The Sheila Variations

Marilyn the bookworm

A wonderful compilation of photos.

Moira writes:

Beginning this little project of unearthing photos of actors and their reading matter, I'd no idea that Marilyn Monroe would prove to have been one lady who was most often photographed in this most civilized of pastimes.

Speaking of baseball

Stadium Traffic
by Daniel Donaghy

You're on your way home
when a thousand cars
pour onto Broad Street:
the ball game's over.
No one's going anywhere soon.
It's mid-July: eighty and humid.
You smell like all the crappies in the Delaware,
wear the ache of dock crates in your back.
Your buddy lost two fingers tonight
to a jigsaw: boss said go home early,
stay late tomorrow night.
These people don't appreciate
what they have: time to go to ball games.
You get out among blaring horns
and hustlers hawking T-shirts,
walk the yellow lines like a tight rope,
arms out for balance,
all the way to the corner and back.
Broad Street still as a parking lot,
wound tight as a fist.
You pop the trunk, fish a beer
from your cooler, and pound it.
Back in your car, the radio's
recapping the game:
your team pulled one out
they would have blown last year.
You've blown the last year working
nights while your lady works days.
Night work means bad lighting,
and you've had enough close calls.
You've had enough overtime.
You've had enough.
Something has to give.
Somewhere in the distance a dog
is barking, a husband is coming home.

“For this stunt, hire a woman dressed entirely in black mourning, complete with veil, and have her visit the local newspapers. . .

... and ask permission to go through their files for stories and pictures of [Rudolph] Valentino. Instruct her to be as mysterious as possible."

-- Quote from Paramount Picture's press booklet to theatre owners, encouraging them to hire their own "Ladies in Black"

And so they did, although this was kept hush-hush for years. It was part of the legend. Who was this "Lady in Black" who showed up every year on the anniversary of Valentino's death?? A brilliant publicity ploy, if you think about it.

If you are not familiar with the Lady in Black, here's a good summing-up by Suzidoll over at Movie Morlocks, although when you're talking about Rudolph Valentino, there is always more to discover. The myths, the fantasies, the legends ... It feels like ancient history.

Valentino's sexuality was "questioned" from the start. There were probably some issues there, but perhaps it was also unsettling to see a man be so openly emotional, and in touch with his sexual side, and that those qualities are seen as distinctly feminine (a pox on all their houses). There was also the bit about his "foreignness" - his "exotic" face and all of that. He was classically "The Other" and was cast as such. Regardless, there is an anecdote about Valentino that I find quite moving. It's listed on the IMDB page of his trivia, as well as in the couple of books I have about Valentino. It is a spit in the eye to those who think masculinity should only take one form, and who mistakenly believe that those who are not physically rugged are "weak", or not tough.

A few months before Valentino's death, a Chicago newspaper columnist attacked his masculinity in print, referring to him as a "pink powder puff." A lawsuit was pending when Valentino was fatally stricken. One of his last questions to his doctor was, "Well, doctor, and do I now act like a 'pink powder puff'?" His doctor reportedly replied, "No, sir. You have been very brave. Braver than most."

His untimely death caused a worldwide uproar, but you can read all about that in that post.

And if you can, try to track down some of Valentino's movies. There are people who are film buffs who have never seen one of his movies. It was very difficult for years to even get your hands on one of them, but now with Netflix, that is taken care of (at least to some degree). I have yet to see any of them on the big screen. He is exaggerated, yes, and it takes some getting used to. But why I love it is that it is a glimpse of "how things used to be", in terms of acting and film acting. Women swooned in the aisles. Women were in a frantic state of sexual ecstasy just watching this guy. Rather than snicker and make fun, it's a fascinating glimpse at how things change, but also how things stay the same. He is a part of the fabric of Hollywood, and the development of early 20th culture (not to mention the culture of FAME - which was unheard of at that time, at least at that level. Motion pictures changed everything, in terms of instant recognizability).

Suzidoll writes:

Valentino’s films are the most obvious of romantic melodramas, and the acting style is broad and expressive, even for silent films, which is definitely out of vogue for contemporary audiences. Despite the time-bound nature of the genre and acting style, Valentino is magnetic onscreen, making him a timeless icon of sexuality. There’s an energy and verve to his performances that make his costars forgettable. His charisma transcends the corny exaggerated eye gestures and nostril flaring associated with his star image. And, his magnetism is apparent without benefit of his voice. Valentino died a year before The Jazz Singer issued in talkies, forever relegating silent films to a distant past. It occurred to me that I have never heard his voice.

Go read the whole thing.

At last.

All is not right with the world, but at least SOME things can be made better.

A hell of a view

From the 880 AM CBS Radio broadcasting skybox. I loved my "media pass". Thanks to all in the box, for how welcoming they were. It was great to see "backstage" - and man, what a view!

Keeping score.

Cousin Kerry kicks it old-school.

One guy sitting in front of us became curious about what she was doing and asked to see it. He looked through the pages, nodding approvingly.

A still-life

Jimmy deep in enemy territory.

Dear Hope

I have an important message for you, my dear.

RELAX.

I am not going to take your cardboard scratching box away from you.

So you can CHILLAX on the crazy eyes for just one second, and breeeeeeathe.

Trains in cinema

Part 6.

I look forward to each new edition. Some of the images are haunting.

Profile of Alex

A wonderful interview (with amazing footage of the new documentary on her life) with Alexandra Billings, dear friend. So proud of you, hon, and I miss you like crazy. Let's do Liza in Vegas and go on that roller coaster again. Enough is enough. And awesome that you mentioned Laurette Taylor in your interview. Rock on.

Status updates

Facebook and Twitter have infiltrated my life. I know it's been quiet round these parts. I am spending all of my time off-line with a writing project that has taken up the brain-space and creativity. I think in terms of status updates now.

-- Booked the space for the reading of my script.

-- This will be the first "formal" reading. Invited audience.

-- We did read one of the scenes back in June in LA with a small group of people. It went great.

-- Work has continued on it in a disciplined and feverish manner despite how bad this summer has been. Discipline.

-- I had David and Jen come over one night in August, to just hear the latest draft of one of the scenes I had written. It engendered a lot of great discussion. I could write an entire essay about what it is like to hear two actors read words that I have written. The first time was out in LA, and it was truly a highwater mark for me, in terms of confidence and also drive. It was an incredible thing.

-- Meanwhile, cousin Mike and I have had numerous conversations about it, which would then send me back to edits - my favorite kind of productive work. I love problem-solving. When I wrote my book I loved that part of it as well. Some authors find that part (getting critiques, and then "fixing" stuff) to be agony, and I can understand that. Sometimes you see things in a fixed way. It IS what it is because that's how I say it is! I created this! Much time and energy is spent in FIGHTING the edits. Now, there are some edits you should not feel pressured to make, as a writer. If someone is pushing you to do something totally against what you are working for, then you should fight for what you want, but you should also consider the possibility that maybe you haven't said it clearly enough and THAT is why the person is suggesting an edit. See if you can say it better. And etc. Mike has a great ear. Not just for potential jokes (and of course he's awesome at that), but at what I am MISSING. Every scene must push the story forward. This is not about plot. This is about conflict. Script 101. And acting 101. Any actor approaching a scene for the first time has to ask himself, "What is my objective in this scene?" The same is true for writing a script. Sometimes easy to forget that when you are in the bubble of creativity, working alone. It all makes sense to ME. I can hear the whole damn thing in my head! But Mike's perceptive eye would show me other opportunities to bring out the essential conflict, to go deeper.

-- So does David. David has been one of my primary readers all along. He is honest, perceptive, and gets what I am trying to do. That counts for so much. Because he can speak towards the end goal - he can say, 'I see what you're going for here, but I'm not really getting it." Again: I love critiques like this.

-- The time has come for me to HEAR these two scenes that I have been working on so hard. As Mike keeps saying to me, "DON'T TOUCH IT ANYMORE. YOU'LL WRECK IT." Or if I "delete" something, make sure to save it as a revision - so that if I want to add it back in, I can easily do so.

-- David and Jen graciously agreed to be my actors in this public reading, and Siobhan's boyfriend Ben will read stage directions. It will be done simply, the two actors sitting in chairs on a small stage - no moving around (unless the spirit moves them, of course) - and the primary objective is not a final performance, naturally, but it's all about ME, it's all for ME. Does this work? What doesn't work? What can I cut? What is said too many times? Am I being TOO clear sometimes? Because human relationships are messy, and we don't always say exactly what we mean, prefacing it with, "Here's what I'm feeling ..." My guy character is more like that than the female character - he's more talky, more open - but I need to let him be flawed, too, and not be clear, have moments when defensiveness or anger cloud his expression. But I can only really KNOW where these points are once I hear it.

-- So this is all naturally terrifying because, duh, I want to be loved, and I want it to go well. It's all very exciting.

-- It was surprisingly easy to book the space. Siobhan had a great suggestion, to do it at the performance space at Jimmy's, the cute little bar where she bartends. The performance space is adorable - and they do everything from ukelele festivals back there to poetry readings. There's a door that can be shut, so the sound from the bar is not omnipresent. There are little bar tables in the room, and people can grab a drink at the bar, and then come in (crowd in) to listen to the reading.

-- I set up an "Event" on Facebook and invited the world. So far I have 16 confirmed guests, and my agent will be there as well. I am so excited. And nervous.

-- I can think of little else.

-- But I will do as Mike says and NOT TOUCH THE SCRIPT ANYMORE - because I will WRECK IT. I have started to work on the third scene, and this one won't be ready in time for the reading, and that's fine.

-- I think a lot will become clear about what I am ACTUALLY doing when I see how the thing feels in front of a living breathing audience.

-- I am very grateful to my friends who will be there.

I am still rather amazed that all of this is happening.

"all the single ladies ..."

Love it. For many reasons, obviously.

The kingdom, the hamburger, and the glory

It's not even 7 a.m. and my dear friend Alex has reduced me to tears.

Thinking of Quoyle

The National Book Award is celebrating its 60th anniversary this year, and there's an awesome blog set up to commemorate this, with authors writing up reviews of the Award-winners for each year. It's such a treasure trove of content and I am making my way through it slowly, trying not to read too much in one sitting.

Annie Proulx's The Shipping News was, of course, the winner in 1993. I have written before about how that book had become omnipresent in my life even before I had read it, and after I had read it, forget about it. I actually have never gone back to read it again, because my first experience reading it was so specific, so special and memorable, I'm afraid that all of that will change. Besides, entire set-pieces from the book are preserved in my mind, almost word for word, not to mention the last paragraph which I still cannot think about without remembering my response the first time I read it. That book cracked me open like a walnut.

Here is the entry from the National Book Award blog on Shipping News, with two wonderful essays - one from Bob Shacochis (I love his memories of Proulx, of that crazy time in both of their lives), and one from Mark Sarvas of The Elegant Variation, one of my daily blog-reads.

Not to be missed.

I wonder if I will ever read it in its entirety again. It is so representative to me not only of a certain time in my life, a certain season, but also my family, and what it means to be a part of my particular family (my parents finally got so frustrated with my not reading The Shipping News that they sent me my own copy - subtle!), and how grateful I am, and happy, and sad at the same time, that my family is what it is. The Shipping News always makes me think of family. It also makes me think of a man I was in love with in the mid-90s, who also seemed determined that I MUST read The Shipping News, and by the time I did get around to reading it, the situation between us had fallen apart, and so the book is so full (for me) of my grief and sadness in the aftermath, and how much I wanted to talk to him about the book, and why he had wanted me to read it, but by that point it was too late to ask him. It's a theme..

Powerful. Some books are just like that. They act as a kind of converging point, where all aspects of life dovetail. A book that seems personal. Not only were you reading it at a time that you remember very well, but the book itself seemed to have something specific to say to you - to YOU, specifically!

And here, with a clarity I can barely be with right now, is a section from the first chapter of The Shipping News:

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.

God almighty. Nobody like Proulx. I would recognize her writing in a dark alley.

Make sure you read the two essays about Shipping News.

Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?

Because I can't get enough of Tenacious D, and of this song in particular (clip below). It is on eternal repeat. "Wonderboy". My neighbors must be like, "Wow, so glad that chick moved in. So glad I get to hear Tenacious D 24/7 ever since she moved in." Is there anything more ridiculous, more self-parodying, more This is Spinal Tap, than this song? And yet they COMMIT like CRAZY to it - knowing that it is parody, knowing that it is ridiculous ... they fill it with heart and humor ... that may be too subtle for some sensibilities ... but I tell you, it hits me right in the sweet spot.

"He can kill a YAK from 200 yards away ... WITH MIND BULLETS ..."

And yet Jack Black's performance, in and of itself, is magnificent. Magnificent. There's not one part of himself that is removed from it, or detached. It's not snarky. It's a TRIBUTE. A tribute to the grandiose rock bands like Led Zeppelin that inspire him.

I maintain my wild-card position, that Jack Black is a future Oscar winner. At the very LEAST a nominee. All it would take is the right PART. Someone utilize this man. He has already been utilized quite well. High Fidelity - it seems like that part was written for him, and I get the feeling that Jack Black is a master at "making something his own". When he's not used well, he can get general, but that is true of a lot of highly talented actors. He's specific. School of Rock tapped into that specificity as well. As far as I'm concerned, he can do it all.

If "they" just let him.

Or if Jack Black lets himself.

That's the danger with a talent like his. He reminds me of Jack Nicholson. This is a good thing. His own survival instinct is his best ally. He won't BE manipulated. He has the same mischievous spirit, the humor that cannot be tamped down ... he refuses sentiment. He just can't do it. It's not that he WON'T cheapen himself that way. It's that he CAN'T. Neither can Nicholson. His talent helps him wriggle out of tight spots that conventional directors place him in.

