I was thinking about your life the other day ..."

2/20
Me: Hi, honey.
M.: Hi, spanky.

Jackie: "The symptoms of this disease are: trouble with social skills .... long legs ... developing breasts as a man - and small tightly formed gonads."

2/24
M. calls my house - Jackie picks up.
Jackie: "Hello. Tony's Pizza Palace."
M.: "I'd like a Sheila to go."
Jackie: "And what would you like on that?"
M.: "Nothing."

2/23
Me: "I have my period."
M.: "What else is new."

Me to M. (and I was dead serious): "It would totally not surprise me if I disappeared into a white slavery sex ring at some point."

Me to Mitchell (about M.): "Isn't he so sweet?"
Mitchell: "He is. He is sweet." Long pause. "He's a lunatic."

Mitchell: "The improv jam is pushing all my buttons."

Mitchell to me: "If you say 'improv jam' one more time, I'm going to scream at the top of my lungs."

2/26
Crying in M.'s arms - it was, God, 3 am? I said later, "Sorry for crying like such a werewolf." Not aware that werewolves were big criers. But anyway, I couldn't stop. It wasn't sadness, though. I had been so wound up for about a week, and then I relaxed with him, and started to cry, and then I couldn't stop. For about an hour. Poor man. I kept saying to him, "Don't be scared - the tears are good tears ... I'm happy ... I'm so happy ..." He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, he was holding me, and he said, drily, "I hope you don't mind if I just take your word for it that you're happy, okay? I mean, you're fucking crying ..." "I'm just happy, M, I'm happy ..." "Okay, okay, you're happy. Christ."

1/13
7 a.m. Jazz Bulls. The place closed its doors at 6 a.m. M. was working - so there was grey weird light seeping into the basement windows. Everything looked weird. Pre-dawn. It felt like we were the only 2 people on the earth. M. said, "You want some coffee before you go to work?" "You mean ... go out?" I didn't think there'd be time for that. He scoffed at the "out" question. "No - I can make you coffee here. You want some?" "God, yes." I hoisted myself up onto the bar and sat there as M made a pot of coffee. His pants were totally ripped by that loony Christine bitch. I loved watching him shuffle around dealing with filters and coffee and water. He was adorable. All the while we were talking about us. I told him how comfortable I felt with him. At one point I fell into a depression, having to go to work after being up all night. I said, "I can't believe I'm going to work right now."

He was standing with his back to me, pouring coffee. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Just black. And strong. And please don't say 'You like it like you like your men' or whatever. Everyone says that."

He poured sugar and cream into his own coffee, handed me mine, which I began to devour (it didn't even make a dent in my exhaustion) and then stood there, stirring his own coffee. We were lost in our own thoughts. He was deep in contemplation. Turns out, it was about me - but I didn't guess that in that moment. He was just pondering me, perched on top of the counter, pale, sipping the coffee he made for me, in the dawn-lit bar where he works, half an hour away from having to go to my job.

He turned to stare at me, still stirring his coffee. He looked at me for a long time. Contemplatively. I didn't ask what he was looking at me like that for. I just looked back at him. Then he said - slowly - choosing his words - or, no - not choosing his words - M. doesn't really do that - but slowly, as though this idea had just occurred to him and surprised him: "You must really like me."

That is SUCH a funny moment if I really ponder it. I've known this guy for 3 years, and now he says, in a tone of awe, "You must really like me!" It was so sincere. I started laughing. "Of course I like you. What are you, a moron?" Laughing at him. "You didn't know that I like you?"

"Well - no - I mean, I know you like me. But, I mean, you must like me. You've gotten no sleep because of me, and you're about to go to work - I mean, there's not too many people I'd do that for." (He didn't say if he'd do it for me or not.) "I think it's rare."

I felt like I should say something, but I didn't know what to say. M. sensed that in me, because he said, quickly, reassuring, "No, I mean - it's cool - that you like me - I mean ... I guess I just didn't know." He went back into contemplative stirring-coffee mode.

"Well, now you know." I said.

We drank coffee, not talking, the air clear between us. Both of us thinking. About the other. He gets shy. Like he doesn't want to say too much, or ruin anything.

He said, looking down into his coffee, "I feel like there's not a word evolved enough for what we are."

Fragile moment. I didn't speak. I let it hover. He had more to say. I knew it. He said, "You have always struck me, from the very beginning as ... someone who ... wanted to different than what you are."

That was an ambiguous thing to say. I saw 2 possible interpretations - or, no, actually - now I see the 2 interpretations - but this is how I took it at the time: Sheila, you have been trying to be something you're not.

So I felt a little chilled by that. I pursued it. "What do you ..."

He meant what he had said - but it wasn't the negative interpretation that I put on it. He meant that: I'm not satisfied anymore with being unhappy, repressed, uptight - and I am determined to get over myself, and get better, push through these barriers I have up.

I did not know that he had perceived that from the beginning. I remember him saying to me on a tequila-soaked summer's eve, when I was all upset and weepy, "Your journey ... has just begun." He knew. How did he know?

He explained what he meant: "The first time we went out ... " (neither of us know how to define this whole damn thing - we have no words - there are not words evolved enough for what we are) "Well - I told you this - you were so - " (he stopped talking, and then kind of hugged his arms around himself, put his head down - to show how closed I was and uptight) "And I wasn't -- sure how to handle it ... I wasn't sure if you ..." (unfinished sentence, wincing expression, awkward, shy) "But then ... you kept ..." (stopped himself - and smiled - and I knew what he meant. I had kept calling him, kept making myself available - he didn't say it in a mean way. It's the truth.) I said, grinning, "I kept coming back for more, huh." "Well ... yeah ... so I figured ... Okay ... This person is ..." (all of this accompanied with those subtle facial expressions and hand gestures he does - we transcend words - the expression and the gesture he made conveyed my whole life: pushing through, frustrated, upset, sick of being upset ... wanting to be happy. He saw all that?) I nodded in agreement with his interpretation of me. He said, nearly unable to get it out - too awkward and vulnerable, "So ... it's kind of cool, Sheila ... to see how you have progressed. It's ..." He stopped. It's like I was inside of him. Like he could hear those words "how you have progressed" and to him they suddenly sounded patronizing. But no. They were not. I said, softly, "It is cool, M. It is cool."

Happy birthday, Howard Hawks!

He's my favorite director. Not only has he directed some of my favorite films of all time, but you look at his run of hits in the 30s and 40s (and beyond - but that was his real heyday) - and it rivals other directors' entire bodies of work over their entire lives. How on earth did that happen? Amazing.

Sometimes I think of the comments that Wes Anderson gets about his films sometimes, along the lines of: "When is he going to stop making films about privileged disturbed siblings? It's like he's OBSESSED with childhood or something!" As though obsession is somehow a bad or a weird thing. On the contrary: a director with one over-riding obsession (besides directing, I mean - I am talking thematically here) is actually doing his job. You may not like the film, you may not relate to the particular theme in question - but to suggest that being obsessed with one thing is somehow not right for a director - that a director should have more range, a director shouldn't limit himself to one theme ... is to completely misunderstand not only the history of films and directors, but to misunderstand what the job actually is. Hitchcock didn't make an endless variety of films with a million different themes. He created indelible characters, different from film to film - but the basic concerns are the same, and carry the label "Hitchcockian". It is immediately recognizable as his own. He didn't have five million obsessions. He had one or two that he kept working on, over and over and over, in film after film. So to those folks who demand variety, who get sick of Woody Allen always doing films about neurotic Upper West Side people, or (fill in the blank) seem to me to be mistaking personal taste for critical value. It's a common thing that happens - it happens with me all the time, it happens with everyone. You may find Woody Allen's movies and characters annoying - that's fine, that's a personal taste - but to suggest that because he focuses on the same demographic with the same neuroses his work is somehow lesser ... well, sorry, that's retarded. A director is not just a craftsman who knows where to put the camera. Directors have personalities, styles, and interests, just like any other artist. John Ford, George Cukor, Martin Scorsese, Ingmar Bergman ... these people are unmistakably individual. You would never mistake a John Ford film for a George Cukor film, and vice versa. It's funny that the "auteur theory" of filmmaking came along after the giants of the craft in the 30s and 40s ... guys who, yes, worked under the studio system but you could never ever say that these guys were slaves, that they were somehow "not allowed" to express their own vision of the world. What? Auteur shmauteur, these guys were GIANTS, and their films are extremely personal. You can see what John Ford cares about when you watch his films. Same with Howard Hawks. And one of the things that those who interviewed them say (like Bogdonavich) - is that all of them were relatively self-deprecating, you would never catch them being self-important about the job. Bogdonavich would ask questions, and more often than not, he'd get, 'Well, you just have to tell the story" as an answer ... These guys thought simply, directly, and about STORY ... not about expressing themselves or anything like that. However: express themselves they did. And better than anyone.

Howard Hawks did not make a million different movies with countless themes. He basically made the same movie over and over again with different characters (sometimes even borrowing lines from film to film. "I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me." That line appears in To Have and Have Not and Only Angels Have Wings but there are many other examples). You can list Howard Hawks' themes (or obsessions) on one hand. The camaraderie of men in a purely masculine setting: war, early aviation, science, ranching ... The element of the female and how she has to keep up with the guys if she wants to be accepted. The equal footing of male and female - and the rat-a-tat-tat repartee back and forth. Woman giving as good as she got. The woman going toe to toe with the man. Being as "insolent" (his direction to Lauren Bacall in her debut in To Have and Have Not) as the man. And the man either getting baffled and confused in the face of the formidable female (Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby, Gary Cooper in Ball of Fire) ... or getting cranky and even more macho when the girl is around (Cary Grant in Only Angels Have Wings, John Wayne in Rio Bravo). Either way, it is a meeting of the MINDS. Howard Hawks was interested in equality - not in a political way, or a social way - but on a personal one to one basis. Hawks has said that the women he always liked were women who could hang out with the guys and not have their delicate sensibilities ruffled. He liked to hunt, fish, play poker, drink ... and he liked a woman who could do all of those things, too - but still be ladylike. He didn't like floozies. No, no. He liked DAMES. You know what I mean? DAMES. Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday was a DAME. Jean Arthur in Only Angels Have Wings is KIND of a dame, but then she realizes, over the course of the film, that she has fallen in love with Cary Grant, and - as happens to so many of us when in love - she falls apart spectacularly. All of her strength and self-assurance flies out the window, and she becomes, well, GIRLY. She cries, for example, a big no-no in Howard Hawks' lexicon. Her task, over the film, is to put all of that aside - without sacrificing her womanliness - and love the man in question without stepping into any kind of traditional gender-assigned role. Be a woman, but don't be a weakling. Be brave, be stoic, but also be sexy and FUN. Hawks liked FUN girls. He didn't like drips. Drips don't do well in his films at all. The men wouldn't tolerate it.

The big thing in Hawks' films: Men would prefer (if it weren't for that whole sex thing) to hang out only with each other. They would rather be in the company of a man than a woman, because the rules are understood ("Who's Joe?") - and you don't have to explain yourself, etc. etc. Women muck up men's serious business. But of course ... you want to sleep with women. And of course sometimes you actually fall in love with one of the pesky creatures. And then what do you do? Hawks was versatile enough to look at this issue through multiple lenses. For example, in Bringing Up Baby and Ball of Fire - he looks at it through a sheerly comedic lens. The men in those films are intellectuals, stiff, humorless, and rigid. Which is why it is so hilarious when they start to fall apart and unravel because of a woman. A WOMAN!! They might not have the macho bluster that the men in Hawks' more macho films have - but they still feel that women are, well, rather silly, and it is best if they keep out of men's business. But oh, these men meet their matches - in Susan Vance (played by Katharine Hepburn) and Sugarpuss O'Shea (played by Barbara Stanwyck). These women refuse to stay out of men's business. They set their eye on the prize and will not be swayed ... and even when the poor men BEG them to go away, they blithely refuse. In those films, it is the man who is in the more typically female role - the passive, the resistant ... and it is the women who are the powerhouses. It's hilarious to watch. Nobody has ever portrayed the war of the sexes with so much love, humor, and creativity. It's a war, sure, but isn't it a lovely war?? Wouldn't we rather fight that war than not? That was Hawks' view.

Here's a long piece I wrote about "The Howard Hawks Woman". He was directing at the height of strong female portrayals in the movies. Despite the salary power and star power of female stars now, we have a long way to go to see as many awesome intelligent funny sexy obnoxious female characters as we did back in the 30s and 40s. There were truly giants in those days!

I adore him. And I never get sick of his films.

Happy birthday, Howard Hawks!

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'For Esmé with Love and Squalor' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the sixth story 'For Esmé with Love and Squalor'

God, I love this story. It is perfection. It was one of Salinger's most successful short stories, in terms of the fan response to it - and actually Nine Stories was published under the title For Esme with Love and Squalor, and you can still find copies of it with that name. The story has a poignancy to it that makes the heart swell up like the Grinch's. And it delivers on the promise - not just in the title, but in the promise the army sergeant made to the young girl Esme - who wanted a story that involved "squalor" because she adored squalor. He puts the love into it. Because in the middle of war, he found love for her. And it is love that will save us all. There will always be squalor - but without love, you will never make it through with (to quote the last line of the story) your f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact. Beautiful story.

There is some speculation that the unnamed narrator in the story is Buddy Glass. Some people have said he is Seymour, but that makes no sense because there is mention of an "older brother in Albany" and Seymour was the oldest of the Glass children. I suppose it doesn't matter - and there is no definitive proof either way. What matters is the story - and it's one of the most delicate moving stories in the whole collection.

The story opens with a man receiving a wedding invitation. He's in America, the invitation comes from England. He would love to be there, but his wife convinces him that now is not a good time for such and such obligations, etc. But he remembers the girl who is getting married ... and, on a personal note, it just makes me so happy that these two souls would stay in touch. Now that is beautiful.

He met her when he was stationed in England during WWII. He leaves the barracks one night, and wanders around the town, stopping off in a church to watch the local choir practice. He is taken with one of the girls singing. She is about 13 years old, and has the most beautiful clear voice in the bunch, and there is something about her that strikes the narrator. Afterwards, he goes off and sits in a coffee house, to get out of the rain. Eventually, the girl he saw at choir practice comes in - and she is with her younger brother (one of Salinger's most wonderful child creations - I LOVE this kid - his name is Charles) and an older woman who seems to be a governess. The girl ends up walking over to the narrator's table and asking if she can sit and talk. They chat. It's a casual conversation, although deep themes are touched - the girl was orphaned by the war, she obviously has taken on the raising of her brother Charles (who is 4 years old, and quite a handful), and she wears on her wrist an enormous watch that obviously has come from someone else. A big man's watch. The war is not over yet. Esme asks him what he does, he says he is a short story writer. She asks if one day he would write a story, just for her - and would he please put a lot of "squalor" in it?

The encounter ends. She leaves the coffee house, waving good bye - and Salinger writes, in that simple way he has that can clutch at your throat: "It was a strangely emotional moment for me."

Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he knows that once his training is over, he will be plunged into the war, and all its horror ... and he will need the vision of innocence that he got through talking with Esme. Perhaps he knows what is ahead of him. The next time we meet him, it is after D Day. He sits in his barracks in Germany - and suddenly the narration is no longer first person - he is now referred to as "X". A strange distancing technique - incredibly moving because you get the sense of how bad it got for him, psychologically. He's had a nervous breakdown. He has the shakes, he can barely hold his cigarette. He can't sleep. He's unraveled.

Another soldier comes in - kind of a dumb-bum - X writes his letters to his wife for him, interspersing German words into it - so that he will sound smarter. You know, he's a moron. He means well, but there's a callousness to him. X is all alone in the world. The other soldier brings him a letter and when he's alone, X reads it. It is from Esme. They had exchanged addresses. She has finally written to him - very excited the war is over, and all that - and she has enclosed a gift for him, something he might get more use out of than she would. It is the wristwatch.

After reading the letter, poor X - who is psychologically in torment - suddenly is overwhelmed by exhaustion. The best kind. He lies down. He will be able to sleep now. In a way, her letter saved him. Reminded him, perhaps, of what he had been fighting for ... to preserve innocence like that, to protect it ... or maybe just a reminder of all of the good things in life, even amidst the horror of war. Who knows. But she saved him.

And so 6 years later, when she invites him to her wedding ...

Well. It's killer. He's an American in his early 20s. She's an English girl in her early teens. But they are kindred spirits.

Beautiful story. Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the sixth story 'For Esmé with Love and Squalor'

The next thing I knew, the young lady was standing, with enviable poise, beside my table. She was wearing a tartan dress - a Campbell tartan, I believe. It seemed to me to be a wonderful dress for a very young girl to be wearing on a rainy, rainy day. "I thought Americans despised tea," she said.

It wasn't the observation of a smart aleck but that of a truth-lover or a statistics-lover. I replied that some of us never drank anything but tea. I asked her if she'd care to join me.

"Thank you," she said. "Perhaps for just a fraction of a moment."

I got up and drew a chair for her, the one opposite me, and she sat down on the forward quarter of it, keeping her spine easily and beautifully straight. I went back - almost hurried back - to my own chair, more than willing to hold up my end of a conversation. When I was seated, I couldn't think of anything to say, though. I smiled again, still keeping my coal-black filling under concealment. I remarked that it was certainly a terrible day out.

"Yes; quite," said my guest, in the clear, unmistakable voice of a small-talk detester. She placed her fingers flat on the table edge, like someone at a seance, and then, almost instantly, closed her hands - her nails were bitten down to the quick. She was wearing a wristwatch, a military-looking one that looked rather like a navigator's chronograph. Its face was much too large for her slender wrist. "You were at choir practice," she said matter-of-factly. "I saw you."

I said I certainly had been, and that I had heard her voice singing separately from the others. I said I thought she had a very fine voice.

She nodded. "I know. I'm going to be a professional singer."

"Really? Opera?"

"Heavens, no. I'm going to sing jazz on the radio and make heaps of money. Then, when I'm thirty, I shall retire and live on a ranch in Ohio." She touched the top of her soaking-wet head with the flat of her hand. "Do you know Ohio?" she asked.

I said I'd been through it on the train a few times but that I didn't really know it. I offered her a piece of cinnamon toast.

"No, thank you," she said. "I eat like a bird, actually."

I bit into a piece of toast myself, and commented that there's some mighty rough country around Ohio.

"I know. An American I met told me. You're the eleventh American I've met."

Her governess was now urgently signalling her to return to her own table - in effect, to stop bothering the man. My guest, however, calmly moved her chair an inch or two so that her back broke all possible further communication with the home table. "You go to that secret Intelligence school on the hill, don't you?" she inquired coolly.

As security-minded as the next one, I replied that I was visiting Devonshire for my health.

"Really," she said. "I wasn't quite born yesterday, you know."

I said I'd bet she hadn't been, at that. I drank my tea for a moment. I was getting a trifle posture-conscious and I sat up somewhat straighter in my seat.

"You seem quite intelligent for an American," my guest mused.

I told her that was a pretty snobbish thing to say, if you thought about it at all, and that I hoped it was unworthy of her.

She blushed - automatically conferring on me the social poise I'd been missing. "Well. Most of the Americans I've seen act like animals. They're forever punching one another about, and insulting everyone, and - You know what one of them did?"

I shook my head.

"One of them threw an empty whiskey bottle through my aunt's window. Fortunately, the window was open. But does that sound very intelligent to you?"

It didn't especially, but I didn't say so. I said that many soldiers, all over the world, were a long way from home, and that few of them had had many real advantages in life. I said I'd thought that most people could figure that out for themselves.

"Possibly," said my guest, without conviction. She raised her hand to her wet head again, picked at a few limp filaments of blond hair, trying to cover her exposed ear rims. "My hair is soaking wet," she said. "I look a fright." She looked over at me. "I have quite wavy hair when it's dry."

"I can see that. I can see you have."

"Not actually curly, but quite wavy," she said. "Are you married?"

I said I was.

She nodded. "Are you very deeply in love with your wife? Or am I being too personal?"

I said that when she was, I'd speak up.

She put her hands and wrists farther forward on the table, and I remember wanting to do something about that enormous-faced wristwatch she was wearing - perhaps suggest that she try wearing it around her waist.

"Usually, I'm not terribly gregarious," she said, and looked over at me to see if I knew the meaning of the word. I didn't give her a sign, though, one way or the other. "I purely came over because I thought you looked extremely lonely. You have an extremely sensitive face."

I said she was right, that I had been feeling lonely, and that I was very glad she'd come over.

"I'm training myself to be more compassionate. My aunt says I'm a terribly cold person," she said and felt the top of her head again. "I live with my aunt. She's an extremely kind person. Since the death of my mother, she's done everything within her power to make Charles and me feel adjusted."

"I'm glad."

"Mother was an extremely intelligent person. Quite sensuous, in many ways." She looked at me with a kind of fresh acuteness. "Do you find me terribly cold?"

I told her absolutely not - very much to the contrary, in fact. I told her my name and asked for hers.

She hesitated. "My first name is Esmé. I don't think I shall tell you my full name, for the moment. I have a title and you may just be impressed by titles. Americans are, you know."

I said I didn't think I would be, but that it might be a good idea, at that, to hold on to the title for a while.

Cormac McCarthy's "god-mike"

A wonderful post from Ted about The Crossing, and Cormac McCarthy's sudden piercing bouts of omniscence - hard to pull off, nigh on impossible - The great Russian writers do it all the time, but of course, they invented the "god-mike" in September, 1634, so that makes sense. George Eliot could do it - she's the first English writer that comes to mind, but I can't think of anyone else who so consistently pulls off the "god-mike" effect so effortlessly and powerfully. You must be a psychologist of the highest order to be able to pull back that far, and comment not just on the events of the story, but on all mankind. Blood Meridien was brutal that way. It was like staring into a bright light.

In closeup: La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc

Here is Roger Ebert's review of La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc (1928; dir. Carl Dreyer) which is one of the most startling and wrenching films I have ever seen in my life:

You cannot know the history of silent film unless you know the face of Renee Maria Falconetti. In a medium without words, where the filmmakers believed that the camera captured the essence of characters through their faces, to see Falconetti in Dreyer's ``The Passion of Joan of Arc'' (1928) is to look into eyes that will never leave you...

Dreyer had been given a large budget and a screenplay by his French producers, but he threw out the screenplay and turned instead to the transcripts of Joan's trial. They told the story that has become a legend: of how a simple country maid from Orleans, dressed as a boy, led the French troops in their defeat of the British occupation forces. How she was captured by French loyal to the British and brought before a church court, where her belief that she had been inspired by heavenly visions led to charges of heresy. There were 29 cross-examinations, combined with torture, before Joan was burned at the stake in 1431. Dreyer combined them into one inquisition, in which the judges, their faces twisted with their fear of her courage, loomed over her with shouts and accusations.

If you go to the Danish Film Museum in Copenhagen you can see Dreyer's model for the extraordinary set he built for the film. He wanted it all in one piece (with movable walls for the cameras), and he began with towers at four corners, linked with concrete walls so thick they could support the actors and equipment. Inside the enclosure were chapels, houses and the ecclesiastical court, built according to a weird geometry that put windows and doors out of plumb with one another and created discordant visual harmonies (the film was made at the height of German Expressionism and the French avant-garde movement in art).

It is helpful to see the model in Copenhagen, because you will never see the whole set in the movie. There is not one single establishing shot in all of ``The Passion of Joan of Arc,'' which is filmed entirely in closeups and medium shots, creating fearful intimacy between Joan and her tormentors. Nor are there easily read visual links between shots. In his brilliant shot-by-shot analysis of the film, David Bordwell of the University of Wisconsin concludes: ``Of the film's over 1,500 cuts, fewer than 30 carry a figure or object over from one shot to another; and fewer than 15 constitute genuine matches on action.''

What does this mean to the viewer? There is a language of shooting and editing that we subconsciously expect at the movies. We assume that if two people are talking, the cuts will make it seem that they are looking at one another. We assume that if a judge is questioning a defendant, the camera placement and editing will make it clear where they stand in relation to one another. If we see three people in a room, we expect to be able to say how they are arranged and which is closest to the camera. Almost all such visual cues are missing from ``The Passion of Joan of Arc.''

Instead Dreyer cuts the film into a series of startling images. The prison guards and the ecclesiastics on the court are seen in high contrast, often from a low angle, and although there are often sharp architectural angles behind them, we are not sure exactly what the scale is (are the windows and walls near or far?). Bordwell's book reproduces a shot of three priests, presumably lined up from front to back, but shot in such a way that their heads seem stacked on top of one another. All of the faces of the inquisitors are shot in bright light, without makeup, so that the crevices and flaws of the skin seem to reflect a diseased inner life.

Falconetti, by contrast, is shot in softer grays, rather than blacks and whites. Also without makeup, she seems solemn and consumed by inner conviction. Consider an exchange where a judge asks her whether St. Michael actually spoke to her. Her impassive face seems to suggest that whatever happened between Michael and herself was so far beyond the scope of the question that no answer is conceivable.

Why did Dreyer fragment his space, disorient the visual sense and shoot in closeup? I think he wanted to avoid the picturesque temptations of a historical drama. There is no scenery here, aside from walls and arches. Nothing was put in to look pretty. You do not leave discussing the costumes (although they are all authentic). The emphasis on the faces insists that these very people did what they did. Dreyer strips the church court of its ritual and righteousness and betrays its members as fleshy hypocrites in the pay of the British; their narrow eyes and mean mouths assault Joan's sanctity.

For Falconetti, the performance was an ordeal. Legends from the set tell of Dreyer forcing her to kneel painfully on stone and then wipe all expression from her face--so that the viewer would read suppressed or inner pain. He filmed the same shots again and again, hoping that in the editing room he could find exactly the right nuance in her facial expression. There is an echo in the famous methods of the French director Robert Bresson, who in his own 1962 ``The Trial of Joan of Arc'' put actors through the same shots again and again, until all apparent emotion was stripped from their performances. In his book on Dreyer, Tom Milne quotes the director: ``When a child suddenly sees an onrushing train in front of him, the expression on his face is spontaneous. By this I don't mean the feeling in it (which in this case is sudden fear), but the fact that the face is completely uninhibited.'' That is the impression he wanted from Falconetti.

That he got it is generally agreed. Perhaps it helps that Falconetti never made another movie (she died in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1946). We do not have her face in other roles to compare with her face here, and the movie seems to exist outside time (the French director Jean Cocteau famously said it played like ``an historical document from an era in which the cinema didn't exist'').

To modern audiences, raised on films where emotion is conveyed by dialogue and action more than by faces, a film like ``The Passion of Joan of Arc'' is an unsettling experience--so intimate we fear we will discover more secrets than we desire. Our sympathy is engaged so powerfully with Joan that Dreyer's visual methods--his angles, his cutting, his closeups--don't play like stylistic choices, but like the fragments of Joan's experience. Exhausted, starving, cold, in constant fear, only 19 when she died, she lives in a nightmare where the faces of her tormentors rise up like spectral demons.

Perhaps the secret of Dreyer's success is that he asked himself, ``What is this story really about?'' And after he answered that question he made a movie about absolutely nothing else.

It is Dreyer's use of close-ups, and, as Ebert points out, the lack of any establishing shots that make the film so terrifying and emotional to watch. There are times when you literally do not know where you are. And this reflects the unbelievable intensity of Joan of Arc's experience as she is interrogated. The faces of the actors are flawed, there appears to be no pancake makeup on anyone. There is one scene where Joan sits, tormented by the questions, listening to who knows what in her own head, and a fly buzzes around her face, sometimes landing on her neck, her forehead. It is unbelievably real. A lesser director would have chosen other shots, where there is no fly. But Dreyer was up to something else here.

The heads LOOM at you, throughout the film. It is captivating - in the best and worst sense of the word, meaning: you cannot look away, but you also feel trapped. You yearn to escape, to flee from that dungeon space ... but because Dreyer does not set up the scene so that you know where the exits are, you have no idea where you would go. He makes you lose yourself in the faces.

I watched the film with no sound (there is no sound anyway) - but there is a version of the film with music as well. Both versions are amazing - but I highly recommend watching it with no sound first. There is a ton of dialogue, of course - since it's an interrogation scene - but there are very little subtitles. You get the whole story from the expressions on the faces, and the behavioral tics captured by the camera. I must borrow a thought from Cocteau (lifted from Pauline Kael's review) because it is completely accurate, and reflects my own experience: Without any background sound, the film takes on a comfortless blasted-open atmosphere - you cannot hide from it - and you begin to get the sense (and this is where it gets mystical, unlike any other film I have ever seen) that you are actually looking at a historical event, you feel like you are watching a film that was made before film was invented. It's that real, that unfettered. The modern world (despite the fact that we are watching a film - filmed by cameras) does not seem to exist. Without sound, The Passion of Joan of Arc ranks as the most powerful film ever made.

And Falconetti's performance cannot, in any way shape or form, be over-stated. It is one for the ages. It takes on a mythic proportion that has rarely been seen in film, before or since.

Pauline Kael writes:

One of the greatest of all movies. The director, Carl Dreyer, based the script on the trial records, and the testimony appears to be given for the first time. (Cocteau wrote that this film "seems like an historical document from an era in which the cinema didn't exist.") As the five gruelling cross-examinations follow each other, Dreyer turns the camera on the faces of Joan and the judges, and in giant close-ups he reveals his interpretation of their emotions. In this enlargement Joan and her persecutors are shockingly fleshly - isolated with their sweat, warts, spittle, and tears, and (as no one used makeup) with startlingly individual contours, features, and skin. No other film has so subtly linked eroticism with religious persecution. Maria Falconetti's Joan may be the finest performance ever recorded on film. With Silvain as Cauchon, Michel Simon, Andre Berley, Maurice Schutz, and the young Antonin Artaud - as Massieu he's the image of passionate idealism. The staging, and the cinematography by Rudolph Mate, are in a style that suggests the Stations of the Cross. The film is silent but as you often see the (French) words forming you may have the illusion that you've heard them.

In the early years of film, many directors, who came from the theatre and vaudeville, filmed the movies from a theatrical perspective - long shots, lots of action, where you can see everyone at the same time, identical to what you see on the stage. D.W. Griffith understood the power of the new medium, though, and moved the camera in on his actor's faces - he knew that film, unlike theatre, had the potential to be a purely psychological experience (not that there is not psychology in the theatre - it's just that the form demands something larger, something that can be seen all the way in the cheap seats). But a closeup is psychological. It is internal. It is the equivalent of a Shakespearean soliloquy. Whatever is going on there is a one-on-one exchange between the character and the audience. We are privileged to get that close. It was THE breakthrough in early films. It changed everything.

Carl Dreyer, while not the first to move his camera in that close, took it to a level which can be called almost psychologically disorienting ... and you begin to wish he would pull back, so that you could get a break. But if Joan of Arc doesn't get a break, then neither should you in the audience. Close-ups have never been used to such a shattering effect.

That's the only way to describe the film. Shattering.

Screenshots below from this extraordinary film.

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'Down at the Dinghy' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the fifth story 'Down at the Dinghy'

There's not much to this story, it seems to me to be the "thinnest" in the collection. If you put it alongside 'The Laughing Man' (excerpt here) or 'Perfect Day for Bananafish' (excerpt here) it seems pretty near inconsequential. It features Boo Boo Tannenbaum (that's her married name - her maiden name is "Glass" and she is yet another of the Glass siblings - her name comes up often, I mean how many people are called BOO BOO?? Boo Boo is known as the maternal one, the nurturing one - and although we have heard much about her from other stories, here she takes center stage). Boo Boo is married, and she has a small son Lionel, who seems to run away every other day. He is four years old or something like that, but he's been running away since he was two years old. They never can figure out why. They try to put two and two together, someone said something mean to him at school, whatever ... but Lionel doesn't really divulge. Boo Boo and family are staying at their summer house on the lake, and they've decided to stay through October. Boo Boo is only 25, but you know, it was a different time. She's the lady of the household. In cut-off jeans, with a pack of cigarettes in her back pocket. If you've read the other Glass stories, you've heard so much good stuff about Boo Boo that you're excited to meet her. And she seems really nice. Nice-ness is underrated. Seymour Glass may have been a more stimulating companion, but he also could be frustrating and opaque. Boo Boo seems straight-up nice, like you could hang with her. The story opens with Boo Boo's housekeeper gossiping with another local housekeeper - Boo Boo's housekeeper Sandra is bitching about how she always has to watch what she says about Lionel, and how annoying it is. She's obviously upset about something - something she said that Lionel heard ... but instead of admitting any wrongdoing herself, she keeps insisting that the kid is weird, he sneaks around the house quietly, and you have to watch what you say. The other housekeeper, Mrs. Snell, tries to tell Sandra not to worry about it, and Sandra keeps saying she's not worried. Yet she still keeps talking about it.

Boo Boo enters. Her son Lionel is apparently sitting down in the dinghy by the dock, and he has threatened to run away again. He is just sitting there, thinking it out. Boo Boo goes down to talk to her son, try to find out what happened, and how to get to the bottom of what he's going thru. Turns out, Lionel overheard Sandra call his father a "dirty sloppy kike" and this upset him. But he doesn't even know what the word means - he thinks a "kike" is a thing you put a string on and let it fly up into the air. Okay. So Sandra, the housekeeper, is anti-Semitic - a comment she makes about Lionel's nose is more evidence of that - but Boo Boo doesn't fly into a rage about it, or fire Sandra or anything like that ... Her tactic is more Glass-ish, of course. She takes a philosophical approach, a Zen approach ... Who knows what will happen after the story has finished - maybe she will fire Sandra ... but in the moment, Lionel needs her to kiss and coddle him and say how silly Sandra is, and so she does.

That's the story. There's nothing wrong with it, and like all of Salinger's stuff, it is beautifully written and observed. He is so good at writing about children - their non sequitirs, their behavior ... There may be something more here that I am missing. I suspect so. But to me, it's a very surface story. It IS its surface.

But check out how Salinger describes Boo Boo in the excerpt below. That is economical and effective description. She just springs to life, fully, up off of the page - I love that.

EXCERPT FROM Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the fifth story 'Down at the Dinghy'

The swinging door opened from the dining room and Boo Boo Tannenbaum, the lady of the house, came into the kitchen. She was a small, almost hipless girl of twenty-five, with styleless, colorless, brittle hair pushed back behind her ears, which were very large. She was dressed in knee-length jeans, a black turtleneck pullover, and socks and loafers. Her joke of a name aside, her general unprettiness aside, she was - in terms of permanently memorable, immoderately perceptive, small-area faces - a stunning and final girl. She went directly to the refrigerator and opened it. As she peered inside, with her legs apart and her hands on her knees, she whistled, unmelodically, through her teeth, keeping in time with a little uninhibited, pendulum action of her rear end. Sandra and Mrs. Snell were silent. Mrs. Snell put out her cigarette, unhurriedly.

"Sandra ..."

"Yes, ma'am?" Sandra looked alertly past Mrs. Snell's hat.

"Aren't there any more pickles? I want to bring him a pickle."

"He et 'em," Sandra reported intelligently. "He et 'em before he went to bed last night. There was only two left."

"Oh. Well, I'll get some when I go to the station. I thought maybe I could lure him out of that boat." Boo Boo shut the refrigerator door and walked over to look out of the lake-front window. "Do we need anything else?" she asked, from the window.

"Just bread."

"I left your check on the hall table, Mrs. Snell. Thank you."

"O.K.," said Mrs. Snell. "I hear Lionel's supposeta be runnin' away." She gave a short laugh.

"Certainly looks that way," Boo Boo said, and slid her hands into her hip pockets.

"At least he don't run very far away," Mrs. Snell said, giving another short laugh.

At the window, Boo Boo changed her position slightly, so that her back wasn't directly to the two women at the table. "No," she said, and pushed back some hair behind her ear. She added, purely informatively: "He's been hitting the road regularly since he was two. But never very hard. I think the farthest he ever got - in the city, at least - was to the Mall in Central Park. Just a couple of blocks from home. The least far - or nearest - he ever got was to the front door of our building. He stuck around to say goodbye to his father."

Both women at the table laughed.

"The Mall's where they all go skatin' in New York," Sandra said very sociably to Mrs. Snell. "The kids and all."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Snell.

"He was only three. It was just last year," Boo Boo said, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a folder of matches from a side pocket in her jeans. She lit a cigarette, while the two women spiritedly watched her. "Big excitement. We had the whole police force out looking for him."

"They find him?" said Mrs. Snell.

"Sure they found him!" said Sandra with contempt. "Wuddaya think?"

"They found him at a quarter past eleven at night, in the middle of - my God, February, I think. Not a child in the park. Just muggers, I guess, and an assortment of roaming degenerates. He was sitting on the floor of the bandstand, rolling a marble back and forth along a crack. Half-frozen to death and looking --"

"Holy Mackerel!" said Mrs. Snell. "How come he did it? I mean what was he runnin' away about?"

Boo Boo blew a single, faulty smoke-ring at a pane of glass. "Some child in the park that afternoon had come up to him with the dreamy misinformation, 'You stink, kid.' At least, that's why we think he did it. I don't know, Mrs. Snell. It's all slightly over my head."

"How long's he been doin' it?" asked Mrs. Snell. "I mean how long's he been doin' it?"

"Well, at the age of two-and-a-half," Boo Boo said biographically, "he sought refuge under a sink in the basement of our apartment house. Down in the laundry. Naomi somebody - a close friend of his - told him she had a worm in her thermos bottle. At least, that's all we could get out of him." Boo Boo sighed, and came away from the window with a long ash on her cigarette. She started for the screen door. "I'll have another go at it," she said, by way of goodby to both women.

They laughed.

"Mildred,"Sandra, still laughing, addressed Mrs. Snell, "you're gonna miss your bus if ya don't get a move on."

Boo Boo closed the screen door behind her.

Decline and Fall, by Evelyn Waugh

Decline and Fall is Evelyn Waugh's first novel. I'm reading it right now. I had so much fun last year reading Scoop, his hilarious spoof on foreign journalism, particularly war journalists - that I am moving on to his other stuff. I've mentioned before that, like Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh was just someone I "missed" in my education. Never read him before. I remember the Brideshead Revisited PBS mini-series VERY well, but never read any Waugh. It was Christopher Hitchens' book review of Scoop in The Atlantic that made me pick it up. I mean, when the book review makes you laugh out loud - you know the book will be funny.

Decline and Fall takes the same absurdist manic tone as Scoop, skewering everything in sight. Everyone in the book is absolutely RIDICULOUS. Their names are preposterous. There is a character named "Sir Alastair Digby-Vaine-Trumpington", for example. In Scoop, it was the foreign press - in Decline and Fall Waugh takes aim at education (and, indirectly, class issues in England - public school vs. private, accents, all that complicated hierarchical stuff). First we meet Paul Pennyfeather, who is studying at Oxford, and is basically expelled for "indecent behavior" - but it's totally not fair because it was only the appearance of indecent behavior. He truly was an innocent victim of circumstances! He wasn't running across the Quad "without his trousers on" as a prank- he truly had lost his pants! But no matter. Off he goes with a blemish on his record. He gets a job teaching German and music at a Welsh boarding school (despite the fact that he cannot speak German and he cannot play music) and finds himself immersed in the manic ridiculous life of an all-boys boarding school. The other teachers are all insane in one way or another, fallen priests and compulsive womanizers - the headmaster is a lunatic with enormous prejudices against the Welsh - and Paul, surprisingly enough, finds that he doesn't need to know German or music in order to teach those subjects. Waugh, as always, with all of his humor, is quite a social critic - some of his observations come close to the anger of Swift, although Waugh always seems to take a more absurd tone, making everyone in the world (except for Paul Pennyfeather) seem on the verge of some sort of hilarious mental collapse, but it's okay, because the world keeps on turning! Don't worry so much, chaps!

Waugh has a "what's the use" fatalism to much of his work - very typical, I suppose, to his generation at that time and the crowd he ran with - so beneath Paul Pennyfeather's experiences is a vaguely sad and baffled attitude ... like: what on earth is the use? What on earth can the use of ANY of this be?

To repeat what Cecil Beaton said of Evelyn Waugh: "His abiding complex and the source of much of his misery was that he was not a 6 foot tall, extremely handsome and rich duke." Waugh's books are so funny that people will look at you strangely if you read them in public because you will be unable to control your laughter. But they are not in any way, shape, or form - "light", or "shallow". There is this undercurrent of unease in them ... I suppose that's much of what an "absurdist" sensibility is all about (at least that is true in the theatre, and I imagine so in literature). Waugh sees things.

Here is a description of Paul Pennyfeather's first day teaching class at the boarding school:

Dumb with terror, he went into his own class room.

Ten boys sat before him, their hands folded, their eyes bright with expectation.

"Good morning, sir," said the one nearest him.

"Good morning," said Paul.

"Good morning, sir," said the next.

"Good morning," said Paul.

"Good morning, sir," said the next.

"Oh, shut up," said Paul.

At this the boy took out a handkerchief and began to cry quietly.

"Oh, sir," came a chorus of reproach, "you've hurt his feelings. He's very sensitive; it's his Welsh blood, you know; it makes people very emotional. Say 'Good morning' to him, sir, or he won't be happy all day. After all, it is a good morning, isn't it, sir?"

"Silence!" shouted Paul above the uproar, and for a few moments things were quieter.

"Please, sir," said a small voice - Paul turned and saw a grave-looking youth holding up his hand - "please, sir, perhaps he's been smoking cigars and doesn't feel well."

"Silence!" said Paul again.

The ten boys stopped talking and sat perfectly still, staring at him. He felt himself get hot and red under this scrutiny.

"I suppose the first thing I ought to do is to get your names clear. What is your name?" he asked, turning to the first boy.

"Tangent, sir."

"And yours?"

"Tangent, sir," said the next boy. Paul's heart sank.

"But you can't both be called Tangent."

"No, sir, I'm Tangent. He's just trying to be funny."

"I like that. Me trying to be funny! Please, sir, I'm Tangent, sir; really I am."

"If it comes to that," said Clutterbuck from the back of the room, "there is only one Tangent here, and that is me. Any one else can jolly well go to blazes."

Paul felt desperate.

"Well, is there any one who isn't a Tangent?"

Four or five voices instantly arose.

"I'm not, sir; I'm not Tangent. I wouldn't be called Tangent, not on the edge of a barge pole."

In a few seconds the room had become divided into two parties: those who were Tangent and those who were not. Blows were already being exchanged, when the door opened and Grimes came in. There was a slight hush.

"I thought you might want this," he said, handing Paul a walking stick. "And if you take my advice, you'll set them something to do."

He went out; and Paul, firmly grasping the walking stick, faced his form.

"Listen," he said. "I don't care a damn what any of you are called, but if there's another word from any one I shall keep you all in this afternoon."

"You can't keep me in," said Clutterbuck; "I'm going for a walk with Captain Grimes."

"Then I shall very nearly kill you with this stick. Meanwhile you will all write an essay on 'Self-indulgence.' There will be a prize of half a crown for the longest essay, irrespective of any possible merit."

From then onward all was silence until break. Paul, still holding the stick, gazed despondently out of the window. Now and then there rose from below the shrill of the servants scolding each other in Welsh. By the time the bell rang Clutterbuck had covered sixteen pages, and was awarded the half crown.

To me, Evelyn Waugh has perfect pitch.

And then there is the aforementioned monologue by Dr. Fagan, headmaster of the Welsh boarding school. I just think it's so hysterical that he harbors such contempt for the Welsh people despite his surroundings - and he is unashamed yet a part of him must realize how inappropriate it is because he wanted to publish "a little monograph" on his feelings about the Welsh but he was afraid it might make him "unpopular in the village". hahahaha Yeah - ya think?? Anyway, listen to Dr. Fagan go on and on and on to poor Paul Pennyfeather who cannot get awy.

"I often think," he continued, "that we can trace almost all the disasters of English history to the influence of Wales. Think of Edward of Carnarvon, the first Prince of Wales, a perverse life, Pennyfeather, and an unseemly death, then the Tudors and the dissolution of the Church, then Lloyd George, the temperance movement, Non-conformity and lust stalking hand in hand through the country, wasting and ravaging. But perhaps you think I exaggerate? I have a certain rhetorical tendency, I admit."

"No, no," said Paul.

"The Welsh," said the Doctor, "are the only nation in the world that has produced no graphic or plastic art, no architecture, no drama. They just sing," he said with disgust," sing and blow down wind instruments of plated silver. They are deceitful because they cannot discern truth from falsehood, depraved because they cannot discern the consequences of their indulgence. Let us consider," he continued, "the etymological derivations of the Welsh language...."

But here he was interrupted by a breathless little boy who panted down the drive to meet them. "Please, sir, Lord and Lady Circumference have arrived, sir. They're in the library with Miss Florence. She asked me to tell you."

"The sports will start in ten minutes," said the Doctor. "Run and tell the other boys to change and go at once to the playing fields. I will talk to you about the Welsh again. It is a matter to which I have given some thought, and I can see that you are sincerely interested. Come in with me and see the Circumferences."

What??

The poor Doctor. This is the man who, in a moment of joy and hopefulness, goes off on a huge monologue about how he "doesn't understand his own emotions". Like - hope enters his heart, anticipation of something pleasant, sheer simple enjoyment of the sunshine and the grass and being alive, and he literally cannot understand what the feeling actually is.

I am in love with Evelyn Waugh. So glad I'm playing catch-up now.

And this is a first novel? Damn him.

Movies watching movies:

A beautiful montage of people watching movies in movies ...

Funny - I had a similar idea for a post, so it's cool to see someone put together a montage like that. I love scenes in movies where the characters go to the movies. It's the world within the world aspect, partly ... but it's also the fact that movies inform our lives - not only that, but we mark memories through the movies we were seeing at the time. I know I remember "the summer of Star Wars" ... it was a movie, sure, but it was also part of life, the landscape, the culture. Or you know, we say stuff like, "Hey, member that night we went to see Sex Lies & Videotape and we ended up having a big fight about our relationship?" (or, er, maybe that was just me and my boyfriend ... ) ... But I love it when movies include that part of our relationship to the movies within their story. Like Alabama meeting Clarence at the kung fu movie.

There are countless examples. I recently watched Stranger Than Fiction again and there is a wonderful scene where he goes to the movie during the day and watches Monty Python's Meaning of Life and just sits and laughs like a little kid. Heartcracking.

Then there's also the big shootout at the end of Manhattan Murder Mystery - in the old movie palace - during a matinee of Lady From Shanghai. (Clip here.)

I wrote a brief post called "movies within movies" - focusing on the moment in Leila when Leila and her husband watch Dr. Zhivago ... they sit on the floor in their living room and you can see Omar Sharif glimmering bluely in the reflection of the glass table. A marvelous movie-within-movie moment, I thought.

Anyway, go check out the montage - lovely stuff

The Great Debaters; dir. Denzel Washington

The Great Debaters first came onto my radar because of this important site's multiple posts on it. I am not sure of that blogger's name, but she was determined that people would get out and see and support this film - a film about a debating team from a small black college in the 1930s that ended up defeating the national champions at Harvard in an historic debate. She writes:

Which came first the chicken or the egg? Is it that Black folks and White folks don't want to see something different out of Hollywood, or is it that Hollywood only seems to want to promote the same old narrow range of African American stories? If we don't go see this in droves, it might not be because we don't want to see it, it might be because a whole lot of folks don't know this movie is even out there. People can say what they want about Tyler Perry, but that man knows how to market a movie. The folks responsible for marketing "The Great Debaters" need to call Tyler and stop dialing it in. Get with it people! Time's a wastin'!

That's a site I read with some regularity, and she was nearly evangelical in her fervor to get people to go see this film - a film about the power of the intellect, a film about how to fight with words, and, all in all, a truly inspirational story. I didn't end up going to see The Great Debaters in the theatre, but I saw it last night, and just have to add my voice to the chorus: Wonderful movie!!

I think I've written before of my deep adoration for the "formula" of the sports movie. It just works for me (I mean, if it's done well). I love the whole struggling against adversity theme. I love how a group of disparate individuals has to come together to form a team. I love how there's a hard-ass coach who is determined to make his kids rise to the occasion. I also love it when there's a social or economic aspect added ... as in: kids who may be downtrodden or who don't have a leg up ... are shown the "way out" of their potential miserable futures - through this one big event, whatever it may be. This formula is annoying to some people, and it feels predictable to them. But to me, it is one of the most deeply satisfying story formulae in existence. I can settle in. I can relax. I know how it's going to go, because that's what a formula is, but it resonates with me. The movie can be shallow or deep, I don't care - it's the formula I love. Remember the Titans, Blue Crush, The Rookie, hell Searching for Bobby Fischer qualifies ... Bring It On qualifies ...
-- Hoosiers
-- All the Right Moves
-- Breaking Away
-- Miracle
-- Bend it like Beckham
-- 61*
-- Vision Quest
-- Rocky
-- Karate Kid
-- Stand and Deliver - with the sport being calculus ...

You get the point. Love the formula.

So here we have The Great Debaters which is, in essence, a sports movie - only the sport is debating. SO SATISFYING. Denzel Washington directed, his second foray, after 2002's Antwone Fisher. He doesn't try to be too clever here, his directing is gentle, specific, and very well crafted. He understands the formula and he pours this individual story into it, and it totally works. We have the tough coach of the debating team (played by Washington) - who is determined that these kids will have a shot, and the way they will have a shot - is through using their minds. He is fierce about that. He trains them in rhetoric, and improvisational responses, he makes them do mounds of research - gathering contextual quotes ... so that no matter the situation in a debate, they will be prepared.

It's the 1930s South, so there is almost complete segregation. It is only when their small debate team starts to go undefeated that white colleges start to say, 'Okay, let's debate these Negroes ..." The first inter-racial debate takes place in a tent in a field, because the university in question is so segregated that the black kids would not be allowed in the auditorium where debates normally would take place. It's a stressful situation, you can feel it in the audience and in the debating kids. It's all well and good to debate other black kids, over issues they all already agree on ... but to debate white kids? In front of a white audience? How will THAT go over? Watching these kids rise to the occasion (and because it's a sports movie, you get to know each one of them a little bit, and you love them ... you just love them) is intensely moving. I was a mess.

Denzel is great, too - but for me, the performance of the film is Forest Whitaker's. There's something about Forest Whitaker's intensity that, in and of itself, makes me want to cry. But here, seeing him in the role of a husband and father, a learned man who speaks 7 languages, a theology professor at the college - who holds his children to high standards in all things - academic, spiritual, moral - He's just marvelous. He's dignified, stately, a little bit scary ... but with an underbelly of warmth and kindness. There's a moment when his son, played by Denzel Whitaker (and that kid absolutely killed me) has suffered a serious defeat ... It was his big chance at a debate, and he choked ... he's the youngest kid on the team, only 14 years old, and he also struggles with the fact that his father is so illustrious, teaches at the college where he is a student (he's obviously a prodigy, small wonder with a dad like that) ... and he knows his father is so stern about accomplishment and doing the family proud ... The kid runs into the house and starts looking through the rooms for his mother - calling out, "Mom? Mom?" He is devastated. He knows he will be a disappointment to his parents ... but in that moment, he needs a mother's love. A little coddling. He's only 14 years old. But Forest Whitaker is home, and hears him calling out - so he appears in the door, holding a book in one hand, looking concerned and serious. His son looks at him for just one second, just one second of hesitation - and then races towards him and throws himself into his father's arms. Please just watch how Forest Whitaker reacts, and responds to this unexpected embrace ... He doesn't know what has happened with his son, and normally he takes a very strict tone with him ... but in that moment, he's a little boy, and so ... Forest Whitaker adjusts, in that moment, to what his son needs from him. Tremendously moving moment, and the kind of acting I love best. Silent, eloquent, powerful.

The film builds in suspense and tension, through victories, defeats, and side-line plots involving the local sherriff and the sharecroppers trying to organize into a union ... culminating in the debate team's journey to Cambridge to debate Harvard. They are little country kids, from a small town in Texas, totally segregated ... so to see them emerge into the palatial train station in Boston, being met by one of the members of the Harvard debate team, who is going to show them around and escort them back to their rooms, etc. ... and then to show them the debate hall where they will be debating - an absolutely intimidating gorgeous room that looks kind of like the House of Lords or something. The kids stroll about on the stage, gobsmacked, awestruck, excited, and scared to death.

I love Denzel, although I find him a bit too unendingly humorless for my taste - and so it's really really cool to see him here, playing things a bit lighter (when it's called for) - to see him in the classroom, pointing at this student to rebut, this one ... demanding that they strive for excellence. The 1930s setting adds to this man's obvious sense of mission: These kids must be strong to face the outside world. These kids must know how to respond ... and not just respond, but respond with their brains, their intellects ... Sure, it's an education. They're getting a great education, too. But there's more going on here than just that. Denzel plays both sides of that beautifully.

If you rent the film, make sure - MAKE SURE - you watch the Special Features. There are two documentaries:

-- The story of the original debate team at Wiley College - where they track down some of the original members, who are now in their 80s ... to talk about their memories of that time, the college, the debate coach, everything. Denzel sits and interviews them.

-- A short film about Denzel as a director

Both of these special features made me see Denzel in another light. NOT the "actor" light - but the collaborator, the director, the intelligent head of the entire project. Watching him kindly and sweetly ask the octogenarian debate team questions was so moving for me - He has things he wants to know, he is so thrilled that they have all showed up for the interviews - but he also had to make his voice very loud and very clear because most of them are obviously a little bit deaf - There's just such a kindness in him here. You can just see his mind at work, clicking away ... "Oh, I can use this ... Oh, this is good stuff ... I can use that ..." But at the same time, just having a nice conversation with these people who were there at that important moment in American history. Amazing. These people are AMAZING. You just love them!! Talking about what it was they "got" from the debate team, what the college was like - all that. It was incredibly moving, and there are a couple of times when you can see Washington reacting, just listening to one of them talk - and he's got a sheaf of papers in his hands, notes, and either a huge smile is on his face ... or a contemplative look ... It's a wonderful documentary about Wiley College, the 1930s, segregation, education - all that.

And then the second special feature, which is basically a "making of The Great Debaters" - focusing primarily on Denzel Washington as a director. You know, there are interviews with all the cast members, producers, all that - but there's one moment in particular that was so moving to me that I rewound to watch it 4 or 5 times. There's a scene where a debate is being broadcast on the radio - and the entire Wiley College student body has gathered in the auditorium to listen. It is a crucial moment for the team. When it is announced that Wiley College has won the debate, the auditorium erupts into chaos. Hugging, screaming, hats in air, etc. Great scene - a crucial part of any sports movie, an essential piece of the formula. So in the special features, you see Denzel Washington, glasses on a string around his neck, coaching the crowd of extras what he wants from them. "This is the biggest thing that has ever happened in this school - so you all can just go nuts, okay?" Then he counts down - "One ..... two ........" When he calls out "three" it is time to roll, and the place goes APESHIT. Hugging, screaming, jumping, absolute bedlam. It's a joy to watch. The camera pans back a bit to see Denzel on the sidelines, watching it all happen - and he's laughing, but also astonished at how into it everyone is - he can't believe the decibel level - and he kind of stands there, almost shy (like: "I did this??") - his hand on his head, kind of massaging it, an amazed expression on his face. I just wanted to hug him. He was so pleased, but even he was shocked at how far the crowd of extras took it! You then see him thanking the whole crowd - all of them who must have been like, "Holy shit, that is Denzel freakin' Washington standing RIGHT THERE ..." but he gave a gracious speech, thanking them for their time, expressing understanding of what a hard day it had been, long and tedious - and he was very grateful.

There are a bunch of moments showing Denzel at work - which were truly illuminating for me, in terms of his process, and also his enthusiasm. Director is different from actor. You're in charge. Every second you are called upon to make decisions. Everyone comes at you from every side: "how do these shoes look for the wife?" "There's a little problem with the location scouting ..." "We have 20 minutes before the sun goes down ... should we go on?" Etc. Big and little - the buck stops with the director. It was truly a joy to watch Denzel in that role.

But most of all, I loved watching him sitting on the sidelines, either looking at the monitor, or looking directly at the action. And he always sat there with a big happy smile on his face. He says at one point in an interview, "I like being a director. It makes me happy when other people do well."

You can totally see that in how he reacts to the work of other people, smiling at the monitor, or clutching at his own head during the bedlam in the auditorium, thinking, "Holy crap ... these people are into it ... How AWESOME!"

Yes. It is awesome. I loved the film.

More on Pollack

And yeah ... I'm linking to this because James Wolcott from Vanity Fair quoted my post extensively ... and I'm having a bit of an awestruck moment about it.

I love that Pollack's acting is getting the props, in the posts I'm seeing around the web.

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack. I'll miss knowing he's around. He was one of the old guard. One of those old guys - like Redford, Beatty, Nicholson - who re-made the Hollywood studio system into their own image. Pollack's films are some of the most successful of all time.

A graduate of the Neighborhood Playhouse, and Sanford Meisner's teaching, Pollack always brought that sense of moment-to-moment unpredictable reality to his films (and to his acting, let's not forget) that is such a trademark of "the Meisner technique". You can see it at work. Acting is sometimes (sometimes!) just as simple as listening and talking. That was what Meisner was all about - training actors how to do that, and how to do it in the moment.

