Monday, April 30, 2007

End of an Age

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007)

I suppose I should have posted about the passing of Kurt Vonnegut over a week ago, but I didn't. I was distracted by other things, and, I have to admit, a little embarrassed. I have not read any of his books. I can only say, with some chagrin, that I have seen the movie Slaughterhouse-Five, which was good, it was very very good. However, I know film is a different medium, and a book is almost always better. Or at least different. Am I not the one who is usually shaking my head in dismay over people who say offhandedly, "Oh, yeah, I saw the movie," and just leave it at that, as if a movie can possibly replace the inner life of a book? So what can I possibly say about this writer that I've never read?

I can say that he was the voice of his generation, an enigmatic figure of the last century. I can say that his words tug at me like strains of music from another room: Come over here, Look over here. And I will. I will.

And I can say, as can be said of all writers of really good books, that he was taken from us too soon.

How to Speak Russian

So I managed to pick up the Russian pianist from his hotel last night without mishap. It's funny, the promotional images they send for these artists are always a few years younger, a little more glamorous. I was not prepared for the faded, world-weary musician who stepped off the elevator. I don't know what I was expecting... a little more sparkle, maybe... a little more glamour. Add to that, after living in London for seventeen years, his Russian accent was almost nonexistent. His English was very British. But his conversation gave him away.

"London," I said. "That is one place I would like to visit."

Immediately he launched into a diatribe against the government. "They waste money," he said, "and every day they chip away at the individual's personal freedom. It's just like living in the Soviet Union during the 80's."

"How disturbing," I said.

"It may go differently after the next election, but I don't think the Tories have much better to offer."

"I suppose it is the same here," I said (always the diplomat). "It doesn't seem to matter which party we vote for."

He disagreed. "That Obama," he said. "He's got a brain. He will make a difference."

Interesting.

I should have known a Russian would want to talk politics. I was completely unprepared.

He also wanted to know where I got my Russian name. I said that I thought it was from that Russian movie that was popular back then, but I couldn't remember the name. It was Doctor Zhivago. Duh.

It's a wonder I made any kind of good impression at all. But he was gracious. And very polite. He would make this little bow whenever I would hand him things.

Funny how people are perceived differently depending on the circumstance. The theatre staff thought he was arrogant and snobby (they used other, less gracious descriptions) because he asked them to leave the auditorium so he could rehearse. They were just trying to clean the place, but they're supposed to have that done by 5:00pm. Granted, we were there a few minutes early, but they still should have cut him some slack. He is the Artist, after all. I guess maybe not everyone understands the artistic personality; I completely get that he needed to be alone to concentrate.

Around 6:00, Peter, our piano tuner, showed up. He's English, and well, what do you know, they got along splendidly. I popped in to the hall just to see how things were going, and Peter commented that he thought the artist was a lovely fellow, very nice. Likewise, the pianist commented to me that he thought Peter was very professional, did very good work. Mutual respect within the trade, you know. And perhaps it was just nice for both of them to hear the voice of home. Or the familiar. Something like that. Lord knows it's difficult to be a stranger in a strange land. Later, I saw them both out front, smoking cigarettes and speaking intently with one another. It was a quarter to seven, the audience was arriving, and the pianist wasn't even in his suit yet. I have never seen that happen before. I don't know if the people coming in even noticed him or recognized who he was. Anyway, I was glad to see he had made a connection with someone. I hope he felt welcome.

This was a chaotic night. Most of the board members were out sick or out of town. We were a skeleton crew with a full house. Somehow we managed to pull it off. Teamwork. What a wonder. After making sure that the pianist had someone to give him a ride back to his hotel, I left after intermission so I wouldn't have to drive back too late. Bum tire and all.

I am still waiting for my minions to fix my tire. The tires are on order. I am not pleased with the wait.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

When Good Tires Go Bad

Sounds like the subtitle to a Far Side cartoon, doesn't it? I wish I could see that one. I could use the laugh.

