The Sheila Variations

2 p.m.

Corner of 38th and 8th.

Ballerinas, above the fray.

Snapshots

See below

By the dawn's early light.

Ruben - I think you need to check out what's on my fridge.

A baby bag.

I used to live on the second floor - my window is the one with the fire escape outside it, behind the tree. I lived there from 2000 - 2001. Horrifying.

So bizarre.

Contrast.

snapshots

-- Thunder last night. Rain.

-- Movies, writing, movies, writing.

-- I'm lonely right now. I am missing a lot of people. I miss my friends, all of them, and Cashel. I am alone too much. I'm busy, that's good, but lonely too. I miss my parents too.

-- Movies, writing, movies, writing.

-- My apartment looks like a bomb hit it. I'm using it basically as a pit-stop right now ... and I need to have a good long organizational/cleaning purge but it won't be for a week or so. I just don't have the energy or the time right now.

-- I read the novel We Need to Talk About Kevin in 2 days. In the wake of VT massacre, it ended up being chillingly timely. My God. What a book. What a writer. I am totally in awe. I'll write more about her - but it's rare that I can't put down a novel. Like - I fell asleep on Saturday night with the book open in my hands. I needed sleep, but I couldn't stop reading. UnbeLIEVable book.

-- Saw The Third Man last night. I've been seeing so many movies that the thought now of seeing a movie in my one night off was almost ikky - but then I got into it. It was a rainy night, I was exhausted, and book-less. I love Joseph Cotten. God, he's good. And I am certainly not the first to say it - but Orson Welles' entrance in this film is one of the best (if not the best) entrances of any character in any movie ever made. PERIOD.

-- I hurt myself on the bus last night. A metal bar stuck out of the ripped upholstery of the seat (the bus is so damn ghetto), and I, exhaustedly, threw myself into the seat, and stabbed my own butt cheek with the sharp metal. It didn't break the skin - or rip my clothes - thank God - I would have had to go to the hospital - but it hurt like a motherfucker. Damn ghetto bus. My entire left ass-cheek is black and blue and a sickly green right now. I'm so bummed. Literally.

-- Saw Grey Gardens again last week. Went with my sister Siobhan. It was great - a real indulgence - and great to see her and catch up.

-- I need to go back to Rhode Island. I miss my friends, my family.

-- I need to get back into exercising. I'm too busy right now and I feel bad about it - kind of out of control.

-- Marvelous post. God, I so relate. That's an amazing blog in general. I love her voice.

-- It's a funny thing, talking about love with somebody who interrogates people for a living. It gives the conversation a clarity and an urgency that it might not otherwise have. His assessment, after 45 minutes of questioning me and listening intently to my answers? "I think you need to dumb down." I am still laughing about that.

-- Stopped off at the Virgin Megastore in Times Square last night - a place I normally avoid like the plague - but I wanted to pick up the new Tori Amos. Ne-yo was downstairs, signing copies of his new CD - and there was a screaming crowd, cordoned off, waiting in line ... waves of screams emanating up the escalator. Found Tori and then saw a huge display of soundtracks. Started browsing and saw the soundtrack of the film Jesus Christ Superstar - which I had had on tape - and it never made the transfer to CD ... and suddenly I realized how much I NEEDED it. It was 40 bucks. Ouch. But I bought it anyway. I came home and listened to some of it, as the thunder rolled in the sky. I am so excited to have it in my life again. "Damned For All Time". "Just DON'T say I'm ... daaaaaaaa-aaaaaamned foooooo-or a-aaalll ti-ime ..." Goosebumps.

-- Ann Marie was in town this past weekend for 2 days and I was so busy I couldn't see her. sniff.

-- Screening tonight at 10:30 p.m. I think David is going to be there - a mutual friend of ours is in the film - and actually, Mitchell came to town as of yesterday - so he might come to the screening too. That would be my only chance to see him.

-- My dear friend Kate is in tech this week for Arcadia - opening at the Court in Chicago next week. I've been thinking a lot about her. Missing her, too. I want to try to get out there in the next month or so, to visit friends, but also to see Arcadia. It's been a while since I saw her act. Too long.

More actual snapshots below

It's awesome when you live on the edge of gang territory.

Sunday. 7-4. A 20 minute pitstop to check the score, in between Kapuscinski and my 2nd movie of the day.

Making fun of Tucker Carlson never gets old. It is one of our new favorite activities.

Under the highway.

Colony Music. Heaven on earth.

Pitstop # 854.

Tribeca.

Spectacular spectacular. (Oh, and happy birthday Empire State Building.)

En route.

What we do when we are bored. And there is a dry erase marker in the vicinity.

Tribute to Ryszard Kapuscinski

My heart is so full. The place was standing room only. The line was (literally) around the block. It went from the door on 42nd Street all the way to 6th Avenue. I heard Polish being spoken in line, we all had dog-eared copies of Kapuscinski's books - I heard one young woman, she was probably 23 years old if she was a day, say to her friend, "I think The Emperor might be favorite of his. What's yours?" It is always a great comfort to me to find "my own kind". To show up for a matinee on a Sunday, a tribute to this great writer - and to find hundreds and hundreds of people who had the same idea. It was a bright sunny day, and we queued up - making quite a spectacle, the line snaking around Bryant Park. "What is this for?" people asked, drawn to us. Someone would answer, "Tribute to Ryszard Kapuscinski." "Who?" someone asked. But then someone else thought a bit, nodded seriously and said, "Oh!"

I think one of my favorite parts of the entire day was when the Polish writer and newspaper editor Adam Michnik got up to speak, a longtime friend of Mr. Kapuscinski. His English was halting, so he spoke with a translator - a tall laconic gentlemen over to the side, holding a microphone - who was the striking resemblance of George Plimpton (his name was Jan Gross). Anyway, the Mr. Michnik was red-faced, jovial - (oh, and the entire panel was drinking vodka the entire time ... in tribute to Kapuscinski and his love of life, good alcohol, companionship, and recklessness. It was great - there was Salman Rushdie, raising his glass of vodka to the memory of his dead friend ...) But anyway, the Michnik spoke, and it was obvious the vodka was having some effect - he was humorous, and anecdotal - he didn't stand on ceremony, he told very funny stories about Kapuscinski- and I loved him. But it was great because there were, of course, huge numbers of Polish speaking people in the audience (most of them sitting in the first 10 or so rows) - so he would come to the punchline of some joke, in Polish - and there would be a huge spontaneous thunderclap of laughter from the front, from the Poles ... then our Plimpton-esque translator would tell us the punchline in English 2 seconds later - and all of the English speakers in the audience would burst into a huge thunderclap of laughter. It came in waves. Like a time-released punchline, reverberating backwards in concentric circles. Laugh from front ... pause ... laugh from back ... and so it went, on and on, throughout the Michnik's entire speech. It was gorgeous. The interconnectedness of it, but also the separation - by language ... and yet humor is universal. We just might not "get it" at the same moment. It (to me) was the biggest tribute to Kapuscinski's overwhelming humanistic appeal: those time-lapsed waves of laughter. The jokes making it through the translation. The message received.

I took some grainy pictures below. Salman Rushdie was marvelous. The dry wit ... obviously very comfortable with public speaking - he appeared to speak off the cuff. Maybe he had some notes - but he didn't refer to them often. He just sipped his vodka and told funny stories. He related a tale about a time he and Kapuscinski had in London - a stage production of Kapuscinski's book The Emperor was going on - and protests were being staged outside the theatre.

Rushdie said to us (and his timing was impeccable - it was all in the pauses):

"Speaking as someone whose writing has ...... occasionally ... generated .... protests ......"

HUGE laugh.

It was the "occasionally" that made the joke.

And what an unbelievable pleasure it was to see my husband, Philip Gourevitch, in the flesh, for the first time. To hear him speak. My God. I admire him so much. I love his writing so much. Man, what a day.

Crowded. Photos of and by Kapuscinski were projected up onto huge screens around the room.

The ceiling in that room never ceases to amaze me.

The man of the day.