While some of his films did nothing for me (Sabrina (correction), Out of Africa) - there are others that I count as dearest to my heart. Movies I adore, and can watch repeatedly. I love Absence of Malice. I love They Shoot Horses, Don't They?. I love Tootsie. And yes, I love The Way We Were - even in its too-obvious set-up of opposing viewpoints mixed with romance. I just like the details of the performances, frankly, and that, in my view, is what Sydney Pollack was best at capturing. The way Bill Murray's character is set up and framed in Tootsie - I mean, that's what I'm talking about. Bill Murray had to perform it, and he did so brilliantly - but it's Pollack's sensibility that really highlighted him, and Murray is so important to the success of that film (even though he's only in a couple of scenes). He becomes crucial. Pollack always understood details like that. Kim has posted the clip from Tootsie with the great scene between Dustin Hoffman and Sydney Pollack as his exasperated pissed-off at-the-end-of-his-ropes agent. There's not a moment there that isn't real and also funny. So so good. "Nobody wants to pay money to watch a play about people living next to chemical waste! If they want to see that, they can go to New Jersey!"

Speaking of his acting: his performance in Husbands and Wives is a comedic tour de force. I LOVE it. There are certain performances which are so meaty ... so ... rich ... that I feel like I could almost love being at a Renaissance Fair so that I could eat the performance with my bare hands, licking my chops. It's THAT good. That's what his performance does for me in Husbands and Wives. It is SO slimy, so unself-aware - like: suddenly that guy is talking about yoga and sprouts and stupid TV movies and how fun they are? Does he realize how ridiculous he seems? Well, no, he doesn't. Because he is the kind of guy who can justify ANY behavior in himself, because he is always right. And that girl he dates, that ridiculous girl (I would say that her performance is a slam-dunk "10 minute Oscar" ... "I just adore cous cous!" "Knowing your astrological sign is CRUCIAL . I cannot stress this enough!!") Watching Sydney Pollack drag his new-age hippie girlfriend out of the party of snotty intellectuals is one of the funniest and most embarrassing scenes I have ever seen - and she fights him as though it's the final scene in Deer Hunter. Like - it is life or death. She is in the jungle in 'Nam, as far as she's concerned, not an upscale driveway in Westchester. Pollack is so so funny here, so exasperated and mortified ... talking to himself at the wheel of his car, "What am I doing? I gotta be crazy - what am I DOING?" His only moment of real self-awareness.

I just love his performance in Husbands and Wives - it's an all-time favorite of mine from Woody Allen's films, in general.

Seriously. It's so funny and so detailed and so alive that I want to eat the damn thing with my hands.

I will miss knowing he's around. I love that old guard.

Knowing that he's gone makes me miss Mitchell, who is sailing along the African coast on a cruise ship as we speak. I want to talk with him about Sydney Pollack. We always just loved him so much.

Rest in peace, Sydney Pollack. And thank you thank you thank you.

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'The Laughing Man' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the third story 'The Laughing Man'

One of Salinger's perfect blends of comedy and pathos - another great example (if I could only follow it) of not saying too much. Saying just enough ... but leaving some of the meaning and interpretation outside the lines... If you weren't a careful reader, you would think that the Chief and Mary, in this story, were just having a fight. Maybe breaking up. But you need to read carefully. NOTHING is accidental or coincidental in a Salinger story (which is one of the reasons why he engenders such a fanatic following). But to paraphrase one of my old teachers, Doug Moston, "If you think it means something - it does mean something. You just haven't figured it out yet." Catcher in the Rye is full of stuff like that - which is why it is so good for high school students: Holden's obsession with where ducks go in winter. The whole "catcher in the rye" thing AND Phoebe's response to his monologue about it ("Mom and Dad are gonna kill you ...") ... Phoebe's hunter cap. All of these things have layers of meaning ... you can't just say A to B here. Salinger is working on multiple three-dimensional levels. That's one of the reasons I find him so fun to read. What you see is not just what you get.

Take 'The Laughing Man'. A simple story, on its surface: A man looks back on 1928, when he was nine years old, and part of an after-school program called The Comanches. They would all pile onto a bus after school and be transported to Central Park where they would play baseball, basketball ... If it was raining, they would be taken to a museum. On the weekends, they were driven out to a baseball field in Jersey to play games. The head of this club is Joe Gedsudski, a 23 year old guy from Staten Island. They all call him "The Chief". Words cannot express how much I love "the Chief". And how much all the boys love "The Chief". As their bus takes them to whatever destination they are headed for, The Chief tells an ongoing story about a horrifying and yet heroic creature called The Laughing Man. He is obviously making it up as he goes along, and he's an awesome storyteller. I got hooked into the saga of The Laughing Man. I particularly love how The Laughing Man goes back and forth across the "Paris-Chinese" border. Yeah, cause we all know those countries abut each other. The kids don't care about details like that, and neither does The Chief. The point is that The Laughing Man's influence spans the entire world. He has enemies who want to get him. The story is quite violent at times. And The Laughing Man is ruthless when he needs to be. There's so much going on in The Laughing Man story that I know I am not getting half of it. And what the connection is ... although I can make up my own interpretations.

And one day - it is noticed that a snapshot of a girl is taped up on the windshield. A girl? Who is that?? The Chief kind of evades the question. But then - horrors - the next Saturday, they make a pitstop on the Upper West Side - and a GIRL gets on the bus!! The boys are furious. No girls allowed should be the rule. Now they don't know how to act, how to be, they resent her presence, they also resent that The Chief's focus is now split - he's obviously way more aware of HER than he is of THEM and that is NOT. RIGHT. He's nervous, too. He's awkward, trying to make the whole situation work. And Mary (that's her name) just babbles on to him about her train ride, and the boys sit in scowling silence, and nobody gets to hear the next installment of The Laughing Man ... because she has wrecked everything just by being there. Girls have a way of doing that.

They get to the baseball field and are getting ready to play - when Mary asks if she can play, too. The boys are HORRIFIED. You? In your dress and heels? Play? They are so pissed. Girls should know when to go away! But they do end up letting her play - and that's the excerpt below. It's one of my favorite parts of the story - Mary playing baseball with the Comanches.

But over the course of the next couple of weeks, they not only end up getting used to her - but they expect her presence.

One day they wait for her on the corner where she always is, and she doesn't show. Because the story is told from the perspective of an outsider - not to mention a little boy who doesn't have the depth of understanding about adult relationships ... we don't quite get what is going on. We just know that The Chief is disturbed. They finally drive off without her, but The Chief is silent and distracted. The boys, by now, are so used to Mary that they are all thrown out of whack by her no-show. Where is she? They head out to the baseball field, and as they play the game, our narrator glances into the stands and sees Mary sitting there, flanked on either side by two other onlookers, both rocking enormous baby carriages. (Again: with Salinger nothing is accidental) The narrator points out Mary's presence to The Chief - who seems elated and also agitated that she has shown up. He runs over to her - and from afar, the boys watch as ... well, it's not exactly clear what is happening. It seems that they are having a fight on the sidelines, some kind of altercation. The Chief ends up walking away from her, and she stands there, near third base, crying. The narrator calls out to her does she want to play and she says to him, "Leave me alone!" - which is stunning behavior to a little boy. He backs away from her, and trips over a baby carriage standing on the sidelines. (So again. You should, if you think a little bit, be able to guess what the situation is. It's never spelled out - and even the narrator says he's not sure what exactly was going on between The Chief and Mary but that he can guess ...) My guess: The Chief has gotten Mary pregnant (hence the preponderance of baby carriages in this last scene). She didn't show up at the appointed time on her corner because she had a doctor's appointment. Maybe an appointment for an abortion, who knows. Or maybe it was just the appointment that would confirm or deny what they already suspected - that she was pregnant. Let's remember that in the excerpt below, it is made clear that Mary hates first base, and always pushes whatever hit she got into a double or triple. Hmmmm. Coincidence? I think not. So when she shows up at the game, on her own steam, he runs over to find out what happened at the doctor's office - and they have a fight. She ends up running off in tears, and the Comanches and The Chief head back to the city alone, on their bus.

On the way, The Chief gives the final (or, what will end up being the final) installment of The Laughing Man - which is pretty horrible, almost like a Jack London story. The boys sit there gaping, one of them starts crying ... everything has changed ... the story has changed, The Chief has changed - he is now more recognizably grown-up, definitely not "one of them" anymore.

Wonderful story.

There's so much great stuff to excerpt here - a lovely tightly-wound deep emotional story ... but I'm going with the day Mary forces herself onto the baseball team with the Comanches, and they are all so PISSED about it ... but watch how they come around. Classic Salinger.

I love this line too: "Then the Chief took over, revealing what had formerly been a well-concealed flair for incompetence." hahahahaha

EXCERPT FROM Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the third story 'The Laughing Man'

When we got out of the bus, Mary Hudson stuck right with us. I'm sure that by the time we reached the baseball field there was on every Comanche's face a some-girls-just-don't-know-when-to-go-home look. And to really top things off, when another Comanche and I were flipping a coin to decide which team would take the field first, Mary Hudson wistfully expressed a desire to join the game. The response to this couldn't have been more clean-cut Where before we Comanches had simply stared at her femaleness, we now glared at it. She smiled back at us. It was a shade disconcerting. Then the Chief took over, revealing what had formerly been a well-concealed flair for incompetence. He took Mary Hudson aside, just out of earshot of the Comanches, and seemed to address her solemnly, rationally. At length, Mary Hudson interrupted him, and her voice was perfectly audible to the Comanches. "But I do," she said. "I do, too, want to play!" The Chief nodded and tried again. He pointed in the direction of the infield, which was soggy and pitted. He picked up a regulation bat and demonstrated its weight. "I don't care," Mary Hudson said distinctly, "I came all the way to New York - to the dentist and everything - and I'm gonna play." The Chief nodded again but gave up. He walked cautiously over to home plate, where the Braves and the Warriors, the two Comanche teams, were waiting, and looked at me. I was captain of the Warriors. He mentioned the name of my regular center fielder, who was home sick, and suggested that Mary Hudson take his place. I said I didn't need a center fielder. The Chief asked me what the hell did I mean I didn't need a center fielder. I was shocked. It was the first time I had heard the Chief swear. What's more, I could feel Mary Hudson smiling at me. For poise, I picked up a stone and threw it at a tree.

We took the field first. No business went out to center field the first inning. From my position on first base, I glanced behind me now and then. Each time I did, Mary Hudson waved gaily at me. She was wearing a catcher's mitt, her own adamant choice. It was a horrible sight.

Mary Hudson batted ninth on the Warriors' lineup. When I informed her of this arrangement, she made a little face and said, "Well, hurry up, then." And as a matter of fact we did seem to hurry up. She got to bat in the first inning. She took off her beaver coat - and her catcher's mitt - for the occasion and advanced to the plate in a dark-brown dress. When I gave her a bat, she asked me why it was so heavy. The Chief left his umpire's position behind the pitcher and came forward anxiously. He told Mary Hudson to rest the end of her bat on her right shoulder. "I am," she said. He told her not to choke bat too tightly. "I'm not," she said. He told her to keep her eye right on the ball. "I will," she said. "Get outa the way." She swung mightily at the first ball pitched to her and hit it over the left fielder's head. It was good for an ordinary double, but Mary Hudson got to third on it - standing up.

When my astonishment had worn off, and then my awe, and then my delight, I looked over at the Chief. He didn't so much seem to be standing behind the pitcher as floating over him. He was a completely happy man. Over on third base, Mary Hudson waved to me. I waved back. I couldn't have stopped myself, even if I'd wanted to. Her stickwork aside, she happened to be a girl who knew how to wave to somebody from third base.

The rest of the game, she got on base every time she came to bat. For some reason, she seemed to hate first base; there was no holding her there. At least three times, she stole second.

Her fielding couldn't have been worse, but we were piling up too many runs to take serious notice of it. I think it would have improved if she'd gone after flies with almost anything except a catcher's mitt. She wouldn't take it off, though. She said it was cute.

The next month or so, she played baseball with the Comanches a couple of times a week (whenever she had an appointment with her dentist, apparently). Some afternoons she met the bus on time, some afternoons she was late. Sometimes she talked a blue streak in the bus, sometimes she just sat and smoked her Herbert Tareyton cigarettes (cork-tipped). When you sat next to her in the bus, she smelled of a wonderful perfume.

Must-read: Joan Crawford in Strait Jacket

Kim Morgan on Joan Crawford in Strait Jacket - which, if you haven't seen, all I can say is: do yourself a favor ... But Kim covers the weirdness and brilliance of it perfectly. I adored this part of Kim's piece:

We also get a nice little glimpse into the talented, vizard charisma that is Joan in the disc's other special feature, with her costume and makeup tests. She's in full character, smoking sexily, and she believes she's the hottest thing in high heels, jangling her charm bracelet around all come-hither-boys. Crawford the star and Crawford the woman never wandered far from each other, making her alternately brilliant and terrifying. Stare at these tests and you'll think she just may be one of the most fascinating self-inventions ever to grace, or rather, claw her way across the silver screen. If you watch it more than three times, you just can't help but adore how wonderfully insane she seems. Whatever happened to actresses like Joan? They died away -- torn down like the old hat resting atop the Brown Derby restaurant.

Wow.

The screenshot Kim chose to start her piece with - Joan with the Bettie Page bangs and the lit match - is a moment that has to be seen to be believed. She, in a fit of insouciant rebellion, lights her match off of a record turning on the turntable. It's such a weird moment and she plays it with 100% conviction - and the first time I saw it (with Alex) - we laughed so loudly that we got in trouble. We watched it REPEATEDLY. Over and over and over .... I cannot describe why it struck us as so funny. The sound the match makes against the record, the record screeching to a halt - that was part of it ... we KEPT making that screeching sound, and poor Chrisanne had to get up in like 3 hours to go to work, and her house-guest and her wife were HOWLING with laughter for, God, what was it, 40 minutes?

Kim really "gets" Crawford, in a way that I totally appreciate - and I'm glad to see that weirdo ax-murderer movie highlighted.

Also, please notice: Joan Crawford was at the height of her Pepsi endorsement career at that point - so there's one scene in a kitchen, a completely undecorated kitchen - and sitting on the counter, in between the two characters, for no apparent reason, is a huge box of Pepsi, label carefully turned toward the camera.

Crawford was no dummy.

Go read the whole thing.

Throwing out the world

It's time. In April 2002 - there was the proverbial straw ... Something had been building up in me for a year or more so, typically, it was something small that put me over the edge. And I lost my way for 4, 5 months - the longest I have ever been "out". I don't remember much from that time - I started my blog in October, 2002 - and that was the kickstart to health ... that is when memory starts coming back. But from April to September, October - is more or less a blur (for which I am grateful). Depression isn't sadness. You yearn for something as concrete and real as "sadness"! It is nothingness, a blank punctuated by moments of sheer psychic agony. Sadness is human compared to that. So I blanked out and flat-lined for most of that year. But you can't just numb yourself out in one area. You end up going dead all around. Coming out of it was literally like coming back to life. I remember my roommate (and dear friend) looking at me one morning and suddenly starting to weep. "You're in your face again," she sobbed. "It's like you're back." I won't dwell on it because it's hard to write about and yesterday was a rough day and I'm not in the mood.

But I do want to talk about my index card project, which kind of embarrasses me but at the same time I find interesting. I think I cried harder over the man who was the straw that broke the camel's back - a man I didn't even date - than any man before or since. Actually, I haven't cried about any man since. I think I'm tapped out. But that's why he was the straw. It was an accumulation of disappointments and I suppose I reached my limit. I don't know. It was an ocean of tears. A howling to the moon kind of grief. It had no end. At some point in the aftermath of that night in April 2002, I started my index card project which had, as a companion project, what I now call my "cut and paste" project. I sat on the futon couch in my living room, waking up at 5 in the morning to "get a head start", and had two side-by-side projects:

-- going through newspapers and magazines (online and offline), printing out or cutting out articles that interested me - and then taping them into a large notebook. It was labor-intensive. I had to trim the sides (I wasn't interested in just putting the article into a folder for me to rifle through - they had to be TAPED into a NOTEBOOK) - and also nothing could stick out on the sides - I wanted it to look like just a notebook, and then flip through it like a book. So I needed to trim. I filled trashbag after trashbag with the trimmings. I would sit on the couch with the trashbag beside me, filled to the brim. I probably went through one trashbag a week that way. I have about 10, 12, 13 enormous notebooks (the 5-subject kind) filled with articles that I have painstakingly cut to size. I don't even know why I wanted to keep most of them. Much of it is enraged post-911 stuff - But to cut it out so carefully ... 100s and 100s of articles and op-ed columns. I really need to get rid of those notebooks. I never look through them and all I see now is how much WORK it was to put them all together. In 2002 I didn't read - not the way I read now - no fiction, nothing for pleasure - I was beyond pleasure. So I scoured the Internets and magazines for non-fiction pieces and cut them down, even if they were 20 page articles from New Criterion or whatever ... I needed to save. Save save save, packrat ... totally obsessive behavior. Joyless obsessive - not like the happy Dean Stockwell obsessions I allow myself now. It depresses me to look at those notebooks now, but I fanatically maintained them on a daily basis for almost a year. I had stopped writing in my journal after 9/11 - I couldn't do it anymore. I was already shutting off the interior doors by that point. What else was there to say? The cut-and-paste notebooks became my journals. It's horrible to look at now. But something in me has resisted getting rid of them. I suppose because ... well, it's part of who I am, 2002 is part of who I am, and those notebooks are the only evidence I have of the state I was in. I'm big on evidence. But I don't know. I'm still considering getting rid of them.

-- The index card project. I've always been into history, geography - that is nothing new. But suddenly, post April-2002 - it began to haunt me that I didn't have all of my information in one place. For what purpose, who the hell knows. Seriously, if the CIA is looking to recruit someone who can rattle off the state of the military's preparedness in a random South Sea Island and how many workable runways they have, I'm your girl. I decided to go through all of my history books - every single one - and pull out pertinent quotes about countries, peoples, history - and put them onto clearly marked index cards. The project grew exponentially almost immediately. Within a week it was totally unmanageable. But putting it into some kind of shape and order seemed essential to me, in those mentally unstable months when things got so bad. I had hundreds and hundreds of index cards. I would put the name of the country across the top of the card, and then file everything accordingly. So countries like China must have 250, 300 cards all its own - agriculture, different areas, cultural differences, brief bios of all of the pertinent leaders - bullet points about each one - a sentence or so on the Dynasties - you get the picture. Some countries I obviously wasn't interested in. Frankly I don't care about Chile. I mean, I don't wish it ILL, and I am not indifferent to its people's happiness - but I don't have a ton of books about Chile, in the same way that I have an entire library devoted to the Balkans. You know, different strokes, different folks. I am FAR from agnostic. I'm a Balkan freak. If I came across a relevant quote or factoid about Chile, I would certainly add it to the index card but the information is not in-depth (I made index cards for each nation in the world - and some remained blank, because I didn't know anything about them ... but that was to be filled in later ... at some later date.) I also made up index cards for peoples without a nation - like the Chechens and the Kurds and others ... because I needed -why?? - to keep track of what was going on with them as well. You know. In case anyone ever asked, "What the hell is going on in Chechnya?" I could answer. And you know what? My index card project has come in TOTALLY handy at times. My friends who know about the index cards do ask me stuff, "Could you check the index card? I want to know why there's a civil war in such and such ..."

I was obsessive: I had to put stuff on 5x7 index cards - nothing smaller. And 5 x7 are at times harder to come by. My dad got me old-fashioned card catalog boxes - which perfectly fit 5 x 7 - so I would line up my index cards in the boxes - and I made little dividers which seriously, I look at now, and all I can see is mental mania. But regardless. "Croatia". "Laos". "The former Yugoslavia". "Belarus". HUNDREDS of dividers. The project was a neverending one. I knew I had certain blanks to fill in ... I needed to get up to speed on certain areas of the world ... Any time I read any fact in any article anywhere that seemed to be relevant, or like I might "need" it later (that was a key part in this whole 2002 year ... I suppose I felt like all I did was lose things. Big things. Things I wanted and yearned for and hoped for and dreamt about. I just lost. Over and over. So I was making for DAMN sure that I was not going to lose all of THIS. It was the world, and I wanted to capture it - for good. On 5 x 7 index cards).

And I guess over the last couple of months I have finally been considering getting rid of those index cards. The fever passed. 2002 passed. The card catalogs stayed stacked in my closet - not sure what I was holding onto them for. But then ... gotta say ... I'd feel the flickerings of something going on, some harbinger of doom along the 2002 line (I now know the signs really really well) ... and suddenly I'd find myself working on my index project again. Without even really questioning why. I'd just feel the urge. "Let me break out the Iran cards and get to work on filling in some blanks about the Baha'i ... or Mashad ... or their current birth-control initiative ..." It was that specific. As though someone would turn to me randomly and say, "So. What do you know about Iran's current birth control initiative?" My response would have to be, "How much time do you got?" I don't think I was collecting information in order to spout it back to someone (although that has, like I mentioned, happened) ... it was a need to organize, put into place, capture ...

I took it to an obsessive level, which is not surprising. I didn't think to myself, "I need to do this in order to survive this year ..." Of course not. You don't think that clearly when you're in a crackup. You do what you think you need to do in order to survive.

But I guess why I'm writing all of this is to say I'm ready to let go now.

I'm ready to throw away the world. It makes me nervous ... like I'm throwing away something vital, something important to me ... and so I suppose that's why I'm writing about it right now. To capture, yet again, the index card project ... without having it sitting around my small apartment, gathering dust, and ... haunting me. Somehow, it haunts me. Evidence of how lost I was, how lost I could be again if I am not careful ... it's almost like I've kept it there just in case things get that bad again.

That's what's making me nervous. I am just realizing this now as I write this. I feel like I might need that safety valve ... the "comfort" of my index card project ... in the future.

But right now, with all that is going on with me right now, I don't feel like I can even allow myself the luxury of thinking that such a mindset will ever come again. No. No. Since I started my blog, I made a conscious decision to express my obsessions here - in this venue - to not hoard it to myself, where I have a tendency to get manic, and voracious (where obsession becomes something that is not fun, but a compulsion. You MUST do it. I lost sleep over my index card project: I'm behind!! I'm behind! It is unforgivable that I only have ONE card about Tajikstan ... I must rectify that! And so I would).

I've written before about my blog, and how I found an outlet for my obsessions that was not only fun for me - but has ended up being cathartic for others. I cannot tell you how many people write to me saying, "I loved what you wrote about Bill Pullman -thank you - I love him too!" or "I can't believe I've never seen In a Lonely Place before!" or all of the Lucy Maud Montgomery fans who write to me. These emails literally pour light into the darkness. I LOVE them. I don't respond to all of them - for no reason other than I have a life and time is short - but please know that I read every single one, and adore them. Not to mention the hordes of Dean Stockwell fans who have come into my orbit because of all I have written about the man. This is how I choose, now, to deal with the mania that comes from time to time (and I am fully aware that the obsessions are "sublimations" of other things - but I'm a HUGE fan of sublimation. I'm also a huge fan of repression and denial, but I'll write about that at another time.) And instead of hoarding my obsession to myself as some kind of shameful secret (ie: index card project) I'm out here, sharing it, and it has made a huge difference. There are those who roll their eyes at me, and I get mean comments from time to time from people who are embarrassed by how far I get into whatever it is I am obsessed with ... but I've had to deal with douchebags like that my whole life. Doesn't bother me at all, because the overwhelming response is one of appreciation and also catharsis, as in: "I thought I was the only one who got obsessed about things like that!!" Nope. You are not. Let us come together and revel in the things that give us joy.

This entire post is to say that I threw away my entire index card project this morning. It was time, that's all.

But naturally, I had to "capture" it one last time before saying Goodbye forever.

That is the World According to Sheila. I think I'm okay with letting it go now.

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'Just Before The War With the Eskimos' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the third story 'Just Before The War With the Eskimos'

A story so compact, so perfectly structured, that if you remove one word the whole thing would unravel. If you've ever tried to write a short story, you know how difficult it is ... how to use symbols without being obvious, how to SHOW not TELL, all that ... I love reading people who are masters of the form, because it feels easy in their hands. Like Lorrie Moore (excerpt here), Mary Gaitskill (excerpt here), James Joyce (excerpt here - although it is usually unfair to lump anyone else with James Joyce - even the good writers suffer from the comparison), AS Byatt (excerpt here) ... These people are masters of the form. They are master enough that they can also mess with the form (AS Byatt) and get away with it. It's a joy to read these people, and it's a joy to read JD Salinger. There is something going on in 'Just Before the War With the Eskimos' that somehow remains beneath the surface. It's all THERE, it's just a bit elusive - and it shifts if you try to put your finger on it. 'Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut' (excerpt here) is pretty straightforward, leaving not much to the imagination - It is what it says it is, the meaning and "event" of the story is clear - but 'Perfect Day for Bananafish' (excerpt here) and now 'Just Before the War With the Eskimos' ... hides its meaning, cloaks its true intentions. But it's such a TAUT story, so tightly wound ... that I could spend days ruminating upon it. How can a story 15 pages long have so much in it? And also contain so much mystery? Like the last line ... which appears to come out of NOWHERE ... but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. It brings a depth and power to the story that you might otherwise miss if you only read it as a surface encounter. And THAT is what makes a good short story - because you have a limited amount of space. If you're going to use symbolism, please do it subtly and let it sneak up on us - because otherwise the whole thing becomes way too top-heavy, and I end up feeling like you, the writer, are treating me, the reader, like I'm half-tard or quarter-tard.

Ginnie and Selena are two high-school age girls who live in New York City and go to some upscale prep school. They play tennis every weekend. Ginnie is the lead of this story. It's her POV. She starts the story annoyed because she always gets stuck with the whole cab fare on their tennis days ... the cab drops Selena off and then goes on to drop Ginnie off, and Selena never leaves her any money. Ginnie finally has had it and brings it up to Selena. Selena is offended, pissed, defensive ... says something about how her mother is sick ... Ginnie is like, "I didn't make her sick, did I?" Selena huffs off into her house to wake up her sick mother and get Ginnie the money she is owed - leaving Ginnie waiting in the living room. This is a world of privilege - we know that because it's Salinger writing it, first of all - that is his milieu - urban privilege - Ginnie stares around the living room at all the furniture and has the desire to throw it all out the window. I'm not sure what's going on there - if there are some issues going on here between Ginnie and Selena that I am not perceiving - issues coming to the foreground because of Selena's cheapness and pettiness when it comes to paying her half of the cab fare. Old money vs. new money? There is NOTHING like the contempt old money has for new money. So that might be what is going on, because it seems like an odd reaction to a set of living room furniture.

Selena's older brother Franklin comes into the room - he is in his early 20s, kind of raggedy, in a bathrobe, and he has cut his finger. Ginnie has never met him before. Their encounter makes up the bulk of 'Just Before the War With the Eskimos'. And although this is just an interpretation, here goes: Ginnie goes through some sort of obvious transformation as she talks to Franklin. He has cut his finger, he seems to think she will know what to do, but then he ruins things by making a sneering comment about her sister, and how she is a snob. Ginnie at first is enraged - how dare he talk to her like that - but somehow, through the next couple pages, she lets that go and seems to start to find him funny. Is it that somehow Ginnie knows he's right - that her sister is a snob? That there is something refreshing about his honesty, in the middle of all of that upper-class repression? Not sure. He divulges that he had rheumatic fever when he was a kid and there is something the matter with his heart. Yet there he is, smoking. He also reveals that he quit college, and spent 37 months in Ohio working in an airplane factory. Ginnie starts to ask him questions about all of this, and his responses are overwhelmingly sarcastic - "I love airplanes ... they're so cute ..." and yet he also offers her his sandwich, he actually insists on her taking it ... Do they connect? Maybe. Salinger leaves that out of the story, it's between the lines - nothing is explicit. But the Ginnie who walks out of that house is a different girl. Selena's brother (his name is Franklin) is waiting for a friend who is coming to get him - they're going to a movie. Franklin leaves, to go get dressed - and his friend arrives, and HE sits in the living room with Ginnie. He is obviously gay - although I suppose if you have no gaydar whatsoever you might not pick up on it. He compliments Ginnie's coat. He complains about the dog hairs on Selena's mother's couch. He and Franklin are going to Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast. He launches into a long rather boring story about this horrible free-loading roommate he had - a writer (you can hear his contempt) - but you have to wonder if it was a thwarted lover situation. And then he reveals that he too worked in the airplane factory in Ohio. I have nothing to back this up, but I think that Franklin may be gay, too - so although he is an outsider due to his cynicism, his bad heart, all that - his true outsider status is his sexual orientation. He sneers out the window at humanity - all the men going to the draft board. You might think he was turned away because of his bad heart, but perhaps it was the gay thing. Perhaps he was "placed" in the airplane factory for the duration of the war - again, none of it is made clear - Perhaps Franklin himself is not gay. I didn't get a gay vibe from him - there are intimations that he might have a crush on Ginnie, and that he certainly had a crush on Ginnie's sister ... but who knows.

The world outside suddenly seems to be marching along towards a destiny that involves none of the characters in the story. There will be war with the Eskimos next. Franklin will stand by the window, with his bad heart, looking on at the ridiculous foibles of humanity. Let them all stroll towards destruction, see what he cares.

The last image of the story - Ginnie walking off down the street, having told Selena that it's okay, she doesn't want her money, and by the way - can I come over later? -leaves much mysterious ... What happened to Ginnie in her encounters with the two men? Something did. It seems she has lifted her head a bit from total self-involvement (which is typical of most teenagers) and seen a bit further, gained perspective - became interested in someone other than herself. To even write that out, makes the story sound hokey and preachy and it is neither of those things. Salinger spells nothing out. Ginnie walks down the street, taking out the sandwich Selena's brother gave her, she contemplates tossing it ... but then thinks better of it and puts it in her pocket again.

It's my favorite kind of story. The writer treats me like I am intelligent. And he leaves enough for me to contemplate ... there is enough left unsaid that I can continue to think about it and wonder about it. I love that.

Here is an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the third story 'Just Before The War With the Eskimos'

"You Ginnie?" he said, squinting at her through his glasses. "You Ginnie Mannox?"

"Yes," said Ginnie, uncrossing her legs.

Selena's brother turned back to his finger, obviously for him the true and only focal point in the room. "I know your sister," he said dispassionately. "Goddam snob."

Ginnie arched her back. "Who is?"

"You heard me."

"She is not a snob!"

"The hell she's not," said Selena's brother.

"She is not!"

"The hell she's not. She's the queen. Queen of the goddam snobs."

Ginnie watched him lift up and peer under the thick folds of toilet paper on his finger.

"You don't even know my sister."

"Hell I don't."

"What's her name? What's her first name?" Ginnie demanded.

"Joan ... Joan the Snob."

Ginnie was silent. "What's she look like?" she asked suddenly.

No answer.

"What's she look like?" Ginnie repeated.

"If she was half as good-looking as she thinks she is, she'd be goddam lucky," Selena's brother said.

This had the stature of an interesting answer, in Ginnie's secret opinion. "I never heard her mention you."

"That worries me. That worries hell outa me."

"Anyway, she's engaged," Ginnie said, watching him. "She's gonna be married next month."

"Who to?" he asked, looking up.

Ginnie took full advantage of his having looked up. "Nobody you know."

He resumed picking at his own first-aid work. "I pity him," he said.

Ginnie snorted.

"It's still bleedin' like mad. Ya think I oughta put something on it? What's good to put on it? Mercurochrome any good?"

"Iodine's better," Ginnie said. Then, feeling her answer was too civil under the circumstances, she added, "Mercurochrome's no good at all for that."

"Why not? What's the matter with it?"

"It just isn't any good for that stuff, that's all. Ya need iodine."

He looked at Ginnie. "It stings a lot, though, doesn't it?" he asked. "Doesn't it sting a helluva lot?"

"It stings," Ginnie said, "but it won't kill you or anything."

Apparently without resenting Ginnie's tone, Selena's brother turned back to his finger. "I don't like it when it stings," he said.

"Nobody does."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah," he said.

Baby Face: pre-Code female

In early May I wrote about 1933's Baby Face, starring Barbara Stanwyck in a highly charged pre-Code melodrama about a woman's dubious rise to the top. My thoughts about Baby Face here.

And a couple of days ago House of Mirth and Movies wrote an essay about Baby Face, with some very thought-provoking observations about it (it's still a difficult film - you realize just how much the ugliness of life was squelched by the Code when you see something like Baby Face).

I’ve seen several films of this type from the era, from Harlow’s The Red Headed Woman to the comedy-driven Gold Diggers of 1933. This one somehow feels far more immediate and dangerous. I’m finally undecided what to think of Powers, and can’t help putting myself in her place. It’s more difficult than I could imagine, especially considering her upbringing. How reckless is her behaviour? Should she have just been satisfied to live her life in abject poverty and abuse? Very early the film the point is made that honesty and kindness are not going to get people anywhere (especially not women it seems), so how wrong is she to abuse the loop holes of a system that only works to oppress and destroy people like her (people without money, and women in general)? I can’t help coming back to the fact that her own father prostituted her to men as young as fourteen…

I don’t think it’s a matter of condemning her, but rather understanding the circumstances of her actions. Putting myself in her shoes, it becomes a question of life and death. She stays behind, she is killing herself, and that isn’t an option for her.

Wonderful essay - go read the whole thing - and certainly, if you haven't already, check out Baby Face. The version I saw had both the pre-release version and the version that was deemed okay to go into the theatres. There's an interesting shot-by-shot analysis here of what was cut - which was mainly the explicit images of money passing hands at the saloon, making clear that Lily's father is her pimp, selling her to the highest bidder. The line about how "it's been nothing but dirty stinking men since I was fourteen years old" was cut. But you can see it in the pre-release version, and it still shocks. Her pain, and rage. But more than that - Lily's defense of herself when one of the guys gets rough, smashing a bottle over his head ... stuff like that. Not to mention the kind of egalitarian relationship between Lily and Chico, the black woman who works in her father's saloon. It's a class and gender issue that binds them together (not to mention friendship) - but they're women. They both know they're low chick on the totem pole. They're on equal footing. It's well worth watching both versions, for any movie buff - it gives you a tiny glimpse into how the Hays Code operated. Baby Face was one of the reasons the Hays Code was instituted (Public Enemy with Cagney was another) - and the film is still breathlessly subversive today. Amazing.

And come on. Let's give Stanwyck the props. She's my favorite. I love her hardness - which never seems like a put-on - but a true defining characteristic - think of how she was able to really fly with that in Double Indemnity where she played the bad dame to end all bad dames.

Anyway. Back to the link: Go read the whole thing.

Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris

I finished Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris yesterday. It blew me away. At one point, I found myself wiping tears off of my face. And then at other times I was laughing so hard that I made my seat-mate on the bus nervous. It's an amazing accomplishment, not to mention right on in its observations of the hollow-ness and ferociously gossipy atmosphere of most offices. It's just perfect that way. You spend more time with your co-workers than you do with your own family, and in a way it's like you're a great big family - you get to know everyone's quirks, and some are more annoying than others ... but you can't just say, "Please go away, you're annoying me ..." You have to put a lid on your hotter passions when you are in the office and do your best to get along. And then there comes a moment when you realize that that person sitting in the cube next to yours - you may overheard the person's phone conversations, and know that she has a bikini wax scheduled for Tuesday, or her douchebag boyfriend won't call her back ... but protocol says you can't ask about these things - and you may know so much about someone, through osmosis, that it comes as a shock when you realize you actually don't know anything at all. Then We Came To The End is all about those moments. Gossip feels real. And vital. It also feels irresistible. It's difficult to turn it down, it's difficult to not succumb. And the one guy in the office (Joe Pope, a GREAT character) who does not gossip is looked at with suspicion and loathing. There is a total group dynamic at work here ... which becomes even more intense once the layoffs start. Who will be next? The book is just so accurate in observations about office life, but also about humanity - and the gap between who we are at work, and who we are at home. This is especially true of the higher-ups, the boss - who is separated from the masses below, because of her salary, her job title ... She is intimidating, good at what she does - and nobody knows anything about her. When we do learn what is going on with her, it is shattering. At least I found it shattering. The SPLIT in psyches ... the fact that work, with its necessary evasions and polite ignoring of tensions, becomes the place where you can hide ... especially if you are a person of power. Because nobody is going to stroll up to you and say, "Hey - what the hell are you doing at work at 10 pm on a Friday night? Come on - go home!" No. Because she is the boss. I'm serious - as we got glimpses into what was happening with her (her moment in the dressing room in the department store especially) I found myself in tears. As funny as the book is, it's a "big" book - with big themes, and I really admire a writer who can pull that off. It's rare in the current literary climate. Joshua Ferris has figured out a way to comment on today's economic atmosphere, and he does so in a way that is funny, accurate, heartfelt ... These characters - I KNOW these people. I know Tom Mota, I know Marcia Dwyer (I love her so much!!), and Benny ... Siobhan texted me the other day when I told her I was 8 pages in to Then We Came to the End and I had already laughed out loud 5 times ... she texted me: "I love Benny!" And oh my God, so do I. He's not Mr. Rochester, he's not Sydney Carton ... he's just a guy who seemingly loves to gossip, loves his job, has an unrequited crush on Marcia ... but as the book goes on, what you realize is: Benny is the glue. Benny is one of those people. We NEED Bennies. Their generosity is so often taken advantage of. Fantastic character. He killed me.

And I'm still gobsmacked by the plural narrator and how perfect it is.

Here's an excerpt.

Marcia Dwyer became famous for sending an e-mail to Genevieve Latko-Devine. Marcia often wrote to Genevieve after meetings. "It is really irritating to work with irritating people," she once wrote. There she ended it and waited for Genevieve's response. Usually when she got Genevieve's e-mail, instead of writing back, which would take too long - Marcia was an art director, not a writer - she would head down to Genevieve's office, close the door, and the two women would talk. The only thing bearable about the irritating event involving the irritating person was the thought of telling it all to Genevieve, who would understand better than anyone else. Marcia could have called her mother, her mother would have listened. She could have called one of her four brothers, any one of those South Side pipe-ends would have been more than happy to beat up the irritating person. But they would not have understood. They would have sympathized, but that was not the same thing. Genevieve would hardly need to nod for Marcia to know she was getting through. Did we not all understand the essential need for someone to understand? But the e-mail Marcia got back was not from Genevieve. It was from Jim Jackers. "Are you talking about me?" he wrote. Amber Ludwig wrote, "I'm not Genevieve." Benny Shassburger wrote, "I think you goofed." Tom Mota wrote, "Ha!" Marcia was mortified. She got sixty-five emails in two minutes. One from HR cautioned her against sending personal e-mails. Jim wrote a second time. "Can you please tell me - is it me, Marcia? Am I the irritating person you're talking about?"

Marcia wanted to eat Jim's heart because some mornings he shuffled up to the elevators and greeted us by saying, "What up, my niggas?" He meant it ironically in an effort to be funny, but he was just not the man to pull it off. It made us cringe, especially Marcia, especially if Hank was present.

In those days it wasn't rare for someone to push someone else down the hall really fast in a swivel chair. Games aside, we spent most of our time inside long silent pauses as we bent over our individual desks, working on some task at hand, lost to it - until Benny, bored, came and stood in the doorway. "What are you up to?" he'd ask.

It could have been any of us. "Working" was the usual reply.

Then Benny would tap his topaz class ring on the doorway and drift away.

How we hated our coffee mugs! our mouse pads, our desk clocks, our daily calendars, the contents of our desk drawers. Even the photos of our loved ones taped to our computer monitors for uplift and support turned into cloying reminders of time served. But when we got a new office, a bigger office, and we brought everything with us into the new office, how we loved everything all over again, and thought hard about where to place things, and looked with satisfaction at the end of the day at how well our old things looked in this new, improved, important space. There was no doubt in our minds just then that we had made all the right decisions, whereas most days we were men and women of two minds. Everywhere you looked, in the hallways and bathrooms, the coffee bar and cafeteria, the lobbies and the print stations, there we were with our two minds.

There seemed to be only the one electric pencil sharpener in the whole damn place.

We didn't have much patience for cynics. Everyone was a cynic at one point or another but it did us little good to bemoan our unbelievable fortunes. At the national level things had worked out pretty well in our favor and entrepreneurial cash was easy to come by. Cars available for domestic purchase, cars that could barely fit in our driveways, had a martial appeal, a promise that, once inside them, no harm would come to our children. It was IPO this and IPO that. Everyone knew a banker, too. And how lovely it was, a bike ride around the forest preserve on a Sunday in May with our mountain bikes, water bottles, and safety helmets. Crime was at an all-time low and we heard accounts of former welfare recipients holding steady jobs. New hair products were being introduced into the marketplace every day and the glass shelves of our stylists were stocked with tidy rows of them, which we eyed in the mirror as we made small talk, each of us certain, there's one up there just for me. Still, some of us had a hard time finding boyfriends. Some of us had a hard time fucking our wives.

Some days we met in the kitchen on sixty to eat lunch. There was only room for eight at the table. If all the seats were full, Jim Jackers would have to eat his sandwich from the sink and try to engage from over in that direction. It was fortunate for us in that he could pass us a spoon or a packet of salt if we needed it.

"It is really irritating," Tom Mota said to the table, "to work with irritating people."

"Screw you, Tom," Marcia replied.

The book packed an unexpected punch. I was surprised at how moved I was "when I came to the end".

Today In History: May 25, 1787 "how thirteen independent states could share a government of tripartite powers"

May 25, 1787: the Constitutional Convention (although that would only be its name later; at the time it was called the "Federal Convention") got underway. Most of the delegates had arrived, by that time, from their far-flung states, and May 25th was the first day that they convened in Independence Hall.

At the time, nobody (except James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and George Washington) was thinking about creating a constitution, or even considering "consolidating". The thought of "consolidation" was horrifying to most, and the thought of an "energetic national government" was even worse. No. No energetic government. The colonies had had quite enough of all of that "energy". However, the original Articles of Confederation were seen by most as inadequate for the present circumstances, so the Convention was called to revise the Articles of Confederation - that was what most of them were there for, just to make revisions. But Washington, Madison, Hamilton - and a couple of other far-seeing gentlemen - saw the need for an even greater revolution, an even more daring task.

One thing to add into this pot, one important piece of context is Shays Rebellion. The Convention began in May, 1787, and Shays Rebellion had raged from the fall of 1786 into the early spring of 1787. So it was still fresh in the memories of all present. Shays Rebellion had left George Washington deeply shaken and angered. He knew that civilization was a fragile construct, easily destroyed. That was the spectre before Washington's eyes, in terms of Shays Rebellion, and any other future uprising. He was convinced that the Articles of Confederation would not be sufficient to cope. There needed to be a federal government.

In the context of the time, this was hugely controversial. But Washington was not alone. Hamilton and Madison were also in favor of strengthening the central government. The violence of Shays Rebellion was the spark which caused the first rift between Thomas Jefferson and Abigail Adams - good friends up until then. Abigail, in London at the time, was enraged at the Rebellion and she wanted it to be crushed, mercilessly. How dare these people threaten all they had fought for? How DARE they? She wrote a passionate letter to Jefferson about it, expressing her rage, and his response to her contained the now-famous line: "I like a little rebellion now and then. It is like a storm in the atmosphere." She quickly withdrew from his friendship, fearful that his view of government would lead the newly free colonies into complete and utter anarchy.

The memory of Shays Rebellion was fresh, and vivid to the men who gathered in the Pennsylvania State House, on May 25th, 1787. Most of them knew they were part of a grand experiment, but many of them didn't know just how much grander and bolder it was about to get. Die-hard patriots, men who had signed the Declaration of Independence, balked at the new idea of this "Constitution", and a consolidated government - with one man at the head of it. One man?? Hadn't they all seen what one man could do?

Regardless: today is the day that the Convention began.

I'll let the marvelous Catherine Drinker-Bowen set the scene (this is from her Miracle At Philadelphia: The Story of the Constitutional Convention May - September 1787 - an absolutely indispensable book):

MAY 25TH, 1787

On the twenty-fifth of May, when a quorum was obtained, Washington was unanimously elected president of the Convention and escorted to the chair. From his desk on the raised dais he made a little speech of acceptance, depreciating his ability to give satisfaction in a scene so novel. "When seated," wrote a member, "he declared that as he never had been in such a situation he felt himself embarrassed, that he hoped his errors, as they would be unintended, would be excused. He lamented his want of qualifications."...

In the front row near the desk, James Madison sat bowed over his tablet, writing steadily. His eyes were blue, his face ruddy; he did not have the scholar's pallor. His figure was well-knit and muscular and he carried his clothes with style. Though he usually wore black, he has also been described as handsomely dressed in blue and buff, with ruffles at breast and wrist. Already he was growing bald and brushed his hair down to hide it; he wore a queue and powder. He walked with the quick bouncing step that sometimes characterizes men of remarkable energy.

As a reporter Madison was indefatigable, his notes comprehensive, set down without comment or aside. One marvels that he was able at the same time to take so large a part in the debates. It is true that in old age Madison made some emendations in the record to accord with various disparate notes which later came to light; he has been severely criticized for it. Other members took notes at the Convention: Hamilton, Yates and Lansing of New York, McHenry of Maryland, Paterson of New Jersey, Rufus King of Massachusetts, William Pierce of Georgia, George Mason of Virginia. But most of these memoranda were brief, incomplete; had it not been for Madison we should possess very scanty records of the Convention. His labors, he said later, nearly killed him. "I chose a seat," he afterward wrote, "in front of the presiding member, with the other members on my right and left hand. In this favorable position for hearing all that passed, I noted in terms legible and in abbreviations and marks intelligble to myself what was read from the Chair or spoken by the members; and losing not a moment unnecessarily between the adjournment and reassembling of the Convention I was enabled to write out my daily notes during the session or within a few finishing days after its close in the extent and form preserved in my own hand on my files ... I was not absent a single day, nor more than a casual fraction of an hour in any day, so that I could not have lost a single speech, unless a very short one."

It was, actually, a tour de force, not to be published -- and scarcely seen -- until thirty years after the Convention. "Do you know," wrote Jefferson to John Adams from Monticello in 1815, "that there exists in manuscript the ablest work of this kind ever yet executed, of the debates of the constitutional convention of Philadelphia ...? The whole of everything said and done there was taken down by Mr. Madison, with a labor and exactness beyond comprehension." ...

"The State of Georgia, by the grace of God, free, Sovereign and Independent" ... On Friday morning, May twenty-fifth, as soon as Washington had finished his little speech of acceptance from the chair, Major Jackson rose to read aloud the credentials -- so carefully worked over at home -- of the nine states present. It was noticeable that the smallest states spoke out with the loudest voice. Georgia, referred to as "small and trifling" because of her sparse population, announced herself to the Convention with a proud resounding orchestration which left little doubt of her position ... "Sovereign and Independent."

Certain members of the Convention were already heartily sick of the word sovereign. The monster, sovereignty, Washington had called it. The General knew well from what sanction Georgia derived the word. "Each state," the Articles of Confederation had said, "retains its sovereignty, freedom and independence." Without such a clause the Confederacy never would have been achieved ...

Before the Declaration of Independence, no colony had pretensions to independent sovereignty, nor were the states mentioned by name in the body of that document. Yet from the moment peace had been signed, states flaunted their sovereignty as an excuse to do as they pleased. "Thirteen sovereignties," Washington had written, "pulling against each other, and all tugging at the foederal head, will soon bring ruin on the whole."

A General of the Army is not expected to possess so direct and merciless a political eye. Already on May 25, 1787, it looked as if the Federal Convention were to have its fill of sovereignty. The reading aloud of these state credentials was a matter for strict attention; here were signs portent of which way the states were leaning. Madison and Hamilton thought they already knew. Madison had canvassed exhaustively; both men were personally acquainted with many delegates, some of whom had themselves drafted these documents and no doubt would stand by what they had written. Delaware, for instance, whose credentials forbade her deputies to change Article V of the Confederation, giving to each state one vote in Congress and one vote only. Proportional representation was no part of Delaware's scheme. Should the old rule be altered to voting by population, the small states would be blanketed out. Delaware had come prepared to oppose it.

Small states against large, the planting interests of the South against the mercantile money of the North, the regulation of the Western Territory -- these were immediate problems. Not every delegate brought to Philadelphia a comprehension of how thirteen independent states could share a government of tripartite powers: legislative, judicial, executive. James Wilson of Philadelphia understood it and so did Wythe of Virginia. Wilson and Wythe were scholars like Madison. Not only had they acted a part in government bu tthey had thought, red, pondered on the subject; they knew the theory behind the practice. "I am both a citizen of Pennsylvania and of the United States," Wilson told the Convention.

Time would pass before members realized how far the plans of such men as Madison and Hamilton reached, and what the Constitution promised to be. It would be misleading to name thus early the Constitution's "enemies", or to set down this name or that as "against" the Constitution. Five delegates in the end would refuse to sign -- Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts, Yates and Lansing of New York, George Mason and Edmund Randolph of Virginia -- all men of decided views and each with a different reason for his action. More vociferous than any of these would be Luther Martin of Maryland, who, though out of town on private business at the moment of signing, later declared that had he been present he would have given the document his "solemn negative," even had he "stood single and alone".

Martin did not arrive at the Convention until nearly a month after it met; for the moment, members were spared his boisterous and interminable harangues. On this first Saturday of a quorum the Convention faced a twofold problem: the theoretic question of what kind of government best suited America -- a democracy, a limited monarchy, a republic? -- and the practical problem of creating such a government with all its untried component parts. It was good to review, by way of the state credentials, the aims of the Convention as declared by twelve legislatures. Major Jackson's voice droned on:

"To take into consideration the state of the union ... as to trade and other important objects ... to render the Foederal Government entirely adeuqate to the actual situation ..." When Jackson ceased there was time only to name a committee to prepare standing rules and orders, and to appoint a doorkeeper and messenger. The meeting adjourned for the weekend.

And so endeth May 25th, 1787.

Four months later:

The Scene at the Signing of the Constitution, oil painting (reproduction) by Howard Chandler Christy, 1940

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the second story 'Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut'.

My favorite in the collection. I think it would make a terrific short film, too. Don't change a word. But there's something revealed in 'Uncle Wiggily' - some truth about life exposed- that makes it feel almost radioactive to me. I can't look directly at it for too long or my retinas will burn off or something. I guess I take 'Uncle Wiggily' personally, somehow ... it has gotten under my skin.

It's a fast-paced story made up almost entirely of dialogue, and things happen so quickly, and there are so many italics, that the ending is like a sucker-punch. I almost resented it the first time I read it because I wasn't prepared for it. But then again, going back to read it again you can see that Salinger was leading us to that tragic ending all along (to me it's tragic, anyway - like "Eleanor Rigby" tragic) - the ice-bound suburbs, the icy Merritt Parkway - everything encased in ice. That's the first image of the story. Eloise has "iced" herself to such a degree in order to bear the life she has chosen. She can't allow any warmth, not even towards her daughter Ramona (who is such a trip - I adore her. Salinger writes children so well!) because if she opens herself up to love, all she will be able to think about will be the love she once lost. (Who is, by the way, Walt Glass - another sibling in the famous Glass family. I don't even think Salinger mentions his last name - but to Glass fanatics, the second you see "Walt" you know who it is).

Mary Jane and Eloise were friends from college. Neither of them graduated, but they have kept in touch. Eloise lives in Connecticut, with her husband Lew and her daughter Ramona. Mary Jane (if I am remembering correctly) is unmarried (although she was married once for three months) and lives in New York City. She is awkward and kind of overly friendly to Ramona when she meets her. She doesn't know how to talk to kids. Ramona stalks around with her imaginary friend whose name is "Jimmy Jimmereeno" and he carries a sword. Eloise is exasperated by Ramona, there's something about mothering that seems to harass her ... we're getting close to the abyss here, the abyss at the heart of Eloise's life. We can see it in her treatment of her daughter, which is not abusive - just kind of tired and "over it". Eloise looks around at her own life, full of solid things - like a house, a husband, a black maid, a daughter - and doesn't recognize herself in it. She doesn't say so, Salinger is never that obvious - it's just the feeling we get. Eloise and Mary Jane immediately begin to drink martinis and smoke cigarettes, talking about the old days, and laughing hysterically. Eloise keeps them drinking ... until finally Mary Jane passes out face down on the couch. They are wasted. Salinger manages to suggest this without ever coming out and saying it: most of the story, like I mentioned, is dialogue - so they'll be chatting along, and then - through the dialogue you can tell a drink is spilled - or that one of them has stumbled ... It's a very effective way to show drunkenness, I think. And somehow Salinger also manages to suggest the sadness hovering underneath all of this - that cannot somehow be spoken (although with enough martinis it eventually is).

Brilliant story - one of my favorites of Salinger's, certainly - but also one of my favorite short stories ever written. Even if it does burn my retina if I look at it too long.

The last line of the story is so killer it makes me want to weep. How often have I said the same thing to myself. Brilliant story.

Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the second story 'Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut'.

"I mean you didn't really know Walt," said Eloise, at a quarter of five, lying on her back on the floor, a drink balanced upright on her small-breasted chest. "He was the only boy I ever knew that could make me laugh. I mean really laugh." She looked over at Mary Jane. "You remember that night - our last year - when that crazy Louise Hermanson busted in the room wearing that black brassiere she bought in Chicago?"

Mary Jane giggled. She was lying on her stomach on the couch, her chin on the armrest, facing Eloise. Her drink was on the floor, within reach.

"Well, he could make me laugh that way," Eloise said. "He could do it when he talked to me. He could do it over the phone. He could even do it in a letter. And the best thing about it was that he didn't even try to be funny - he just was funny." She turned her head slightly toward Mary Jane. "Hey, how 'bout throwing me a cigarette?"

"I can't reach 'em," Mary Jane said.

"Nuts to you." Eloise looked up at the ceiling again. "Once," she said, "I fell down. I used to wait for him at the bus stop, right outside the PX, and he showed up late once, just as the bus was pulling out. We started to run for it, and I fell and twisted my ankle. He said, 'Poor Uncle Wiggily.' He meant my ankle. Poor old Uncle Wiggily, he called it ... God, he was nice."

"Doesn't Lew have a sense of humor?" Mary Jane said.

"What?"

"Doesn't Lew have a sense of humor?"

"Oh, God! Who knows? Yes. I guess so. He laughs at cartoons and stuff." Eloise raised her head, lifted her drink from her chest, and drank from it.

"Well," Mary Jane said. "That isn't everything. I mean that isn't everything."

"What isn't?"

"Oh ... you know. Laughing and stuff."

"Who says it isn't?" Eloise said. "Listen, if you're not gonna be a nun or something, you might as well laugh."

Mary Jane giggled. "You're terrible," she said.

"Ah, God, he was nice," Eloise said. "He was either funny or sweet. Not that damn little-boy sweet, either. It was a special kind of sweet. You know what he did once?"

"Uh-uh," Mary Jane said.

"We were on the train going from Trenton to New York - it was just right after he was drafted. It was cold in the car and I had my coat sort of over us. I remember I had Joyce Morrow's cardigan on underneath - you remember that darling blue cardigan she had?"

Mary Jane nodded, but Eloise didn't look over to get the nod.

"Well, he sort of had his hand on my stomach. You know. Anyway, all of a sudden he said my stomach was so beautiful he wished some officer would come up and order him to stick his other hand through the window. He said he wanted to do what was fair. Then he took his hand away and told the conductor to throw his shoulders back. He told him if there was one thing he couldn't stand it was a man who didn't look proud of his uniform. The conductor just told him to go back to sleep." Eloise reflected a moment, then said, "It wasn't always what he said, but how he said it. You know."

"Have you ever told Lew about him - I mean, at all?"

"Oh," Eloise said. "I started to, once. But the first thing he asked me was what his rank was."

"What was his rank?"

"Ha!" said Eloise.

"No, I just meant -"

Eloise laughed suddenly, from her diaphragm. "You know what he said once. He said he felt he was advancing in the Army, but in a different direction from everybody else. He said that when he'd get his first promotion, instead of getting stripes he'd have his sleeves taken away from him. He said when he'd get to be a general, he'd be stark naked. All he'd be wearing would be a little infantry button in his navel." Eloise looked over at Mary Jane, who wasn't laughing. "Don't you think that's funny?"

"Yes. Only, why don't you tell Lew about him sometimes, though?"

"Why? Because he's too damn unintelligent, that's why," Eloise said. "Besides. Listen to me, career girl. If you ever get married again, don't tell your husband anything. Do you hear me?"

"Why?" said Mary Jane.

"Because I say so, that's why," said Eloise. "They wanna think you spent your whole life vomiting every time a boy came near you. I'm not kidding, either. Oh, you can tell them stuff. But never honestly. I mean never honestly. If you tell 'em you once knew a handsome boy, you gotta say in the same breath he was too handsome. And if you tell 'em you knew a witty boy, you gotta tell 'em he was kind of a smart aleck, though, or a wise guy. If you don't, they hit you over the head with the poor boy every time they get a chance." Eloise paused to drink from her glass and to think. "Oh," she said, "they'll listen very maturely and all that. They'll even look intelligent as hell. But don't let it fool you. Believe me. You'll go through hell if you ever give 'em any credit for intelligence. Take my word."

