Some Assembly Required...

It's Alive!!

2009-05-25T17:01:00.003-04:00

I've been away for a while. Apologies to anyone who actually follows my ramblings. Life has been encroaching on my time a little more forcefully than usual lately. (I know, the nerve, right?) My frustration level is at an all time high, so you can look forward to a few indignant rants in the near future. Also, I'm still working on the fairy tale re-write and I look forward to publishing it here as well. I just have to work out some of the logistics of protecting the material from infringement. Blah, blah, blah. Anyway, that's all for now. I'll keep you posted from my perch if anything new and exciting comes down the pike.

Actually, if anything exciting IS coming down the pike, it's probably stuck in traffic, thanks to the fine folks over at PennDOT. Bastards.

In a Sentimental Mood

2009-04-17T12:38:00.010-04:00

In the course of excavating my life, I've unearthed some long-buried artifacts from my past. For the most part, I've been able to turn them over delicately in my mind, smile or wince, depending on the nature of the memory, and then put them back into whatever dark and dusty corner of my mind from which they emerged. Lately, however, I've been spending a great deal of time with a particular set of memories. I was very close to my great-grandmother. I was the first born in my generation (on both sides of my family), so I held a special place among my siblings and cousins. It was a mantle that didn't particularly suit me. I don't care much for the expectations of others. It makes me unhappy and tense for other people to super-impose their own standards onto my particular "abilities". My nan - that's what I called her - seemed to understand that about me, and somehow always knew how to deal with me. All of the memories I have of my time with her are marked by a profound sense of peace. I miss her terribly.

Ellizabeth "Bessie" Gossett was born on October 15, 1897 in London. She came to America very early in her life. She met my great-grandfather Frank in her early teens, and they were married in 1912. Family lore has it that they were on their way to the little country church in a horse drawn carriage, with the preacher in another carriage ahead of them. The bridge to the church was out, apparently, but rather than postpone the ceremony (or take it as an omen of discouragement), they had the preacher stand in his carriage and shout the vows to them. They were married standing in their own carriage. They managed to have a drive-thru wedding while Las Vegas was still just a bowl of sand. My great-grandfather bought a substantial parcel of land in Collierville, Tennessee, a rural Eden on the outskirts of Memphis, and built every structure that stood on it. The main house was a rambling, one story farmhouse with a big kitchen, a sturdy front porch, and an almost comically sloping floor. They added bedrooms as they added children - my grandfather Lonnie, his brothers Wallace and Herbert, and my great-aunts Lavelle and Opal. Frank died in 1957 (ten years before I entered the picture), when the tractor he was driving overturned, rolling on top of him. Nan was the one who found him. Years of living on a farm had toughened her. I'm sure she was devastated by the loss, but I never heard her speak of it. She poured herself into her family and moved on. The farm fell into disrepair. I remember that there was still a fair amount of livestock in the form of pigs, horses, a couple of goats and a coop full of persnickety chickens, but the barn, which must have been impressive in its day, was strictly forbidden as it had become a battleground for snakes. rats and owls. Keeping us out of the barn was, strangely, not a problem.

So much of my childhood was coloured with my experiences on that land, and by Nan herself. The memories go to the bone, engaging every sense. I remember the cold porcelain and never hot enough water of the old claw-foot bathtub. Nan's feather bed, to which I was quarantined after being felled by a stubborn midsummer cold, holds a place of particular reverence. It was the site of what stands to this day as the best sleep of my life. As an adult, plagued by insomnia, I've spent many a night pining for the somnolent charms of that old feather bed. I remember the old side porch, with its dark, worn wood and old tin roof. One of my fondest memories of that porch was when I was about 10 years old. It was early summer, before the heat really started to feel like a schoolyard bully, making us shrink from even the thought of going outside to play. The porch was a small, screened in structure that ran alongside the sitting room. It looked out on the side yard, and beyond that, the cornfield. There was just enough room for two rocking chairs, tucked into an oasis of potted plants. It was storming that day, and Nan and I sat rocking slowly, each with a bowl of fresh snap beans in our lap, readying them for that evening's meal. We would break off the ends of the beans and drop the finished ones into a big glass bowl on the floor between us. Snap, snap, plink. Snap, snap, plink. We didn't really talk--the din of the rain on the tin roof would have made that difficult, anyway. It sounded like the old song..."Every time it rains, it rains Pennies from Heaven." There we sat, shrouded in the hypnotic, metallic thrumming and clean smell of the downpour, the perfume of the plants and flowers (this memory always smells like the colour green to me), and the rhythm and sense of purpose of the task at hand. Whenever I am wearied by modern life, I retreat headlong into that memory as if bursting through the doors of a church and calling "Santcuary!". It is one of the very few instances in my life that secured me to the "now". My mind wasn't ribboning out behind me toward the past, nor was it rocketing ahead to the future. It was just there, in that moment, and I was perfect and happy.

This was a point in my childhood when I still dreamed of a "normal" future. I usually slept in the front room of the house that used to belong to my Aunt Opal. It was a tiny little jewel-box of a room, with a low, mahogany bed set. The wallpaper was covered in vines and roses that are undoubtedly less faded in my memory than they were in reality. By then, the room was more a gallery than a bedroom. It housed an impressive collection of family photos, some being a century old and a beautiful, rich sepia tone. There were hand tinted portraits of my great-great-grandparents, with their stoic faces. Pictures of my grandfather and my great uncles in their uniforms, going off to fight in World War II, so handsome and full of purpose and pride. My great aunts, so young and lovely it made my heart swell. Pictures of my father and his sisters as children, surrounded by cousins and blinking against the sun. My whole beloved family. I loved that room. It managed to smell lived in without a trace of stagnance or mustiness. It was just comfortable and peaceful. I always imagined that some day I would marry and bring my husband there, and introduce him to the generations of faces that had watched over me while I slept, dreaming of the very idea of him. It would have been a lovely circle to complete.

Another anecdote that comes to mind, speaking of bedrooms, pertains to the room across the hall from mine. It was much larger, and I believe it served as the boys' room when my grandfather was growing up. My commandeering the smaller room for myself was something of a coup, considering that the larger room was acknowledged by nearly everyone in the house as being legitemately haunted. I kid you not. Even at the point when our family tree was devoid of infants, a baby could be heard crying in that room. My second cousin Richard took great pleasure in relaying the story of Nan's one and only miscarriage, and her subsequent refusal to allow the fetus to be buried. "What happened to it?" we asked with an even mixture of skepticism and wide-eyed fear. "No one really knows," he replied eerily. We avoided that room with the same fervour that marked our avoidance of the barn. The year that my Grandparents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, we took the opportunity to have a corresponding family reunion. Family came to Memphis from all over the country, landing at the various family residences in the area. We stayed at Nan's. In the course of figuring out the sleeping arrangements, a number of us volunteered to sleep in the "Haunted Room" as it had been officially dubbed. I was 20 then, and well beyond the paranoia of childhood ghost stories. Richard was there. Some of my siblings and other cousins were among the volunteers. The room was a patchwork of pallets and sleeping bags. It took some time to get everyone settled in and quieted down, but we managed to get through the night without incident. The next morning, we were restoring the room to its pre-slumber party state. None of us had spent any more time there than was warranted by the occasional childhood dare (think Boo Radley's porch in "To Kill a Mockingbird"), so naturally, we were curious, which led to a fairly thorough exploration of the room. We did everything short of drawing straws to determine the unlucky soul who would be charged with opening the closet door. My brother Sean won(?) the honour. No goblins or ghosts there, just old coats, some folding chairs and a stack of old blankets. There wasn't even an ominous door to the attic to fuel the imagination. Very anticlimactic. It was then that I noticed an old curio cabinet tucked into an alcove in the corner of the room. It housed a collection of mementos that apparently belonged to my Nan. There was an old picture frame, shrouded in a thin film of dust. A swipe of the thumb across the glass revealed a hazy black-and-white photo of my great-grandfather lying in his coffin. Okay, chill number one. There was an assortment of dried flowers and other memorabilia, the specific significance of which was lost to us. I noticed a lovely, hexagonal, amber coloured glass jar with an ornate, cut glass stopper. It was very pretty, and obviously very old. I picked it up, holding it gingerly and turning toward the window. When the light hit it, I noticed that the glass itself wasn't amber, but was instead coated on the inside with a reddish brown film. I held the jar up to the window, and as it tilted slightly, something shifted inside it and came to rest against one of it facets. Everyone around me leaned in to examine it. It looked like an old doll of some sort. The film inside the jar was practically transparent in the center of each facet. I adjusted the jar to center the doll and get a better look. Who would put a doll in a jar?, I thought. I could make out the over sized head, the tiny body, and two tiny arms, drawn up and together. Realisation crept into each of our brains at almost exactly the same moment. My god, this is a human fetus. THE fetus. Nan's miscarriage. Holy sh--everyone started screaming and running for the bedroom door. Everyone but me, that is. Though I was horrified at the truth of our discovery, and was most definitely startled by the outburst, to my credit, I held on to the jar. My mind reeled as I considered the truth behind all of the ghost stories from my childhood. A truth that not even the tellers of those stories had been aware. Then I started to cry. Not out of fear, but out of genuine, mournful sadness. This was not just evidence of family lore that I held in my hands, it was part of my family tree. A tiny little branch that never got the chance to bloom. I took a ragged breath, patted the jar, and placed it back in the cabinet, just as gingerly as I had taken it out. The curio took on a very different air. There in that spot were remembrances of all the things my Nan had lost. Here they were close by, and safe in a way that she hadn't been able to keep them in the past. I felt the horrible weight of trespasser's guilt. I closed the door of the cabinet and left the room. Everyone else stood in the foyer, some still racked with the "heebie-jeebies". I was too spent to find the humour in that. It was obvious that I had been crying. One of my cousins made as though to comfort me, but I deflected his arm. I patently forbade everyone from relaying the incident to anyone else in the family, and threatened them with bodily harm if word of it ever got back to Nan. As far as I know, no one ever betrayed that.