I'll tell you why I think he is a future Oscar winner, and it has to do with one moment he had in the movie Shallow Hal. Scorn if you must, but realize, in the midst of your scorn, that you may be wrong. In fact you probably are. If there's anything I know about myself, it's that I have a damn good eye. I recognize truth. I can see phoniness of behavior from 5 miles away. In a social situation and in a film. Now "phoniness" in acting is not always malevolent (as it is in real life). Sometimes "phoniness" in acting comes from a variety of factors: the actor is over his/her head, the direction is terrible, the script is bad ... an actor does not act alone. It is, in its very nature, a collaborative act. Regardless of the reason (and I am all about the reasons), I can clock it immediately. "Phony." "Not real." "Not coming from a truthful place." Many major movie stars cheapen their gift - they can't help it, or they just feel that that is what is required of them to be a star, or (worse) they can't see that that is even what they are doing. They cheapen it by being pressured into being sentimental, cliched, by acting like someone other than who they are. If there is one selling point of the old studio system (and there were many) it's that actors rarely were forced into roles that were against who they actually were. The trend now in acting is "versatility". I find it to be a trend that rewards facile talent, rather than deep talent. If you can do an accent, and have a putty bulbous nose, and limp, and are able to embody a Siberian ice princess circa 4 a.d., then you have "talent". I don't scorn skill like that if it's true skill, and not just a gimmick. But if you look at the Bogarts, the Cagneys, the Stanwycks, the Grants ... they were not rewarded for their "versatility". Cagney didn't play things that went completely AGAINST who he was, thinking that THAT would prove he really had talent. Being able to do accents, and walks, and gestures is skill - and there are some who are highly skilled mimics, so skilled that it actually approaches channeling (phone call for Meryl Streep ... ) ... but "essence" acting (as I call it) is out of style now. An actor who understands his own ESSENCE and can bring it to the screen. Mickey Rourke is an essence actor. So is Jack Black. It's old-school, what they do.

Back to the moment that convinced me that not only is Jack Black talented (obviously) but he has what it takes to sucker-punch an audience in the way that is required to be an Oscar contender. Not to take away from the work he has already done. An Oscar is not the measure of an actor's worth. Cary Grant hasn't won an Oscar. Neither has Gena Rowlands. Or Mickey Rourke. It's meaningless. These people are untouchable.

When I say "Oscar-contender" here with someone like Jack Black, I am really talking about his potential to move an audience (uhm, like Wonderboy does), and to take a specific experience and make it wholly universal. And to do that, alongside his manic comic sensibility, is so rare as to be almost unheard of. So many comedic actors slide into schmaltz when they attempt drama. Comedy requires us to LIKE the comic, but acting has different requirements. Many comics fail in that transfer, because they still need to be liked. Even with Black's abrasiveness, his ability to capture truly unenlightened and yet self-righteous individuals, it's kind of impossible NOT to like him. He's already got that in the bag.

In Shallow Hal he plays a dude named Hal who is, well, shallow. Naturally. The guy looks like Jack Black, yet he seems to feel that he is entitled to a supermodel as a girlfriend. He has a warped sense of himself, which goes hand in hand with a disgust for women who are less than perfect. If he's with a "dog" then what would that say about him? He's rather an awful person. Through various magical moments (one involving an encounter with Tony Robbins), Hal becomes literally unable to NOT see inner beauty. He sees what he believes to be a beautiful babe walking down the street, he hits on her, and is amazed that she responds. His friends are horrified, because we see what THEY see ... the girl has a snaggle tooth, or she's chubby, she has straggly hair ... but he can't see that. He looks around and sees beauty everywhere, beauty that is responsive to HIM. He starts to date the most fabulous girl he has ever met - played (wonderfully, actually, and I'm not a fan) by Gwyneth Paltrow. We know that she is obese, we see her reflections in the windows and mirrors, but HE sees a lithe gorgeous Gwyneth. I was turned off by the ad campaign for the film ("hahaha look at the fat girl ..." etc.) but when I finally saw the film I realized how subversive and pointed its commentary actually was. The best part of Paltrow's performance is that she doesn't play, in any way shape or form, a victim. A sad fat girl. No, she is an extrovert. A fabulous girl, who has a lot of interests, and dreams (outside of finding a mate), who knows who she is, knows her limitations, but really enjoys life. She has opinions about things, she's passionate and funny, and Jack Black (thinking she looks like Gwyneth Paltrow) cannot believe his luck. She likes him? And she looks like THAT? You can see the setup here. I mean, remember the title. What happens to us when we judge people on their looks? When we stay "shallow"? How much do we miss by judging a book by its cover?

The moment in this movie that gave me my "a-ha" moment in terms of Black's ability as a dramatic actor is as good a moment as any heavy-hitting dramatic actor has ever had in any Oscar-contending film. Paltrow's character volunteers in what we later learn is the burn unit of a children's hospital. But we don't know what these kids are in there for at first, because we see them through Jack Black's characters eyes. They are precious perfect little unflawed beings. Paltrow, unlike most fat characters in film, has a LIFE. She has good parents, and a lot of dreams. She's not immediately love-struck by Jack Black in a desperate way. She knows that she has to "vet" him, like any woman has to do with any potential mate in her life. How does he feel about family? How does he feel about kids? Who is he? What does he want? These are important questions any woman has to ask when considering a man as her mate ... and Paltrow, by taking him to the burn unit, is doing that. How will he handle this? Will he cringe from the kids? (But again, the audience, seeing the film through his eyes, are in the dark. We don't know why these kids are in the hospital. They may be sick, but they don't LOOK sick). Jack Black's character, still in the magical dreamspace, doesn't know that what he is seeing is INNER beauty, freely plays with these kids, picking them up, and kissing them, naturally being a beautiful companion with them. Would he have cringed if he had been able to perceive their deformities, their scars, their burns?

Later in the film, the "veil" is ripped from his eyes. The magic is gone. He now knows that his girlfriend is obese, that she DOESN'T look like Gwyneth Paltrow. He does not behave honorably. He blows her off in the worst most cowardly way possible. But he feels terribly about it. He starts to pursue Paltrow again, to apologize, he has broken her heart, she won't answer the phone. He's desperate. He goes to the hospital, to see if he can catch her during one of her shifts. As he wanders around, a little girl calls out to him. She recognizes him from when he visited with Paltrow. Black looks at her. Confused.

We see what he sees.

A tiny 8 or 9 year old girl whose entire face has been burned off. She has a few strands of hair on her head. But we know who it is. He doesn't know yet, but we do.

She says to him, "My name is Sally [whatever her name is] - don't you remember me?"

It is in this moment that the light dawns over Jack Black's face. He realizes what has happened to him. Not only does he realize what he has done to the Paltrow character, but he realizes what he has done to every single person he has ever met. Even precious little beings like this burned little girl.

He can't hide what is happening with him. Everything goes soft and tender. He squats down onto her level, and she comes to him, and they hug. His heart is breaking. His tenderness is beautiful. His voice is loving and soft - "Hi, Sally ... hi, beautiful ..." but he's playing so much more there. Grief is there for him, grief at all of the time he has wasted not seeing people. In his "former life", he might have missed out on this beautiful little human being, because of her burned face. He would have only seen that. And what a tragedy.

Not just for "shallow Hal", but for all of us.

It's my favorite moment of Jack Black's acting. Ever. There's a primal gentleness in him there that seems to me to be wholly natural, nothing forced, and he is brave enough to give us a good close look at his essence. No hiding. He can't do it.

You show me an actor who could have played that moment better, without sliding into sugary sentimentality. Nicholson could do it. Bridges could do it. Cagney could do it. That's the realm we're in with Black.

Whatever he does, you can be damn sure it won't be FACILE.

Or PHONY.

He is incapable of it.

In that vein, let's just enjoy Tenacious D, helping us to rise above the "mucky-muck."

Also: boy can SING.

Go, Rachel!

My friend Rachel, whose last most important gig was hanging pictures in my hallway at my housewarming party, is an Emmy nominee this year for her brilliant work for Justin Timberlake when he hosted the ESPY's. If you saw that gig, then you know that the opening number ("I Love Sports") was an extravaganza of Broadway proportions (clip below), with a cast of hundreds. Rachel, with a writing team, wrote those lyrics, and created the bits that Timberlake performed with such gusto (he was awesome).

I remember sitting on the sea wall last year with Mitchell and Rachel, hearing all of her crazy awesome stories about that entire experience.

Now she's got an Emmy nomination.

I couldn't be more psyched and happy for her.

GO, RACHEL.

The prudish spellcheck on Final Draft

Final Draft is a screenwriting software program which is brilliant in its design. It formats everything for you - screenplays are very specific, in what they need to look like - indentations for characters, voice over moments, actions, transitions - and once you get the hang of it, you can just fly. There is no hovering over your keyboard doing it manually. You can just WRITE, and the formatting happens by itself (once you know what you are doing). It was a gift, and I absolutely love it.

Today I was doing spellcheck on something I had just written.

One of my characters swears like a truckdriver. Final Draft had a hell of a time figuring out what to do with the swears.

For "bullshit", Final Draft suggested "blushing".

For "fucking", Final Draft suggests "flacking".

For "fuck", Final Draft suggests "luck".

For "jagoff", Final Draft suggests "takeoff".

For "crap", Final Draft suggests "cap".

Now this isn't a swear, but I found it amusing:

For "Tupperware", Final Draft suggests "Tipperary".

But my all-time favorite suggestion is:

For "douchebags", Final Draft suggests "doodlebugs".

I seriously need to do a "Replace All", just to see how bizarre my script will now read.

"What should I do with the leftovers?" "Oh, just put them in a Tipperary container".
"Don't be a takeoff, why won't you listen to me?"
"You need to understand that I DON'T GIVE A CAP."
"What the luck?"
"What you're saying is all blushing."
"You need a flacking clue is what you need."
"I don't like his friends. They're all doodlebugs."

The beach

... during a windy sunset.

Snoop Dogg and Nancy Kerrigan are BFFs

I was talking to cousin Mike a couple days ago about my script. I sat in a park on a beautiful day, taking crazy notes, and we talked for about an hour. One of the characters in my script makes a generalization about generations - as in: "Our parents generation didn't do THIS ... only OUR generation does THIS." Mike thought that the other character should call bullshit on this. Every moment needs to be an opportunity for potential conflict, as well as illuminating the issues that eventually will sink the relationship I'm portraying. You know, there are clues from the beginning that this JANK isn't going to work, but when you're first in love you don't notice it. Mike has such a good eye for this stuff. I mean, I'm already DOING it, it's already THERE, but Mike noticed more places for this kind of exchange.

And Mike said, "You know, it bothers me when people talk about generations like that. Listen: SNOOP DOGG and Nancy Kerrigan are in the same generation, okay?"

I am still laughing about that. Imagining those two people being in the same room at the same time.

Snoop Dogg and Nancy Kerrigan. Portrait of a generation.

I may have to steal that line.

O my love, where have you gone.

Here is Hope sitting in her favorite window.

Sometimes the light hits her just so that she looks unbelievably dramatic, especially when the curtain falls in a certain way. I glance over, see Hope sitting there, and laugh to myself, thinking she MUST be tormented emotionally.

Here she reminds me of Mrs. Muir in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, only in this case, she is not waiting for Rex Harrison to return to her. Instead, she mourns the loss of her greatest love thus far: the empty TV box that I had to take down to the trash last week.

Hope stares out the window longingly, not moving.

Where did you go, O love, where did you go ... I will wait for you ... eternally ....

Happy birthday to Lauren Bacall

"He's the ugliest handsome man I've ever seen."

-- Lauren Bacall on Humphrey Bogart

When Lauren Bacall was 17, she modeled for a season for the designers on 7th Avenue. By her own admission, she was not very good at it. Here is what she said, when she came to do a seminar at my school:

"I was flat-chested and very skinny. The clothes of that time just didn't look good on me."

If you think of how female body-types go in and out of fashion, you can see that she is quite right, as gorgeous as she is. Her body-type is actually "in" now. But the clothes didn't hang right on her shoulders, she had slim hips, etc. Not at all right for the time.

However - she happened to meet a man during this time who arranged an introduction with Diana Vreeland, legendary fashion editor of Harper's Bazaar at the time.

Diana Vreeland, who was a bit of a visionary, actually - saw something in the teenage "Betty". Now it is obvious that Vreeland saw what it was in her that would captivate an audience. She saw the "star" - the star that was already there.

So Vreeland put Betty Bacall on the cover of Harper's Bazaar.

Bacall stands in front of a huge Red Cross sign. She has a flat blank face, she stares straight at the camera - there is nothing coy about her. Her skin is pale, her lips are bright red. She doesn't look like what models looked like in that time period. She looks like what models look like now. There is a very clear identity on her face - you can see her personality - which models didn't quite have at that time. Think of the runway models now - how they stalk right at you - with this flat blank "Yeah, this is who I am" stare. That was what Bacall looked like on that cover.

The Harper's Bazaar cover was, as Bacall described it, "the twist of fate that changed my life forever".

Slim Hawks, Howard Hawks' wife, saw the cover and showed it to her husband, saying: "What about this girl?" Howard Hawks had been looking for a project. He was a Svengali, he wanted to create a certain type of woman for movies. He (according to Bacall) had a fantasy about women, and a fantasy about how they should be on screen. He had never seen it before (the quality he was looking for was "insolence" - not "toughness" but "insolence"), and he wanted to find his muse for this particular rare female dynamic. As a result of Lauren Bacall's Harper's Bazaar cover, Howard Hawks called this skinny teenager out to Hollywood to put her under his own personal contract, to develop projects for her - the first being To Have and Have Not - starring (of course) Humphrey Bogart. Her performance in that film has got to go down in history as one of the greatest and most startling film debuts of all time.