Mary Jane, looking depressed, raised her chin from the armrest of the couch. For a change, she supported her chin on the forearm. She thought over Eloise's advice. "You can't call Lew not intelligent," she said aloud.

"Who can't?"

"I mean isn't he intelligent?" Mary Jane said innocently.

"Oh," said Eloise, "what's the use of talking? Let's drop it. I'll just depress you. Shut me up."

"Well, wudga marry him for, then?" Mary Jane said.

"Oh, God! I don't know. He told me he loved Jane Austen. He told me her books meant a great deal to him. That's exactly what he said. I found out after we were married that he hadn't even read one of her books. You know who his favorite author is?"

Mary Jane shook her head.

"L. Manning Vines. Ever hear of him?"

"Uh-uh."

"Neither did I. Neither did anybody else. He wrote a book about four men that starved to death in Alaska. Lew doesn't remember the name of it, but it's the most beautifully written book he's ever read. Christ! He isn't even honest enough to come right out and say he liked it because it was about four guys that starved to death in an igloo or something. He has to say it was beautifully written."

"You're too critical," Mary Jane said. "I mean you're too critical. Maybe it was a good--"

"Take my word for it, it couldn't've been," Eloise said. She thought for a moment, then added, "At least you have a job. I mean at least you --"

"But listen, though," said Mary Jane. "Do you think you'll ever tell him Walt was killed, even? I mean he wouldn't be jealous, would he, if he knew Walt was - you know. Killed and everything."

"Oh, lover! You poor, innocent little career girl," said Eloise. "He'd be worse. He'd be a ghoul. Listen. All he knows is that I went around with somebody named Walt - some wisecracking G.I. The last thing I'd do would be to tell him he was killed. But the last thing. And if I did - which I wouldn't - but if I did, I'd tell him he was killed in action."

I wish I had a lifetime supply of:

-- Summer Hill body wash and body lotion from Crabtree & Evelyn

-- The "Dances with Clouds" essential oil from Mood Star. I am a drug addict for this particular scent. If they ever discontinue it, I seriously will be bereft.

-- This kind of Paper Mate pen. Best pen ever invented

-- Dunkin Donuts iced coffee

-- Oil of Olay Regenerist night creme

-- Ben Gay ultra strength (in the red box)

-- Weight Watchers Picante chicken & pasta

-- DuWop Lip Venom lip plumper

-- All Smashbox makeup products - particularly the Photo Finish Foundation Primer - a product I cannot believe I have gone this long without.

-- Swiffer accessories

-- Inglehoffer Sweet & Hot Mustard. I believe I have covered my journey with this mustard. I now know that a Pathmark 3 towns north of me carries it. I can rest easy.

-- Pepperdews. Hard to find. I want them to arrive at my door on a weekly basis. I am not alone in my adoration.

-- Venus Gillette disposable razors

-- Oil of Olay microdermabrasion kit

-- What I call "Harriet the Spy notebooks"

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 6

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Please notice that I use a semi-colon at one point. I also enjoy how I, age 11, attempt to write in different dialects. Carry on.

CHAPTER 6

"Papers! Get your papers!" J.P. called waving the papers around.

She sighed. Business was bad today. No one wanted a paper.

As she turned to cross the street someone came zooming down the sidewalk and practically knocked J.P. over.

"Hey! Watch where you're--" then she saw that it was Sara. "What's the matter, Sara? Are you in trouble?"

Sara nodded and looked around in a frightened way. And then she ran off down the street, in the opposite direction of where J.P. was standing.

"Wait up, Sara! You can tell me about it!" J.P. took off after Sara. Sara certainly could run fast. Soon J.P. was completely out of breath and she gave up chasing after Sara.

She looked around and saw that she was right in front of the soup kitchen.

She walked in and looked around. The soup that was being served smelled good but J.P. had more important matters on her mind.

She rushed up to the counter.

"Why, hello, J.P. I'm glad to see you. You're such a nice boy to have around." Miss Sims said pleasantly. J.P. had no intention of telling them she was a girl, even though she did like Miss Sims quite a lot.

"Miss Sims, I didn't come for soup," she announced.

Miss Sims looked surprised. "You didn't?"

J.P. shook her head. "No. It's about Sara Florence."

"Sara Florence? Oh, the quiet girl about 13? Yes? What about her?" Miss Sims laid down the wooden soup ladle.

"She's in trouble." J.P. stated, too tired from her long run to give the details.

"What? She is in trouble? Why?"

J.P. shrugged. "I donno. I wish I knew. She's my friend."

"Well," Miss Sims patted J.P.'s shoulder. "I'll go check it out. Don't worry. And by the way, we are leaving for the West in 3 days."

J.P. almost fell over. "You mean to go and get families for us orphans?"

Miss Sims nodded. J.P. slid into a nearby chair, deep in thought. She sort of had a family but she probably would never see them again. She did miss her mother, but not that much because her mother had left her so that showed she hadn't cared much for J.P. I'll go, she thought. But should I? She was afraid it would be disloyal to her real parents. But they didn't care about me! she thought fiercely. Why should I stay behind and suffer if I can go West and get good, kind parents. Yes, I'll go. It'll be an adventure!

Meanwhile, Miss Sims had left the kitchen in charge of the old man. Before she left she asked of J.P., "J.P. Do you know where she went or who might know where she went?"

J.P. thought that over. "Well, ask Liverpool. He knew Sara. I think they like each other."

Miss Sims smiled. "Thank you, J.P." She hurriedly departed into the crowded cobblestone street. She knew where Liverpool lived. In a dark, dark, brokendown building filled with holes, mice and dirt. He had come over from Liverpool, England. That is how he got his name. His father had taken him on a boat. His father had died in America, leaving Liverpool to be one of the Orphans.

As she arrived at Liverpool's hideout she was aware of the awful smell that wafted through the air.

"Poor Liverpool," she thought.

There was no door and part of the building had no roof and one side of the building had completely collapsed!

She walked around trying to find a decent way to get in. She turned a corner and there to her surprise was Liverpool.

He was 13 and rather small for his age. His eyes were very small, giving him a mean look about him. He was wearing a brown cap over his dirty blonde hair. His coat was brown with two short tails on the back. His knickers were tan and he wore black socks and black shoes with the laces tied up in many knots.

He was slouched against the wall with his hands deep in his pockets.

Even though he was only a boy and Miss Sims a grown adult she felt rather shy against him.

"What yo' doin' here?" he asked, glaring at her.

Miss Sims gulped and then inquired if he had seen Sara.

He nodded.

"Well, where did you see her?" Miss Sims asked eagerly.

"She came 'ere to ask me advice."

"And what did you tell her?"

Liverpool shrugged. "She's back at the Florence's right now."

"Oh, thank you, Liverpool!" Miss Sims was very grateful.

Liverpool waved his arms around. "Now ge' ou' a here."

Miss Sims turned to leave but then she remembered something she wanted to say and she turned to face Liverpool again.

"And Liverpool, we're leaving for the West in 3 days if you --"

"Ge' ou' a here, I told you," he said in a loud voice.

"Don't you want to come?" she said in amazement.

"What would I wanna come for?" Liverpool asked in disgust.

"Well, when we get there you'll have a good family who takes care of you and keeps you out of trouble and --"

"I don' need no one." Liverpool stated folding his arms.

"But you do! How would you like to end up like your friend David Smithson? You will if you stay here! They will catch you, Liverpool!"

Liverpool shook his head. "They ain't never gonna catch me."

Miss Sims gave up. You just couldn't deal with someone like that. She turned on her heel and started off for the Florence's.

When she got there, she mounted up on the porch and rapped on the door. The butler opened it.

"Yes?" he said.

Miss Sims cleared her throat. "I am here to see Mrs. Florence and Sara."

"Come in, ma'am." The butler held open the door and Miss Sims entered. She was led through the large elegant parlor, down two halls, until finally they arrived at the living room. Mrs. Florence was there, sprawled on the couch.

She was wearing a black dress with red and green flowers sprinkled all over it. She wasn't very pretty.

"Yes, what is it?" Her voice seemed irritated.

"A woman is here to see you." The butler handed Miss Sims over and Miss Sims began. She told Mrs. Florence all about the train going West and all the children she was taking and she thought that Sara should come too.

"Sara!! What for?? She's got a home!" Mrs. Florence cried.

"Yes, I know that; but does she have love?" Miss Sims asked pointedly.

Mrs. Florence shrugged. " 'Course she got love!!"

Miss Sims asked if she was really sure about that and then Mrs. Florence got angry and told Miss Sims to mind her own business.

"Mrs. Florence, I don't mean to upset you but why don't you call Sara down and talk to her about it."

Mrs. Florence reluctantly agreed. She told the butler to fetch Sara and he did. He brought her in and Sara stood there looking frightened.

"Don't be scared, Sara," Miss Sims said tenderly. "You know me, don't you?"

Sara nodded her head. "You work the kitchen."

Miss Sims nodded. "That's right." Then she told her all about the West and then she asked Sara one simple question. "Sara, do you like it here?"

Sara looked at Mrs. Florence and the butler and then back at Miss Sims. Then she looked around again. Her eyes stopped in front of Miss Sims. She gave her a hard look and the slightest shake of her head. Miss Sims understood.

"Well, would you like to come out West?" Miss Sims asked.

"Oh, yes!" Sara cried. Mrs. Florence was surprised.

"Wait a second. Not so fast." Mrs. Florence shattered the happiness of the moment. "You ain't takin' her unless I have somethin' in it."

Miss Sims was worried. "What do you want? Money?"

"That's what I had in mind." Mrs. Florence's face wore an evil grin.

"Well - how much?" Miss Sims inquired fearfully.

"Maybe 200 dollars?" Mrs. Florence held out her hand.

Miss Sims gulped. She took out her purse and handed Mrs. Florence some money. Mrs. Florence looked at it.

"That ain't 200 dollars! Either you give me 200 dollars or you don't get the kid." Mrs. Florence tossed back the money.

"I'm sorry but I don't have --" Miss Sims began but she stopped because she remembered something. Leaning down, reluctantly, Miss Sims rolled down her stocking. Folded up was 200 dollars. It was the money Mr. Carlin had given her to buy the coach, even though he would get the coach for them.

Miss Sims glanced at the money and then back at Sara. She decided what to do.

She took out the money and flapped it at Mrs. Florence.

"Here, take it," she said, holding back the tears.

Mrs. Florence grabbed it and looked at it in surprise. "Now, where did you get that?"

Miss Sims grabbed Sara's hand and put her nose in the air. "Now it's time for you to mind your own business. C'mon, Sara." She led Sara out of the room, leaving Mrs. Florence staring after them in puzzlement.

The Books: "Nine Stories"- 'A Perfect Day For Bananafish' (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - excerpt from the first story 'A Perfect Day For Bananafish'.

A superb short story collection, published in 1953. Most of these stories originally appeared in The New Yorker, and the Glass family - featured so strongly in Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters (excerpt here), Seymour An Introduction (excerpt here) and Franny and Zooey - also stroll through the pages of Nine Stories. Sometimes they are peripheral characters, or only exist in memory (like in "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut" - my favorite story in the collection) - but sometimes, like in 'Perfect Day for Bananafish' they take center stage. If you're immersed in Salinger-land then you know all of these people like you know your own family. Wes Anderson is obviously hugely influenced by Salinger, although his own sensibility of course has much to do with his film-making - but he is haunted by the Glass family, and it shows.

Siblings. That relationship. Especially in precocious kids who maybe didn't have the best childhood. What binds us together (or doesn't bind us together?) In Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, Seymour An Introduction, and Franny and Zooey, we meet the Glass family at various stages ... all post-Seymour's suicide. He is the oldest brother. A poet. A Buddhist. Obviously brilliant, but obviously troubled - he would never have had a conventional path. But, as Salinger writes in Catcher in the Rye (excerpt here), it is those who follow another path, or hear another drumbeat - however you want to call it - who sometimes have the hardest time of it, especially in a society that values conformity above all else. And Salinger was writing from the 1950s, a time of great conformity (which, ironically or not so ironically, engendered a lot of great art) - when you either had to drop out and be a biker Beat dude on the fringes of society, or join the masses. This is oversimplified, naturally - but often it is the oversimplification of cultural movements and forces that bring out some pretty good art - movies, music, poetry ... People reacting to what they see as some larger forces. Salinger is right on the edge of all of that. His Holden Caulfield is deeply surrounded by conventionality - he is on the path all of his peers are on. His boarding school is, obviously, a hotbed of conventionality - even with all the different characters - and even if no one says anything to him, Caulfield gets the message loud and clear: "Why can't you be ... more ... well ... NORMAL?" As someone who has struggled with my own sense of self and surrounded by forces which seem to either want to tell me who to be (those are easily ignored) - or say to me: "Why aren't you like everyone else?" (not so easily ignored - if you listen to questions like that long enough, the end result can be neurosis) I understand Holden Caulfield's struggle, and I also understand JD Salinger's antipathy for phonies, fakers, and people who "play along with the rules" in order to fit in. We're kind of approaching Joseph Heller territory here (excerpt here), where the Catch-22 is: the entire world is fucked up. If you accept the rules, you are fucked up yourself. If you DON'T accept the rules, you will be viewed as THE most fucked up, even though you are saner than everyone. Yossarian knows that "people" are trying to kill him. His commanding officer shouts, in frustration, "Of COURSE they're trying to kill you - it's a war!" Yossarian thinks that is the stupidest explanation he has ever heard. How on earth will that change his experience of flying above the earth knowing that people down there are shooting up at him? And how on earth is he supposed to NOT take that personally??? "They're trying to KILL ME!" he shouts to anyone who will listen, and you know, he's got a point. He's not swayed by generalized explanations about "war" or "duty" or "patriotism". He just wants to avoid the bullet. Heller writes about huge societal forces - swaying enormous groups of people in one direction ... and within that, there is a ton of variety ... and those who try to resist that sway - are seen as certifiable lunatics. Ken Kesey is another one who writes in this vein. You know, these are all 1950s writers.

Seymour Glass is a mystery - regardless of all of the time Salinger spends on him. There are great gaps in our information about him. We know he was beloved by his siblings. We know that he treats little kids with respect - he meets them at their level, maybe he finds their honesty refreshing. Seymour Glass seems to have a hard time with, you know, "fitting in". And choosing to NOT "fit in" is sometimes a lifelong commitment - and you have to just deal with the fact that you are outside the norm, and people will not understand you - or they will fall silent when you answer a question, because they won't know what to say ... There are expectations placed ON us, and we can either submit or rebel (and this is not to say that those who DO submit are drones, or unthinking people - so do not purposefully misunderstand me here) - there are those who DO "fit in" with the cultural norm - naturally, and it deeply expresses who they are, what they want, and what they expect from life. So bully for them. Seymour Glass is trapped in a world that thinks he is a weirdo. He has been outraging convention for years - no matter what he does. You hope against hope that someone like that is okay with the fact that everyone thinks he is weird ... and despite the fact that Seymour kills himself, it is still not clear why.

"A Perfect Day For Bananafish" tells the story of Seymour Glass on a holiday in Florida with his wife Muriel. It is the only time that Seymour is the lead of a story. For the most part, we hear about him through others. So here we are with him. It's a brutal story. Short, unforgiving, and mysterious. It opens with Seymour's wife Muriel on the phone with her mother - Muriel is in the hotel room in Florida, painting her nails and smoking a cigarette. Muriel's mother is beside herself with worry, and is obviously kind of obsessed with how weird Seymour is. He has a tattoo. There are vast swathes of stories behind her words - things left unexplained - Seymour said something inappropriate to "Grandma" when Grandma revealed her plans for her funeral ... things like that. Seymour is unpredictable. It is worried over. He plays the piano in the hotel bar?? Has he done anything else wildly inappropriate? Does he call Muriel by that awful nickname? Muriel seems exasperated with her mother, and keeps trying to reassure her that everything is fine - but eventually it is revealed that Muriel spoke to a psychiatrist and his wife who are staying at the hotel - and yes, the bar was really loud so they had to shout ... but there is something creepy about Muriel going behind her husband's back like this. Muriel doesn't seem like a bad sort, and it is refreshing how she treats her mother. Seymour's nickname for Muriel is "Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948" and Muriel thinks that is hysterical. So I like Muriel for that. But Muriel's mother is absolutely horrified. Tramp?? What? Her daughter has obviously married a maniac. Muriel seems a bit more philosophical about her husband's idiosyncracies - the fact that he wears his bathrobe on the beach, the fact that he gave her a book of poetry in German and told her she should learn the language in order to read it ... You know, he's not malevolent ... but you definitely get the sense of forces larger than Seymour Glass trying to marginalize him or psychopathologize him. Who knows.

Next scene is on the beach. It's shattering and I've read it a million times and I still can't get to the bottom of it. Seymour lies on the beach. A little 4 year old girl named Sybil who is also on vacation with her parents has befriended Seymour (she calls him "See more glass") - and they go swimming together, and Seymour tells her a story about bananafish, a tragic breed of fish who swim through a hole in a cave in order to eat the bananas there, and then they gorge themselves until they become so fat they can't exit the cave again. They die. A rather grim story for a 4 year old, but you know ... little kids can handle grim stories better than adults can. You ever read the actual Sleeping Beauty? That's some scary shit. So Sybil, floating on the raft, starts to peer into the water for bananafish, and reports to Seymour that she saw one swim by and he had six bananas in his mouth!

Seymour then heads back to the hotel. He stands in the elevator, in his bathrobe, barefoot. Another person in the elevator keeps glancing down at Seymour's bare feet and Seymour can't stand it anymore and calls them out on it. "My feet are normal and I can't see the slightest God-damn reason anyone should stare at them." Woah. A kind of scary moment where social norms are totally set aside. You don't talk to strangers in elevators. And if someone is behaving in a rude manner, staring at you, you should grin and bear it, perhaps keep your mouth shut. Having seen Seymour now only in context with his encounter with Sybil - where he is sweet, humorous, kind - it's jarring how rude and angry he is in the elevator. What is going on with this man?

If you haven't read the story, be aware that there are spoilers coming up. Seymour returns to his hotel room. There are twin beds. His wife lies asleep in one of them. Seymour goes to his suitcase, takes out a gun, sits on the other twin bed, puts the gun to his temple and fires.

That's it.

It's horrifying. It's horrifying because it ends right there and you know that the gun blast will wake up his wife - and that she will be left with the mess and the horrifying sight of her husband with his brains blown out in the next bed.

It's my favorite kind of short story. The "meaning" is left out. Whatever it "means" is between the words. It's 15 pages long. It's nothing, a snippet, really. But every time I read it, I either notice new things, or I remember, yet again, why the story haunts me.

Here's an excerpt.

Nine Stories, by J.D. Salinger - 'A Perfect Day For Bananafish'

Sybil released her foot. "Did you read 'Little Black Sambo'?" she said.

"It's very funny you ask me that," he said. "It so happens I just finished reading it last night." He reached down and took back Sybil's hand. "What did you think of it?" he asked her.

"Did the tigers run all around that tree?"

"I thought they'd never stop. I never saw so many tigers."

"There were only six," Sybil said.

"Only six!" said the young man. "Do you call that only?"

"Do you like wax?" Sybil asked.

"Do I like what?" asked the young man.

"Wax."

"Very much. Don't you?"

Sybil nodded. "Do you like olives?" she asked.

"Olives - yes. Olives and wax. I never go anyplace without 'em."

"Do you like Sharon Lipschutz?" Sybil asked.

"Yes. Yes, I do," said the young man. "What I like particularly about her is that she never does anything mean to little dogs in the lobby of the hotel. That little toy bull that belongs to that lady from Canada, for instance. You probably won't believe this, but some little girls like to poke that little dog with balloon sticks. Sharon doesn't. She's never mean or unkind. That's why I like her so much."

Sybil was silent.

"I like to chew candles," she said finally.

"Who doesn't?" said the young man, getting his feet wet. "Wow! It's cold." He dropped the rubber float on its back. "No, wait just a second, Sybil. Wait'll we get out a little bit."

They waded out till the water was up to Sybil's waist. Then the young man picked her up and laid her down on her stomach on the float.

"Don't you ever wear a bathing cap or anything?" he asked.

"Don't let go," Sybil ordered. "You hold me, now."

"Miss Carpenter. Please. I know my business," the young man said. "You just keep your eyes open for any bananafish. This is a perfect day for bananafish."

Happy place

In line with my recent 5 for the day: Jeff Bridges:

This is publicity for American Heart, a film he also produced - I think it's one of the greatest performances ever given by an American actor.

Not to mention. Yum.

Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris

I'm reading Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris right now - thanks to my sister Siobhan and also to Elegant Variation, who put the book on my radar almost immediately. If you work in an office now, if you have ever worked in an office, you will wince and cringe and laugh out loud reading this book. Within the first two pages I wasn't just chuckling, at the observations - I was guffawing, and had to put the book down to get myself together. It reminds me quite a bit of Catch-22(excerpt here), with its realistic and yet vaguely manic way of talking about something that is totally absurd. I have not finished it yet - so please do not spoil it ... but so far, it's one of my favorite new books I've read in the last year. And it's a first novel, which I am usually prejudiced against. Any book that makes me laugh so loud on the subway that the person next to me starts to shift uncomfortably because they are seated next to a lunatic is a book that has won my heart. The most amazing thing about the book is that it is a plural narrator. "We". At first I wondered, nervously, "Will he be able to sustain this? Will I miss a more conventional story?" Well, I'm 200 pages in and yes. He is able to sustain it. And no. I do not miss a more conventional narrator. Because if you've worked in an office, you know how it is all about the group ... people say "We think" and "We feel" with total freedom, and when you really examine it - or stop to think about it - it is totally insane! Gossip runs the world. Without it, offices would not function. Without the group "we", office politics would fall apart. So I'm really impressed with the "we" narrator, and now I barely think about it - I have totally accepted it. It's not a gimmick, or a trick. It really expresses what office life is like. But there's so much else that (so far) is wonderful about this book. I've mentioned the humor. The observations are so right on that I suddenly find myself thinking, 'Why on earth did I not see that before?" But the book does not sacrifice heart, the abyss that is at the center of so many people's lives. It's not condescending either - as in: hahaha, let's laugh at the poor drones who have to work in cubicles, haha. Oh God, no. Joshua Ferris KNOWS this world, and he has observed how it operates - and he just "gets" it. Office life. It's making me laugh so hard I cry. Some excerpts later, perhaps, but for now - I just have to go on record that this is a fantastic book.

The Books: "Seymour An Introduction" (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Seymour An Introduction, by J.D. Salinger

How on earth should I describe this novella? First of all, I should say that it is in the tradition of Ulysses and Proust and all of those giant modernist writers mainly interested in upending the personal sensoral experiences of moment-to-moment living ... that's what's going on in Seymour, although it's not so much sensoral - as intellectual. It's an excavation of memory. The narrator, Buddy Glass, is determined to put Seymour, his brother, on paper - but he finds it more challenging than he realized, and eventually has to just stop writing. It's devastating. You want to shout at him to keep going, but nope. Buddy Glass is done. Whatever or whoever Seymour was - it remains between the lines. And isn't that true of people we love? You can try to describe them - what they looked like, for example ... or, more accurately, you can describe what they did, their actions, their behavior. That gets closer to someone's essence. The books they read, their climactic moments in life ... But still: you can't capture someone. And Buddy Glass wants to capture Seymour - his brother who committed suicide - he wants to somehow capture him in words. Words are inadequate to the job. And that is shattering to a writer. You hear stories about writers who finally have to put down their pens forever, because their whole raison d'etre, their only skill really - has proven to be not up to the job. What, if not words?

The book is called Seymour An Introduction. There is no more. It is an introduction to nothing. And so we are left bereft, along with the Glass family ... unable to understand, unable to see enough between the lines to maybe understand WHY ... WHY did this beautiful beloved original soul kill himself? Why? What was it that Seymour "saw" that was so unbearable that he decided to check out?

It's an extraordinary piece of writing. It is the meaning of stream-of-conscious writing. And as the story goes on, the parentheticals become longer and longer and longer. You get lost in them. Buddy Glass cannot state anything unequivocally. Writing becomes a noose, strangling expression. How much of this was Salinger? I have no idea. But to read a writer, over the course of one story, become unable to write anymore is just shattering. I only read Seymour An Introduction once - in one sitting- I remember where I was when I read it, and I remember the tears streaming down my face. It's amazing.

In a comment to my Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters post, I said:

I may be foolish ( wouldn't be the first time) but I still hold out hope as long as Salinger is alive that Seymour will come back. I believe that there is a manuscript somewhere - I mean, Seymour: An Introduction ... an introduction!! He had more to say - he did - but to watch him in that story kind of spiral out of control (in the best way) and to be unable to keep going ... it's almost like his own parentheticals became ropes that bound and gagged him ... Everything he writes has to be qualified with a parenthetical - until finally language itself loses its meaning. I found it so so hard and moving to read. It's one of the most human pieces of literature I have ever read. Now I am probably confusing Buddy Glass with JD Salinger - and perhaps they are NOT one and the same ... but I felt Salinger the writer in Seymour: An Introduction finally, after 60 pages, just throw up his hands and say, "You know what? No. Screw this. I'm not writing anymore."

But wouldn't it be wonderful if there were more? If there exists a manuscript in that house of his that someday will come to light? I do like to imagine that.

Seymour An Introduction is one of the most immediate pieces of literature I have ever read. The writer struggling with writing as he writes. Navel-gazing? Sure. I don't happen to have a problem with that (of course not - look at my blog) ... and it is also a piece of art that is also about the artistic process. Buddy Glass (JD Salinger) is doing battle through the prose. Not just with the memory of his brother, but with how to write about it. He wrestles with words. He gets angry. Frustrated. It's hard to take. It reminds me a bit of John Cassavetes' film Opening Night (my favorite of all of his films). It's about actors putting on a play. It's a movie about how hard it is to act, sometimes ... and the movie looks at it in an unblinking way. It's the kind of thing that is the thing itself at the same time it is about that thing itself (like that great quote from Sam Beckett about Finnegans Wake: "You cannot complain that this stuff is not written in English. It is not written at all. It is not to be read. It is to be looked at and listened to. His writing is not about something. It is that something itself.")

Here's an excerpt from Seymour An Introduction:

EXCERPT FROM Seymour An Introduction, by J.D. Salinger

Do I go on about my brother's poetry too much? Am I being garrulous? Yes. Yes. I go on about my brother's poetry too much. I'm being garrulous. And I care. But my reasons against leaving off multiply like rabbits as I go along. Furthermore, though I am, as I've already conspicuously posted, a happy writer, I'll take my oath I'm not now and never have been a merry one; I've mercifully been allowed the usual professional quota of unmerry thoughts. For example, it hasn't just this moment struck me that once I get around to recounting what I know of Seymour himself, I can't expect to leave myself either the space or the required pulse rate or, in a broad but true sense, the inclination to mention his poetry again. At this very instant, alarmingly, while I clutch my own wrist and lecture myself on garrulousness, I may be losing the chance of a lifetime - my last chance, I think, really - to make one final, hoarse, objectionable, sweeping public pronouncement on my brother's rank as an American poet. I mustn't let it slip. Here it is: When I look back, listen back, over the half-dozen or slightly more original poets we've had in America, as well as the numerous talented eccentric poets and - in modern times, especially - the many gifted style deviates, I feel something close to a conviction that we have had only three or four very nearly nonexpendable poets, and I think Seymour will eventually stand with those few. Not overnight, verständlich. Zut, what would would you? It's my guess, my perhaps flagrantly over-considered guess, that the first few waves of reviewers will obliquely condemn his verses by calling them Interesting or Very Interesting, with a tacit or just plain badly articulated declaration, still more damning, that they are rather small, sub-acoustical things that have failed to arrive on the contemporary Western scene with their own built-in transatlantic podium, complete with lectern, drinking glass, and pitcher of iced sea water. Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.) And I'm reminded, too, that once when we were boys, Seymour waked me from a sound sleep, much excited, yellow pajamas flashing in the dark. He had what my brother Walt used to call his Eureka Look, and he wanted to tell me that he thought he finally knew why Christ said to call no man Fool. (It was a problem that had been baffling him all week, because it sounded to him like a piece of advice, I believe, more typical of Emily Post than of someone busily about his Father's Business.) Christ had said it, Seymour thought I'd want to know, because there are no fools. Dopes, yes - fools, no. It seemed to him well worth waking me up for, but if I admit that it was (and I do, without reservations), I'll have to concede that if you give even poetry critics enough time, they'll prove themselves unfoolish. To be truthful, it's a thought that comes hard to me, and I'm grateful to be able to push on to something else. I've reached, at long last, the real head of this compulsive and, I'm afraid, occasionally somewhat pustulous disquisition on my brother's poetry. I've seen it coming from the very beginning. I would to God the reader had something terrible to tell me first. (Oh, you out there - with your enviable golden silence.)

I have a recurrent, and, in 1959, almost chronic, premonition that when Seymour's poems have been widely and rather officially acknowledged as First Class (stacked up in college bookstores, assigned in Contemporary Poetry courses), matriculating young men and women will strike out, in singlets and twosomes, notebooks at the ready, for my somewhat creaking front door. (It's regrettable that this matter has to come up at all, but it's surely too late to pretend to an ingenuousness, to say nothing of a grace, I don't have, and I must reveal that my reputedly heartshaped prose has knighted me one of the best-loved sciolists in print since Ferris L. Monahan, and a good many young English Department people already know where I live, hole up; I have their tire tracks in my rose beds to prove it.) By and large, I'd say without a shred of hesitation, there are three kinds of students who have both the desire and the temerity to look as squarely as possible into any sort of literary horse's mouth. The first kind is the young man or woman who loves and respects to distraction any fairly responsible sort of literature and who, if he or she can't see Shelley plain, will make do with seeking out manufacturers of inferior but estimable products. I know these boys and girls well, or think I do. They're naive, they're alive, they're enthusiastic, they're usually less than right, and they're the hope always, I think, of blase or vested-interested literary society the world over. (By some good fortune I can't believe I've deserved, I've had one of these ebullient, cocksure, irritating, instructive, often charming girls or boys in every second or third class I've taught in the past twelve years.) The second kind of young person who actually rings doorbells in the pursuit of literary data suffers, somewhat proudly, from a case of academicitis, contracted from any one of half a dozen Modern English professors or graduate instructors to whom he's been exposed since his freshman year. Not seldom, if he himself is already teaching or is about to start teaching, the disease is so far along that one doubts whether it could be arrested, even if someone were fully equipped to try. Only last year, for example, a young man stopped by to see me about a piece I'd written, several years back, that had a good deal to do with Sherwood Anderson. He came at a time when I was cutting part of my winter's supply of firewood with a gasoline-operated chain saw - an instrument that after eight years of repeated use I'm still terrified of. It was the height of the spring thaw, a beautiful sunny day, and I was feeling, frankly, just a trifle Thoreauish (a real treat for me, because after thirteen years of country living I'm still a man who gauges bucolic distances by New York City blocks). In short, it looked like a promising, if literary, afternoon, and I recall that I had high hopes of getting the young man, a la Tom Sawyer and his bucket of whitewash, to have a go at my chain saw. He appeared healthy, not to say strapping. His deceiving looks, however, very nearly cost me my left foot, for between spurts and buzzes of my saw, just as I finished delivering a short and to me rather enjoyable eulogy on Sherwood Anderson's gentle and effective style, the young man asked me - after a thoughtful, a cruelly promising pause - if I thought there was an endemic American Zeitgeist. (Poor young man. Even if he takes exceptionally good care of himself, he can't at the outside have more than fifty years of successful campus activity ahead of him.) The third kind of person who will be a fairly constant visitor around here, I believe, once Seymour's poems have been quite thoroughly unpacked and tagged, requires a paragraph to himself or herself.

It would be absurd to say that most young people's attraction to poetry is far exceeded by their attraction to those few or many details of a poet's life that may be defined here, loosely, operationally, as lurid. It's the sort of absurd notion, though, that I wouldn't mind taking out for a good academic run someday. I surely think, at any rate, that if I were to ask the sixty odd girls (or, that is, the sixty-odd girls) in my two Writing for Publication courses - most of them seniors, all of them English majors - to quote a line, any line from "Ozymandias," or even just to tell me roughly what the poem is about, it is doubtful whether ten of them could do either, but I'd bet my unrisen tulips that some fifty of them could tell me that Shelley was all for free love, and had one wife who wrote "Frankenstein" and another who drowned herself.* I'm neither shocked nor outraged at the idea, please mind. I don't think I'm even complaining. For if nobody's a fool, then neither am I, and I'm entitled to a non-fool's Sunday awareness that, whoever we are, no matter how like a blast furnace the heat from the candles on our latest birthday cake, and however presumably lofty the intellectual, moral, and spiritual heights we've all reached, our gusto for the lurid or partly lurid (which, of course, includes both low and superior gossip) is probably the last of our fleshy appetites to be sated or effectively curbed. (But, my God, why do I rant on? Why am I not going straight to the poet for an illustration? One of Seymour's hundred and eighty-four poems - a shocker on the first impact only; on the second, as heartening a paean to the living as I've read - is about a distinguished old ascetic on his deathbed, surrounded by chanting priests and disciples, who lies straining to hear what the washerwoman in the courtyard is saying about his neighbor's laundry. The old gentleman, Seymour makes it clear, is faintly wishing the priests would keep their voices down a bit.) I can see, though, that I'm having a little of the usual trouble entailed in trying to make a very convenient generalization stay still and docile long enough to support a wild specific premise. I don't relish being sensible about it, but I suppose I must. It seems to me indisputably true that a good many people, the wide world over, of varying ages, cultures, natural endowments, respond with a special impetus, a zing, even, in some cases, to artists and poets who as well as having a reputation for producing great or fine art have something garishly Wrong with them as persons: a spectacular flaw in character or citizenship, a construably romantic affliction or addiction - extreme self-centeredness, marital infidelity, stone-deafness, stone-blindness, a terrible thirst, a mortally bad cough, a soft spot for prostitutes, a partiality for grand-scale adultery or incest, a certified or uncertified weakness for opium or sodomy, and so on, God have mercy on the lonely bastards. If suicide isn't at the top of the list of compelling infirmities for creative men, the suicide poet or artist, one can't help noticing, has always been given a very considerable amount of avid attention, not seldom on sentimental grounds almost exclusively, as if he were (to put it much more horribly than I really want to) the floppy-eared runt of the litter. It's a thought, anyway, finally said, that I've lost sleep over many times, and possibly will again.

(How can I record what I've just recorded and still be happy? But I am. Unjolly, unmerry, to the marrow, but my afflatus seems to be punctureproof. Recollective of only one other person I've known in my life.)

*Just for the sake of making a point I could be embarrassing my students unnecessarily here. Schoolteachers have done it before. Or maybe I've just picked out the wrong poem. If it's true, as I've wickedly posed, that "Ozymandias" has left my students vividly unimpressed, perhaps a good deal of the blame for this can be laid to "Ozymandias" itself. Perhaps Mad Shelley wasn't quite mad enough. Assuredly, in any case, his madness wasn't a madness of the heart. My girls undoubtedly know that Robert Burns drank and romped to excess, and are probably delighted about it, but I'm also equally sure they also know all about the magnificent mouse his plow turned up. (Is it just possible, I wonder, that those "two vast and trunkless legs of stone" standing in the desert are Percy's own? Is it conceivable that his life is outliving much of his best poetry? And if so, is it because - Well, I'll desist. But young poets beware. If you want us to remember your best poems at least as fondly as we do your Racy, Colorful Lives, it might be as well to give us one good field mouse, flushed by the heart, in every stanza.)

Diary Friday

Yet another entry from my junior year in high school for Diary Friday: My junior year: an unrequited love with the passion of a thousand suns blossoms for a guy named David. It's funny - he was Band President and the other day at 30 Rock I was in the drugstore, in line, and there were all these high school kids in line, too - being loud and goofy (I actually heard one of them use the word "nifty" - and NOT with ironic snark-quotes around it - they actually thought that something they saw was "nifty". Brill.) - and they were all wearing bright blue T-shirts declaring that they were the members of a high school band in Oklahoma or something like that. I tried to read the shirts closer - but all I made out was: Band 2008 - and they were all just so cute and excited and, yes, being obnoxious, but come on, they were 15 years old. And David popped into my mind, from high school. Suddenly in high school I was all about going to all the band concerts because HE HE HE would be there!!! Naturally, nothing ever happened with David. But he took up an entire year of my life.

JAN. 2

J. slept over last night. We had a really good time talking about - what else?? We looked them up in yearbooks of long ago. [Long ago! hahahahaha 2 years before?] My, my, they both have improved!! We looked at all the 'senior guys' of last year - Matt B., Josh L., Bobby R., Matt M., John A. - we speculated on "who has and who hasn't." Yes, I know we shouldn't but I am curious and I do wonder. [Sheila, your diary doesn't JUDGE you. Not for curiousity about sex or anything else. Calm down.] How does it happen? (Wait) What I mean is - I know that some kids have slept together but how do they lead up to it? Are they drunk? Is it in a car? (Blah) How will it happen with me? I hope it's not like [then I drew an arrow up to where I wrote "Is it in a car?"] I think I have good judgment and I know what I want. Dolores gave me a Playgirl for my birthday with Harrison Ford on the cover. We looked at that for a while and I'm sorry but it is disgusting! Yuk!!! Those men are so gross!! I have made up my mind to remain a virgin. (Well maybe not - but still!!!) Some of the stories they have in there - I feel so so soiled after reading them. I'm scared, Diary. Does everyone have oral sex? Has everyone been doing that all this time? Euuu! Sex, to me, has always seemed so natural and beautiful [you coulda fooled me] (I mean - the way I thought it was supposed to be) - just a joining of two people who really love each other [ah, your 4th grade sex-ed class did you well!]. But the people in there do all these gross things with each other and I try to imagine myself - I just can't. I'm afraid. I'm so naive. Oral sex? I'm scared.

Also though, I was just browsing through the magazine just now - the pictures I just flipped by - those don't 'do' anything for me [hahahaha, I love how now I'm talking like a sexual woman of the world. "Yeah, that doesn't do anything for me ..."] - all the guys are ugly anyway - but the stories - so explicit! I felt myself drawn in - I wanted to read more - I couldn't pull my eyes away. A lot of it is gross and unintelligent but some of it ...

After I put it away I turned on my radio to "Every Breath You Take", turned off all the lights in my room and lay on my back on the floor. Of course David came into my mind and I thought about him - not gross indecent things [what??? "Indecent"? Who are you, Mullah O'Malley?] But just generally - I pictured him kneeling beside me on my floor and leaning over to kiss me. I'm sorry but to me, holding hands and gently kissing seems more romantic than that stupid oral stuff. [hahahahahahahahaha]

Maybe I'm a baby. I haven't even been kissed yet. So how do I know?

But reading those stories, I started to feel sort of hot, and I thought about Dave. [And that, dear Sheila, is the whole point of erotica. The end.] I threw the magazine in my drawer and picked you up to write this down. Normally I'm not so perverted. I don't like feeling so perverted.

You know what J. also said? "You know, if something ever happens between us - I mean - Don't you think it might shock them over how passionately we feel towards them already?" "I know! I know! He has no idea of the extent. I'm glad. I wonder what he'd do if he read my diary." "Well, Sheila - if I ever read some guy's diary and I found my name in every entry, everything I've ever said, every single move I make - I think I'd be frightened off." "Me to. It's weird how they just don't know. I'm glad he doesn't."

I am too. Maybe he does get the picture, but is shy or doesn't know what to do about it. What am I supposed to do?

[One quick note: I love how the song I chose to listen to in order to go deeper into my "perverted" feelings about David is the ultimate creepy stalker song. Hahahahaha]

The Books: "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, by J.D. Salinger

Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters always makes me think of him, because it was his favorite of Salinger's. I always found that so interesting. But then, I found everything about him interesting. Here we are in the Glass family, Salinger's eternal obsession. The family of precocious New York kids, all in the same family, all are artists or jugglers or Tao Buddhists ... troubled, naturally. As any Salinger fan knows, Seymour Glass is the linchpin of all of these stories - the older brother who kills himself while on vacation with his wife in Florida. It is an event from which the family never recovers. He seemed to be the glue. He is the vortex. Everyone imitates him, and loves him, and he sets the tone of the entire family. Perfect Day for Bananafish, JD Salinger's haunting short story about Seymour's suicide, gets us closer to Seymour than ever before - in general, in the other stories, it is always through one of his siblings that we see him. He's omnipresent, and remembered, but just not around. In Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters, it is his brother Buddy Glass who is the narrator, and doing the remembering. He sits in a limousine on the day of Seymour's wedding, a couple of years before his suicide - and Seymour actually is a no-show to his own wedding. Buddy finds himself in a limo with the Matron of Honor on the bride's side and a couple of other family members from the bride's side who do not know that Buddy Glass is not only related to Seymour, but his brother. They go OFF on Seymour, and many of them have never even met him yet. So he is as omnipresent and yet as invisible to them as he is to his own family. J.D. Salinger was working at something in his incessant dog-with-a-bone examination of the Glass family, and Seymour - and he really just lets himself be unleashed in Seymour: An Introduction (which I'll get to when I get to).

The opening of Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, with its reminiscence about a teenage Seymour reading an infant Franny a Tao story and what Buddy has taken from that - is just killer. It slashes at my heart. Seymour Glass committed suicide, leaving behind a void that will never be filled. It is the Glass family obsession ... and we only see him through the eyes of other people (except in Bananafish, if I'm not mistaken). He takes on an almost mythological status, in the way that dead people often do. They haunt us. Especially if they left behind desolation and questions. For all intents and purposes it seems as though Seymour was the heart and intellect of the family (note his quote door that nobody seems able to take down. I have imitated Seymour in my own life - and always have a quote wall in whatever abode I live in ...it's just something I find comforting to do). The Glass family won't recover. He's a compass of some kind.

Here's Buddy, trying to survive being trapped in the wrong limo on the day his brother Seymour didn't show up for his own wedding.

I just love Salinger's observations. And his italics. I adore his italics.

EXCERPT FROM Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, by J.D. Salinger

I was staring, as I remember, directly in front of me, at the back of the driver's neck, which was a relief map of boil scars, when suddenly my jump-seat mate addressed me: "I didn't get a chance to ask you inside. How's that darling mother of yours? Aren't you Dickie Briganza?"

My tongue, at the time of the question, was curled back exploratively as far as the soft palate. I disentangled it, swallowed, and turned to her. She was fifty, or thereabouts, fashionably and tastefully dressed. She was wearing a very heavy pancake makeup. I answered no - that I wasn't.

She narrowed her eyes a trifle at me and said I looked exactly like Celia Briganza's boy. Around the mouth. I tried to show by my expression that it was a mistake anybody could make. Then I went on staring at the back of the driver's neck. The car was silent. I glanced out of the window, for a change of scene.

"How do you like the Army?" Mrs. Silsburn asked. Abruptly, conversationally.

I had a brief coughing spell at that particular instant. When it was over, I turned to her with all available alacrity and said I'd made a lot of buddies. It was a little difficult for me to swivel in her direction, what with the encasement of adhesive tape around my diaphragm.

She nodded. "I think you're all just wonderful," she said, somewhat ambiguously. "Are you a friend of the bride's or the groom's?" she then asked, delicately getting down to brass tacks.

"Well, actually, I'm not exactly a friend of--"

"You'd better not say you're a friend of the groom," the Matron of Honor interrupted me, from the back of the car. "I'd like to get my hands on him for about two minutes. Just two minutes, that's all."

Mrs. Silsburn turned briefly - but completely - around to smile at the speaker. Then she faced front again. We made the round trip, in fact, almost in unison. Considering that Mrs. Silsburn had turned around for only an instant, the smile she had bestowed on the Matron of Honor was a kind of jump-seat masterpiece. It was vivid enough to express unlimited partisanship with all young people, all over the world, but most particularly with this spirited, outspoken local representative, to whom, perhaps, she had been little more than perfunctorily introduced, if at all.

"Bloodthirsty wench," said a chuckling male voice. And Mrs. Silsburn and I turned around again. It was the Matron of Honor's husband who had spoken up. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He and I briefly exchanged that blank,uncomradely look which, possibly, in the crapulous year of 1942, only an officer and a private could exchange. A first lieutenant in the Signal Corps, he was wearing a very interesting Air Corps pilot's cap - a visored hat with the metal frame removed from inside the crown, which usually conferred on the wearer a certain, presumably desired, intrepid look. In his case, however, the cap didn't begin to fill the bill. It seemed to serve no other purpose than to make my own outsize, regulation headpiece feel rather like a clown's hat that someone had nervously picked out of the incinerator. His face was sallow and, essentially, daunted-looking. He was perspiring with an almost incredible profusion - on his forehead, on his upper lip, and even at the end of his nose - to the point where a salt tablet might have been in order. "I'm married to the bloodthirstiest wench in six counties," he said, addressing Mrs. Silsburn and giving another soft, public chuckle. In automatic deference to his rank, I very nearly chuckled right along with him - a short, inane, stranger's and draftee's chuckle that would clearly signify that I was with him and everyone else in the car, against no one.

"I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "Just two minutes - that's all, brother. Oh, if I could just get my two little hands -"

"All right, now, take it easy, take it easy," her husband said, still with apparently inexhaustible resources of connubial good humor. "Just take it easy. You'll last longer."

Mrs. Silsburn faced around toward the back of the car again, and favored the Matron of Honor with an all but canonized smile. "Did anyone see any of his people at the wedding?" she inquired softly, with just a little emphasis - no more than perfectly genteel - on the personal pronoun.

The Matron of Honor's answer came with toxic volume: "No. They're all out on the West Coast or someplace. I just wish I had."

Her husband's chuckle sounded again. "What wouldja done if you had, honey?" he asked - and winked indiscriminately at me.

"Well, I don't know, but I'd've done something," said the Matron of Honor. The chuckle at her left expanded in volume. "Well, I would have!" she insisted. "I'd've said something to them. I mean. My gosh." She spoke with increasing aplomb, as though perceiving that, cued by her husband, the rest of us within earshot were finding something attractively forthright - spunky - about her sense of justice, however youthful or impractical it might be. "I don't know what I'd have said to them. I probably would have just blabbered something idiotic. But my gosh. Honestly! I just can't stand to see somebody get away with absolute murder. It makes my blood boil." She suspended animation just long enough to be bolstered by a look of simulated empathy from Mrs. Silsburn. Mrs. Silsburn and I were now turned completely, supersociably, around in our jump seats. "I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "You can't just barge through life hurting people's feelings whenever you feel like it."

"I'm afraid I know very little about the young man," Mrs. Silsburn said, softly. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even met him. The first I'd heard that Muriel was even engaged -"

"Nobody's met him," the Matron of Honor said, rather explosively. "I haven't even met him. We had two rehearsals, and both times Muriel's poor father had to take his place, just because his crazy plane couldn't take off. he was supposed to get a hop here last Tuesday night in some crazy Army plane, but it was snowing or something crazy in Colorado, or Arizona, or one of those crazy places, and he didn't get in till one o'clock in the morning, last night. Then - at that insane hour - he calls Muriel on the phone from way out in Long Island or someplace and asks her to meet him in the lobby of some horrible hotel so they can talk." The Matron of Honor shuddered eloquently. "And you know Muriel. She's just darling enought o let anybody and his brother push her around. That's what gripes me. It's always those kind of people that get hurt in the end ... Anyway, so she gets dressed and gets in a cab and sits in some horrible lobby talking with him till quarter to five in the morning." The Matron of Honor released her grip on her gardenia bouquet long enough to raise two clenched fists above her lap. "Ooo, it makes me so mad!" she said.

"What hotel?" I asked the Matron of Honor. "Do you know?" I tried to make my voice sound casual, as though, possibly, my father might be in the hotel business and I took a certain understandable filial interest in where people stopped in New York. In reality, my question meant almost nothing. I was just thinking aloud, more or less. I'd been interested in the fact that my brother had asked his fiancee to meet him in a hotel lobby, rather than at his empty, available apartment. The morality of the invitation was by no means out of character, but it interested me, mildly, nonetheless.

"I don't know which hotel," the Matron of Honor said irritably. "Just some hotel." She stared at me. "Why?" she demanded. "Are you a friend of his?"

There was something distinctly intimidating about her stare. It seemed to come from a one-woman mob, separated only by time and chance from her knitting bag and a splendid view of the guillotine. I've been terrified of mobs, of any kind, all my life. "We were boys together," I answered, all but unintelligibly.

"Well, lucky you!"

"Now, now," said her husband.

"Well, I'm sorry," the Matron of Honor said to him, but addressing all of us. "But you haven't been in a room watching that poor kid cry her eyes out for a solid hour. It's not funny - and don't you forget it. I've heard about grooms getting cold feet, and all that. But you don't do it at the last minute. I mean you don't do it so that you'll embarrass a lot of perfectly nice people half to death and almost break a kid's spirit and everything! If he'd changed his mind, why didn't he write to her and at least break it off like a gentleman, for goodness' sake? Before all the damage was done."

"All right, take it easy, just take it easy," her husband said. His chuckle was still there, but it was sounding a trifle strained.

"Well, I mean it! Why couldn't he write to her and just tell her, like a man, and prevent all this tragedy and everything?" She looked at me, abruptly. "Do you have any idea where he is, by any chance?" she demanded, with metal in her voice. "If you have boyhood friends, you should have some -"

"I just got into New York about two hours ago," I said nervously. Not only the Matron of Honor but her husband and Mrs. Silsburn as well were now staring at me. "So far, I haven't even had a chance to get to a phone." At that point, as I remember, I had a coughing spell. It was genuine enough, but I must say I did very little to suppress it or shorten its duration.

"You had that cough looked at, soldier?" the Lieutenant asked me when I'd come out of it.

At that instant, I had another coughing spell - a perfectly genuine one, oddly enough. I was still turned a sort of half or quarter right in my jump seat, with my body averted just enough toward the front of the car to be able to cough with all due hygienic propriety.

Half Moon; dir: Bahman Ghobadi

Half Moon, an absolutely wonderful film directed by Bahman Ghobadi, and with a cameo appearance by Hedye Tehrani, is a story about borders. Borders between countries and borders between life and death. The entire film takes place on the borderlands (or, perhaps, no-man's-lands) between Turkey, Iraq and Iran. There are times when the border is nothing but a ditch with great mountainous plains stretching out on either side. Terribly dangerous, but there's not a border patrol in sight. The feeling of how artificial it is is palpable, borders superimposed by the powers-that-be, leaving the Kurds homeless and stuck in the middle. What is a border? Isn't it sometimes silly? That is one of the overriding feelings I got watching Half Moon, watching Mamo, a famous Kurdish singer who has been living in exile in Iran, and his multitude of sons, try to get back into Iraqi Kurdistan for a concert. It is as though being Kurdish is a deadly secret. Border guards in Iran, who have been speaking Farsi all along, pull Mamo aside and whisper in Kurdish, "I'm Kurdish, Mamo ..." Mamo is a hero to them. His return to Kurdistan is a huge deal, a political event. The Kurds don't belong anywhere, but their sense of identity and nationhood is actually stronger than many who belong to actual recognized nations. Isn't that always the way. Nothing like a little oppression to solidify a people's identity.

Half Moon is modeled after Mozart's "Requiem", and while much of the symbolism is a bit heavy-handed (coffins, death, open graves), I think it works. Because again, we're in a borderland. It is not a realistic film. We are in the borderland between dreaming and waking states. There are times when we're not sure that what we're looking at is actually real. Is this really happening, or is it in Mamo's head? Or was it a dream? None of it ends up mattering, because as Mamo approaches death (he is an old old man, he has sons who are in their 50s and 60s), his consciousness begins to turn towards the afterworld. He knows it is coming. He can feel it. He can almost hear it. There are moments, in the middle of busy crowd scenes, when you can tell that Mamo is hearing something. An approach. Someone, or something, coming to "get" him.

Half Moon takes place in the wake of the fall of Saddam. Saddam's genocidal campaigns against the Kurds are well-known, and so Mamo (played heartbreakingly by Ismail Ghaffari) has lived away from his homeland for almost 40 years. He was (and still is) a famous musician, but the wars against Kurdish culture were just as devastating as the actual wars. Kurdish music banned, singers fled to the four corners of the earth, or imprisoned, or exiled. Saddam Hussein is now gone, and although the war still rages (as someone shouts across the border, "The Americans are shooting at everything that moves!"), Mamo and his sons, all musicians as well, are called back to "Iraqi Kurdistan" to give a concert of traditional Kurdish music. It will be a joyous celebration, a rebirth of cultural confidence, a keening cry of freedom.

Mamo is old. Such a journey (in a beat-up school bus) will be dangerous and arduous. But if he does one last thing in his life, it will be this concert. He has waited so long. Even though one of his sons pulls him aside and tells him that the village wiseman has warned Mamo not to go, Mamo will not turn back. He shouts at the jagged mountains, "Who wants to stop me?" Ismail Ghaffari has no other credits to his name. I would imagine he is probably a musician - but his acting here is breathtaking. He is a determined old man, sometimes bossy, and sometimes haunted. He is afraid of death (aren't we all?), and he is afraid that it will come before he reaches Kurdistan. His emotional isolation is total. We all die alone. But it is his job to keep the group together, to keep them focused on the task at hand. His face is cracked with wrinkles, his eyes glitter - sometimes with deep love and gentleness, other times with rage, or fear. It's a marvelous performance and there were a couple of moments when he brought me to tears.

Bahman Ghobadi, the director, has said that if he didn't get into film, he would have been a musician. This is one of the most produced of Iranian films I have seen ... in terms of the sound design. The music is omnipresent (oh, for a soundtrack!), and there are beautiful scenes of the bus traveling through the mountains, with Mamo and his sons playing their traditional instruments, as the fearsome landscape whizzes by outside. Just beautiful.

I began to think, as I watched this film, My God, it is art that holds us together. As Camille Paglia wrote once, (and I'm paraphrasing, sorry): "If we ever meet beings from another planet and want to show them who we are, it is by our art that we will want to be known." There is no official "Kurdistan", and even though Saddam is gone, the future of the Kurds is in flux. But the music survives, and it survives in the musicians. They have not been allowed to perform their traditional music in 40 years, but cultural memory is a long long thing. The body does not forget its origins. There is a reason why Mamo is so revered, and along the way, in villages and hillsides, whoever they meet, runs up to Mamo to kiss him, or get his autograph. It is because he contains the cultural memory of Kurdistan. Not just "contains" it, but embodies it. He is the embodiment of their hopes, dreams, wishes, and memories.

As they travel along, they pick up all of his different sons along the way.

There are a couple of stand-out scenes where - like in The Day I Became A Woman (my review here) - the landscape itself seems to turn into something mystical. I saw things in Half Moon that I never saw before. Like I mentioned in my review for The Day I Became A Woman, you become used to seeing the same old things in movies, even good movies. Streets, apartments, closeups, beautiful trees and ocean, but then you come across a scene that is totally and completely original, and you realize: Wow, there really IS something new under the sun. I love film-making like that. Needless to say, I am not talking about CGI. I am talking about the apartment on the white beach in The Day I Became A Woman, with the bed and the refrigerator standing on the white sand. I am talking about the traveling band of hippie mimes in Blow Up, playing tennis with an imaginary ball. Amazing scene. Mysterious, beautiful, unexplainable. I watch and I can struggle with what it "means", I can think about it, ponder it ... but in the end, what is so amazing about these moments is how they look. A movie becomes a painting. A movie becomes a dream-space. It's not a realistic medium anyway, it is necessarily subjective. I love it when a filmmaker has the confidence to not just realize that, but to utilize it. It takes guts and a personal visiom.

At one point, Mamo stops off to pick up his daughter who is going to be his female singer in the concert. Because she is a relative, traveling with the men will be allowed. (Don't get me started. Or, all right, get me started. Half Moon takes a delicate stance here - but there are moments in the film, poetic moments, which have as much anger as a feminist manifesto. But it is all in context of the story - which is tremendously important. Remember that Iranian filmmakers work under strict censorship, so they have to be very tricky in how they get their point across. But the situation not just of women in Iran, but of performers, is one of the themes of Half Moon. It is the female voice that can raise the male from the dead - this is Mamo's view, and his experience. He cannot perform without the "celestial voice" of the female. But obstacles pile up in his way - stupid bureaucrats, rigid mullahs, cultural bullshit - that says women are not supposed to perform on stage. Or with men who aren't relatives. Or ... basically do anything besides be a submissive wife and bear lots of sons. But the females in Half Moon are not just "celestial voices", but - at the end - transcendent angels of mercy - tapped into some chord in the earth that men can never hear.

But men need them. A woman can help the man hear that chord. She is necessary to him. Bahman Ghobadi is amazing in how he puts this into the film, and lets it just sit there. The censors were probably too dumb and too literal to pick up on it.)

Mamo's daughter is a schoolteacher, and her village was submerged in a flood. Everyone lost their homes, and the school was destroyed. So she has now set up a school, with desks and all, on the side of a hill, and that is where Mamo finds her, when he comes to pick her up to take her to Kurdistan. This is what I am talking about: it is a brief scene. Mamo's daughter cannot leave to go to the concert, she knows she is leaving her father in the lurch, but the schoolchildren need her. They all seem to be girls, in vibrant different colored chadors, sitting quietly at desks ranged across the hillside, with snow-capped mountains in the background. It's an incredible image. It stops the heart to some degree. There is no "meaning", it is just beauty and poetry. I loved it. Mamo's daughter senses, she just senses, that she will not see her father again. They embrace, and she weeps. But Mamo must go on.