That trip was significant for a number of reasons. It was, after all, my grandparents Golden anniversary. It was also the only official family reunion on my father's side of the family. Many of the relatives I met that weekend I had never seen before, and haven't seen since. It was also the last time I ever saw Nan. Leaving that old house to return home was always a whirlwind of activity. Packing, loading the cars, the obligatory care packages of leftovers that materialised out of nowhere at the last minute, the final sweep of the house to ensure that nothing (or no one) had been left behind. As the family made their good-bye's, I turned to look at Nan, standing atop the little slope that led down to the driveway. She was almost 90 then. She seemed so small and frail, but rallied against it with chin up and hands on hips. I walked slowly up to her. The slope of the yard made us nearly the same height. I remember the smile on her face and the wisps of hair that had escaped their loose bun blowing around her lovely, crepe face. Standing in that yard, surrounded by our family, we put our foreheads together, placed out hands on one another's faces, and shared a silent moment. It was a gesture we shared from my childhood. Everything I had learned about her that fateful weekend had only deepened the bond I had with her. The family had fallen silent during our little display. My eyes had welled up by that point. Nan patted my cheek, whispering "Be good, little one." I nodded, told her I loved her, and kissed her good-bye. We both knew that we wouldn't see each other again. The last time I saw her, she was standing in front of the old house waving good-bye to the caravan of cars and RV's that spirited her family back to their lives. I was off to university that Fall, and then to California after that. Life took hold, and I never made it back to Collierville, as we both knew I wouldn't.

She always said that she wanted to live to be 100. I got the phone call from my brother Sean on January 3, 1998. One hundred years, two months and nineteen days after my Nan came into this world, she left it quietly and calmly, passing in her sleep. I never got over the fact that they buried her without me. It was all so fast. I still reel a little when I think of it. The family sold the old house and what remained of the land to the vulturous developers that had hounded Nan for the last decade of her life. It was the beginning of the estrangement I have from my family. The house was razed. "New" homes were erected in its place. That beloved old house has been relegated to memory and imagination, taking its place alongside my beloved Oz, Narnia, and the Shire of Middle Earth - all of the places I spent the happy days of my childhood. Nan is with me, too. Whenever I'm tired or angry, I hear her voice come out of my mouth in the slight lilt of my English ancestry. The words "Be good, little one" are always in my ear. Those dark and dusty corners of my mind hold mementos of all the things I've lost over the course of my life, even the shriveled remains of my former self. It's nice to know that I come by that tendency honestly.

My Dogma Ate My Homework.

2009-03-30T14:30:00.009-04:00

I had a very educational early life. By that, I mean that I could read before I was five. I've heard people talk about the moment when all those lines and squiggles "decoded" and became words and numbers. I don't ever remember them being lines and squiggles. I watched a lot of television. I don't mean that I sat mindlessly in front of the "electronic babysitter". I mean I watched. I started to pair words being spoken with the words being displayed in advertisements. I would walk through the grocery with my mother pointing to labels and saying the names of different products. My mother wrote this off as a simple parroting mechanism. Then I started reading store names, billboards, movie marquees. Polly want a precocious child? Aside from this, I was also very artistic as a child. From the time I could hold a pencil, I was drawing. I drew swans a lot. I think it was an early indicator of a latent "ugly duckling" complex, but that's a subject for another post. The drawing paved the way for early attempts at writing. I would sit for hours with magazines and newspapers, copying the letters and numbers. In retrospect, I might as well have shot myself in the foot. By the time I got to the first grade, I could already do all of the things they were charged with teaching me. I have such a vivid memory of the short-lived excitement I felt as I stepped off the bus for my first day at Paxton Wilt Elementary School, clutching my pencil box and writing tablet. I had visions of great stores of information that would be made available to me, of all the books I would get to read, and the problems I would get to solve. Once in class, however, I was shocked and disappointed that all I was offered was a slow introduction to the alphabet. Seriously? I raised my hand, albeit tentatively, and inquired when we would get the chance to actually read.

"But you can't read until you learn your alphabet," I was told.

The problem was that I already knew my alphabet, and proceeded to tell my overly perky teacher so (I couldn't abide such energy that early in the day, even at the tender age of six). My proclamation was met with skepticism, until I was forced to recite the entire alphabet for the class. Even though I was able to do so, she still had her doubts, and with a yardstick, she approached the front of the classroom where the letters were displayed on a long banner above the chalkboard. She pointed to random letters in relatively quick succession and I announced them just as quickly. Her perkiness faded and she leveled a narrow gaze at me. The other children were silent, staring at me like I had two heads. The experience taught me to stand up for myself, and it prepared me for a lifetime of similar scrutiny. It also taught me that I didn't need other people to teach me things.

In the ensuing years of my public education, I grew to hate school. Not because it was hard. It was just bothersome. I resented being told what and how fast (or slow) to learn. My only salvation was that we moved a lot when I was young. By a lot, I mean that I attended eight different schools in twelve years. I had the blessed distraction of having to adapt to a new environment over, and over, and over again. Ad nauseum. Amen. Teachers and administrators never knew what to do with me. I usually refused to do homework. At the same time, I consistently tested in the top one percent of students my age in the country. Take that. They tried putting me in an "advanced" program in the third grade in an effort to "engage" me, as they put it. Nice try. Not only did it not work, but to this day, I don't think I've met a more arrogant, pain in the ass group of students. EVER. I made it to the sixth grade before I put my foot down. I basically demanded that I be put back in regular classes, and threatened to fail everything and stay in school until I was thirty if I wasn't. My parents caved. I went back to "normal" school and got to have a semi-normal pre-adolescence. I still hated school, but I'd learned to keep my mouth shut and play the game by then. I started doing my homework, but kept my grades squarely in the average range, being ever careful not to stand out. That takes more planning than you would think. I was fine until high school. My first year was spent at Moore High School in Louisville's south end. Nightmare. It was over-crowded, violent, and drug-ridden. I cut school more days than I went. My parents, who had divorced by then, were called in for a meeting late in the school year. I was failing four of my six classes. I managed a D- in another class, and a pity C in Art. In spite of this, I still scored in the top one percent of the country on my achievement test scores. Again, take that. After much discussion -of which I was not a part - it was decided that I would be passed to the next grade level, based solely on the merits of my test scores. I was living with my mother at the time, and after more discussion within the family, I decided to go live with my father in southern Indiana. My mother was a musician at the time, and she had the opportunity to do some touring. With me safely ensconced at my father's house, she was able to take advantage of the opportunity. Win/win.

That fall, I started my sophomore year at Clarksville High School. It was as close to bliss as the situation would allow. Clarksville was a small town, and the school was an appropriate reflection of that - not overly crowded (I graduated 3 years later in a class of 111 people), with an attentive, somewhat colourful faculty. I became involved in extra curricular activities, LOVED my teachers, and was given a fairly wide berth to learn what I wanted. The entirety of my sophomore year was spent atoning for the academic sins of my freshman year. I spent most of the year on the honor roll. Most of the people with whom I would become friends in my junior and senior years confessed to me that they hadn't even known I had gone to the school that first year. At the start of my junior year, I was called into the guidance office. The counselor, Mr. Strauss, was an intelligent, empathetic man. As a guidance counselor, he was an absolute dream. I'd had him as a civics teacher the year before. He knew the kind of student I was, and I knew the kind of teacher he had been. He was also aware of my academic history before coming to Clarksville. I remember sitting in front of his desk, calm, but not knowing why he had called me in. He sat, hands folded in front of him, carefully considering how to begin our conversation. "I'm not sure what to think of you," he finally confessed. I laughed nervously. "Let me explain," he continued, leaning forward. "When you transferred to this school, your transcripts made us a little nervous. Normally, someone with your, um, "history" usually presents disciplinary problems." I smiled sheepishly. "Imagine the surprise of all of your teachers, myself included, when we were presented with an intelligent, attentive, articulate, sensitive student."

I was confused. "What are you trying to say?"

"What I'm trying to say, is that I've never encountered a student whom I wished I could just turn loose in the world. But I can't. I want you to understand that. You have to be here, and you only get one pass at this part of your life. I don't want you to get in your own way. Enjoy it. Participate. Make friends. High School isn't just about homework and tests and grades. It's a practicing ground for life. Don't screw it up, because once you get out of here, it gets harder, and less forgiving. I personally would hate to see someone like you miss out on the opportunity to contribute something special to the world because you turned your back on it."