Last night, through the acute observation of the father of a friend of my son's, it was brought to my attention that my front passenger side tire is bad. Real bad. Like blow-up-on-the-highway-and-die-in-a-flaming-wreck kind of bad. My driver side tire is probably right behind it. So I think, Okay, I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning.

That was Saturday night. Today is Sunday. Nothing is open. And in one hour I have to go pick up a Russian pianist from his hotel and take him the theatre for his performance tonight.

Oy vey!

How can nothing be open? This is ridiculous! When you need a tire, you need a tire. This should be required to be a 24-hour/7-days a week service. I need assistance, dammit! Where are my minions! I need minions! I want this done NOW!

Oh, bother.

So. I'm going to stay off the highway. I'm going to drive really really slowly. And tomorrow morning, I will buy new tires.

Saints and Angels and Ministers of Grace preserve us. And Fairies. And lots and lots of Good People.

Keep your phone turned on. I might be calling you to come rescue me.

Friday, April 27, 2007

TMI! TMI!

In class last night we were discussing how our modern culture really discourages us from getting too close to each other. For instance, when we ask "How are you?" this is generally a casual greeting and we're not looking for an in-depth response. This may be more of a Western culture thing, for a Chinese woman in class related how the Chinese take this question quite literally. She said she often hears from other foreigners about how they start to respond honestly to this question and then find that the other person "has a funny look on their face." In China, she went on to say, if you don't want to know, you don't ask the question. One might say simply, "Have you eaten?" instead, or something equally specific and mundane.

The professor called this the "TMI" phenomenon. You know how with email and cell phone text messages all these acronyms have come into general use: TMI stands for "Too Much Information." This is used when faced with an unwanted response to the question "How's it going?" that is perhaps too long or filled with too many intimate details. I send text messages on a regular basis and even I did not know this. But then, I'm one of those weirdos that spells everything out. (I am probably more likely to receive a TMI than send one!)

This whole conversation arose out of our discussion of W.H. Auden's The Unknown Citizen, which thematically underscores this idea of the modern individual being obscured by a series of superficial factoids. What you do and what you buy is not the same thing as who you are and why you do what you do and how you feel about it.

So why is it that in this modern age, with its plethora of communication devices, are we so distinctly uncomfortable when people start to really communicate with us?

The professor gave an example.

Some years ago, he was working with a colleague who began to tell him of an odd experience he had had during his previous employment in Milwaukee. He had been working there several weeks, when one day he went out to his car and found a note. The note read,

"I have been watching you for awhile now. I find you attractive and I'd really like to meet you. Please call me if you would like to make arrangements to meet. However, if you are not gay, please consider this note a compliment."

The professor paused and we all waited for him to finish the story. Then he said, "You know, whenever I tell this story, I always get the same reaction from the women every time. They all want to know, 'What did you say? What did he do?'"

(And this is absolutely true--every woman in class was nodding her head, waiting breathlessly for the answer).

"But," he continued, "right at that moment, I was feeling very uncomfortable. This was a TMI moment. This was Too Much Information. I did not want to know."

So what did you say? we asked.

He said, "Huh. Milwaukee, eh?"

Cat Stevens Reincarnate



I know, I know... Cat Stevens isn't dead. But he's been off the music radar for decades. I'm telling you, though, when I hear these guys, they sound just like him.