And now he has an idea. He needs a woman. He needs a singer. A famous Kurdish singer named Hesho has been imprisoned with 1334 other "woman singers" in a village carved into a mountainside. They have been exiled there. Who knows why. For performing with men other than a relative, for performing at all, for performing Kurdish music which was not allowed ... who knows. Hesho has a "celestial voice" and is, in her way, as famous as Mamo. All of Mamo's sons try to talk Mamo out of going to 'get" Hesho. It is illegal, first of all. She has no permit. She is not allowed to travel with them. They all could be arrested. Mamo doesn't care. It is her voice he wants, he needs. Perhaps, on some level, he hopes that her voice will raise him from the spectre of death.

Watching the approach to the "village of exiled singers" is one of the most amazing pieces of film-making I've ever seen. Mamo approaches from afar, and it's almost difficult to see the village, since it's built into the rock. And in the distance, you can hear the singing voices, echoing through the mountains. All female. A celestial sound indeed. Mamo's son asks, "Who is that singing?" Mamo answers, "It is all 1334 singers. They might as well just be one singer." A truly potent evocation of cultural warfare and the results thereof. It took my breath away. Reminds me of Stella Adler's great instruction to actors and artists: "It is not that important to know who you are. It is important to know what you do, and then do it like Hercules." What happens when what you do is illegal? What happens when you are not allowed to do it like Hercules? Not just not allowed, but imprisoned? To hear the celestial voices of the women floating out of the mountainside village is to ache for everyone oppressed everywhere. But Ghobadi, again, does not hammer you over the head with it. He remains in the context of his story, which is tremendously important. All you need to do is to see the village and hear the women singers, and know that they have been imprisoned there ... and that's all you need. You don't need to add anything. As Mamo enters the village, to go get Hesho, all of the women who have heard of his approach - stand on ceremony. They stand on rooftops, on walls, they do not move or speak. They each hold huge drums, but they do not play. Not yet. It is a ceremonious return. He is a hero to them. He has become their voice. My God. It's such a moving and amazing scene. And, at some unseen cue, all of the women, as one, start to beat on their drums, and sing. It's a sound to make the hair on the back of your neck rise up. It makes sense, if you think like a mullah, that these women would be banished from society. Because if they were allowed to play like that all the time, it would be cause for revolt. In and of themselves, the sounds those women make have one underlying scream: FREEDOM. Dangerous. Mamo strolls through, and then walks back out - with Hesho at his side, a beautiful sad-faced woman with long grey braids. The exiled women crowd around them, making a corridor for them to walk through, banging on their drums, and singing. They cannot leave, they are still imprisoned - but Hesho will represent. Hesho will sing for them.

Hesho is a small part played by the exquisite Hedye Tehrani. More thoughts on her here and here. I strongly urge you to look up this woman's work and experience it. She's a giant star in Iran, and her films very often make it to the international film circuit - she's as big as they come in Iran - but you know, her cache as an actress is definitely not that she is a household name to us in the "West" (which always makes me laugh because if you look at the earth, east and west are all just a matter of perspective - depends on where you are standing, I mean seriously). But she should be known to all of us. She's doing wonderful deep-felt work.

The journey takes many twists and turns, some tragic, some comedic, and Mamo begins to lose faith that they will ever get there. Larger forces appear to be at work, nation-states, languages (you must speak Farsi, not Kurdish, etc.), warfare ... all gathering together to stop the concert from going on. It seems insurmountable. Not to mention the fact that every time they are stopped by a policeman or a border guard, Hesho must climb into the crawlspace beneath the floorboards, hiding from detection. A direct reference to Mamo's death-dreams, and his haunting image of himself looking up out of a coffin. Ghobadi makes that connection explicit. Mamo, an old man, trapped by his own approaching death. Hesho, a woman, and that is her only crime.

The film strikes a lovely balance between comedy and serious drama. The guy who drives the bus, who is filming the entire journey in the hopes that he can sell the tape to Kurdish television, is hysterical. Kind of a buffoon but with a heart so big you want to tell him to protect it a little bit more. I also love the one son who breaks out his laptop throughout the journey, to email so-and-so, or to look up a better way to get there on the Iraqi version of Mapquest. They all have Yahoo email accounts and they chat about them. "I'm at Mamokurdistan@yahoo.com ..." Messing with our preconceived notions. I always love that.

The last 20 minutes of the film were shattering for me to watch. Maybe because of where I am at right now in my life. But I was mopping the tears off of my face.

Bravo, Ismail Ghaffari, Mister actor with no credits ... You absolutely killed me. My desire to see that concert, to have everyone arrive safely, to have it "all work out", was so intense I could barely watch the end of the film. As death comes closer, breathing on the back of Mamo's neck, he begins to hear the music. The celestial chords of his own requiem.

Some of the more spectacular imagery from the film below:

The movie Billy Wilder wanted to make

In line with what happened Today In History, here's something else. I love this story.

Billy Wilder and Charles Lindbergh were good friends despite many political, social differences - and here is one of Wilder's stories of filming (who directed The Spirit of St. Louis) - and it fills me with regret that I don't get to see Wilder's version (in his own mind, I mean):

I got this excerpt from Cameron Crowe's wonderful book Conversations with Wilder:

Billy Wilder: "Spirit of St. Louis". I got into that. I suggested it. But I could not get in a little deeper, into Lindbergh's character. There was a wall there. We were friends, but there were many things I could not talk to him about. It was understood -- the picture had to follow the book. The book was immaculate. It had to be about the flight only. Not about his family, about the daughter, the Hauptmann thing, what happened after the flight ... just the flight itself.

I heard a story from newspapermen who were there in Long Island waiting for him to take off. And the newspapermen told me a little episode that happened there, and that would have been enough to make this a real picture.

The episode was that Lindbergh was waiting for the clouds to disappear -- the rain and the weather had to be perfect before he took off. There was a waitress in a little restaurant there. She was young, and she was very pretty. And they came to her and said, "Look, this young guy there, Lindbergh, sweet, you know, handsome. He is going to--" "Yes, I know, he is going to fly over the water." And they said, "It's going to be a flying coffin, full of gas, and he's not going to make it. But we come to you for the following reason. The guy has never been laid. Would you do us a favor, please. Just knock on the door, because the guy cannot sleep..."

So she does it.

And then, at the very end of the picture, when there's the parade down Fifth Avenue, millions of people, and there is that girl standing there in the crowd. She's waving at him. And he doesn't see her. She waves her hand at him, during the ticker-tape parade, the confetti raining down. He never sees her. He's God now.

This would be, this alone would be, enough to make the picture. Would have been a good scene. That's right -- would have been a good scene. But I could not even suggest it to him.

Cameron Crowe: Couldn't you have had your producer bring it up?

Billy Wilder: No. Absolutely not. They would have withdrawn the book or something, "There you go, Hollywood, out of here!" I don't know -- very tough guy, very tough guy...

Cameron Crowe: Did you ever think about using that character in another picture? The waitress from the early days?

Billy Wilder: Sure, that can be used, yeah, but it fit there. And just that girl, who we'd see again at the very end. And you fade out on that. That would have made the whole picture.

I am inclined to agree. Love it. Billy Wilder had lots of movies fully filmed in his own head ... I love to hear about them almost as much as the ones that actually got made.

Today in history: May 21, 1927: "Est-il arrivé?"

Charles Lindbergh landed The Spirit of St. Louis in Paris after the first nonstop transatlantic flight. It took him 33 1/2 hours. The main image I am left with from the stories of that flight is how, when he felt himself getting dozey, he would fly down close enough to the ocean so that the salt spray would splash his face and wake him up. Astonishing.

Fellow Minnesotan F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote:

In the late spring of 1927, something bright and alien flashed across the sky. A young Minnesotan who seemed to have nothing to do with his generation did a heroic thing, and for a moment people set down their glasses in country clubs and speakeasies and thought of their old best dreams.

A. Scott Berg, in his stupendous MUST-READ biography Lindbergh starts the book with the Paris landing:

For more than a day the world held its breath ... and then the small plane was sighted over Ireland.

Twenty-seven hours after he had left Roosevelt Field in New York - alone, in the Spirit of St. Louis - word quickly spread from continent to continent that Charles A. Lindbergh had survived the most perilous leg of his journey - the fifteen-hour crossing of the Atlantic. He had to endure but a few more hours before reaching his destination, Paris. Anxiety yielded to anticipation.

The American Ambassador to France, Myron T. Herrick, went to St. Cloud after lunch that Saturday to watch the Franco-American team-tennis matches. When he took his seat in the front row, five thousand fans cheered. During the course of the afternoon, people in the stands heard newsboys shouting the headlines of their editions speciales, announcing Lindbergh's expected arrival that night. In the middle of the match, Herrick received a telegram - confirmation that Lindbergh had passed over Valencia in Ireland. All eyes were on the Ambassador as he hastily left courtside, convincing most of the spectators that their prayers were being answered. Before the match had ended, the stands began to empty.

Herrick rushed back to his residence in Paris, ate a quick dinner at 5:30, then left for the airfield at Le Bourget, to the northeast of the city. "It was a good thing we did not delay another quarter of an hour," Herrick recalled, "for crowds were already collecting along the road and in a short time passage was almost possible."

The boulevards were jammed with cars ten abreast. Passengers poked their heads through the sliding roof panels of the Parisian taxis, greeting each other in jubilation. "Everyone had acquired a bottle of something and, inasmuch as the traffic moved very slowly," one reveler recalled of that night in 1927, "bottles were passed from cab to cab celebrating the earthshaking achievement." A mile from the airfield, the flow of traffic came to a standstill.

Once the radio announced that Lindbergh had flown over southern England, mobs formed in the heart of Paris. Thirty thousand people flocked toward the Place de l'Opéra, where illuminated advertising signs flashed news bulletins. Over the next few hours, the crowds spilled into the Boulevard Poissoniere - until it became unpassable - where they expected to find the most reliable accounts of Lindbergh's progress posted in front of the Paris Matin offices. "Not since the armistice of 1918," observed one reporter, "has Paris witnessed a downright demonstration of popular enthusiasm and excitement equal to that displayed by the throngs flocking to the boulevards for news of the American flier, whose personality has captured the hearts of the Parisian multitude."

Between updates, people waited in anxious silence. Two French fliers - Nungesser and Coli - had not been heard from in the two weeks since their attempt to fly nonstop from Paris to New York; and their disappearance weighed heavily on the Parisians' minds. Many muttered about the impossibility of accomplishing a nonstop transatlantic crossing, especially alone. Periodically, whispers rustled through the crowd, rumors that Lindbergh had been forced down. After a long silence, a Frenchwoman, dressed in mourning and sitting in a big limousine, wiped away tears of worry. Another woman, selling newspapers, approached her, fighting back her own tears. "You're right to feel so, madame," she said. "In such things there is no nationality - he's some mother's son."

Close to nine o'clock, letters four feet tall flashed onto one of the advertising boards. "The crowds grew still, the waiters frozen in place between cafe tables," one witness remembered. "All were watching. Traffic stopped. Then came the cheering message 'Lindbergh sighted over Cherbourg and the coast of Normandy.' " The crowd burst into bravos. Strangers patted each other on the back and shook hands. Moments later, Paris Matin posted a bulletin in front of its building, confirming the sighting; and bystanders chanted "Vive Lindbergh!" and Vive l'Américain!" The next hour brought more good news from Deauville, and then Louviers. New arrivals onto the scene all asked the same question: "Est-il arrivé?"

Fifteen thousand others gravitated toward the Étoile, filling the city block that surrounded a hotel because they assumed Lindbergh would be spending the night there. Many too impatient to stand around in town suddenly decided to witness the arrival. Students from the Sorbonne jammed into buses and subways. Thousands more grabbed whatever conveyance remained available, until more than ten thousand cars filled the roads between the city and Le Bourget. Before long, 150,000 people had gathered at the airfield.

A little before ten o'clock, the excited crowd at Le Bourget heard an approaching engine and fell silent. A plane burst through the clouds and landed; but it turned out to be the London Express. Minutes later, as a cool wind blew the stars into view, another roar ripped the air, this time, a plane from Strasbourg. Red and gold and green rockets flared overhead, while acetylene searchlights scanned the dark sky. The crowd became restless, standing in the chill. Then, "suddenly unmistakeably the sound of an aeroplane ... and then to our left a white flash against the black night ... and another flash (like a shark darting through water)," recalled Harry Crosby - the American expatriate publisher - who was among the enthusiastic onlookers. "Then nothing. No sound. Suspense. And again a sound, this time somewhere off towards the right. And is it some belated plane or is it Lindbergh? Then sharp swift in the gold glare of the searchlights a small white hawk of a plane swoops hawk-like down and across the field - C'est lui Lindbergh. LINDBERGH!"

On May 21, 1927, at 10:24 p.m., the Spirit of St. Louis landed - having flown 3,614 miles from New York, nonstop, in thirty-three hours, thirty minutes, and thirty seconds.

There is a lot to be said for being "first". There may have been better pilots. There may have been better mechanics, although that is debatable. But Lindbergh was the "first".

Charles Evans Hughes, Secretary of State under President Warren Harding, responded to Lindbergh's flight thus:

We measure heroes as we do ships, by their displacement. Colonel Lindbergh has displaced everything.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 5

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Now. Chapter 5. Even though all of this is rather silly - and I am 11 years old, writing about things I don't understand - AND writing out a television movie from memory - I think Chapter 5 is not half bad. hahahahaha I'm serious! I re-read it just now and thought: Well. That's pretty good. And I think the "frozen fountain" line is pretty good, and since it's a description - and not PLOT - I came up with that myself. So I think that's pretty good. And please notice that I utilize "Little did he know" - the third-person omniscent form - which becomes so important in Stranger Than Fiction. Ha!!

And the way it ends. I admit. I need to know what happens next.

Here we go. Oh, and once again, I lose count of how many times "Miss Sims sighs". That's all the woman does. Sighs. It is her #1 defining characteristic.

CHAPTER 5

"But don't you understand what I want to do?" Miss Sims looked around at all of the old people's faces.

An old woman nodded. "We all understand. It is a very noble plan but where will you get the money to buy the coach and it would be a very long ride with all of those orphans." Her voice showed exactly what she thought of the orphans.

Miss Sims sighed. "I know. I know. I know what you think but I can do it. All I need is a bit of money. I saved up a lot myself but not enough to buy a coach and supplies--"

"But madam," an old man offered. "If you want this journey to be successful then you should pay for it. I admire you for wanting to do this but we cannot give you such an immense amount of money."

Miss Sims sighed and stood up. "This journey is going to be made. No matter how hard it is. I am not giving up hope." She walked in a dignified manner out of the room.

*************************

"Well, Gloria, what do you think of my plan?" Miss Sims took a sip of her tea.

Her friend looked at Miss Sims in a puzzled way. "It is a wonderful plan but hardly for a woman to take up. I never expected it of you but as I know you well, I feel you will make it."

Miss Sims sighed and placed the cup on a tray with a dainty "Click". "There's one problem, though, Gloria."

"Yes? You know you can tell me anything."

"Well, it's the money situation. I have put away quite a lot but not enough to buy a coach and clothes and food and all the supplies we need." Miss Sims said.

"I wish I could help you on that score but as I am a married woman I also have to support my family." Gloria stated.

Miss Sims sighed. "I know. No one wants to give me money because they are afraid I will not make it. I have asked around if people have old clothes that I could have. I have collected quite a pile and they are stored at the kitchen."

"I could bake you some loaves of bread for some food," Gloria offered.

"Oh, thank you, Gloria! Thank you! That would be a great help. I will make it. I've got to! Someone in this city must feel sorry for the orphans as I do. Someone must."

*****************************

Miss Sims was going to the last person she could think of. Mr. Gobel, the well-known political man who also was well-known for his tremendous amount of money. He had known Miss Sims' father but Miss Sims still felt a little shy as she walked up the tons and tons of steps to the heavy brown doors.

She reached up and knocked the heavy brass door knocker. It was a few minutes until a man, all dressed in black, opened the door.

"Hello? Mr. Gobel?" Miss Sims inquired eagerly.

The man looked surprised. "I am not Mr. Gobel. I am the butler."

Miss Sims flushed. "I am so sorry. May I please see Mr. Gobel?"

"I am sorry, Miss, but he is now engaged with an interview from the newspapers."

"I am willing to wait." Miss Sims said, determined not to go away.

"Just one minute, ma'am," the man said.

He departed, leaving the door open. Miss Sims stepped in and looked around. "Goodness, Mr. Gobel must be rich! Surely he can spare something for me." She gazed up at the extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It looked exactly like a frozen fountain.

The butler came back and said that Mr. Gobel told her to go away and come back tomorrow.

Miss Sims' voice was firm. "Well you tell him I will not go away. This matter is very important and it cannot wait. Even until tomorrow."

The man sighed and went back to report to Mr. Gobel. In a minute he came back saying that Mr. Gobel also said that his matter could not wait either.

Miss Sims sat down on a green couch. "Well, you tell Mr. Gobel if he does not see me I will sit here until he will." She folded her arms and looked off into space.

"Yes'm." The butler walked off, a little afraid of what Mr. Gobel was going to say to that. He came back with the news that she could go see Mr. Gobel.

Proud that she had won that argument she followed the butler to Mr. Gobel's private office.

It had shiny shelves, covered with pictures with gold frames. The floor was carpeted in a soft rust color.

A cameraman was taking a picture of Mr. Gobel standing in front of one of his shelves.

When the picture had been taken, the cameraman started to get ready to go.

Little did he know what a big part he would play in Miss Sims' journey.

Mr. Gobel sat down behind his large oakwood desk.

"You are rather a determined young woman, don't you think?" he said in a deep voice.

Miss Sims nodded. "Maybe so, but this is extremely important."

"Yes? Go on?"

"You have heard, I suppose, about my plan of taking all of the children West to find them homes and families?" Miss Sims inquired.

Mr. Gobel nodded. "Yes, yes, I have, as a matter of fact. I think it is very brave of you."

"Yes, well, I don't have enough money to buy a coach. I already have gotten food and supplies but if you could just lend me a little bit of money to rent a coach, I --"

Mr. Gobel interrupted. "Miss Sims, I am a very busy man. I do not have time to waste all of my money and thoughts on dirty little orphans. I admire you greatly for wanting to take this up but I cannot lend you any money."

"But it's just a small amount!" Miss Sims persisted.

"How much?" Mr. Gobel looked her in the eye.

Miss Sims gulped. "Uh - 200 dollars?"

"200 DOLLARS!" Mr. Gobel boomed. "I am sorry Miss Sims I do not throw my money around. Especially for little orphans I have no use for."

"But --"

"Good day, Miss Sims," Mr. Gobel said firmly.

Miss Sims, almost on the verge of bursting into tears, got up and left. As she walked across the echoey front hall she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and found the cameraman running up to her.

"Miss Sims," he said, rather out of breath. "You want to take all of those kids out West?" When Miss Sims nodded he clapped his hands. "What an excellent story!"

Miss Sims was puzzled. "Excellent story? For what?"

The man said impatiently, "Why, for the newspapers! I'm Mr. Carlin. I take pictures for the newspapers and write articles for 'em."

Miss Sims sighed. "Well, it looks like we're not going."

"Oh, you'll go, all right."

Miss Sims was puzzled. "But the coach --"

"I'll get you on that train. This story is a good one. I'll get a lot of money for it. I'll get you your own coach."

"You will?" Miss Sims was overjoyed even though Mr. Carlin was not her favorite person.

"Sure! If you make it, it'll be good for the papers. If you don't make it," he shrugged. "That'll be good for the papers, too."

Miss Sims looked at him in astonishment. "I don't like you, Mr. Carlin."

Mr. Carlin shrugged. "You don't have to like me but you're gonna be on that train."

The Books: "The Catcher In the Rye" (J.D. Salinger)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf for the Daily Book Excerpt:

The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger

Like most people, I had to read the book in high school. I read it in 10th grade - the formative year, one of the best classes (to this day) I have ever had. Mr. Crothers was the teacher - and we all called him "The Crud". TO HIS FACE. And yet it was somehow endearing. A nickname, not an insult. Hand raises at end of class. "Crud, will there be a quiz on the next chapter?" So hysterical, looking back on it. I've written before about that English class. The Crud taught me to write. Now I already knew how to write (as should be OBVIOUS) but The Crud taught me how to write a paper. I've written before about that struggle, and how difficult it was - how I got my first D in his class - in an ENGLISH class!! where I had always shone - and then worked my ass off and got a C - and then got a case of writer's block so bad that I remember throwing myself onto my parents bed and bursting into sobs because I had to write a paper for the next day and I couldn't even start ... but I eventually started. And I got a C+. Crud was a hard-ass! When I got a B in that class, it was a major moment. It really meant something. The Crud knew how to construct a paper. Thesis statement, paragraph A, Paragraph B, how to back up your thoughts with text and quotes, how to structure your thoughts, how to get your freakin' act together so you could actually say something. I was only in 10th grade but I got As on every paper I wrote in college, and it is all due to The Crud. I knew how to do it. It's a great example of giving a teenager a tool. Or - no - not "giving" but making me work for it. Thank you, Crud! But in addition to the paper-writing skills I learned, we read the following in that class: Moby Dick (excerpt here), Tale of Two Cities (excerpt here), The Great Gatsby (excerpt here), Tess of the D'Urbervilles (excerpt here), Catcher in the Rye - it was a heavy year of book-reading. I've written before about deciding, in 2001, to go back and re-read all of the books I had been forced to read and hated in high school. So that meant that Tale of Two Cities, The Great Gatsby and Catcher In the Rye were not on the list - because I had loved them instantly. My 15 year old self thrilled to those books the first time around. I count Tale of Two Cities as one of my favorite novels ever. But Moby Dick Tess? Ew. So what a pleasure it was to go back, as an adult, and re-read these books. Because I wanted to. It was SO awesome and I highly recommend doing that, if you haven't. Take, especially, the book you hated most. That's the one you need to read. I recently re-read Billy Budd (post about it here), a book that literally made us ANGRY in high school we hated it so much ... and you know what? I still didn't like it. Too clearly allegorical. Too Christian-y simplistic. "Oh! So ... Billy Budd with his BLONDE HAIR and Greek physique .... is 'good'? And Mr. Claggart, with his dark hair and dark eyes ... is 'evil'? WHO KNEW???" Boring. But I HAD to face it again, because my prejudices against it were so ingrained, and I just cannot let such prejudice stand! An unexamined life is not worth living and all that. So because I went back and did this I had the unbelievable excitement of reading Moby Dick - my God, what a book - and all the others.

Anyway, like I said The Catcher In the Rye was not on that "must read again" books, because from the time I read it in high school it found a place in my heart forever.

I know lots of people who go back and re-read the book and find it annoying, or self-pitying - but I don't find it that way at all. He's a teenager, first of all. Teenagers are annoying and often self-pitying - so I just find the voice to be true. Also, if he seems self-pitying, I think he has a damn right to indulge in that a bit - because of the death of his beloved brother Allie. It makes sense to me. But that's neither here nor there. I also wonder if ... well, I still read "young adult" fiction for fun. I love books geared for teenagers. I still go back and re-read Judy Blume, for God's sake, and Madeleine L'Engle and Beverly Cleary ... and those books obviously are ground-level books for kids. It gets in the muck with kids and they don't condescend ... it takes their concerns seriously. The Catcher In the Rye is a more prickly book, obviously - more obviously geared for adults - but the sensibility is adolescent. I remember talking to the doppelganger once about it, and he said something like, "There's a reason why every maniac who goes with a gun into a clocktower has a copy of this book in his back pocket." It definitely can speak to the outsider, the freak, the kid who feels "misunderstood" - all of those things that people eventually grow out of, and learn to get along with their fellow man, etc.

So as a piece of literature - just that, not a treatise, not a book that made me feel validated, not a book that feels written by my own soul - just a piece of literature - I think it works beautifully. It is a classic case of "VOICE". The VOICE of the book is key. Holden Caulfield's voice. I mentioned this a couple days ago in my post about Mating (excerpt here), another book with a first-person narrator whom many people find unbearably annoying. If you can't get past your annoyance of the voice telling the story, you'll probably hate the book. I am trying to think of an example of a book where I felt that annoyance. Nothing comes to mind right now, but I know I have experienced it. But not with Catcher In the Rye. I love Holden Caulfield. I just love him. My love for him is different now than it was when I was a teenager - so he's one of those characters who seems to have grown right along with me. I thought the book was a RIOT when I read it in high school. Not just the events, like with the hooker, or the headmaster of his school - although these are comic events ... but the VOICE. I just thought how Holden Caulfield talked, and his random 'goddam's that don't seem connected to anything - his sudden bursts of irritation and italics - was absolutely HYSTERICAL. I re-read the book a couple years ago and I don't think I laughed once. Or maybe I did, I'm exaggerating, but the overwhelming feeling I got from the book was sadness. A deep awful almost unbearable ache. I wanted to hold Holden Caulfield and let him cry it out. All I felt was his grief about his brother's death and how everyone thinks he's weird for not being "over it" yet. It was awful!! No wonder he cracks up at the end watching Phoebe on the carousel! No wonder he's institutionalized!

To be honest (see, there I am talking like Holden) - I'm a Franny and Zooey girl myself. Now THAT book spoke outloud my innermost soul ... that book actually made me make some significant changes in my life, because I had an "A-ha!" moment reading it ... Catcher In the Rye, to me, is just a damn good read. And a book with one of the most distinctive unforgettable "voices" I have ever heard.

Oh. And reading this book, I still can remember, sometimes word for word, some of The Crud's lectures on it. I remember what he pointed out, I remember what he told us to look for, I remember his observations. Man. That's a good teacher. 10th grade and I still remember those lectures.

One of the most lasting things I took from Holden Caulfield - and it was reiterated by dad - was a contempt for phonies. Give me a douchebag any day. But spare me the phonies.

Here's an excerpt I have always loved.

EXCERPT FROM The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger

She was a funny girl, old Jane. I wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful. She knocked me out, though. She was sort of muckle-mouthed. I mean when she was talking and she got excited about something, her mouth sort of went in about fifty directions, her lips and all. That killed me. And she never really closed it all the way, her mouth. It was always just a little bit open, especially when she got in her golf stance, or when she was reading a book. She was always reading, and she read very good books. She read a lot of poetry and all. She was the only one, outside my family, that I ever showed Allie's baseball mitt to, with all the poems written on it. She'd never met Allie or anything, because that was her first summer in Maine - before that, she went to Cape Cod - but I told her quite a lot about him. She was interested in that kind of stuff.

My mother didn't like her too much. I mean my mother always thought Jane and her mother were sort of snubbing her or something when they didn't say hello. My mother saw them in the village a lot, because Jane used to drive to market with her mother in this LaSalle convertible they had. My mother didn't think Jane was pretty, even. I did, though. I just liked the way she looked, that's all.

I remember one afternoon. It was the only time old Jane and I ever got close to necking, even. It was a Saturday and it was raining like a bastard out, and I was over at her house, on the porch - they had this big screened-in porch. We were playing checkers. I used to kid her once in a while because she wouldn't take her kings out of the back row. But I didn't kid her much, though. You never wanted to kid Jane too much. I think I really like it best when you can kid the pants off a girl when the opportunity arises, but it's a funny thing. The girls I like best are the ones I never feel much like kidding. Sometimes I think they'd like it if you kidded them - in fact, I know they would - but it's hard to get started, once you've known them a pretty long time and never kidded them. Anyway, I was telling you about that afternoon Jane and I came close to necking. It was raining like hell and we were out on the porch, and all of a sudden this booze hound her mother was married to came out on the porch and asked Jane if there were any cigarettes in the house. I didn't know him too well or anything, but he looked like the kind of guy that wouldn't talk to you much unless he wanted something off you. He had a lousy personality. Anyway, old Jane wouldn't answer him when he asked her if she knew where there was any cigarettes. So the guy asked her again, but she still wouldn't answer him. She didn't even look up from the game. Finally the guy went inside the house. When he did, I asked Jane what the hell was going on. She wouldn't even answer me, then. She made out like she was concentrating on her next move in the game and all. Then all of a sudden, this tear plopped down on the checkerboard. On one of the red squares - boy, I can still see it. She just rubbed it into the board with her finger. I don't know why, but it bothered hell out of me. So what I did was, I went over and made her move over on the glider so that I could sit down next to her - I practically sat down in her lap, as a matter of fact. Then she really started to cry, and the next thing I knew, I was kissing her all over - anywhere - her eyes, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows and all, her ears - her whole face except her mouth and all. She sort of wouldn't let me get to her mouth. Anyway, it was the closest we ever got to necking. After a while, she got up and went in and put on this red and white sweater she had, that knocked me out, and we went to a goddam movie. I asked her, on the way, if Mr. Cudahy - that was the booze hound's name - had ever tried to get wise with her. She was pretty young, but she had this terrific figure, and I wouldn't've put it past that Cudahy bastard. She said no, though. I never did find out what the hell was the matter. Some girls you practically never find out what's the matter.

I don't want you to get the idea she was a goddam icicle or something, just because we never necked or horsed around much. She wasn't. I held hands with her all the time, for instance. That doesn't sound like much, I realize, but she was terrific to hold hands with. Most girls if you hold hands with them, their goddam hand dies on you, or else they think they have to keep moving their hand all the time, as if they were afraid they'd bore you or something. Jane was different. We'd get into a goddam movie or something, and right away we'd start holding hands, and we wouldn't quit till the movie was over. And without changing the position or making a big deal out of it. You never even worried, with Jane, whether your hand was sweaty or not. All you knew was, you were happy. You really were.

Good lord.

I thought my traffic spiked when Glenn Reynolds linked to me.

Please.

Glenn Reynolds is small potatoes compared to being linked by The Pioneer Woman. Holy moley!! Insta-lanche my ass, try a Pioneer-lanche! It's almost frightening!

Welcome Pioneer Woman readers from around the world - and thank you, dear Ree, for your kind endorsement. Yours is one of the best sites on the web. Period.

Toys

I love getting glimpses of what kids played with in days gone by. My 8 year old self is salivating over those miniature twig chairs. Also the little girl on the far right has a look on her face that seems to say to me: "I want HER doll. MY doll sucks."

The Books: "Mortals" (Norman Rush)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Mortals by Norman Rush

Years ago, on my old blog, I wrote a post called Waiting for Norman Rush and what I have written below is an edited version of that. Mortals (Rush's follow-up book to his spectacular Mating, which came out over 10 years after Mating) was an intolerable bore to me - but still: the story behind that book (at least from my experience), and my expectation of it - is pretty cool. I sound very sad to myself in the post below. I must have been really sad when I wrote this. 2003? Yup. That's when I wrote it. Still recovering from 2002, my annus horribilis. 2003 is a wash, I was just stepping carefully, trying not to step on the cracks, doing my best to not attract the attention of the universe.

But it's interesting nonetheless. NATURALLY, when I talk about the book I first must talk about myself. Mating was that kind of book, and it left me wanting more. It really made a difference in my life.

A couple interesting things about the post below:

1. It dovetails very nicely, at points, with my post about A Woman's Face - the part where I talk about hope always coming hand in hand (for me) with sadness. Because of all that has gone before, the years of exile, whatever.

2. I just hung out with "my Nelson Denoon" for a couple of days. So it's odd, in general, that we would get to the Mating books now, of all times.

Now for the spoiler:

SPOILER:

The last section of Mating, a kind of epilogue, is called "About the Foregoing". It is very mysterious. She has left Africa, and has left Denoon, her great love. Things have fallen apart. She is now trying to get her life together when suddenly she gets a mysterious message, telling her to come back to Africa. It is not Denoon who calls her. It is a woman. She does not know who this woman could be. Or why she has been summoned. She obsesses about it, wondering what to do. Should she return? What would be waiting for her in Africa? If Denoon did not summon her, then perhaps she would not be welcome anymore? The book ends with these two lines:

Je viens. Why not?

I have been haunted by this. Then what? Then what? It has been so long since Mating came out. I have tried to reconcile myself to the fact that I need to, a la Rilke, "live the questions".

The fact that the book ends mysteriously, that it could go either way, confirms for me one of the essential tenets of my life: You just never know what will happen. Things can always go either way. Also: Things never really end. Not really. They transform, they morph. Love never dies. Ever. I'm not a "love/hate" kind of girl. Sometimes I wish I were. It might be easier if love turned readily to hate, but for me, it does not.

So alongside my relatively quiet life now are the vibrant exciting love affairs of my past. They make me who I am today. They do not go away, or submerge into the past for good. They are still very much with me, late and soon.

So literally last week, I became obsessed again by the up-in-the-air ending of Mating. What does it signify? What is the message, dammit?

And more than that, on a more literal and literary level: What happened when she returned to Africa? Are they together now out on that alternate plane for fictional characters? I always liked to imagine that they were. It made me happy to imagine so. It made me happy to fantasize that on that alternate plane, all turned out well. Eventually.

It's a sort of "Somewhere over the rainbow" sentiment. Things may be lonely here on this plane, but somewhere -- even if it's just for characters in a book -- things might work out. And this alone gives me reason to hope. Things just might work out -- because the ending of Mating doesn't make it clear whether they do or no. This is the degree to which this book affected me, and the degree to which these characters LIVE on in my imagination.

On a personal note: I used to have these old crazy fantasies about "my Nelson Denoon", fantasies which felt more (to me) like getting a glimpse of an alternate path, a very real future. I comforted myself, after it was all over, by imagining that on that other plane, down that other path, things might have worked out. Or in another lifetime, although reincarnation and alternate lifetimes are not quite in my belief system.

So I digress. All of these crazy thoughts are very tied up, for me, in Norman Rush's Mating.

All of this came up to the foreground again, in the last week, (it all began dovetailing), and I thought, impulsively: "I should just write to Norman Rush and ask him what he's up to ... if he's working on anything ..." He hasn't published anything else since Mating, so -- I wondered --- is he chugging away at a sequel? Is he dead? I needed to know desperately.

"Mr. Rush -- are you just going to leave me hanging with the end of Mating? Do you know how important it is, how essential it is in terms of my understanding of how the world works, that I know what happened with the two of them? Will I ever know the outcome?"

Wanting to write to Norman Rush was a random fleeting thought. I have written to authors before, so it wasn't too far-fetched.

Then, a couple of days ago, I stopped off at a computer place to check my email. While there, I visited my Statscounter, to check in on my traffic. I saw that someone had gotten to me by typing "Norman Rush" into Google. It led this person to a post of mine. And this piqued my interest. Somebody else is looking for Norman Rush right now? Why? Is something going on?

So I blatantly Googled the man.

The first thing that came up was a Village Voice article dated May, 2003. I opened it, and lo and behold, it was a review of his new book. The man has a new book out. Mortals.

I hope I have conveyed how important this is to me.

It would be like hearing that JD Salinger had suddenly come out of hiding and published a new novel. While Salinger is still alive, there is still hope that he may write again. He just might. And the book might be crap, but that wouldn't matter. At least not at first. It would be a miracle. To hear from that writer again.

So Rush has a new huge novel out. And again, it takes place in Botswana, Africa. Botswana! The country that Rush made live for me.

Mortals (and I just skimmed the article feverishly ... I didn't want to read any spoilers, no give-aways, nothing that would ruin the experience) is NOT about Nelson Denoon and our unnamed narrator. It is another couple altogether, although Rush again tackles romantic male/female relationships, only this time in the context of marriage. It doesn't seem to be so much about finding the right mate, and how arduous that process is, how it can break your heart. Rush now goes into the realm of established intimacy, and ... what happens then?

And here's the thing: (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT)

I raced through the book review excitedly and could not believe my eyes: Nelson and "she" DO show up in this new book, peripherally. They ARE characters on the outskirts. And, oh so casually, Village Voice reviewer states: "We learn that they have married."

What? They married?? I almost shouted out loud for joy. I'm not kidding. I freaked out.

I didn't read the rest of the review, I signed out immediately, paid my bill, and hustled my ass down to Barnes & Noble to find the book, which had been published THAT WEEK.

(Okay, let's just take a moment to reflect on how weird that is. I randomly contemplate writing to Norman Rush, pestering him to write a sequel, and dammitall if he doesn't have a new book published on almost that same exact day. What?)

And there it was. A huge book. Hardcover. With a map of Botswana inside. I got a chill of excitement. I felt voracious. Almost sick to my stomach, actually. I wanted to download the entire book into my brain immediately. I glanced through and saw that there was a chapter called "The Denoons", and I had to restrain myself. Prolong the anticipation, more pleasure that way.

And as I was walking down the street, with my booty in my bag, I suddenly got weirdly emotional.

It was as though I had heard that real friends of mine had finally gotten married after much strife.

There have been times in the past couple of years when life has been the cliched howling wilderness. "My Nelson Denoon" remains a kind of monument, a sort of goal. I have tried to knock him off that pedestal, but I have finally accepted the fact that he actually deserves to be up there. Whether I am with him or not. When things did not, to put it mildly, "work out", my baffled thought was: If that didn't work out, that which seemed so damn right, then what the hell will work out? For quite a long time, my answer to that question was: Nothing. Nothing.

But then ... here ... years later ... walking down the street, knowing that she and Nelson got married -- after all that --

I suddenly felt an upsurge of hope. Not for me and "my Nelson Denoon", because like I said earlier: that is no longer possible. But what I mean is: hope in general.

A word on hope:

Hope for me, now, always goes hand in hand with a bittersweet and vague pain. Hope never ever comes by itself anymore, the way it used to when I was a little kid, or a teenager. I suppose that's indicative of age and experience. It seems so to me anyway. That's life. I am not saying this exactly as I wanted to. Basically: Hope no longer comes alone.

The sadness and hope I felt, walking down the street, wasn't about Nelson and the narrator of Mating being married... at least, not only about them. The sadness and hope was also from how I see life now. In terms of mating. I feel like I had my run. It was a good run. I had a lot of fun, a lot of laughs. But that all has stopped now. And that's why hope never comes alone anymore.

I still feel hope, occasionally, but never ever by itself.

So I got overwhelmed by this weird sense of sad hope --- a feeling that STILL, after all THAT, "things" might "work out". For me, in my life. It's awful when one becomes afraid to feel hope anymore, protecting oneself against the inevitable disappointment. This is a constant balancing act.

I am in my 30s, and I've been through a lot. Not all bad. Of course not all bad. Like I said: a lot of laughs. Much fun. But now, I just find it easier not to hope ... at least in that arena ... and focus on other things. My work. My ambition, my plans.

But ... but ....

They got married. They got married. What does that mean? For me?

(This is the level to which literature can affect me - if I let it! The Shipping News had a similar impact.)

I am so used to the state of affairs I live in now, since I have lived there now for about a decade. I mean, I have changed and grown, of course, I have moved from city to city, I got my Master's, I've made new friends, it has been a very full existence. But I have been alone the entire time. THAT has not changed. Not even close.

Perhaps a breakthrough is approaching. A breakthrough in how I see all of this. And the appearance of Norman Rush's Mortals is the harbinger of something good. Or, something different. Something exciting, unforeseen, challenging. That's what I was feeling as I walked down the street, too. I'm scared of it ... and yet. Perhaps it is time. I don't know. Even as I write that, the logical side of my brain, the side that has all the experience, that knows the let-downs, etc., says: "Yes, but you have felt this before. You have felt this so strongly before. And you were never right."

But maybe ... maybe ... Maybe this is it.

There is SOMETHING weird about how all of this has come about:

Mating
The book being wrapped up with "my Nelson Denoon"
Wishing the main characters well -- hoping they are happy in another reality
Holding onto a weird strange hope that things worked out well, at least for them
Wondering if a sequel was coming
Studying the book over the last couple of weeks
That book, for me, is the monument, the goal
Wanting to write to Norman Rush
Someone coming to MY blog, through Googling Norman Rush ...during the very week I was obsessing about Rush, and where he was, and whether or not he was writing
Finding out that Rush has written a new book ... published last week ... in which we discover the Denoons have married

And so:
Things are not what they seem.

Back to the old painful belief: You never ever know what will happen. You can never tell what the future will hold. Your predictions will all be wrong.

I have tentatively and slowly begun Mortals, forcing myself not to browse ahead, looking for references to the Denoons. I want to savor every word.

I have waited for this day for so long.

Thoughts on MORTALS

Mortals was a huge disappointment, although I read it at the speed of light. Ray and Iris are a married couple, living in Botswana. Nelson Denoon and "narrator" from Mating are not involved in the story at all until far into the book. So you have to stick with Ray and Iris. And God, what bores the two of them are. I couldn't past it. Many people found the narrator of Mating so unlikable that they couldn't move on with the book. I was the opposite. I adored her. I would read 10 more books narrated by her. But Ray and Iris were insufferable. I know that Rush was going for a study of marriage - but my God. There are so many structural problems with the book - and there are (of course) moments of high genius ... that typical Rush language ... but because it's all in service of two people that I kind of despise (and I'm supposed to love and find charming) ... I found it REALLY hard to get through it. I stuck with it, though, because I was determined to find out what happened to Nelson Denoon and "her". I love those two, flaws and all. Iris appears to be having some kind of affair with an African doctor. Ray works for the CIA but since the fall of communism the entire agency has been in flux, and problematic ... the focus lost. I found all that CIA stuff fascinating, naturally ... it wouldn't surprise me if Norman Rush had been somehow "in intelligence" - but that's neither here nor there. The main point of the novel is what goes down between Ray and Iris ... but they have got to be the most annoying married couple in the history of married couple. They make George and Martha look like relaxing companions. Ray, first of all, is obsessed with Iris. I think Rush is trying to say something else here ... something about paying attention, but there is a fine line between paying attention to your partner and being fucking creepy. Ray is fucking creepy. Everything - everything - is under a microscope. Maybe that's a side effect of being a spy - but again, I don't think Rush handled the problem of this well, because within 5 pages I was sick of Ray. The whole being married to an intelligent agent plot is potentially fascinating but becomes flabby and uninteresting here - because Ray is such a drip. And I feel that Norman Rush is so in love with Ray and Iris that he could not discern the flaws. Perhaps he had more distance with Nelson Denoon and ... whatever the heck her name is ... they feel more obviously alive and unprotected. But here, in Mortals, Rush keeps telling us what we should perceive - how funny they are, how interesting their conversations are ... Meanwhile, i was so irritated I could barely stand it. I would have said at one point, if I was married to him, "You know what, Ray? Love ya. But shut the fuck up. It's 2 in the morning and I have no interest in parsing my childhood for you because you're so fucking creepily obsessed with me. I'M YOUR WIFE. If I wanted a stalker, I'd be dating again! It's no fun having a stalker for a husband. Leave me ALONE."

So. Oh well. It's a bummer. I read the whole book - and it has its fans - and I do not want to throw the bath out with the babywater or whatever the hell ... As a matter of fact there is an X-rated 30 page sex scene (in line with the rest of the obsessive description of the book) which actually is very hot. You don't need to describe sex for me to get hot (I think Hemingway's line from For Whom The Bell Tolls is pretty damn hot - they get in the sleeping bag together and the line is something like, "and then the world moved." That's hot). But still: for explicit sex scenes, the one in Mortals is a doozy. Would have been nice if I hadn't been so irritated by the two characters. I'm happy when two characters I love have hot sex. I am happy for them. But two irritating characters ... I find myself begrudgingly happy for them and almost jealous, "Oh well. You're assholes. Congrats on having hot sex." And the whole picture of the intelligence work done in Africa, the almost imperialistic interest that Christians have in Africa, and how this one doctor (a very interesting character) is determined to keep the Christians at bay. Want to know what's wrong with Africa? It's the Christians. (That's his view. So calm down.)

So. Bummer.

And reading my burst of hope from 2003 is sad for me now. Because it was an illusion. It meant nothing that Nelson and "she" get married. It meant nothing. Nothing made a difference, nothing changed ... Delusional. I sound delusional to myself.

My love for the book Mating is untouched, however. Perhaps that was Norman Rush's one story. Some writers only have one tale in them. They may try to do more, tell other stories - but they fail.

Perhaps Rush is one of those writers.

EXCERPT FROM Mortals by Norman Rush

They were together in the kitchen. He was being companionable while she got the food onto the table. The lights were on in Dimakatso's quarters. Ray had a feeling the meal tonight might be vegetarian. They seemed to be drifting that way, which was ironic in a country with the healthiest, best-tasting grass-fed and cheapest beef in the entire world. Botswana beef had an odd taste. It was sweet.

The light in the kitchen was a trial for both of them. The room was lit by a fluorescent donut that belonged in an industrial museum. The house was all-electric. The fluorescent fixture emitted a fizzing sound from time to time that suggested it was about to malfunction. It would capture their attention and then the sound would quit and life would go on.

Iris said, "Everything spoils so fast in Africa, I hate it." She made a face as she unscrewed the lid of a mayonnaise jar she'd just taken out of the refrigerator.

"This needs to go directly to the Mayo Clinic," she said.

"Haha," Ray said, stating the laugh to show he was less than amused.

She looked at him for an explanation.

God damn me, he thought.

"What do you mean by that Haha?"

"Nothing."

"What, though?"

"Well I just wondered if you're trying to be funnier than usual for my benefit. I mean are you trying to be funnier?

"You don't have to, you know." God damn me, he thought.

"What are you talking about, Ray?"

"I don't know, I felt for a minute that maybe you were trying to mimic my brother. I mean he presents himself as such a wit. His letters to you are all about what a wit he is. What I'm saying is you don't need to be more amusing than you already naturally are. You can relax. You don't need to keep me amused." He thought, Anyone would hate this, I have no right to do this, But I had years of his wit to live with and that was enough.

She stared at him. Plainly he had hurt her in several ways.

"Oh boy. I'm sorry. I think this is what it is. I think I'm aggravated about Rex's sudden interest in writing to you all the time. His sudden desire to be your pen pal. You don't know him. You may think he's clever but there is, believe me, nothing there, he's useless, he ..."

She broke in. "Well, you remember the potato salad I made last week that you praised to high heaven?"

He was in the pantry, searching for a new jar of mayonnaise.

"Can you hear me? That salad was made with baked potatoes instead of boiled potatoes."

Ray emerged from the pantry with the new jar of mayonnaise, which he handed to her.

"You mean now Rex is sending you recipes?"

"It isn't a recipe just to comment on a potato salad he had at a fancy buffet somewhere. He thought it was delicious so he asked the host what there was about it, that's all, and he passed that along, and you enjoyed it, I'm pointing out."

A Woman's Face; dir. George Cukor

Combining the impeccable aesthetic of MGM, the meticulous lighting and atmosphere George Cukor is known for, and some kick-ass performances by all the leads (Joan Crawford, Melvyn Douglas, Conrad Veidt, Osa Massen), A Woman's Face is a psychological melodrama with aspects of a crime thriller, a noir, and a five-hankie weepie. It tells the story of Anna Holm (played brilliantly by Joan Crawford), a woman who was horribly disfigured in her youth, leaving her scarred on one side of her face. Being ugly is not just skin-deep. Anna Holm has been repeatedly rejected by the human race, who stare at her scar in horror and fascination, recoiling from her, and so she rejects the world in turn, succumbing to a life of crime. It's not that she's bad all the way through - Joan Crawford manages to suggest the pain at the heart of being that rejected, and what it means to the development of a personality. Joan Crawford naturally was a babe from the moment she was born, and seriously: this woman was a babe to end all babes. If you've seen photographs of her in her late teens and early twenties you know what a stunner she was. I mean, she was always beautiful - but in her youth she was spectacular. To see how she inhabits the neurotic cringing personality of Anna Holm, how compassionately she suggests what it is like to be ugly (and she does so with no condescension or self-importance, like: "Look at me! Joan Crawford! Bein' all ugly!"), and how she shows this woman's dawning realization of her own softness, her own desires ... is a revelation.

I am determined that I will see a Joan Crawford Renaissance in my lifetime. I am determined that her reputation be rehabilitated! It's insane that a vicious autobiography with a giant CHIP on its shoulder should so destroy an actress' entire reputation ... that book was a watershed, not just in Hollywood memoirs, but in the publishing industry itself. But that's neither here nor there. And frankly, I am SICK of having to talk about Christina Crawford every time I talk about her mother Joan. I am SICK of having Christina Crawford set the tone of the conversation, and insinuate herself into the action. We've heard what you had to say, Christina, now get out of my life. Whatever did or did not happen in that household is, as far as I am concerned, immaterial. I don't care if Joan Crawford made her children scrub the china with toothbrushes, I don't care if she made them dance a jig in the moonlight until they collapsed from exhaustion, I don't care if she made them drain the pool with teaspoons. I'm over it. Can we talk about her WORK, please? Honest to God. If she abused her kids, that's awful. Whatevs. I'm not interested in Joan Crawford because she's an upstanding citizen (although I think Christina's damning book leaves much to be desired in the way of, oh, TRUTH). I'm interested in Joan Crawford because she is a fine actress. So. NO MORE, CHRISTINA. You've dominated the Crawford landscape long enough.

Ah, that felt good.

A Woman's Face is told in flashbacks. We start in a Swedish court of law, where Anna Holm is on trial for murder. We never see Joan Crawford's face. She wears a black hat tilted over one eye, and her head is bowed. There is a group of people who are the 'witnesses' and they are all held in a small room with express instructions to not discuss the case amongst themselves. Wonderful character actors, all of them. One by one, they are led out into the courtroom to tell their version of the story, and we flash back to the past.

Conrad Veidt (who was just about to play Major Strasser in Casablanca) plays Torsten Barring, a slick conniving conman, who meets Anna Holm in the back of a tavern (leave it to MGM to make that tavern like something out of a fairy tale. The group of revelers sit outside on the patio, surrounded by a Hansel and Gretl forest, absolutely gorgeous) when he is trying to get out of paying his check, and when he sees her scar he does not recoil in disgust. He takes it in, certainly, but his manner is that of a gentleman, kind and considerate. He sees in her something that he can use (because he's that kind of guy) and eventually they go into "business" together. Their business is blackmailing the rich.

One of Conrad Veidt's party is the sleazy luscious Vera Segert, played beautifully by Osa Massen.

She is married to a prominent plastic surgeon in Stockholm, but she is obviously having an affair. Probably multiple affairs. She's a slut. Conrad Veidt steals a packet of her love letters out of the jacket of her lover, in order to blackmail her later.

Anna Holm goes to visit Mrs. Segert, and there is a thrilling vicious scene of confrontation between the two women. Mrs. Segert begs for mercy, she loves her husband, please let me have my letters! At one point, Joan Crawford has her on the couch, and she slaps her on the face 3, 4 times. Watch Joan Crawford in that violent moment. It's melodramatic, sure, but Joan Crawford was at home in melodrama. She could fill it, she could justify it, she could make it look real. I'm convinced she could make anything look real. She's that good. Her slapping of Mrs. Segert is not movie-violence, it's real violence, and you clench up, watching it, because it's the real world inserting itself into what is, of course, just a movie. Anna Holm loses control in that moment. And Anna Holm, twisted inside, bitter, hard, never loses control. So to see her slapping Mrs. Segert, Mrs. Segert crying out and sobbing, trying to get away, is thrilling movie-making. Crawford's eyes. Just take a look at Crawford's eyes in that scene. Scary. It's real.

Mr. Segert (played by the marvelous, God I love him, dear God help me, Melvyn Douglas) comes home unexpectedly and interrupts Anna Holm in the act of trying to escape out the window. Mrs. Segert, slut that she is, is terrified that Anna Holm will reveal the REAL reason that she is in their house. Mrs. Segert continuously insists that she "lufs" her husband, she "lufs" Gustav so much ... but you know she's only in it for the money and the prestige. She has a vested interest in being "Mrs. Gustav Segert" and if Anna Holm breaks out the packet of love letters, all will be lost. However: Gustav Segert just happens to be ("just happens"! Ha - that's one hell of a coincidence) the number one plastic surgeon in Stockholm, and he gets a look at the scar on Anna Holm's face, and tells her he can help her. He pulls out a book of before and after photographs, people who have been terribly burned or scarred - and what he has been able to do for them, the reconstructions he is known for.

Anna Holm is a tough case. She's not just a softie waiting to emerge with the right circumstances ... she is tough. She's had to be. But Joan Crawford flips through the before and after photographs with a dawning sense of hope on her face, hope and amazement ... and it's even more startling because hope, for Anna Holm, is necessarily combined with sadness. Hope cannot stand on its own, because she has been disappointed and hurt so many times. And that does something to a human being. It warps what was once straight. (I'm thinking about Tess of the D'Urbervilles right now, as I seem to do whenever such a question of the warping of personality by life comes up ... Can such things be undone? Is there such a thing as "too late"? Hardy thinks yes, but then he was a great pessimist. Tess was made, MADE, for a happy and fulfilled life. She was made to be a vibrant loving and loved woman. But life had something different in store for her, and by the time she actually emerges from the nightmare, and finds love again - it is too late. The damage has been done.) Joan Crawford is able to modulate that kind of delicate imbalance with meticulous accuracy. A million things are going on on her face (and for half of the film, she only has half of her face at her disposal as an actress!), she cannot believe that he is able to work such miracles, and she also cannot believe that he could ever "fix" her. "You couldn't fix this!" she says. But there's something deeper going on in the scene, and you just need to keep your eyes fixed on Crawford's face to discern it. The thought that someday she might NOT have a scar has never occurred to Anna Holm. But now, suddenly ... it does. Instead of leaping for joy, she is almost devastated by it. Because what will it mean? Her whole life is about having that scar. Who will she be without a scar? There's a certain sense of loss there as well ... it is as though she feels her whole identity is her scar.

Anna Holm submits to 12 grueling operations, and Gustav Segert (I love Melvyn Douglas ... have I mentioned that?) reminds her that all of this may come to naught. He makes no promises. But he's a genius, and after the 12th operation, Anna Holm is revealed as, well, the Joan Crawford we all know and love.

But life isn't as simple or as clear as it seems. We see that immediately in a scene where the newly un-scarred Joan Crawford strolls through a park. She still has the cringing posture and odd mannerisms of someone trying to hide herself from the world. A little boy chasing after a ball bumps into her, and glances up. Anna, so used to the cringing response from people to her scar, recoils, hiding the right side of her face, waiting for the inevitable "Ewwww" look to appear. But the little boy grins up at her, openly, and makes some cheese-ball 1941 comment like, "Gee, lady, you're awful pretty!" One must accept a bit of cheese with your pointed psychological melodrama. And I was moved to tears watching Joan Crawford's face in response to that comment. She realized how she had anticipated rejection, and then to NOT have it come ... it was like you could actually SEE her start to open her heart up to the world. You can actually SEE her become a little bit softer.

But the path will not be that easy for Anna Holm, due to her sordid past and her association with Conrad Veidt. Not to mention the fact that living for so many years in a state of bitterness, removing herself from the human race (as it were, and as she says in the last line of the film), accepting the world's worst opinion of her, and living up to it ... it won't be that easy for her to 'change her spots'. Thank God the film didn't go in that direction, ie: If you're ugly you're bad! But all you need to do is be changed into something beautiful, and all will be well! A Woman's Face is more complex than that. People internalize the world. It happens all the time. Our outer appearances are judged a million times a day, and people make decisions about us based on our appearances. This is just a part of life. For the majority of her time on this earth, Anna Holm got the message: You are ugly and it makes us frightened to look at you. And so she internalized that until it became her entire identity.

Joan Crawford is marvelous at this. Watch how she always, even after the operation, protects the right side of her face. She still seems to feel that the scar is there. And Crawford plays it so well that there were times when I could still see the scar, even though her skin was smooth and clear. The scar was inside. She still felt it, and therefore, so did I.

A Woman's Face is a terrific film with some minor silly elements, one being a "Swedish" folk dance scene - which The Siren, in her brilliant way, breaks down:

By far the worst is the dance at the castle, when Crawford shows up in the aforementioned dirndl. The guests are doing a traditional Swedish dance (or so we're told, possibly MGM made the whole thing up) and the old man who owns the castle says to Crawford, "come and try it! it isn't hard!" No, not hard at all. You just have to jump in the air, swing your partner, join hands and galop down a row of similarly attired partygoers, twirl in a foursome, join hands again and do a "London Bridge" formation and then start all over again with Conrad Veidt as your partner. For the duration of the dance poor Joan's performance goes stone-dead. Anyone who's ever seen her Charlestoning up a storm in one of her Jazz Baby roles realizes right away that Joan is really, really hating this "Lonely Goatherd" shit.

HA!!! Totally.