Also, you know, there was the little thing of that romance that began on that film.

But before all that came along - Hawks was very careful about her. He wanted her to maintain a sense of mystery and power. She was not just another starlet. He wanted to orchestrate her career- which he ended up doing - brilliantly.

Bacall came and talked at my school, and told a very funny story about those early days, when Hawks was "holding her back", trying to find the right project (and co-star) for her. Bacall said:

"Hawks said to me, 'I have a feeling that you would be great in a movie with either Cary Grant ... or Humphrey Bogart.' And I thought to myself, 'Ooooooh, Cary Grant! That sounds like a good idea!!"

She told us that she had spent the majority of her life "quaking in fear". Hard to imagine, but true. At every step along the way, she had huge obstacles to overcome - of fear, shyness, self-confidence problems ... She was terrified to meet Diana Vreeland. She was terrified of modeling. She was terrified to meet Howard Hawks. She was terrified of what would happen to her after Bogie died. She was terrified to star in "Applause" on Broadway - the musical version of All About Eve (she ended up winning the first of two Tonys by the way). She is ruled by fear.

Her stage fright is debilitating (always has been) and she trembles uncontrollably. Her head shakes (she mentions becoming aware of it on her first day of shooting To Have and Have Not) ... her hand trembles ... it is beyond her control. The "tricks" she performs on herself, to just allow herself to be up there in front of people (head down, chin down, arm down ... ) - are extraordinary, I admire the smart-ness of her coping skills very much ... but lots of people have coping skills and don't become PHENOMS at the age of 19. Her "coping skills" (head down, chin down, look up while head is down so head doesn't shake, arm down, cross one arm over the other) - all of that stuff became her "look", her persona, what she was famous for.

Amazing! What began as a way to stop her head from shaking - became her "trademark".

Bacall is smart. She's not just smart as an actress, but she has the other kind of smarts: smarts about herself. And the choices she made only made her seem stronger, more specific, more herself. None of those invented gestures come off as studied, or stiff. It looks like Lauren Bacall is just one cool dame, who doesn't NEED a lot of extraneous movement. When really it all began as a way to deal with nervousness. I love that!

"I am always associated with [Bogart] in people's minds - 'the greatest love story ever told.' You can't get away from that. He'd never believe it, of course... It's great that he's still appreciated by so many, because he's worth it. He was a very special human being, Bogart."

The famous cover, the "twist of fate" below the fold.

Happy birthday, Betty Bacall.

Tour of bookshelves: The bookshelf on the south wall

This one handled the spill-over of fiction, and then I went full-on to my favorite books in my collection: all of my movie books, and then also my young adult books. That takes up the majority of the space.

The bookshelf in its entirety.

Top shelf. The end of the fiction. W to Y.

My entertainment biographies. I love that Duse sits next to Eminem. Now there's a pairing.

My "making of" books, a quickly growing collection.

Two exquisite awesome books sent to me by Pioneer Woman.

My over-sized art and movie art books.

My movie books.

Up to the top of the next shelf. Now we begin my awesome extensive YA collection!

Memoirs

Letters/Journals

Travelogues

Film criticism

Tour of bookshelves: The barrister bookshelf

My really only antique piece of furniture, this exquisite barrister bookcase is my most prized possession. I would definitely not feel right filling this with battered Stephen King paperbacks. I "save" this bookshelf for either my nice books - gifts from my father, and his friend Barry, my ever-growing Library of America collection, reference books, and then other things - like all my Joan Didion books. Although they are just paperbacks, they are precious to me. They keep me moving, keep me working. I keep them separate. For their good juju.

There's a randomness to the collection here. But that is good and right.

Every book in this precious shelf is dear to me. Not just as a book, but as an OBJECT.

The barrister bookshelf.

Library of America.

My collection of the American Presidents Series. I love these books.

Anne Fadiman. Joan Didion. My idols.

Books from Dad.

My nice hardcovers that I have collected over the years.

A collector's item worth God knows how much. Given to me by Barry, Dad's best friend. It's an original lithograph of Tennessee Williams by Everett Raymond Kinstler - signed by Williams himself - with a note to Barry on the back from Mr. Kintsler. A precious item.

Poetry.

Letters/Journals of Tennessee Williams - exquisite books

Reference / Shakespeare

All my LM Montgomery journals.

Tour of bookshelves: The bookshelf on the east wall

This is my biggest bookshelf. I thought: Okay, let's just load it up with all of my nonfiction and fiction. The heavy-hitters. Let's not try to cram them into the smaller shelf on the south wall, where they would have to be separated out, due to lack of space.

We ready?

Here we go.

Here is the damn shelf in its entirety.

That slimmer middle shelf is for my DVDs, so we'll save that for another day. I decided to put the nonfiction on the left hand side, fiction on right hand side.

So let's begin.

Top shelf, left-hand side:

History (world)

Second shelf:

More world history. Robert Kaplan and Ryzsard Kapusinski side by side. That strikes me as beautifully right.

Third shelf:

More world history

Fourth shelf:

Biography

Fifth shelf:

Biography

Founding Fathers biographies

Sixth shelf:

American history

Last shelf:

I started with adult fiction here.

Now to the top of the next shelf. Adult fiction continuing on, shelf after shelf after shelf.

To be continued.

Tour of bookshelves: The kitchen bookshelf

I wanted my major collection to be in my study, easy access. So. What to do with the random orphan bookshelf in the kitchen?

Just to give you an idea of my thought process: My life may be a mess but my books are always organized.

The organization works for me, although it may be a bit OCD for others. It is important to choose the RIGHT PLACE for a book, because if I shelve it with the wrong genre - I might never remember where it is. For example: Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. It's not a memoir. It's not fiction. It's not "personal essays". It's really a travelogue, and I do have a travelogue section. I love good travel writing. But ... would I remember that I had shelved it in that section? I honestly spent about 20 minutes considering this conundrum. I finally decided: Okay, I probably will not remember that it's there if it's in that section, so let's just shelve it with TWAIN in adult fiction, alongside Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer (although technically, those are kids books - but again, I had to make some decisions there. I decided to put Twain in with the adults - and I decided to shelve Innocents Abroad, a book I LOVE and reference often - with Twain in fiction). I had a lot of that going on. I had to make compromises like that.

But let's take a look at my organizational process. Maybe you book-lovers will relate. I am sure you will!

Here, roughly, are the "genres" I located in my vast collection:

-- History (world)
-- History (American) - I like to keep all that together
-- Biography
-- Entertainment biography - I like to keep these separate - so that Duse isn't next to Einstein. It just makes it easier to find stuff.
-- Founding Fathers biographies - they are a genre unto themselves
-- Adult fiction
-- Young adult fiction
-- Children's books (separated into picture books and kids books. So Giving Tree and When the Sky Is Like Lace are separated from Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing)
-- Picture books
-- Art books (photography, artists, movie posters)
-- what I call "making of" books. "The making of" Casablanca, "making of" Rebel Without a Cause, Cleopatra
-- Books on film directors. Not biographies. Analyses of the directors' body of work
-- Film criticism
-- Memoirs
-- Letters/Journals (I love reading people's letters - I keep these separate from "memoirs" since it's really not the same thing)
-- Erotica - Anais Nin, Story of O, collections (these, clearly, must not be on top shelves beyond reach)
-- Travel writing (there is some overlap here. Paul Theroux's books could also be shelved with "history" - so could Naipaul's books - but I decided to put them under "travel")
-- Essayists - Orwell, Fitzgerald, Joan Didion - I love essays
-- Poetry
-- Reference books (Bartlett's, dictionaries)
-- Shakespeare (he is his own genre)
-- True crime
-- Books about cults
-- Religion
-- Science (I always keep these next to my religious books - always have. Figure let the books battle it out on the shelves)
-- Sports
-- What I call "events". These don't qualify as world history, although many of these books describe events that have world historical impact. By "events" I mean: books about one specific event: Into Thin Air, When Bobby Fischer Went to War, Salt, my books on the bubonic plague, stuff like that. I love this section. It's very eclectic.
-- Politics (mainly Christopher Hitchens and P.J. O'Rourke)
-- Current American history - terrorism, 9/11
-- books about contemporary American culture (Malcolm Gladwell classifies)
-- totalitarian/fascist philosophy (something that some of the recent protesters would do well to familiarize themselves with, so they don't get CONFUSED about the actual definitions of these words)
-- history of theatre
-- acting technique books
-- plays, plays plays

I am probably missing some. But these are my main "genres".

So I decided to fill the kitchen bookshelf with the stuff I don't need to look at at all times. True crime, sports, science, religion, "events" ... It's a gorgeous bookshelf, 100% random, but these are books I hold dear.

The bookshelf:

Top shelf:
True crime/Cults/Mind control:

Science/Religion:

Contemporary American culture:

Sports

Hitchens/O'Rourke - a genre unto themselves

"Events":

My nightmare shelf

Theatre history:

Totalitarian/Fascist philosophy:

Plays:

Again, room to grow. Beauty.

Tour of bookshelves: The three-shelf in my hallway

I knew I didn't want this particular shelf to have books I wanted to look at all the time. I also wanted to avoid (however) a sense of RANDOM-ness. My thing now is organization, simplicity, and ease. So what should go into this bookshelf in my hallway?

It's important to remember where I came from. An apartment that was basically two rooms, and my books completely overwhelmed me. They were EVERYWHERE. It was a situation that became totally unmanageable. Not only do I have my library to contend with, but I have things like collector's editions of Life magazine (I always buy those), and favorite Vanity Fairs, and then my huge collection of Interview magazines, which I can't seem to get rid of. In my old apartment, I had no room to bascially REVEL in my collections. They were shoved into boxes in all of my closets. I never looked at them. EVER. I'm not an indiscriminate pack-rat. I'm not a hoarder, for example. I don't have a lot of random stuff lying around, things that don't mean anything to me that I keep for no apparent reason. That's not my thing. I live a spare life. Everything I own (and have kept) is tried and true. I have a small wardrobe, clothes I wear all the time. I do have a ton of shoes, but whatevs, I'm a girl, that's par for the course. But my books? Every one is part of a whole. It's a LIBRARY, for God's sake. And my collector's edition magazines, and my years of Interview mags is part of that library. It hurt me to live in a place where I basically couldn't enjoy my own meagre possessions.

The way Mike and David built this bookcase was perfect for what I wanted to do. There are two small top shelves, and then a really tall bottom shelf, where I could stack my magazines, and photo albums (another thing I didn't have room to display in my old place, where every surface space available was taken up by books).

So here is my organizational thought process:

Top shelf:
Random funny books that could be classified as "bathroom reading". For me, bathroom reading is my Latin vocabulary book. Don't judge. Also my zodiac books. Funny silly books that don't really fit in anywhere else.

I also put what I call my "political philosophy" books here. Leviathan, The Prince, Aristotle, Plato.

Second shelf:
I call this the "Samuel French" shelf. Best part is that there is room to grow.

Bottom shelf:
Photo albums, all of them.
My Interview magazines. BEAUTIFUL! I love old-school Interview, when it was huge and unwieldy, and I am so glad now that I didn't decide to throw them out in my old place when I had no room for them.

Top shelf:

Funny random books.

Political philosophy books:

Second shelf:

The Samuel French shelf.

Bottom shelf:

Photo albums. Interview magazines. Beauty.

Tour of bookshelves

I had a busy weekend. There was:
-- grocery shopping
-- a three-hour phone call with cousin Mike about my script
-- hours and hours of writing - I probably wrote for 8 hours, all told, over the weekend
-- then, somehow, miraculously, in the middle of all of this, I decided to organize my bookshelves

Since the party when my friends basically came over and set up the apartment of their debilitated friend, and everyone tackled the 30 boxes of books that had sat against the wall since I moved in on July 1, I have done nothing with the books. I am focusing on healing. Trying to keep moving forward. Cauterizing the wound. Not much time left over for homemaking. The first step was to get those books out of the damn boxes, and my awesome posse handled that at my party. People set up a chain, and passed the books up to Kerry, on a chair. I had decided to not worry about order at this point. The priority was to get those books unloaded. Poetry next to radical Islam, I didn't care. Lauren Bacall next to self-help. Didn't matter. So since then ...

Well. I am operating under a deficit of energy right now. There is an anvil on me. I don't walk up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready to tackle the day. It's hard for me. It's been hard for me. So my books have stayed in the random order from the barn-raising. Which isn't really a problem, right now, since I'm not reading.

But for whatever reason, I suddenly just STARTED on Saturday. What it required was EXTENSIVE, and I went at it methodically, slowly, tolerating the chaos, knowing that eventually it would be over. The good thing about it was there was a CLEAR point of no return, which I really need. It was a daunting task. I had to take ALL the books out of the shelves. Organize them into piles on the floor - because the books had been put away any which way, it was impossible to find anything, so I set them up on the floor in ever-growing piles, leaving the worrying about alphabetization and Dewey Decimal organization for later. For now, I had to locate ALL my true crime books and gather them together. I had to locate ALL my scripts and put them in the same area. Etc. The piles grew over the weekend, flowing out of the study into my kitchen. My kitchen was filled with piles of books. If anyone had looked at my apartment it would have looked INSANE, but it was crazily organized to my eyes. It just happened that the bookshelves were now empty and all the books were on the floor, but I knew where the biographies were, where the history was, where the young adult stuff was - I knew exactly what each pile signified. It's not like I could re-organize shelf by shelf, because there was NO organization, and I have over 3,000 books. Everything had to come out.

Because my shelves are now too high for me to reach the top two shelves (glorious) I had to give some thought to how I wanted to place my books. I didn't want, say, my founding fathers biographies on those top two shelves, because I dip into those all the time for my blog and my other writing, My entertainment biographies, too. They all had to be easy access.