Another funny anecdote from Rushdie. Back in the early 80s - when Kapuscinski's books were starting to come out - he and Rushdie were part of the same publishing house in London. Rushdie, young, ambitious ... had never heard of Kapuscinski. He walks into the editor's office and the editor says to him in a portentous dramatic tone, "I have just read what I believe might be the best book ever written." (A lot of Rushdie's charm and humor was in how he told the story ... just the WAY he related the editor's words told us the whole thing - Rushdie felt jealous. He wanted the editor to be saying that about HIS book.) Rushdie, feeling jealous, said, "What's the book?" Editor said, "It's a book about Haile Selassie by a Polish writer." Long pause. Rushdie then said, "Well, that certainly sounds like the best book ever written."

So dry, so funny!!!

(Excerpt from "the best book ever written" here)

Another quote from Rushdie, on Kapuscinski's time in Africa: "He was sentenced to death every Tuesday."

Here's a grainy shot of the panel. Rushdie clearly seen over on the right ... and Gourevitch clearly seen over on the left.

The organizer of the event asked Kapuscinski once about the many times he had been thrown in prison in Africa during the 60s and 70s. I think it was over 40 times, and he had gotten a "death sentence" 4 times. Crazy decades in Africa, anarchy, etc. Kapuscinski, with his gentle self-effacing way, told a story about how he was in a dark cell, and the guards kept throwing in poisonous snakes with him. Kapuscinski's verdict on the whole thing, as he re-told the story? "It was ..... not so good." Never one for dramatizing the alreaady dramatic. Although he put himself in all of his books, it was never in a self-aggrandizing way. But it is true that after his time in the prison cell with the poisonous snakes - this particular imprisonment went on for 2 weeks, I think, and by the time they let him out - freed him from the pitch-black room with the poisonous snakes - his hair had gone completely white.

God, I love his face:

Rushdie asked him once about all of the times he had faced death while trying to get the story out to the wire service. Rushdie asked him, "How do you do it?" Kapuscinski had to answer that question a lot - he was asked often, "Are you attracted to danger?" He was always so incredulous at the stupidity of that question. He saw nothing attractive about danger - that's the whole point of his books. But in order to write them, he needed to be there, not behind some desk. - His whole essay about what happens to a man when he sits behind a desk is vintage Kapuscinski. So anyway, Rushdie was hearing the 100th story about Kapuscinski somehow conniving his way through some flaming checkpoint in Uganda, with rifles pointed at his head, and drunken soldiers rifling through his papers ... and Rushdie asked, "How do you do it? How do you escape death so many times?" Kapuscinski thought a bit and then said, "I make myself unimportant. I make myself seem unworthy of the assassins bullet."

Here's Rushdie at the podium - you can't see it, but he has a huge glass of vodka next to him.

Gourevitch spoke eloquently about Kapuscinski's thing as a writer. I loved one thing he said - he said that Kapuscinski is a 'great artist of the pixel'. And you know - thinking of his various books - it is the minutia that sticks with you: the cushion-bearer in Selassie's court, the long treatise on making cognac in the Imperium, the image of the pool hall built by the Soviets in what was once a mosque in Samarqand ... the old Muslims sitting outside under a tree, with the sound of pool balls clacking around the green baize table in what was once their holy place ... Oh, and so much more. The little puddle-jumping girl in Irkutsk. The wooden city in Angola floating away into the ocean (excerpt here). The gin-soaked nights in Ghana. The entire essay on the soccer war (excerpt here). His long essay on the Armenians. Their books. (excerpt here) Gourevitch told a very funny story too about how Kapuscinski was once asked to be on a panel discussing foreign policy issues - I can't remember which country, maybe it was the EU, I don't know. But it was to be a highly detailed conversation regarding this or that policy, this or that bill. He sat there, and was asked what he thought of such and such policy. He had never heard of any of them. He was not a wonk. He did not go in for the tiny details of government. He abhorred them - they were dehumanizing.

But his books! Look to his books.

Here's Gourevitch speaking.

Tribeca Film Festival

I'm going to be part of a team of critics covering the Tribeca Film Festival for House Next Door - one of the best culture blogs out there. Be sure to check in over there over the next week to see all the reviews as they come pouring in as quickly as we can write the damn things. I saw two movies today, and will see 7 movies in the next 3 days. Because I'm going to the press screenings, and not the regular public screenings - the movies are not shown at prime time. I'm seeing a movie tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., for example. And then racing downtown to see another one. Sunday will be truly insane. Movie in morning. Race to New York Public Library for the tribute to Ryzsard Kapuscinski. Hopefully meet Salman Rushdie and Philip Gourevitch. Race back downtown for second movie. And I will write my reviews ... when?

Here are some photos I took today as I tramped through the fog from movie to movie.

Ye Olde Media Kit and press pass.

I felt like Rosalind Russell in this moment.

Mural I fell in love with, as will soon become obvious.

Mural love.

Staff setting up the memorabilia and information table.

Poster on the wall in the lobby. I couldn't resist.

In between movies. A breather.

Madison Square Garden.

Back to work.

Mural love, yet again.

A black flat behind an information booth.

Hypnotized by the mural. Who wouldn't be?

Preparing ...

What can I say. The mural called .... and I answered.

Descending down to the lobby after the second movie - where audience members were gathering for the public screenings. You could feel the buzz in the air.

People holding tickets, yearning for tickets ... corralled up into queues outside.

The marquee.

Unconnected images. Spring. New York. Skylines and flowers and my bulletin board - which apparently I find endlessly fascinating. Too much happening. Can't really read right now. A weird feeling. I finished Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep finally - I'm only able to read about 3 pages a day - but I finished it this morning. Loved it. And for the most part, I've been reading poetry. That suits my attention span and my non-literal emotional mood these days. Oh, and I've been reading compilations of movie reviews. Tired. Tired. Happy though.

Harses, harses, harses.

Overblown pink tree near my house. Just intoxicatingly beautiful.

Oh. Happy belated earth day! Or - to quote Cashel when he was three years old: "Eeth." (Eg: "8 billion years ago an asteeyoid ceeyashed into the eeth ..." etc.)

The most fascinating billboard in the world apparently. Up to the right is a postcard of a Joseph Cornell box. And then the plane postcard in the middle was given to me by CW when I first met him. The blurry black and white image over to the left is one of the "photo-paintings" by Gerhard Richter.

This is my favorite building in my neighborhood. It seems to be from out of the Mediterranean or Latin America ... it looks best at dusk - the colors most striking. This, sadly, was taken at mid-day - but you can still see the coolness of the colors, lime and melon ...

Dusk, West Houston Street. I love the floating neon yellow hand in the bottom left corner.

Love you, too.

Montage ...

... of books. Throughout my tiny apartment.

I like this one because it is so random. EM Forster and Fisher Price. And a wolf-carved stone that I bought at some new agey shop. Why these objects all together? No reason. No reason whatsoever.

Where we are at now ... in the daily book excerpt:

Just looking at this makes me feel like all is right with the world.

The Geek Shelf.

Only one more book will be added to this collection - when it is published in May. And then forevermore there will be silence. It makes me sad.

And of course I want to end with:

Montage ...

... from my fridge. Why oh why am I taking pictures of my fridge? Because it makes me happy. That's why.

And now ... randomly ... my Hail Mary plate.

Don't ask.

Montage

... from my apartment ...

I have taken down a bunch of my stuff from the wall - for various reasons - and it is stacked up in a corner. Additionally, I've been working on this big writing project - therefore all of my writing stuff and little filing boxes are out and about (I have no desk, by choice - I like to loll about on the floor like a Bedouin.) - but anyway - I happened to glance at the scene before me - and it cracked me up. Rocky rising up above my piles of work.

Scanning Saturday

To anyone who remembers the story of the worst show I was ever in ... (or one of them anyway) ...

This is a photo of the cast (plus Jackie) backstage. This was the show where an audience member stood up during a production and shouted at us, as we were acting, "WHO WROTE THIS SHIT?" Good question, sir.