Calling All Friends
~Low Stars

Calling all friends and people I met on the way down
Calling all friends and people I don’t even know
Calling on high I want to believe there’s a way now
I’m too tired to pretend I don’t want to be alone

I’m calling all friends

Taken my time and trying to be what I wanted
Taken my chances when they came on the way
Taken the toll and nobody knows how I’m haunted
Things that I’ve done there isn’t a price I can pay

I have been broken I’ve been low
You want to disappear and no one needs to know
I’ve been there I’ve been where no one seems to care

Calling all friends and people I met on the way down
Calling all friends and people I don’t even know
Calling on high I want to believe there’s a way now
I’m too tired to pretend I don’t want to be alone

I’m calling all friends

Thursday, April 26, 2007

My Ever Present Past


Ever Present Past
~Paul McCartney

I’ve got too much on my plate
Don’t have no time to be a decent lover
I hope it isn’t too late
Searching for the time that has gone so fast
The time that I thought would last
My ever present past

I’ve got too much on my mind
I think of everything to be discovered
I hope there’s something to find
Searching for the time that has gone so fast
The time that I thought would last
My ever present past

The things I think I did
Indeed indeed I did
The things I think I did
When I was a kid

I couldn’t understand the words that they were saying
But still I hung around and took it all in
I wouldn’t join in with the games that they were playing
It went by
It went by in a flash
It flew by
It flew by in a flash

There’s far too much on my plate
Don’t have no time to be a decent lover
I hope it’s never too late
Searching for the time that has gone so fast
The time that I thought would last
My ever present past

Time Won't Let Me Go


Time Won't Let Me Go
~The Bravery

Whenever I look back
On the best days of my life
I think I saw them all on T.V.
I am so homesick now for
Someone that I never knew
I am so homesick now for
Someplace I will never be

Time won't let me go
Time won't let me go
If I could do it all again
I'd go back and change everything
But time won't let me go

I never had a 'Summer of 69'
Never had a Cherry Valance of my own
All these precious moments
You promised me would come in time
So where was I when I missed mine?

Time won't let me go
Time won't let me go
If you gave me back those years
I'd do it all better I swear
Time won't let me go

Ba ba ba ba ba...

If I could go back once again
I would change everything, yeah
If I could go back once again
I'd do it all so much better

Time won't let me go
Time won't let me go
If I could do it all again
I'd go back and change everything
But you won't ever let me go

Ba ba ba ba ba...

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Rivers and Tides

You wouldn't think a film about Watching the Artist at Work would have a whole lot to offer in the way of entertainment, but this film was absolutely fascinating. It never ceases to amaze me what people come up with as a form of expression. Andrew Goldsworthy goes out into these landscapes and just starts making sculptures from stuff he finds lying about: rocks, bracken, leaves, even icicles. His patience is phenomenal--sometimes his project collapses before he can finish. But then he picks himself up and starts again. Usually, he sets himself up against some kind of time limit, like the tide coming in. He considers this a part of his art: Nature is not destroying his art, but contributing to it, engaging with it, and becoming part of the process.

Without ever being deliberate or obviously preachy, there is an underlying philosophy to this film. No matter what work we do, aren't we all engaged in building these tentative structures? Don't we all have to pick up the pieces and start again when things fall apart (as they inevitably do)? Aren't we all working against the tide?

Watch this film. You won't regret it.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Too Perky to be Goth?

So today this friend of mine says to me--in the nicest possible way--"You could never be Goth. You're too perky to be Goth."

What? You mean I'll never be dark enough, edgy enough, angsty enough? Gee, I could have been such a groovy little Evanescence groupie, too.

I don't know... I mean, I know your friends can sometimes see you more clearly than you see yourself, but I think my capacity for darkness is being underestimated here. You people really have no idea what I'm capable of. [weg]

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Washington Square, I'll meet you there...


Originally, Tori Amos was thinking of titling this song "Washington Square" before she finally settled on "Garlands." Somehow, "Washington Square" resonates more with me because the SJSU campus address is One Washington Square, and it seems that I am always rushing over there as the speaker relates in the song.

"Garlands" is about two lovers meeting at an art exhibit of Chagall lithographs and finding their story in the paintings.

The music has a lovely repetitive refrain that is mesmerizing, meditative, and reflective. The song was only released on the special edition DVD which came with her Beekeeper CD. Sometimes I turn it on, like tonight, and just let it play and play. If I knew how to play piano, I would want to play this song.