So I came up with a plan, that - well, it may end up not working out - but it's too late now! I plotted it out, which books should go where, calculating what each shelf could hold, and the likelihood that I would need to look in said book on any kind of regular basis.

My mother bought me a little step ladder, so of course I can get any book I want, if necessary, but comfort and convenience is key.

That was Saturday. All the books came out.

I took breaks, to talk with Mike for hours, taking notes. Then I wrote until 3 in the morning. Woke up at 7 a.m. on Sunday, and wrote for another five hours. Surrounded by UTTER CHAOS, piles and piles of books, with thin corridors through them for me to walk through.

Oh, and I fell on Saturday. It was a cataclysmic event and I am sure I frightened my neighbors. I have bruises everywhere now. I had a stack of books in my hand, and I was headed to the corner where the "events" books were (I'll get to that in a minute - my genres are, shall we say, specific!) - there were tiny curving thin corridors between the books on the floor I needed to make my way through, through the precariously piled stacks of books. I lost my footing, and down I went. It was an event that could not be stopped. A chain reaction occurred. I could not recover. I tried to, but down I went. The stack of books I was holding went flying in a million directions, and of course wherever they landed, they knocked down an existing stack of books. And then there was my fall. I fell across Fiction and Biography, plowing into the stacks like an avalanche. Six piles of books were obliterated, Maud Gonne toppling into Margaret Atwood, and it took me an hour to undo the damage.

Hope has not recovered emotionally from the entire weekend.

I wrote all night in a fever on Saturday. Woke up, made coffee, wrote for hours more.

Then basically just STARTED and put all the books away. It took me hours.

But like I said, once I passed the point of no return ("I think we've just passed it"), there was no going back. Once I had piles of books filling two rooms completely (not exaggerating) I knew that this was an unlivable situation. I dug deep, and found the moral fortitude to complete my task.

So let's take a tour of my bookshelves, shall we?

I am so relieved to see ...

that my diet apparently is working.

Not only have I lost weight, but I have also become elongated and toweringly tall.

Do I lie in the backseat of your mind?

It should be forever
God told me
We're born into the wrong time

Like so much else, I have cousin Mike to thank for alerting me to this song. Carina Round: "Backseat". It's been the soundtrack of my days for a couple weeks now, because of what I am working on and writing.

In memory: Michael J. Pascuma Jr.

A couple of years ago, I participated in the the 2,996 project: a tribute to the victims of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. You signed up and you were assigned a name, at random, of one of the people killed on September 11, 2001. I was assigned Michael Pascuma. I wrote the following post about him. I had never heard of Michael Pascuma, and did my best to find articles and tributes to him on various victims' tributes sites. Since then, I have heard from two of his three children (who are adults) - Michael and Melissa - and we have corresponded a bit. Today, I find myself thinking, like I am sure I will every year, of the Pascuma family.

Here is the post I wrote, in tribute of a man taken too soon.

Michael Pascuma, Jr., center, with his family on a recent vacation. Left to right are his son Michael, wife Linda, daughter Melissa, and son Christopher.

I cannot pretend to know Michael Pascuma - and in some ways, even writing this tribute has felt presumptuous. I can't comprehend the loss the Pascuma family feels - but I will say this: I can't imagine that another September 11 will go by without me thinking, specifically, of Michael J. Pascuma - and Linda Pascuma - and Michael, Melissa, and Christopher Pascuma.

Newsday article:
Michael J. Pascuma
Broker didn't sweat 'the small things'
April 19, 2002

Every Tuesday morning, Michael J. Pascuma Jr. of Massapequa Park would take a short stroll from the American Stock Exchange to meet colleagues for a breakfast conference at Windows on the World atop the World Trade Center.

"They would conduct business and maybe later tell a few jokes," recalled his daughter, Melissa Pascuma, a fourth-grade teacher at the Shaw Avenue Elementary School in Valley Stream.

Pascuma, 50, worked as an independent stock trader with his father at their firm, MJP Securities. Both held seats on the exchange. The senior Pascuma, 93, still works as a trader at the exchange. Shortly before the terrorist attack. MJP merged with another firm and is now called Harvey, Young & Yurman.

Pascuma's daughter said that immediately after the first plane struck the north tower, her brother, Michael, reached their father by cell phone. "I have to get out of here. There's a fire," were the last words he said to his family. The trendy restaurant was located on the 107th floor of Tower One. Pascuma's remains were discovered shortly after the disaster, and a memorial service was held at St. Rose of Lima Church in Massapequa.

"My father had the most amazing sense of humor," said Melissa Pascuma. "He thoroughly loved telling jokes to the family and his friends. He was constantly generous with everyone around him, and he enjoyed every single day of his life."

She said her father was fond of chatting online with friends and was an avid golfer. "He never worried about the small things. He knew what mattered," she said.

Pascuma's wife, Linda, said, "My husband was a wonderful family man who was very much loved and appreciated by everyone."

The couple would have been married 27 years on Sept. 21. Linda Pascuma called the entire family "Disney-O-Philes." "For the past seven years at Easter time, we'd all go to Disney World for 10 days," she said. A friend served as travel agent and also went along on the trips. The annual event also included her sister's family, bringing the fun-seeking entourage up to about a dozen members, recalled Linda Pascuma.

"Sometimes when my husband got a little bored with things, he'd go off to play golf while we went on the rides and things," she said. "But it always was a trip we'd talk about all year."

Pascuma, who grew up in Richmond Hill, never attended college but as a young man learned the ins and outs of stock trading from his father, still a well-known figure in financial circles who remembers the stock market crash of 1929.

Besides his wife and daughter, both of Massapequa Park, Pascuma is survived by his sons, Michael, a college student at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Conn.; Christopher, a Massapequa High School student; and his parents, Michael and Ada, of Richmond Hill.

--Bill Kaufman (Newsday)

I went to the memorial sites where people who knew the victims could leave tributes and I came across the following message:

You will be missed. Thank you for all of your kindness. I will miss being your customer. Anne Boudreaux (New Orleans, LA )

There were many messages I found from family members, childhood friends ... but this one in particular really struck me: "I will miss being your customer." How many businessmen can say that there will be those left behind who will say, "I will miss being your customer."? That is integrity.

Other people from Mr. Pascuma's life left tributes (some on this site and some on others) - and here are some personal memories of him. By all accounts, Mr. Pascuma was a humorous caring individual, who went out of his way to make other people feel comfortable, who enjoyed his family to the utmost, worked hard, played hard.

Childhood friend Al Husni:

"I will always remember growing up with Michael. Playing ball, hanging out at PS66 with Michael, Chris, Latz, and the rest of the gang. His sense of humor, his gentleness, will never be forgotten by myself or those who knew him."

Childhood friend Robert A. Maltempo:

"I grew up across the street from Michael, moving away from Richmond Hill at the age of twelve. I will always remember the good times we had and what a wonderful father Michael had (he treated me like his son). I remember playing ring-a-leevio until dark, seemingly every evening, at P.S. 66. I remember Billy Speckman and also another friend of mine and Mikes, named Michael (I'm butchering his last name) Krachunis) who lived next door to Michael. Had many, many wonderful times growing up with Michael...his basement that was full of miniature/toy construction equipment, the NY ranger games his family took us to, a row boat trip with Michael's father singing "Michael Row the Boat to Shore" while Mike and I struggled with the oars.

George Moeser tells some really beautiful stories about Michael Pascuma:

I met Michael Pascuma through my sister Jean Barone back in the 1980's when my (now) ex-wife and I visited her and her (now) ex husband Tommy Barone during a Christmas holiday. We attended a party hosted by the family that owned the Mermaid Restaurant. Of all the people we met at that party in Massapequa Park, Michael was the standout. He was and still remains one of the nicest most genuine people I have met in this life. His warmth, demure and canny sense of humor along with that winning smile of his were a true reflection of great soul, something that can not be faked, learned or acquired.

He and his wife opened his home to us as if he had known us all his life. I met his father and talked about his horses. His wife Linda and Bianca became friends. Later that week we met him for a visit to the exchange where he worked, but I didn't know there was the dress code and said he could take Bianca inside and I would wait. Michael thought for a moment then said, "Come on in with me, it will does these guys good to shake them up a little bit." As we went on to the floor, all three of us were pelted with spit-balls and hoots laughter from the men and women working there, all in good natured fun. One of the keenest impressions I got about Michael was that you could sense the friendship and admiration his coworkers felt for him. He later told me, to his knowledge I was the only person in the history of NYSE to walk the floor in a cowboy hat and blue jeans.

The irony for me in learning of his tragic and untimely death was that he took Bianca and I to the Windows on the World Restaurant for lunch that day. I still have the photo Bicana and myself with the Manhattan backdrop taken by Michael. I have another of him and I on the train with him pretending to pick my pocket in an exaggerated pose, this great smile stealing the scene. Later in the week he met us for lunch again, this time to the Carnegie Deli. He didn't want us to miss what he called the best corn beef sandwich on the planet - It was.

When we returned to Tucson, he would sometimes call the Boss Shears, the hair salon Bianca and I owned. Pretending to be a first time customer, he would ask if we took late appointments, saying he would have to fly in from New York. The receptionist would ask Bianca and I if we wanted a late appointment. And one or the other of us would ask what time. Then Michael would ask to speak to one of us, and I would recognize his voice instantly. He would laugh and say he might be able to catch the red-eye, get his haircut and fly back in time for work, but would bring two corn beef sandwiches from Carnegie as a tip for staying late.

Over the years we would fly back to New York on the holidays or a family function. Each time Michael and I saw each other again, it wasn't as if years had past but only days since our last laugh, shared antidote or exchange of impressions.

Years later I was divorce, my sister was also divorced, and had moved to Brooklyn. She and I became estranged and I lost contact with her friends from Massapequa Park. My ex wife kept in touch with my sister Jean and Bianca continued to exchange Christmas card with the Pascuma family, but I lost touch. It was years later when I asked how he was doing that I learned he had died in the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers. That he died at the very same place where he and I had shared laughter over a meal was deeply moving to me. My eyes filled with tears and I prayed the Lord to bless him and keep him in all his ways. I still do.

On April 22, 2005, Michael Pascuma's daughter Melissa had a baby girl whom they named Madison Michael. It would have been Michael Pascuma's first grandchild.

Melissa wrote to her father on Sept. 12, 2005:

Daddy, I miss you more and more each day, month and year. I would do anything to get a tight hug from you, hear your laugh, or hear one of your jokes. There are very few children in this world that have an amazingly exceptional father. I am so thankful I happen to be one of them. You held our family together and were the kindest, most generous human being that lived. You did not deserve this. You are a grandpa now. She carries the name of a hero, Madison Michael. Love you endlessly, Your princess

Michael Pascuma's son Michael (on this page) wrote:

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and will be Madison's first. You should be here sharing this with us in more than just spirit. I wish there was something I could do because I would in a second! There is so much that we never got to do or say and I would do anything for 1 more minute. I was in Miami this past weekend and saw more Ferraris than ever before and I didn't have you to call. For a split second I thought call Dad and then realied that can never happen again. I will never forget all the times we did share and will cheerish those forever. I miss all the things we used to do together and wish we could play one more round of golf. I would even take just being able to hear one more joke and hear your laugh. I miss and love you so much and I'm getting to upset to continue writing.

The NY Times Portraits of Grief piece on Michael J. Pascuma says:

Golf was Michael J. Pascuma Jr.'s consuming passion. He played every Saturday with a group of friends from work, at courses all over Long Island. He watched golf endlessly on television.

Michael, 50, immersed himself in everything, whether it was golf, his family in Massapequa Park or his work as a stockbroker on the American Stock Exchange. Work and family were entwined: he and his 92- year-old father, Michael J. Pascuma Sr., possibly the oldest broker in the United States, had their own firm, M.J.P. Securities, which recently merged with Harvey, Young & Yurman.

"You would think it was a stressful job, but he was never stressed," said his 23-year- old daughter, Melissa Pascuma, whom he called his little princess. He also had two sons, ages 20 and 17. "As soon as he came home, he detached from it and his family was No. 1."

Michael's wife Linda:

My husband, Michael J. Pascuma, Jr., was an only child. Michael worked with his father on the American Stock Exchange. His father is still employed there at 93 years old. His mother is 89.

He was very well liked and a very respected Stockbroker. He was a very fair and honest person. He had a great sense of humor. He loved telling jokes or playing pranks at work.

He also loved playing golf. He played every Saturday with friends. He had started to travel a little to play on different courses.

Most importantly, Michael was a great father. He had three children, a daughter and two sons. His children loved him. He never fought or got mad at them. He would do anything for them. His sons enjoyed playing golf with him. He never worried about the small things. He loved life and appreciated everything he had. He knew what was important. If they made a mistake or if there was a problem he would always say it didn't matter as long as everyone was healthy.

We struggle every day without him and he is truly missed by his family, friends and co-workers.

A laughing kind hard-working family man. Someone I would have loved to get to know.

Amityville Record
September 26, 2001

Michael Pascuma knew he had a great dad. Over the years, he had never heard his dad raise his voice or lose his temper, and he always knew he was there for him and his brother and sister and mother if they ever needed him.

But it wasn’t until Michael Pascuma had a chance to work with his dad at the New York Stock Exchange that the younger Michael realized that his father was a person who treated everyone with respect and kindness.

"Even the man at the truck where he picked up his coffee and newspaper in the morning knew him by name and knew how he took his coffee," said Michael Pascuma. "I saw that everyone liked him and liked to be around him."