Our continuous game of Uno backstage was the only way we could manage to get through that horrific experience.

We are being brave here. We are merely enduring the production. It's allllll about Uno.

Scanning Saturday

Now, Sheila, do your own work. Build your own bird-feeder, don't copy your (bossy BOSSY) friend.

This is 4th grade, I believe. (The Year of Keith.) Yes, definitely it is - because Betsy isn't in the picture. Betsy came to our school in 5th grade, and after that - every picture I'm in, she's in too. Inseparable.

Scanning Saturday

Uhm ... there is really nothing I can say in defense of this photo.

I have nothing to say.

Warning: What you are about to see may be shocking ....

Scanning Saturday

Ah, makin' a movie. The glamour. The non-stop glamour.

I think I've said before that the best people to hang out with on a shoot are the sound dudes. They're always awesome, laid-back, humorous, and PATIENT. Never met a sound dude I didn't like. So this is the sound truck, during one of the hurry-up-and-wait days of shooting.

But still. The parade of glamour in this business never ceases to amaze me.

Scanning Saturday

Holy crap - I knew a photo existed of the moment my childhood died ... but didn't realize that I had it in my possession.

Here it is! The very moment my illusions shattered ... captured on film. How many of us can say that??

Although you'd never know how devastated I was. Already I was an actress, artful at lying, hiding.

Backstory to this pivotal moment here.

Scanning Saturday

I was in 5th grade - or maybe 6th - and Betsy and I took some after-school photography program. I think Betsy and I must have had some assignment about getting the same shot from multiple angles. We got very creative. Here is one - where I am obviously attacking Betsy.

I have a ton more - where we zoom in on her face, or mine, a far off shot, a close-up ... it's hysterical.

The photos are disintegrating.

Oh, and by the way - we're at school here.

Scanning Saturday

Mitchell and I became FAST friends at age 19. Then we had a "bad time" which lasted 3 months, and where I was a totally cold bitch. Then came the thaw, and after that - we became obnoxiously close. Inseparable. Later, we laughed about it - how people in the theatre department must have been like, "Guys ... you're not the first two people to discover friendship ... please get over yourselves."

But we couldn't!!

We jitterbugged constantly. We knew one routine - and we did it over, and over and over ... complete with the choreographed bow. Like whether or not the music had come to an end - we HAD to do our bow, because that was the only way we knew how to end it.

Here we are in the act. This was after the thaw. As you can tell by my big red cheeks - which are also indicative of the summer, and also clearly show the effects of my jolly shame-free underage drinking. I love love love this photo. I miss those earrings.

Scanning Saturday

A very belated happy Easter. From another generation to this one.

I am rockin' such a cool purse and such a stylin' hat.

Clothes by Mother.

Scanning Saturday

Waiting for my laundry to be done. Thought I'd do some scanning. The next 2 weeks are going to be so busy that I feel nervous just contemplating how I will manage it - the work, the sleep, the eating, the schedule .... I will be occupied from 6 a.m. until at times 2 a.m. - not to mention all the writing I'll have to get done ... I'm kinda jazzed about it. I'll share more once it gets going ... For now, let's just say ... I am enjoying the last leisure time I will have until May is well underway.

So here's a scan.

I call it Urban Crisis. It should be clear why. In the photo, I don't seem too concerned about the urban crisis around me.

Welcome to the Tribeca dungeon

I come down the stairs into the basement area - and at first glimpse think: Okay. I am about to be killed by an angry penis-hating butterfly-loving lunatic who orders me to put the lotion in the basket.

One look at this view and I am sure I have only moments to live.

I move further into the basement. Here's the corner. God, doesn't it look cozy and inviting??

I turn ... and find what I am looking for. Although it sort of has a "GATEWAY TO HELL" feel to it. Dare I continue on?

Closer ... through the mirror, the "ladies room" glows with the fires of hell.

The ceiling of the dark blue hallway. I'm being buried under bricks ... or I'm waiting for a small lonely FBI agent wearing night-goggles to come and save me.

I look down the blue hall to where I want to go ... and see a floating roll of toilet paper ... beckoning to me through the gloom.

This is what I see, looking up, as I am perched on the ol' can (actually, I should say as I am hovering over the toilet bowl ...). It's so cramped that my knees touch the door. This is far cry from the Charmin Brou-Haha. It almost looks like a torture device. Bricked in, so no one will hear you scream.

I am now fully ensconced in the red glow of the fires of hell ... yet I glance back out ... and can still see the blue cool hallway to freedom ...

It puts the lotion in the basket.

On my way out, I decide to check out the men's room. To see what kind of ambience they've got going on in there. This is my first glimpse.

I hightail it out of there.

Dusk in lower Manhattan

The streets seemed semi-deserted, and there were times when I could almost believe I was strolling around in 1910. It was a cloudy dusk, turning cloudy night, with smattering of rain ...I later found myself in what amounts to a dungeon -and I took pictures there too - but that'll be in the next post.

For now ... the beauty of a cloudy night in lower Manhattan. I was alone (during my walk anyway) but not lonely.

This is the AT & T building and I just thought it looked spectacular. Like something out of Brazil or Metropolis.

Street scene. Maybe it's just my sensibility but I look at that and feel a deep ache of aesthetic satisfaction. It just has so much in it ... it's night, you can feel the history of that street - and then just as an image ... the huge windows, the dusk, the fire escapes crawling diagonally, the beam of the street lamp ... Get ready, there are gonna be a million more like this one. It's a photo where you could conceivably be in another century.

It was getting a bit too dark to be shooting without a flash - hence the blurriness of this photo. A lot of these came out too blurry and I deleted most of them but this one for some reason appealed to me. Again, with the feeling of an early industrial city ... it seems to be from another time.

And then. A near-death experience caught on camera.

Ahhhh. I love to see mountain ranges, and forests, and crashing waves. But this is just as beautiful to me.

This struck me as kind of eerie and poetic. It's light - which means life - which means: "there are people behind this door" - but somehow this seems uninhabited ... like maybe it's an ALIEN behind the door, or something like that. Somethng alive but not quite human.

More urban poetry. The glowing of lamps through windows. This is not a residential area - it's a mix of industrial (old dusty fabric shops, garment stores) and cavernous art galleries, with 2 or 3 paintings hanging on otherwise empty walls. One side of the street is grimy, gritty (the ones I took above) and the other side gleams with stark whitness. Here's a glimpse from the gritty side.

The glare of this pirate totally stopped me in my tracks.

This image was glued onto a battered service entrance-door. I have no idea what it is but I love it.

Basquiat? Is that you?

The "clean" side of the street. Spectacular in its own way ... staring calmly across the narrow road at the early 20th century garment district shops.

As night fell, random lit windows gleamed. Like I said, this is not a residential area - so most of the windows were dark. The contrast struck me as so beautiful.

This might be my favorite photo of the batch. It's a lamp store - but with no signage, no Home Depot stamp, no corporate environment. This is a rough area. Completely functional. But poetic because of that.

Yet another "ahhhh" view of the street.

And let's end it with this guy. He called to me from his remote corner of the wall, in a gruff burbly voice, saying, "Hey. You wid da camera. Yo. Check me out, bitch!"

Next up? MY time in the dungeon ... a space right out of "Silence of the Lambs".

Traveling

The little train station near my parents' house. I am there all the time ... but I never get over its quaintness. It was just re-done - and they kept the feeling of it intact, which I - with my resistance to change - appreciate. They did cut down the massive beech tree in the middle of the roundabout - and that was something I needed to grieve. But other than that ... it is all the same.