It was a conversation that changed my life. It was the first time I ever felt like someone really understood where I was coming from. That even though I'd spent my entire youth learning how to fit in, I had never once felt that I actually belonged anywhere. He was telling me that it was okay. And I heard him.

From that point, I took a very different tack with school, both academically and socially. I became involved in the theater department. I went to almost every sporting event. I made lots of friends, and not just the jocks, or the band geeks, or the cheerleaders, or the Honor Society kids. I made friends with everyone. It's a tendency I have to this day. I harbour a strict non-discriminatory policy in inviting people into my affections. I don't care if you're male, female, black, white, gay, straight, rich, poor, young, old - if you can deal with my crap, I'll deal with yours.

I had as close to a normal, happy high school experience as I could have hoped for. The only snag I ran into was with my senior year English class. In the second semester, we were told that our graduation assignment was to write a research paper, and that if we failed the assignment, no matter what our performance in the class had been otherwise, we would fail the semester. That ultimatum sparked the radical in me, and I stated outright that I had no intention of completing the assignment. I already knew that I had fulfilled my English requirements for graduation, and didn't need the passing grade, so I made good on my word. I refused participation in any in-class activities connected to the assignment. Conversely, I scored perfectly on every test and assignment related to the rest of the syllabus. My teacher, Dr. Lewis, professed that I was, by far, her best student, but she was forced by policy to fail me. I knew from my younger siblings that mine was the last year that that particular policy was in place. My rebellions aren't always pretty, but they get the job done. Dr. Lewis and I had dinner a year or so after I graduated. Despite that one experience, I was profoundly fond of her. She was the first person to tell me that I had the soul of a writer. When I finish my first book, it's already dedicated to her. That night at dinner, she asked why I had done what I had done. I stated simply that the policy wasn't fair. It was ridiculous to limit one's ability to pass any course to the successful completion of one assignment, when so much time and effort went into the other elements of the curriculum, apparently for no reason whatsoever. I also told her that it would have been different if that second semester was devoted solely to the research paper. It wasn't. We still had weekly vocabulary assignments, required reading and reports to do, on all of which we were graded. It was a lot of work. She agreed, and said that for as mystified as she had been at my refusal to do the paper, what really knocked her for a loop was that I continued with the rest of my assignments as though nothing had happened. I laughed and confessed to her that I actually enjoyed the other assignments. I couldn't very well sacrifice everything. We had a good laugh about it. A year or so later, she wrote a sweet, very honest letter of recommendation for my college application, including an account of that incident. I was told the admissions office got quite a kick out of it, receiving a letter of recommendation from a teacher who had given the applicant a failing grade.

Unfortunately, my one year of college was marred by personal demons that I'm still battling in one way or another to this very day. I'm sure I'll write about those demons eventually, but from the time they reared their ugly little heads, they've commandeered every ounce of intelligence, patience, resourcefulness, and adaptive capabilities that where forged in the fires of my mercurial education. I realise more and more as I get older how lucky I was to cross paths with some of the people I encountered along the way. I'm also thankful for the attention I was able to pay to the less conventional lessons they offered me, because somehow, my brain had tackled the conventional ones waaay ahead of schedule.

I don't know that I'll ever make another attempt at a "formal" education. I seem to have done alright without it. I still have an inherent curiosity that guides and grows my acumen at every turn. I still love the quiet sanctity of a great library or museum. I've always been grateful for the mind that I was given. It's the only thing that has instilled in me a sense of universal balance against the harsh realities of a "difficult" body. Hopefully someday soon, I will be free of those difficulties and will finally be able to explore the true potential of my brain. My experience has bred in me the tendency to look for the lesson in every triumph and difficulty of my life. Those are the lessons that have stuck with me over time. Those are the only grades that ever mattered to me. The ones I've given myself, that have allowed me to look my own reflection in the eye, and know that even though the road has been long and hard, Graduation day is just around the corner.

To Marketing We Must Go

2009-03-30T01:35:00.003-04:00

It's late. I turned on the computer against my better judgement. While checking e-mail and Facebook, and the myriad other sites I frequent, I got a delicious surprise - Jay has a new video! Yaaay! Sometimes, insomnia has its perks. So, my entry is a little different this time. I'm doing my part to help promote my dear, sweet friend.

Here is the new video. Tell your friends. Buy his CD. Fear my wrath if you don't (kidding!). But seriously, you won't be disappointed.

Enjoy.

Bonus tracks - the other two "official" videos:

I'm going to TRY and get some sleep now.

Jobless the Hutt...

2009-03-24T14:08:00.005-04:00

Last fall, I left my job with the intention of moving to New York. If you've read the previous "Flight of Daedalus" post, you know how that turned out. What I didn't write was an account of the five months I spent not working. It was, at turns, restful, challenging, lazy, frustrating, solitary, and ultimately, indulgent. I was determined to take a break from my overly complicated life, from humanity, and from my normal routine. I was tired. I've been a part of the work force since I was sixteen. Actually, I started working the coat check at my grandparents night club a little earlier than that, but my point is, I'd been running in the rat race for over a quarter of a century. I wanted a vacation. In retrospect, I could have done without the "indulgent" part.

This divergence from my normal workaholic existence left behind it an unfortunate and appalling wake. I gained about 35 pounds. Mind you, these weren't 35 voluptuous, "more of me to love" pounds. Nooo. These were 35 "Oh my God, it's coming this way, and it's hungry" pounds. They're lumpy, bumpy, ugly pounds. Seriously, once you pass the age of 40, all of the rules change. It sucks, but as the song says, "That's just the way it is...". Indeed. The thing that did me in over the duration of my sabbatical was a steady diet of take-out Chinese food--with all of its sodium--and no-cheese veggie pizza. These things are fine in moderation, as can be said of just about anything, but when the bulk of your calorie intake comprises them for several sedentary months, with not nearly enough fluid intake, you're asking for Trouble with a capital T, and that rhymes with Z and that stands for zaftig. I'm also reasonably sure that, thanks to me, Nabisco weathered the stock market crash fairly well. It is both a blessing and a curse that Oreos are vegan. Just doing my part to bolster the economy.

Now, a normal person might be satisfied to to simply shrug off this predicament as part of the normal course of ageing. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you--I'm not normal. I'm just getting around to having something of a life. I need this old bod' to hold up as looong as it possibly can. In that spirit, I took a deep breath, rolled up my sleeves, and started working out. A lot. I'm sure that there are gym rats in this world who spend a great deal more time at it than I do, but I'm just getting started. I've gone back to my habit of preparing all of my meals ahead of time. I drink about a gallon of water a day (yes, a WHOLE gallon). I'm taking my supplements, getting enough rest, and managing my stress as well as I can. It seems to be working. Granted, it's only been a few weeks, but I have the advantage of muscle memory. I was a gymnast, and then a dancer, when I was younger. This body has been through some extreme changes over the last couple of decades, but it does remember some of its old ways. Not a moment too soon, might I add. I'm very stubborn about not giving in and buying bigger clothes. In fact, I'm certain that button and zipper manufacturers around the globe are uniting as we speak to issue a fatwa against me.

I can't say how much weight I've lost thus far. I can definitely see that I have lost weight, but I threw out my scale about a month ago. I figured that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it for the right reason: My health. I didn't want to be a slave to a number. I know plenty of "skinny" people who are in horrible shape. That's not what I'm going for. I want this body to be a reflection of its health and well-being, not a reflection of some ridiculous, emaciated standard of beauty. I want to be able to do my job without feeling like someone needs to carry my tired, broken body home in a shoe box at the end of the day. I want to be able to participate in the world around me (eventually). I don't think that's asking too much. Especially considering that I'm not looking for any short-cuts. I'm willing to go "old school" and work for it. The lines of this body have already started to smooth out and draw up and in to their original(ish) positions. By my current estimates, I should be in glorious, glamazon shape by mid-July, at which point I'll go to a costume shop and buy myself a Princess Leia space bikini. You know, the one she was wearing when she strangled the crap out of Jabba. Yeah, that's what I think I'll do.

Just because the rules have changed, it doesn't mean that the game is over.

Once Upon a Time...Coming Soon

2009-03-24T13:49:00.002-04:00

While going through some old papers, I discovered a weathered, partially edited copy of a short story I wrote several years ago. It was a favour for a friend who was given a writing assignment for her "Gender in Sociology" course in college. The assignment was to write a fairy tale, with yourself as the main character. Given that the course was not in her major, and that she had an excessive amount of work to do for the courses that were, she approached me at work and asked if I would like to have a crack at it on her behalf. The story I ended up with was called "The Weeping Princess", but given the short amount of time I had to write it, I was only able to complete a first draft. Even at that, it was a pretty good first draft, and everyone who read it was very fond of the story. I just always wanted to take another pass (or two) at it. Having found the original, I'm currently doing just that. It's rather long as it is, and in the course of the re-write, it's bound to get longer. I'll more than likely break it up into several parts and post each one as I finish it. My eventual goal is to turn the story into a novel, but for now, I'll try to stay as close to the original story line as possible. So, consider this a "Heads up!", and stay tuned. I'll even see what I can do about a "happily ever after".

The Flight of Daedalus.