Michael Pascuma Jr., 50, died Tuesday morning, September 11 as terrorists crashed two commercial jetliners into the Twin Towers in New York City. He was having breakfast at Windows on the World as he did every Tuesday morning.

"When I heard that a plane had hit the Towers, I didn’t think much about my husband’s safety," said Linda Pascuma. "I knew he worked in the area and occasionally had breakfast at the Windows on the World but thought ‘what are the chances of his being there just as the planes hit?"

That misplaced sense of security was quickly shattered as Linda Pascuma received an urgent call from her son Michael who is a student at Sacred Heart College in Connecticut. "He knew my husband’s schedule because he had worked with him over the summer and knew that on Tuesday morning, every Tuesday morning, he and the other members of the firm met for breakfast there." The young Michael had called his father on his cell phone after the first plane hit. It was a brief, ten second conversation before the phone lines went dead, but his son managed to get one, final plea out: "I told him to get out of the building," said his son.

But like the thousands of others who perished in that cruel attack, Michael Pascuma Jr. perished. Unlike many of the other families, however, the body of Michael Pascuma was recovered and identified.

Linda Pascuma said that is the result of the intervention of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

"Whenever I go on a long trip, I take a small statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that my grandmother gave to me," said Linda Pascuma. "For some reason that morning, when I left the house to drive my husband to the station, I grabbed the statue and took it with me. I believe it was because my husband was the one who needed him that day."

After watching the horrific pictures of the attack on the television, Linda Pascuma thought her husband’s body would never be found and she prayed. "I told the Sacred Heart that if my kids have to go through this to please allow us to have some closure. I didn’t want them to have to live in limbo, always wondering."

Her prayers were answered and the Pascuma’s were able to lay Michael Pascuma Jr. to rest last week.

Linda and Michael Pascuma would have shared their 27th wedding anniversary Friday. The couple met through friends and made a life together in Massapequa, raising their family here. Michael Pascuma worked for NJP Securities, which merged recently with Harvey, Young and Yurman.

She described him as a man who never worried about small things and who enjoyed life. "He would always say to me that I shouldn’t worry about the small things that didn’t matter. He played golf every week; we went on vacations together to Disney World and he even got a chance recently to drive a race car. He was a wonderful husband and a wonderful father."

In addition to his wife and his son Michael, Michael Pascuma Jr., is survived by his other son Christopher and his daughter Melissa, as well as by his father Michael Pascuma Sr., and his mother Ada.

His daughter is engaged to be married next year, a family event that will bring both joy and sorrow to the family, undoubtedly. "My daughter will be married and not have a father to walk her down the aisle," said Linda Pascuma who added that she’s angry and outraged by the attacks.

"My husband was murdered by these people. I am angry because our system let him down. Not one, but two airplanes were hijacked from the same airport. In an effort in this country to be nice to everyone, we didn’t keep our own people safe."

The anger comes in waves, replaced by sorrow and grief. In the next moment, Linda Pascuma cries a little and apologizes. She says that she asks only that people know that her husband was a good man and a good father and that his wife and his children loved him dearly and will miss him terribly.

"We want everyone to know that," she said. "Just that."

(photo took by me, at the Tiles for America display - on the corner of 7th Avenue South and 11th Street)

"We don't know anything about other people. We can only know them from the outside. This is one of the great joys of life."

So says Irish writer John Banville in this awesome recent interview about his new book that has set my mind spinning. There's so much in it. So much to think about.

There are only a couple of writers today where I wait for their latest to come out with baited breath. I scour Amazon and Google to make sure I haven't missed anything. Like the good old days when I pored over TV Guide on a weekly basis to make sure that if Orphan Train was on repeat on some channel, even at 3 in the morning, I would know about it! Some authors (like Nancy Lemann) require much patience because she's only written five books in the last 20 years. For the most part there is silence from her - and she's just one of my favorites, ever. But I will not forget. I remain loyal. There are others, a short list:

A.S. Byatt (you write a book like Possession, and I don't care, I'll read your grocery list. But then there are her short story collections with masterpieces like this - she just excites me tremendously - can't wait to read her latest - Booker-nominated, naturally)

Katherine Dunn (talk about patience. Sheesh, lady!)

Michael Chabon (even his genre stuff, which I don't think is as good. Posts here, here, here, and here.)

Annie Proulx (still haven't read her latest collection, but I am very excited to. Posts here, here, here, here).

Nancy Lemann (Yes, dear gentle Southern comic writer ... you may not have had a giant world-wide hit, but seriously, you got it going on. I will read whatever you write. Posts here, here, here, here, here. You want a lovely read? Pick up Nancy Lemann.)

John Irving (I've been reading this guy since I was 16 years old. He still excites me. Posts here, here, and here.)

Mary Gaitskill (She scares me, unlike any other writer. She's off the charts. She has a new one out too. I just can't read fiction right now. Posts here, here, here, here - and this - my favorite story of hers. Ouch.)

Cormac McCarthy (naturally. If you're not already reading this man, I don't know what to say to you! Posts here, and here).

Lorrie Moore (whose latest book is now taking up all the airwaves at the moment and I am so excited about it - and also avoiding all reviews like the plague - not easy to do, since they are EVERYWHERE - until I am able to read fiction again myself - her latest book is the first on my list when I get back on my feet. Posts about her here, here)

Then we've got the non-fiction people, people who are always on my radar for their latest:

Joan Didion (excerpt here - hm, strangely I haven't written much about her. She is huge to me.)

Robert Kaplan (posts about this wonderful writer here, here, here - there are also his columns in The Atlantic Monthly, which I never miss)

Joseph Ellis (a couple posts here, and here)

A. Scott Berg (posts here, here, and here)

Fouad Ajami (marvelous writer, he's pretty much everywhere - post about one of his books here)

And John Banville - what can I say about John Banville that others haven't said? It's kind of a bittersweet thing for me. John Banville makes me lonely now. I see articles and interviews, and it makes me feel lonely, because I can't share it. His latest is coming out, and so the press begins, because why wouldn't it. As far as I'm concerned, he stands alone - not just in his gift as a writer, but in his fluidity with that gift. There's something CRANKY about him that reminds me a little bit about Dean Stockwell, unafraid to talk about the bad side of the business, never comes off as "whining" (my least favorite word, used by my least favorite people), but as an honest observer of the trials and tribulations of his own chosen field. Stockwell didn't find peace and happiness in acting until he was almost 50. The dude made his debut at age 7. So imagine. He HAPPENED to be good at something (acting), but that didn't amount to much. He tried other things, other careers, but it kept drawing him back. Then, late 40s, he started having some FUN, and the fun has never stopped. Not that Banville was just enduring his writing career until his creation of his pseudonym Benjamin Black (more on that here) - of course not. Banville's a heavy-hitter as he is. His books matter. Everyone talks about them. He's at the top of the heap. But if you read all of Banville's stuff (in order, preferably), and then - you read Christine Falls (by Benjamin Black), it's like: where the hell did THAT come from, and the only appropriate response, really, is to just bow down in awe before the maestro. I don't want to paint this with too wide a brush - but another one of my favorite writers, Michael Chabon, also publishes "genre" books, in an attempt to "rescue" genres from being sidelined. A lovely impulse, but perhaps best reserved for fan-fic. It feels like potboilers to me. Like Chabon, having exhausted himself with Kavalier and Clay (and seriously, I'm exhausted just THINKING about even TRYING to write a book as amazing as that) - wants to just relax. And more power to him. I'll just wait around, as he scribbles away, amusing himself ... but there's a sense (and I know I may be in the minority here) that he's just messing around until he gets back to REAL work. Rather ironic, when you consider that Chabon is a huge champion of genre fiction (mysteries, science fiction, fantasy.) To me, his "genre" stuff just doesn't come off. His latest, about the Yiddish Policeman's Union, is supposed to be a Philip Marlowe gumshoe type book, and in interviews he talks about how fun it was to do that hard-boiled Dashiell Hammett prose, and Brendan and I were laughing about how much he DOESN'T do in the book what he said he did. His sentences are more intricate in that book than in any other of his works. His fantasy of himself as a writer, in that book anyway, was that he was being hard-boiled and blunt, but the reality is that he was wordy and flowery and descriptive as always. Again, I don't begrudge him his experiments, and there is always something to love about ANY Michael Chabon book, but it feels like just that, an experiment.

Whereas John Banville (or should I say Benjamin Black) appears to have so immersed himself in the world of a 1950s alcoholic Dublin detective that you would barely know it was by the same writer. There are certain Banville touches, he's good no matter what he does, but Christine Falls is the work of a great chameleon. It's Meryl Streep submerging herself in accents and homework so that she can then let it all go when the camera is rolling. A.S. Byatt has a similar thing, only she does it in a more "meta" way, by weaving in different types of narrative (letters, scholarly papers, scrapbooks) into the more traditional linear narrative. Banville sticks with the straight story, but you hold Christine Falls up next to The Sea, and it just astonishing the difference. There is nothing in Christine Falls that feels ironic, arch, or experimental. He has submerged himself completely.

Christine Falls is one of the best books I read last year (I read it in one sitting), and the interviews with John Banville during that time are beyond illuminating. I remember my dad saying, "It sounds like he's having so much fun."

Banville's other works (the ones written by "him") are unrelentingly sad (at least I find them so). (Here's a post I wrote about The Sea.)

Here's a link, again, to the interview with Banville that set my mind spinning. I suppose I, too, like the interviewer, "feel like I am in At Swim-two-Birds". What a slicing intelligence he has, what integrity. He's cranky, but he is not unkind. He is precise. He is also emotional. He refers to his writing as his "succubus". This gives you some idea. He contradicts himself, which is the best part. He says one thing in one thought, and then another in another context. His response to all of this is rather amusing, and in a small way I relate - by those who do not seem to understand (or respect) "context". These are the people who try to play "gotcha" with comments you have made, ignoring the contexts. "But you said THIS here, how could you say THIS now??" All one can say in response (in my opinion) is either:

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds", which pretty much ends the conversation - that's why I use it -

OR

"Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)" That about says it all.

There will be those who will never understand that.

There will be those who don't understand Banville's "experiment" with Benjamin Black, thinking that this might somehow lessen his serious reputation.

There will be those who will never understand context. Nuance. Also, you know, that little human quality known as "changing one's mind".

I very much enjoy watching Banville dodge labels and classifications here, without being overly surly or contemptuous. But he will resist the noose. That is his right, as a man certainly, but also as an artist. I don't think it can be under-estimated either, the length of the shadow cast by James Joyce, and how Irish authors, unlike American authors, struggle with that. Anne Enright is very funny on this topic as well. Blessing and a curse, you know. Almost every single interview with a contemporary Irish author brings up James Joyce. Imagine. There really is no equivalent in American literature. He is omnipresent. Annoying. Yet something that has to be dealt with, incorporated somehow.

I am working on a project right now that is taking up all of my intellectual time. If I have a slow moment, my mind circles back to it. I'm in the thick of it now. It has been read by some, I am editing and creating as I go, and there are things I am working on. There are problems that need to be solved.

The quote that I chose to put in the title of this post really sliced to the heart of the matter:

"We don't know anything about other people. We can only know them from the outside. This is one of the great joys of life."

It seems to me that that is the thing. That is THE THING that I am trying to get at. But to write about it, to capture that ... and not just the sense of alienation and separation - but also (so Irish!) - that last bit: that "this is one of the great joys of life" - Ouch, what a complex and beautiful thought. It has been with me all day.

I think that's what I need to think about. I mean, I have been, that is exactly what I have been working on in this project - but it had been a bit muddy. I was reaching out in the dark for it, and there it is, boiled down - into the beautiful Banville clarity - bleak and yet somehow redemptive.

Can't wait to read his latest.

I'm just glad he's out there. Makes me feel happy. Yes, lonely too. But I love him.

Two things can exist at the same time.

Happy birthday, H.D.

The poet Hilda Doolittle (known as H.D.) was born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on September 10, 1886.

It is difficult for me to really realize that she was born in Pennsylvania and not Liverpool, her name sounds so My Fair Lady-ish. She spent the majority of her life outside of America, but she was, indeed, American-born. Known as "H.D.", she is another one of those poets who benefited from her friendship (and also, sometimes love-affair with) Ezra Pound (more on Pound here). She had met him early on in America, and once she got to England, he arranged the introductions necessary to get her close to the heart of those with pull and power. Pound was at the center of the literary circles in Europe, and he was instrumental in introducing her into that world. She was also very good friends with Marianne Moore (more on her here) - I think their friendship dated back to college - they both went to Bryn Mawr.

H.D. was at the center of the Imagist movement in poetry, and is thought of as its finest representation. She lived long, however, and died in 1961, so her poetry moved on from its Imagist phase - and her most prolific and successful time as a poet was in the 50s and 60s. Pretty amazing. Her first poems were published in 1913.

When you read even a sketch of her biography, it is amazing the people with whom she intersected. She had one of those lives. She lived near the center of all of the literary and cultural upheaval of the time. She hung out with Amy Lowell, and Ford Madox Ford. Amy Lowell was responsible for bringing H.D.'s work to America.

H.D. was married, but it didn't work out. She had a long relationship with D.H. Lawrence, before finally settling down with Bryher, a woman - her companion for years, until she died. The two moved to Paris, where they hung out with the literary ex-pat community (I mean, what I would not give for a time machine, to go hang out at one of the cafes or bars with all those poetic ex-Americans whooping it up!), and also got involved in the burgeoning business of film-making, forming a production company. So not only did H.D. hang out with Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, but also Sergei Eisenstein.

As if all of that isn't enough, H.D. suffered a couple of nervous breakdowns and it was recommended to her that she start analysis (a revolutionary idea at the time). She was given the name of a psychiatrist. You know, maybe he could help her out with her problems. That dude's name was Sigmund Freud.