New York montage

It's a pouring rainy morning and I've been up since 5:45. I was BLASTED into consciousness by Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" ... and I feel that that is a good omen for the day. I am doing laundry, and Swiffering everything in the apartment, including my soul. I also read a chapter in my book about the Maronite Christians. And I also wrote a girlie-gushy entry in my diary about Keith, and what it was like to be with him last week. Hi, Keith! Yes, it is a modern-day version of Diary Friday. My own life - with its interwoven continuity, its re-visitations, its feel of a literary conceit - kinda blows me away, if I really think about it. Talked on the phone with David yesterday and he said, "Sheila, it's like in a matter of a month you have been plucked out of your old life completely ... and plopped down into the middle of somebody else's life. Like what the fuck???" Oh, and I also made some Nutrisystem pancakes (which rock the house, by the way). I'm meeting with my tax lady later this afternoon, no time like the present, I love her, with her vaguely Serbo-Croatian accent and her acute intelligence with a semi-Balkan edge. And hopefully later I can see my massage guru, because it's been one helluva week - all good stuff - but I am wiped out and I need a bit of attention, frankly. I've also been messing around in my little photo studio, trying to figure this whole thing out.

Here's another New York montage. Things seen while out and about and up and down and around and thru.

9th Avenue

Anthropologie window display. Little hanging baggies of dirt, with sprouts coming out of it ... such a whimsical beautiful window ... I loved it.

The United States Marine Band - going back onto their bus. I got to watch them perform, too. It was gorgeous. On multiple levels. Ahem.

Kurt Vonnegut. Rest in peace.

The Hershey Factory - one view - Beth, member our insane time there when you were a chaperone (who had no voice, I might add??) And Bets - remember crowding in there the day you came down with the kids to see Wicked? That place is nuts!!

The Hershey Store - another view. It was great - because it was a grey dreary day and the colors bombarded you thru the bleak.

Stage Door

NBC Studio 1 - mural on lobby wall

NBC Studio 1 - another view of the mural

This one's my favorite shot I got of the mural.

Doesn't this dude look like such a wiseass? That's probably because he's 8 stories tall.

Before 7 a.m. ...

... an entire life can be lived. Yesterday I was up at 4 a.m. ... and all of the photos taken below come from before 7 a.m.

Dawn in Manhattan. It's otherworldly, man.

5:30 a.m. This is the view from the end of my street.

Another view of Manhattan - a bit north of midtown.

Even farther north. God ... spectacular.

Walking to catch the bus. Glancing to my right, repeatedly ... for the views. The city can be seen at the end of every street or alley.

In the city now. It's 6 a.m. Port Authority ... already awake and handling its everyday duties.

6 a.m. Some human needs never slumber. A little peeping, a little palm reading, a little pawn-shopping ...

Walking cross-town. Saw a dusty truck. Everywhere you look (seriously, everywhere) you can see remnants, memories, memorials ... you just need to know HOW to look. You can't walk 3 steps without seeing something like this.

I turn north. I head towards Times Square. Amazons towering above me in the dawn light.

Times Square at dawn. Seriously - it is surreal. It's surreal in mid-day as well ... but at dawn? FanTAStic.

Dawn patrol.

The Nasdaq never sleeps. We do ... but it does not.

This way, please.

Now here - you can see the glow of sunrise on that one patch of building. Shivers! I saw that and felt what Emily Byrd Starr would call "the flash".

Somehow incongrous ... this little old-fashioned looking building surrounded by corporate gleam.

That last photo was taken at 6:49 a.m.

A whole life lived before 7 a.m.

Baroque lobby

purty.

I love the dude on the ceiling.

A solitary walk

... in the woods near my parents house. There's a pond, and a shed with a fireplace ... and sometimes the pond freezes (I remember Mere and I skating there on a snow day) ... and it's all marshy and quiet and you can see deer and all that crap. It was getting on towards twilight so the sky was dappled ... I kept trying to capture the exact quality of the sky with my new camera and I didn't QUITE succeed but I will keep experimenting.

Photos below.

Here's that dappled sky I mentioned:

Da shed in da wood.

I guess this person had run out of Post-It notes:

The way thru.

I love this.

Mirror.

Wintry bark.

From inside da shed. Big stone fireplace. Teenage grafitti on the walls. The ghosts of a million lost virginities.

Thru the swamp.

Dazzling

Yo.

Camera fun.

I have a Flickr account now. Let the games begin.

Opening day

Living vicariously. Incredible photographs, Beth.

Here is my contribution.

It was Easter Sunday. We had family over. A wee apple-cheeked baby was there. Chaos reigned in the living room. Toys were brought out from the attic. Beauty of being with family. I looked around at one point ... and saw THIS on the table.

Memory Lane

I took these photos on Easter morning. It was chilly, windy, bright. I went to my old grade school - which is no longer an active school (sniff) - but the ghosts remain. You can see how Mother Nature is taking over ... the weeds in the sandbox, the empty basketball hoops, the rust ... but this place is alive. I went to school here. I am everywhere I look. So is Betsy. And Michele. And Andrew. And Keith. And J. And Greta and Leo and Dee Dee and Kevin and ... my siblings ... This was where we grew up.

The door. This isn't really the front door - that's over to the right, off-camera. This is a side entrance - the boiler room to the left.

This is where the fabled FORT used to be - a huge two-leveled wooden structure - which could be a pirate ship, a fortress, a castle, whatever. Now of course ... it's just bushes and trees. The fort is where I attacked poor Keith, age 9, after chasing him at recess, and kissed him on the cheek. A terrifying moment for both of us. We laughed about it last week. He could not get away from me. And then of course I had to run away, shrieking. I had gotten what I wanted, but what was I supposed to do with it??? No idea. Must run away.

Here's one of the sandboxes. This one was right next to the fort. We would sit on those triangular wooden sides, our feet in the sand. When we were older, say, 10 or 11 ... we didn't play in the sandbox. But the girls would all convene there - to gossip, plan our attacks on the boys, chatter away. I also remember that Betsy used to know how to make herself faint - she would hyperventilate, then hold her breath, and keel over. This was a huge draw - kids would run from all sides of the playground to "watch Betsy faint". And she would do it in this sandbox - so that she wouldn't crack her head open on the cement. Good times, good times.

This just struck me as very desolate and poetic.

I love this.

Alaska. Off to the side and up around the corner.

The Great Rift Valley of ... er ... Oklahoma?

A bubblah. This is out the back door and to the right - we used to play ferocious dodgeball in this small brick alcove. The bubblah is kid-height - everything makes one feel like a huge giant.

Target practice!

This picture is full of ghosts. Ghosts of a bazillion 4-square games, many many years ago.

Through the glass darkly. Over to the left was my 6th grade class - where Andrew gave me the Valentine - way down at the end of the hall is the "multipurpose room" - where we would have gym on rainy days, lunch every day - and where plays would be put on on occasion. I also remember seeing The Computer who wore tennis sneakers there - on some rainy day. Huge screen pulled down ... all of us in the darkness ... who knows why some things stick in the brain.

Old messages. Hieroglyphics of a bygone age.

Florida. Georgia. Alabama.

Gather ye rosebuds.

Camera glory

I am having so much fun with my camera. It's a little bit scary how much fun I am having. And the whole hooking-camera-up-to-computer thing is so easy that it frightens me. Although I do get a weird message about the "device not being unhooked properly" when I take the USB cable out. I can't figure that part out. But the photos have been imported. And here we go. This is the first round. The first batch of photos I took.

HOBOKEN DUSK

BLOCKBUSTER: ALL OUT

FRAGMENT

MY FRONT DOOR

AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS

ELEVATOR FLOOR, 30 ROCK

GRACE ON 46TH STREET

HOBOKEN DUSK II

TIMES SQUARE PIRATE 20 STORIES HIGH

Diary Friday

I'm all emotional today because I hung out with Keith M. for a marathon 10 hours ... he was in town this week, and we met up, and had this awesome time together, and ... he's my childhood friend. It's a strange thing. I'll write about it more when I'm not so under-slept, over-whelmed, hung-over ... and any other unders and overs you can think of.

I wrote about Keith M. and who he was to me here (and, I guess, who he still is to me).