2009-03-02T15:29:00.012-05:00

I was supposed to move to New York last fall. I've wanted to live there since I was sixteen. I remember specifically the first time I set foot in Times Square. I was home. I knew that no matter where my life took me, part of my consciousness would always oriented to that place - like a sunflower to the sun. There's an energy there that vibrates at a certain frequency. My frequency. One of the most significant events of my life happened in front of the statue of George M. Cohan that stands in Duffy Square, at the north end of Times Square. It was a major crossroads for me, and I couldn't think of a more appropriate place to mark it than the"Crossroads of the World". Maybe someday, I'll write about that event. For now, however, suffice it to say that New York is home to me in a way that many of the places I've actually lived can never be.

As I said, I was supposed to move. That was Plan A. As I am writing from Philadelphia, things obviously didn't go as planned. For starters, I left my job at the end of August so I could devote as much time as necessary to the job hunt in New York. I had money in the bank. I was covered. Shortly thereafter, I had a front row seat for the Great Economic Crash and Burn of 2008. You might have heard about it. It was on ALL of the news channels. Riveting. It occurred to me that relocating anywhere was probably not the best idea. Furthermore, relocating to New York fell into the category of - ooh, what's the word I'm looking for?...Oh, yeah, insane. Also, as much as I hated to admit it, I still have certain other issues to resolve in my personal life. It took some adjustment, but I took a deep breath, and pondered the question: What do you do when Plan B kicks Plan A's butt. Answer: Suck it up and go with Plan B. Sigh.

Plan B was to stay put, go back to work, keep my head down, and plow through the rest of the path in front of me. That's what I do. When you spend a lifetime in an observatory capacity, you learn to analyse things differently. I have the hard won ability to divorce my objectives from any emotional expectations. I tend to celebrate things long after they are faits accomplis. It makes for much less disappointment in my life. Additionally, the few disappointments I do feel are less keen. They don't have enough emotional momentum to throw me off course. Steady as she goes.

The dilemma brought to mind the legend of Daedalus and Icarus. It's a cautionary tale from Greek Mythology that struck a chord with me as a child. Daedalus was an Athenian architect and sculptor. His works were known far and wide, and he is largely credited with ushering in the modern age of sculpture. He took his young nephew Talus as an apprentice. When it became obvious that he was much more talented and clever than his celebrated uncle, Daedalus threw the boy from atop the Acropolis, killing him. He fled Athens to avoid persecution and death, and was granted asylum on the island of Crete. He served its king, Minos, as his artist and architect. Minos commissioned Daedalus to build the Labyrinth to house the Minotaur, a dreaded beast with the head and shoulders of a bull atop the body of a man. There are many versions of the legend, each giving a different reason for Daedalus' eventual imprisonment in the Labyrinth. The most well-known is a tale of betrayal, stating that the hero Theseus came to Crete to battle the Minotaur. King Minos had demanded tributes be paid from neighbouring kingdoms in the form of young boys and girls, who were sacrificed to the beast by being led into the Labyrinth where they were then captured and eaten. Daedalus had made the structure so serpentine and illusory that no one ever escaped, including the Minotaur. When Theseus came to challenge the beast, hoping to kill it and put an end to the barbaric tributes, Minos' daughter Ariadne fell in love with the brave hero. Not wanting him to perish, she went to Daedalus and begged him for the secret of the Labyrinth. He told her that if Theseus trailed a piece of twine behind him, once he reached the center of the Labyrinth, if he defeated the crazed Minotaur, he could follow the twine out. Theseus followed this instruction, defeated the beast, made his way out and eventually escaped with Ariadne. King Minos learned of Daedalus' betrayal and sealed him inside the Labyrinth, along with his young son Icarus. Not one to be outsmarted, Daedalus gathered sticks and bones, as well as feathers, candle stubs, and Theseus' twine from throughout the maze. Being a talented sculptor, he fashioned two sets of great wings from the materials. He fastened one set to his own back, and the other to his son's, warning Icarus all the while, "Always fly the middle course, my son. If you fly too close to the sea, your feathers will grow heavy with water and drag you into the waves. Nor should you rise too high, for the nearness of the great sun shall burn away your feathers and you will fall from the sky like a stone. Fly between the two, and stay close to me." Icarus nodded, understanding his father's concern. Wings secured and warnings given, the two took to the air, flying up and out of their prison, away from Crete and on toward freedom.

Their flight was well and good up to a point. Icarus, being young and headstrong, was so taken with the ease of flying that he began dipping down just out of reach of the hungry Mediterranean, then rising high above his pleading father. Daedalus begged Icarus to be calm and fly behind him, but the boy was so overcome with joyous freedom, he flew higher and higher. While he didn't fly high enough for his feathers to burn, he had forgotten that they were anchored with wax, and as he rose through the clouds, the wax melted away and Icarus' wings came undone. Daedalus watched in agony as his only son plunged to his death, done in by his own youthful folly. Daedalus, though overwhelmed with grief, made his way to Sicily, where he made a new life for himself. He contributed many great things to his new home and culture, but in the end, he died heartbroken and alone.

This tale always held many lessons for me. Sometimes the "prisons" in our lives are of our own making, like Daedalus and his Labyrinth. Very often, the tools we need to escape those prisons are already within our reach. All we have to do is look around. Unfortunately, the ingenuity we have to save ourselves isn't always going to save the people and things we love. Maybe it's not supposed to. Also, Karma's a bitch.

I have many dreams in my life. A good number of them have made their way to fruition. Some still hang in the ether. My job, as the custodian of those dreams and the abilities I have been granted to fulfill them, is to fly a strong and steady course, not too close to the sun or the sea. I made peace long ago with the possibility--actually, the probability--of having to finish that flight alone. I haven't reached my destination yet, but I will. Once my feet find their purchase on solid ground, I'm sure I will have losses to mourn. I will also have a life to build, being ever mindful of the wholeness of my heart and the tenuous nature of my solitude. Manhattan is the island I'm flying toward. It's full of people from all walks of life and every corner of the globe, come to live new lives and build new dreams, free of the twisted mazes and monsters of their pasts. I think I'll fit right in. I won't even mind the longer flight to get there.

Hold Your Tongue.

2009-02-27T09:54:00.016-05:00

I have fairly vivid dreams. Being very detail oriented in my waking life carries over into my dream world, often with comic and sometimes nauseating results. Case in point:

Last night I dreamt that I was in New York with my roommates, Ian and Christopher. We were walking up 8th Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea, looking in shop windows, slowly making our way north. Christopher was complaining that he was hungry.

"We just passed a whole line of restaurants," Ian pointed out. "Why didn't you just go in and get something?"

"I didn't want anything from those places," Christopher replied, stomping his foot in mock petulance.

I rolled my eyes. This is a fairly common mealtime exchange. It was at this point that the dream took a slightly more surreal turn. I realised that I had been carrying a small, stainless steel surgical tray the entire time. On that tray, for all the world to see, lay two tongues. Human tongues. Suddenly aware of the excess of space in my mouth, I deduced that one of them must be mine. Ew. No one else seemed to think much of this particularly grisly fact. Neither Ian nor Christopher made any mention of it. None of the strangers we had passed on the street had granted me even one horrified look of acknowledgment. Strange...

In a flash (the incongruent kind, so popular in dreamscapes), we were on 7th Avenue, closer to midtown, still heading north. We passed a small deli.

"I want something from here!" Christopher piped up.

"Fine," Ian said. He looked to me, I shrug-nodded in compliance.

We entered, and I was immediately struck by how small and dark it was - not typical of a New York deli. Where was the white linoleum? The brightly lit deli case? The chrome accented tables and vinyl booths and chairs? This place was gross (thought the woman carrying the tongues). Everything was dingy and brown. The swarthy man behind the counter would have looked more at home in a butcher's shop, with his bloody apron and slaughterhouse scowl. Christopher stepped forward, ordered his food and took it to one of the unappetising tables.

"Dude, we're not eating here," Ian told him. "We have to be someplace."

Christopher turned away slightly in his chair, and continued eating. Ian gave me a pleading "do something" look, which I answered with my best "he's your husband not mine" look. He sighed, turned back to the proprietor, and ordered his lunch. "Umm, Italian hoagie, please, with mayo...To GO!" he added pointedly, over his shoulder.

"What are you havin', lady?" the deli man asked me.

I shook my head, declining.

"Well, I have to weigh those to charge you for them," he indicated to the tray in my hands.

I withdrew the tray protectively, grunting my objection.

"Oh, n-n-no," Ian interjected. "She came in with those."

Deli man looked at us both skeptically. "Show him," Ian prodded.

Sighing in resignation, I let my mouth drop open, revealing the gaping hole where my tongue should have been. The man covered his mouth in revulsion. Finally!, someone who acknowledged the ick factor of the situation!

"You're gonna have to leave," he waved me toward the door.

I stared at him in disbelief, my jaw still dropped open. My gaze drifted from his slightly green face to the dimly lit deli case. Cow's tongue. Pig's feet. Brains?!? But of course, I was the gross one. Butthead. He shuffled me out the door. Ian exited shortly after, sandwich in hand. I motioned toward the door, questioning.

"Chris is staying here," he said flatly. "Let's go."