And I'm sorry to bring up Christina again but I cannot help it:

To watch Joan Crawford's intelligent heartfelt nuanced performance in A Woman's Face is to realize, for the 100th time, what a grave disservice has been done to this American icon. And I admit, I'm pissed about it. Joan Crawford is a fantastic actress, and there are many folks out there who might just know her from late-night viewings of Baby Jane, OR (worse yet) only know her from Faye Dunaway's chew-the-scenery performance in Mommie Dearest. I have nothing against Dunaway's performance, and I actually think it was scary brilliant ... but to have Joan Crawford, her huge and long body of work, to be remembered in the minds of millions as that? It's enough to make me want to cry. Joan Crawford was a huge movie star. There are plenty of huge movie stars. But watch her acting, watch how smart it is - and also, gotta say it - watch how she creates a character here. Joan Crawford obviously had a persona, she came up in the time of great personae ... but in her best roles, she submerges that into the experience of the character. Like in Daisy Kenyon (my review here) - a simple and compassionate portrayal of a magazine illustrator, living a simple yet independent life, torn between two loves and also her desire to have her own life. Then there's Mildred Pierce, her tour de force, and seriously: please watch her in the scenes where she's waiting tables on a busy night in the restaurant, barking to the cooks, "Hold slaw ..." before swooping off with a tray of food over her head. Her work is detailed. I think a lot of times that is forgotten about Crawford, in the sometimes over-the-top portrayals in her later career, not to mention the shrieking-eel afterimage left by Faye Dunaway. There's also Sudden Fear (my review here) which has quickly become not only my favorite Crawford performance, but one of my favorite performances of an actress ever. Marvelous. Marvelous. To put all of that up against her performance as the bitter pissed-off cynical Anna Holm in A Woman's Face is to see a giant talent at work, an actress who knew what she was good at, knew what she was capable of, and had the ambition and guts to mess with her own persona when called upon to do so. Here she is in A Woman's Face, denied, for the most part, of what was probably seen as her main asset: her beauty. And watch how Crawford doesn't just show off the makeup job of the scar, it's not at all a superficial performance. That scar goes to her core, and Joan Crawford plays it that way.

She was an actress. Check out this terrific interview with Crawford about how she worked on parts, and you can really get a sense of her dedication and her understanding of what her actual job is. I love her comment: "It's wonderful to be a perfectionist." I think many actors are in it to be famous. And I don't scorn that. Fame is a great motivator. But if fame distracts you to such a degree that you are then unable to do your work (I'm looking at YOU, Lindsay Lohan ... I love you, girl! But remember what you got into this thing for ... get back to THAT, mkay? I got your back!) ... you are no longer an actress. You are an "object". You are in a two-way conversation with the tabloids. It is no longer about your work, it is about your personal life, your persona, your vajayjay, and your offscreen shenanigans. Now if you're Paris Hilton, that's fine. I mean, what else is she going to do? She had BETTER be in the tabloids at all times, because other than her fortune she hasn't got much else going for her. But Lohan's got talent. I love her. She's actually an actress, so I hope that her derailment does not ... well, derail her completely. Because her job, her actual job, is to be an actress. And she's good! Joan Crawford had both elements in her life. She was a massive star. A "personality". But she also knew what her actual job was ... and that was NOT to be a star, but to be a good actress. To get in projects she was right for (and she had to lobby HARD for some of her most indelible parts), and then to commit totally to the demands of the script.

See A Woman's Face. Crawford is wonderful, and have I mentioned how much I love Melvyn Douglas? Also, it's a total hoot to watch Crawford in a dirndl skirt doing some bullshit MGM version of a folk dance. Seriously.

Other things to watch out for in the film:

-- The thrilling sleigh chase. It was filmed in Idaho, apparently - and however they did it - I have no idea, and I don't care ... it's a thrilling piece of filmmaking. Two sleighs gallop at top speed through the icy woods, dodging sudden avalanches, skidding perilously around corners ... Fantastic. Terrifying.

-- Conrad Veidt is great. I will always think of him as Major Strasser but he's great here, and he has much more to do. The character is despicable, and yet you can see totally why Crawford's character would find herself under his spell. When he saw her scar, he did not recoil! He accepted her!

-- Every character actor filling out the picture gives a slam-dunk performance. God, I love that old studio system mainly for its stable of brilliant reliable character actors.

-- Melvyn Douglas has a relatively thankless role, but what a wonderful performance he gives. I am particularly attached to the first moment he sees Anna's scar, and the soft kind look that comes into his eyes - mixed with professional interest. I also love the "chase" scene with the cable cars over the freezing white-water river.

-- But mainly it is the nuances of Crawford's performance that makes this picture a must-see. Her bitterness in the early flashbacks is not a put-on, or an actress self-consciously "behaving" like the character would behave. It feels like I am looking at who this woman actually is. It doesn't feel "acted" at all.

Brava.

The Books: "Mating" (Norman Rush)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Matingby Norman Rush

I don't even know where to start. I'm scared. Someone hold me. This is one of my most important books. Definitely a desert island book. I've written quite a bit about it before and I've been re-reading old posts, trying to gear up for what I want to say about this magnificent novel. Funnily enough, except for critics (oh, and also Mitchell), I don't know anyone else who loves this book. As a matter of fact, most people seem annoyed by it (at least people out in the real world). People I love and respect couldn't get past certain aspects of the novel: the narrator's voice, her vocabulary ... and let's face it: It's a first-person narration. If you can't stand the voice, you probably won't get very far. It's like people who are somehow irritated by Holden Caulfield's voice. Not the story or the plot - but his VOICE. The whole BOOK is his voice ... so if that is what irritates you, it would be difficult to move forward. have experienced that with other books, but with Mating definitely not.

It's odd to have a book that you love so much that you cannot discuss with anyone. I mean, it won the National Book Award in 1991, was critically acclaimed, but it wasn't a book like Shipping News (excerpt here) - where you saw people reading it everywhere. So thank you, Mitchell, wherever you are, for reading it, and loving it, too. It's one of those books that became contextual for me. There's only a couple of those out there. Actually, speaking of Salinger, Franny and Zooey was another one. But I'll get to that when I get to Salinger. Possession (excerpt here) was another contextual book (excerpt here). By "contextual" I mean: I read the books in question, and along with loving the stories and the characters and the writing - the books helped me either make decisions about my life and how I was living it, OR it helped me put into context events and situations that either haunted me, or remained unfinished. I recognized myself in the books, sure - and that's a rare thing (I am not a particularly literary character. Meaning: I don't come across my self in books often. But with Possession I did. And with Mating I did to such a degree that I considered writing an angry letter to Norman Rush asking him to return my journals.) Mating was even more contextual than Possession.

The main male character in the book is "Nelson Denoon", and even that name takes on almost a magical sound to me, knowing where I was at in my life when I read it. Mitchell and I used "Nelson Denoon" as a shorthand. Shorthand for: Great guy, difficult guy, challenging guy, but the guy for you. THE guy for you. I read it during the beginning stages of falling in love with someone and my situation drove me almost as crazy as the situation in Mating drives the unnamed narrator. This isn't no regular old courtship. There are no "dates" here. There is just a meeting of the goddamn MINDS ... and for some people, that is a crazy-making situation (and yeah, I'm talking about myself. That was why my "encounter" with the doppelganger - part 1 and part 2 - was so ultimately unbalancing for me. In a bad way. It's great to get unbalanced if things, as they say, "work out in the end" - but to be that unbalanced and to have it not work out ... Well, first of all, that's my life story. But second of all, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. I wouldn't wish it on myself. Ever again.)

The narrator in Mating is weird, in the very same way that I am weird. She is vulnerable, yet she uses her intellect to intimidate, in order to not get hurt. She has an inferiority complex about her worth, especially in academia. She is aware that things do not come easily to her, and she wonders if that is because she just doesn't have the genius to make it in her chosen field (anthropology). Her vocabulary throughout the book is, indeed, daunting - even obnoxious - but I've read interviews with Rush where he explained his reasoning for it, and it makes total sense. She uses language as a fortress, it is how she knows she can "win". It's not a particularly sympathetic trait, but then - she's not all that sympathetic. Perhaps that is why I loved her so much. We have nothing in common, at least on the outside - but intellectually, we are identical twins. She is obsessively analytical, her desire to get to the bottom of everything sinks her, and also sets her on the path of the book. Her desire to know things other people do not know - and not just in anthropology, but higher up - as in: how the world works, and who is pulling the strings and what EXACTLY is going on here - is akin to my total immersion in foreign affairs and my whole index card project, which I'm too embarrassed to even write about and I think it's about time I threw them all away. It represents YEARS of work, but unless the CIA is interested in recruiting me (and seriously. I'm available for hire), I honestly don't know what those boxes and boxes of index cards really provide me. It was a way for me to organize information, to try to create a big picture, to catalog - one of my great obsessions.

The narrator in Mating is a great cataloger. First, as an anthropologist, of course ... but then, once she falls in love - she takes that cataloging impulse to an almost pathological level. He (Nelson Denoon) is a great anthropological study, for her - far more enthralling to her than her dissertation, because she's in love with him. She keeps notes. She always has one eye on the larger picture and how they fit into it. Nelson Denoon is a man who appears to know things. Not just about his own life and his own project, but about how the world works. His ideas may be faulty, flawed - but he is actually walking the walk, and trying to bring his ideas into reality. Not too many people do that. Dictators do that. Nelson Denoon is a kind of dictator. The narrator is an exhausting companion. I get that. I suppose I am over-identifying because I have often been described - well, not as exhausting - but the general complaint from men is that I am "too much", which is just another word for exhausting. The men usually say it as a compliment, they do not insult me, they love my too-much-ness - it's just that they choose not to live side by side with it. So where does that leave me? I am unable to not be "too much". (I am also unable to talk about Mating without talking about myself). I'm a big book-reader (as should be obvious) but I have very few books that I identify with at this level. Hopeful Monsters is another one - I am incapable of talking about that book without also talking about myself. I mean, I talk about other things as well - but the context of the whole book is either how it expresses for me how I see things or how it expresses how things are for me. Interesting that those are two books written by males.

Mating is a first-person narration - written by a male - and the voice is a female voice. I found it utterly convincing. But then: it is important to remember how weird I am, how unconventional (I don't mean that in a pretentious self-conscious way - I am being quite literal), how "too-much", how every time there's some jagoff quiz about "what women are like" I come up with a score that is off-the-charts "Are you sure you're really a woman?" There's some web gadget you can run your blog through and it guesses if it was written by a man or a woman. I did it once and it came up with: "We are 100% positive that this blog was written by a male." I am not one of those types who say "I like men better than women" - Bigotry in its most open-faced guise. So you won't mind if I don't take you seriously if you talk like that, because I tend to not take bigots seriously. Thanks. But I do know that very often I relate more to men, their concerns, worries, their senses of humor, how they actually operate. Even when it's not the most sensible or practical way to go about things. Many found the voice of Mating to be not all that convincing. Perhaps they have more engrained views of how women talk, how men talk, whatever, I have no interest in analyzing it. To me, I felt the voice was spot-ON. Not just because I identified, but because I could hear her in my own head. Again, I do not often encounter my sensibility in books. I did in Middlemarch with poor Dorothea Brooke, I did in Franny and Zooey with Franny, I did in Possession with Maud, and I do here with unnamed narrator in Mating. Cerebral. Rigid. Obsessive. Passionate. Perhaps bordering on the fanatic (like Franny, definitely). She's monastic in her habits and lifestyle, with one overriding passion that is NOT a man, or domestic bliss. Well, poor Dorothea Brooke. But like I mentioned in my post about Middlemarch - if she had been born in the 20th century instead of the 19th she'd be getting her doctorate in medieval tapestries or something equally as obsessive and cerebral - and men would be calling her "too much" and staying far far away. She was born in the wrong century.

Let's get back to Mating, the actual book. Mating is all about intellectual compatability. Not just lust or desire or wanting the same things out of life, or even thinking the same way about things. Compatable in the brain - "intellectual love" the narrator in Mating calls it. That may sound dry to the majority of people, but that's the thing: I am not the majority (every quiz I ever take confirms that!!) - and her vision of "intellectual love" is something that calls to my deepest soul. I read it, amazed - amazed first of all that a man wrote in this voice - but also amazed that it was expressed so perfectly ... as though lifted from my own life.

I came across this wonderful review of it on Amazon, which is kind of creepy - in that I feel like I could have written every word of it:

I took forever deciding whether I should read Mating, whether I wanted to commit my time to such a long and apparently difficult book, whether it would be worth it in the end. I thought about buying it a number of times, but couldn't get up the courage -- what if it just gathered dust on a shelf? I borrowed a copy from the library, finally, and promised myself that if I hated it (as a number of my friends had) I would abandon it quickly.

Now Mating is one of the few books I would want to have with me on a desert island. I can easily, happily say it was one of the great reading experiences of my life so far. But it's also a book that seems tailor-made to my sensibilities, as if somebody asked me, "What would you like a big novel to contain?" and then set out to write it.

There's a compelling narrative voice. There's tremendous erudition, so I felt like I learned something about the world on every page. There's a careful attention to language, and yet the language is free and full to bursting. There's all sorts of talk about politics, the history of leftist political movements (particularly anarcho-syndicalism, my own favorite), and utopia. There's a love story, but it's written about without mushy romantic spewings. There's an exotic locale. I'm a happy reader!

But you won't like this book if you're looking for a standard storyline and if you don't have patience for intellectual dialogues scattered throughout the action and if you want clean and unambiguous answers to everything. You also won't like it if you demand that first person narrators be always appealing. I found the narrator often annoying, but in the end was quite glad to have known her.

To have known her -- yes, by the end you speak of the narrator and her obsession and love, Nelson Denoon, as people you have known. (Or perhaps I shouldn't use the second-person here, since I know people who do not agree with me, who found the characters simply exasperating. So let me rephrase: I felt like I had known them.)

If you're fairly well-read, you can test whether you're going to find this book stunning or frustrating by playing a cross-referencing mindgame of this sort: Imagine that James Joyce finished Ulysses and was annoyed that his writing hadn't tackled all of the problems of human civilizations. Just then, a time warp appeared, and Paulo Freire and Emma Goldman stepped out and lectured Joyce for 40 days and 40 nights. He was thrilled. He began to write and discovered that a small part of his talent had been taken over by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and another part by Don DeLillo. Ben Okri had found his way in there somewhere, too. Writing was hard with all those different voices pulling at him, but he got through, and the book he produced was Mating.

If the names above are unfamiliar to you, then ask yourself how you felt while reading it. If you made it through to this paragraph, and you're not mad at me for inserting the above (in fact, you found it piqued your curiosity), then you'll do just fine with Mating, and you may be deeply grateful, as I am, that Norman Rush had the courage and genius to write it.

Yes, yes, and yes. My thoughts exactly.

Mating is, on the surface, the story of a love affair. Other themes are: what to do about Africa, the problems with "development projects" and do-gooders in Africa, socialism in Africa, differences between men and women, competition between females for males (hence, the title), satirical observations about academania - and then, more specifically, an in-depth description of the world of Botswana: the diplomatic community in Gaborone, the issues with "villagization", the issues with development, how the development community lives high on the hog in Africa - etc. It's a BIG book, with BIG themes.

The main theme is something the author/narrator calls "intellectual love". Rush describes a very specific kind of love, and because he did so, and took such care with it, the concept became real to me. He articulated one of my deepest longings in a way I had never before encountered. It was like his words illuminated my own needs.

My utopia is equal love, equal love between people of equal value, although value is an approximation for the word I want. Why is it so difficult? Assortative mating shows there has to be some drive in nature to bring equals together in the toils of love, so why even in the most enlightened and beautifully launched unions are we afraid we hear the master-slave relationship moving its slow thighs somewhere in the vicinity? It has to be cultural. In fact the closest thing to a religion I have is that this has to be cultural. I could do practically anything while he was asleep and not bother him. I wrote in my journal, washed dishes in slow motion if we hadn't gotten around to them. I was emotional a lot, privately. I wanted to incorporate everything, understand everything, because time is cruel and nothing stays the same.

"I wanted to incorporate everything, understand everything, because time is cruel and nothing stays the same."

God. Yes.

Intellectual love is not the same animal as landing a mentor, although women I've raised the construct with want to reduce it to that. I distrust and shun the whole mentor concept, which is just as well since I seem not to attract them. Nelson was not my mentor, ever. I gave as well as I got, with him. But there was intellectual love on my part, commencing circa that night.

Intellectual love is a particular hazard for educated women, I think. Certain conditions have to obtain. You meet someone -- I would specify of the opposite sex, but this is obviously me being hyperparochial -- who strikes you as having persuasive and wellfounded answers to questions on the order of Where is the world going? These are distinctly not meaning-of-life questions. One thing Denoon did convince me of is that all answers so far to the question What is the meaning of life? dissolve into ascertaining what some hypostatized superior entity wants you to be doing, id est ascertaining how, and to whom or what, you should be in an obedience relationship. The proof of this is that no one would ever say, if he or she had been convinced that life was totally random and accidental in origin and evolution, that he or she had found the meaning of life. So, fundamentally, intellectual love is for a secular mind, because if you discover someone, however smart, is -- he has neglected to mention -- a Thomist or in Baha'i, you think of him as a slave to something uninteresting.

What beguiles you toward intellectual love is the feeling of observing a mental searchlight lazily turning here and there and lighting up certain parts of the landscape you thought might be dubious or fraudulent but lacked the time or energy to investigate or the inner authority to dismiss tout court. The searchlight confirms you.

"The searchlight confirms you."

I have tears in my eyes. All I can say is that is exactly what it is, and exactly what I respond to. "The searchlight confirms you." Anything less is a total bore for me.

To me, the book has it all. It has the love story, it has the intellectual questions I find interesting, it takes on big issues, world events, socialism vs. capitalism - and it also, in parts, is laugh-out-loud funny. I find the narrator's voice inherently funny. Even when she is at her most manic.

Another element of the book is the religious aspect, which becomes of the ultimate importance in the final third. But I wouldn't dream of giving it away. Suffice it to say, there is a bit of a Master and Margarita (excerpt here) trick going on in the book: If the devil came to Moscow, a city that supposedly did not believe in God, how would they interpret him? In Mating, it is the confrontation with forces beyond understanding that undoes our obsessive narrator. And she's not just obsessive, she's rigid, she has beliefs, she has a system of beliefs ... and when things occur outside of that, she hunkers down and holds onto her beliefs rather than adapt. An interesting quandary for an anthropologist. But it's the essential question ... and what I think Rush was really driving at all along through his magnificent book.

There's more to be said, and I'm sure I'll do more excerpts. I knew what the first one HAD to be ... it comes very early on in the book, and it was when I realized, first time through, that not only was this a great read, but that it would be one of my all-time favorite books. I could just feel it.

Our unnamed narrator lives in Botswana. She was there to finish her dissertation on hunger-gatherers, but her research exploded into irrelevance, wasting years of her life. She decides to renew her Visa, to basically live there - and hang out - unattached for a year ... She's in her mid to late 20s. She immediately starts to have love affairs with unattached men in Botswana - and some of them are laugh out loud funny, because you know she CAN'T be serious about these guys! One is a vain gorgeous photographer - the other is a political activist in exile from nearby South Africa, and the last one is ... well, it's unclear ... but it turns out he's in intelligence. These are all men she might be able to be serious about ... if she were in a different headspace. Nelson Denoon has not made an appearance. And while she is "dating" the photographer (who seems like a silly kind of clueless guy), he gets a gig to photograph the falls in Zimbabwe (which was still in the throes of becoming Zimbabwe at the time of the book's timeline) - and she decides, in a mercenary way, to keep the ridiculous relationship going, at least until she gets to see Victoria Falls. "I'll break up with him, but at least I'll see the Falls first."

And she has a breakdown staring at the Falls. It's my favorite part of the book.

I am unable to read it without getting moved.

Mating is one of those books I feel proprietary about. I feel like it's MINE. More to come, more to say.

EXCERPT FROM Mating: A Novelby Norman Rush

Weep for Me

Well before you see water you find yourself walking through pure vapor. The roar penetrates you and you stop thinking without trying.

I took a branch of the path that led out onto the shoulder of the gorge the falls pour into. I could sit in long grass with my feet to the voice, the falls immense straight in front of me. It was excessive in every dimension. The mist and spray rise up in a column that breaks off at the top into normal clouds while you watch. This is the last waterfall I need to see, I thought. Depending on the angle of the sun, there were rainbows and fractions of rainbows above and below the falls. You resonate. The first main sensation is about physicality. The falls said something to me like You are flesh, in no uncertain terms. This phase lasted over an hour. I have never been so intent. Several times I started to get up but couldn't. It was injunctive. Something in me was being sated and I was paralyzed until that was done.

The next phase was emotional. Something was building up in me as I went back toward the hotel and got on the path that led to overlooks directly beside and above the east cataract. My solitude was eroding, which was oddly painful. I could vaguely make out darkly dressed people here and there on the Zambia side, and there seemed to be some local African boys upstream just recreationally manhandling a huge dead tree into the rapids, which they would later run along the bank following to its plunge, incidentally intruding on me in my crise or whatever it should be called. The dark clothing I was seeing was of course raingear, which anyone sensible would be wearing. I was drenched.

You know you're in Africa at Victorial Falls because there is nothing anyplace to keep you from stepping off into the cataract, not a handrail, not an inch of barbed wire. There are certain small trees growing out over the drop where obvious handholds on the limbs have been worn smooth by people clutching them to lean out bodily over white death. I did this myself. I leaned outward and stared down and said out loud something like Weep for me. At which point I was overcome with enormous sadness, from nowhere. I drew back into where it was safe, terrified.

I think the falls represented death for the taking, but a particularly death, one that would be quick but also make you part of something magnificent and eternal, an eternal mechanism. This was not in the same league as throwing yourself under some filthy bus. I had no idea I was that sad. I began to ask myself why, out loud. I had permission to. It was safe to talk to yourself because of the roar you were subsumed in, besides being alone. I fragmented. One sense I had was that I was going to die sometime anyway. Another was that the falls were something you could never apply the term fake or stupid to. This has to be animism, was another feeling. I was also bemused because suicide had never meant anything to me personally, except as an option it sometimes amazed me my mother had never taken, if her misery was as kosher as she made it seem. There was also an element of urgency underneath everything, an implication that the chance for this kind of death was not going to happen again and that if I passed it up I should stop complaining - which was also baseless and from nowhere because I'm not a complainer, historically. I am the Platonic idea of a good sport.

Why was I this sad? I needed to know. I was alarmed. I had no secret guilt that I was aware of, no betrayals or cruelty toward anyone. On the contrary, I have led a fairly generative life in the time I've had to spare from defending myself against the slings and arrows. Remorse wasn't it. To get away from the boys and their log I had moved to a secluded rock below the brink of the falls. At this point I was weeping, which was disguised by the condensation already bathing my face. No bypasser would notice. This is not saying you could get away with outright sobbing, but in general it would not be embarrassing to be come upon in the degree of emotional dishevelment I seemed to be in.

What was it about? It was nothing sexual: I was not dealing on any level with uncleanness, say. My sex history was the essence of ordinary. So any notion that I was undergoing some naughtiness-based lustral seizure was worthless, especially since I have never been religious in the slightest. One of the better papers I had done was on lustral rites. Was something saying I should kill myself posthaste if the truth was that I was going to be mediocre? This was a thought with real pain behind it. To my wreck of a mother mediocre was a superlative - an imputation I resisted with all my might once I realized it involved me. I grew up clinging to the idea that either I was original in an unappreciated way or that I could be original - this later - by incessant striving and reading and taking simple precautions like never watching television again in my life.

There must be such a thing as situational madness, because I verged on it. I know that schizophrenics hear people murmuring when the bedsheets rustle or when the vacuum cleaner is on. The falls were coming across to me as an utterance, but in more ways than just the roar. There seemed to be certain recurrent elongated forms in the falling masses of water, an architecture that I would be able to apprehend if only I got closer. The sound and the shapes I was seeing went together and meant something, something ethical or existential and having to do with me henceforward in some way. I started to edge even closer, when the thought came to me If you had a companion you would stay where you are.

I stopped in my tracks. There was elation and desperation. Where was my companion? I had no companion, et cetera. I had no life companion, but why was that? What had I done that had made that the case, leaving me in danger? Each time I thought the word "companion" I felt pain collecting in my chest. I suddenly realized how precipitous the place I had chosen to sit and commune from was. The pain was like hot liquid, and I remember feeling hopeless because I knew it was something not amenable to vomiting. I wanted to expel it. Vomiting is my least favorite inevitable recurrent experience, but I would have been willing to drop to all fours and vomit for hours if that would access this burning material. It was no use saying mate or compadre instead of companion: the pain was the same. Also, that I genuinely deserved a companion was something included. I wish I knew how long this went on. It was under ten minutes, I think.

Who can I tell this to, was the thought that seemed to end it. I may have been into the diminuendo already, because I had gotten back from the ledge, back even from the path and into the undergrowth. It all lifted. I sat in the brush, clutching myself. I had an optical feeling that the falls were receding. Then it was really over.

I hauled myself back to the hotel feeling like a hysteric, except for the sense that I had gotten something germane, whatever it was, out of my brush with chaos.

Romantic

Sometimes a setting is so romantic, just in and of itself, that I'm glad I dressed for the occasion.

The new obsession

Velcro curlers ...

... glowing in the darkness of Thursday night.

Immersing myself in Joan Crawford right now. More later.

The Books: "Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2" - 'Dump Junk' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Dump Junk'.

A woman dies, and it is up to her two children to sort out all of her "junk", accumulated over her lifetime. The woman who died was 102 - so her kids are ripe old ages of 80+. It appears that the dead woman had never thrown a damn thing out, and her house is overflowing with STUFF. It's an overwhelming task. She was a packrat. What is there to salvage? Anything? Christina and Bobcat - the "kids" - get a truck to load up the junk ... but before they can load it up they need to go through everything. It is an enormous task. Two of the nephews in the family show up to help haul the stuff into the truck. Christina and Bobcat look through relics ... memories spouting up, but much of the stuff is incomprehensible, and they can't imagine why she saved EVERYTHING. Christina and Bobcat had both moved away from Wyoming - years ago - years and years - and they haven't really kept in touch. Maybe Christmas cards. So meeting up again, in this kind of morbid atmosphere, is powerful - a bizarre familiy reunion. If I am recalling correctly, the whole story turns on an ancient teakettle ... which Christina feels is hers. It's her "inheritance". In the midst of the piled-up paper bags (apparently her mother never ever threw away a paper bag) ... Christina eyes the teakettle. It is hers. Struggling with feeling like they both are teenagers again, confronted by the world they fled from ... Christina and Bobcat painstakingly go through everything. The teakettle, though, takes on almost a conscious form ... as though it is sentient. Typical Proulx - who has a thing about "things". Things have an inner life. The tractor in "The Bunchgrass Edge of the world" (excerpt here), the accordion in her novel Accordion Crimes ... Objects that have an inner life are often not benign. They mean something. Bad luck. An omen. The teakettle is no different.

There's something meaner in Bad Dirt than in Close Range, Proulx's other collection of "Wyoming Stories". She seems to enjoy tormenting her characters. She stands above them, a cackling God, throwing disaster in their paths. No emotion. It's certainly a kind of perspective, but I have to say I miss the universal transcendence of Close Range (and the characters there are hardly all good or all heroic ... but Proulx seems "closer" to them somehow).

Anyway, here's an excerpt. I love how Proulx describes objects. I learn a lot from her as a writer.

EXCERPT FROM Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Dump Junk'.

In the house Christina, Patsy, and Wendy struggled with the mass of folded paper sacks.

"There are just hundreds! Now I save some of the plastic bags, but these - they're all mouse droppings and dust." The paper bags stuck to one another in great chunks as though they were trying to return to their earliest incarnation as trees.

"Watch out, Aunt Christina, you can get hantavirus messing with mouse droppings."

"I'm not messing. I've got on my rubber gloves, and I'm just putting these awful old sacks into a big trash bag. She must have seen she wasn't getting any use out of them after a few years, but she just kept on saving them."

"I don't think so." Patsy pulled a grocery receipt from one of the sacks on top of the pile. "Actually I think she stopped somewhere along the line. Look at the date - it's 1954. She must have stopped back then." She pulled out a sack near the bottom and found a handwritten grocery slip for a hundred pounds each of flour and sugar dated 1924. The amount paid was small as there was a notation that she had brought in six dozen fresh eggs to trade against her purchases.

"I remember those chickens," said Christina. "There were quiet a few and she was very particular about them. I always believed she thought more of her chickens than her children."

"I'd feel better if we had some dust masks, handling this stuff," said Wendy, who was the fussier of Bobcat's daughters.

The old lady had gone in for jars, fabric scraps, and old clothing that might be used in a quilt, and, of course, recipes. She was a tireless clipper of recipes for Golden Raisin Hermits, Devil's Food cake, pickles, leftovers masquerading under such names as "Pigs in Potatoes" (leftover sausages and cold mashed potatoes), "Roman Holiday" (leftover spaghetti with chopped string beans), "Salmon Loaf" (canned salmon, more leftover spaghetti). For decades Vivian Stifle had pasted the recipes in notebooks, account boos, novels, and books of instruction, each collection dated on the flyleaf. There were dozens of them lined up in the parlor glass-fronted bookcase. The recipes disclosed that the Stifles' diet was dominated by a sweet tooth of enormous proportion. The old lady must have used ten pounds of sugar a week on chocolate cream pie, "Filled Cookies from Oklahoma," and cream cake. She made her own maraschino cherries, too, and ketchup, the old kind of mincemeat that called for chopped beef, suet, and leftover pickles juice steeped in a crock - food that nobody now knew how to make. Still, the corporate food purveyors had been making headway, for many of the recipes featured Crisco, Borden evaporated milk, Kingsford cornstarch, and other mass-produced foodstuffs. Sometime in the 1950s she had stopped collecting recipes. The last book on the shelf was dated 1955, and there were only a few recipes pasted onto the pages of a Reader's Digest condensed book.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 4

Have had a long couple of days with 2 extremely late nights in a row. Yet I still woke up "on time" today and spent 6 hours writing and editing until I reached the saturation point. My back hurts. My brain hurts. And so now, to take a break from the writing I am doing NOW, let's go back to the writing I was doing THEN and read "Chapter 4" of my novelization of the TV movie Orphan Train, written when I was 11 years old.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4

The next day Sarah did run away but she wasn't really any happier. It was hard to find food and she didn't have anyone to hang around with.

She finally became acquainted with the paper boy mentioned before. He called himself J.P. He never told her what "J.P." stood for.

But many times J.P. was alone. He didn't see Sarah because he was busy with his papers. J.P.'s mother was an actress and most of the time she was gone on tour with the mean husband who hated J.P. J.P. was not allowed to go on tour with his mother so he was treated like an orphan on the street. He wore ragged clothes and all.

"Sarah, I gotto' go, ok?" J.P. inquired one day.

Sarah nodded and walked down the street, holding her shawl close around her thin shoulders.

J.P. ran all the way home to the apartment where his mother was staying. He walked up the 2 flights of stairs, his heavy Oxfords making a "Clomp-clomp" sound in the dingy halls.

Finally, J.P. arrived at the door which was his. He rapped on the door.

The door was opened to reveal a tall lanky man with thin lips and a thin mustache. He frowned when he saw J.P. "Well?" he yelled. "What do you want."

Then a woman's voice called out from within the apartment. "Ease up, Mark! C'mon in sweety!"

J.P. walked past Mark and into the apartment. It was set up rather like an actor's dressing room. There were clothes and scarves strewn about the room. There was also a lit-up mirror and a woman (J.P.'s mother) was sitting in front of it.

When she saw J.P. in the mirror she turned with a lovely smile on her face. "Hi, honey! How'd you make out today?"

J.P. put his lips together and nodded. He set the pile of papers that was under his arm on a chair.

Then J.P.'s mother's face grew serious. "Honey, work for an actor is hard today. 'Specially for women. Your father is gonna try and fit me in his balloon act. It ain't much money, but it's a start. And I hate you dressin' up like a boy." She threw off J.P.'s cap to show that J.P. really had slightly curled hair. J.P. wasn't a boy! She was a girl dressing up like a boy! Surprise, surprise!

"I'm sorry, momma but no one will buy papers from a girl." J.P. protested.

"Honey, I got somethin' to tell you. Your daddy's act is goin' on tour around New England and all the states. I'm goin' with 'im because I'm gonna be fit in his act. And - well - children aren't allowed to go on tour and -" She stopped and J.P. just discovered what was going to be said.

"I'm sorry, honey," J.P.'s mother went on sadly. "I wish you could come but it wouldn't work. Do you think you'll be able to get along on your own?"

J.P. set her lips tight and bravely picked up her papers. "It's okay, momma. I got my papers."

J.P.'s mother looked at her brave face and saw that she was fiercely holding back the tears. Tears quickly came to her eyes and she hugged J.P. hard.

"Oh, honey! You'll never make out!" she cried and let J.P. go.

J.P. looked up at her mother. "Yes, I can, momma. I'm almost 11." She picked up her hat and tucked all her hair up and placed it on her head.

"Good-bye, J.P.!" J.P.'s mother called as J.P. sadly walked away.

*********************************

Later on that afternoon J.P. felt very down. Her mother had left her, just deserted her! No one had bought any papers and she couldn't find Sarah anywhere.

To make herself feel better she quietly slipped into the church to listen to the singing.

Miss Sims was playing the piano and all of the orphans who wanted to were singing "Count Your Blessings." Miss Sims also was singing in a fluttery voice.

J.P. sat down in the last pew and thought as the singing went on. "Count my blessings? What blessings?" Two large tears welled up in her eyes but she hastily wiped them away.

Jeff Bridges ...

I mentioned recently that I had been thinking a lot about Jeff Bridges.

And here is the result of all that thinking: 5 for the day: Jeff Bridges.

"Let it all go"

Excerpt from Lessons in Becoming Myself, by Ellen Burstyn.

About Requiem For A Dream:

The most difficult scene was one in which my son realizes I'm on speed. It was a nine-page scene, but the last three pages were my soliloquy. I told Darren [Aronofsky] I wanted to do all the coverage of the entire scene, except three pages that would be shot in close-up. I wanted that close-up to be last. That was not the economical way to shoot the scene. Normally, the director shoots everything in one direction and then turns the camera around and shoots everything in the other direction. I was asking for walls to be put up, taken down, and then put up again. That takes time, and in movies, time costs money. But this was a pivotal scene that was beautifully written, and I knew what I needed to do it right. I had never before asked for my creative needs to take precedence over economic considerations. But I had learned to stand up for what I truly needed in order to do my best. I had been testing myself for the last couple of years; testing both my talent and my technique. I knew what I was working with and what I could deliver. Darren and I trusted each other. He told the producer, his friend and partner, Eric Watson, that he wanted to do it my way. They scheduled a whole day for those three pages. I could feel what was there waiting to be expressed. It was my own feeling about aging that I hadn't been aware of, but which surprised me one day in rehearsal. As soon as I felt that little rise in emotion when I said, "I'm old," I knew where the reality of the scene was for me. I had to bank that fire, then wait for the right moment. I had to ask for the right conditions to let that slender shoot of truth expose itself at just the precise moment. All my training and effort I'd put in over the years blossomed in that moment of truth. We got it on the first take. We were finished with our day's work by lunchtime. It ended up costing less time and less money by doing it right creatively. There's a big lesson here.

On May 5, 1999, Darren showed me some footage. When I told him how much I liked the film, he returned the compliment and repeated something the producer said as he watched my dailies: that I was one of the greatest living actors. I could feel the inflation rise in me and knew I was getting all puffed up, so I went and sat in my trailer and meditated on the image of polishing the mirror and then leaving so that God's face can shine through. That's the charge in all of this: to remember that when it comes through, it is God who is shining through, not one's personal ego.

It's such a paradox. We must put in all the effort to shine the mirror and then walk away. But isn't that the same as one's work in life - to learn how to die consciously? To build the entire structure of one's life, then breathe - let go - breathe - let go - breathe and then finally, let it all go.

It takes practice.

I shot for two weeks in my fat suits. One added fifty pounds and then, after Sara began her addiction to diet pills, the second fat suit added only twenty-five pounds. Then I was off for two weeks. While Darren shot other stuff, I went on the cabbage soup diet and managed to lose ten more pounds.

When we finished shooting, I wrote Darren a letter and thanked him for the opportunity "to mobilize my entire army, and for wanting what I got and letting me give it."

Question: "How did you guys meet?"

Weird awkward pause with some measure of shared hilarity going on underneath. We looked at each other. What on EARTH does one say. Such an innocuous question but it was as though he had said, "How do you split the atom? What is the process?" Guys. It's a simple question. Answer it. But we both paused, stalled, looking at each other. It's like we share one brain. How do we even answer that and not start out with, "I was born on a cold dark day in 1857 ..." HOW DID WE MEET? I mean, how much TIME have you got for us to sufficiently answer that question, where we will need to pontificate on quantum physics, Katherine Dunn, the space-time continuum, Spandau Ballet and the nature of tragedy in ancient Greece.
Speaking of ancient Greece: another funny thing in the moment was that I, through my writing, have "told" the story - which of course he lived it, but there's something different when you read someone's "story" of your life. It becomes narrative. I "set" it. And all of that was somehow was in his face when he looked at me. So, weirdly, when faced with that unfathomably deep and universe-shaking question ("How did you guys meet?" HOW DID YOU GUYS MEET??") I gave him the words. At least the words to answer the question simply enough so that we all could move on with our lives. There is a reason why Mitchell calls me "the Homer of our group of friends".
He: "Well ... she was standing on the sidewalk ... and I saw her and I walked up to her and said ...." He looked at me, and there was something so funny between us. Like, our whole story. Beyond words, but we were looking at each other, and there it was. I can't put a word to it, I just know that we were identical twins in that moment.
Me: (feeling distinctly foolish in a very funny way, finishing the sentence) " 'Are you waiting for someone?' "
It was as though it was a script that we had been rehearsing. This is how it happened. We had never done that before. I think that might have been why we were on the verge of some sort of hilarious outburst.
When I finished his opening line, he burst out laughing and so did I and he hugged me with one arm, and nobody knew what was going on but us.
Everything is left between the words. As always.

Last night. 2 a.m.

There was a moment careening down 9th Avenue, music blaring (Bleu, if you must know), when all of the lights turned green. Green lights stretched to the horizon. And they're long green lights in New York, uncannily long, it keeps everything moving. But there's that moment, almost like reaching the top of the peak, that small hesitation before you launch yourself down the mountain, when you see, unfurling, all the red lights switch to green ... and then ... you are OFF. If you're accustomed to small town driving (as I am, I haven't driven much in Manhattan) you keep waiting for the yellow light - but then you realize it won't come ... not for a while yet ... so just go go go go go go go. Yellow cabs zip around you, everyone is going 50, 60 miles an hour, and there's no stopping, no hesitation, if you brake cautiously all will be lost ... You submit to the beast, and you drive like a bat out of hell. It was EXHILARATING. Nervewracking too but I wanted to just keep driving up and down the avenues of the city all night, taking advantage of the endless green. It felt like flying.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 3

Chapter 1
Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Music drifted through the air at the Florence's mansion. Sarah gazed out the window from the living room.

A tall woman wearing mounds of makeup flounced into the room.

"Sarah!" she cried sternly. "How many times do I have to tell you. Don't look out that window. Especially when I'm havin' a party. Now git upstairs to your room and stay there."

Sarah sadly walked out of the room. She was a thin girl and had used to be an orphan. But Mrs. Florence had liked her (not really) and taken her in. Sarah was treated badly. She was not beaten, but the Florence's did not give her love. She hated living there but she did not dare run away.

As she sauntered down the long hall to her room she heard noises behind one of the doors. Being a curious girl of 13 she peered through the small window at the bottom of the door.

A fat man was setting up his bed. He was the butler. Sarah did not like him.

Right inside the door, and in Sarah's view, was a black leather wallet and Sarah could see clearly that it was full of money as it was so fat.

Sarah still had some orphan traits left in her and she wanted that wallet.

She reached her hand in through the crack in the door and grabbed the wallet. A big book had been lying against the wallet and it fell to the floor with a thump.

Sarah jumped to her feet and darted down the hall. But the man had heard. He dashed out the door and grabbed Sarah by the arm. Sarah thrashed around and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Mrs. Florence rushed up the stairs and was surprised to find the butler shaking Sarah.

"Now stop that Jonathan! Stop it! What did she do now?" Mrs. Florence inquired.

Jonathan (the butler) let Sarah go. "She took my wallet."

"Now Sarah," Mrs. Florence said. "Apologize immediately and give him back his wallet." She turned and walked down the stairs.

Jonathan smiled at her. "Come now, Sarah. Give me back my wallet." He gently rubbed her shoulder.

She wriggled away. "Please don't. Please."

"Now Sarah. You shouldn't have taken my wallet but I will accept an apology. Come now. I won't hurt you."

Sarah gulped. She handed over the wallet. "Sorry," she whispered and ran off.

Back in her room she sat on her small bed and stared out into the street. She sighed. Life was so dismal there.

"I'm gonna run away," she told herself. "But I'll do it tomorrow. I'm too tired now." She flopped down on her bed.

"Stay gold, Ponyboy."

A wonderful essay by Sarah Bunting (Sars by another name) about The Outsiders - and how it works almost better as a silent film ... here's just a taste of her essay, but go read the whole thing:

And in case you've failed thus far to grasp The Tragedy, he's dying in the street, shot down by the uncaring Tulsa PD for caring too deeply about his dead friend—and people, Matt Dillon is dying the hell out of it, crawling ass-up on his elbows, face torqued all out of shape, flailing over onto his back. It's an ugly bit of acting, but if you subtract the campy "Noooooooooo!" and "He's just a kid!" ululating of the other Greasers from the equation, it's effective, even eerie.

Comedy of errors

I arrived at Vintage Bar on 9th Avenue to meet my sister Siobhan just like we planned. I was right on time. I did a scan of the place for my sister and did not see her. I nabbed us a table, and settled in. The skinny gorgeous waitress with huge boobs came over and asked if I wanted to order. I said I was waiting for someone, so, could I wait to order until she showed up? Skinny Boobs said fine. I was a tiny bit scared of my waitress, and she was a teensy bit snotty. Whatevs. So I settled in. There were two guys next to me - one with a goombah Jersey accent, the other with a deep Southern drawl - and they were loosening their ties as they walked in, obviously young ad execs or something along those lines, talking about work and strategies, and also dirty martinis and interns and the joys thereof. I kept glancing out the door for my sister and the two guys kept thinking I was staring at them. Finally, I let them off the hook and took out Fortune of War and started reading. Vintage is known for its martinis (there are 7 pages of martini drinks on the menu ... you can get an Oreo Cookie Dough martini if you want it) - so obviously the joint starts HOPPIN'. But I can read anywhere, anytime, and so I did. About 20 minutes in, I caved and ordered a glass of wine from Skinny Boobs, who gave me a wine recommendation that turned out to be stellar. I didn't worry at first. It's normal to be late in the city. I didn't think much about 20 minutes but after that, I started to wonder. Where was Siobhan? I reached in my purse for my cell phone only to find, horribly, that I had left it at home. If you ever NEED a cell phone, it's for when you're trying to meet up with someone, and I had forgotten it. It was now a good 45 minutes after our meeting time, and this was totally unlike Siobhan. I didn't know what to do. I finally realized (duh) that I had my blackberry on me ... and it's also a phone. But ... duh as well ... I do not know my sister's cell # off the top of my head, because everything is on speed dial now and so ... my parents number I have memorized but that's only because it's the same number I've had since I was, what, 11 years old? A nuclear holocaust couldn't erase that number from my head. But I didn't know Siobhan's number. The martini decibels were now at their peak. I caved. I needed to contact her, and had no other way to do so. I called my parents. Retarded. "Hello?" said my mother. I launched right into it, regardless of whatever my parents might have been up to in that moment, shouting above the martini noise and the jocular post-work conversation beside me in 2 thick regional US accents, "Hi! I know this sounds crazy - but what is Siobhan's cell number?" And bless my mother (although this shouldn't be a surprise, if you read my blog) she said immediately, "Hang on a second. Let me get it." Within 10 seconds, she read it out to me. I tried to explain, shouting above the Oreo Cookie Dough martini racket, "Siobhan's 40 minutes late and I don't have my cell phone and I also don't have Siobhan's phone number!" Sheila? Stop talking. You sound like a moron. So. I call Siobhan, from the blackberry - shouting into it, "HI! I'M HERE AT VINTAGE! I'M CALLING FROM MY BLACKBERRY! I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT MY BLACKBERRY NUMBER IS THOUGH. SO I HOPE YOU CAN SEE IT ON YOUR PHONE. BUT I'M HERE. SO I HOPE YOU'RE OKAY!" Sheila? Stop talking. Then I realized that I could find out my blackberry number (I never use it as a phone) - and so I wrote it down and called back, shouting, "OKAY, SO HERE'S MY BLACK BERRY NUMBER --" and as I started to read it out I saw Siobhan herself emerge from the back of the bar, stalking towards the front, looking around her like an insane person. She had obviously just gotten my message and had been sitting in the bar the entire time. I hadn't seen her though, in my original sweep, I swear! I shouted up at her, "SIOBHAN!" We then hugged and laughed and Siobhan went back to the back of the bar to grab, you know, all her stuff - to join me up front. She had left me numerous messages on my cell phone which I, naturally, had not gotten, because it was sitting at home on my desk ... so we could have gone the entire night, sitting 30 feet away from each other, total missed connections, if I hadn't remembered that I could use my blackberry. Sheila. Why else does one have a blackberry? But let's disregard that. So Siobhan came up and joined me and we were laughing about how ridiculous the whole thing was, both of us practically crying about the fact that we were sitting so near to one another, and yet so far ... and at some point Snotty Skinny Boobs came over to our table (she had also been Siobhan's waitress) and she said, gesturing at the two of us, now finally together, "Okay, this? Is hysterical." She totally got the entire situation, the missed connections part of it, the comedy of errors - and then Siobhan and I said, in unison, "And we're sisters, too!" And that sealed our fate. Turns out, Skinny Boobs has two sisters, and they all live on the same floor in the same apartment building, and so Skinny Boobs will get a call from one of her sisters at 8:30 in the morning, saying, 'Hi. I bought a dress yesterday. I need you to come over right now and tell me if I look cute in it." Skinny Boobs goes next door, and her sister answers the door wearing the dress in question. Skinny Boobs looks at her sister in the dress. She then silently leads her sister back to her apartment, opens her closet, and shows her that she had bought the very same dress on the very same day. She told us that entire story. We totally fell in love with her. You know. Sisters. Anyone who has sisters understands. She absolutely loved us - and the snottiness I felt (oh, and that Siobhan felt, too) was probably just being harassed by having too many tables and too many Cookies 'n Creme martinis to make. Oh - and off of their huge wine list, Siobhan and I separately had both ordered the same glass of wine. Skinny Boobs loved that, too. She swooped by us on her way to another table and stopped just long enough to say, "You know what is also hysterical? You ordered the same drink. Brilliant. This is brilliant!"

Just 'cause (corrected title)

Oops - got an email from my sister asking me to explain the title which was listed originally as "Just Cause". It should be "Just 'cause" - as in "Just because" - Kind of funny how there are two totally different meanings. Just Cause sounds rather ominous ... like: Sheila. What have you done?? Whatever it is I am SURE you did not have "just cause" at this point. Whereas "just 'cause" is whimsical. I mean it in a whimsical manner.

Culture snapshots and emotional snapshots

-- I'm reading A Widow for One Year by John Irving and also The Fortune of War by Patrick O'Brian. Awesome counterpoint. Both superb writers in their own way.

-- Thank you, dear Siobhan, for introducing me to the amazing pleasures of L.E.O. - I cannot get enough of them right now. (Website here) Mike Viola and the Candybutchers are pretty much a required course if you are an O'Malley - kinda like the Foo Fighters - you at least have to give them a chance ... otherwise we won't take you seriously. It's kind of non-negotiable. Sorry. Anyway, L.E.O. is sheer liquid joy floating through the atmosphere. The song "Make Me" is my current fave. (Explanation of what L.E.O. is here)

-- Thinking a lot about Jeff Bridges these days. More later.

-- Went to a screening last week of Mongol, the sweeping Russian epic about Genghis Khan. Big plush press screening room on 57th Street, it was great. Everyone (myself included) blackberrying throughout the film, stepping outside to take a phone call, whatever ... and also scribbling on notepads throughout ... totally different atmosphere from seeing a movie out in the real world, but fun and interesting. My review will be on House Next Door eventually - I'll point you that way when it launches.

-- Totally consumed by something I'm working on now. It's causing me a lot of stress, there are not enough hours in the day, but I find a deadline ultimately very freeing.

-- Oh, guess who I heard from randomly (God bless Facebook) ... the guy I gave a photograph of my eyeball to for Valentine's Day 'lo those many years ago. Hysterical. It was good to catch up. I didn't bring up the eyeball. It's still too embarrassing.

-- I miss all of my friends right now.

-- Cashel wears a fedora to school now. He calls it his "trademark".

-- Allison's going to Italy for 10 days with her aunt to take a vacation in Tuscany on a horse farm. She's going to be riding horses the entire time. I'm so happy for her, although I will miss her.

-- Thank you, Hitachi. From the bottom of my heart: THANK. YOU.

-- Oh, and I'm also reading Patricia Neal's autobiography (thank you, cousin Mike!) and damn it's making me fucking SAD. She had one love. Gary Cooper. And she never recovered from the loss. Never. And Roald Dahl was a son of a bitch. But what a life, what a career, what strength ... but she ends the book with thoughts of Gary. She never got over it.

-- I crossed 2 or 3 pretty major things off my To Do list which have been haunting me. I actually cried when I crossed the last one off. It had been tormenting my mind, and giving me stress dreams.

-- Watched Stranger Than Fiction last night for, oh, the 10th time, and had to mop the tears off my face at the end. Slowly it's becoming one of my all-time favorite movies. ("You're never too old for space camp, dude.")

-- Last week I said the following sentence to Patrick, "My fallopian tubes are unfurling." Patrick still has not recovered.

-- My entire consciousness is now consumed by the bridesmaid dress I will wear in September.

-- I find office supplies immensely relaxing.

The Bunny ...

... a wonderful piece of writing. I love her.

The Books: "Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2" - 'The Wamsutter Wolf' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'The Wamsutter Wolf'.

A lot of Annie Proulx's stories are dominated by silence and space. Maybe there's wind, the sound of snow on the windshield - but her people, in general, are not talkers. But 'The Wamsutter Wolf' is so "noisy", so crowded - that I ended up aching for Buddy (the lead character) to get away, get away ... so he could at least hear himself think! Buddy Millar is a drifter, not really tied down to anyone. Well, he's a bit tied to his parents - who are openly disappointed and angry at him, for the way he lives his life. Buddy tried to work for his father, but that didn't work out. His dad has a temper, and Buddy couldn't take it. He is broke, he eventually rents a trailer for forty bucks a month in a bleak place called Wamsutter - it's filthy, but he can't afford anything else. There's a big dirty loud family who lives in the trailer next door - Buddy watches them from afar for a while, gives them nicknames (Fat Wife, Big Dad) - and it eventually becomes clear (and that's in the excerpt below) that Buddy went to high school with the mother and father (their names are Cheri and Rase). This is not an overwhelmingly joyful reunion - Rase is a sociopath who smashed Buddy's face into the pavement in grade school. Cheri was pathetic in high school and she's pathetic now. They live in squalor. This is not about being poor. This is about not giving a crap about where you live. This is about being so lazy you can't ever wash a dish. The kids are filthy. Their parents let them drink beer, to start them young. Annie Proulx has never been so mean. She's merciless. Buddy is the only one here who comes off looking okay ... he's actually kind of sensitive, and he's doing the best he can. But he gets sucked into the disgusting family drama across the way, and increasingly he feels he cannot escape. Cheri and Rase both treat him as an intimate, there's no polite neighborliness - these people have no boundaries whatsoever, with anyone - and Buddy comes home sometimes and Cheri is sleeping on the floor of his trailer because she had a fight with Rase. Rase is a terrible character. A violent ignorant man with a giant chip on his shoulder. Poor Buddy. He tries to be polite at first, after all he went to high school with these people - and they're all grown up now, right? The past is in the past, right? Buddy realizes very quickly the error of letting such people into his life. These people are barely civilized. It's horrible. A horrible story. Well written but I was sure glad when it was over.

Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'The Wamsutter Wolf'.

Fat Wife opened the door. The smell of cigarette smoke came with her.

"Yeah?" she said, lighting another.

"Hi. I'm your neighbor - Buddy Millar. Uh - I'm having a little problem with your dogs. Dog. the brown one." Two were black and one was brown, all of indeterminate breed.

"Buddy Millar! I knew there was something. I told Rase you looked real familiar."

He stared at her. The frizzled red hair showed dark at the roots, and the long ends straggled across her shoulders like damp raffia, the finer strands caught in the fleece fabric of the grimy anorak she wore. Her face was so oily it seemed metaled. Behind her he could see a brown chair, the floor littered with clothing and toys.

"I'm Cheri. Cheri Bise back in high school. Cheri Wham now. Me and Rase Wham got married."

Slowly it came to him, the high school bully, Rase Wham, had dropped out in tenth grade. Wham had been a vicious sociopath. Cheri Bise, the overweight slut whose insecurity made her an easy sexual conquest, had disappeared around the same time.

"Come on in, have a cup of coffee." There was a highway of festering pimples alongside her nose. She cleared a path in the debris by kicking toys left and right. Reluctantly he went inside. It stank of cigarettes, garbage, and feces. The television set stuttered colors.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, taking shallow breaths.

"Rase is workin for Halliburton now. He used a work for a drillin outfit but the well froze and there was a blowout and it kind a hurt him. He had a concussion. Last year. And I work Fridays in the school cafeteria."

He understood from the tone in her voice that she considered the cafeteria job a career.

"Barbette's in school, second grade, and that's Vernon Clarence - " She pointed at the dull-faced boy of four or five holding a box of Cracker Jacks. "And that's the baby, Lye." The diaper-clad baby was crawling toward them, his sticky fingers furred with lint and clutching a tiny red car that Buddy recognized as an Aston Martin. The kid, clinging to Buddy's knee, clawed himself upright and thrust the toy at him.

"Caw!" said the child.

"Yes, it's a nice car," said Buddy. In the room beyond he could see a bed heaped with grimy blankets.

"Caw!"

Cheri reheated stale coffee in a saucepan, poured the pungent liquid into mugs emblazoned GO POKES, set one before him. She did not proffer milk nor sugar. She sat down at the table and blew on her coffee.

"And we're expectin the next one in December, week before Christmas. It's ahrd ona kid have a birthday that close a Christmas, but you sure don't think a that when you're doin it." She had a spit-frilled way of talking.

The baby was staring at Buddy with savage intensity, as though he were going to utter a great scientific truth never before known. His face reddened and the vein in his forehead stood out. He grunted and with an explosive burst filled his diaper.

While Cheri changed him on the kitchen table less than eighteen inches from Buddy's coffee cup, he looked around to avoid watching her mop at Lye's besmeared buttocks and scrotum. On the floor several feathers were stuck in a coagulated blob. Wads of trodden gum appeared as archipelagoes in a mud-colored sea while bits of popcorn, string ends, torn paper, a crushed McDonald's cup, and candy wrappers made up the flotsam. An electric wall heater stuck out into the room. On top of it were three coffee mugs, two beer cans, several brimming ashtrays, a tiny plastic fox, and a prescription bottle. Through the amber plastic of the bottle he could see the dark forms of capsules.

There was a sudden plop as Cheri threw the loaded diaper into an open pail already seething with banana peels, coffee grounds, and prehistoric diapers.

The older child, Vernon Clarence, edged along the sofa toward the wall heater. His small hands grasped a beer can and shook it. He dropped it on the floor and tried the other, which responded with a promising slosh. He drank the dregs, warm beer running down his chin and soaking his pajama top. Buddy wondered if he should mention to Cheri that the kid was drinking beer, decided against it. The freshly emptied can rolled under the sofa.

Cheri suddenly got up, lunged for the cupboard, and retrieved a package. She shook several small bright pink cakes bristling with shredded coconut onto a chipped saucer.

"Go on! Take one!" She held the saucer in front of his face as Lye had held the toy car.

He took one. A coconut point stuck into his finger like a staple. He put the cake on the table. Lye seized it and mumbled "Caw!" as he gummed the confection. From across the room Vernon Clarence started to bawl, pointing eloquently at Lye, whose face was crowded by the pink mass.

"Here you go! Catch!" shouted Cheri, hurling a cake at the child. It hit an ashtray on the coffee table and sent butts and ash flying.

"I've got a get going," said Buddy, rising. "I just wanted to mention about the dogs - dog. And introduce myself."

"Well, I'm thrilled," said Cheri. "I always had a big crush on you in school. All the girls thought you was cute. Rase will just about pass out when I tell him who our new neighbor is." She snapped a cigarette from the package on the table.

"Say hello to him for me," said Buddy, struggling with the door latch, which was some devious childproof design. He glanced around the room as he backed out. The fastidious Vernon Clarence was picking a cigarette butt from his confectionary prize.

Buddy's trailer seemed a cozy haven in contrast with the Whams', and he quickly made his bed and washed the dishes lest he become like them.

Orphan Train. The Novel. By me. Age 11. - Chapter 2

If you want to read Chapter 1, it's here. I am holding myself back from interjecting snarky little comments like I do in Diary Friday. Believe me, I want to - but there's something truly innocent about what I was going for here ... my passion for the TV movie completely expressed ... and I just don't feel right about making fun of that.