See, I'm all teary-eyed right now. How often in life do we get such a chance? To reunite with an old old friend ... someone who "knew you when" ... and not just in a superficial way - or not just a catch-up talk at a high school reunion (although our last reunion was really intense - for both of us - we talked about that too) - but a serious re-connecting? Like in a real life kind of way? I just feel so lucky, so happy right now, and I'm crying. I obviously have a lot of great friends from childhood, who are still my friends today. Thank you, God. These people are my rocks, my anchors, my dearest friends. Betsy and Michele - from grade school, and then Beth and Mere from junior high. Keith and I talked a lot about that, and why such friendships are so poignant - and important - like what exactly is it ... it's not just nostalgia. It is something else.

We hashed that one out yesterday (in about hour 2 of our marathon day) - sitting on a bench in Central Park, watching little kids play - just like he and I used to play. There were kids on the swings, kids chasing each other, sliding down slides ... and I was listening intently to Keith, commenting, talking, listening, nodding, all that stuff - but I was also sitting there, and seeing in my minds eye the ghosts of us - when we were little ... at recess ... doing the very things the kids around us were doing at that very moment. Chasing each other, screaming, dangling precariously from jungle gyms, running as fast as we could, etc. Keith is a man now. I'm a woman. But we were children together and ... those kids we once were ... are still there, they are still us, they are part of us. Maybe that's why I'm writing this with tears streaming down my face. I talked with Keith, and I knew him, even with the "20 year gap" in our friendship. Amazing. I just feel so freakin' lucky. We have grown and matured ... but he is that person I remember from 2nd grade, 3rd grade, high school. There is a continuum here - a piece of myself that is somehow contained in Keith.

We are not islands. Memory is a collective thing. Little pieces of who we are, memories ... are contained in other people, not just in our own minds. Like we were just batting back and forth the memories yesterday, throwing out names, telling stories, having the past wash over us, bolts from the blue - "remember that??" Talking with Keith for 10 straight hours yesterday was not hard at all. There wasn't one awkward silence. We got into it, man. hahaha Like - no small talk. We went right to it. Politics, God, relationships, our childhood, issues we struggle with - who we are - our flaws - what we want - our dreams - sex, life ... It was a marathon. Lots of laughter, too. He said to me within the first 5 minutes of seeing each other, "It is my goal that by the end of the night you will either be crying - or laughing so hard you piss your pants." hahahaha It was that kind of reconnection. And we could have kept going. It's just that it finally was 1 a.m. and we were wiped out. I need to just let this percolate for a while. It was so so good to see him, sweet, strong, intense, poignant, and also just plain old fun. How much fun it was to sit in a bar with Keith - KEITH! - my childhood friend! - and drink beer, and talk like maniacs about our lives?

So in honor of him, and to embarrass him - here are a couple of Diary Friday entries - I've posted them before ... apparently I wrote about Keith in my diary a lot as a high schooler ... this was something I did not remember. I always had a fondness for Keith, I always liked him - but after grade school, our cliques diverged ... but I was always aware of him. Not in a stalker kind of way - just a kind of familiarity that I found comforting. And also (judging from these diary entries) exhilarating.

But first: a picture of us then. And I'm bummed - we kept saying we needed to take a picture of us together now - but we were just so wrapped up in our conversation for 10 hours that we never took the picture. I did take a picture of his back as he walked away from me in one of the bars we hung out in. Yes, there was more than one bar. hahaha But it's a blurry cell phone photo ...

Guess the ghosts of us then will have to do:

Keith and me - we're 11 years old here. sniff, sniff. I'm a mess.

These two entries are from my junior year in high school:

NOVEMBER

WHAT A DAY!! I've got to tell you! Have I told you about Keith M? It feels like I have. He is -- the -- (I swear to God) nicest guy at our school. Wow. My heart almost hurts. He is gonna grow up to be one fantastic guy. He already is. It's unusual. I mean, the popular guys in our class - they're nice and everything - but not very sensitive. It seems like they make fun of everyone. They can be mean. But Keith! KEITH! What a name. [Uhm, okay - not only am I probably embarrassing Keith reading this, but now I'M embarrassed. It's the "What a name" moment that got me. Okay, onward.] He never makes fun of freshmen or unpopular kids. He's nice to everyone. But he's not overly sweet. He's sort of a tough guy, you know? [I ADORE my complex character analysis here.]

He's in my Chemistry and Math. He is a good student. He wants to understand and do well. It gives me a thrill whenever he says my name. [AHHHHH! How embarrassing!!] It's like: "He knows who I am!" But of course he does! I've been in his class since first grade. We were a "couple" in 4th grade. (Really heavy stuff. You know. I stole his comb and giggled when he came near me.) But in junior high, I drifted apart from all my old friends. They all became popular - Keith, Andrew - but now - this year, I just love being in classes with him. My old childhood friend.

I keep thinking I've told you this! [Er - I believe the "you" is referencing my journal] There's that moment in gym class - where a retarded kid showed up and he'd be doing his best, and everyone would be snickering- but Keith M. sat there, staunchly, firmly, calling out, "Great cut! Okay! Keep your eye on the ball! That's it!" You know -- pep talk. Whatever. GOD.

Keith M. has such a great start on being human. I told my mom that story about Keith in gym class and she went, "Now him. He will grow up to be an even nicer man." She's right. He's so friendly. We can talk to each other. I don't know. I feel comfortable with him.

[I have to just interject here. The fact that I wrote about Keith M so much and so rapturously in my journals is kind of surprising to me - not that he isn't a worthy object - but that I don't remember doing so. I don't remember having RAVED about him so consistently - his name comes up constantly in these old journals - and it's really amazing to look back and go: "Wow. He really meant a lot to me. Who knew??"]

I had gone on a field trip today with Drama to see Glass Menagerie and I came home and wondered who to call from Math to find out what I missed. I really don't know anyone in my class, not well enough to call anyway - so I thought of Keith - not that I know Keith like a brother - but God, the opportunity was there - I grabbed it. I was nervous though. I practiced what I would say. O God! [I am striking myself as unbelievably sweet here. Also, I love that I didn't write "Oh God" but I wrote "O God" ... it's a much more dramatic and poetic spelling, which was completely appropriate - seeing as I WAS ABOUT TO CALL KEITH M! I was so dramatic. Sheesh] I looked up his number.

I remember every second of this phone call. Keith has a distinct way of talking. His voice ... it sounds - not sharp - but clear. He is the best looking boy in our class, I swear. Heart pounding, I said to myself, "Cut it out, Sheila!" and dialed.

It rang twice.

"Hello?" It was his father, I guess. I could hear the news on in the background. Just saying, "May I please speak to Keith" gave me a heart attack. What was he thinking as he came to get the phone? Would he be bummed out that it was me? But really what I was thinking was just his name ... Keith. [Sheila, his name is Keith. Please get over it.]

"Just a minute," and he went off to get Keith and I thought, "Oh my God, he's home!" I wasn't nervous - just - I don't know. I really like him. But 4th grade is so far away now.

There was a pause - then I heard this sort of close voice, "Yeah! I got it!" His sharp clear voice. He picked up the phone. [Listen to how I am writing about this - I am writing as though calling Keith to get the math homework is literally the biggest cliffhanger ever. O God!] He said "Hello?"

I pushed on - "Hi Keith? This is Sheila from Math class." Dumb thing to say. We have been friends since six-year-old-dom. But he said, "Oh! Hi!" Really friendly. Not sort of suspicious, like: "Oh no - what does she want?" I once called Andrew in the 6th grade - Mary Lou answered and went running off screaming, "ANDREW! IT'S A GIRL!" [hahahahahahaha]

I said, "Uh ... I was wondering, since I wasn't there today if we had a quiz or what the homework is ..."

"Oh - okay. Uh ..."

I love how -- I just -- He just was so nice - very amiable. I have such an inferiority complex, especially with boys. I think everyone's suspicious of me. And I think that if they guess that I like them - they will be bummed out about it. It's weird.

He said, "We didn't have a quiz today but I believe we're having a test on Friday and - okay, the homework is the - uh - Chapter Review - Chapter Summary - whatever, and that's on page ... Do you have your book with you?"