He walked to the curb. An old, beat up sedan was parked and waiting for us. He made his way around to the driver's side. I balanced the tray in my left hand, reaching down to open the passenger door. Just like waiting tables, I thought, well, without the whole "tongues and car door" thing, but hey-a tray's a tray. I gingerly snaked my way into the seat, finally resting the tray on my knees. The car was musty inside. Somehow, I recognised it as Ian's car. It bore no physical resemblance to his ACTUAL car, but hanging from the rear view mirror was the tell tale "Bumblebee" Transformers key chain. He unwrapped his sandwich and handed me the paper.

"D'ya mind?" he glanced at the tray in my lap.

I covered the tongues with the deli paper so he could eat in non-grossed-out peace. He drove up 7th Avenue, eating his sandwich. It struck me that 7th Avenue was one way, headed downtown, and in another dream flash, we were driving up 6th instead. Poor Christopher, he'll never find us now. I felt hungry. I thought longingly to myself that Koreatown's great veggie restaurants were just a few blocks to the south. Apparently, it's possible to daydream in your sleep. I snapped out of it in time to notice that we were about to miss our turn. I clapped, panicking, indicating with my hands that we had to turn right - NOW! One-handed, tires squealing, Ian executed what my mother used to refer to as a "bat turn", and we came to a stop in front of a tall granite building. Entering the building, we marched purposefully through the lobby and onto the elevator. I pushed "4" with my elbow, and we fell into elevator stance - eyes up, facing the doors, watching the numbers climb. We didn't speak. I obviously couldn't, but it struck me that people rarely do speak in elevators. I wonder why that is? Ding! The doors opened onto a nondescript hallway. Drab bluish carpet. Drab whitish walls. Drab brownish doors. There was a window in the wall, a short way down the hall, and to the left. We walked up to it. A round-faced nurse greeted us cheerily.

"Can I help you?" she chirped.

"Yeah, my friend has a little, um, problem," Ian answered. He stepped aside and presented me.

I had removed the paper before we left the car, and there they were. Two human tongues. It looked to me like rigor or atrophy was setting in. The tips had begun to turn under, giving them each a distinct "lobster tail" appearance. I opened my mouth. Say "aaah". I was so over this.

"Oh, dear," the nurse replied. "Come in and sit down. The doctor will see you shortly."

The door next to the window loudly buzzed its permission for us to enter. I started at the noise and the tongues lolled to one side. I tried to right them, but their increasing curvature sent them taste bud side down on the tray. Great, now they look like a pair of elf shoes. We entered what should have been the waiting room. Instead, it was a single, small room that served as the nurse's station, reception desk, and patient waiting area all at once. Oh, joy, I even multi-task in my sleep. I sat in one of the chairs along the back wall. Ian sat next to me.

It was the first time I was able to really examine the contents of the tray. One tongue was slightly larger than the other. They had lost a significant amount of their colour. They were more bluish-grey than pinkish-red. Lovely. I picked up the smaller of the two. I heard Ian make a disgusted noise next to me. I grunted, teasing him and laughing a throaty, tongueless laugh. He turned away. The tongue was firmer than I thought it would be. It must be dehydrated, I thought. I turned it over. I recognised the striping on the bottom,despite its change of colour. It was definitely my tongue. I turned the severed end toward me. The ends of blood vessels peeked out like small, empty straws. The exposed muscle was a pale, almost white yellow. I pinched the base of the tongue between my thumbs and forefingers. I felt two hard lumps beneath the dry flesh. Tumors? They were symmetrical in size and placement. Glands, maybe? I squeezed harder. Two streams of saliva shot from the underside of the tongue and hit the tray in my lap. Their tinny report garnered the attention of my bladder. Not now, I chided.

I had an idea. I took a deep breath through my nose, and braced myself for the gruesome task. Before I lost my nerve, I hurriedly fed the base of the tongue into my empty mouth. Do not throw up. Do. Not. Throw. Up. You're just putting it back where it belongs. I winced as the cold, dry thing slid past my lips. It lay dead in my mouth for a short time (although it seemed like an hour, at least), and then I felt something warm in the back of my throat. It was blood. I could feel the tissue knitting itself back together. I continued breathing through my nose, wondering if my internal gross-out meter would ever drop out of the red zone. My tongue felt swollen and foreign, but warmer. It twitched. I smiled, relieved.

"Ah tink ah fissed ih," I muttered.

Ian jerked his head toward me, glancing at the tray and then at my slightly embarrassed face. "Please tell me you didn't."

"Mmhm," I admitted, biting my lips and nodding.

"That has GOT to be the grossest thing I've ever..." He shuddered, unable to finish the thought.

"Wuh-ebuh. Ih wus mah tungk." The swollen feeling was subsiding. My tongue was still too dry. It kept sticking to the inside of my mouth. I could now taste remnants of mayonnaise and...Pastrami? I haven't eaten real meat in so long, I can't ever be sure of those flavours. Damned deli paper. What little blood I hadn't swallowed, I tried to swish in my mouth. It wasn't helping. "Wahduh."

The nurses and Ian all looked at me, confused. "Wahduhr!" I repeated a little more clearly, making a drinking motion with my hand.

"Oh, water!" one of the nurses translated.

Ian reached into his backpack (where the hell did that come from?) and grabbed a small bottle of water, tossing it to me.

"Fanks," I offered, a little blood trickling out of my mouth. He turned away again. "Shicken." I drew half of the contents of the bottle into my mouth. My tongue felt like one of those "just add water" sponges. I felt it slowly coming back to life. I swallowed the blood-tinged water, cringing at the slightly metallic taste. I moved my tongue up and down, back and forth. "Wah cuhluh?" I inquired, pushing the still numb tip out through my lips. One of the nurses came over to examine it.

"Ooo, it's still a little purple, but it looks nice and alive now," she encouraged.

I swigged the rest of the water, but didn't swallow it. I sat there for a bit, cheeks ballooned out, waiting. I began testing the normal acrobatics of my tongue, rolling it and flip-flopping it inside my tightly closed, full mouth. It seemed to have reattached completely. I swallowed. "I think it's okay now," I announced, my speech clearer, but still slightly thick. I slapped Ian on the shoulder to get his attention. He hesitated. I threatened him. "If you don't look, I'll bite into a Popsicle the first chance I get." Having extremely sensitive teeth, even the thought of that sends shivers down his spine. He finally looked at me, judging it to be the lesser of two evils.

"Clam tongue?" I asked, opening my mouth and executing one of my more impressive lingual tricks, mimicking the rippled edge of a clam shell.

"Yes, but that's still gross," he conceded, shaking his head. "I think I liked you better with your tongue on the tray."

"Bitch."

It was the last word I spoke before I woke up this morning. I sat up in bed, my fingers automatically in my mouth. Still there. I reached over to grab the water bottle from my night stand, draining it. I sat with my mouth full of water, just like in the dream. I wondered a number of things: What the hell did I eat before bed last night? How did I lose my tongue in the first place? Why were there TWO tongues? What ever happened to Chris? Why was Ian driving a junker? As the fog of sleep lifted from my mind, it all took on the appropriate veneer of nonsense.

Hopefully, my brain will decode these images in time. The symbolism of losing one's tongue might have to do with keeping secrets. Aside from having quite a few secrets of my own, I have enough dirt on other people to start my own cemetery. People tell me things. Secrets happen. It could also be my subconscious mind reacting to the new "open book" policy I've instituted, particularly here, on this blog. If that is the case, it's too bad. I'm on a roll, now. I have no desire to stop, nor do I intend to.

Frankly, I'd rather cut out my tongue.

Come On, Vogue!

2009-02-24T16:48:00.011-05:00

I love movies. It's an element of my identity that people learn very soon after meeting me. One of my earliest memories is of going with my mother to the Vogue Theatre in Louisville. The single screen theatre opened in 1939, one of the greatest years in the "Golden Age" of Hollywood. It was the year of "Gone With the Wind", "Goodbye, Mr. Chips", "Stagecoach", "The Women", "The Wizard of Oz", and "Ninotchka", just to name a few. Opening amid this glut of soon-to-be-classic films was something of a harbinger for the theatre. When it's life as a first-run theatre came to an end, it became a revival house, and many of those same films found their way back onto its screen, where they would enthrall new generations. I was happily among one of those generations. On that first visit to the Vogue, I saw Franco Zeffirelli's "Romeo and Juliet". It was one of my mother's favourite films. The experience stands out in my mind for a number of reasons. Aside from being my introduction to cinema, it laid the groundwork for my love of live theatre as well. It was Shakespeare, after all. It is also one of the few memories I have of my short-lived tenure as an only child. I was four. Despite my tender age, I was rapt. I even cried at the end when *SPOILER ALERT* the young lovers perished. Did I mention that I was four? I think my mother knew at that point that spelling "grown-up words" in front of me was an exercise in futility.