Even though some of my word choices are funny and how many times can paragraphs begin with the words "Miss Sims sighed"? Apparently a lot.

Chapter 2.

The children rushed up to the bars and peered through. A small crowd had gathered around the gallows.

Miss Sims looked over the children and saw two policemen dragging a boy, around 17, toward the gallows. There was complete silence everywhere. No one uttered the slightest sound.

Suddenly a boy up front, around 13 or 14, called out in a strong English accent, "'Ey! 'E's got friends! Let 'em say g'bye!"

The policemen turned to face the melancholy boy.

"Listen, kid. You just --" one of them began but the other one interrupted.

"No. He's right. But just for a minute." He pushed the boy gently.

David (the boy) ran over the 13 or 14 year old boy. "Bye, Liverpool."

Liverpool looked at him seriously and set his lips together tightly.

David looked at Liverpool sadly. Then he bent over and took off his worn out boots. He held them out to Liverpool.

Liverpool looked at David questioningly.

David thrust them at Liverpool violently. "Take 'em. To remember me by."

Liverpool nodded and took them. He looked at David and immediately turned his gaze at the ground. David stared sadly at his friend. Liverpool, who was usually tough and brave, was now furiously fighting back tears. " 'Ey." David said and patted him on the shoulder.

Liverpool didn't look up. The policeman came and led David away.

******************************************

Miss Sims walked briskly down the street and turned in at a large mansion. She walked up the stone steps and in through the huge front doors.

The inside was cool and airy with pillars and statues and wide, elegant staircases.

She took off her brown coat and put it in the hall closet.

She sat down helplessly on a green plush chair.

A man walked in a dignified manner over to Miss Sims. "So, Miss Sims," he said in a very sophisticated voice. "How are the little ragamuffins today?"

Miss Sims sighed. "I have told you before. They are orphans. Not ragamuffins. They may look like ragamuffins but they are innocent children. Poor little children."

The man looked her face over. "Anything the matter, Miss Sims?"

Miss Sims sighed. "Yes there is. Today I saw a boy hanged. I couldn't do anything about it. I just stood there and watched. I never want to feel that helpless again. Never! I am taking those children out West."

The man's eyes practically popped out of his head. "You, Miss Sims? But how?"

Miss Sims straightened out her puffy dress. "I have no idea, but I am going to do it. Those children have got to have homes and I am going to find them some."

Happy birthday, Edward Lear

Edward Lear (the so-called "father of nonsense") was born today in 1812 in London.

I could recite from memory a lot of his stuff when I was pretty close to this age here. The Golden Book of Poetry was so read in our family that the cover faded to almost nothing, the binding fell apart ... and I can still, in my mind's eye, see all of the illustrations - and where they were placed on the page. And most of the poem's, when I read them now, I hear them in my father's gravelly voice. (The photo at the top of this post is me, "candidly" posing with the Golden Book of Poetry.) "The Owl and the Pussy-cat" is still a favorite. Look how the verse just rocks and sings. It's perfect.

The Owl and the Pussy-cat - by Edward Lear

I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

II
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Michael Schmidt, in his book "Lives of the Poets" writes that Lear, and Lewis Carroll (Lear's younger peer) wrote "nonsense verse" which "strays into the musical zones that Longfellow mapped with his self-propelling meters."

-- the inventor of the term "snail mail" in this whimsical letter to Evelyn Baring? The letter itself reads, along the twists of the snail shell:

Feb. 19. 1864 Dear Baring Please give the enclosed noat to Sir Henry - (which I had just written:-& say that I shall have great pleasure in coming on Sunday. I have sent your 2 vols of Hood to Wade Brown. Many thanks for lending them to me - which they have delighted me eggstreamly Yours sincerely

"Don't tell me of a man's being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?" -- William Pitt

In regard to his verses, Lear asserted that "nonsense, pure and absolute," was his aim throughout; and remarked, further, that to have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands was surely a just excuse for satisfaction. He pursued his aim with scrupulous consistency, and his absurd conceits are fantastic and ridiculous, but never cheaply or vulgarly funny. -- Carolyn Wells

However, there are subtler methods of debunking than throwing custard pies. There is also the humour of pure fantasy, which assaults man's notion of himself as not only a dignified but a rational being. Lewis Carroll's humour consists essentially in making fun of logic, and Edward Lear's in a sort of poltergeist interference with common sense. When the Red Queen remarks, "I've seen hills compared with which you'd call that one a valley", she is in her way attacking the bases of society as violently as Swift or Voltaire. Comic verse, as in Lear's poem "The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò", often depends on building up a fantastic universe which is just similar enough to the real universe to rob it of its dignity. But more often it depends on anticlimax -- that is, on starting out with a high-flown language and then suddenly coming down with a bump. -- George Orwell, "Funny But Not Vulgar"

From Michael Sala, "Lear's Nonsense":
Edward Lear, a skillful illustrator of science books (botany, zoology), started his literary career by chance. As a matter of fact, "most of Lear's limericks were not written with publication in mind, but rather as gifts for specific children" (Rieder 1998: 50). He was persuaded toward their publication by the enthusiastic reaction of his young audience.

There was an old person of Rimini
Who said, "Gracious! Goodness! O Gimini!
When they said, "Please be still!" she ran down a hill
And was never once heard of at Rimini.

There was an old person of Sestri
Who sat himself down in the vestry,
When they said "You are wrong!" - he merely said "Bong!"
That repulsive old person of Sestri.

This is a typical example of Lear's limericks, and a perfect example of what is intended by nonsense, that is to say, "language lifted out of context, language turning on itself [a] language made hermetic, opaque" (Stewars 1979: 3), language that "resists contextualization, so that it refers to 'nothing' instead of to the word's commonsense designation [and] refusing to work as conventional communication " (Rieder 1998: 49). In other words, what happened to the old person of Rimini? What is wrong with the person of Sestri? It is impossible to answer, because, despite the perfectly grammatical use of the words, they don't tell much. They are just bizarrely arranged so as to sound appealing. If there is a shadow of a story, usually it is nothing more than that: only a shadow of a story (without causes or consequences). In Lear's limericks, words introduce "a number of possibilities, including dangerous and violent ones, and at the same time disconnect those possibilities from the real world, that is, from what goes on after the game is over" (Rieder 1996: 49).

'My dear child, I'm sure we shall be allowed to laugh in Heaven!'" --from a letter to a little girl he knew

In the limericks [. . .] to an extent difficult for us now to imagine, Lear offered children the liberation of unaffected high spirits [. . .]. Here are grown-ups doing silly things, the kind of things grown-ups never do [. . .]. for all their incongruity, there is in the limericks a truth which is lacking in the improving literature of the time. In an age when children were loaded with shame, Lear attempted to free them from it. -- Vivien Noakes

Like the limericks, they celebrate the outsider. Their principal characters are socially unacceptable" --Susan Chitty on Lear's ballads.

Mr. Lear was delighted when I showed to him that this couple [the Owl and the Pussy-cat] were reviving the old law of Solon, that the Athenian bride and bridegroom eat a quince together at their wedding -- Sir Edward Strachey

More information on Edward Lear here.

The Books: "Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2" - 'Man Crawling Out Of Trees' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Man Crawling Out Of Trees',

I love this story. It's about two transplants from New England to Wyoming - and the culture is so different they might as well have moved to Turkmenistan. Mitchell and Eugenie are a couple in their 50s - who have spent their lives in New York (I think they lived in Brooklyn) - until a couple of bad things happen (a mugging on the subway?) and they decide to move. Their daughter Honor is a young woman now - with her own life - so they decide to move to Wyoming. Their dream is to live near Yellowstone or one of the national parks, but they soon discover that any property anywhere NEAR any of the parks is way beyond millions of dollars. They eventually settle on something - smaller, scraggly ... and it's almost like they're stepping into a dream-state. Like, to people in Wyoming, it's all real, for God's sake ... there's no fantasy in living how they live - but Mitchell and Eugenie are foreigners and they have a fantasy of the West, and what their lives will be like. Mitchell was a philanderer - and we eventually realize that Eugenie is no saint, either - so I think they're hoping that a change of venue might help their marriage. Yeah, well, the people who actually live in Wyoming are used to folks like Mitchell and Eugenie - people who move there with some sort of "dream" - and they try to accept Mitchell and Eugenie but it's like the two of them just cannot get the language straight. They miss symbols, they don't pick up on messages ... they keep breaking "the rules". It's like they are still living by New York rules (the "man crawling out of trees" incident is a perfect example ... Eugenie sees an injured man crawl out of her trees on a snowy day and is so terrified she locks all the doors and calls the sheriff's department. Turns out, the man was an injured skier, who was calling for help - and so the town judges Eugenie - In Wyoming, even if a man is your mortal enemy, you help him if, say, his truck broke down, or he's fallen on hard times. Even the sheriff yells at Eugenie. But there's more. Mitchell and Eugenie are not particularly close - you can tell - and their daughter Honor has had a baby with a man Mitchell's age - her boyfriend (he sounds a little bit like the Tim Robbins' character in High Fidelity - they live in Maine - and Mitchell and Eugenie are baffled as to who their daughter has become. They don't know how to deal with it. At the same time, they are now trapped in the reality of Wyoming - wondering where the dream went.

Great story. Very funny, but with Proulx's insightful observations - and her accurate aim - not only at folks like Mitchell and Eugenie, their pretensions and mistakes - but the folks of the town who are rigid and close-minded. Culture clash. And you write people off at your peril. But also: some people are just assholes, and never forget that. A total lack of curiosity about another person and another region in the country means you are an asshole.

Proulx rides both sides here - although the story is from Mitchell and Eugenie's point of view. Proulx lives in Wyoming and has for many years. She knows it intimately. But she can slip inside Mitchell and Eugenie, because that's what she does, as a writer.

And the response of the folks in the town, their neighbors, reminds me of the B&B we stayed in on Achill Island, a big island off the west coast of Ireland. The couple who owned the B&B had lived there on Achill for thirty years. And they were still referred to, by the villagers, as "blow-ins". Blown in from somewhere else. How long would you have to live there before they just accepted that you were one of them? Probably a very long time. But also: if you move to Achill, with some leprechaun-filled fantasy of the 'auld country' - you will be doomed to disappointment. Deal with reality, please. Have real curiosity about the culture you are visiting.

Proulx describes this whole divide perfectly.

Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Man Crawling Out Of Trees',

Wyoming had seemed civilized when they first moved out, but gradually evidence appeared that forced them to recognize that they were in a place people in the east would regard as peripheral to the real world. There were disturbing proofs that the weight of a harsh past still bore down with force. Every few months something inexplicably rural happened: on a back road one man shot another with his great-grandfather's 45.70 vintage buffalo gun; a newcomer from Iowa set out for an afternoon hike, and fell off a cliff as she descended Wringer Mountain. Black bears came down in September and smashed Eugenie's bird feeders. A hawk hid under the potentilla bush and leaped suddenly on an overconfident prairie dog a little too far from its burrow. In Antler Spring, the town where they bought their liquor and groceries, a young woman expecting her first child was widowed when her husband, fighting summer wildfires in Colorado, was killed by a Pulaski tool that fell from a helicopter. Vacationers locked themselves out of their cars and were struck by lightning. Ranchers, their eyes on their cattle, drove off the road and overturned. Everything seemed to end in blood.

Outside the Star Lily Ranch community Eleanora Figg was their nearest neighbor. She was an elderly widow rancher in her mid-seventies of the classic Republican, conservative, art-hating, right-wing, outspoken, flint-faced type. She ran both cattle and some sheep, drove an ancient black Jeep. She loathed environmentalists and people from somewhere else. Mitchell understood the bumper sticker on her Jeep - SHOOT, SHOVEL AND SHUT UP - to express her opinions on wolves. She had taken one look at the Fairs' Infiniti and recognized them as sybarites who dined on camel heels and foreign olives. She herself lived on home-killed beef, boiled potatoes, and black coffee. She was always dressed in jeans, manure-caked boots, and a ragged barn coat. When they first met, Mitchell shook the old woman's hand, feeling the coarse, hard fingers gripping his own with remarkable strength.

"How's your teeth?" she said. "Pretty sharp?"

"I don't know," said Mitchell, nonplussed by the odd question. "Why?"

"Always lookin for somebody help us castrate lambs."

At the post office the woman told him about Eleanora Figg.

"Her and her boys Condor and Tommy just about run this place." She added that there had been a third son, Cody, who had died of heatstroke hiking in the Grand Canyon on his first and only vacation.

He had met Condor Figg. The first winter he learned the hard way that the truck he had bought was best as a summer truck. It skidded and slewed in the lightest snow. The inevitable happened, and while he was trying to call a tow truck on his cell phone, damning the hundreds of Wyoming dead spots that made smoke signals more practical than cell phones, a big flatbed truck carrying a thousand-pound roll of hay pulled up.

"Got a chain?" yelled the driver, a big chunky man wearing a T-shirt despite the cold and snow. He had a curly black beard and eyes as narrow and darting as two fingerling trout.

"No," said Mitchell, and before his mouth closed the man was out of the truck and dragging a heavy chain with hook ends from it. In less than forty seconds he had the chain wrapped around Mitchell's trailer hitch and the truck up on the road, pointed the wrong way.

"My God," said Mitchell, "how can I thank you?" He fumbled for money, looking at the hole in the snow where the truck had been. Beyond the fence thirty or forty pronghorn grazed with cool detachment. He rushed on, his voice fast out of his throat. "My name's Mitchell Fair. We live in Star Lily Ranch." And he held out a twenty-dollar bill.

The man looked at him with hatred. "Yeah. I know. Keep your money. Where your house sets is where my folks had a stock tank. When old Dean Peraine had that truck you bought off a him he run it ever weather for damn near ten years. Had some weight to her. Never went off the road unless he wanted to." He jumped in the big truck, stood on the gas, and was gone in a blast of blue smoke. But Mitchell put four hundred pounds of sandbags in the bed of his truck and his winter driving skills improved. He stayed on the road.

There was another old woman in Swift Fox - Mrs. Conkle. She was also a rancher's widow but lived in a decrepit trailer with a yellow stucco exterior. Over the years wind-driven dirty had discolored the structure as the stucco cracked and buckled into a leprous mass. Sometimes when the Fairs drove past they saw the old woman outside, struggling to hang some wet grey garments on a drooping clothesline.

"That old thing," said Eugenie. "You have to wonder how somebody gets to that state."

Mitchell, who talked with local people more than she did, had heard a tale of hard luck and swindle.

The day the Fairs left Swift Fox on their journey to Maine they had passed Mrs. Conkle's ugly trailer. The yard was full of trucks, and men were coming from the trailer carrying a bureau, a box of canning jars, a rocking chair.

"Ah," said Eugenie. "There must have been a fire. Or maybe the poor old lady died and the relatives are going through her things."

Mitchell didn't think so. As they neared the bottom of the hill, coming toward them was Condor Figg's flatbed loaded with lumber and logs. In the side mirror Mitchell saw him turn in to Mrs. Conkle's yard.

Just when I thought that my skies were a June July blue ...

1,000 umbrellas opened
2,000 umbrellas opened
10,000 umbrellas opened to spoil the view ...

-- XTC, "1,000 Umbrellas"

My Mother: "The Periwinkle Dishes"

In 2003 I moved into my own apartment after living with the same woman for 9 years. It was a huge adjustment, and very exciting, and thanks to Craig's List I found an amazing situation for myself. My mother was so excited for me, so involved. She came down and went through the whole move with me ... It was her contention that as long as, by the first night, your kitchen and your bathroom are all set up - you will be fine. So even as my movers were lugging my furniture all about, my mother was tearing through boxes marked "KITCHEN" and "BATHROOM" - and hurriedly putting things away - scrubbing the tub, scrubbing the insides of cabinets - all while I was consumed with playing Traffic Cop for my movers. My mother made the transition unbelievably calming. I was so grateful to have her there.

But more on this whole move:

My dishes/pots/pans have always been hand-me-downs, unimportant. I buy crap dishes at flea markets, I don't have a 'set' of anything.

But as my move approached, my mother got it into her head that I should have a nice set of dishes. I should have a pattern that I wanted, I should pick out dinnerware for myself - with no concern for cost.

I'm not married. Married people get that stuff at their shower. But what happens if you never get married, AND if you have no money? Does that mean you never get to have a nice set of dishes that you like?

So my mother took me out shopping. Basically, it was like my own personal shower. We had such a good time together - she took me to shops in Rhode island, and I picked out all the stuff I liked. Stuff that spoke to me.

I picked these great big chunky plates, painted this heavenly color - a periwinkle blue. I picked these tall water glasses, with autumn leaves wrapping around them. I picked placemats- a pale lavendar color. I also got the silverware I wanted - nice solid silver. (I've always had crappy silverware - I never could justify the cost - I'd buy 10 crappy forks at a church flea market and call it a day.) So I cherish my beautiful silverware that my mother bought me.

We were both suffused with girlie excitement.

But let me tell you the deeper thing: I was so moved at how much my mother wanted to give me something. It meant the world to her - to give me what I wanted - to hear me say, "Oh, aren't these pretty?" (about the autumn leaf glasses) - and then be able to say, "Let's get a couple of them. You like them. Let's get them."

As is probably obvious, I am stridently independent and have been on my own for a long time. It is not often that my mother gets to GIVE like that to me, and it meant so much to her.

It's hard for me to accept gifts - but I also could feel, in my heart, how happy it made her to be able to give me something I wanted. So i was able to accept.

But here's the coda to this whole story about my dishes - and why I wanted to write about this in the first place:

A month or so later, my parents drove down to New York, to all of us who live here, and to see what I had done to my place. My mother had already seen my apartment, my father had not.

Now as I write this, I am fully aware that there are people on this earth (many of my friends included) who have parents who could not give two shits about "seeing" their child's "new place". Some people just don't have that parental involvement in their lives. I do. And my God. My God. I am fully aware of how blessed I am. How amazing my parents are. Truly. When I was in my 20s, trying to break free, it felt like a burden, at times. Like: "Jesus, other parents aren't so INVOLVED....why are MINE???" But now, of course, I see how fortunate I am. And was.

My parents arrived. I was so excited to have them see my place, to have my dad see it for the first time, to have my mom see what I had done to it. I loved being able to have them both sit in my kitchen, to serve them drinks, to be all set up.

My father took one look around my main room - with the hard wood floor, the ceiling fan, the patterned ceiling, and the PILES AND PILES OF BOOKS - and said, in his understated calm way, nodding his approval, "Good. Good."

But what I want to talk about is my mother.

I was in the kitchen with my mother, so excited to show her what I had done, how I had set things up, where I had put things.

And this is what is extraordinary about this woman - or one of the many extraordinary things:

NOTHING was boring to her.

I know mothers who are bossy, who come into their child's space and immediately re-arrange things, or criticize. I know these kinds of mothers. Bitchy petty controlling mothers. My mother could not be petty if you paid her a million dollars. My mother would turn down the cash. She would not do it. Her inner compass is too strong.

If her child is excited about something, then she is excited. (Well, let me re-phrase. If I came to her and said, "Omigod, I am so excited about how much blow I am doing right now!!" she would not be excited. She has her limits.)

I opened my cupboard and said, smiling, "And here are my dishes!!"

Now: reminder: SHE had bought me those dishes. She had already SEEN those dishes!!

And yet -she took one of the dishes out, and said, "Oh, gosh, they are so pretty."

I don't think I'm describing this right. I am sitting here with tears running down my face, and I don't feel that I'm describing this.

Let me try to get clear:

She was the one who bought me the dishes. She had already seen them. And yet she was excited to see them placed in my new cupboard. She was right there with me, in my excitement.

Here is what that moment with the Periwinkle Dishes meant to me, and what it says about my mother:

My mother is ALWAYS doing her best. ALWAYS. I cannot say that I am always doing my best. There are many times when I am jealous, when I am bitter, when I let negativity overcome me. But my mother - without EVER being a pious self-righteous woman (and that's the whole point - that's the whole point - her ego is not wrapped up in her "righteousness") is ALWAYS doing her best. In every moment in life, we are faced with a choice: Should I go the high road or the low road? My mother probably knows better than I do, but I have never known her to take the low road.

I am not saying that she is perfect. Of course not. But I am saying that she is always doing her best in any given moment. Always. It has taken me YEARS to realize this about her. YEARS.

Another mother would have either scoffed at my dish placement, or would have squashed my excitement, "Yes, I know what they look like. After all, I paid an arm and a leg for them."

My mother just ooohed and aahed over how pretty they looked in my cupboard.

I told my sister Jean this story once, and Jean said, "You know ... it's actually kind of holy, isn't it." In the true sense of the word, yes. It is.

Grace. My mother teaches me grace.

Happy mother's day, mar mar.

Orphan Train: The Novel. By me. Age 11.

As I mentioned in this post - the television movie Orphan Train, from 1979 - starring Jill Eikenberry - was one of those moments, as a kid, where I went into a fever of obsession. A fever, I tell you! I was burning up! This of course was before the days of VCR (at least my family didn't have one) and rentals of movies - so I was reliant on TV Guide to tell me what was coming up. I pored over the weekly television listings, keeping my eye out for Orphan Train. The agony of having to wait!! And who knows when it would be on again?

And so I basically couldn't wait. So, based on my memory of the movie, I wrote it up in novel-form. I love that I included a copyright page and publisher information. It was apparently published by a little-known publisher called "Sheila University Press". I was 11 years old when I wrote this.

I forgot about it for years. I always remembered Orphan Train, but I forgot that I had written it up as a book. From memory. I fleshed out conversations, I went scene to scene ... it was my way of expressing my obsession. If I had had a blog then, I would have been doing posts like crazy on Orphan Train.

The "manuscript" was lost for many years, but I didn't even know it was lost.

And 3 or 4 years ago, my parents were at home and a knock came on the door. My mother opened the door, and there stood J. - one of my best friends from childhood and high school. I had not seen her in years. She was home for the weekend, and was cleaning stuff out of the attic - and she found my bound manuscript of Orphan Train and wanted me to have it. Amazing, right? My mother sent it to me and when I opened it up - my whole life flashed before my eyes. I had forgotten about it entirely. I hadn't missed it, or yearned for it, or wondered Where the hell did it go? But suddenly it was there, in my hands - a bound copy of my "novel" - a bright yellow cover - with my crazy doodles all over it. And I had written the thing out on looseleaf paper and then somehow clamped it down into this folder-like apparatus. My novel. What the hell??

I sat down and read the whole thing, laughing out loud at times, at times welling up with tears over my childish passion and fearlessness, guffawing at some of my word choices ... and then there were a couple of moments, I admit, when a phrase came up, or the way I finished a scene, where I thought, "You know what? That's not half bad."

So. Here is Chapter 1 of my novel. Orphan Train. Written by me at age 11.

Preface

In 1845 orphans roamed the street of New York City freely. Few of them had homes and those that did, sometimes they couldn't even get enough food to support them. This story is fictitious but based on real life as it was in 1845.

Chapter 1

"Tony," Ben Papinni wailed, making his short legs move very fast to catch up with his 11-year-old brother. "Wait up."

Tony sighed and stopped in front of a low crumbling wall.

Ben clutched the small wooden cage in his hand and ran up to his brother. He gazed up at him with wide eyes.

"Come on over here. There are some big ones over here as I 'member." Tony led his brother through the old, brick building and all of the rubble to a small hall and into a small musty room.

"Over here. They're over here and we'd better hurry." Tony knelt on the ground and took the cage from Ben.

He placed it in a small hole in the wall. Ben kneeled beside Tony and watched him eagerly.

"Now be quiet, Ben. They'll be comin' soon."

"They" were big rats who lurked in the building. Ben and Tony Pappini caught them and sold them to a man who was a cheapskate and hated kids, but nevertheless it did bring money to buy food. Tony would not go to the town soup kitchen. He considered people who went there babies and they gave up easily. Tony would not give up. The only time he ever allowed the two of them to go and get the small portion of gruel was when they were absolutely desperate for food. Ben, even though he was small for his age of 5, had a stomach like a balloon and it would hold quite a bit of food. But Ben admired his brother and always was loyal to Tony, so somehow he survived.

Clap! The cage door shut and Tony brought it out. There were two big black rats in it.

Tony smiled. "They're goodies. Mr. Johnson will give us seven cents for 'em. He promised. C'mon, Ben."

Tony and Ben got up and departed through a window onto the dirty cobblestone street.

A young boy in ragged clothes walked down the street yelling, "Papers! Get your papers!" He was waving newspapers in the air. His cap was placed firmly on his head and his knickers were ragged and dirty.

Tony sighed. Everything these days was so ugly and dirty. There were no real orphanages then and no one in New York seemed to care about all the poor, helpless children. They were looked upon practically like animals! Grown men would hit a kid without any hesitation and not feel sorry. Tony had heard that it was better out West. There had been some talk of herding all of the orphans out West to find them families, but not many people believed it. Practically all the folks considered the orphans trash and no one in their right minds would want them. Some orphans were bad but not all of them.

"C'mon, Ben. We gotta hurty," Tony said.

Ben sighed. Sometimes Tony was very impatient.

Finally they arrived at the rat place. It was rather a disgusting business. Partly because the rats were disgusting. They were big and black and gross. At least that was Ben and Tony's opinion.

After they had handed in their rats, Mr. Johnson gave them the money.

Tony stared at the coins in his dirty palm. "That's only three cents! You promised us seven!"

Mr. Johnson was angry. "It's money, ain't it? Now git out."

"But ..." Tony protested.

"Get out!" He gave Tony a hard push and Tony and Ben ran out.

"What're we gonna do?" Ben asked Tony.

Tony shrugged and tried to hide his despair from Ben. "We'll find somethin' for three cents."

Ben sighed. "I donno, Tony."

They turned a corner and walked down a damp, dark alley with a putrid odor. They did not notice the tall, dirty boy hiding behind a barrel.

As they passed he jumped out and grabbed Ben by the collar and shook him.

"Hey!" Tony yelled. "Put him down!"

"Not until you give me your money," the boy growled.

Tony glanced at the three cents in his hand. "But this is all I've got."

"I don't care. Give it."

Tony had no choice. He sadly placed the meagre amount of money in the boy's hand. The boy violently dropped Ben and, with much swagger, slouched down the alley.

"Now what're we gonna do?" Ben said, almost on the verge of tears, but he would never have cried in front of Tony.

Tony sighed. He knew they would have to go to the soup kitchen. He didn't want to admit to Ben though that they would have to give up.

Ben was studying Tony's face and he noticed the worried lines around his eyes. "It's o.k., Tony. You don't have to tell me. I know where we're goin'. Come on."

Tony was grateful to his brother to save him from saying they had given up.

They started off for the kitchen. When they were there they fell in line with the many other orphans there. The paper boy was there too. When Tony's turn in line came he got his soup as fast as possible and hurried off to a table.

When Ben came up to the counter he held up his bowl. The pretty woman behind the counter smiled down at him.

"Well, Ben. It's nice to see you here. You don't usually come," she said, and scooped an extra large portion of gruel for his bowl, for he looked especially thin.

Ben brought his bowl over to Tony's table and sat down. Soon he was gulfing down the warm soup.

As the lady behind the counter kept pouring soup into children's bowls she remarked to the man who was helping her, "Where do they all come from?"

The man shrugged. "Beats me. Poor things. That girl over there can't even walk right."

The woman looked with sympathy at the little girl. "I hope that that story about the train carrying all of the orphans West comes true. Whenever I look at their little faces I ---"

She was interrupted by a dirty ragged boy bursting into the kitchen excitedly. He yelled, "David Smithson's gittin' hanged down in 'a gallows!"

All of the orphans made a mad rush for the door and burst out into the street. Child after child rushing past the counter, dropping their bowls and spoons and pouring out into the street. People walking past the kitchen were amazed to all of a sudden see at least 3 dozen ragged, dirty children burst out onto the street and run down the cobblestone sidewalk.

As they ran past the soup counter, Miss Sims (the woman) tried desperately to stop them.

"Please children! Please! Finish your soup and --" she turned to the man. "I'm going to follow them and see what this hanging business is all about." She hurried out after all of the children.

The Books: "Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2" - 'What Kind Of Furniture Would Jesus Pick?' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - excerpt from her sweeping saga in 30 pages 'What Kind Of Furniture Would Jesus Pick?'

Another one of Proulx's stories that feels like a novel, 'What Kind Of Furniture Would Jesus Pick?' appeared in The New Yorker in 2003. It tells the story of a man named Gilbert Wolfscale, a rancher in Elk Tooth (the fictional town where all of the stories in Bad Dirt take place) who is a rigid workaholic, a rancher to the core - and it is this that messes up his personal life on all fronts. His sons, his wife - all are driven away by his controlling personality. A rancher needs to be controlling, obviously - and Gilbert is highly possessive of his land - almost bordering on the fanatic. But then, of course, there are so many things a rancher cannot control - weather, drought, the world financial markets ... Gilbert cannot really understand things beyond his own perspective. One of his sons is obviously gay. The other son knows it, tries to tell his father, and Gilbert just has no coping skills for something like that. His wife Suzzy has a gambling problem - and eventually goes to jail for embezzlement (if I'm remembering correctly - it's been a long time since I read it). He is ashamed of his wife. Ashamed of his sons. And his old mother lives with him, and she needs a lot of help just getting through the day ... and Gilbert grows more and more rigid in his isolation. He's kind of a son of a bitch, although you feel for him too. The younger generation, personified by his sons, seem way more laidback. He cannot understand that. His sons take a more philosophical view of their mother's misfortunes ... and they don't seem to mind the whole gay thing. Gilbert Wolfscale begins to seem like an old cow put out to pasture. And that he cannot abide.

He was a model of rancher stubbornness, savagely possessive of his property. He did everything in an odd, deliberate way, Gilbert Wolfscale's way, and never retreated once he had taken a position. Neighbors said he was self-reliant, but there was a way they said it that meant something else.

Here's an excerpt. This tells of how Gilbert came to marry Suzzy. Great concise character development.

EXCERPT FROM Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx - 'What Kind Of Furniture Would Jesus Pick?'

Seven miles north of the Harp on the Stump Hole Road lived May and Jim Codenhead of his generation. He had gone to grade school with May - she was then May Alwen - in the old century during the postwar fifties, the Eisenhower era of interstate highway construction that changed Wyoming forever by letting in the outside. May's brother, Sedley Alwen, a big, good-natured kid with stringy arms, had been Gilbert's best friend. Gilbert courted May for a year, had taken it for granted that Sedley would be his brother-in-law, but she strung him along and then, in a sudden move on Christmas Day in 1966, married Jim Codenhead. Jim was then nothing more than an illiterate Montana hand working on the Alwen place. May taught him to read until he could fumble through the newspaper.

"That's the shits, man," said Sedley sympathetically and took Gilbert on a two-day drunk that was as much a salute to his draft notice as balm for Gilbert's disappointment.

The marriage wasn't unprecedented. For those who took the long view and had patience, it was the classic route for a lowly cowhand to own his own spread - marry the rancher's daughter. In retaliation Gilbert went to a New Year's dance, found Suzzy New, and in ten days pressured her into a fast marriage.

Suzzy New was slender and small-boned, something French about her child-size wrists, a contrast to Gilbert, six foot four, bullnecked with heavy shoulders. She was nimble-fingered and a talented embroiderer. In the flush of their first months together Gilbert bragged that she was so handy she could make a pair of chaps for a hummingbird. She was quiet, disliked arguments and shouting. She held herself tensely and had a way of retreating into her thoughts. She believed herself to be a very private person. She slept badly, sensitive to the slightest abnormal sound - the creak of an attic timber, the rising wind, a raccoon forcing its way through the skirting of the house and under the kitchen floorboards. She had let herself be bullied into marrying Gilbert, and within days of the ruinous act bitterly regretted it.

All her life she had heard and felt the Wyoming wind and took it for granted. There had even been a day when she was a young girl standing by the road waiting for the school bus when a spring wind, fresh and warm and perfumed with pine resin, had caused a bolt of wild happiness to surge through her, its liveliness promising glinting chances. She had loved the wind that day. But out at the ranch it was different and she became aware of moving air's erratic, inimical character. The house lay directly in line with a gap in the encircling hills to the northwest, and through this notch the prevailing wind poured, falling on the house with ferocity. The house shuddered as the wind punched it, slid along its sides like a released torrent from a broken dam. Week after week in winter it sank and rose, attacked and feinted. When she put her head down and went out to the truck, it yanked at her clothing, shot up her sleeves, whisked her hair into raveled fright wigs. Gilbert seemed not to notice, but then, she thought, he probably regarded it as his wind, and no doubt took pleasure in such a powerful possession.

The Books: "Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2" - 'The Trickle-Down Effect' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2by Annie Proulx

Anything coming after Close Range was going to be a disappointment - especially since Proulx explicitly connected them by calling this short story collection "Wyoming Stories 2". However, I'm such a diehard fan that when I heard that she has a third short story collection coming out this fall, I think - and I heard it's "Wyoming Stories 3" I got so excited I could barely count the days until it came out. So you see how it is. Proulx lives in Wyoming, she obviously has a lot to say about it. And each of the collections (so far) has its own feel. None of the stories in Bad Dirt would fit in in Close Range and vice versa. The setting is the same, but it's almost like Proulx is using two different languages in the two books. Close Range reflects the size of Wyoming - the scope of sky and plain and mountain that is so startling when you go there. It's beautiful, sure, but Proulx isn't interested in the beauty. She is interested in what such scope does to human beings. She is interested in the culture of Wyoming - brought about for all different reasons - every state has its own culture, its own identity ... That's what she delved into in Close Range - the people of grit and hardiness, but also the close-mindedness and rigidity that often comes with such grit. But there's the flipside - in such a landscape, with such a history - these are pioneer people - rigidity is often a necessary quality, so it's difficult to judge or stand back from the people, cluck-clucking at them. She's inside. She can be a merciless writer, but I never feel that she is unfair. Life can be unfair, but I don't feel her cackling behind the scenes, laughing at what she is putting her own characters through. I hate that kind of writing. Close Range has a kind of majesterial desolation to it that seriously makes it a short story collection worthy to be placed alongside the great short story collections of all time. It is not just a collection of someone's random work - there is a thruline, a theme, a keening chord of loneliness running through the whole thing. It takes your breath away.

So Bad Dirt was quite a jolt. All the stories take place in one town - Elk Tooth - in Wyoming, but it's a different Wyoming. A wackier Wyoming. It borders on the supernatural at times. There's almost a slapstick feel to some of the action. The characters are living their lives, but you don't get that telescopic feeling of universality like you did in Close Range. These people in Bad Dirt are eccentric, and you don't really worry about them too much. They all seem like they are going to be fine. I think I ws looking for Close Range in Bad Dirt - so it was rather a disappointment, although many of the stories - standing on their own - are just great. Time magazine said it best, in the quote excerpted on the back cover:

Annie Proulx renews the Western tradition of the short story as the tall tale ... [She] does a matchless job of summing up the human comedy of the modern West.

Very insightful, I think. These are "tall tales". The first story is called 'Hell Hole' and it tells of a guy who inadvertently discovers a place in the ground in the woods that occasionally opens up- showing a dark hot red tunnel of fire and lava within - and swallows people whole, the ground closing up behind them. So he takes his various enemies out there, and asks them to please, just jump up and down on that bit of earth - just to humor him - and whoosh - the ground opens up and swallows the person whole, leaving nary a trace behind. Proulx stays on the ground-level with these people, for the most part ... not catapulting herself back up and into the ether, looking down on them from above ... which is why Close Range is such a devastating read. You cannot separate yourself from any of those people, even if your life has nothing in common with theirs. She is talking about the human family. But Bad Dirt feels like gossip (not that that's a bad thing - just way different from Close Range). Each story feels like something someone would tell you at a bar one night, if you're just driving through Elk Tooth and know nothing about the inhabitants or the history of the place. "So let me tell you about the time Creel Zmundzinski found the fiery entrance to hell out in the woods over there ..." Every town has its tall tales.

Critics were not kind to Bad Dirt, although because she's Annie Proulx - she was cut a ton of slack. It's hard to 'get over' Close Range. It really is. You keep looking for "Brokeback Mountain" (excerpt here) or "The Mud Below" (excerpt here) in Bad Dirt ... but you don't find them.

'The Trickle-Down Effect' is the story of one of Annie Proulx's aimless loser protagonists - Deb Sipple, a guy who goes job to job, who has two crazy ex-wives behind him, and who is basically an alcoholic. He works to keep up with paying off his bar tabs. That's all he wants out of life. In 'The Trickle-Down Effect' he gets a job transporting bales of hay from Wisconsin and Minnesota to a "lady rancher" in Elk Tooth named Fiesta Punch. (I adore that name). Fiesta Punch is nobody's fool, a tough dame, who knows Deb Sipple is kind of a loser - but trusts him to do this job for her.

The last image of this story - and the way Proulx writes it - is almost laugh-out-loud funny - even though you gasp at what Deb Sipple has done and what a disaster it is (not just for him but for the entire county). He sure is made to pay for his sins, and then some. I wouldn't dream of giving it away - it's too good an ending ... but anyway, here's an excerpt - where we meet Deb and we meet Fiesta.

The stories in Bad Dirt stay on the surface. We get the details of life, but we no longer feel that we are on the inside.

EXCERPT FROM Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2by Annie Proulx - 'The Trickle-Down Effect'

Deb's only asset was his flatbed truck. Most of what little money he made with occasional hauling funneled straight into Elk Tooth's three bars, what bartender Amanda Gribb called the Wyoming trickle down effect. He would run up a big tab at the Pee Wee, and when Amanda leaned on him he switched to the Silvertip and the Pee Wee saw him not. When the Silvertip debt began to be mentioned he favored Muddy's Hole and dropped hints that he was looking for a job or two. Everyone understood that he wasn't interested in a real job but in a few days' work. Sooner or later something came up, and when he collected he'd hit the Pee Wee, pay off his tab, and start a new one. So went the cycle of Deb Sipple's years measured in bar bills and small work.

Wyoming had been dry as a quart of sand for three years and Elk Tooth was in the heart of the drought disaster zone. Those ranchers who had held on to their herds hoping for rain were caught like mice. As the summer drew to its stove-lid end, the most precious commodity to those in the cow business was hay, and the prices demanded for it matched the prices for rubies. Ranchers spent hours on the telephone and searching the Internet for reasonably priced hay. No flimsy or wild rumor could be ignored. If a rancher heard of hay up in Saskatchewan that a seller described simply as "not moldy" she'd try for it.

Most of the desperate ranchers were women, for in Elk Tooth lady ranchers abound, some who had stepped into ownership when a husband rancher died, some the mature daughters of men who had sired no male heirs, some ex-CEOs who had tossed up everything and headed for the high country, as close to Jackson as they could get.

One of the ranchers was Fiesta Punch, a good horsewoman, but rough on the hired help. She ran Red Cheerios, a weird brand of exotics with white rings around their eyes her grandfather had bred up, but this summer their range was so badly gnawed it resembled the surface of an antique billiard table in an attic heavily populated by moths. There was no point in selling. The market was glutted and prices lower than breakeven. And she wanted to hold on to what was probably the only herd of Red Cheerios in existence. She had to get her hands on enough hay to carry them through the fall and winter. She owed that much to family heritage.

The double trouble with scarce hay was that in addition to paying through the nose for the stuff, when she finally located some, she would have to face fearsome transport charges. The only decent hay grew in distant parts, and hay transporters knew a penned turkey when they saw one. Hauling the hay from Farmer X to Rancher Z could double the cost of the precious bales. Fiesta Punch was in a position to lose her shirt. On the pan of the scale Deb Sipple, with his big flatbed truck, could almost guarantee himself several years of elbow security at the Pee Wee.

Friday Night ME-ME

Annoying and NOSY mee-mee from Tracey.

1.ONE OF YOUR SCARS, HOW DID YOU GET IT? Scar on my knee from leaping out of a tree ONTO A ROCK in the playground at age 7.

2. WHAT IS ON THE WALLS IN YOUR ROOM? A huge poster of Rick Springfield. No, just kidding. Let's see. I will list everything I have on the wall of my main room:

1. Painting done by my mother of a bucket on the edge of a maple tree.

2. Framed 1916 Proclamation of Ireland

3. Framed page from Book of Kells

4. Huge framed old-time map of Ireland

5. Shadow box filled with knick knacks from my entire life

6. Little mirror with stained glass pieces surrounding it

7. Black and white photo of John Cassavetes and Gena Rowlands taken by the great Sam Shaw

3. DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME YOU WERE BORN? 6 am? No idea. It's been a huge problem for me, in terms of getting accurate astrological readings

4. WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING RIGHT NOW? What I want more than anything is not possible right now. So. A book advance. And a husband. But I'll take the advance over the husband at this particular moment in time.

5. WHAT DO YOU MISS? Lying with my head in M.'s lap, covered in blankets, watching some bullshit movie about aliens at 4 o'clock in the morning. And I have to be at work at 8:30 a.m.

6. WHAT IS YOUR MOST PRIZED POSSESSION? This is kind of embarrassing, but whatevs. I was given a teensy tiny piece of beach glass by a man who was in love with me - years ago - years and years ... and I swear that freakin' piece of beach glass travels in state. When I travel, or move - that piece of beach glass is ON MY PERSON ... I refuse to trust it to anyone else. It's not like I'm pining for the man who gave it to me ... or not really. But that piece of beach glass is literally precious to me. For my own sweet reasons, thankyouverymuch.

7. HOW TALL ARE YOU? 5'6"

8. DO YOU GET SCARED IN THE DAY? All the time. 3 pm is a particularly difficult time for me. I whiteknuckle it.

9. WHAT’S YOUR WORST FEAR? Having my life look at 80 the way it looks now.

10. WHAT KIND OF HAIR COLOR DO YOU LIKE ON THE OPPOSITE SEX? Dark.

11. WHAT ABOUT EYE COLOR? I'm a sucker for those crazy light-blue Irish eyes.

12. COFFEE OR ENERGY DRINK? Coffee.

13. FAVORITE PIZZA TOPPING? Pepperoni

14. IF YOU COULD EAT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE? Barbecued ribs.

15. FAVORITE COLOR OF ALL TIME? Wow. You're a dramatic meme, aren't you? I guess dark purple, but seriously, I'm not all "of all time" about it.

16. HAVE YOU EVER EATEN A GOLDFISH? No, although I did consider eating fried worms in 5th grade.

17. WHAT WAS THE FIRST MEANINGFUL GIFT YOU EVER RECEIVED? My mother, for some unknown reason, gave me the soundtrack to Annie (the original Broadway production) when I was 10 years old, and I'd say it seriously impacted my life in ways I can't even count right now.

18. DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH? Yup.

19. FAVORITE CLOTHING BRAND? Max Studio. Seriously. If there's a rack with Max Studio clothes within a 5 mile radius of me, I know it.

20. WHAT KIND OF CAR DO YOU WANT? I am TOTALLY happy with my car right now. But a 67 Mustang would be freakin' awesome.

21. WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE KNOWING THAT THE PERSON IS LEAVING? Where the hell is he going? Is he off to 'Nam? Is he an astronaut? If so then absolutely, I would fall in love. But leaving - as in: "I'm leaving because I would rather keep the dream of you intact, and although I love you I don't think I could handle you on a day to day basis, and therefore I am going to marry this less-threatening woman who is a bit more conventional" then hell to the FUCK no.

22. HAVE YOU BEEN OUT OF THE USA? Yes.

23. YOUR WEAKNESSES? I find it difficult to turn down a taco.

24. MET ANYONE FAMOUS? Yes. I should hope so, they're family members.

25. FIRST JOB? Well, babysitting. But my first "real" job was as a page at the local library. Best job ever. To this day.

26. EVER DONE A PRANK CALL? Absolutely. Recently.

27. DO YOU THINK EVERYONE OUT THERE HAS A SOUL MATE? Fuck you.

28. WHAT WERE YOU DOING BEFORE YOU FILLED THIS OUT? Talking to my mom.

29. HAVE YOU EVER HAD SURGERY? No.

30. WHAT DO YOU GET COMPLIMENTED ABOUT MOST? My skin. My humor. My friendship.

31. WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? A book deal.

32. HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT? Fuck you.

33. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? My mother.

34. WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST TURN OFF WITH THE OPPOSITE SEX? Guys who don't know how to have a conversation. The art of conversation is just that - an ART - and when I meet a man who knows how to have a conversation - listening, talking, anecdotes, knowing how to tell a story, knowing how to ADD and not belittle ... I'm kinda toast. Cynicism is the hugest turnoff. And anyone whose MO is "been there, done that" - it's all I can do to keep from yawning in their face.

35. WHAT IS ONE THING YOU MISS ABOUT GRADE SCHOOL? Recess. I think grownups should have recess.

36. WHAT KIND OF SHAMPOO DO YOU USE? I buy all my products from Melaleuca. I'm not wacky about their shampoo - it doesn't lather the way I like .. but I'm sticking with it because I get a discount.

37. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? My handwriting is shit. It used to be good, I have no idea what happened.

38. ANY BAD HABITS? Where do I begin? I have a ton of bad habits. Anyone who says "No" to this question is a douchebag.

39. ARE YOU A JEALOUS PERSON? To me, jealousy comes out of insecurity - so yes. I can be jealous if I'm feeling insecure.

40. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Yes. I have doubts about many things - but my gift at friendship is not one of them.

41. DO YOU AGREE WITH FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS? Hell yes!

42. HOW DO YOU RELEASE ANGER? By saying, "Get the HELL out of my way" when someone stops at the bottom of an escalator, causing a backlog.

43. WHAT’S YOUR MAIN GOAL IN LIFE? Oh for God's sake. No. Refuse to answer.

44. WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TOY AS A CHILD? Anything that had to do with Fisher Price.

45. HOW MANY NUMBERS ARE IN YOUR CELL PHONE? 20? Frankly, not enough. I am behind on updating my cell phone. I don't have a home phone, by the way ... my phone, my only phone, is my cell (welcome to urban life) - so I really need to have everyone in there.

46. WERE YOU A FAN OF BARNEY AS A LITTLE KID? Way after my time. I was a fan of Ernie and Bert, mkay.

47. MASHED POTATOES OR MACARONI AND CHEESE? Neither. Will not choose.

48. DO YOU HAVE ALL YOUR FINGERS AND TOES? Yes. Mere - you need to do this meme!!

49. DO YOU HAVE A COMPUTER IN YOUR ROOM? What am I a tween or something? Yes. I have a computer "in my room". The ironic thing is that I am an adult and I still only "have a room". But whatevs.

50. PLANS FOR TONIGHT? I have to write a movie review, and I'm also going to watch Nadine.

51. WHAT’S THE FASTEST YOU’VE EVER GONE IN A CAR? 130.

52. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO? Eric Hutchinson "It Hasn't Been Long Enough"

53. LAST THING YOU DRANK? Glass of red wine.

54. REPUBLICAN OR DEMOCRAT? Not registered as either. I'm a 2nd amendment supporter with a deep love and respect for our military and an even deeper love for the tiniest most invisible unobtrusive government possible (it's more of a philosophical belief than a political position - it cannot be shaken or swayed, it's who I am) who is also pro-choice and disgusted by the racist rhetoric surrounding immigration and even more disgusted by any opinion even approaching anti-gay-marriage. Oh, and I'm against capital punishment. You tell me what "party" would want me. Fuck them and fuck anyone who tries to convince me otherwise. Losing battle. I vote the way I want to. I cannot be bought. I'll be at the bar with Chris Hitchens if you need me.

55. DO YOU HAVE A LOW SELF ESTEEM OR A HIGH SELF ESTEEM? High with abyss-level bouts of low. I whiteknuckle the lows.

56. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING? I'm reading Fortune of War by Patrick O'Brian - the 6th (I think) in the Master & Commander series.

Patti Labelle:

....singing her ABCs. The whole thing just made me cry.

Please notice Cookie Monster going nuts on the last note, as though he's Ray Charles or something.

Too much great stuff to even analyze.

Just sheer liquid joy.

Memory

A gorgeous post that has sent the echoes reverberating in my head. But it's okay. It's a rainy blowy morning. An okay morning for echoes.

Diary Friday

It is time now to return to my junior year in high school. I have tried to put it off, but I can no longer do so. I am 16 years old. I am so in love with a boy named David that I sound like a raving lunatic in my diary. The whole thing is unrequited - we didn't date or anything like that ... My love for him was based on stolen moments in class and in the hallways when David revealed himself as the kindest man on the face of the earth. Or so he was to my eyes. I LOVED HIM.

FEB 11

Diary do I have a LOT to tell you. OH GOD! My happiness mug is full and overflowing! This happiness scares me [as well it should, because it is based on a delusion, Sheila. But let's move on.]. So much has happened to me. [My last entry in the journal was the day before. hahahahaha] I don't know where to start. All right - it's gonna work with me and David. If all goes smoothly and I don't botch it up. [That makes my heart ache. How willing I am to take full responsibility ... it'll be my fault somehow.] It's going to work! OH DIARY I'VE WAITED SO LONG! [There is not a font large enough to replicate that sentence] Finally. Oh I'm so happy, Diary. It hasn't happened yet but I have a feeling it won't be long. If not this week, definitely at the dance. Oh I feel like a tragic hero. My arrogance is my tragic flaw. [I love that!!] But I'm so happy.

Let me start from the beginning. Last night, we all went to the game. J., Kate, Mere and I. It was a long confusing night and I'm still sort of mixed up. Of course Dave was there looking positively gorgeous - positively gorgeous. [Why say it once when twice does just as well?] Oh Diary I can't stand it.

We all sat down to watch the game. I kept my eye on David as he walked back and forth from the lobby and gym. I love how he walks and I love his tan sweater. I love watching him do everything. There was this little kid - around 4 years old - he was like hyperactive - he never stopped moving - but he was breakdancing and doing all sorts of wicked things [ah, the days when "wicked" was adjective enough!] - Dave was watching him, talking a little bit to him. Little people with big boys - Oh I could die. It's so sweet.

During the whole game, at times he would glance up my way [Sheila, you're in the gym. It's a huge building] but me THE DOPE would immediately look away. This happened a few times. I just froze up. JERK!

Then the Varsity games started. With his wild funny announcing - I watched him do it, all leaned over and into it.

During the V game, I went down to talk to Mr. Hodge who had been giving me significant glances across the gym. [Mr. Hodge had known me since I was 5 years old - the Hodges are old dear friends of the O'Malleys - and now he was my French teacher.] We were standing right near Dave, but we talked about him anyway. Mr. Hodge said, "I can see the vibes in class and I would say the vibes are favorable." Eeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkllllllllll [My writing then descends into feverish scribbles] He said he can see Dave pacing himself to walk with me. Funny - I thought it was me who did that. He also said, "Seriously - I think he knows something is there. I think he can see it." Can he? What does he see? I kept glancing over at him, face intent on the game.

I'm being tortured.

Trav and Cris came in - they were talking awhile to Dave. I was clutching Kate's knee. For some reason, them talking to each other, shaking hands - Suddenly I said to Mere, "Let's go say hi to Trav!" [And a year later, in my senior year - Trav became my first - sort of - boyfriend. So there's all this swirling stuff going on here.] Perfect excuse. So we went down there - I chickened out about 5 times, then I just walked over saying, "Hi, Trav!" I look back on that and it was a dumb move!! I didn't say a word to Dave, although that's my only reason for living lately! [Calm down. Thanks.]

Well, we were all just talking and Dave came over to our little group - Trav, Cris, me, Mere, Kate, and J. and said, "Here we have the entire core of the SK Drama Club." And - I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING! I COULD NOT SAY A WORD! Oh, I could kill myself!

Later - we were all back on the bleachers and Kate said, "Sheila, he really wanted you to reply - I could see it." "OH I BLEW IT. I BLEW IT!" Why do I freeze up? [I have no idea, but get used to it. You'll be doing it in your 30s as well.] What is my problem?

For the rest of the night, Dave was talking to Meg O'Leary. [Which is so hysterical - I have no memory of her, but apparently the fact that she was talking to HER warranted the underlining.] At first I was full of despair but Kate said, "Sheila - he has no reason to be jealous of Travis so you have no reason to be jealous of Meg." Was he jealous of Trav? I mean, he did walk right over - AND I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING! [Yeah, we heard you the first time.] Oh, it probably looks like I like Trav. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO [Yes. That's it. Just random "O"s unfurling across the page in desperation.] If only I had said something!!! I'M SUCH A JERK. [I want to intervene and tell myself to stop being so mean to myself. It's killing me to see how I do that.] Dave is so cute. What if he does like me -

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

After the game, I had made up my mind to say something to him. But - I couldn't approach him. It was awful. He was alone, getting together his equipment - but - Oh! I'm such a wimp. I was standing so near to him - trying to open my mouth.

J. is mouthing hate messages across the gym to me - ordering me to DO IT. [I am laughing out loud. I love my friends.]

So I looked at him and our eyes met. I smiled and said, "Hi, Dave." And Diary - Oh he didn't even say 'hi' back. He just gave me this little tight smile. [Ouch. I'm feeling that all over again.] My heart sank. I practically fled to my friends and announced that it was all over. I WANTED TO LEAVE. Oh God- I was so miserable. He hated me! No one believed me that he didn't say anything. Mere said I probably murmured, "Hi, Dave" into my collar [Mere - HAHAHAHA I love you! You totally busted me!] but I didn't! J. told me to try again, but I knew I couldn't go back over there to say anything.

Besides, he has disappeared into the school. J. practically screamed, "I've got to put my flute away! Let's go to the Band Room!" [David was Band president. Hence, J.'s brilliant plan.] So we rushed off into the hall.

Turns out he was just putting back the equipment in a storage room. While he was doing this, J. and I both took inordinately long drinks of water. With perfect timing, just as he closed the door, we straightened and started walking back too so that he was right behind us. He started crooning in his low low voice, "Head for Busch Beer ..." I turned around to grin at him - no reason - just a starting point. He looked down at me and said, "What ... do you hate me, Sheila?" (J. then shot out the door into the gym and ran away from us. Subtle.) This (what he said) took me by surprise, so I said very sincerely, "No! I don't hate you!" (Not hard to be sincere there.)

We were now out in the gym and - he said - "Oh, so you just dislike me, huh?" "No! Dave - No! I don't!" I was just standing there. Now I think back on it and I'm glad I didn't treat it lightly, like, "Oh yeah, Dave, I despise you" because when I said, "No I don't, Dave!", he said to me after a pause, "Well. That makes me feel really good."

Diary - I swear to God if my life had depended on it - I could not say anything. Oh poor Dave. My jaw just dropped - I turned around - Mr. Hodge was right behind me, leering at me. [hahahahahaha] Leanne came over to talk to me - Dave was LOOKING at me - but - Oh God my tongue became a shag rug. I wonder if he was watching me as I tore over to J., Kate and Mere. I looked pretty suspicious. I threw my arms around all 3 of them, cried "MY DEAR FRIENDS!" and kissed each one of them. YIPPEE! [Meanwhile, you just left Dave there hanging ... but it's okay. You're 16.]

While we were waiting for Mr. W. to pick us up - I was a spaceshot. I sat on a table and I just was floating around! In the car on the way home I kept saying, "Oh, please, somebody bring me back to earth!" Kate said, "No I don't want to."

But - this scares me. It IS working. IT IS.

Oh God. What do I say to him on Monday? I practically admitted out loud that I really like him.

Oh DAVE - DAVE!!!!!!!!! [That last "Dave" is actually underlined 7 times - and the exclamation points cartwheel off down the page, sometimes showing up upside down, sideways ... I cannot control my own punctuation.]

He said, "That makes me feel really good."

!!!!!!!!!

All Diary Fridays here

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'Brokeback Mountain' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Brokeback Mountain'.

First published in The New Yorker in 1997, 'Brokeback Mountain' of course went on to be her most famous short story ever, due to the movie and the brou-haha around the movie (which I loved). I was nervous to see the movie, because I had originally read the story in The New Yorker (any time I see Annie Proulx's name ANYwhere, I'll read it ... I'd read her grocery list) and it made me cry. On the subway. A lot of her stories have that sucker-punch feel to them, but this one even more so. Annie Proulx often creates characters who are not all that likable, but you end up loving them in spite of yourself. But in 'Brokeback Mountain', you just love these two men. You love them. So I had apprehensions about the film, although the fact that Ang Lee was directing soothed me somewhat. Jake Gyllenhall is not at ALL the "Jack" in the story - and both actors have better teeth than either of these guys ever would - but I understand how Hollywood works. And I was astonished when I saw the film. First of all, the adaptation was amazing. Word for word it's the story. Very little is added. Which is amazing because the story is only 30 pages long. Annie Proulx has said that 'Brokeback Mountain' took her as long to write as a novel. It feels like a novel (most of her short stories do). So the movie didn't need to "flesh out" the story, they filmed what was on the page. As I watched the film, I felt that odd feeling of proprietary pride and joy ... because the story meant so much to me ... within 10 minutes of the film, I realized: "Yup. They're doing it." Annie Proulx was interviewed by The Advocate and she said, in regards to the two actors playing Ennis and Jack::

I thought they were magnificent, both of them. Jake Gyllenhaal's Jack Twist...wasn't the Jack Twist that I had in mind when I wrote this story. The Jack that I saw was jumpier, homely. But Gyllenhaal's sensitivity and subtleness in this role is just huge. The scenes he's in have a kind of quicksilver feel to them. Heath Ledger is just almost really beyond description as far as I'm concerned. He got inside the story more deeply than I did. All that thinking about the character of Ennis that was so hard for me to get, Ledger just was there. He did indeed move inside the skin of the character, not just in the shirt but inside the person. It was remarkable.