[Look at that. I have almost no memory of this enormous cliffhanger of a moment in my life - but I would bet that that's almost word for word what Keith said. I had a knack - and still have it - for remembering conversations, no matter how benign or trivial - with word to word detail.]

"Uh - no -" I whipped out a pencil to mark it down. He said, "Well, it's either on 109 or 129 - I'm not sure - but one of those." I wrote that down quickly on my Glass Menagereie program and said, "Okay. Got it. Thanks a lot, Keith." "Yeah, sure." "Okay. Bye." "Bye."

AND THEN WE HUNG UP!

[If you could only see how huge those letters are in my journal. Hahahaha They're enormous. I am shouting "AND THEN WE HUNG UP". As though hanging up the phone is the most AMAZING development in this whole cliffhanger.]

Keith seems so natural - not inhibited - I can't explain this. I don't idolize him - even though I sit here going, "HE KNOWS WHO I AM!" It's not like that. I don't idolize him. I just care for him. He is special. That’s all. His whole personality. I know that conversation doesn’t sound thrilling – but Diary – all the other guys – I mean, I don’t know if they even know who I am – but you had to have been on that phone. He was not – Okay. I know. I remember. I know why he's different, and special. That’s what matters. I mean, I don’t think he likes me or anything, but it is the fact that he treats me so kindly, like a pal, like a friend – It comes so easily to me when I am with him. With all other boys – even the ones I grew up with – it’s always so weird and awkward. They act like I want something from them – just by talking to them. Keith never does that. Conversation comes naturally with us. Me, Keith, and Bill always end up sitting near each other because of our last names. That last sentence had awful grammar, and sorry about that. Anyway, in Chemistry, I sit in back of Bill who sits in back of Keith. One day, Mr. Amoeba started handing out papers for a “pop quiz” – ooh, isn’t he cool and scary – [Uhm, can you tell I despised that teacher?] Keith groaned, "Oh, great. Here goes another grade down the tubes." I said - not really to him - just to myself, and anyone who felt like listening: "Think positive!" Bill heard me. He leaned forward, tapped Keith on the shoulder, and said, "Excuse me, Keith. Sheila O'Malley wants you to think positive." [hahahahahaha] Keith turned around and grinned at me, giving the thumbs-up sign.

I can't believe how much I care for this kid. How has this happened? Just a friendship is more than enough.

Aren't human beings and human nature the most wonderful things in the world??????

DECEMBER

Oh, the weirdest thing just happened to me! [Sheila, please don't share it. Oh God ... you're gonna share it, aren't you?] Isn't it wonderful when life looks so humdrum and a tiny little thing pops up to take away the humdrum-ness?

Just now - I was in my room alone working on a new story I just started, listening to the radio. Today was a good day. I wasn't depressed or anything, and Freeze Frame came on the radio. [HAHAHAHA] Music is my savior. No matter what kind. It uplifts me. [But I thought you just said you weren't depressed??] I love music. It does something to me. It revitalizes me. (Ooh!) [Uhm - okay, I don't know what that "ooh" is about.] Anyway, an old wave of happiness flooded over me, remembering when I loved that song and Mere and I made up a dance to it. [Mere, I am sure you can see those dance steps right now. It SWEPT THE SCHOOL!] So I leaped to my feet, turned up the volume, and started bounding around dancing. I love dancing - I feel so happy and uninhibited when I dance. I went wild, like I usually do at dances. [Yes, but Sheila, did you press your sweaty Irish head up against the tiles?] I'm glad no one was watching me though because I went berserk. I did the little dance, I really got into it. I'm cool! [Uhm ... ya are?]

Suddenly I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My cheeks were all flushed. I was smiling. I looked okay in a very athletic out-of-breath way, that fun song was in my ears - I felt energy fizzing on all my nerve endings. I had nothing to do with the grin spread across my face. I was just lit up inside and it came out in a smile.

Then - [Oh God, there's not more is there?] I felt this surge inside - really - that's the word. It felt like a little cherry tomato exploded inside me. I felt no more doubts. I saw myself (well, not really saw - it wasn't like these visions slowly drifted past me - they all assaulted me at once, making it all the better) - I saw myself going with Dave to the movies, sitting at Ricky's with him, [RICKYS! HAHAHAHAHA] - kissing him - dancing with him - talking with him - It was wonderful. Just suddenly - for one brief flash - I felt: Of course something's going to happen. Of course! Ecstasy flew through my brain and I felt like leaping and screaming and laughing!!! [Wow. This is really sad. Nothing did end up happening and I spent the entire next summer staggering around in tears because he turned me down to go to the Junior Prom. God. It sucked, really.] But it paralyzed me in a way. I just stared at my reflection. The next minute, that feeling - if that's a word for it - was gone - but I still feel all wiggly inside. I wish I could say in here: Of course it'll work out! I want it more than I have ever wanted anything!!!! [Oh, sweet girl. Sorry. Heartbreak's comin' at ya. Hunker down.]

Yesterday in Chemistry, we saw a filmstrip, and Keith ran the projector. So he pulled a desk up right next to mine. I'm not in love with him, but I do find him very attractive, and he is such a nice and real person. I wish I could get to know him better, like we used to know each other when we were kids. Anyway, the room was dark and the narrator was droning on and whenever the beep beeped [uhm you might want to re-word that], Keith would turn the knob. I was just sitting there, taking notes like a good doobie, and I happened to glance at Keith, and I happened to look at his hands. Very nice hands. Big, with long rough-looking fingers - looking as though they were sculpted out of wood, just casually curled around the projector. Sometimes just slightly moving, not for any good reason - or reaching up to scratch his chest. Then - to my shock - I suddenly felt like reaching over and taking his hand in mine - feel his fingers gently squeeze mine. I had to quickly look back up at the screen to keep myself from doing just that. I didn't concentrate on the film AT ALL after that, but you know what I think? I think holding hands is about the most romantic thing of all. Of course, I've never done it. I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING. But I think that holding hands might even be nicer than a kiss. Of course, if I am ever kissed, I will probably think differently, but holding hands ... Oh God, its too romantic to talk about.

Of course, next in French, I glanced back at Dave's hands. Talk about big hands! They were beautiful - with ragged bitten nails. [hahahahaha Yeah, Sheila, they sound really "beautiful". Love is blind.] He bites his nails too. A cut on one of his knuckles. Rounded blunt fingertips. I couldn't get the vision of us strolling along, with our hands clasped, out of my mind. I want to hold hands with him.

You know what? It's just occurred to me that it must look to you as if this whole relationship is in my brain. [Er ... yeah. That is what it looks like] But it's not. It's not like the thing with JW. I admired JW from afar and tricked myself into believing that he cared for me just as much as I loved him. HOW could I have been so STUPID??? Why didn't I see? We must have had 6 conversations in all - I had fantasies of our romance, but it was all so illogical. He was so far from me. But David - suddenly this year - there is a friendship growing that wasn't there before. [This is not a lie. We were friends.] And this time - I don't lie on my bed dreaming of a sudden dalliance. [Dalliance? What is this - Les Liaisons Dangereuses?] I think about our real-life happenings which is so much more satisfactory. Me asking him to dance, us in Project Adventure - him talking to me - and just thinking about him -- DAVE - who he is, what he's like - what he thinks about - if he ever thinks of me.

It's impossible not to imagine us going out and what it would be like and how wonderful and fascinating it would be, but Diary - oh forgive my awful forwardness - I think it could work! [I love that I am apologizing TO MY JOURNAL for my "awful forwardness". It's so Victorian of me. I was a Gibson Girl, even then.] I think it honestly is in my grasp.

Isn't that wonderful?

I don't know how to go about "going for it" - but if nothing happens naturally - I'm gonna find a way. [Bummer, man. Headin' for a fall ... a big fall ...]

Here's the entire Diary Friday archive if you're interested.

DECEMBER

Oh, the weirdest thing just happened to me! [Sheila, please don't share it. Oh God ... you're gonna share it, aren't you?] Isn't it wonderful when life looks so humdrum and a tiny little thing pops up to take away the humdrum-ness?