Okay, enough with her personal life which could fill several books.

H.D. had a lifelong love affair with all things classical, and made many pilgrimages to Greece. It was her main inspiration.

Here's a really nice post from Ted about H.D. Some great links to follow with more information about this fascinating talented woman.

Like the rest of the Imagists, H.D. was interested in direct expression (even more so than her contemporaries) - their way of rebelling against the Victorian curlycues and lengthy sentimental descriptions. H.D., at times, seems to be experimenting with how few words she can actually use. Pare it down, pare it down. Her early poems have real energy. They almost look like fragments - reminiscent of Emily Dickinson (at least what the poems look like on the page) - and H.D.'s intellectual and emotional obsession with all things Hellenic come into play here. It is almost as though those Imagist poems are fractured statues from ancient Greece - perfect, eloquent, simple, and evocative. They look like what they evoke. H.D.'s idol was Sappho (not hard to imagine why), and her overriding desire was to be overwhelmed (which explains her interest in mysticism later in her life). She wanted the poem to act as an agent, something that would not only transport her, but obliterate her. She seeked transcendence, a state of being that was exalted, high-flung. Not easy to sustain.

I love H.D.'s description of Pound from Glenn Hughes' Imagism and the Imagists. Here, Pound acts like an agent, an old-school theatrical agent or manager, wrestling her into position - pushing her towards the "new" - and even giving her her new and mysterious moniker:

Ezra Pound was very kind and used to bring me (literally) armfuls of books to read ... I did a few poems that I don't think Ezra liked ... but later he was beautiful about my first authentic verses .. .and sent my poems in for me to Miss Monroe [the editor of Poetry magazine]. He signed them for me, 'H.D., Imagiste.' The name seems to have stuck somehow.

H.D.'s poems, stark and simple as they are, reverberate with energy, anguish, and power. She's marvelous.

Here's her poem "Helen", written in 1924.

Helen

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

Here, in "Heat", you can feel her yearning for transcendence, obliteration almost. Some of this predicts Sylvia Plath's later imagery, of burning, turning to ash, rising up, etc. The short lines, connoting a breathless voice, passionate, maybe a bit hysterical, love indistinguishable from pain (notice the word "rend" - it's violent).

Heat

O WIND, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

And I love her poem "Lethe". I love its incantatory rhythm. It's almost frightening in its repetitive quality.

Lethe

NOR skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.

Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of linnet,
Nor of thrush.

Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss.

Happy birthday, H.D.!

The Two Days That Came Before

September 9

Early evening.

I rushed to meet my sister Siobhan for a drink. We were convening at Astor Bar, one of my favorite places in the city (sadly, it is now something else. Still a cool club, but not my Astor Bar). It's in a central location, it was close to Siobhan's job - it was also right around the corner from where 2 of my cousins lived - so it was a great "let's meet there" spot. Especially if it was early in the evening. After 10:30, there would be a line down the block, so we avoided it then - but to start off a night? It was perfect. Astor Bar was the O'Malley-family jumping-off point.

I was dressed up, I remember. Long tight skirt, high heels - and I was hurrying, as quickly as I could, across 4th Street. I was late.

And I only remember how warm it was because - in my hurrying - I basically started sweating, and my powder dissolved off my face. Which bummed me out. I remember stopping in an empty doorway, popping out my compact, checking out the damage, and thinking: "Ah well. Tonight is too hot for powder then."

Strange. The things that remain.

Astor Bar had an upstairs bar with a big window, looking out on Bleecker Street. There was also a downstairs bar, shadowy, rather decrepit with peeling ceilings, and cavernous red leather booths, extremely atmospheric and dark - I loved it down there. The upstairs bar, though, was the good meeting-spot because you had a view of all the comings and goings up and down Bleecker - with 2 tables in the window, high bar stools - and then room for about 6 or 7 stools at the small curved bar. As I hurried past this window, I saw Siobhan, in a sun dress with a pleated skirt, sitting at one of the tables in the window.

Then - in the next moment - as I entered, 5,000 things happened at once. Each thing clear, distinct, set apart, and remembered perfectly - like a flickering newsreel in my mind. Sometimes I yearn for vagueness, for the softening of edges ... Clarity of memory is great, but it can also make you haunted.

I pulled the door open.

In a flash second, I saw a guy sitting at the bar with a couple of other people - My eyes just quickly glanced over him - and I saw that it was a guy I had met at a party the year before - and we had had so much fun together at said party that when this guy said good-bye to me, he said, "Where the hell have you been all my life?" New York quickly became unimaginable without one another in it. It was a true meeting of the minds, a recognition. A strange and unmistakable feeling. Like: "Wow ... I know you ... you're just like me ... I know you ..." He and I had a riotous time together at that party (as a group we all played charades, non-stop, for 4 straight hours...and then there was a trivia game invented - which we played for another 2 hours). We took a walk through Soho together at 3 in the morning, talking, laughing, the world was our playground, we could have kept talking forever.

I stumbled home from that party at 6 a.m., signed on only to find that he had already emailed me, obviously the second he returned home from the party - the time-stamp on his email was 5:45 in the morning - and he raved about how glad he was to have met me. And how he and I just "ruled" together.

And so began a rather intense epistolary friendship. Very 19th century. Apparently it is my stock-in-trade. (Never again.)

I probably don't need to even explain that I fell completely in love with this guy within 10 minutes of talking to him. But, truth be told, our behavior that night of the charades was more along the lines of separate babies reaching out to each other from separate shopping carts in the aisles at grocery stores ... or the sudden intimacy between romping dogs at Washington Square Park ...

It wasn't a grown-up "oh, yes, I have feelings for this man" kind of thing. It was more like we looked at each other, like babies reach out to each other, in recognition. I looked at him and saw my own kind.

For various reasons, it was not meant to be.

On September 9, I had not seen him since the charades night a year and a half earlier - and then suddenly - there he was. Perched on a bar stool at Astor Bar.

So what did I do? I proceeded to behave like a complete and utter jackass.

Reminds me of this quote from Nancy Lemann, one of my favorite authors:

It is always remarkable when someone sees your soul to a better degree than you see it yourself. You could count the people who see your soul on one hand. Others might know you but they would forget; their knowledge of you was like a weak and undisciplined thing. But that wasn't so with him. He didn't forget. It stuck in his mind. He had seen a kindred soul. he had seen it long ago. She only saw it now. But she was stricken with it. Suddenly she had identified him. There was the man she loved. As a result, she proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true.

That's it exactly. I was so thrilled to see this man again that I "proceeded dementedly to behave as if the opposite were true."

I completely ignored him, pretending blithely that I hadn't seen him. I was a terrible actress in that moment, although I thought I would win an Oscar for how much I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS THERE. I swept by his crowd - and went straight for Siobhan, made a bee-line, pretending to be oblivious - and yet inside I was thinking, insanely: It's him, it's him ...

Siobhan and I greeted each other, big hug, "hi hi hi" - and I immediately hissed at her, like a criminal on the run, "So and so is here. That is so and so. But don't. Look. Now." You know. Junior high coming back in a kneejerk moment of panic. I was in a "riot of feeling" and didn't know how to be casual and say, "Hi! How are you?"

As I stalked by him, making a beeline to my sister, I felt him see me. His entire posture changed. He sat up poker-straight, his head turned my way. It was like a Discovery Channel moment. Animals in the wild, alert, ears turned up and out.

I knew he had seen me, and yet I made this elaborate pretense that I was oblivious to his presence until I could get myself together to say to him, casually, "Hi there! How are you!" I was acting like an ASS.

It continues to be strange to me that this entire dance of awareness and avoidance would be so technicolor-vivid to me - I remember the body language, pauses, how he tilted his head. And not only that first moment, but the whole rest of the night. I remember exchanges we had later word for word ... The entire night is preserved perfectly in my memory, a fly drowned in amber.

It would be the last time (for a long long time) that I would be in a group of people and be able to talk about normal things, everyday things, movies, archaeology, theatre, life, poetry.

And so the conversation we had that night stands out for me almost like a museum-piece.

All is preserved. Especially from that moment when I first walked in, saw him, ignored him, he saw me, and I walked by ... pretending to not see him. How he sat up straight and watched me pass - how I leant in to my sister and hissed at her "That's him, that's him..." - how I could feel him watching me like a hawk, waiting for an "in".

Finally, he could no longer stand the wait, and he yelled - yes, he YELLED, across the space at me - causing a dead silence to descend over the bar:

"WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?"

I still laugh when I think of that.

Why do I laugh? Because in that loud unafraid moment, he called me on my BULLSHIT. He didn't let me get away with the charade of "Oh my God, I didn't see you when I first came in! You're here?? Wow, what a coincidence!!" He KNEW I was ignoring him, and he YELLED that at me across the bar.

I just find that so funny.

That's why I fell for the guy, I think.

So I saw him and feigned surprise. Like a very very very bad actress.

"Hi there! Wow! You're here??"

He was staring at me with excitement, adrenaline and also deep scorn. He stated, "You walked right by me."

"Uh ... sorry ... I didn't see you ..." I said lamely, my cheeks warm and flushed.

I knew he had busted me, and I knew that he knew I knew ... and it all seemed hilarious and beautiful. I loved that he had busted me, actually. It made me feel safe, for some reason. Like: he knew I was acting like a jackass, and that the reason why I didn't say Hi to him right away was because I was having a "riot of feeling" - but judging from his posture change, and his behavior the rest of the night, he too had a "riot of feeling" at the sight of my face ... and so he saw that I was afraid, that I was protecting myself for a second ... and he busted me on it, with such humor - with no judgment - it seemed like everything was going to be okay.

This is how it was. I walked away from the night - coming home at about 2 o'clock in the morning, thinking to myself, 'Wow. Everything's going to be okay, I think."

Siobhan and I merged our evening with him and his small group of friends - and we sat, and talked, all of us - in that beautiful way that some conversations have - vigorous, up, down, people interjecting, fights breaking out, random bursts of laughter, blurting inappropriate statements, one person rising to the forefront with everyone else listening, someone else chiming in fluidly with their interpretation, either adding or detracting ... It went on and on and on and on and on. You know those kinds of conversations? They're very rare, actually. This one stood out.

At one point, Siobhan and I were being entertained by one member of the group, a guy who we still laugh about to this day. All he needed to do was light his cigarette, and we would burst out laughing. And with my lunatic peripheral vision (which was on overdrive that night), I saw that my crush was sitting down the bar, watching us. Not speaking, not joining in, just watching us talk to his friend. And suddenly he exploded to the person sitting next to him, "Are those two women the most gorgeous women you've ever seen in your life?"

I don't say this to be vain. I just say this because it happened. It made me feel like a million BUCKS, I tell ya!

When we said goodbye to each other, he and I, we had a repeat of our good-bye on the night we met, only it was deeper and a bit more tormented. It kind of sucks to be confirmed in your fabulous first impression of someone, and still not be able to have them. He hugged me like he never wanted to let me go, and he kept saying my name into my neck. It was a spectacle. I loved it, but at the same time, I had to pry him off of me.

Afterwards, Siobhan and I walked through the warm night to our respective subways, still laughing and laughing and laughing about certain moments. We had cried off our eye makeup with laughter.

September 10

I emailed him first thing that morning and wrote, "Just wanted you to know how great it was to see your face again. Makes me feel good to know that there are people like you on this planet."

I had never written him such a thing before. I had never acknowledged any of that. But the night had been so amazing that I needed to let him know. And so I did.

A part of me waited for a response from him all that day, but another part of me thought: "It's really not about getting a response. He should know that I think he makes the world a better place just by being in it ... regardless."

September 10 was a Monday. I had gotten no sleep because of the romping the night before. But I felt wide awake, alert, my mind swirling with images and random bursts of laughter from the shenanigans of the night before. I felt so happy, I felt excited, too. My journal entry for that day is barely controlled hysteria and joy. "I'm happy, God, I'm so happy right now!"

I had spent some time doubting my strong response to him on the charades night. I thought: "What is my problem - that I would be so blown away by this guy - just because he played charades with me for four hours?" I felt a bit pathetic. Then - running into him again - I realized: Well. Obviously there's some huge connection between us. Huge. And a romance is not meant to be, clearly, but that doesn't mean that there isn't this understanding ... some sort of wordless understanding between us.

It was exhilarating.

Monday night, I went home to my brand-new apartment. On September 4, my roommate Jen and I had moved into a new place. We had not had our phone hooked up yet, we had not had our TV hooked up yet. It eventually took us a month and a half to finally get a phone, because of the chaos. Our entire kitchen was still in boxes - we had barely unpacked.

I came home on the night of September 10 to our new abode. All windows opens. Cross-breeze. A beautiful night.

My heart was still singing from my hours-long evening with charades-man.

Jen was there, arranging her room - getting accustomed to the new space. We both had bedrooms facing East. The gleaming World Trade Center was visible above the Hoboken skyline.

(photo I took of our view from my bedroom)

Jen and I ended up laying down on her bed, our feet dangling off the sides, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. And I told her the entire story of the night before. "You're never gonna guess who I ran into last night and who I hung out with for 4 hours..."

Being a wonderful girlfriend, she asked me 598 questions, and we talked about it to our hearts content. "So then ... he turned ... and he looked at me like this ... and then he said THIS thing ... and when we hugged goodbye he said THIS..." You know, your basic girlie convo. I re-enacted a couple of the body language moments, so she could get the full picture. Great great fun.

But it makes me uneasy to remember it now.

It was about 10 pm ... and Jen (she and I were not just roommates, but dear dear friends) said that she was afraid she was going to have trouble getting to sleep that night - because it was a new place and all. And would I mind reading out loud to her? Maybe that would help her go to sleep ...