I agree. I loved her comment on why the story took her so long to write. She almost talks like an actress here:

I had to imagine my way into the minds of two uneducated, rough-spoken, uninformed young men, and that takes some doing if you happen to be an elderly female person. I spent a great deal of time thinking about each character and the balance of the story, working it out, trying to do it in a fair kind of way.

That's one of Annie Proulx's greatest gifts: her ability to imagine herself into other people's lives and psyches. I've read reviews written by men who say, to paraphrase, "She totally understands men." She writes about men with respect, love, and understanding. They're not always good, they're not heroic, they're not even all that nice ... but she is able to slip inside the skin ... and be them for a while. You forget it's a woman writing it. I wish more male writers could do the same thing when they write female characters. I suppose it's a rare trait in a writer anyway.

'Brokeback Mountain' tells the story of two down-and-out cowboys - Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist. They are job to job kind of guys. Both of them weren't really brought up - their childhoods were chaotic, quick, and violent. Jack dreams of being a rodeo cowboy. Ennis ... well, who knows what Ennis dreams of. Ennis Del Mar made an indelible impression on me years ago when I first read the story. He is why I cried on the subway. We will never know who Ennis is, and the pain Ennis has experienced ... he can barely be with it himself. The story ends with him in his windy trailer, staring at the postcard of Brokeback Mountain, holding Jack Twist's shirt and saying, with tears in his eyes, "Jack, I swear ---"

You swear what? What were you going to say? He doesn't finish the thought. He can't. Ennis Del Mar is a man of vague and deep yearnings, but with the grit to bear up under a life that wants none of that from him. Jack Twist is more of the restless dreamer, the one who wants to talk about things ... and I suppose that Ennis Del Mar speaks more with Jack Twist than he speaks with anyone else in his life. (Let me just say that Heath Ledger is extraordinary in the part. I loved Jake too - but that movie is Ledger's movie, rest in peace).

The two men get a job watching over a herd of sheep on Brokeback Mountain. They'll be up there for the whole summer - one minding the camp, the other watching over the sheep. One cold night, they share the tent, and Jack pushes the envelope. He's the one. Later in the story, we learn that Jack has been going down to Mexico on the weekends ... a place notorious (to Ennis) for the fact that men can have sex with men, in alleys, wherever. That's where you go to have a little anonymous sex. So Jack is more tormented, in the end, by this "thing" (that's what they call it) in him. He gets married, he has kids, so does Ennis. But Ennis is like an animal. Meaning - an animal suffers in mute silence. An animal bears up. Like D.H. Lawrence's poem "Self-Pity":

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Jack Twist feels sorry for himself. That's where the rage comes from at the end. He and Ennis, after their first summer, go years without seeing each other. Until they finally get into a groove, and go on hunting and fishing trips about once a year - in isolated places - so that they can make love and do their thing and not be bothered. Ennis looks forward to these trips. It is the only escape he has in his miserable trapped life. But to Jack, they are everything. When Ennis can't make it, because of work or obligations, Jack flips out. It's unbearable.

Whatever it is in Ennis that makes him bear the unbearable, it makes him one of the most memorable characters in fiction I've ever encountered.

It's kind of like the old saying from acting teachers - If you cry, the audience will not. If you try not to cry, you'll be wiping the audience up off the floor.

Ennis does not express his sadness. And so we, the reader, the audience, ache. I can feel Jack's desperation, and I ache for him, too ... He is a reckless man, willing to take enormous risks to satisfy this "thing" in him ... Ennis just bites the bullet, and trudges through the days, knowing and accepting that he will only truly come to life once a year.

The story is magnificent, and I just re-read it now and am blown away all over again by how much she gets in in 30 pages. These guys live. The story spans 25 years of life. I don't know how she does it - but the story puts you through the wringer. Every time.

The following excerpt is my favorite part of the story. And (again, with me being all proprietary, etc.) I was so glad to see that they included it in the film ... and it's just as I imagined it. It's a quiet moment, a snagged glimpse ... And so often in life, isn't it the smallest things we remember from our love affairs? Not the big moments, or the "firsts", but small moments. Jack and Ennis have a hunger for one another, for sex with one another ... but this is a moment of love. Again, it's the kind of story where the word "love" is never used, never would be used ... but maybe it doesn't need to be used. At some point, it becomes redundant.

EXCERPT FROM Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'Brokeback Mountain'.

What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis's pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis's breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you're sleepin on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing married it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never got much farther than that. Let be, let be.

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'A Lonely Coast' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'A Lonely Coast'.

A depressing story all-around. With a couple of rarities in terms of Proulx's other work: It's a first-person narrative, and it's also mainly about women. The narrator is a woman, and the subject matter of the story is straight-up single-girl romance, albeit with a couple of black eyes, and kids in detention halls, and loneliness that hollows you out. The narrator is the observer of events - she is not the center of the story. Josanna Skiles is a single woman in her mid to late 30s, living in the wilds of Wyoming, trying to get by. She's a cook at a bar (the same bar where the narrator bartends). She goes out with her girlfriends for "girls nights out" - but they mainly involve getting wasted, whipping off their shirts as they dance on bars, and then humping some dude in his truck in the parking lot. You know. It's bleak. Especially because there is a yearning for something more. You're not going to find your mate like that ... but in the particular world that Annie Proulx describes, that's the only option really. Josanna meets a guy through a personal ad - his name is Elk Nelson, and the narrator can tell he's bad news from the second she lays eyes on him. He exudes hatred of women - not in a passive-aggressive "Mommy was mean to me" way ... but open active hostility, which makes him chuckle. The fact that Josanna is into him is proof that women are pieces of shit. It's that kind of thing. He's malevolent. Proulx just nails that kind of guy. I've met guys like that. The best thing to do is to just get the hell out of his way. Do not let that toxic energy anywhere near you. But Josanna is lonely. She's hot for him, too. She sees what she wants to see. The narrator writes:

When you are bone tired of being alone, when all you want is someone to pull you close and say it's all right, all right now, and you get one like Elk Nelson you've got to see you've licked the bottom out of the dish.

Unexpected choice of words. Indelible. Mean, blunt. I just love Proulx's stuff.

The world of romance Proulx describes in 'A Lonely Coast' is hopeless, awful, there's no way out. Especially if you're pushing 40 and a woman and alone. You get glimpses of the desolation - but Josanna is running so fast, and living so wild - that she never sits still for a moment, and realize what a bad situation she is in. Not that there's any solution. There is no solution.

Loneliness hollows you out. And if you have enough loneliness, it can damage you forever. Your judgment, your choices, how you look at the world ... Don't ever let anyone try to convince you that damage like that is irreversible. It's a damn lie.

So the collision of Josanna and Elk has a sense of the inevitable about it. A necessary meeting of two unfit people ... Josanna's energy at this point will only attract a horrible person like Elk, but she can't see that.

Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'A Lonely Coast'.

I tended bar on the weekends at the Gold Buckle and watched the fire take hold of her. She would smile at what he said, listen and lean, light his damn cigarette, examine his hands for cuts - he had a couple of weeks' work fencing at the 5 Bar. She'd touch his face, smooth a wrinkle in his shirt and he'd say, quit off pawin me. They sat for hours at the Buckle seesawing over whether or not he'd made a pass at some woman, until he got fed up enough to walk out. He seemed to be goading her, seeing how far he could shove before she hit the wall. I wondered when she'd get the message that she wasn't worth shit to him.

August was hot and drouthy, a hell of grasshoppers and dried-up creeks. They said this part of the state was a disaster area. I heard that said before any grasshoppers came. The Saturday night was close, air as thick as in a closet with the winter coats. It was rodeo night and that brings them in. The bar filled up early, starting with ranch hands around three in the afternoon still in their sweaty shirts, red faces mottled with heat and dirt, crowding out most of the wrinkle-hour boys, the old-timers who started their drinking in the morning. Palma was there a little after five, alone, fresh and high-colored, wearing a cinnamon red satin blouse that shined with every move she made. Her arms were loaded with silver bracelets, one metal ring on another clinking and shifting. By five-thirty the bar was packed and hot, bodies touching, some fools trying to dance - country girls playing their only card, grinding against the boys - people squeezed eight to a booth meant for four, six deep at the bar, men hat to hat. There were three of us working, me and Zeeks and Justin, and as fast as we went we couldn't keep up. They were pouring the drinks down. Everybody was shouting. Outside the sky was green-black and trucks driving down the street had their headlights on, dimmed by constant lightning flashes. The electricity went off for about fifteen seconds, the bar black as a cave, the jukebox dying worrr, and a huge, amorous, drunken and delighted moan coming up from the crowd that changed to cussing when the light flickered back on.

Elk Nelson came in, black shirt and silver belly hat. He leaned over the bar, hooked his finger in the waistband of my jeans and yanked me to him.

"Josanna in yet?"

I pulled back, shook my head.

"Good. Let's get in the corner then and hump."

I got him a beer.

Ash Weeter stood next to Elk. Weeter was a local rancher who wouldn't let his wife set foot in a bar, I don't know why. The jokers said he was probably worried she'd get killed in a poolroom fight. He was talking about a horse sale coming up in Thermopolis. Well, he didn't own a ranch, he managed one for some rich people in Pennsylvania, and I heard it that half the cows he ran on their grass was his. What they didn't know didn't hurt them.

"Have another beer, Ash," Elk said in a good-buddy voice.

"Nah, I'm goin home, take a shit and go to bed." No expression on that big shiny face. He didn't like Elk.

Palma's voice cut through a lull, Elk looked up, saw her at the end of the bar, beckoning.

"See you," said Ash Weeter to no one, pulling his hat down and ducking out.

Elk held his cigarette high above his head as he got through the crowd. I cracked a fresh Coors, brought it down to him, heard him say something about Casper.

That was the thing, they'd start out at the Buckle then drive down to Casper, five or six of them, a hundred and thirty miles, sit in some other bar probably not much different than the Buckle, drink until they were wrecked, then hit a motel. Elk told it on Josanna that she got so warped out one time she pissed the motel bed and he'd had to drag her into the shower and turn it on cold, throw the sheets in on top of her. Living life to its fullest. He'd tell that like it was the best story in the world and every time he did it she'd put her head down, wait it out with a tight little smile. I thought of my last night back on the ranch with Riley, the silence oppressive and smothering, the clock ticking like blows of an axe, the maddening trickle of water into the stained bathtub from the leaky faucet. He wouldn't fix it, just wouldn't. Couldn't fix the other thing and made no effort in that direction. I suppose he thought I'd just hang and rattle.

Where I Come From: Music, TV, Movies ....

A collage of childhood.

And then came ....

... and everything changed. In my memory it changed overnight.

No longer was I interested in bowl-cut Lance Kerwin, struggling against the school bully. No longer was I interested in the problems of ... er .... ecologically conscious wilderness families running for their lives from bears. No longer was I interested in puppets.

Nope. Let's watch that asteroid scene again, please.

Han Solo was a MAN.

I sat there watching that scene (at a drive-in, no less - in my pajamas - up way past my bedtime, crammed in a car with all of my cousins) - and knew I would never be the same again.

Lance Kerwin was my PAST. HAN SOLO was the future. No turning back.

Miss Krumholtz. Unplugged.

I've posted this ridiculous backstage photo of myself before ... but Miss Krumholtz came up the other day in conversation, so here she is again. In all her desperate clunky glory. She's a geek. She cannot compete in the Meat Market of Courtship. The "irresistible Paris original" which makes all the other ladies in the office look willowy and gorgeous makes her look like a halfwit in an ill-fitting prom dress. She cannot see without her glasses. But her smile is courageous. She will survive. And she'll try to be cheerful, no matter what. Even as the world of males completely ignores her.

In praise of Rio Bravo

A wonderful essay by Charles Taylor , a critic I have always loved.

Great writer, he has a great eye.

PART OF THE beauty of Wayne’s performance here is the way, even when Chance is refusing help, he never undervalues others. When Chance’s friend, the cattleman Wheeler (the inevitable Ward Bond), derides his deputies by asking, “A bum-legged old man and a drunk—that’s all you’ve got?” Chance answers, “That’s what I’ve got.” It’s the single best line reading of Wayne’s career. There’s a world of respect in the weight he puts on that one word, “what,” an irreducible sense of people’s worth as individuals.

6 Stanwyck noir

A yummy post from Kim Morgan about the brilliant Barbara Stanwyck in 6 film noir films.

You absolutely get why she would think better for herself, and then, in her wounded moments, why she couldn't quite succeed. But, true to her mystery, you never really understand why. Though Ryan spits, "Don't kid me, baby. I know a bottle by the label," he and the viewer never can put their finger on what that label reads. Barbara was never that easy.

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'The Bunchgrass Edge Of the World' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - excerpt from the story 'The Bunchgrass Edge of the World'.

Like 'People In Hell Just Want A Drink Of Water', another story in the collection (excerpt here), 'The Bunchgrass Edge Of the World' is the story of a family - How do you get a "saga" into 25 pages? I don't know, but Annie Proulx does. In quick brush strokes, she creates an entire family. The Touhey family moved to Wyoming during the Depression, and have been ranching there ever since. There's Old Red, the patriarch, born in 1902 - his son Aladdin, Aladdin's wife - and their kids, all grown-up now. Shan and Tyler, two of Aladdin's kids, have taken off for Vegas - and the last child, Ottaline, stays. She's an odd one. The family is embarrassed by her. She is not a social being. She is obese. She shuffles along, doing the work on the ranch, and it's pretty obvious that she will never marry. Shan, the other daughter, moved to Vegas and became a bodybuilder - she sends home pictures of her in a bikini, flexing her muscles. It is as though she has moved to Jupiter. The plains and mountains of Wyoming have nothing to do with who Shan has become. Ottaline stares at the pictures. Old Red is still alive, and feisty - in his 90s - but he can feel himself being pushed aside in his own home. The tragedy of old age. But this is really Ottaline's story. Ottaline takes over the narrative, which begins as a group tale ... but seriously, she dominates.

I can't describe it without making it sound "cute", or imposed - you'll just have to read the story yourself. Ottaline is a hard worker. She does not question her lot in life (although looking at the pictures of her sister makes her think that maybe she should lose weight? Maybe?) - just puts her nose to the grindstone. There's a gravel pit on the ranch, with an enormous tractor sitting there, idle ... and one day Ottaline goes and sits in it, to rest. It becomes a daily thing for her. Just a half hour or so, sitting in the tractor. And one day, as she approaches the gravel pit, the tractor starts talking to her. Confused at first, Ottaline does not know where the voice is coming from. The voice is grumpy, disgruntled, and yet not cruel. It's a voice full of complaints - rust, peeling paint, etc. - but somehow the tractor has chosen Ottaline as his confidante. Ottaline starts to talk back. And she and the tractor soon become best friends. See? Hard to "describe" ... Ottaline sits in the tractor and the tractor tells her all of its problems, and at the same time - really for the first time in her life - she is noticed. She is chosen. And so something begins to stir in the sludgy quiet heart of Ottaline. Something like life. Something like hope.

This is Annie Proulx territory. She covered it brilliantly in The Shipping News, with Quoyle ... and Ottaline, in her way, wearing muu muus and muddy boots, lying in bed listening to cell phone conversations on her scanner - falling into other people's lives ... is a counterpoint to Quoyle.

There's so much in this story - it's a novel in miniature - but I'll pick one of the excerpts about Ottaline.

EXCERPT FROM Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - 'The Bunchgrass Edge of the World'.

What was there for Ottaline when the work slacked off? Stare at indigo slants of hail forty miles east, regard the tumbled clouds like mechanics' rags, count out he loves me, he loves me not, in nervous lightning crooked as branchwood through all quarters of the sky.

That summer the horses were always wet. It rained uncommonly, the southwest monsoon sweeping in. The shining horses stood out on the prairie, withers streaming, manes dripping, and one would suddenly start off, a fan of droplets coming off its shoulders like a cape. Ottaline and Aladdin wore slickers from morning coffee to goodnight yawn. Wauneta watched the television weather while she ironed shirts and sheets. Old Red called it drip and dribble, stayed in his room chewing tobacco, reading Zane Grey in large-print editions, his curved fingernail creasing the page under every line. On the Fourth of July they sat together on the porch watching a distant storm, pretending the thick, ruddy legs of lightning and thunder were fireworks.

Ottaline had seen most of what there was to see around her with nothing new in sight. Brilliant events burst open not in the future but in the imagination. The room she had shared with Shan was a room within a room. In the unshaded moonlight her eyes shone oily white. The calfskin rug on the floor seemed to move, to hunch and crawl a fraction of an inch at a time. The dark frame of the mirror sank into the wall, a rectangular trench. From her bed she saw the moon-bleached grain elevator and behind it immeasurable range flecked with cows like small black seeds. She was no one but Ottaline in that peppery, disturbing light that made her want everything there was to want. The raw loneliness then, the silences of the day, the longing flesh led her to press her mouth into the crook of her own hot elbow. She pinched and pummeled her fat flanks, rolled on the bed, twisted, went to the window a dozen times, heels striking the floor until old Red in his pantry below called out, "What is it? You got a sailor up there?"

Her only chance seemed the semiliterate, off-again, on-again hired man, Hal Bloom, tall legs like chopsticks, T-shirt emblazoned Aggressive by Nature, Cowboy by Choice. He worked for Aladdin in short bursts between rodeo roping, could not often be pried off his horse (for he cherished a vision of himself as an 1870s cowboy just in from an Oregon cattle drive). Ottaline had gone with him down into the willow a dozen times, to the damp soil and nests of stinging nettles, where he pulled a pale condom over his small, hard penis and crawled silently into her. His warm neck smelled of soap and horse.

But then, when Ottaline began working on the ranch for hard money, Aladdin told Hal Bloom to go spin his rope.

"Yeah, well, it's too shit-fire long a haul out here anyways," Bloom said, and was gone. That was that.

Ottaline was dissolving. It was too far to anything. Someone had to come for her. There was not even the solace of television, for old Red dominated the controls, always choosing Westerns, calling out to the film horses in his broken voice, "Buck him off, kick his brains out!"

Ottaline went up to her room, listened to cell-phone conversations on the scanner.

"The balance on account number seven three five five nine is minus two hundred and oh four ...."

"Hey, is it rainin there yet?"

"Is it rainin yet?" she repeated. It was raining everywhere and people were alive in it except in the Red Wall country.

Being a Plath fan

Just recently, on my site, Emily, Beth and I had a conversation about Sylvia Plath - mainly about The Bell Jar, but of course we touched on her poems.

So I was thrilled to read the following piece about what it's like to be a Plath fan. Wonderful writing and observations, I think - and great thoughts on the confluence of art and biography, something that Plath can never escape. It is why she continues to fascinate ... but when you strip away the biography, and take a look at the damn work ... that is what lasts.

Sylvia Plath was a strange, brilliant case -- a good, not spectacular poet, with great devotion to her craft, whose life and vision caught on something jagged in 1962, and suddenly she became a genius. You only have to reread “The Applicant” or “Daddy” or “Lesbos” or “Lady Lazarus” or “Fever 103” or “Cut” to see it.

And:

Every few years, Plath is exhumed, and piles of new material are exposed -- yet her grave is somehow bottomless. Every last bit of her is excavated, autopsied and put on display (The Peanut-crunching crowd /Shoves in to see / Them unwrap me hand in foot --/The big strip tease./ Gentleman , ladies / These are my hands /My knees), yet the crowd can’t get to the bottom of it. And the reason is that the poems themselves are poisonous. Holding them up to the bright light of day, or trotting them out in academic papers, or reading them in the context of new biographical information twenty or thirty or forty years after the poet gassed herself doesn’t take away their sting. They are still alive, and they are still curses.

Yup. That's pretty much it.

Read the whole thing.

Quote. No context.

From an email from my dear friend Tracey:

Whatevs, minion.

My thoughts exactly.

Hemlock; directed by Behrouz Afkhami

In my continuing tour of contemporary Iranian cinema, I watched Hemlock last night. Directed by Behrouz Afkhami, and starring the wonderful Hedye Tehrani, it tells the story of a mid-level manager (played by Fariborz Arabnia) at a factory in Tehran - who is being bribed to sell the company to a bunch of exiled Iranians from Los Angeles - he will be made CEO if he accepts the bribe, and there's a shadiness to the entire thing. His partner gets in a horrible car accident (there is some speculation that it was NOT an accident) and is hospitalized. Now all of this is basically just prologue and context for the real guts of the story: Mahmoud (Arabnia) has a wife and kids, and lives in comfort in a middle-class suburb of Tehran. He begins to drive into Tehran every day to visit his injured partner in the hospital. While there, he meets and becomes captivated by a nurse in the hospital - played by Hedye Tehrani. Although Tehrani is a giant star in Iran, I only first became aware of her last year when I saw the lovely film Fireworks Wednesday (my review here). I sing the praises of Tehrani in that review, and I'll continue it here.

Hemlock is a melodrama, with serious issues being brought up - but in a kind of ham-fisted soap opera-ish style. If I had to come up with a word, I'd say it was "overwrought". It's basically the story of a man who has an extramarital affair - only in Iran they have a special name for it: "temporary marriage" (or sigheh). It's extremely controversial - and people on both sides of the argument feel very strongly about it. It's one of those weird issues where Iranian feminists line up with the conservative mullahs on the same side. Some feel that "temporary marriage" is akin to prostitution ... others feel that sex is a normal impulse, and people need SOME release, even if they are not married yet - due to whatever reason. "Temporary marriage" is a way to keep all sex within the bounds of legality. Elaine Sciolino wrote an article about temporary marriage which presents the issue pretty clearly. The pros, the cons ... and not just intellectual pros and cons, because, after all, this is not just an intellectual debate. It's an issue that actually affects real people's lives, for realz. I like Sciolino a lot - she wrote the wonderful bookPersian Mirrors: The Elusive Face of Iran (excerpt here) - she can be a bit soft on the regime, I'm not wacky about that - but her book is not primarily a political book (and neither are her columns - although you realize that any issue involving people's personal lives becomes political in Iran - down to the clothes people wear, and issues involving sex, birth control, masturbation ... Whatever. It's political.) I think Sciolino's gift resides (and I highly recommend her books) in presenting the people, in their context ... and yes, drawing conclusions ... but also being able to admit, "You know what? There are things going on here that I can't quite understand.") Temporary marriage is the real topic of Hemlock, but that kind of gets lost in the top-heavy plot, and some scenes which push beyond drama and go into something I would call over-the-top. But don't let that put you off. It's an interesting little film, a domestic drama, really - which confronts the issue of temporary marriage head-on, and how silly it is. It's an affair, plain and simple. His wife back home has no idea that he has a whole other life in Tehran.

Hedye Tehrani plays a modern woman, very unlike the more traditional wife, who is draped in the full black chador. Tehrani wears light flowered scarves around her head, Ray Banz, and long light-colored trench coats. She is independent (although we come to realize that she has a lot more complexity than is first revealed - her father is an opium addict, and she buys him opium on the black market ... she's basically his supplier. So there are these scenes of her careening around in a car with her drug dealer, a nice guy actually - she's smoking, and putting the drugs into her handbag ... It's a whole side of her that her "temporary husband", blown away by her beauty, never sees. Until the end, when it is too late). Mahmoud, who also seems like a modern man, reveals himself as traditional - when he suggests to her that they get a "temporary marriage" - basically licensing their sexual encounter - and she laughs in his face. "You believe in all that stuff?" she says.

A couple words about Tehrani. She is an actress. Many Iranian films use non-actors, and that has its uses - but when you see a script in the hands of an actress, who knows how to create a character, and make a scene happen - and have a subtext ... you can see the difference. Tehrani, like I mentioned in my review of Fireworks Wednesday, seems uninterested in being liked. And that's so rare in actors - especially gorgeous ones, and she's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. So far, she has revealed herself, as an actress, as willing to go where the character goes, do what the character does, and not protect herself. She is not particularly sympathetic in Hemlock, although eventually your heart does ache for her. She's a liar. She has not told Mahmoud the truth about who she is, and what her life is like. She makes up a story about being abandoned by her first husband, you know - to "up" the sympathy factor. She sneaks around, meeting her buddy who is a drug dealer. And as the film goes on, the "temporary marriage" she is in begins to grate. And then, not just grate - but drive her out of her mind. She wants to be validated, she wants to be accepted into his life. His wife doesn't even know. Tehrani shows up at their house one day, when he is not there, and sits chatting with the wife, making up a story about how Mahmoud was going to help her get a visa. Mahmoud begins to realize that, by letting her into his life, he has perhaps sown the seeds of his own destruction. He tries to cut it off. She threatens suicide. He pays her a settlement (which is part of the whole "temporary marriage" deal) and she stands in her kitchen, alone, looking at the coins on the counter, weeping. Tehrani is wonderful. The material is not worthy of her - it's all pretty conventional, the way it is filmed ... but I just love watching her act. She's unpredictable. She appears to be alive, rather than acting.

In one scene, she and Mahmoud sit and have a picnic in a park. She teases him about being a good Muslim. He says that yes, he does pray 5 times a day. She seems surprised. The thing about temporary marriage is that - as it is presented - it is little better than a sneaky affair. And she eventually, with the coins on the counter, realizes she is in the role of a whore. But she loves him. In the picnic scene, she asks him if he could teach her how to do the daily prayers. You get the sense that she is not interested in it for religious reasons, but as a way to being close to him. Tehrani is never playing just one thing. There's always a deep coursing river going on beneath her external actions ... she's fascinating to watch.

They have a date that night. She is going to cook him dinner at her house. We see her shopping beforehand, buying produce, and fish ... and then she goes to an upscale clothing store. The first floor has "modern" clothes - you can see that there are colors in the clothes on the racks. But she goes downstairs ... to where the traditional chadors are sold.

To me, this was the most subversive scene in the film (which, like I mentioned, is pretty conventional - and even with the "temporary marriage" thing is basically a Lifetime Movie - Iranian style - about infidelity). Tehrani tries on a black chador, staring at herself in the mirror. We watch the transformation occur - her shape obliterated - but because of the context in which she tries it on it becomes almost unbelievably provocative. She's not trying on the chador because she wants to become more devout, and show her devout feelings. Tehrani plays the scene so that we know she's doing it as a joke. A sexy joke. Mahmoud will arrive at her place, and see a black-clad woman waiting for him, and he will laugh, because it is so unlike her. It's not an expression of religious feeling - it's a costume. It's akin to buying a little sexy Frederick's of Hollywood number and answering the door in that get-up when your lover arrives. THAT is what Tehrani is playing in the scene.

Tehrani slowly drapes the folds over her face, her eyes mesmerized by her own reflection ... At one point, she starts to laugh to herself, laugh at what she looks like, and then, with mischievous glimmering eyes, she pulls the black veil up over the bottom half of her face, so only her eyes are visible. The typical image we have of Islamic women. But look at what is going on in her eyes. She is laughing. She is eager to show off her costume to Mahmoud, because he will think it funny, too.

A pretty ballsy scene, I'm thinking.

The film is drenched in pathos and tears, but once I succumbed to the fact that it was a Lifetime movie - I enjoyed it.

But mostly I enjoyed watching Tehrani at work. She's something else.

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'People In Hell Just Want A Drink Of Water' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx.

'People In Hell Just Want A Drink Of Water' tells the story of two ranching families - the Dunmires and the Tinsleys - going back in generations, to the early days of the 20th century. Drought, flood, and some man-made horrors (like Mrs. Tinsley throwing her infant baby into a river - who knows why - she seems a little touched in the head - the baby was swept away, never to be heard of again) - Proulx also describes the development of the character of a particular family, and how that happens. The Dunmires are survivors - and saw the worst of the worst in their lives - locust plagues, drought, all that ... they are ranchers, they work livestock, and Proulx writes:

The country, its horses and cattle, suited them and if they loved anything that was it, and they ran that country because there were eight of them and Ice and they were of one mind. But there builds up in men who work livestock in big territory a kind of contempt for those who do not. The Dunmires measured beauty and religion by what they rode through every day, and this encouraged their disdain for art and intellect. There was a somber arrogance about them, a rigidity of attitude that said theirs was the only way.

The Dunmires - obviously righteous people (in the good and bad sense of the word) - and the Tinsleys who, uhm, are a little bit "off".

Eventually, through the generations, we get to the present one. Ras Tinsley, one of the Tinsley boys, goes off - leaves Wyoming - and disappears. Until they get a postcard from some preacher in Schenectady saying that there is a horribly injured person in the hospital there, who has been in a coma for weeks (I think - can't remember) - or at least couldn't speak or identify himself ... but finally regained enough speech that he told him his name and that he hailed from Laramie. He had been in a terrible car wreck. The minister pays his train fare back to Wyoming - and Ras returns. He is now a wreck of a man, with one leering gleaming eye - and he's obviously been brain damaged. He speaks in monosyllabic grunts. He goes out for horse rides and doesn't come back for days. There's a bad feeling about him. Eventually, a neighbor complains: Ras exposed his penis to his wife. It becomes a common complaint. People are pissed. The Tinsleys try to handle the situation, they reprimand Ras - who is now a 25 year old man - telling him he can't go around exposing himself like that, people don't "'preciate the show" ... and it is unclear whether Ras is conscious of what he is doing or not. It seems like he is. And it seems like there is a deep rage in him towards his mother (the woman who tossed her own baby into a rushing river, for no apparent reason whatsoever) ... She's a fanatic, she cleans her house like a maniac, she can't stand sex - finds marriage itself disgusting ... and when Ras left, for the first time, he never wrote. He never looked back - you get the sense that he was running as far away as he could from his stifling family. And now, injured and helpless, he is back in their midst ... and even though he doesn't say anything, Proulx has a way of suggesting the deep rage and trapped feeling he must have. Anyway, things finally get so bad that a group of men attack Ras and castrate him. He is so beyond language and normal human behavior that he lies in bed at home, sick, and doesn't say what happened to him. His is the mute suffering of an animal.

The story is a mini-novel, and has elements of East of Eden in it, with its stories of the two families - the Trasks and the Hamiltons - and how their development runs alongside and is important to the development of America. They are intertwined. Without families like the Dunmires and the Tinsleys, America wouldn't have prospered. But thank God we, as a nation, are not ONLY made up of the Dunmires and the Tinsleys (see Proulx's paragraph above) because that's some, well, fucked up shit, frankly.

But look (in the excerpt below) at how Annie Proulx begins this horrifying story, with its violence and blood and plagues and its cast of specific characters. Amazing. Like I said in my post about The Shipping News, Proulx is unafraid of going for the big and grand gesture. She does it sparingly, but when she goes for it? Look out!

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - 'People In Hell Just Want A Drink Of Water'

You stand there, braced. Cloud shadows race over the buff rock stacks as a projected film, casting a queasy, mottled ground rash. The air hisses and it is no local breeze but the great harsh sweep of wind from the turning of the earth. The wild country - indigo jags of mountain, grassy plain everlasting, tumbled stones like fallen cities, the flaring roll of sky - provokes a spiritual shudder. It is like a deep note that cannot be heard but is felt, it is like a claw in the gut.

Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seventeen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti'd celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood on the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on the highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that.

“Well…..I don’t understand any of it, but I think you look beautiful.”

I love it when Alex makes me cry before 8 a.m.

Raising his hand

I was walking down Hudson Street in Hoboken, with a couple bags of groceries. Up ahead of me, I saw a father and son (who was about 10 years old) meet up with a couple on the street. It was obviously a random meeting, much, "Hi!" "Fancy meeting you here!" "Hi!" The two men shook hands, the father gave the woman a kiss, and I saw both members of the couple kindly shake the hand of the little boy. The grown-ups started chatting, catching up - and I was struck by the little boy's face. He had dark brown hair, pale skin, and freckles. He was wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. He stood there politely, on the outskirts of the grown-up conversation, looking up at the grown-ups (he obviously knew the couple as well). As I approached, I saw the little boy raising his hand and he was saying something - repeatedly. He wasn't being bratty, or insistent ... he was trying to participate, and he's 10 years old, so that was how he did it. It took a couple of seconds for everyone to notice. I heard him say (and I don't know what it means, but I am assuming it had something to do with sports), "I made colonials ... I made colonials ... I made colonials ..." The grownups were talking to each other, and not noticing at first - so he just kept saying it - but his face was lit-up and friendly - he wasn't a brat insisting on taking the spotlight. He wanted to share his good news. But nobody noticed at first, and then his father did, and he interrupted the grown-up conversation and said, "Oh! Yes! He made colonials!" I was just coming up alongside of them at this moment, and I heard all of the grownups suddenly shift gears, and say stuff like, "That's so great!" "Good for you!" and begin to ask the little boy questions about it.

And that was that, I had moved on, but I found myself smiling from ear to ear. And also strangely moved.

The courage of children kills me sometimes. They are small human beings, in our midst, with full three-dimensional lives going on, big events, and yet they're lower on the food chain (for now) than adults, and they know that, so they wait on the outskirts, waiting for a moment to tell their news.

The grownups, in the give and take of their adult conversation, don't need to raise their hand in order to have permission to speak, to take the floor.

But kids do.

It was the sweetest moment of two worlds meeting - two stages of life - adult and child - that it's stayed with me. His hand raised in the air (he wasn't pumping it up and down like Horshak, he just kept it up ... waiting for someone to notice), his small voice saying his good news over and over ... and I remember feeling anxious, for about 1.2 seconds, that nobody would notice what was going on with him. That the adults would keep talking, and not include him, and he would be left all by himself, his news rejected or ignored. There are so many ways that adults can invalidate kids, it doesn't even have to be openly, or with words ... it's subtle and kids get the message: "You are lesser than ..." Now there's a time and place for all of that, of course. Kids do need to learn that they have to wait their turn, that there is such a thing as grown-up time ... but this was not one of those moments. It was a social moment, a meeting on the street of four people - 3 adults, one child. The Hellos were said, the greetings made, and the little boy had to just share his news, so he put up his hand, waiting for someone to notice. And his father did notice, and brought him into the loop, included him in the human family, basically. You are 10 years old, but your news is good news, and we should share it right now.

I was proud of that little kid for getting his needs met, in such a quiet and effective way. And I loved everyone in the group for segue-ing into a conversation about what was going on with him. Stuff like that means so much to kids. It really does.

It reminded me a little bit of this heart-cracking moment between me and Cashel.

And congrats, kid, for making colonials. Good for you. Whatever it is.

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'The Mud Below' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx.

The stories in Close Range show a world both transcendent and brutal. There's not a lot of love here ... or what there is, is thwarted and twisted. People are quiet or loud, but whatever their externals - they don't chat about their feelings. However, the feelings run deep. The plains and mountains and hot springs of Wyoming take on an almost unbearably lonely aspect - beautiful, inspiring ... yet it makes men feel small. These are present-day stories, but they often do not feel so. This is a world with a pre-modern code. Manly stoic men, fierce pioneer-spirit women (or trashy whores) - and a bit of chaos. Proulx writes about those on the fringes of society, those who "get by", or who don't register on any radar screen of "accomplishment". They aren't heroic - unless you count suffering in silence. In the same way that she created an entire community of cranky crackpots The Shipping News - and you find yourself loving them with the white-hot heat of a million suns ... the people in Close Range are not easily lovable, they're prickly, they're sometimes violent, they don't let you in easily, they don't analyze themselves and say, "Okay, maybe I'm over-reacting ..." ... and yet you love them dearly. You ache for them.

A Barnes & Noble review says:

Indeed, the defining characteristic of Proulx's Wyoming seems to be the sparseness of its population; according to one rancher, the state's unofficial motto is "take care a you own damn self." The landscape of these stories -- topographical and emotional -- is marked by vast barren stretches, punctuated by the dim twinkle of a solitary ranch or by the fading memory of a one-night stand. These Wyos have been trained to bat away loneliness like a gnat, to accept the pain of isolation as natural, and to turn to the quotidian demands of rural and ranch work for consolation. As one character remarks, "There's no lonesome, you work hard enough."

In the story 'The Mud Below' (another award-winner) we meet Diamond Felts, a small-time rodeo rider with a painful family past behind him. His mother was adamant against him going into the rodeo, but he did it anyway. And now he travels around to little dusty towns, and takes his chances on massive heaving bulls. He feels most alive and most himself when he is riding. But there's an aimlessness to his life, a loneliness - but he doesn't have the wherewithal to do anything "normal" about it. He has violent sexual interactions with random women in the back of his truck, there's a casual disregard for his emotional life (and I guess, his physical too - he takes enormous risks with his job) ... and the ties to his past are cut. But they keep coming back to haunt him.

Another masterpiece of a story. It's eloquent about loneliness, and the pleasure of the physical. Wyoming comes across as a vast and empty place, punctuated by tiny pockets of humanity. It's built to make a man feel tiny, unimportant.

Here's an excerpt. This is when Diamond first got on a bull - after working a day's job at a ranch. It is the moment that Diamond feels his calling.

EXCERPT FROM Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx.

"You want a have some fun?" said Leecil Bewd to Diamond and Wallace. The others were already walking to a small corral some distance away.

"Like what," said Wallace.

Diamond had a flash that there was a woman in the corral.

"Bullridin. Dad's got some good buckin bulls. Our rodeo class come out last month and rode em. Couldn't hardly stay on one of em."

"I'll watch," said Wallace, in his ironic side-of-the-mouth voice.

Diamond considered rodeo classes the last resort of concrete-heads who couldn't figure out how to hold a basketball. He'd taken martial arts and wrestling all the way through until they spiked both courses as frills. "Oh man," he said. "Bulls. I don't guess so."

Leecil Bewd ran ahead to the corral. There was a side pen and in it were three bulls, two of them pawing dirt. At the front of the pen a side-door chute opened into the corral. One of the crotchsnatchers was in the arena, jumping around, ready to play bullfighter and toll a bull away from a tossed rider.

To Diamond the bulls looked murderous and wild, but even the ranch hands had a futile go at riding them. Lovis scraped off on the fence; Leecil's father, bounced down in three seconds, hit the ground on his behind, the kidney belt riding up his chest.

"Try it," said Leecil, mouth bloody from a face-slam, spitting.

"Aw, not me," said Wallace. "I got a life in front of me."

"Yeah," said Diamond. "Yeah, I guess I'll give it a go."

"Atta boy, atta boy," said Como Bewd, and handed him a rosined left glove. "Ever been on a bull?"

"No sir," said Diamond, no boots, no spurs, no chaps, T-shirted and hatless. Leecil's old man told him to hold his free hand up, not to touch the bull or himself with it, keep his shoulders forward and his chin down, hold on with his feet and legs and left hand, above all not to think, and when he got bucked off, no matter what was broke, get up quick and run like hell for the fence. He helped him make the wrap, ease down on the animal, said, shake your face and git out there, and grinning, blood-speckled Lovis opened the chute door, waiting to see the town kid dumped and dive-bombed.

But he stayed on until someone counting eight hit the rail with the length of pipe to signal time. He flew off, landed on his feet, stumbling headlong but not falling, in a run for the rails. He hauled himself up, panting from the exertion and the intense nervy rush. He'd been shot out of the cannon. The shock of the violent motion, the lightning shifts of balance, the feeling of power as though he were the bull and not the rider, even the fright, fulfilled some greedy physical hunger in him he hadn't known was there. The experience had been exhilarating and unbearably personal.

"You know what," said Como Bewd. "You might make a bull-rider."

This is why I am insane

Today, on my run along Boulevard East, I saw a huge tour bus with the words QUEBEC on it stop by the bust of Alexander Hamilton - and people poured out of it - to stare at the plaque, and the bust, and take pictures, and pose smiling, etc.

It is wonderful that he is remembered. That the estimated spot of his death is on the list of "things to see" for a bunch of Canadians.

But what did I feel as I ran towards them, "Every Sperm Is Sacred" pounding in my ears?

I felt jealous.

Proprietary.

I thought (openly, to myself): "Get away from him. He's MINE. WhatEVER your tour guide is saying can't even scratch the surface of MY feelings about him. Every sperm is sacred. GET. AWAY. from him, Frenchies."

I actually felt this.

Next time I see such a congregation around him, I think I will bust in on them, and start to rant about how he's MINE, and everyone should GET AWAY ... just to see what would happen. It might be amusing, non?

I prefer to "visit" him when no one else is around, so that I can have his undivided attention and I don't have to share.

Photos by moi

New Workout Mix

I like to mix things up. I also like to have way more material than I could EVER listen to in one particular run ... just so I have options, and it keeps me going.

There are some surprises here. For instance, who knew that Monty Python's "Every Sperm Is Sacred" would work so well on a workout mix? I assure you it does. It starts out a bit slow, but by the end ... well, first of all, I'm running, listening to it, and laughing out loud ... but it also has a strangely MARTIAL feel to it, like you have to keep going. Or God will get quite irate.

Here it is. In the order I have it set up right now on the iPod.

I feel no shame. Ricky Martin is here, as is Britney Spears (multiple times). Deal with it. Justin Timberlake. Eminem. Backstreet Boys. Oh, and Gene Krupa. Plus Monty Python. It is the weirdest workout mix ever created - but it works wonderfully, in terms of motivation and the Fun Factor.

I'm sure this is fascinating.

20th Century Boy - Placebo
9 to 5 - Dolly Parton
You're The One That I Want - Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta
You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch - Gary Hoey (seriously, with screeching electric guitars ... it's not as good as the Whirling Dervishes' version ... but it's close)
(You Drive Me) Crazy - Ms. Britney Spears
Whole Lotta Lovin' - Huey Lewis
White America - Eminem
What I'm Looking For - Brendan Benson
Welcome To The Black Parade - My Chemical Romance
We've Got It Goin' On - Backstreet Boys
We Two Are One - Eurythmics
Trou Macacq - Squirrel Nut Zippers
The Train Kept A-Rollin' - Johnny Burnette & the Rock 'n Roll Trio
Tony - Patty Griffin
Till We Reach That Day - finale to Act I - Ragtime
Till I Collapse - Eminem
Teenage Brain Surgeon - Cherry Poppin' Daddies
Tear Me Down - from Hedwig & the Angry Inch
Strong - Robbie Williams
Stars and Planets - Liz Phair
Spineless - Alanis Morrisette
Soon - Squirrel Nut Zippers
Snuff That Girl - from urinetown
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
Sk8er Boi - Avril Lavigne
Sing! Sing! Sing! - Gene Krupa and his orchestra
A Shameless Use Of Charm - Everclear
SexyBack - Justin Timberlake
Say Yeah - Pat McCurdy
Rehab - Amy Winehouse
Redneck Woman - Gretchen Wilson
Raspberry Swirl - Tori Amos
Portland Rain - Everclear
Pink - Aerosmith
Phoenix - Dan Fogelberg
Outside Villanova - Eric Hutchinson
One Night Only - from Dreamgirls (the movie soundtrack)
The One - Foo Fighters
Old Before I Die - Robbie Williams
No News - Lonestar
My Prerogative - Britney Spears
Magic - Olivia Newton-John
M.I.A. - Foo Fighters
Lucky Charm - Stray Cats
Love Conquers - Pat McCurdy
Lose Yourself - Eminem
Lonely As You - Foo Fighters
Livin' La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin
Live and Let Die - Wings
Little Cream Soda - White Stripe
Let's Get Retarded - Black Eyed Peas
Les Champs-Elysees - Joe Dassin
La La - Ashlee Simpson
Knutsford City Limits - Robbie Williams
Keep the Customer Satisfied - Simon & Garfunkel
Jungle - ELO
Jeepster - T Rex
It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls
In Pursuit of Happiness - Divine Comedy
I'll Get Over You - Pat McCurdy
Home - Marc Broussard
Holding My Breath - Hellogoodbye
Heaven On Earth - Britney Spears
Heartbreak Express - Dolly Parton
Gone - Kelly Clarkson
Gimme More - Britney Spears
Get the Party Started - Pink
Future Sex/Love Sound - Justin Timberlake
Flight Of the Passing Fancy - Squirrel Nut Zippers
Father Of Mine - Everclear
Excuses - Alanis Morrisette
Everything Is Everything - Lauryn Hill
Everybody (Backstreet's Back) - Backstreet Boys
Every Sperm Is Sacred - Monty Python
Enter Sandman - Metallica
Driven By You - Queen
Down In Mexico - The Coasters
Dead! - My Chemical Romance
Cool, Cool, Considerate Men - from the 1776 soundtrack
Come Sail Away - Styx
Christmas Is the Time to Say I Love You - SR-71
Christmas Eve (Sarajevo) - Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Bungle In the Jungle - Jethro Tull
Breakout - Foo Fighters
Brave New Girl - Britney Spears
Brain Stew - Green Day
Bitterroot - Indigo Girls
Big Wheel - Tori Amos
Big Time Sensuality - Bjork
Between My Legs - Rufus Wainright
Baby One More Time - Britney Spears
As - George Michael & Mary J. Blige
American Woman - Lenny Kravitz
All Over the World - ELO
All I Want For Christmas Is You - Mariah Carey
All I Really Want - Alanis Morrissette

The Books: "Close Range: Wyoming Stories" - 'The Half-Skinned Steer' (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

Close Range: Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx.

Oh God, I love this collection of short stories. I read many of them (like "Brokeback Mountain") when they first appeared in The New Yorker - and remembered them vividly (even cut some of them out and saved them). You get used to how most writers sound. You get used to nice language, eloquence, delicate plot development ... but, to me, Annie Proulx stands apart from all that. Her prose feels muscular to me. Emotional, yet in a fierce way. Kind of blunt and primal. She doesn't veer into the sheer apocalyptic ferociousness of Cormac McCarthy - but her sense of the landscape (especially the Western landscape) is just as specific, just as important to her books as Texas and the borderlands are to McCarthy. It's not atmosphere, it's a character. I mean, the collection is called "Wyoming Stories". Wyoming is evoked here in all its guises - bleak, beautiful, wide open, disorienting, calming ... And then I think of Proulx's evocation of Newfoundland in The Shipping News, and that whole landscape - completely different from what's here in Close Range (and also in her second collection of "Wyoming Stories" called Bad Dirt) - and I'm just in awe at her own range. It's all in the specifics. But the words she chooses to describe things ... cannot be said to have anyone's stamp but her own. I'm trying to think of someone to compare her to. There's certainly a Hemingway-ish feel to some of her characters, and how they express themselves. She does not write about verbal people. She does not write about people who ever say the words, "I feel ..." They have no introspection. They are blunt, stoic, and deep. Her writing is more grandiose than Hemingway's, though - I don't know, I find it hard to compare her to anyone. The stories in the collection seem stripped bare of extraneous things ... editing just one word out would unravel the thread. They are tight.

If you haven't read the collection, I obviously highly recommend it - and I also recommend reading it front to back, like you would a novel. At least the first time. I normally don't read short story collections like that - I dip into whatever story grabs me the most from its first paragraph, and then skip around. But with Close Range, I read it beginning to end - and it had a cumulative effect, very important to the feeling of the work as a whole. Bad Dirt, her second collection of "Wyoming Stories" takes an almost slapstick tone, the stories are funny, ridiculous, small slices of life, a bit more absurd. In Close Range we have none of that. It's life stripped to its essentials, by the wind across the plains. It's people up against their dreams for themselves in their youths ... lost now forever ... memories in the wind, the grasses, the sky ... Mortality approaching. All you have to do is get through the rest of your life. Just put your head down and bear it. And so the effect of the whole collection is basically a giant heart-ache. There's no real redemption here. Nothing like that last paragraph of The Shipping News. We're in a different world here. More brutal.

And the people she creates! They leave indelible marks. And their names: Rollo. Mero. Sweets Musgrove. Diamond. Leeland. Roany. Jaxon. Even their names sound like ghost towns.

The first story in the collection is 'The Half-Skinned Steer'. Garrison Keillor chose it for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories (1998) and John Updike chose it as inclusion in 1999's The Best American Short Stories of the Century. In the story we meet Mero, a man in his 80s, who just got a call that his brother, Rollo, has passed away. He hasn't seen his brother in, what, 50 years? Some insanely long time. They grew up on a ranch, rough and tough, with their father and his trashy girlfriend ... and Mero got out of there as quickly as he could. He went to war. He married a couple of times. He became a vegetarian. He got a regular job, not a cowboy-job. He moved far far away from Wyoming, and got into local politics, I think. But the news that his brother died brings back memories - which comes in spurts ... as he drives back to Wyoming for the funeral. By now, the old ranch where he grew up has been turned into a tourist attraction called "Down Home Wyoming" - a kind of faux ranch for tourists. Sad (although life on that ranch was no picnic, and Mero has no nostalgia about it at all. As a matter of fact, his memories of it are almost uniformly full of dread and gloom. There was a "bad luck" feeling to the ranch ... which ended up being played out after he left - with bankruptcy, etc.) It takes Mero 4 days to drive home. He drives in a Cadillac (his customary car). We go back and forth from the past to the present. He's haunted by a memory (although that's not quite right ... that suggests he's been walking around with it all these years. No. It is quite conceivable that Mero has not thought of Tin Head and the half-skinned steer for 60 years - it is just the landscape of Wyoming approaching, the landscape of his long-lost youth ... that brings the memory to the foreground.)

I wouldn't dream of revealing what the actual story is of "the half-skinned steer" - what happened back there that made such a deep scar in everyone - you'll have to find that out yourself. Suffice it to say, it haunts me now, too.

Here's an excerpt.

EXCERPT FROM Close Range : Wyoming Stories, by Annie Proulx - 'The Half-Skinned Steer'

He was half an hour past Kearney, Nebraska, when the full moon rose, an absurd visage balanced in his rearview mirror, above it a curled wig of a cloud, filamented edges like platinum hairs. He felt his swollen nose, palped his chin, tender from the stun of the air bag. Before he slept that night he swallowed a glass of hot tap water enlivened with whiskey, crawled into the damp bed. He had eaten nothing all day yet his stomach coiled at the thought of road food.

He dreamed that he was in the ranch house but all the furniture had been removed from the rooms and in the yard troops in dirty white uniforms fought. The concussive reports of huge guns were breaking the window glass and forcing the floorboards apart so that he had to walk on the joists and below the disintegrating floors he saw galvanized tubs filled with dark, coagulated fluid.

On Saturday morning, with four hundred miles in front of him, he swallowed a few bits of scorched eggs, potatoes painted with canned salsa verde, a cup of yellow coffee, left not tip, got on the road. The food was not what he wanted. His breakfast habit was two glasses of mineral water, six cloves of garlic, a pear. The sky to the west hulked sullen, behind him smears of tinselly orange shot through with blinding streaks. The thick rim of sun bulged against the horizon.

He crossed the state line, hit Cheyenne for the second time in sixty years. There was neon, traffic and concrete, but he knew the place, a railroad town that had been up and down. That other time he had been painfully hungry, had gone into the restaurant in the Union Pacific station although he was not used to restaurants and ordered a steak, but when the woman brought it and he cut into the meat the blood spread across the white plate and he couldn't help it, he saw the beast, mouth agape in mute brawling, saw the comic aspects of his revulsion as well, a cattleman gone wrong.

Now he parked in front of a phone booth, locked the car although he stood only seven feet away, and telephoned the number Tick's wife had given him. The ruined car had had a phone. Her voice roared out of the earpiece.

We didn't hear so we wondered if you'd changed your mind.

No, he said, I'll be there late this afternoon. I'm in Cheyenne now.

The wind's blowing pretty hard. They're saying it could maybe snow. In the mountains. Her voice sounded doubtful.

I'll keep an eye on it, he said.

He was out of town and running north in a few minutes.

The country poured open on each side, reduced the Cadillac to a finger-snap. Nothing had changed, not a goddamn thing, the empty pale place and its roaring wind, the distant antelope as tiny as mice, landforms shaped true to the past. He felt himself slip back, the calm of eighty-three years sheeted off him like water, replaced by a young man's scalding anger at a fool world and the fools in it. What a damn hard time it had been to hit the road. You don't know what it was like, he told his ex-wives until they said they did know, he'd pounded it into their ears two hundred times, the poor youth on the street holding up a sign asking for work, and the job with the furnace man, yatata yatata ya. Thirty miles out of Cheyenne he saw the first billboard, DOWN UNDER WYOMING, Western Fun the Western Way, over a blown-up photograph of kangaroos hopping through the sagebrush and a blond child grinning in a manic imitation of pleasure. A diagonal banner warned, Open May 31.

The Day I Became A Woman; director: Marziyeh Meshkini

Iranian film The Day I Became A Woman (2000), directed by Marziyeh Meshkini (it was her first film, although she had worked as an assistant director before that on husband Mohsen Makhmalbaf's films) won awards around the world, it was a ringing success.

The film is broken up into three stories, seemingly unconnected, but on a closer look, there is a thread tying them all together. The theme is pretty clearly stated in the title of the film, but there is nothing rote or predictable about this film ... I'm a huge fan of Meshkini now, and eager to see whatever she does next. It's stunning. And the last story earns the right to be called Fellini-esque - there are images there that are so arresting that they verge on poetry. It's a dream-space, and there are moments where I couldn't believe what I was looking at. Beautiful!! And the final image of the film ... I won't give it away - you'll just have to rent it. I watched it with dropped jaw. Fantastic. A fantastic debut.

I've been watching quite a few Iranian films recently with strictly Tehrani settings, like Offside (review here), or The Circle (review here). The Day I Became A Woman is set on Kish Island, off the coast of Iran in the Persian Gulf, a spectacular place of white beaches and crashing surf. It's apparently a resort island, a vacation spot for the Iranian wealthy - and a place where it's a bit more relaxed for women to hang out. But the world of The Day I Became A Woman does not show that side of Kish Island. You would never know it was a resort spot from what we see in the film.

The first story is about a little girl on her 9th birthday, the day she is slated to "become a woman". Meaning, she will have to put on the chador, not play with (or talk to) boys anymore, and basically begin her training to become a woman. Hava (the little girl) is a wild urchin whose best friend is a little boy named Hassan. But on this day, her birthday, she has to say goodbye to him as a friend. Her mother and grandmother give her a break, and tell her she can go off and see Hassan, but they put a stick in the sand and tell her she has to be home when the shadow of the stick disappears. Hava races off to find Hassan. Throughout their interaction (they share a lollipop, smacking their lips because of the sour-ness), Hava keeps racing back to check the shadow of the stick. She gets kind of frantic. She doesn't question her "plight", she just knows it's unfair, because she loves Hassan. But you know, she's a kid. She does what the grown-ups tell her to do. Like most Iranian film-makers Meshkini uses a light touch with filming children. She does not overburden them with metaphor and meaning. They are uninhibited, and seem like the most child-like of children in film. Hava does not see herself as a victim of a patriarchal theocratic society. She sees herself as living in an unfair world because she can't play with her best friend. It's no different from other children wailing about how "unfair" it is that they can't sleep over a friend's house on a school night. I'm not saying the two things are equal, of course I'm not - but it's equal in the way it is portrayed. Children are innocent. They may be mischievous, and capable of the full range of human emotions, but they are not aware of the larger societal issues that make life the way it is. And so Hava is pissed at the unfairness of life. She is too young to rebel in any meaningful way, and the whole thing is unFAIR because she wants to go outside and play. She doesn't see purdah itself as unfair. She's too little for that. It's why the first segment of The Day I Became A Woman is so devastating, because Hava is too young to understand. But she will submit, because ... that's what you do when you're a kid. Little Hassan, sucking on a sourpop with his friend, is also an innocent ... he doesn't understand why things have to change so drastically. Yesterday you were my friend and now you can't walk on the beach with me? Why? The use of strictly non-actors gives the first section an almost documentary feel to it. The kids are 100% unselfconscious in front of the camera. They aren't saying lines, they aren't acting at all.

The third story in The Day I Became A Woman (I'll come back to the second one momentarily) shows an old infirm woman going on a shopping spree. She is a widow, she has a little money, and has decided to buy all the things she wanted to buy during her life but never did. Her own things. She is so frail that a small boy pushes her wheelchair around a glittery mall (not her grandson - he is black - and from a couple of comments she says to him, it becomes clear that once upon a time she was in love with a black man, but was not allowed to marry him ... so she feels like the little black boy could be her dream-son). She buys so much stuff that an army of small boys are gathered to roll her purchases down the street on carts. The little woman has pieces of cloth tied around her fingers, to remind her of what she wants to buy. I kept expecting the little boys with the carts to bring them to a house or an apartment complex ... but no ... they take them to the beach. And set all of the stuff up on the white sand. A huge bed. A refrigerator. A clothesline, with pots and pans hanging from it. A free-standing tub. A couch and a couple of armchairs. With the blue gulf beyond. I'm still thinking about the scene, and the amazing images of it. It was stunning. There were moments when I thought of Fitzcarraldo, with the boat going over the mountain. What I was looking at was real, and was obviously really happening. But it had such a surreal edge, and ... I guess I'm used to seeing the same images, just in different movies. Even very good movies. You know, you see apartments, and close-ups of faces, and shots of sunsets. I'm simplifying, but still. In The Day I Became A Woman, I saw new things. A clothesline suspended on two poles that were offscreen, with pots hanging from the line, and empty glass bottles ... the blue sea in the background. The grandmother and two women sitting on the couch and armchair, chatting, surrounded by white beach. Then, odd scenes: the little boy putting on makeup in the mirror. Smearing lipstick over his lips. Another little boy trying on what was obviously the grandmother's wedding dress once upon a time. A little boy dancing on a beach, wearing a wedding dress. Seriously, there were so many fantastical stunning images I couldn't process them at first. And it's all in service to that particular story. None of it seems imposed ... which is why "Fellini-esque" is the term thrown around in every review. It's artificial, the set-up is way out of the everyday - it's surreal, the classic sense of the word ... but with a rough edge, it's not a static image - people are alive in that surreal scene. It's a theatrical psychological moment - and film is the perfect medium for something like that. The whole thing took my breath away.