Just now - I was in my room alone working on a new story I just started, listening to the radio. Today was a good day. I wasn't depressed or anything, and Freeze Frame came on the radio. [HAHAHAHA] Music is my savior. No matter what kind. It uplifts me. [But I thought you just said you weren't depressed??] I love music. It does something to me. It revitalizes me. (Ooh!) [Uhm - okay, I don't know what that "ooh" is about.] Anyway, an old wave of happiness flooded over me, remembering when I loved that song and Mere and I made up a dance to it. [Mere, I am sure you can see those dance steps right now. It SWEPT THE SCHOOL!] So I leaped to my feet, turned up the volume, and started bounding around dancing. I love dancing - I feel so happy and uninhibited when I dance. I went wild, like I usually do at dances. [Yes, but Sheila, did you press your sweaty Irish head up against the tiles?] I'm glad no one was watching me though because I went berserk. I did the little dance, I really got into it. I'm cool! [Uhm ... ya are?]

Suddenly I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. My cheeks were all flushed. I was smiling. I looked okay in a very athletic out-of-breath way, that fun song was in my ears - I felt energy fizzing on all my nerve endings. I had nothing to do with the grin spread across my face. I was just lit up inside and it came out in a smile.

Then - [Oh God, there's not more is there?] I felt this surge inside - really - that's the word. It felt like a little cherry tomato exploded inside me. I felt no more doubts. I saw myself (well, not really saw - it wasn't like these visions slowly drifted past me - they all assaulted me at once, making it all the better) - I saw myself going with Dave to the movies, sitting at Ricky's with him, [RICKYS! HAHAHAHAHA] - kissing him - dancing with him - talking with him - It was wonderful. Just suddenly - for one brief flash - I felt: Of course something's going to happen. Of course! Ecstasy flew through my brain and I felt like leaping and screaming and laughing!!! [Wow. This is really sad. Nothing did end up happening and I spent the entire next summer staggering around in tears because he turned me down to go to the Junior Prom. God. It sucked, really.] But it paralyzed me in a way. I just stared at my reflection. The next minute, that feeling - if that's a word for it - was gone - but I still feel all wiggly inside. I wish I could say in here: Of course it'll work out! I want it more than I have ever wanted anything!!!! [Oh, sweet girl. Sorry. Heartbreak's comin' at ya. Hunker down.]

Yesterday in Chemistry, we saw a filmstrip, and Keith ran the projector. So he pulled a desk up right next to mine. I'm not in love with him, but I do find him very attractive, and he is such a nice and real person. I wish I could get to know him better, like we used to know each other when we were kids. Anyway, the room was dark and the narrator was droning on and whenever the beep beeped [uhm you might want to re-word that], Keith would turn the knob. I was just sitting there, taking notes like a good doobie, and I happened to glance at Keith, and I happened to look at his hands. Very nice hands. Big, with long rough-looking fingers - looking as though they were sculpted out of wood, just casually curled around the projector. Sometimes just slightly moving, not for any good reason - or reaching up to scratch his chest. Then - to my shock - I suddenly felt like reaching over and taking his hand in mine - feel his fingers gently squeeze mine. I had to quickly look back up at the screen to keep myself from doing just that. I didn't concentrate on the film AT ALL after that, but you know what I think? I think holding hands is about the most romantic thing of all. Of course, I've never done it. I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING. But I think that holding hands might even be nicer than a kiss. Of course, if I am ever kissed, I will probably think differently, but holding hands ... Oh God, its too romantic to talk about.

Of course, next in French, I glanced back at Dave's hands. Talk about big hands! They were beautiful - with ragged bitten nails. [hahahahaha Yeah, Sheila, they sound really "beautiful". Love is blind.] He bites his nails too. A cut on one of his knuckles. Rounded blunt fingertips. I couldn't get the vision of us strolling along, with our hands clasped, out of my mind. I want to hold hands with him.

You know what? It's just occurred to me that it must look to you as if this whole relationship is in my brain. [Er ... yeah. That is what it looks like] But it's not. It's not like the thing with JW. I admired JW from afar and tricked myself into believing that he cared for me just as much as I loved him. HOW could I have been so STUPID??? Why didn't I see? We must have had 6 conversations in all - I had fantasies of our romance, but it was all so illogical. He was so far from me. But David - suddenly this year - there is a friendship growing that wasn't there before. [This is not a lie. We were friends.] And this time - I don't lie on my bed dreaming of a sudden dalliance. [Dalliance? What is this - Les Liaisons Dangereuses?] I think about our real-life happenings which is so much more satisfactory. Me asking him to dance, us in Project Adventure - him talking to me - and just thinking about him -- DAVE - who he is, what he's like - what he thinks about - if he ever thinks of me.

It's impossible not to imagine us going out and what it would be like and how wonderful and fascinating it would be, but Diary - oh forgive my awful forwardness - I think it could work! [I love that I am apologizing TO MY JOURNAL for my "awful forwardness". It's so Victorian of me. I was a Gibson Girl, even then.] I think it honestly is in my grasp.

Isn't that wonderful?

I don't know how to go about "going for it" - but if nothing happens naturally - I'm gonna find a way. [Bummer, man. Headin' for a fall ... a big fall ...]

The loneliness of ice skaters ...

... on a rainy windy New York day.

That's with my cell phone. Hence the darkness surrounding the ice skating rink.

Sniffle, sob

I lost my favorite pencil.

The only rational response to such a grievous loss is:

... outright sobbing in a carefully placed pool of light.

Phew. I believe the grief has passed.

Oh ... nope ... false alarm ...

not done yet ...

wahhhhhhhhhhhh

Couldn't resist

Walked by the Booth on my way to meet the Trinidadian, and took a picture of one of the photos in the marquee.

A New York shocker

I know it will be hard to believe, but a certain venue in Times Square has closed its doors. I had gone out searching for it again only to find ... it was gone.

I took 2 pretty damn funny pictures of what is there now. I've listed them below.

So here is the monolith that now confronts you ... if you go seeking out that old venue.

Wow. Okay. I GOT it. You guys CLOSED and there is now a RETAIL OPPORTUNITY.

Blue curtains line the glass front doors, obscuring what is within ... I wondered what remained of the mania I had once experienced. I went to peek between a gap in the blue curtains to see if there were any remnants of the former tenant .... And I took a photo thru the glass door of what I saw on the wall behind that curtain. This may be the funniest photo I have ever taken.

New York Signage

Old and new ....

I'm going to be getting a nice camera in the next month or so ... no more of this cell-phone-photo crap although sometimes the snaps come out looking okay. Like the neon one below. I kinda like it - the blurriness gives the correct feel to it, because it was raining last night when I took that pic at about 11:45 pm.

And the second photo below ... it's just an old water-stained utilitarian sign, but I find such beauty in it.

Every time I see an example of old-timey signage in New York, I feel compelled to capture it. It's a ghost of days gone by. You can still see it everywhere, though ... you just need to train your eyes to look for it.

Old school

39th street. I love how remnants of a world gone by remain.

8 a.m. 39th Street

Oh - and I slipped and fell in the middle of the street - I was holding a Dunkin Donuts coffee and a big bulky overnight bag - and down I went - I totally wiped out, but the funny thing is: I doggedly held my coffee up in the air, so it wouldn't spill. I was lying in the street - face down - with my arm up, triumphantly. The rest of me was covered in slush, but dammit, not one drop of coffee spilled. I must have looked ludicrous. A little old man helped me up. Thank you, sir.

On the waterfront

Last night, I was waiting for a cab in Hoboken. Freezing my BUTT off. Frigid wind whipping down 13th Street. I happened to be near the Hoboken Historical Museum - which has its entrance in a covered-over walkway between two buildings. There are arched entranceways - and when you stand on 13th Street and look through, you can see the glitter of the Empire State Building - hovering on the other side of the Hudson. The walkway provided a good break from the wind as I waited for my cab. Shivering. There are glassed-in cases in the walkway - with pictures of Hoboken in earlier days, the brownstones, the development, etc. I took some photos of ONE of the displays, as I shivered and stamped and blew on my quickly numbing digits. Not hard to imagine why I was drawn to THAT glass case as opposed to the others.