I try to keep it toned down for the sake of my friends, but I really am a fanatic for this woman and her music. Her style is feminine, cryptic, nonlinear, and more than a little kooky. She teaches me to trust my feminine, cryptic, nonlinear, kooky side. [grin]

Garlands
~tori amos

“The Winged Painter is on uptown” I said
“Will you meet me to go…”
Washington Square
I’m racing there
to get you at
Noon,
oh the Nocturne noon…
Isabella on the way there stops me
(I say) I can’t stay today -
I’m off in flight Towards Another Light.
Rest.
Youth.
Washington Square,
I meet you there and we go.

now He’s on the run
He’s on the run
From this walking Greeting Card
and Chloe’s Kiss,
The Wolf Pit,
The Wine Harvest,
and Phileda’s Lesson -
We’re not his possession.
in Winter,
Trampled flowers
in Winter

Lovers,
Circus,
these Garlands -
The Blue Pirouette,
The Marriage,
The Mimosas,
Black Sun Over Paris…
these Garlands -
The Little Swallow,
St. Paul from the window,
from the 1/2 open window.

Eve incurs God’s displeasure.
Passion.
Odysseus and Penelope,
Ulysses and Penelope,
The Festival,
In Hell.

in Winter,
The Winged Painter,
The Winged Painter,
Washington Square -
Let’s go see a Day in May
from The Winged Painter







Saturday, April 21, 2007

Owe it to the wind



I attended a wedding today at St. Lucy's Church in Campbell: My boss--one of my bosses, really--the president of the Steinway Society, Janie Horton, and her selected sweetie, Humberto Ramirez. Their story is unusual--this is Janie's third marriage (divorced hubby #1; hubby #2 died), and third wedding to Humberto (they had a civil service last year, followed by a family wedding in Chile). Apparently, they both didn't realize the amount of paperwork and processes they needed to complete for Janie to join the Catholic Church and annul her first marriage in order to exchange sacramental wedding vows, which was the ceremony they held today. So there were a lot of good natured jokes about her being "so very married" to Humberto that they are stuck with one another for good. They didn't look like they seemed to mind. [grin]

I've been inside a Catholic Church before, but I don't think I've ever attended a service. I was--only slightly--disconcerted by the moments when other people seemed to Know What Was Going On and I didn't. They've obviously been here before. [grin] Stuff like, when the priest says, "May the blessings of the Lord be with you," the audience replies, "And also with you." Not having been raised Catholic, this was new to me. There were other things, too. Like when the audience was supposed to take a minute or two to "express the love of Christ" and everyone went around shaking hands, even hugging and kissing, saying "Peace be with you." Again, not strange in a bad way, just unexpected and different.

Another thing I noticed was when they offered the Eucharist--the symbols of the wine and bread for the blood and body of Christ--they used a white wine. [???] I didn't get the chance to ask the priest about it, but I thought this was odd. I was always under the impression that the wine needed to be a red wine to fit the whole blood analogy. Curious.

So anyway, I'm sitting there while all this is going on, and it's a really beautiful church. Very modern with a wide arching ceiling and two huge stained glass windows on the left and the right. On the left is the depiction of the nativity and on the right is the crucifiction. And I began to wonder if they did this on purpose. I mean, I know the religious significance of these scenes, but taken down to their core meanings, we have Birth on one side and Death on the other, and here we sit, all of Life in between. I just found myself tapping into something far older and more universal than the merely Christian aspect they no doubt intended. It's times like this when I recognize that the Bible as Myth resonates far more deeply and more truly with our humanity when it can be linked to other traditions. But there, that must prove I'm a heretic. The angry mob with the torches and pitchforks should be arriving any moment.

Afterwards, I went outside for a closer look at the statue of
St. Lucy. I asked my "other" boss Henry (VP) if he knew her story and he said he couldn't remember. See, if I was Catholic, I would get into all that stuff. Every saint has a story. But I'm not Catholic, so I guess I'll go back to reading critical theory and poetry and whatever else catches my fancy.