But it was the second story that is the masterpiece of the film. As monotonous as it will sound, I could have watched an entire two-hour movie of that particular story-line. It was brilliantly executed.

It starts with a sandy expanse of land, and a man on a horse. He sets off galloping across the land, and he rides like a bat out of hell. The horse is a gleaming black stallion, and the vision of the black stallion, and the white sand, and the man in the billowing white shirt - riding the horse as it flies across the earth - is stunning. And it sets up the mood and the pace for the entire storyline. The first story was somewhat static. We remained mostly on Hava's little face, as she chattered up to Hassan in the window, and they shared the lollipop. But this one is all movement. The camera never stops moving - until the very very end ... and as it slowly glides to a stop, it is shattering, because you know it's over. As long as there was movement, there was hope. I have no idea how they got some of these shots. The camera is obviously on a truck, going alongside the galloping horse at the same speed, but there is no jostling, no ups and downs or jerks ... it is a smooth and fast tracking shot, and at times it pulls back and swoops around in a curve, as the man takes off in another direction, giving us an even wider perspective. The choreography of the camera in episode 2 is remarkable. We aren't sure at first what the man is doing, but it is pretty obvious from his body language that he is not out for a leisurely ride. He is looking for something. And then in the distance (the land is absolutely flat), we can see small figures - moving in a horizontal line ... He gallops towards them. (Again, the camera is never once still. We never have a shot with the camera on the ground, and the man galloping by it. It is always in movement and so are the characters ... it's breathless, we are just trying to keep up with everyone. I need to own this film just so I can watch this sequence over and over again.)

As the man approaches the distant figures, we can see the sea beyond them, blue-green, crashing surf. There is a road along the sea. And along that road bicycle black-clad women, 40 of them, 50 ... pedaling furiously, black chadors billowing behind them. It's a stunning visual. We can hear the whizzing of the bicycle wheels, and the crank of the gears, and the little ringing bells when one wants to pass. It's a race. The women look identical, black cut-out silhouettes against the sea, but all wearing jeans and sneakers underneath - and this, like the man on the horse, is not a leisurely ride. They hunch over the handlebars, making themselves streamlined, small, their veils flying up and out behind them like crazy bat wings. Sometimes one surges ahead, and you can feel the others start to work harder, like, "Oh shit ... where does she think SHE'S going?" I just couldn't get enough of what this all looked like. Fantastic. There is obviously, again, a truck with a camera zooming along beside the women bicyclists - but there's no bumps, just a smooth fast procession. But then sometimes, we're in the thick of the race, and there's a handheld camera, and we can hear the heavy panting breaths of the women, the whizzing wheels, the clink-clink of bicycle bells ... the camera moves in front of the procession sometimes, almost leading them on, pulling them forward. The blue surf crashes on their right, and the desert spreads off to their left. The man on the horse makes a beeline for the race, and gallops along beside the women, peering at each one.

But of course they are indistinguishable from one another, because of the veils. He has to move a bit ahead of each woman, and peer back at her face. To see if it is her. It eventually becomes clear that his wife, Ahoo (played by the wonderful Shabnam Toloui - she has two lines, I think - "Hello" and "No" - after all, she's in the middle of a bicycle race, she's not up for chatting - but she's fantastic. Tragic.) has disobeyed his orders to not participate in the bicycle race. He's furious. All of this takes place as he gallops alongside her, and she pedals furiously, glancing up at him occasionally, but never hesitating, never faltering.

He's shouting, at first about how she hurt her leg and she promised him not to bike anymore with her bad leg. She ignores him. There's something frantic in her face. He soon starts to shout about the shame she has brought to him, and that if she doesn't stop the bicycle race he will divorce her. Ahoo keeps pedaling. Finally, he realizes it will do no good, and he gallops off. We think that might be the last of him, but sadly, it is not.

The race careens on at breakneck speed. There's a rivalry between Ahoo and another woman, who's listening to a Walkman as she rides. They are neck and neck. All we hear is her breathing, and the sound of the gears and the wheels. Sometimes a crash of surf. When music finally comes into the segment, near the end, it's horrible. Your heart breaks. You know it's a sign. An eerie portent. But up until then, it's human, and clashing, and fast, and pumping legs and panting breath. Life!

Her husband is not going to give up easily. He gallops back, this time with the village mullah, also galloping on a horse. The mullah gallops alongside Ahoo, shouting at her that that is not a bike she is riding, but "the devil's mount" and she is bringing shame to her family ... Ahoo keeps riding. Faster, faster, never stopping. The two give up and gallop off. We know now that they will be back.

Ahoo is so pumped full of adrenaline, and rage, and competitive spirit, and fear, that she surges ahead, far ahead of the others. She is a singular small black figure, all alone on the road. We still hear only her panting breath and the bicycle wheels.

We grow to hate the sound of hooves and whinnying, and the sound is brought in beautifully - sometimes we hear the hooves and the whinnying before we see the horses, and our hearts sink. The husband keeps returning, with other figures, all male, galloping on horses. Her father. Screaming at her. He tells her he will count to seven, and then she will stop bicycling. "Our tribe doesn't divorce!" He threatens to sic her brothers on her.

Ahoo, crazily pedaling, becomes one of the most heroic figures I've ever seen in cinema. She has no lines. She's an awesome athlete, first of all, with great endurance. She persists, she pushes on, she ignores the shouts and taunts ... but there are times when you can feel it's starting to get to her ... and that's when the other women start to catch up to her, and zip by her. This wakes Ahoo up to her situation, and she pushes forward, a burst of energy and speed.

Again, the camera is never still. It swoops ahead of the race, plunges itself into the middle of the race, sometimes catapults itself far back, so we can see the figures against the sea ... I eventually realized that the speed of the camera in the entire sequence reflects Ahoo's commitment. I became invested in how fast that camera was moving. As long as we zoomed along in a blur, there was hope.

Made even more tragic when you know that Shabnam Toloui, the actress, was banned by the Islamic clergy once it was discovered that she was a member of the Baha'i faith (the Baha'is are persecuted in Iran, sometimes even executed). She was banned from working in film and television in Iran, and finally couldn't take it anymore and moved to Paris to pursue her acting career. I wish her the best of luck. She's terrific.

The bike race/stallion pursuit is an absolutely spectacular and exciting bit of film-making - not just for a director's debut, but period.

Brilliant on every count.

Some screenshots below - but they just can't capture the sense of speed, and movement!

The Books: "The Shipping News" (Annie Proulx)

Next book on my adult fiction bookshelf:

The Shipping News, by Annie Proulx.

(Some of my thoughts on this book are already on this blog - I went through some of the posts and pulled some of my own language ... so I am plagiarizing myself, frankly. I give myself permission.)

My experience of The Shipping News was what I call "one of THOSE reading experiences". I can count "THOSE" reading experiences on almost one hand. By that I mean: intensely personal - I take the book not just as a book, but a message that seems directly to me. I feel pointed out by the book. I feel recognized. I feel seen. I think: "How on earth could this author know about what goes on in the deepest recesses of my soul?" It's almost embarrassing, that feeling. You don't want people to know your own pettiness, your own sadness, your own cruelty, your lies. I am different when I finish the book, because of this recognition factor. You can't have "one of THOSE reading experiences" too often. It takes too much out of you.

Other books that were like that for me:

-- Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn (excerpt here)
-- Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving (excerpt here)
-- Atonement, by Ian McEwan (excerpt here)

Atonement was such a devastating book that it still seems radioactive to me. I went to pick it up and flip through it again a while back, glanced at a couple of paragraphs, and thought: "Uhm. No. No need to read this again."

I don't think I will ever put myself through Geek Love again. (However, I don't want to make this sound too bleak and grim. I'm not talking about sad books. I'm talking about books that feel like they were written for me and me alone.) These are books that describe the human condition in such a way that I feel KNOWN. The spotlight shines onto the darker corners. These books slice back any artifice I might hold onto. These books made me look into the abyss. My own abyss. To see my own sham, my own drudgery, my own redemption.

THOSE reading experiences.

The Shipping News was one of THOSE books for me.

There was a good 5 or 6 months in 1994 when it seemed like everyone was reading that book. I saw people on the El train reading it. My entire family read it. Everyone talked about it. My parents kept pestering me: "Have you read it yet? Have you read it yet?" They seemed personally invested in me, specifically, reading The Shipping News. (And now, having read the book, I see why) I remember, to this day, how my dad described the book to me. The characters, what it was about ... Every conversation I had with my parents, the same refrain: "Have you read The Shipping News yet?" Finally, I would just cut to the chase before they even asked: "I'm doing great, I got cast in a show, I'm doing great, and NO, I haven't read The Shipping News yet."

So, of course, I didn't read it. You never do anything just because 5,000 people tell you have to.

I was madly in love with someone in 1994. And he, too, was on the "YOU OF ALL PEOPLE HAVE TO READ THE SHIPPING NEWS." chorus-line. I just rolled my eyes at him. He went on vacation at one point, to Florida - and he came back ... this was when we were in the flirty unexpressed part of the whole thing ... madly in love but not admitting it ... and he said, "I thought about you my entire vacation." "You did?" "Yeah. I sat on the beach and read The Shipping News and I just kept wanting to tell you how much you would love this book. It reminds me of you." "It does?" "Totally!" "Why?" But he never could say why. All he said was, "The lead character is this ... kind of loser guy ... a sad sap ... who has a really big chin ... and he gets a job on a newspaper ... and he starts to see his entire life in terms of headlines ... " That was all he would say. I still couldn't get a line on why this book reminded him of me. Loser guy? Sad sap? Big chin? And ... this to you says SHEILA? You wanna explain that to me??

On the very same day that this man told me "YOU HAVE TO READ THIS BOOK", I came home and there was a package in my mailbox from my parents. I opened it up, and there was a dern copy of the book.

It makes me laugh, in retrospect. They were desperate for me to read it. They just knew how I would respond to it, and they could. not. wait. for me to read it on my own.

And I'm not exaggerating ... I got the package on the same day I talked with Love-Man. I laughed out loud when I pulled out The Shipping News, like: "Okay, universe, okay, I GET THE MESSAGE!"

Long story even longer (see this is why this book means so much to me ... it's all wrapped in that year - 1994 - a wacko year if ever there was one):

I still didn't read the damn book though, at that time ... because my life got nuts and kind of awful. Love-Man and I ended up not working out ... and it was a huge disaster with long-term implications. It wrecked my life. And suddenly I couldn't bear to even LOOK at The Shipping News. It seemed to represent him or something. I remember being bummed out, though (in addition to all the other stuff I was bumming on) - thinking: Wow, I'll probably never read that book now.

But I did. A year later. I had moved from Chicago to New York by then. Everything was different, including my zip code. My entire life had changed in 6 months. So I picked up that book.

And never. EVER. wanted it to end.

EVER.

I will never forget my experience reading that book. It shimmers in my memory. I laughed out loud. It gave me searing pain. And at times, I could feel myself not really reading, but searching, searching for clues ... clues as to why Love-Man had thought of me so much when he read it. Maybe it would tell me something about him, maybe it would illuminate for me something about how he felt about me, and how I should interpret the fact that everything was wrecked. The book is about a bunch of weirdos who live in Newfoundland. Why was that book so full of me for him? I will never know now. But I do know that The Shipping News is also so full of him for me - to this day. I mean ... it's about pain, and redemption ... about finding what it is that you do (or are supposed to do), and then doing it like Hercules. It's about thinking that you have a "lot" in life. That you have a certain path, and then ... often with wrenching results ... you go another way. But ... I can't even talk about what that book is about. It's not about what it's about.

The writing is startling. It's a rare rare thing, to come across an original voice. Proulx's voice in that book is original. It's funny, it's biting ... each character has a different and distinct speaking pattern, accent. Everyone has secrets. Things are left unexplained. This is not a book where nothing happens. The plot is out of control. So interesting. You are introduced to a small three-dimensional world, full of weirdos, cranks, curmudgeons, and lonely hermits. And yet ... while they may not be "likable", in any sense, you end up loving them.

My experience, by the end of that book, was painful. It wasn't that anything bad happened. No. It was that it brought up all this weird love in my heart - for these characters, for the Love-Man, for my parents and siblings, for Annie Proulx - love that HURT. Like, you want to clutch your heart and say "Ouch."

The last paragraph of the book is not just amazing - it's transcendent. Transcendent. After spending time with all the crabs and secretive curmudgeons and unpleasant people in the book ... to have Annie Proulx draw back the curtain ... and let the heart flow forth ... in that last paragraph ... It was almost too much for me. So many writers today resist the large message. And it's understandable why - it's really difficult to do well. Cynicism, too, is in style - but the success of Annie Proulx shows that cynicism isn't the only style today (something you might miss in the omnipresent bitching and moaning of the "what has happened to today's society?? Everyone is so cynical" nitwits. Yeah, well, nitwits: I suggest you all widen your reading list a little bit, how's that? Everyone is cynical? Really? Everyone? Huh.) Proulx does not pull her punches. I so admire that. She does not try to hide emotion, or present it subtly, or bury the message in layers of metaphor. Nope. She is unafraid. She comes right out and says it, and she says it so well (that last paragraph!!) that I feel her hand coming out of her prose and grabbing me by the throat.

When I finished the book, how much I wanted to go back in time and talk with the guy I loved (and still loved) about it ... talk about every tiny detail. But the time for that was long long past. I felt a lot of sadness and loss about that.

I'll probably do a couple excerpts, we'll see. I was flipping thru the book this morning, and the prose, once again, just leapt off the page ... I would recognize Annie Proulx's writing anywhere, in a blind copy of something I could probably guess it was her. I couldn't imitate it if I tried - it is completely her own rhythm.

I have to excerpt the opening of the book. Because it has everything I've been talking about on display. Her odd jerky rhythm - she's not big on full sentences - her absolutely specific Proulx-ian imagery (seriously, I can't think of another writer to compare her to) - I mean: "features as bunched as kissed fingertips". That is spectacular. I don't know where she comes up with it - but it's perfect ... and in the beginning, she cuts to the chase of the story immediately. Not just the plot, but the story: Here is what we are going to hear about in the following book. To start a book like that takes balls. She's got balls.

The Shipping News is one of my favorite books of all time. And thank you. Thank you to:
-- parents
-- siblings
-- friends
-- guy I loved
for making sure I read it.

I still read these beginning 3 pages and feel the awe start up in me all over again. Wow.

EXCERPT FROM The Shipping News, by Annie Proulx.

Here is an account of a few years in the life of Quoyle, born in Brooklyn and raised in a shuffle of dreary upstate towns.

Hive-spangled, gut roaring with gas and cramp, he survived childhood; at the state university, hand clapped over his chin, he camouflaged torment with smiles and silence. Stumbled through his twenties and into his thirties learning to separate his feelings from his life, counting on nothing. He ate prodigiously, liked a ham knuckle, buttered spuds.

His jobs: distributor of vending machine candy, all-night clerk in a convenience store, a third-rate newspaperman. At thirty-six, bereft, brimming with grief and thwarted love, Quoyle steered away to Newfoundland, the rock that had generated his ancestors, a place he had never been nor thought to go.

A watery place. And Quoyle feared water, could not swim. Again and again the father had broken his clenched grip and thrown him into pools, brooks, lakes and surf. Quoyle knew the flavor of brack and waterweed.

From this youngest son's failure to dog-paddle the father saw other failures multiply like an explosion of virulent cells - failure to speak clearly; failure to sit up straight; failure to get up in the morning; failure in attitude; failure in ambition and ability; indeed, in everything. His own failure.

Quoyle shambled, a head taller than any child around him, was soft. He knew it. "Ah, you lout," said the father. But no pygmy himself. And brother Dick, the father's favorite, pretended to throw up when Quoyle came into a room, hissed, "Lardass, Snotface, Ugly Pig, Warthog, Stupid, Stinkbomb, Fart-tub, Greasebag," pummeled and kicked until Quoyle curled, hands over head, sniveling on the linoleum. All stemmed from Quoyle's chief failure, a failure of normal appearance.

A great damp loaf of a body. At six he weighed eighty pounds. At sixteen he was buried under a casement of flesh. Head shaped like a crenshaw, no neck, reddish hair ruched back. Features as bunched as kissed fingertips. Eyes the color of plastic. The monstrous chin, a freakish shelf jutting from the lower face.

Some anomalous gene had fired up at the moment of his begetting as a single spark sometimes leaps from banked coals, had given him a giant's chin. As a child he invented stratagems to deflect stares: a smile, downcast gaze, the right hand darting up to cover the chin.

His earliest sense of self was as a distant figure: there in the foreground was his family; here, at the limit of the far view, was he. Until he was fourteen he cherished the idea that he had been given to the wrong family, that somewhere his real people, saddled with the changeling of the Quoyles, longed for him. Then, foraging in a box of excursion momentoes, he found photographs of his father beside brothers and sisters at a ship's rail. A girl, somewhat apart from the others, looked toward the sea, eyes squinted, as though she could see the port of destination a thousand miles south. Quoyle recognized himself in their hair, their legs and arms. That sly-looking lump in the shrunken sweater, hand at his crotch, his father. On the back, scribbled in blue pencil, "Leaving Home, 1946."

At the university he took courses he couldn't understand, humped back and forth without speaking to anyone, went home for weekends of excoriation. At last he dropped out of school and looked for a job, kept his hand over his chin.

Nothing was clear to lonesome Quoyle. His thoughts churned like the amorphous thing that ancient sailors, drifting into arctic half-light, called the Sea Lung; a heaving sludge of ice under fog where air blurred into water, where liquid was solid, where solids dissolved, where the sky froze and light and dark muddled.

Browsers.

A humorous moment from last night.

I went out with Jen and her new boyfriend (I had not met him yet) for drinks at a bar in Hoboken. I haven't seen Jen since we went to go see Rambo and that is just not right!

So Jen and I had MUCH to catch up on - not to mention the fact that I was meeting the boyfriend - and it was all very exciting and awesome. I loved him. We had a great time together, all of us, and he couldn't have been more lovely, and a gentleman, and funny, and good to Jen, and all that good stuff. Great night.

At one point we had so many different threads of conversation going at the same time, that - as one - we all came to a pause, not sure which thread to follow. I mean, nobody said anything - but we all kind of took a breath - and then Jen's boyfriend said, "We have about 20 browsers open right now. I think we need to close a couple before we move on."

I am STILL laughing about that.

And we did! We went through our browsers (of conversation) - tied up loose ends in a couple of them so we could "close" that "browser" and then we all felt much much better.

The Favor: directed by Eva Aridjis

My review now up at House Next Door.

Rock-Paper-Scissors

Congratulations are in order to Mark Cleland, Ireland's newest rock-paper-scissors champion.

Every sentence in that story is a delight.

'I didn't go into the heats with any particular strategy, but as the final approached I practised with friends and focused on improving my concentration and stamina.'

Brilliant.

Thank you to Carrie for sending it along!

And it should be of special interest to my dear cousin Kerry who stars in the upcoming film The Flying Scissors, a mockumentary about "the intense, grueling world of competitive "Rock Paper Scissors".

I love people.

The Gallery Players: Man Of La Mancha

The Gallery Players in Brooklyn celebrates its 41st season this year - 41st! - Bravo!!

Last night I made the trek to go see my dear friend Jen in one of her dream roles Aldonza (or: Dulcinea) in Man Of La Mancha. Kind of a neat thing: Jen's mother has played the role of Aldonza four times, in various theatres - and it was in a production of Man Of La Mancha that Jen's mother met Jen's stepfather. Jen's stepfather has a boat called "Dulcinea". Sniff, sniff. So Man of La Mancha is a real connector in Jen's family, so it is just so so awesome that she would eventually get that same role. Passing on the torch.

Believe it or not, I had never seen a production of Man of La Mancha! I knew the story, and knew a couple of the songs (you know, the famous ones) - but had never seen it. So what a fun experience it was, to see it for the first time. I was mopping tears off my face at the end.

But! I also loved how funny it was! I mean, Spanish Inquisition? Prisoners? Funny? Well, frankly, yes. I loved the spirit of the company, and I loved the kind of improvisational feel that they brought to it (which is totally appropriate, if you think of the set-up - with Don Quixote assigning roles to prisoners who have to just jump up and begin "acting" ... ) Everyone was terrific.

Jen killed me. She KILLED ME.

We were roommates for nine years. Nine. Years. That's more successful than many marriages. We have since parted ways, as roommates, but she's one of my dearest friends.

Watching her at the end of the show, staring up into the lights, with tears on her face, a scarf over her head ....

Fuggedaboutit. I was toast.

It runs through May 18th. If you're a New Yorker, you can buy tickets here.

The Books: "Galatea 2.2" (Richard Powers)

Next book on my adult fiction shelves:

Galatea 2.2, by Richard Powers. Unlike Goldbug Variations - which I raved about yesterday - I can't really remember much about Galatea 2.2 except that the love story really struck a chord with me. It's poignant, it's bittersweet ... it has that fine beautiful ACHE that I know so well ... Powers writes about it perfectly. I remember where I was in my life when I read this book - a strange surreal time - the summer of 96 ... when Mitchell got his diagnosis and when he got married. I was living on 63rd Street with two other people, neither of whom I knew - I was staying in a room that had a big blanket up as a fourth wall ... no closets, nothing ... it was surreal, to be having such an intense time in my life (like: sobbing myself to sleep intense) and be living with strangers, and to have NO privacy whatsoever. As in: NO DOOR. And for some reason, my memory of Galatea 2.2 is all wrapped up in that summer ... And so that's probably why all I remember of the book is the love story. But I don't even remember the particulars - just the feeling it brought that Powers was expressing my sense of unrequited lost love perfectly.

The book's protagonist is named Richard Powers. He has lived abroad for years, and he has also written four novels (Richard Powers himself had written four novels before Galatea 2.2). Powers has come back to the States to be the artist-in-residence at some huge center for advanced study. He somehow gets involved in a project that has as its goal to create a human brain through computer-based networks. I don't know - synapses firing, computer chips ... something ... The book really becomes about a meditation on life itself (as so many of Powers' books do). What is life? Where is it? Can any of us touch it? Powers is instructed to teach this computer all of the great books in the canon - basically filling its microchips with literary information from the Dawn of Time. So that's how Powers spends his time. Pouring Great Literature into the computer - which gradually becomes smarter and smarter - until it seems to develop something of a consciousness. It wants to know its own name, for example.

Now. What the heck was it about the love story that moved me so much?? I wish I could remember more. Funny what remains in the memory. I am pretty sure that Powers has been living abroad for a reason - to run away from a failed love affair that devastated him - and so being back has brought up all these memories. Of "Her".

Regardless of the rest of the book surrounding it (and like I said I wish I could remember more) - it has one of my most favorite paragraphs in any book ever:

One ought to be able to hold on to anything. Anyone. It did not matter who, so long as they were there. Yet the first one, this picture said, the generative template for all that you might come to care for in this place, your buddy, your collaborator in plying life: that is the one you recognize. You learn that voice along with learning itself. You can only say, "Yes, to everything" once. Once only, before your connections have felt what everything entails.

God, that kills me.

And it killed me back then in that hot miserable summer when I learned about Mitchell and I learned about him getting married. I felt totally bereft. Galatea 2.2 was a comfort to me in those terrifying days.

Flipping through the book now makes me want to read it again.

I wanted to find a resonant excerpt that had to do with the love story Powers describes in the book (is it really Richard Powers in the book? What is fiction? What is autobiography?) ... and so here it is.

Strange how a book can act as a time-traveler. A transporter. I read this excerpt and I see my claustrophobic room on 63rd Street, with the blanket for the wall, and I see myself lying in bed, clutching my pains to myself, trying to get through the day.

Must read again.

EXCERPT FROM Galatea 2.2, by Richard Powers.

My decade of letters to C. came back, fourth class. No note. But then, I didn't need one. Any explanation would just be something I would be obliged to send back in turn. I was supposed to follow suit, return hers. I told myself I would, as soon as I found a mailer and could get to the post office.

I laid the bundle in the back of a drawer, alongside the lock whose combination I'd forgotten. I told myself the scrap might be useful all the same. Useful, despite everything, in some other life some other me might someday live.

One day, tripping blindly into it, I finished my last novel. I made my final edit, and knew there was nothing left to change. I could not hang on to the story in good faith even a day longer. I printed the finished draft and packed it in the box my publishers had just used to send me the paperback copies of my previous one.

I sealed the carton with too much packing tape and sat staring at it where it lay on my kitchen counter. I thought of C.'s great-grandmother, who, before she turned twenty, had buried three such shoe boxes of stillborns in the grove above E. I asked myself who in their right mind would want to read an ornate, suffocating allegory about dying pedes at the end of history.

The calculation came a little late. I biked the box down to the post office and shipped it off to New York, book rate. New York had paid for this casket in advance. They couldn't afford to be depressed by what I'd done. The long science book had been a surprise success. They were hoping to manufacture a knock-off. I hadn't given them much of a chance.

The moment the manuscript left my hands, I went slack. I felt as if I'd been in regression analysis for three years. At long last, I had revived the moment of old trauma. But instead of catharsis, I felt nothing. Anesthesia.

What was I supposed to do for the rest of my life? The rest of the afternoon alone seemed unfillable. I went shopping. As always, retail left me with an ice-cream headache.

I figured I might write again, at least once, if the thing could start with that magic first line. But the train - that train I asked the reader to picture - was hung up at departure. It did its southward stint. Then it was gone, leaving me in that waiting room slated on the first timetable.

To figure out where the line was heading, I had to know where it had been. I felt I must have heard it out loud: the opener of a story someone read to me, or one I'd read to someone.

When C. and I lived in that decrepit efficiency in B., we used to read aloud to each other. We slept on the floor, on a reconditioned mattress we'd carried on our heads the five blocks from the Salvation Army. Our blanket was a piling brown wool rug we called the bear.

We huddled under it that first midwinter, when the temperature at night dropped so low the thermometer went useless. After a point, the radiators packed it in. Even flat out, they couldn't keep pace with the chill blackness seeping through brick and plaster. The only thing that kept us, too, from giving in and going numb were the read-alouds. Then, neither of us wanted to be reader. That meant sticking hands above the covers to hold the book.

It would get so cold our mouths could not form the sounds printed on the page. We lay in bed, trying to warm each other, mumbling numbly by small candlelight - "Silver Blaze," Benvenuto Cellini - giggling at the absurd temperature, howling in pain at the touch of one another's frozen toes. We were the other's entire audience, euphoric, in the still heart of the arctic cold.

That's how I remembered it, in any case. Maybe we never spoke the notion out loud, but just lying there in the soft, frozen flow of words filled us with expectation. The world could not get this brittle, this severe and huge and silent, without its announcing something.

Somewhere, some shelf must still hold a book with broken black leather binding. A blank journal in which C. and I wrote the titles of all the books we read aloud to each other. If I could find that log, I though, I might search down the first lines of every entry.

Our life in B. was a tender playact. That dismal rental, a South Sea island invented by an eighteenth-century engraver. C. guarded paintings at the Fine Arts. I wrote expert system routines. For pleasure, we etched a time line of the twentieth century onto the back of a used Teletype roll that we pasted around the top of the room. The Peace of Beijing. Marconi receives the letter "S" from across the Atlantic. Uzbekistan absorbed. Chanel invents Little Black Dress. The limbo becomes national dance craze.

We furnished our first nest with castoffs. Friends alerted us to an overstuffed chair that someone on the far side of the ballpark was, outrageously, throwing out. No three dishes matched. We owned one big-ticket item: a clock radio. Every morning, we woke to the broadcast calls of birds.

When we weren't reading to each other, we improvised a narrative. The courtyard outside our window was an autograph book of vignettes waiting to be cataloged. The scene below played out an endless penny merriment for our express amusement.

Cops rode by on horseback. Robbers rode by in their perennial hull-scraping Continentals. Parent-free children mined the bushes for dirt clumps to pop in their mouths. A conservatory student blew his sax out the open window, even in December. He threaded his way precariously up a chromatic octave, the cartoon music for seasickness. That's how I would describe it in the book I still had no idea I would write. The player always, always missed the A-flat on the way up but hit it, by chance, on descending. "Something to do with gravity," C. joked.

Youngish adults in suits came by selling things. They represented strange and fascinating causes, each more pressing than the last. When the canvassers buzzed our intercom, we sometimes shed some small bills. Or we made the sound of no one home.

A heavy woman on workman's comp who walked with a cane hobbled by at regular intervals to air out her dog. The dog, Jena, who we decided was named after the battle where Hegel watched Napoleon rout Prussia, was even more fossilized than its owner. Jena would stand thick and motionless, halfway down the sidewalk, contemplating some spiritual prison break, never bothering to so much as tinkle. Its owner, whose name we never learned, waited in the doorway, repeatedly calling the beast with the curt panic of abandonment. The dog would gaze a lifetime at the horizon, then turn back in desolation.

I relayed these anecdotes to C., who lay in bed with her eyes closed, pretending to be blind and paralyzed, at the mercy of my accounts. I elaborated events for her, embroidering until the improbability of the whole human fabric made her smile. When she smiled, it always stunned me that I'd discovered her before anyone else had.

Even while we playacted it, I recognized that fantasy. It came from a collection of ghost stories that a famous editor had assembled before we were young.

I told C., from memory, the one about two men lying in the critical ward. The one, a heart patient, has the window bed. He spends all day weaving elaborate reports of the community outside to amuse his wardmate. He names all the characters: Mr. Rich. The Messenger Boy. The Lady with the Legs. He weaves this endless, dense novel for the quadriplegic in the next bed, who cannot see through the window from wher ehe lies.

Then one night the window narrator has a heart attack. He convulses. He grapples for his medicine on the nightstand between the beds. The paralyzed man, seizing his chance at last to see this infinite world for himself, summons from nowhere one superhuman lunge and dashes the medicine to the floor.

When they move him to the emptied window bed the next day, all he can see is a brick wall.

"That's a great story," C. told me. In the icy dark, I felt her excitement. The world lay all in front of us. "I love that one. I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you for it."

That Night, by Alice McDermott: The beginning

I'm now reading That Night, by Alice McDermott - author of the wonderful and National Book Award-winning Charming Billy (my post about it here).

McDermott often writes from the point of view of an innocent bystander, usually a member of a huge sprawling family of the Irish Catholic variety - so even if you were not a first-hand witness to an event, it doesn't matter. You tell the story of Uncle Jimmy driving the car over the wall as though you were there. Stories are passed down, hardening into narrative. She's so so good at getting that feeling of Boston Irish Catholic diaspora. I can't think of anyone who comes close to "getting it right" - without being twee, or annoying, or full of "oh, I long for the leprechauns of the auld country" like so many Irish-American writers succumb to. It's nauseating. McDermott writes about families who still have the breath of turf around them, they're one generation removed, grandmothers have brogues, etc. I think she's full of truth. That Night takes place in what would seem to be a stultifying suburb atmosphere, early 60s, cusp of Vatican II 60s, and kids roam the streets (the book is told in retrospect by a little girl, now a grown woman, who was truly peripheral to the main events) - and the mothers chat over the fences, and the fathers come home smelling of cigarettes, with slicked down hair. (I love the fathers. Man, does Alice McDermott "get" that kind of father. It's hard to describe. You just know it when you see it. I recognize my entire family, the Buddy Holly glasses, the cigarettes, the little kids leaping through sprinklers, all the Polaroids from my childhood, yes - even this one - in her descriptions of fathers. It's poignant.)

But a while back (and I cannot find the comment even though I looked) I was writing about something - it must have had to do with "openings" of books, as in - how they start, and how challenging they are to write. And Jon, a friend of mine, made a comment that a while back, in a writing class, a teacher had given That Night as an example of a first-rate beginning. I'm halfway through the book right now, but I did want to share the opening - because, man, Jon's teacher was right.

I highly recommend That Night (and all of McDermott's stuff).

Hard to NOT keep reading after something like this. It is a stunner of a beginning. Goosebumps.

EXCERPT FROM That Night, by Alice McDermott - The beginning:

That night when he came to claim her, he stood on the short lawn before her house, his knees bent, his fists driven into his thighs, and bellowed her name with such passion that even the friends who surrounded him, who had come to support him, to drag her from the house, to murder her family if they had to, let the chains they carried go limp in their hands. Even the men from our neighborhood, in Bermuda shorts or chinos, white T-shirts and gray suit-pants, with baseball bats and snow shovels held before them like rifles, even they paused in their rush to protect her: the good and the bad - the black-jacketed boys and the fathers in their light summer clothes - startled for that one moment before the fighting began by the terrible, piercing sound of his call.

This is serious, my own father remembered thinking at that moment. This is insane.

I remember only that my ten-year-old heart was stopped by the beauty of it all.

Sheryl was her name, but he cried, "Sherry," drawing out the word, keening it, his voice both strong and desperate. There was a history of dark nights in the sound, something lovely, something dangerous.

One of the children had already begun to cry.

It was high summer, the early 1960s. The sky was a bright navy above the pitched roofs and the thick suburban trees. I hesitate to say that only Venus was bright, but there it was. I had noticed it earlier, when the three cars that were now in Sheryl's driveway and up on her lawn had made their first pass through our neighborhood. Add a thin, rising moon if the symbolism troubles you: Venus was there.

Across the street, a sprinkler shot weak sprays of water, white in the growing darkness. Behind the idling motors of the boys' cars you could still hear the collective gurgle of filters in backyard pools. Sheryl's mother had already been pulled from the house, and she crouched on the grass by the front steps saying over and over again, "She's not here. She's gone." The odor of their engines was like a gash across the ordinary summer air.

He called her again, doubled over now, crying, I think. Then he pitched forward, his boot slipping on the grass, so it seemed for a second he'd be frustrated even in this, and once again ran toward the house. Sheryl's mother cowered. The men and the boys met awkwardly on the square lawn.

Until then, I had thought all violence was swift and sure-footed, somehow sleek, even elegant. I was surprised to see how poor it really was, how laborious and hulking. I saw one of the men bend under the blow of what seemed a slow-moving chain, and then, just as gracelessly, swing his son's baseball bat into a teenager's ear. I saw the men and the boys leap on one another like obese, short-legged children, sliding and falling, raising chains that seemed to crumble backward onto their shoulders, moving bats and hoes and wide rakes that seemed as unwieldy as trees. There were no clever D'Artagnan mid-air meetings of chain and snow-shovel, no eye-to-eye throat grippings, no witty retorts and well-timed dodges, no winners. Only, in the growing darkness, a hundred dumb, unrhythmical movements, only blow after artless blow.

I was standing in the road before our neighbor's house, frozen, as were all the other children scattered across the road and the sidewalk and the curbs as if in some wide-ranging game of statues. I was certain, as were all the others, that my father would die.

Behind us, one of the mothers began to call her husband's name, and then the others, touching their throats or their thighs, one by one began to follow. Their thin voices were plaintive, even angry, as if this clumsy battle were the last disappointment they would bear, or as if, it seems to me now, they had begun to echo, even take up, that lovesick boy's bitter cry.

"Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses."

Someone really really really REALLY wants to know if I wear glasses. This person is tormented by his lack of knowledge. Every day, he keeps hoping. He keeps hoping if he puts "glasses" or "Sheila glasses" or some such variation thereof into the Search box, he will come across some post I wrote where I say explicitly, "I wear glasses." What, does he think I'm a bad writer or something? Why on earth would anyone care if I wear glasses? I swear I do not understand why some people read me. Do not get it. It's kind of like the whole "Sheila fashions" debacle of 2007, which was pretty amusing.

And about the glasses, yes. On occasion I do wear glasses.

Hope that clears up your obvious torment.

Baby Face, the pre-release version

Baby Face, the notorious 1933 movie starring Barbara Stanwyck, is one of the films that brought about the infamous "code years" - where filmmakers had to submit to self-censorship and censorship from studios. There were things you could and could not show. Seeing a movie like 1931's The Public Enemy - which was so controversial (and Cagney so great) that it required a preface on the screen saying, "WE DON'T APPROVE OF ANY OF THIS" - makes you realize what a startling difference there is between pre-code and post-code. It's obvious that sex is going on in the next room, you can hear the whoops and hollers. The violence of the grapefruit-in-face scene is shocking to this day. I mean, he's just shoving a grapefruit in her face, and it's become a big joke, ha ha, but seriously, watch it again. (Here's the clip.) It's a vicious moment. Not at all "stagey" violence - it's real. It's nasty. Anyway, films like The Public Enemy and Baby Face, with its frank brutal look at prostitution and - God, everything else - suicide, corruption, sex-before-marriage, women's position in society - helped bring about the self-imposed Production Code.

Baby Face was edited drastically before it was allowed to hit the theatres. A moral was imposed (where none existed before). Scenes were cut. Implications were lessened. You know, it became less obvious that Lil had - well - been sold into prostitution by her terrible father by the time she was 14 years old.

Recently, as in 2003 recently, the pre-edited version of Baby Face was discovered. Read about it here. It was an exciting discovery and caused a ripple among film buffs. I'm not one of those people who glorify the Production Code, although my favorite films of all time come from those years. But they are good films despite the Production Code, not because of them. I will not concede to the nitwits who want to neaten up life for the American public who are supposed to not be able to handle it, who decide FOR me what I should and should not be allowed to hear. No. No. No. We do not live in Iran. It's one of the reasons why I love films like The Circle (review here) - because just the act of making a film like that is dangerous. And naturally, it has been banned in Iran. But thanks to new technology and bootleg video tapes and DVDs, everyone has seen it. You can't keep back progress. You really can't. The censors tell you what is proper and what is not - and this is not just about cutting down on the swears and the sex. That's a misnomer. They are telling you how to think. Watch the films being made in Iran right now to see all of that at work. If you just focus on the externals (swearing, sex), you miss the deeper instructions going on: This is the WRONG way to think, and this is the RIGHT way. And I do not concede ground to such people, even intellectually. UPDATE: I knew the Self-Styled Siren had addressed the nostalgia for the Code somewhere on her site - and here it is - Yes. Yes. Yes. Well worth reading the whole thing, but here is a relevant excerpt which reflects my feelings exactly:

Once more, with feeling. The Code was not merely some quaint artifact designed to scrub sex, bad language and strong violence from the screen. It was explicitly political, designed to uphold one view of American life and one view only. Miscegenation was forbidden. So was any mention of birth control. No abortion. No homosexuality. No venereal disease. No drugs. But these subjects were risky for a producer in any case, though certainly some of the topics were broached in Pre-Code movies. No, as noted in Hollywood Goes to War and elsewhere, by far the most onerous provisions for filmmakers were those bearing on political and social themes. Religion and religious figures had to be treated respectfully. Criminal behavior must be a character defect, not an endemic societal problem, much less could social institutions be shown or implied to be criminal or corrupt as a whole. Bad deeds must be punished, and we must never sympathize too much with the bad-deed-doer, no matter the motivation or circumstances. Not that the Code bothered to censor certain aspects of American mores that we find distasteful today. The authors acidly note that Howard Hawks' Air Force depicted the intrinsic disloyalty of all Japanese Americans (or "stinkin' Nips," as the script puts it), and added a tasteful "Fried Jap going down!" when a plane is shot down. Breen passed all that, but carefully excised the forbidden word "lousy."

What the magnificence of the films during that time show is how inventive and, yes, tricky artists had to get in order to tell their stories - without pissing off the prudes. Like the kiss in Notorious. The Code said that no kiss could last for more than 3 seconds. So Hitchcock had them break it up, they would kiss for 3 seconds, pull back, talk, whisper, nuzzle, kiss for 3 seconds again, walk across the room, kissing, pulling back, he talks on the phone, she kisses and nuzzles him, he hangs up, they embrace again - 3-second kiss, pull back, whisper ... It is a cornucopia of neurotic desire. The fact that they do not kiss in a continuous manner adds to the sense of disconnect and also heat between these two characters. The censors couldn't object - because Hitchcock HAD followed their ridiculous rules ... but the end-effect is something far more sexual than any unbroken kiss could ever give. This is an example of Hitchcock getting around the censors ... of making the scene he wanted to make despite the Code, not because of it. People who think sitting with a STOPWATCH timing kisses is a valid way to spend their mental energy are people you really don't need to take seriously, but that you DO need to get around. Sure, make concessions, in order to get your movie made ... but get around those people. That's why films like Notorious or Only Angels Have Wings or The Big Sleep CRACKLE with erotic feeling that is even too hot to touch for 2008 audiences. You repress something, it gets stronger. I mean, the idiotic fights that directors got into with the Hays Office ... sometimes it came down to: "I KNOW this is offensive ... I just don't know why!!!" Howard Hawks' movies were all like that. He got away with murder. He was tricky, intelligent, and arrogant. You had to be.

So to see Baby Face in its pre-edited version (like I did last night) is something else indeed! You can't believe some of it. It would be difficult to get away with this material now - let alone then.

Barbara Stanwyck, in all her sad-eyed trampy excellence (she's so convincing, isn't she??), puts up with being a prostitute (with her father as her pimp) because she can't really see a way out. There's a scene where a politician shows up at the speakeasy, and hands her father some money. Buying his daughter, basically. But Lil has had enough. She has also had a kind of conversion experience, through talking to Adolph Cragg, a customer ... who seems to have a kind and unsexual fondness for Lily. He wants her to develop her brain, and it makes him angry to see her submit to the pawing gropes of the drunken brutes. He quotes Nietzsche to her - which ... just tells you how weird this movie is, when you see it. Nietzsche is omnipresent. Lily ends up reading Nietzsche and realizes that she is a "slave" and she wants to become a master. But anyway, Adolph Cragg keeps trying to get her to read books, etc., and finally has given up in frustration. Lily is sad about this. So when the politician comes over and starts to feel up her thigh (again, much more explicit than any physical contact we would see even just a year later) - she has had it. They end up in a physical fight, and she smashes a bottle over his head.

Lily gets out, and starts on a course of Nietzschean self-discovery, which basically means sleeping her way to the top. She will no longer be victimized by men. She will take charge, and sleep with the ones who get in her way. It is surprisingly easy. She hides out in a boxcar and is discovered by a nightwatchman who wants to throw her off. She sleeps with him. It is made clear, when we see his gloves drop to the floor, and his dirty hand reach out and turn off the lantern. Lily no longer feels victimized - but there is something really disturbing about the WAY she has interpreted Nietzsche (and Adolph Clagg has a lot to do with it - he tells her to use men, not BE used BY them). Lily sleeps with the entire staff at a bank - going man to man - and the film shows how she climbs the floors, moving upwards in the departments through sexual conquests. Oh, and a young John Wayne is her first conquest in the bank. Poor sap, he actually liked the girl.

Stanwyck is something to see, as always. She is breathlessly modern.

And it's amazing to see, even today, a film that refuses to have a moral. It's shocking. It refuses to judge Lily for her actions. She says it clearly. She was turned into a tramp by her father at age 14 - and so she knows nothing else. It also refuses to judge the men who sleep with her - despite their wives, girlfriends, whatever. It's just ... what happens. No wonder the prudes freaked out. They cut up the film, they removed any suggestion of money changing hands, they tacked a moral onto the end (a sort of "happily ever after" type thing) ... and the movie came out and still was shocking. It has no sentiment (there's a close-up of a page of text from one of Nietzsche's books, where he instructs to lose all sentimentality. The film itself has taken his advice). You yearn for sentiment, you yearn for Lily to soften up ... but no. She can't. Look at the life she has led. She is not evil. She is not a wanton femme fatale, or a man-eater. She is doing the best she can.

Amazing. You can rent the pre-release version of Baby Face now - it came out on DVD in 2006.

Well worth seeing. Not a great film, but a very important film in the history of American cinema. A real watershed moment.

The Books: "The Goldbug Variations" (Richard Powers)

Next book on my adult fiction shelves:

Gold Bug Variations, by Richard Powers.

First off, a link (because basically I don't know where to start). And an excerpt from that link:

There's something — something I can't quite articulate — being said about art here — painting (which figures in the book), literature (by extrapolation), but especially music. It's beyond science, beyond knowing, yet it's key to one's ability to know anything else. Indeed, art and love, those inarticulate things, the only things to really mean anything.

That post, in its entire, makes me cry. It is her first response to the book - a book I read years ago, when it first came out ... and was blown AWAY by. It's not one of those books I would tell just anyone to read - it's too difficult, too huge, too ... brain-taxing - but I did give it to Ted to read - I just knew ... He HAD to read it. So Ted and I are now Goldbug Variations fanatics. To me, the book works on every level it needs to work - and not only does it work, but it upends itself, mirrors itself, goes back, forwards, and then - breathtakingly - sometimes stands still. It is an exhilarating ride. And how do you talk about a book that encompasses ... so much? I tapped into it on such a profound psychological and also emotional level that it's one of the few times, after reading a book, when I can say I felt actually changed. The thing about the language of the book ... it is daunting. It is. I find that fun. That's just me. It's also intellectually rigorous - it's a quest ... that takes our characters far and wide, through all kinds of disciplines ... But also, for me, the book is a piercing love story - and having read Richard Powers' novel Galatea 2.2, which is even more so just about the love story - I can say that he is a master at writing about unrequited love. There was just something about the tone of his writing that clicked me right into that line of the music. And so even during the long sections about Mendel or Bach or DNA .... I still was hearing that chord. I think it's an essential chord to understanding Powers' work. Let's go back to that link from Magnificent Octopus again. I just love her responses ... and the quotes she pulls. It really reflects my own response to the book ... which knocked me on my ass. Not just because it's about so much ... but because of what it had to say about love. I think some people might miss that about the book, or they look at it - and they see the mathematical equations and lines of music running through the text - and might think it's too intellectual, or too "hard", whatever. But in the end: it's all about LOVE. And it just KILLED me.

In the present day, we meet Janet O'Deigh, a librarian in a big New York Public Library branch. Well, the book opens with her receiving a postcard from a guy named Todd, informing her that their "friend" had died. The book then goes back in time - to Jan's first meeting with their "friend" - in the library where she works. Their friend is an old hermit named Stuart Ressler, a dignified kind of ratty old chap ... who works as a data entry processor in a midnight shift with Todd. Todd (who doesn't know Jan yet) becomes really interested in Ressler - who is this guy? What is his story? He plays classical music in the break room, and goes off into a trance ... Todd decidees to do a little research and shows up at the library, which is how HE meets Jan. He is looking to find out who this Stuart Ressler guy is. (I'm just talking about the plot now, not all the swirling subtext). Eventually, they discover that Stuart Ressler was, in 1957, part of a team of scientists hired to try to crack the DNA code. There were teams all over the country, and Ressler, a young man at the time, was one of them. But why did he drop out? Why wasn't he scientist anymore? Why does he work the midnight shift in data entry? The book sweeps us back and forth - from multiple times in the present: Jan, by herself, after Todd has somehow left (we don't know why ...) - and she sets herself the task of researching everything she can that will help her understand Dr. Ressler - so she's studying biology, chemistry, microbiology - oh yeah, and also music. Specifically Bach's Goldberg Variations as played by Glenn Gould in a famous recording. We also see, a bit further back, Todd and Jan befriending the elderly Stuart Ressler ... and beginning to get to know his story. The book also takes us back, far back, into 1957 ... with a young Stuart Ressler traveling to a college campus in the midwest, to join a team of code-crackers. It's two books, running along side by side.

The book has a very intricate design: it is a double helix, first of all - and second of all - it mirrors all of the movements of Bach's famous piece of music. I would need to understand far more about the music (and DNA, I suppose) to pick up on the multiple strands woven through here. Suffice it to say ... in The Goldberg Variations, Bach starts with a simple theme, easily heard ... which then morphs and submerges itself - over the variations - although the theme is always here - it just is inverted, or down a third, or whatever - you have to know where to look for it ... but the thing is: It's there. So The Goldbug Variations (yes, Poe's famous story is an important plot-point) follows the theme of "The Goldberg Variations" - as well as the structure of DNA. It takes my breath away.

Richard Powers is a phenom, and his books are not always comprehensible. There have been a couple I had to put down. But this one and Galatea 2.2 rocked me to my core. He writes about love - the experience of love - not exactly the fulfillment of it - but what it feels like to love - like no other author.

The Goldbug Variations is a book that is about codes ... and it is also a code in and of itself.

It's a breathtaking work of literature. I can't say enough about it.

Here's an excerpt. Jan's research into DNA and enzymes and all that - is a way to know and understand Stuart Ressler better. Who was this man, and what did he see back in 1957 that made him walk away? What is left undone?

How can cells and molecules and enzymes put together end up in the miracle of a human being? How does that happen?? Also: how can we, who are made up of those elements, how can we investigate ourselves? Stuart Ressler walked away from that question. He couldn't take it.

And let's not forget - that the book is also a double love story. And so often we talk about love in metaphors. It's difficult to describe its essence. And so often scientists talk in metaphors - making things either visual or comprehensible - to us, the layman audience, or even to themselves. Dr. Ressler wants to get past metaphor in his understanding of DNA and genetic inheritance. It is his only ambition in life. And Jan and Todd, trying to understand Dr. Ressler, also want to get past metaphor. They want to understand him, his essence ... can they name it? And by naming something, do you take away its essence?

I am in awe of Richard Powers. He is magnificent.

EXCERPT FROM Gold Bug Variations, by Richard Powers.

Landscape with Conflagration

I've reached a sticking point in my homework, the background reading that must take me inside the man. Not a barrier to comprehension: I remember, flexing my intellect again this season, that given time, I have the capacity to tackle anything, however formidable. And I have more than enough time - time spreading from sunny sahara mornings alone over onion bagels and oranges to arctic nights, postponing sleep as long as possible, armed with only thick books and a headboard lamp. I've hit a barrier not to comprehension but credulity. How can an assortment of invisible threads inside one germ cell record and pass along the construction plans of the whole organism, let alone the cell housing the threads themselves? I've grasped the common metaphor: the blueprint gene somehow encodes a syntactic message, an entire encyclopedia of chemical engineering projects. I feel the thrill of attaching abstract gene to physical chromosome. But it remains analogy, lost in intermediary words.

The task Dr. Ressler set himself was merely - and only he could have thought "merely" - to capture the enigma machine that tweaks this chromosomal message into readability. Did he believe that nothing was lost in translation as signals percolated up from molecules in the thread into him, that brain, those limbs, that hurt, alert face? Searching for his own lexicon required faith that the chemical semaphore could serve as its own rosetta, faith that biology too could be revealed through its particulars. Faith that demonstration could replace faith.

It grows like a crystal, this odd synthesis of evolution, chemistry, and faith, spreads in all directions at once, regular but aperiodic. By Ressler's birth, enzymes - catalysts driving the chemical reactions of metabolism - were identified as proteins. The structure of proteins - responsible for everything from the taste of sole to the toughness of a toenail - strikes me as ridiculously simple: linear, crumpled necklaces of organic pearls called amino acids. What's more, the protein necklaces directing all cell processes consist of series of only twenty different amino acid beads.

It seems impossible: twenty can't be sufficient word-hoard to engineer the tens of thousands of complex chemical reactions required to make a thing live. But lying in bed under my arctic nightlight, carrying out the simple arithmetic, I see how the abject simplicity of protein produces more potential than mind can penetrate. A necklace of only two beads, each one in twenty colors, can assume any of four hundred different combinations. A third bead increases this twenty times - eight thousand possible necklaces. I learn that the average protein necklace floating in the body weighs in at hundreds of beads. At that length, the possible string combinations exceed the printed sentences in man-made creation. Room to grow, in other words.

The protein bead string folds up, forms secondary structures determined by its amino acid sequence. The shape of these fantastic landscapes, fuzz-motes as convoluted as the string is simple, gives them their specific, chemical power. Their jungle of surface protrusions provides - like so many dough forms - niches for other chemicals to assemble and react.

But if these cookie cutters - in countless possible fantastically complex shapes - build the body, what builds the builders? The answer appalls me. The formula for the builder molecules as well as its implementation are contained in another long, linear molecule. This time the beads come in only four colors. It says something about my progress in scientific faith that I accept that calculation showing that the possible combinations in one such foursquare informational molecule exceed the total number of atoms in the universe.

But I hang up on the idea of such a linear molecule encoding a breathing, hoping, straining, failing, aging, dying scientist. I find as I read that I'm in good company. If I still ran the Quote Board, I'd use tomorrow that gem of Einstein's when meeting Morgan and hearing of his project to mechanize biology:

No, the trick won't work ... How on earth are you ever going to explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love?

But I no longer run the Quote Board. I run nothing now except the Jan O'Deigh Continuing Education Project. And for that, I have only more history. When counting aminos fails to put me to sleep, I charm insomnia by reading Beadle and Tatum's 1940 work on the bread mold Neurospora. Only seventeen years old when Ressler got his brainstorm, it must have read like a classic to a student raised on it. While the world once more indulged its favorite occupation, Beadle and Tatum dosed mold with X-rays to induce mutations. Raising thousands of test-tube strains, they produced mutants that could no longer manufacture required nutrients. Mutated chromosomes failed to produce necessary enzymes.

With an excitement that penetrates even the sober journal account, they crossed a mutant that could no longer make enzyme E with its normal counterpart. Half the offspring had the mutation and half did not. Enzyme production precisely mirrored Mendelian inheritance. One gene, one enzyme, Each time I read the conclusion, I hear his perverse question: "What could be simpler?"

A unique gene, coding for a unique enzyme: Cyfer inherited as dogma what actually arose only through recent, bitter debate. The limited informational content of DNA - the four bases adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine - did not seem adequate to build the fantastically varied amino acid necklaces. For some time, the size of DNA was underestimated, and even after the enormous molecular weight was correctly determined, many scientists believed that the four bases followed one another in repeating order. Redundant series carry no more information than a news program repeating, "Earlier today, earlier today ..."

DNA was long rejected as the chromosomal message carrier. Some researchers believed that proteins themselves were the master blueprint, even though every protein would require others to build it. Avery blazed the trail out of confusion. His 1944 paper showed that the substance transforming one bacterial strain to another was not protein but DNA. Inheritance was rapidly being reduced from metaphor to physical construct. DNA was a plan that somehow threaded raw amino acid beads into proteins. These protein chains in turn catalyzed all biological process. Cyfer's question - the coding problem - was how a long string of four types of things stood for thousands of shorter, twenty-thing strings.

Before the problem could even be posed, scientists had first to determine a structure for DNA that fit the evidence. The structure fell the year Ressler attained legal adulthood, one of the most celebrated solutions in science. X-ray diffractions of crystalline nucleic acid suggested a helix. The beautiful Chargaff Ratios demanded the amount of adenine equal that of thymine, guanine equal cytosine, and G + A equal C + T. DNA presented too many structural possibilities to be cracked by standard organic analysis. By starting with the constraints in Franklin's and Wilkins's data, Watson and Crick tinkered with cutouts until the shoe dropped. They hit upon the double helix, where complementary base pairs - G pairing always with C, A always with T - form the spiral rungs.

Temperament, coded in long strings of base pairs, plays a big part in any interpretation of data. The full ramifications of the model were not quickly grasped. It followed neatly that chromosomes were just supercoiled filaments of DNA. Mendel's genes were simply sections of chromosome, a length of spiral staircase - say ten thousand base-pair rungs spelling out auburn hair. But using four letters to convey the content of all living things seemed like transmitting every Who's Who of this century in staticky dots and dashes across a copper filament.

How was the message read? How to determine the language of the cipher? Understand that question and I've understood him. Dr. Ressler, receiving intact the work of the structurists, trained his temperament on the smallest end of the genetic spectrum, the connecting link. The task given him was to determine how twin-helical sequences of four bases

...A-C-C-G-T-G-T-G-A-A-C-G-G...
...T-G-G-C-A-C-A-C-T-T-G-C-C...

strung amino acids into enfolded protein:

...threonine-valine-tryptophan ...

Dr. Ressler's question was not primarily cytological or chemical or even genetic, although it was all these. Heredity's big hookup lay in information, pure form. It floated agonizingly close in the air, an all-expenses-paid trip to Stockholm taped to the bottom of some chair in the lecture hall. Yet prestige played no more than ironically in Ressler's mind. His was a drive deeper than recognition, a need to cross that hierarchical border, that edge, that isomorph, that metaphor, to get to the thing itself, to arrive at the enigma machine, reach it on pattern alone, reach down and take into his hands the first word, name it, that string of base-pairs coding for all inheritance, desire, ambition, the naming need itself - first love, forgiveness, frailty.