At that point, movies became a passion of mine. They provided a much needed respite from a difficult childhood. I visited the Vogue many times in my early life. I remember vividly the excitement of getting the Scene section of the Courier Journal on that one magical Saturday every month when they would publish the calendar of movies and show times for the theatre. I would examine the listings, running my fingers over them until the tips were stained with whatever colour ink they had chosen for that month. Finding a particularly good entry was better than Christmas to me. I can't tell you how many times I saw "Gone With the Wind" there. I saw "My Fair Lady" and "Singin' in the Rain" on that screen. Later in my life, after I left Louisville, I would visit the cousins of that beautiful old theater - the County Theatre, in Doylestown, PA, the Ritz Theatres in Philadelphia, the old Silent Movie Theater in L.A., the Film Forum in New York. There is something so thrilling to me about sitting in a theatre as the lights dim, knowing I'm about to watch a piece of cinematic and cultural history unfold before me. Some of the glittering gems I've seen include Chaplin's "City Lights", Harold Lloyd's "Speedy" (his last, and some say greatest silent film), Greta Garbo in "The Kiss", ALL of the Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers collaborations, "Casablanca", John Frankenheimer's "The Manchurian Candidate", "The Philadelphia Story", "It Happened One Night". I could go on. Revival houses are harder to come by in this day and age. Thankfully, Turner Classic Movies fills the void, but I'm always on the lookout for the real (or "reel") thing.

Sadly, the Vogue closed in 1998. It's a strip mall now. Ah, progress. Not unlike many things that pass from this world, it lives on in fond memories. I can close my eyes and see its marquee, tall and bright against the night sky. I can hear the hum of it's neon still. I see the smudged, flyer-filled glass of the little freestanding ticket booth, tucked just under that marquee. I can even see the piece of toilet paper that hung for years like a lone stalactite from the high ceiling of the auditorium - a remnant of one of the more exuberant midnight screenings of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" hosted by the theatre for a quarter of a century. These are memories swathed in the aroma of stale popcorn, with a soundtrack of tennis shoes trapsing through the tacky remnants of spilled sodas. It makes me smile just thinking of it.

My time in those dim theatres contributed so much to who and how I am as a person. My aesthetic sensibilities were born out of the great imagery of those classic films. My ideals of both male and female beauty, my sense of humour and history, they can all be traced back to those flickering images. I've often been told that I seem to come from another era. I credit that to the lessons I absorbed from the great ladies of the Silver Screen: Garbo, Dietrich, Bette Davis, Carole Lombard, Vivien Leigh, Ingred Bergman, Katherine Hepburn, Claudette Colbert, Myrna Loy, Loretta Young, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford, Gloria Swanson, and my cherished Rosalind Russell and Audrey Hepburn. My taste in men hearkens to the great leading men of a bygone era - Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Errol Flynn, William Holden, and my absolute favourite, Gregory Peck. I can also say that the smoky, smouldering image of Gary Cooper laying eyes on Marlene Dietrich for the first time in "Morocco" (NOTE: it happens at 1:42) still makes me tingly and breathless.

I am the proud and willing reservoir to a sense of humour that can trace its roots back to Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, W.C. Fields, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Bud Abbott and Lou Costello, the Marx Brothers, Eve Arden, Lucille Ball, Fanny Brice, Sophie Tucker, and the incomparable Mae West. Good stuff. I'm sure if I sat here for a bit longer, I could double the length of each of those rosters. Easily. The only element of this pastime that gives me pause is that each and every person I just mentioned is gone from this world. All the friends and heroes of my childhood have left me. It's not so bad. I do have some pretty amazing home movies. They revisit me, in the wee small hours of the morning from the glow of my television, to comfort me in my haze of insomnia. They remind me about beauty, and honour, and history, and love. They remind me that I'm not alone in the world. When Norma Desmond speaks to those wonderful people out there in the dark, I know that she's talking to me. And I'm as ready for her close-up as she is, Mr. DeMille.

A Thousand Words...

2009-02-23T19:28:00.005-05:00

I was surfing the net earlier today, checking out a few other blogs, and was struck by the fact that they were - well, prettier than mine. I never knew there was such a thing as "blog envy". One element that contributed to their visual appeal was the use of images. "Wait, you can use pictures to convey ideas? Madness, I say!" It took some doing, but I've managed to add a few images to existing posts. As comfortable as I am painting pictures with words, I'm desperately out of practice telling (or augmenting) stories with pictures. Don't even get me started on my lack of technical finesse. I have to keep it simple at this point. Eventually, I'm sure I'll get the hang of it, and I'll be adding videos and links, but for now, I'm sure the average 3-year-old could put a serious smack down on my computer skills. Damned kids.Anyway, stay tuned. I'm sure some of my image choices will be "inspired". Yeah, I went there.

Revisionist History

2009-02-21T10:18:00.005-05:00

I started this blog to get back into the habit of writing. One aspect of writing is editing. Correcting and revising are an ongoing process. I reread these posts constantly. I'm not admiring my handiwork. I'm looking for mistakes. I find them and correct them. It's a theme in my life.

This is an open invitation to anyone reading: if you find a mistake - a typo, a sentence that is confusing or poorly worded, grammatical or punctuation errors, etc. - feel free to point them out. If you want to drive me crazy, just comment with the type of mistake (e.g. TYPO!) and leave me on my own to find it. Fun! I won't be mad, I promise, so long as it is a legitimate error. If it is merely a stylistic preference, you're on your own. Unless you can invoke Strunk and White, keep it to yourself. Please. I appreciate the help and interest, but I'm trying to find my voice, not yours.

If you are enough of a glutton for punishment to return to this blog and revisit one of the entries, you might stumble across a passage that wasn't there before, or find something missing or changed. I assure you, I'm not trying to "Gaslight" you. I'm the crazy, obsessive one, not you. Bear with me.

Oh, and by the way, if I ever do become a successful writer, the party will be at my place. You're all invited. You have it in writing. And no, that's not a typo.

Killing Me Softly

2009-02-19T13:19:00.010-05:00

In late October 2006, I was in New York (I think for a doctor's appointment), and once I finished all of my errands, I decided to catch a movie. I grabbed a copy of the Village Voice to check the listings. Going down the list of theatres and movies - no...not interested...I'll wait for the DVD...no...no - I came to the entry for the Quad Cinema on 13th street. I love this theatre. It's small, with only four screens, but it's very "art house". They show a lot of foreign and independent films. Given it's location in the city, it also has a fairly strong LGBT showing. Jackpot!, John Cameron Mitchell's new film "Shortbus" was playing, and I had just enough time to make it across lower Manhattan for the next showing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Mr. Mitchell, he co-wrote and starred in a little off-Broadway rock operetta called "Hedwig and the Angry Inch". I was fortunate enough, through a friend, to see the show from the front row. The show, the music (oh, the music), and Mr. Mitchell's performance are to this day among the highlights of my theater going life. I met him briefly after the performance. Given the tour-de-force I had just witnessed - or perhaps because of it - he was surprisingly subdued, but exceptionally gracious. I am a fan of his as much for that graciousness as I am for his considerable talent. He went on to write, direct and star in the film version of "Hedwig", and the translation captured and expanded the experience of the show without compromising its impact and appeal. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.

"Shortbus" had been touted, in the few reviews I had read, to be a frank, no-holds-barred examination of the obstacles to intimacy that existed in New York City post 9/11. He captured perfectly the duality of that moment in the city's history, when people banded together in an unprecedented way, while conversely giving in to the personal isolation of a world where such a horrible act was even possible. Mr. Mitchell had assembled the cast through a series of ads in the trade papers on both coasts. Drawing from the pool of relative unknowns who had responded, he subjected them to a series of auditions designed to bring together a final cast that would be capable and comfortable when it came to the vision he had for the film. Given that the storyline and "script" were constructed from a series of workshops and improvisations, he also need a troupe of performers, musicians, and artists who connected with one another on a very basic and creative level. To say that he hit the jackpot is a gross understatement. Most of the cast are still close, personal friends with one another. The finished product is frank to the point of being shocking (initially), but ultimately it is a work of collaborative genius and a beautiful piece of art in the canon of film.

As I sat in the theatre, marvelling at what I was experiencing on the screen, a young character entered the frame, clutching a PDA and fussing about his hair. His name was Ceth (yes, with a "C"), and he was brought to the screen by a young actor named Jay Brannan. In the moment he appeared onscreen, I experienced what could on be described in retrospect as Tribal Recognition. I knew this kid. We had never met. I'd never seen or heard of him, but the recognition strummed through me. It resonated. I kept watching, increasingly affected by the movie, and each time Jay reappeared, there was that feeling again. Don't misunderstand, it wasn't a carnal thing (although he is a beautiful boy). For lack of a better word, I was drawn to him on a more "spiritual" level. It was as though we were made of the same stuff - from the same "tribe". The movie ended. I left the theatre, walking the streets, letting the cool air work its magic, clearing my head. I know that feeling of recognition. I've felt it many times over the course of my life. It's been responsible for most of the significant relationships I've had. I'd just never experienced it without the object of its inspiration actually being in the room. Curiouser and curiouser...