She had never asked such a thing before. It was a strangely intimate moment. I love reading out loud, love it love it love it ... and she said, "Just pick out a book you like - I don't care ..."

I was excited. I went into my room - where, of course, the first thing I had organized had been all my books. My CLOTHES were still in boxes, but my books were on display. I thought: "Hmmm. Let me pick out something good ... what do I want to read to her ... what do I want to read to her..."

Out of nowhere, I picked out Paul Zindel's The Pigman - which is one of my favorite books ever. A book for teenagers, yes ... I read it in 8th grade ... but its charm and humor has never palled. That was one of those life-saving books I read at an all-important time - when everything seems dark and grim (re: junior high) - and that book, about 2 freakish outsider kids who befriend a weird little old man who collects china pigs, made me realize I wasn't alone. That there were other freaks like me out there, that life could be beautiful, that you could have a possibility of joy in life ... even though everything around you basically sucks.

That is what The Pigman is about.

So we curled up on her bed, with the summery night wind blowing through the dark window, and I read a couple of chapters out loud to her.

Such a strange and intimate thing to do.

We never did it again. That was the only time.

And The Pigman ended up not being the best choice - because it is laugh-out-loud funny at times, and Jen kept guffawing like a mad woman, instead of falling asleep. I had a hard time getting through certain paragraphs, because I was shaking with laughter. I kept being unable to go on, and so my laughter would make her start to laugh, and the whole thing disintegrated into a guffaw-fest.

As I read it, with tears of laughter in my own eyes, I kept interrupting myself and saying, "God, I haven't read this in years ... this is so fun ... I remember reading this in Ireland at a B&B when I was 14 and laughing so loudly that my mother had to come down and tell me to be quiet ... I need to read this whole book again ..."

I got through about three chapters. Things started to quiet down.

Jen finally murmured, "Okay. I think I can fall asleep now."

I tiptoed out of her room, turned the light off, and went into my new room. There was something heightened and tight in my heart. Sometimes I get too excited. My experience of things can get pretty intense. I can't sleep. I lie in bed, going over and over and over things that excite me, obsessively.

And that's what I did that night, after writing in my journal feverishly about the Astor Bar meeting with my love-at-first-sight friend.

I lay in bed, for hours, the darkness in front of my eyeballs, re-living that moment when I first walked into Astor Bar ... and he sat up straight in his chair ... and followed me with his eyes ... and his voice booming across the bar, "WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME..." It was on eternal replay ... I didn't know why it pleased me so much, but it had some intense and perfect aesthetic which I found so satisfying.

And the other replay was the entirety of the book The Pigman and how much I had enjoyed sharing that book with Jen, in our new windy apartment.

Thinking to myself over and over in the darkness, as I slipped off into oblivion: I really must read that book again someday ...

Good God.

I'm not kidding when I say I felt light-headed with a mixture of anxiety and envy when I saw these photos of Neil Gaiman's bookshelves. It hurts. I love my new bookshelves, love love love, and I am still not used to their pristine beauty and the scope of them. But that? That is the ideal. Not to mention the coziest chair known to man and a happy kitty-cat. Heaven on earth.

Thanks, Peri, for the link!

"Frankenstein's radical suggestion is that it doesn't take God to heal the rift. It takes the loyalty and love of another person."

I was riveted and moved by this analysis of Frankenstein as a treatise on loneliness - not to mention intrigued by the new edition (which I must get). The new edition includes Percy Shelley's edits (and I agree with Thomas - it does sound to me like the edits were not of the formal variety, but passed back and forth while they were sitting in the same room together) and I am dying to take a look.

There is a sense that someone (an "ideal reader", I guess) can make you better, can make you go deeper into your work, can RE-SAY what you have already said - but in a more piercing manner because they (the one who didn't write the original) aren't as close to the material. The whole "did Mary Shelley write the book" controversy is old news, I won't go over it - what I really responded to here is the image of intimacy and generosity - that the edits given to her by her lover were not just bossy corrections of something she hadn't said well (and in some cases, he said it worse). The edits show just how deeply he GOT what she was "going for".

Yet he also helped with some of the novel's most moving lines: the monster's appeal to his creator for affection. "Remember that I am thy creature—Thy Adam—or rather the fallen angel for every where I see bliss while I alome [sic] am irrecoverably wretched," Mary had written. Percy altered it: "Remember that I am thy creature—I ought to be thy Adam—but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed; everywhere I see bliss from which I alone am irrevocably excluded." Percy grasped what lay beneath Mary's language and pulled it to the surface. "I ought to be thy Adam," the creature says—but his creator rejected him before his mate was made. He is not inhuman because he was brought to life on a surgical table. He is inhuman because he is alone.

"I ought to be thy Adam" is so much more tragic and, well, human, than "I am thy creature - thy Adam" - and it brings me to tears.

To examine Percy's edits is not to take anything away from Mary Shelley - and much of the controversy has swirled around that particular point. What I liked about this article was its picture of generosity between them - there is no need that anything would be taken away from Mary, just because Percy scratched away at her prose, editing it, or making suggestions. The idea was hers and hers alone.

Loneliness does make "monsters" of people. It warps what could be straight. Not should be straight, because there are no shoulds, not when it comes to life experience. But what COULD be straight, if given the chance.

After cloistering himself to bring dead flesh to life, Victor Frankenstein condemns his creature to loneliness. The creature does the same to him in revenge. Solitude makes monsters of both.

Wonderful article. I highly recommend the whole thing.

Morning with Lucy

At around 6:30, 7 a.m., I was dragged out of sleep by gurgling cooing sounds from the next room. I thought I heard Jean getting Lucy, so I went back to sleep. Maybe 15 minutes later, the constant morning chatter by the almost 4 month old woke me up again. I got up and walked into the nursery. There Lucy lay, in all her glory, in her crib. She wore onesie pajamas (the nights have been chilly) with little yellow ducks all over them. Her eyes were wide open. She had her legs in the air and her fat hands were clutching her own feet. She was DEEP in conversation with herself. She's figuring it out now. You take a deep breath, get the air going in your lungs, and exhale, making sounds. Good job, Lucy. Yes, this is what we humans do. We make sounds like that. She babbled away, fascinated by her own feet in her hands. I stood there with her for a long time, and we had a nice chat. Lucy would make eye contact, briefly, checking in with me, before she continued on with her monologue. I rubbed her belly and she appeared to tell me she liked that. Sometimes I would catch a small dimple appearing in her right cheek, and her eyes would smile. A miracle. A baby understanding pleasure, joy, and being happy to be awake and loving to have a conversation. She was completely content. No fussing. Just chatter. The rest of the house was silent. I finally reached into the crib and picked her up. Lucy loves to look over her right shoulder. Looking over the left shoulder is really not interesting to her, even if what is more interesting is over THERE. So you kind of have to maneuver yourself around, so Lucy can look over the shoulder SHE prefers. I sat with her in the rocking chair. Lucy was chewing away on her pacifier, staring around her, whipping her head around so she could look over her RIGHT shoulder. Because why on earth would ANYONE want to look over their LEFT shoulder? How boring is that? I sang her some songs (Bob Gibson, if you must know - "This Train is Bound for Glory") and her whole body went still, her eyes going inward and quiet, as she listened. It was hysterical. Like; Oh, something different is happening now ... I must pay attention with my WHOLE BODY. Her wrists are so fat that it is difficult to look at them without eating them up. Here is a photo of Lucy's arm, taken by her father.

Sometimes I held her so she was standing up on my thighs. She seems to enjoy doing deep knee-bends, making some huge chattering comment as she lifts herself up. She's like a body-builder that way. Doing it all on the exhale. She seems so little, yet at the same time, I remember her when she was born, and I am amazed at how big she is now. Cashel spent a lot of time with Lucy this summer, his first cousin, and he said to his mother when he came home, "I under-estimated the cuteness of Lucy." Don't we all. I moved us into the living room and we lay on the couch together. Lucy liked to look around, and sometimes the pacifier got in the way of some big philosophical statement she was yearning to make, so I would take the pacifier out, and suddenly she would pour forth her theories on life. I agreed with all the points she made. She doesn't really like to sit on my lap staring out, because it seems like it is too much like being a masthead on a ship - hovering out on the brink of an abyss. Much better to sit on one thigh, facing sideways, so that you can look up at the person who is holding you, and speak, if you feel like speaking. Or just check her out. Hm. Who is this nice lady? But now I have to stare over my right shoulder, because obviously the most important things are happening over THERE. Of course they are. Who am I to dissuade you from that viewpoint?

Her head smells so good.

I enjoyed our conversation, Lucy. I can't wait to see what you say next.

Today in history: September 5, 1774

On September 5, 1774, the First Continental Congress convened at Carpenters Hall in Philadelphia.

It was a very stressful and dangerous time, and there was very little agreement among the colonies about what should be done. The Port Bill (closing down Boston to ships) had been passed by the British, in retaliation for the Boston Tea Party - and Boston was suffering greatly. The colonies faced the question, so monumental at the time: "Is Boston's suffering our business?" That question, of course, had large implications - the main one being: Are we, all the separate colonies, united? Are we willing to take a stand for Boston's survival, even though we're from South Carolina or Connecticut? The beginning of a union. There was no unanimity. They were all still subjects of the British crown. Many remained loyal, and the thought of breaking away was unthinkable, unimaginable (also not what they wanted at all). Others were already looking ahead to the eventual cataclysm, it was seen as an inevitability.

These were revolutionaries, although very few of them saw themselves as such. They were also good citizens of their various communities - lawyers and farmers, educated men, the elite. The time had not yet come for war. But the Port Bill was a gross and unfair "punishment" of a recalcitrant colony, and it was just a warning bell of things to come. These were men who considered themselves citizens of Britain - and to be treated in such a manner was outrageous.

They came from all the colonies. Delegates, sent with instructions and also their own biases, convened on Philadelphia.

Martha Washington wrote a letter to a relative on the eve of her husband's departure to the Convention:

I foresee consequences; dark days and darker nights; domestic happiness suspended; social enjoyments abandoned; property of every kind put in jeopardy by war, perhaps; neighbors and friends at variance, and eternal separations on earth possible. But what are all these evils when compared with the fate of which the Port Bill may be only a threat? My mind is made up; my heart is in the cause. George is right; he is always right. God has promised to protect the righteous, and I will trust him.

We have a series of letters from John Adams to his wife, describing this first Congress - they're fabulous, because Adams was not reticent at all with his wife. He had next to no formality with Abigail, he shared everything with her: his gripes, his self-doubt, his vanity, his jokes ... The letters are a rich first-person resource, one of the most amazing archives of letters we have in our national history.

Adams wrote a letter (the last paragraph of which is now rightly famous) to Abigail on his way down to Philadelphia:

We Yesterday visited Nassau Hall Colledge, and were politely treated by the Schollars, Tutors, Professors and President, whom We are, this Day to hear preach. Tomorrow We reach the Theatre of Action. God Almighty grant us Wisdom and Virtue sufficient for the high Trust that is devolved upon Us. The Spirit of the People wherever we have been seems to be very favourable. They universally consider our Cause as their own, and express the firmest Resolution, to abide the Determination of the Congress.

I am anxious for our perplexed, distressed Province [Boston] -- hope they will be directed into the right Path. Let me intreat you, my Dear, to make yourself as easy and quiet as possible. Resignation to the Will of Heaven is our only Resource in such Dangerous Times. Prudence and Caution should be our Guides. I have the strongest Hopes, that We shall yet see a clearer Sky, and better Times...

Your Account of the Rain refreshed me. [In his absence, Abigail took complete charge of the farm, the finances, the help, along with raising their growing brood of children. It is speculated as well that without this "help", John Adams might have run their finances into the ground. From his book allowance alone!] I hope our Husbandry is prudently and industriously managed. Frugality must be our Support...

The Education of our Children is never out of my Mind. Train them to Virtue, habituate them to industry, activity and Spirit. Make them consider every Vice, as shameful and unmanly: fire them Ambition to be usefull -- make them disdain to be destitute of any usefull, or ornamental Knowledge or Accomplishment. Fix their Ambition upon great and solid Objects, and their Contempt upon little, frivolous, and useless ones. It is Time, my dear, for you to begin to teach them French. Every Decency, Grace, and Honesty should be inculcated upon them.

And here - finally - in a letter dated September 16, John Adams describes the first meeting of the First Continental Congress. Gives me chills, every time. I love Samuel Adams' comment. If only other religious bigots could take his lead:

When the Congress first met, Mr. Cushing made a Motion, that it shouild be opened with Prayer. It was opposed by Mr. Jay of N. York and Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina, because we were so divided in religious Sentiments, some Episcopalians, some Quakers, some Aanabaptists, some Presbyterians and some Congregationalists, so that We could not join in the same Act of Worship. -- Mr. S. Adams arose and said he was no Bigot, and could hear a Prayer from a Gentleman of Piety and Virtue, who was at the same Time a Friend to his Country. He was a Stranger in Phyladelphia, but had heard that Mr. Duche (Dushay they pronounce it) deserved that Character, and therefore he moved that Mr. Duche, an episcopal Clergyman, might be desired, to read Prayers to the Congress, tomorrow Morning. The Motion was seconded and passed in the Affirmative. Mr. Randolph our President waited on Mr. Duche, and received for Answer that if his Health would permit, he certainly would. Accordingly next Morning he appeared with his Clerk and in his Pontificallibus, and read several Prayers, in the established Form; and then read the Collect for the seventh day of September, which was the Thirty Fifth Psalm. -- You must remember this was the next Morning after we heard the horrible Rumour, of the Cannonade of Boston. -- I never saw a greater Effect upon an Audience. It seemed as if Heaven had ordained that Psalm to be read on that Morning.