So Henry starts telling me about this song he's trying to remember, and he hums a few bars--and isn't it funny how a song stuck in someone else's head can get stuck in your head by only hearing a few notes?--so then it was stuck in my head, too. So there we stood, the three of us, me and Henry and Henry's wife Shirley, humming this song and trying to remember what it was. Thank god for the internet. I was able to come home and enter a few snatches of verse I could remember and I came up with this:


We're All Alone
~Rita Coolidge

Outside the rain begins and it may never end
So cry no more on the shore

A dream
Will take us out to sea
Forever more forever more
Close your eyes and dream
And you can be with me
'Neath the waves through the caves of hours
Long forgotten now
We're all alone we're all alone

Close the window calm the light
And it will be alright
No need to bother now
Let it out let it all begin
Learn how to pretend

Once a story's told
It can't help but grow old
Roses do lovers too
So cast your seasons to the wind
And hold me dear oh hold me dear

Close the window calm the light
And it will be alright
No need to bother now
Let it out let it all begin
All's forgotten now
We're all alone oh oh we're all alone
Close the window calm the light
And it will be alright
No need to bother now
Let it out let it all begin
All's forgotten now
We're all alone we're all alone
Let it out let it all begin
Owe it to the wind my love


Praise be to the internet gods. Now I can get some sleep...


Friday, April 20, 2007

Oh, Edna!



First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends---
It gives a lovely light!

~Edna St. Vincent Millay


Grown-Up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half past eight?

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Left! Right! Switch!

So I tried this Chai Tea exercise last night. Excuse me, Tai Chi. (I'm always getting those two mixed up). I had bought the DVD months ago and have only now gotten around to trying it out. This is my relationship with exercise: procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate.

Anyway, so I give it a shot, and really it's not bad. I like exercise to feel energizing, not like I'm being hit by a truck and then backed over again slowly. So Tai Chi is definitely of the former. However, I have discovered, to my chagrin, that my mind has difficulty processing the whole left/right thing when I'm trying to emulate a moving image on TV.

Now before you start teasing me about not knowing my right from my left, please note that I have qualified the above statement. The thing is, my mind wants to see the instructor as a mirror image and I am moving in response to that image. All of a sudden he throws directions into the mix: "Step out with your left foot..." Wait a minute... that's not my left foot, that's my right foot. Maybe it doesn't matter. No, but now I have to extend my left arm over my right foot, so do I use my left or my right? What?.... And so on. By the time I'm done with this workout, I really don't know my right from my left.

I think next time I try this I'm going to turn around and watch the reflection in the picture above my couch. Maybe that will help. If not, I'm going to turn the TV off and go for a walk. Then it won't matter which foot goes first.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Splitting Hairs

I like to say my hair has a split personality; that's why I can't get rid of these split ends! [snicker!]

First, the "Hag."
When I wash my hair, it goes all curly crazy--not exactly Shirley Temple ringlets, that would be too easy--oh no, my hair acts like each individual strand has a mind of its own and wants to pick its own direction. Wearing it long, at least I have gravity on my side: eventually, it has to tend toward a downward slope. When I've cut it short, there was just no controlling it. Curling irons, blow dryers, endless hair products: all useless. It's all I can do to get a comb through my hair without breaking it. It's like carding wool, it really is. Eventually, after a couple of days, it starts to calm down and then it becomes...

The "Princess"
This is when my hair becomes almost manageable. I can braid it or style it as I please and it behaves itself, for the most part. I can manage to get a brush through it without too much difficulty.