The ballots

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

In honor of the first Sunday of Lent

... here is my impression of Heaven.

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

10:15 a.m. crisp morning

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

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

And then there are days ...

... strange and rare days ...

when it feels as though time has stood still.

This is one of those days.

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

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

A peek into my tiny world

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

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

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

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

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

Sunny Saturday afternoon, Feb. 2007

Corner of 7th Ave and Greenwich.

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

The obsession ...

... continues apace.

It has gone to the next logical step.

More to come.

Cat Lady

Cat Lady has only one defining feature: enormous pink glasses.

Cat Lady also got more and more volatile as the photo shoot went on. She sang. She talked to her cats. She yelled at people who were cruel to cats. She smouldered silently at the thought of abandoned kittens. She goes through the spectrum of emotions brought about from too much solitude and not enough human contact.

Here is Cat Lady in a relatively (and rarely) calm and forthright attitude.

Cat Lady is not always in control of how she comes off.

The thought of cruelty to animals makes Cat Lady go deep deep within herself. Into a fortress of rage.

Cat Lady quiets down her inner demons for a moment. Just a moment.

Singing to her brood of cats always makes Cat Lady happy.

Sometimes Cat Lady gets depressed. The blues come over her suddenly, with almost no warning.

It is useless to try to talk her out of these moods.

If you push her too hard to "cheer up", she very well may lash out at you.

For the sake of all of her cats, she does, on occasion. try to "put on a happy face". The cats are never fooled, however.

The black moods pass ... leaving Cat Lady exhausted and quiet within.

Now she can sing to her cats again, with a free and open heart. A heart filled with ... a thermal glow, apparently.

It is unknown how Andy Warhol came to know her. She lived in Tribeca when it was mainly an industrial area, so it is possible he saw her on the streets and became intrigued. But he captured her here, in one of her happy singing moods.
'

Pleading Woman

Pleading Woman is more of an emotional state than an actual character. She is upset about something. She is rather melodramatic. She is pleading. She is hurt. Pleading for: a second chance? To be loved? To stop the pain?

Hopefully Pleading Woman will move on from this moment in time. But for now, here she is.

Pleading Woman is stricken.

She can't believe it.

"Why?" she asks. "Why?"

Trying to accept.

Stunned.

The first cut is the deepest.

Wings of the Dove Lady

Wings of the Dove Lady is not really a good name for this character, but that was what I started calling her in my head, so I'll stick with that. But let's put it another way. She is rich. She is arrogant. She spends months traveling in Europe, with a retinue of servants and maids following her luggage about. She toys with people. She is cunning, sexually knowing, and manipulative. She is nobody's fool. She is loved by many men. It is their great misfortune to love her. She has not loved anyone. Ever. She loves power and power alone.

She is up to no good. Watch your back around this woman.

The look in her eyes here kind of says it all.

Don't be fooled by her laugh. It doesn't mean what laughs normally mean.

She prefers night to day. For obvious reasons.

Back in London, a woman who was once her lady's maid, writes fervently in her secret journal, hidden in a box at the back of her closet: "Someday ... someday ... this icy woman will be revealed for who she really is. Please God, please. Let it be so."

In the dictionary, beside the word "haughty", should be a photograph of this woman.

She is quite aware of the effect she has on men, and she uses it.

With all of her schemes and machinations, she has perfected what we would call, in our day and age, the attitude of "plausible deniability". Nothing can be pinned on her. And she knows it.

She will die unloved and unmourned.

Warp-Speed Red Lips

Warp-Speed Red Lips is a woman dominated by her own special effects. She has red lips. Occasionally she puts on what appears to be a burqa. Occasionally she wears glasses that look suspiciously like Cat Lady's glasses. And she endures life at warp-speed. She has no inner life. So don't look for one. Emotions lose their appeal at warp speed.

She has a strange Women's Studies je ne sais quoi here. Except for the red lips.

Here she is vaguely Saudi.

Warp-Speed Red Lips often wonders if her freckles could be any larger.

Uhm ... Garp?

Red Lips look as though they are a gushing wound at warp speed.

See what I mean?

Does anyone have a Bandaid?

Alexa: Peter Gatien's Bitter Protegé

If you do not know who Peter Gatien is, then you had best Google him right now before Alexa hears of your unbelievable ignorance. If you ask Alexa, his bitter protegé , "Who's Peter Gatien?", she is likely to pull out her switchblade. Silently, ominously. She might even check her lipstick in its glittery surface, just to freak you out. She probably wouldn't cut you with it, though. She's an heiress. Spent her childhood at boarding schools in Switzerland and France. Has never had to work a day of her life. She has financed some of Peter Gatien's clubs, but only because she's such a coke-whore that she won't be let in to other clubs. She needs somewhere to go. Gatien thinks she's "a trip". "You're a trip, Alexa," he growls. She can't tell if this is a compliment or not.

She's bitter because she missed the late 70s and 80s. She wants to bring them back. Clubs used to be important. Club owners were personalities, notorious, envied, fucked. Those days are gone. Alexa wants to bring them back.

She likes to think of herself as dangerous. Her friends are rappers who have done hard time, drug-dealers from Jersey, porn stars and moguls, and bored heirs and heiresses like herself. She likes men better than women. She thinks most women are pretty silly.

She doesn't think that she is silly. Not at all.

Posted without comment.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with Alexa's eye.

Harassed Mentally Unbalanced Wife of a Red Sox Shortstop

Nancy is married to a Red Sox shortstop. A dude who is now at the top of his game. At the top of the game, in general. He has become a celebrity. He's good-looking. He becomes one of the untouchables. One of the Gods.

Nancy was completely unprepared for what would happen when they moved to Boston. Or - she thought she was prepared, but nobody can prepare you for such a paparazzi onslaught. She's also a drunk. She thinks she just "drinks socially" but it is impossible to "drink socially" when you live in Boston and you are the wife of a famous Red Sox shortstop. She is caught out, here, there, everywhere, drunk, sloshy, getting in and out of cabs. Her behavior becomes increasingly erratic. Her husband does press conferences, asking the press to back off, because obviously "my wife is shy". This does not stop the bloodhounds. They smell her weakness. They stalk her everywhere. She does time in a rehab. When she comes out, after a couple of months, a barrage of photographers wait for her at the gate.

She is a PR nightmare for the Red Sox front desk. She tells reporters to "screw themselves". She says things at press conferences like, "I f***ing can't stand baseball. I prefer football." She doesn't bond with the other Red Sox wives.

She's a mess. She wears sunglasses. She doesn't know how to be gracious. She can't bear the attention.

She's slowly being driven insane by the flashbulbs of the cameras.

Here are some photos detailing the disintegration of her personality.

Nancy, coming out of O'Reilly's Cask and Flagon at 1:30 in the morning.

Nancy, stumbling out of Maxwell's Pub at half past midnight.

Nancy, staggering out of Lucky's Tavern, at 1:30 in the afternoon.

Someone from the Providence Journal took this photograph of Nancy at Fenway Park on July 31 - at the moment that her husband hit a grand slam. This was her response.

Later that night, she was caught by the Boston Globe, drinking by herself at Fitzgeralds.

Needless to say, when she heard the cameras clicking, she was not happy.

On August 2nd, her husband hit another grand slam. She slept through it, in the stands.

Then someone woke her up and told her about her husband's grand slam. This was her response.

The next day, she was besieged on the streets of Boston wherever she went.

Naturally, she did not handle it well.

Not at all well.

It's a long day for Nancy.

She's screaming something along the lines of: "Grand slam Shlamslam! I don't give a crap!"

And things go downhill from there. Quickly.

On August 4th, Nancy offers a meek apology to the press. She is wasted. She slurs the word "sorry". That afternoon, her husband hits a home run. Nancy is in the stands. This is her response.

I don't think Nancy is cut out to be the wife of a major league star. She just doesn't understand the rules of the game.