I took the train back to Pennsylvania, went back to my daily routine, and put it out of my head. I had promised my friend Ian that I would take him to New York the day after Christmas. He wanted to see "Shortbus", but had missed its run in Philadelphia. It was still at the Quad, so we decided to make a day of it. I had spent Christmas day in D.C. with my best girlfriend, where we saw "The Children of Men" and "The Good German". I made the drive back to Philly that afternoon, where I was meeting friends for an 8:00 showing of "Dreamgirls", then got up the next morning for the trip into Manhattan, where Ian and I saw "Volver" and then "Shortbus". Yes, kids, that's five movies, in three states, in two days. A personal best. No applause, please. Just throw money. Despite my fatigue, I spent the first ten minutes of "Shortbus" excitedly watching Ian's face as his jaw made its gradual trek toward the floor. That alone, would have been worth the trip. Then Ceth/Jay entered the frame, and there it was again. That feeling. That recognition. I wasn't so quick to dismiss it the second time.

Mercifully, I didn't have to work the next day. I sat at the computer, checking e-mail, researching. The usual. It struck me that I should google Jay, to see if maybe I had seen him somewhere before. The search turned up a few listings on YouTube, his IMDb page, and a Myspace listing. I checked IMDb first. There was a single credit - "Shortbus". On to YouTube. There were three videos. I clicked on the one called "Body's a Temple", sat back and watched. His hair was buzzed off. He was shirtless, because of the heat in his small apartment. He cradled a guitar. I knew he was a musician, because he had played a song ("Soda Shop") in the movie. After a short intro, he played his song. I sat mesmerised. I'm not usually comfortable watching other people sing. I don't know why, it's just a quirk of mine. He was so effortless and honest, I couldn't NOT watch. I went on to the next song, "26-Hour Day". I listened to the lyrics and by the end of the song, I had tears in my eyes. He had it. That thing that makes artists great. The "It" factor. The lyrics alone were enough to garner my devotion. I grew up on Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce, James Taylor, Dylan, Joan Baez. My mother was a musician. Folk music speaks to me in a way that is surpassed only by my beloved Big Band music. Folk was the soundtrack of my childhood. Here was this beautiful, sweet boy, with his brilliant lyrics, and his shy, unassuming performance. Killing me softly. I went onto Myspace, found his profile, sent him a friend request (couldn't hurt), and an e-mail telling him how much I appreciated his performance in "Shortbus", and how beautiful I thought his music was. To my surprise, and his credit, I received a response thanking me. It was the start of an unintended correspondence. That April, he played a show at The Living Room in New York. I went to the show, but didn't tell him I was coming. I stood in the back, with no intention of introducing myself. I was there for the music, nothing more. He even brushed against me on his way to the stage, and still I said nothing. I held my breath and waited for him to start playing. He thanked everyone for coming. He thanked the staff at the Living Room for the opportunity to play there. Gracious. Charming. Then he started his set. Each and every song was worth the two hour trip. It was the start of quite a run for me, watching him perform live. I e-mailed him the next day to let him know how much I enjoyed the show. He chastised me for not letting him know that I was there. I apologised and promised that I would make it a point to do so at his next show. He booked a pair of shows at Mo' Pitkin's in New York the following month. I went to both shows. I was hooked. He spotted me before the first show started, recognising me from my Myspace profile picture, and made his way over to introduce himself and thank me (THANK me!?!) for my kind words. Was this really the same boy to whom I'd had such a profound reaction at the Quad Cinema such a short time ago? It was. Our association has unfolded slowly over the last two years. I've discovered other tribe members through him - Brent, Dee, and my darling Amy - whose talents and presence astound me at every turn. I pledged to him in those early days that I would do anything and everything I could to support him. All he has to do is ask. I think his music and his voice are important and necessary.

Jay doesn't always understand the devotion he inspires in people. It's not in his nature to tout his own abilities. Personally, I will be forever grateful to John Cameron Mitchell for the many opportunities afforded to Jay by his participation in "Shortbus". He has been invited to present the movie at festivals around the world. He now has 73 videos on YouTube. That number doesn't include the countless videos taken at his live shows and posted by fans. He has self-produced and released "Goddamned" - a CD of original music. He has played shows all over the world, with an ever increasing international fan base clamouring for more. I myself have attended 15 of those shows in the last 18 months, from coast to coast. I flew to L.A. for a much needed mini-vacation when he played at the Hotel Cafe. It was worth it to see the look on his face. He saw me and said, "Hey! Thanks for coming." Then it struck him that we were 3000 miles from our respective homes. "Holy shit, what are you doing here?!?" Good times. I took the train to Boston to catch the first show of his official tour. I've seen him in Philadelphia and D.C. I like to think I've contributed in my own way to his being able to eat his beloved Ramen on more than a few occasions. He questions my sanity fairly frequently, but I don't care. I promised him at the beginning that I was in for the long haul. He has contributed so much happiness to my life, it's a small price to pay in return.

I encourage people all the time to check him out online. Start with YouTube. Start with 26-Hour Day. It's a scathing, beautifully written commentary on the policies of the previous "administration". It is mercifully on its way to being outdated, but spectacular nonetheless. Buy his CD. Buy a t-shirt. Call me, I'll take you to one of his shows. What do I get out of it, besides the chance to see one of my favourite people in the world? I get the knowledge that an important voice is being heard. The quiet thrill of seeing a friend expand his success. I get to feel something that comforts and invigorates me. It's a little thing called Tribal Pride.

No Comment.

2009-02-12T18:06:00.006-05:00

A few friends have sent me messages stating that they tried to leave comments on the blog, but weren't able to. After checking all of the settings (and putting my fluency in Vulgarian to good use), I can say that the comments section IS, in fact, completely functional.

After you type your comment, you must select a profile. It's the little drop-down menu just below the comment composition field (if you're not sure what profile to select, just choose "Anonymous", and sign the comment - don't be a chickens**t). After selecting a profile, hit "Post Comment". A separate window will pop up for the word verification. If the "word" doesn't display, hit enter, and the field will refresh with a new word. From there, it shouldn't be a problem and the comment should post. I'm sorry for the difficulties. Thank you all for reading and trying to share your thoughts. I hope everything is copacetic now, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Trust me, it's so easy, a monkey could do it. Peace.

Saved by the belle...

2009-02-12T15:32:00.007-05:00

My introduction to beauty was an unconventional one. I'm not talking about aesthetic beauty - the kind that is touted on billboards and in magazines, or is exemplified by the most popular models and actors of the day. I mean real beauty. The kind that stands out in the mind and changes something about the way you view yourself and the world around you.

I was attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia in the Fall of 1988. Very often, between classes, any number of students could be seen running the streets from one building to another. One afternoon, on one of those particular excursions, I happened upon a sight that has stayed with me for more than two decades. It was late in the day, and many people were making their way home from work. Running for taxis. Waiting for buses. The streets were crowded, and it started to rain, sending hives of people scurrying into nearby alcoves and entryways. It was in one such alcove-a high arched, stone recess-that I saw a woman whose face would someday play a role in saving my life.

She had been badly burned at some point in her life. Her skin was mottled and too pink. She wore a pale bandanna and a long coat buttoned all the way up to her neck. No eyebrows. The cartilage from the end of her nose had burned away. The point of the bone, in concert with her delicate chin, gave her face an almost reptilian look. In the moment that I saw her, she stood at the right outside edge of the alcove, the rain making faint crosshatches at the hem of her coat. Her chin was up, her narrow shoulders held perfectly square. Her posture was ramrod straight and her tight gaze never faltered. She was not alone. To the far left of her, as far as they could be without surrendering their shelter, were a mass of business men and women. Cowering. Huddled together. A sculpture of collapsed umbrellas, tweed coats, damp newspapers, and shoulder pads, trying to stay as far away from the "monster" as possible. Yet there she stood, her seared lips a resolute line across her face. She was the embodiment of dignity, and the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. I have tears in my eyes just thinking of her now.

On August 5, 2002, my life was not going well. I wanted out. I think of that dark moment often, when everything gets still and quiet. The moment that I sat on the floor of my room, desperate and despairing, with an X-acto knife pressed to the skin of my right wrist. They say that just before you die, your whole life "flashes before your eyes". I can't say that my whole life played out like some Midnight Movie, but there were snapshots. The greatest hits of me: The day I met my brother, fresh from the hospital, and introduced myself, greeting him by his full name and rubbing his head...stepping off the bus the day I started first grade...my parents explaining that they were divorcing, and that we were moving...the endless procession of new schools, and teachers, and friends...learning to fit in wherever I landed...my first time on stage...the first boy I loved...all the smells that had written themselves on my memory...all the music I loved...the face of the last boy I loved. This stream of images hit me in a split second as the point of the blade broke the skin. It was like a sentence spoken too fast, one that I didn't completely understand. The final image stopped me. It lingered like an ellipses...that beautiful, heartbreaking face reached across time to remind me that true dignity can survive anything. I paused long enough for the drop of blood to grow and succumb to gravity, making its way into the palm of my hand and pooling there. I was calm, then, in a way that I had never been before that moment. I put the knife down, got up and went to the bathroom. I washed and bandaged my wrist. I remember looking at myself in the mirror. I can't describe what was different, exactly, but I can tell you that I have never been the same. I've never looked at my life the same. Beauty changed the way I looked at myself and my world. I sit here today because of a stranger whose name I do not know.