After this Mr. Duche, unexpected to every Body struck out into an extemporary Prayer, which filled the Bosom of every Man present. I must confess I never heard a better Prayer, or one so well pronounced. Episcopalian as he is, Dr. Cooper himself never prayed with such fervour, such Ardor, such Earnestness and Pathos, and in Language so elegant and sublime -- for America, for the Congress, for the Province of Massachusetts Bay, and especially the Town of Boston. It has had an excellent Effect upon every Body here.

I must beg you to read that Psalm.

Okay, John, relax, no need to beg, I'll read that Psalm.

The 35th Psalm

Oppose, LORD, those who oppose me; war upon those who make war upon me.
Take up the shield and buckler; rise up in my defense.

Brandish lance and battle-ax against my pursuers. Say to my heart, "I am your salvation."

Let those who seek my life be put to shame and disgrace. Let those who plot evil against me be turned back and confounded.

Make them like chaff before the wind, with the angel of the LORD driving them on.

Make their way slippery and dark, with the angel of the LORD pursuing them.

Without cause they set their snare for me; without cause they dug a pit for me.

Let ruin overtake them unawares; let the snare they have set catch them; let them fall into the pit they have dug.

Then I will rejoice in the LORD, exult in God's salvation.

My very bones shall say, "O LORD, who is like you, Who rescue the afflicted from the powerful, the afflicted and needy from the despoiler?"

Malicious witnesses come forward, accuse me of things I do not know.

They repay me evil for good and I am all alone.

Yet I, when they were ill, put on sackcloth, afflicted myself with fasting, sobbed my prayers upon my bosom.

I went about in grief as for my brother, bent in mourning as for my mother.

Yet when I stumbled they gathered with glee, gathered against me like strangers. They slandered me without ceasing;

without respect they mocked me, gnashed their teeth against me.

Lord, how long will you look on? Save me from roaring beasts, my precious life from lions!

Then I will thank you in the great assembly; I will praise you before the mighty throng.

Do not let lying foes smirk at me, my undeserved enemies wink knowingly.

They speak no words of peace, but against the quiet in the land they fashion deceitful speech.

They open wide their mouths against me. They say, "Aha! Good! Our eyes relish the sight!"

You see this, LORD; do not be silent; Lord, do not withdraw from me.

Awake, be vigilant in my defense, in my cause, my God and my Lord.

Defend me because you are just, LORD; my God, do not let them gloat over me.

Do not let them say in their hearts, "Aha! Just what we wanted!" Do not let them say, "We have devoured that one!"

Put to shame and confound all who relish my misfortune. Clothe with shame and disgrace those who lord it over me.

But let those who favor my just cause shout for joy and be glad. May they ever say, "Exalted be the LORD who delights in the peace of his loyal servant."

Then my tongue shall recount your justice, declare your praise, all the day long.

And finally - a funny excerpt from one of the many descriptive letters John Adams wrote to his wife during the Congress - just makes me chuckle:

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

hahahahaha

Snapshots from the party last night

... celebrating the opening of my friend Jen's acting studio:

-- "She caught the piece of cheese cake ... with her esophagus."

-- I said hi to Johnny and within 2 seconds, I made some emphatic gesture and basically karate-chopped his plastic cup of wine out of his hand.

-- Nice long conversation with Dion, and then someone else entered the party, and Dion said, "Excuse me. I have to say hi to this guy. I have no idea who he is but we're the only two black people here. I have to say hi to him." The guy walks by and Dion greets him - "Hey, man, how are you? We're the only two black people here. I just had to say hi." The guy was SO funny in response - a bit taken aback, but friendly, they shook hands - everyone was guffawing. Like, "Hey! You and me! We're black!"

-- Nice conversation with Jen's mother. I haven't seen her in a long time.

-- "How are you? Having fun?"
"I'm a little bit stressed. I have BO right now."

-- Talking with Bob (an old friend, haven't seen him in years) about gratitude. Making space for it in our everyday lives.

The studio looks great. Jen hung movie posters on the wall - Jaws, Pulp Fiction - old friends were there and new, her family, and her students. We all huddled in the hallway, chit-chatting, drinking wine, and I saw some people I haven't seen in years. It was a really nice shindig, a success all around.

Through a glass darkly

An amazing compilation of movie stills: looking through windows.

Today in history: September 1, 1939

Germany invaded Poland, 70 years ago today.

From Newsweek: Scenes from the invasion of Poland

From MSN: Friends, foes, mark WWII's start in Poland

Hitler's speech on Sept. 1, 1939, from Berlin:

To the defense forces:

The Polish nation refused my efforts for a peaceful regulation of neighborly relations; instead it has appealed to weapons.

Germans in Poland are persecuted with a bloody terror and are driven from their homes. The series of border violations, which are unbearable to a great power, prove that the Poles no longer are willing to respect the German frontier. In order to put an end to this frantic activity no other means is left to me now than to meet force with force.

German defense forces will carry on the battle for the honor of the living rights of the re- awakened German people with firm determination.

I expect every German soldier, in view of the great tradition of eternal German soldiery, to do his duty until the end.

Remember always in all situations you are the representatives of National Socialist Greater Germany!

Long live our people and our Reich!

Hitler reviews the troops in Warsaw, early October, 1939.

Excerpt from Viktor Klemperer's stunning diary I Will Bear Witness: A Diary of the Nazi Years, 1933-1941:

September 3, Sunday afternoon

This torture of one's nerves ever more unbearable. On Friday morning blackout ordered until further notice. We sit in the tiny cellar, the terrible damp closeness, the constant sweating and shivering, the smell of mold, the food shortage, makes everything even more miserable. I try to save butter and meat for Eva and Muschel, to make do myself as far as possible with still unrationed bread and fish. This in itself would all be trivial, but it is all only by the way. What will happen? From hour to hour we tell ourselves, now is the moment when everything is decided, whether Hitler is all-powerful, whether his rule will last indefinitely, or whether it falls now, now.

On Friday morning, September 1, the young butcher's lad came and told us: There had been a radio announcement, we already held Danzig and the Corridor, the war with Poland was under way, England and France remained neutral. I said to Eva, then a morphine injection or something similar was the best thing for us, our life was over. But then we said to one another, that could not possibly be the way things were, the boy had often reported absurd things (he was a perfect example of the way in which people take in news reports). A little later we heard Hitler's agitated voice, then the usual roaring, but could not make anything out. We said to ourselves, if the report were even only half true they must already be putting out the flags. Then down in town the dispatch of the outbreak of war. I asked several people whether English neutrality had already been declared. Only an intelligent salesgirl in a cigar shop on Chemnitzer Platz said: No - that would really be a joke! At the baker's, at Vogel's, they all said, as good as declared, all over in a few days! A young man in front of the newspaper display: The English are cowards, they won't do anything. Ad thus with variations the general mood, vox populi (butter seller, newspaper man, bill collector of the gas company etc. etc.) In the afternoon read the Fuhrer's speech. It seemed to me pessimistic as far as the external and the interal position were considered. Also all the regulations pointed and still point to more than a mere punitive expedition against Poland. And now this is the third day like this, it feels as if it has been three years: the waiting, the despairing, hoping, weighing up, not knowing. The newspaper yesterday, Saturday, vague and in fact anticipating a general outbreak of war: England, the attacker - English mobilization, French mobilization, they will bleed to death! etc., etc. But still no declaration of war on their side. Is it coming or will they fail to resist and merely demonstrate weakness?

The military bulletin is also unclear. Talks of successes everywhere, reports no serious opposition anywhere and yet also shows that German troops have nowhere advanced far beyond the frontiers. How does it all fit together? All in all: Reports and measures taken are serious, popular opinion absolutely certain of victory, ten thousand times more arrogant than in '14. The consequence will either be an overwhelming, almost unchallenged victory, and England and France are castrated minor states, or a catastrophe ten thousand times worse than '18. And the two of us right in the middle, helpless and probably lost in either case ... And yet we force ourselves, and sometimes it even succeeds for a couple of hours, to go on with our everyday life: reading aloud, eating (as best we can), writing, garden. But as I lie down to sleep I think: Will they come for me tonight? Will I be shot, will I be put in a concentration camp?

Waiting in peaceful Dolzschen, cut off from the world, is particularly bad. One listens to every sound, watches every face, pays attention to everything. One learns nothing. One waits for the newspaper and can make nothing of it. At the moment I do tend to think that there will be war with the great powers.

At the butcher an old dear puts her hand on my shoulder and says in a voice full of tears: He has said that he will put on a soldier's coat again and be a soldier himself, and if he falls, then Goering ... A young lady brings me my ration card, looks at me with a friendly expression: Do you still remember me? I studied under you, I've married into the family here. -- An old gentleman, very friendly, brings the blackout order: Terrible, that it's war again - but yet one is so patriotic, when I saw a battery leaving yesterday, I wanted more than anything to go with them! No one is outraged by the Russian alliance, people think it is brilliant or an excellent joke - Vogel's optimism (yesterday: We've almost finished off the Poles, the others won't stir themselves!) is to our benefit in coffee, sausage, tea, soap etc. -- Is this the general mood in Germany? Is it founded on facts or on hubris?

The Jewish Community in Dresden inquires whether I want to join it, since it represents the National Association of Jews locally; the Confessing Christians inquire whether I shall remain with them. I replied to the Gruber people that I was and will remain Protestant, I would not reply to the Jewish Community at all.

Note how on September 1 the Fuhrer declared lasting friendship with Russia in two words. Is there really no one in Germany who does not feel a pang of conscience? Once more: Machiavelli was mistaken; there is a line beyond which the separation of morality and politics is unpolitical and has to be paid for. Sooner or later. But can we wait until later?

Excerpt from William Shirer's Berlin Diary: The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent, 1934-1941 (more excerpts here):

BERLIN, AUGUST 31 three thirty a.m.

Tonight the great armies, navies, and air forces are all mobilized. Each country is shut off from the other. We have not been able today to get through to Paris or London, or of course to Warsaw, though I did talk to Tess in Geneva. At that, no precipitate action is expected tonight. Berlin is quite normal in appearance this evening. There has been no evacuation of women and children, not even any sandbagging of the windows. We'll have to wait through still another night, it appears, before we know. And so to bed, almost at dawn.

BERLIN, September 1

At six a.m. Sigrid Schultz - bless her heart - phoned. She said: "it's happened." I was very sleepy - my body and mind numbed, paralysed. I mumbled: "Thanks, Sigrid," and tumbled out of bed. The war is on!

later
It's a "counter-attack"! At dawn this morning Hitler moved against Poland. It's a fragrant, inexcusable, unprovoked act of aggression. But Hitler and the High Command call it a "counter-attack". A grey morning with overhanging clouds. T he people in the street were apathetic when I drove to the Rundfunk for my first broadcast at eight fifteen a.m. Across from the Adlon the morning shift of workers was busy on the new I.G. Farben building just as if nothing had happened. None of the men brought the extras which the newsboys were shouting. Along the east-west axis the Luftwaffe were mounting five big anti-aircraft guns to protect Hitler when he addresses the Reichstag at ten a.m. Jordan and I had to remain at the radio to handle Hitler's speech for America. Throughout the speech, I thought as I listened, ran a curious strain, as though Hitler himself were dazed at the fix he had got himself into and felt a little desperate about it. Somehow he did not carry conviction and there was much less cheering in the Reichstag than on previous, less important occasions. Jordan must have reacted the same way. As we waited to translate the speech for America, he whispered: "Sounds like his swan song." It really did. He sounded discouraged when he told the Reichstag that Italy would not be coming into the war because "we are unwiling to call in outside help for this struggle. We will fulfil this task by ourselves." And yet Paragraph 3 of the Axis military alliance calls for immediate, automatic Italian support with "all its military resources on land, at sea, and in the air." What about that? He sounded desperate when, referring to Molotov's speech of yesterday at the Russian ratification of the Nazi-Soviet accord, he said: "I can only underline every word of Foreign Commisar Molotov's speech."

Tomorrow Britain and France probably will come in and you have your second World War. The British and French tonight sent an ultimatum to Hitler to withdraw his troops from Poland or their ambassadors will ask for their passports. Presumably they will get their passports.

Later. Two thirty a.m. - Almost through our first blackout. The city is completely darkened. It takes a little getting used to. You grope around in the pitch-black streets and pretty soon your eyes get used to it. You can make out the whitewashed curbstones. We had our first air-raid alarm at seven p.m. I was at the radio just beginning my script for a broadcast at eight fifteen. The lights went out, and all the German employees grabbed their gas-masks and, not a little frightened, rushed for the shelter. No one offered me a mask, but the wardens insisted that I go to the cellar. In the darkness and confusion I escaped outside and went down to the studios, where I found a small room in which a candle was burning on a table. There I scribbled out my notes. No planes came over. But with the English and French in, it may be different tomorrow. I shall then be in the by no means pleasant predicament of hoping they bomb the hell out of this town without getting me. The ugly shrill of the sirens, the rushing to a cellar with your gas-mask (if you have one), the utter darkness of the night - how will human nerves stand for that long?

One curious thing about Berlin on this first night of the war: the cafes, restaurants, and beer-halls were packed. The people just a bit apprehensive after the air-raid, I felt. Finished broadcasting at one thirty a.m., stumbled a half-mile down the Kaiserdamm in the dark, and finally found a taxi. But another pedestrian appeared out of the dark and jumped in first. We finally shared it, he very drunk and the driver drunker, and both cursing the darkness and the war.

The isolation from the outside world that you feel on a night like this is increased by a new decree issued tonight prohibiting the listening to foreign broadcasts. Who's afraid of the truth? And no wonder. Curious that not a single Polish bomber got through tonight. But will it be the same with the British and French?

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939
by W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.