Brushing, of course, creates its own problem. I like to joke that I have more hair in my brush than most people have on their heads. [weg] Brushing also tends to loose all kinds of strays: wild tangles run rampant through my house, capable of lifting objects and possibly small children. It's a sad commentary that when company's coming I must actually consider combing the rug. I shed worse than any family pet I've ever had. In fact, a friend of mine once told me that while sitting in a business meeting, he looked down and found a stray hair on his shirtsleeve. He started pulling on it and it just kept going and going... So let that serve as a warning: Check your clothing! There may be interlopers lurking...

I have to take a moment to sing the praises of modern beauty products. When I was a girl, I wanted long, straight, red-brown hair-- like Princess Leia! I swear to God!-- and now, with the miracle of modern science, I can! Every 8-10 weeks, I go into a salon and this brilliant woman not only colors my hair the exact shade I like [I'm "artificially going natural" a la Carrie Fisher], she spends hours flat ironing it so it's absolutely perfect. It is complete excessive indulgence on my part, I know, but I love it. My hair feels like silk for days.

Then I have to wash my hair, and the Hag is back. But you know, she's okay, too. I am willing to embrace my Hag/Princess duality.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

The Taxman Cometh

I'm so frickin' pissed off I can hardly type.

I completed my taxes and filed them online on March 2nd. March 2nd!!! I was done! Over! I was so proud I had done the damn thing early this year.

Today I get an email telling me that my taxes are *not* filed. Today.

Somehow, someway, I don't know how or why, the transaction was incomplete.

So I have to do this. Today.

What's more, I actually have to pay something this year to the tune of $415. So that means I have to have $415 in my bank account. Today.

Fuck.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Just Look to Your Soul for the Answer


Look to Your Soul
~Johnny Rivers

I nearly lost myself
Tryin' to be someone else
All of my life I've been playin' the game
Gotta get out of myself, it seems
Life's not real when you're in a dream
Hang onto your head and give it a try

To live you must nearly die
Giving up the need to say 'I'
Look to your soul for the answer
Look to your soul

So many people passing by
Have a need to identify
All of us want to be satisfied
Few people seem to care
Livin' a life that leads nowhere
Nobody takes the time to try

To live you must nearly die
Giving up the need to say 'I'
Just Look to your soul for the answer
Look to your soul
Look to your soul

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Growing Older Gracefully



Today was a special day: It was the Croning Ceremony and 60th Birthday Celebration of my friend, Deborah J. Ross. Pulling together traditions from pagan, Quaker, Jewish, and whatever we wanted to toss into the mix, we celebrated the life of this amazing woman, along with honoring her transition into the role of the Crone, or Wise Woman. The Croning Ceremony comes mainly from the pagan tradition that a woman's life consists of three stages: Maiden, Mother, and Crone. (Being the progressives that we are, we included Career Woman in the stage of Mother, because that counts, too!) However, most traditions seem to include some kind of reverence for the old.

It would simply be impossible for me to describe everything that went on today (and I'd like to get some sleep tonight), but I may be able to leave you with a few impressions. Understand that this was pulled together in a matter of two or three weeks by a widespread group of people with only our love of Deborah in common--many of us had never met before and were just names in emails until we met face-to-face this afternoon. Just being there and making all the pieces work was a blessing in itself.

First, never underestimate the power of positive thinking. We had planned from the beginning to hold this ceremony outside in the garden even though rain was expected. It was pouring this morning when I got up. It poured on my drive all the way up into the Santa Cruz mountains. It was gray and gloomy and threatening more rain as guests were arriving. And then, right before we began the ceremony at 3:00, the sun broke through the clouds. Granted, it was still cold outside, but we were able to hold the ceremony outside under the sky and the redwood trees.