It took a couple of years for things to start looking up, but I never again slipped into that dark, downward spiral. Not even when things got worse. Eventually, I stopped feeling that all of my time was borrowed, and got to the business of living and dreaming and working. I can say with absolute certainty that the only regret I have from my life thus far is that I'm not able to reach back through the years to that rainy, cold day in downtown Philadelphia. To hug that woman. To thank her for my life, for every laugh, every tear, every face, and sound, and scent that I would've missed if she hadn't taught me that there IS beauty in this world, and that it isn't merely worth living for, it's worth fighting for.

My wrist healed. There is a faint scar, practically invisible thanks to vitamin E oil and a camouflage of creases. I rub it every once in a while, when I have a particularly difficult decision to make. It gives me comfort in a strange way, much the way I imagine rosary beads comfort a devout Catholic. I've spent a fair amount of time over the last decade being stared at, or pointed at, and even being whispered about. I'm different, too. I revel in the sisterhood of it. My posture gets a little straighter. My shoulders square. My chin lifts ever so slightly, an eyebrow arches, and a faint smile plays across my lips. Let other people cower. I'm too busy being beautiful.

You never know who might be watching.

Blame Facebook.

2009-02-09T15:32:00.001-05:00

I check my Facebook page obsessively. There, I said it. What do you want from me? I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I drink so infrequently that when my friends see me with an alcoholic beverage in my hand, they start searching behind the bar for alien pods. What I'm trying to say is - I need at least one effing vice, here!

I digress.

In the last several weeks, I've noticed a number of my "facebook" friends being "tagged" in a note of some kind or another. One that caught my eye was "25 Random Things About Me". Hmmm. I normally shrug those things off. They're usually mindless surveys, and while I'm reading them (oops!, caught me), I can hear Deborah Kerr-cough Marni Nixon!- singing "Getting to Know You" in the back of my head. This one was different, though. No twenty questions. No single-word answers. Twenty-five random pieces of personal information. No rules. No parameters. Hmmm, I say. I did just make a promise to myself that I was going to be more open...

I caved. This is what came out after the canary died:

1. I am competely ambidextrous. I can write, draw, throw, eat and slap people around with both hands.

2. I'm the oldest of 7 children, but I don't speak to anyone from my family, so I have no idea where or how any of them are. This seems to go against the "be more open" thing, but it's all about the baby steps. Also, I was the first born in my generation on both sides of my family. No pressure there, I assure you.

3. I was born on April Fool's Day. People who know me even a little, know that this is the PERFECT birthday for me. My life is rarely as it seems AND I love to make people laugh. At least the universe got SOMETHING about me right.

4. There isn't a single person in my life who knew me before the age of 20. It's very liberating.

5. I want to be a writer when I grow up. Actually, anything artistic or creative will do. I was a performer when I was younger (acting, singing, dancing), and an artist/painter as well, but writing has the strongest pull, and it gets more intense as I get older. Oh, the stories I have to tell...

6. I don't subscribe to any particular religion. They all seem like bastardisations of the same basic mythology to me. I don't get the whole "us" over 'them" mentality. Spirituality and balance are inherent human impulses. I'll never understand why people can't just go with what works for them and leave others to their own paths.

7. On that same basic note, I think "Holy War" is by far the stupidest pairing of words ever created. "President Bush" is a very close second.

8. I've lived in 7 different states: Kentucky, Indiana, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Nevada, California, and Florida. Gypsy much?

9. I hATEd school. I could read and write before I started 1st grade, so I spent 12 years being BORED OUT OF MY FREAKIN' MIND. College wasn't any better. I left after a year, but I've always read voraciously, have an amazing memory, and I will kick your ass at Jeopardy!, so bring it, bitches!

10. Speaking of reading, I absolutely love the Twilight series. Harry Potter is up there, too. I know they're "kid's books", but I read so much serious material, it's like a jacuzzi for my brain to disappear into a world that is so imaginative and engaging. Plus, I heart Edward Cullen.

11. Farts make me laugh like a 4-year-old being tickled. What do you want from me? I grew up with 5 brothers. Don't judge me! LOL

12. I love flowers. My absolute favourites are white Calla lillies and purple irises, especially together, but any will do. They just make me happy.

13. I don't eat animals. I don't have pets, either. Animals belong in the wild, not in our houses or bellies. Leave them be.

14. I've loved five men in my life. #1 died a long time ago. I haven't seen #2 in about 17 years. #'s 3 and 4 are like brothers to me now, and they both have exceptionally beautiful, cool wives. I love them all. The jury is still out on #5. I'm hoping to get to that "brother" place with him. Wish me luck.

15. Music is immeasurably important to me. The 30's and 40's are my favourite decades (music, movies, fashion - except the underwear- furniture, cars). Big band music cures what ails me every single time. That being said, I was a teenager in the 80's, so I get a little charge when something from back in the day comes on the radio. Go-Go's anyone?

16. I love watching sports. I know it's not very "girly", but really, it's 2009, for crap's sake. Get over it. P.S. Baseball and Australian rules football are my top 2. Hockey is right behind them, trying to start a fight and move up the list.

17. So many of my friends leave me speechless with wonder and awe. My life is crazy and complicated, and they just roll with it. It really is an embarrassment of riches. They're funny, talented, brilliant, compassionate, and loyal, and if I don't say it enough, "I love you all." P.S. - they're a damn good-looking crowd, too.

18. I have no idea if I'm a good kisser. It's not that no one has ever told me, it's that I've been single/celibate for about 25 years (and no, that isn't a typo, I refer you back to #17...crazy, complicated life), and no one has ever had the chance to find out. This isn't a "poor me" thing. I've been alone for a very long time, but I don't ever remember feeling lonely. Don't try to figure it out. It'll only give you a headache.

19. I love the smells of mint, basil, baby powder, green tea, the ocean, horses, baking madeleines, and pavement just after it starts to rain. Each of these scents has a very strong, happy association from my past, and they always cause a strong emotional shift when I smell them. If you ever want to calm me down, throw me out of a cab when a storm hits.

20. The song "Sand and Water" is on the short list of non-movie things that make me cry.

21. The only thing I've ever been afraid of is losing my memory. The loss of the coping mechanisms alone would finish me. It's taken me a long time to put those mechanisms in place, and without them, it would be like someone else trying to live my life, and I don't know anyone who could do that but me.

22. I long for the day when this body doesn't feel borrowed anymore. I'm working as hard as I can to get there. Just stay out of my way, and nobody gets hurt. ;-P

23. I'm unusually susceptible to other peoples' moods. An unfortunate result of this is that moods are often attributed to me that aren't actually mine. It's also the reason I don't do crowds - WAAAY too much stimulus, and not in a good way. Theatres are the only real exception to the "no crowds" thing. Movies, Broadway, concerts... people tend to be really happy in those places. I always get kind of a contact buzz at Broadway shows. Good times.

24. My Mother's family is Mediterranean (Lebanese, Egyptian), and my Father's family is of British descent (English, Irish AND Scottish). Some of my fondest childhood memories are food-related, admittedly more so from the Mediterranean faction, but I have a soft spot for English pub food (I miss my Nan's banoffee pie). It's harder to veganise, though.

25. Facebook has changed my life. I've reconnected with so many people from my past and found them happy and well. That alone makes it worth every obsessive moment I've spent hunting for people and having to explain who I am. It's also the reason I regularly fall asleep with my Blackberry clutched in my hand. Sad, but true.

Where to Begin?

2009-02-09T14:45:00.002-05:00

I don't usually put my life on display. It's messy. I suppose in this day and age, most lives are. I'm not here to commiserate, though. Nor am I here to "clean up this mess". I've exiled a large number of people from my life over the last four decades. I've had my reasons in each and every case: betrayal, fear, crossed boundaries, protecting them, protecting ME. Some have made the trip back into my good (ahem) graces, and I into theirs, but many have not. I suppose my primary motivation for starting this blog, aside from getting back in the habit of writing on a regular basis, is to catalogue my life - to create a user's guide for those who find their way back. A "Jumping off the Cliffs" Notes, I guess you could call it?

My entire family is among the exiled. If I never find a way to rebuild that bridge in my lifetime, I want to leave SOMETHING behind to let them know that I was okay in the end. That things worked out. That even though I pushed them all away, I never stopped loving them. All of the uncomfortable, hurtful pieces fell away, and I was left with a strong and peaceful affection for my early life. It gave me all of the tools I have needed to navigate the twisted, broken path my life has taken since then. My family is largely responsible for those tools. "If they were so wonderful, why push them away?", you might be asking yourselves. I remind you, for purposes of illustration, that the most effective tools are forged in fire, hammered into shape, and tempered into hardness. When the tools are made, you have to leave the elements of their making behind, take them out into the world, and see what you can build with them. I have been forced to use those tools in very unconventional ways. I don't wish to offend their makers, nor do I wish to be told that "that's not what those are for". This particular exile is in the best interest of all parties concerned. Trust me.

Perhaps someday, when my "project" is complete, I'll make the trip back to the factory, as it were. Until then, the only olive branch I can offer in good conscience is a promissory one - the promise to document my life as well and as openly as I can, in the hope that that documentation will find its way to the right people at the right time. Also, I might be able to enlighten and entertain a few others along the way.

Feel free to comment or criticise if anything moves or offends you. I realise that everyone has an opinion on these things. If you hurt my feelings, I might bite back, but I'll get over it. I suggest you do the same. It's just a blog, you know.

Peace.