Next a woman named Joan led us in a dance, the Labyrinth step, a simple dance step she said is rumored to have been around since the time of Theseus: three steps forward, one step back. You think dancing is hard? Try this; it's fun! It's amazing what a bunch of willing bodies can accomplish with the direction of a skilled leader. We joined hands and did the Labyrinth step as we wound through and around the altars set up in the garden for Maiden, Mother, and Crone. And as the music played we sang along:

Follow me into the center
The center of our shield
Follow me into the center
The center of our shield

I am the weaver
I am the woven one
I am the dreamer
I am the dream
I am the weaver
I am the woven one
I am the dreamer
I am the dream

The altars each had a candle and flowers and items personal and symbolic. Deborah was led on a journey to each altar where representatives of Maiden, Mother, or Crone read poetry or letters from long distance friends and gave blessings. She finished her journey at the altar of the Crone where she received a veil with painted symbols and a crown of lavender and rosemary. We blessed her hands and washed them with water and rose petals-- for her hands are a symbol of her life's work, whether raising her children, or writing, or gardening, or gaining a black belt in kung foo san soo.

The ceremony concluded with another circle dance. Again, I was struck by how easy it was to get everyone moving in unison (and with no rehearsal!). It looked wonderful and it felt wonderful. It's all very well to get out and shake your booty in some nightclub, but nothing compares to this. It just occurred to me that modern dancing, nightclub dancing, is focused on individual expression; circle dancing as we were doing today is an expression of togetherness. It is felt harmony.

So then the ceremony was concluded and we went inside and ate fabulous food, wrote in Deborah's memory book, strung beads for a blessing necklace, oohed and ahhed over her latest book The Alton Gift (I've already read the first chapter and can't wait to read the rest) and lingered and talked and talked.

I will not dread growing older if this is what lies ahead. I am looking forward to my own Croning Ceremony.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Woman Power


Wednesday night I invited a girlfriend of mine out to this book promotional event offered through the Commonwealth Club: This is Not the Life I Ordered by Deborah Collins Stephens, Michealene Cristini Risely, Jackie Speier, and Jan Yanehiro.

As you might suspect, this was a really woman-heavy event. The few men that were there could be pegged immediately: Tech Guy, Backstage Manager, Somebody's Husband (there were about half a dozen of these), and the two old codgers from the Muppet Show (they show up to everything, don't they?). Women from all walks of life filled the room. I'm sure the estrogen levels were through the roof!

I do not mock in earnest; this was a great event. These women had some startling tales to tell. Remember Jonestown? Jackie Speier was there. She was part of the congressional delegation sent down to investigate. When the whole massacre thing went down, she was shot five times at point blank range and left bleeding on the tarmac of the airstrip for 22 hours before the rescue teams arrived. And that was only the beginning of her story...

Each of these women have lived through a tremendous amount of grief and tragedy, and yet here they were standing before us, bouyant, successful, and alive. Their emphasis, and that of their book, is that to survive women need to do what they do best: network and talk. But what I really appreciated was their focus that this idea was on not forming a pity-party network. Yes, we all need to vent; yes, we all need sympathy in times of grief; but what we need most of all are simple, practical steps to guide us through the grief and beyond. This is about using the support of our friends to survive and thrive.

In their book, they quote the late great Marlene Dietrich: "It's the friends you can call at four in the morning that really matter."

Yeah.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

The Desert Island Question

You know the one: If you were on a desert island, and had your choice of only one book to have with you, which one would you choose?

First of all, I find this question monsterously unfair to the true bibliophile. ONE book? ONLY one? Give me a choice of TEN rather. Maybe... MAYBE I can wittle it down to five. But ONE? I can no sooner choose a favorite star in the heavens.

Even Ray Bradbury, when presented with the question, chose three: Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, the collected plays of Bernard Shaw, and anything by anthropologist Loren Eiseley.
















As for myself, I would have to choose the collected works of Shakespeare, Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, and, of course, the collected shorts of Ray Bradbury.















And then, the more I start thinking about it, well, there's some underrepresentation here. What about the graphic novel? I need to throw in some Neil Gaiman, or The Dark Knight, or TMNT. What about children's stories? One of the Andrew Lang Fairy Books or something by Michael Ende. What about art? Certainly I can't be stuck on a desert island without some Michael Whelan or Patrick Woodroffe! What about my all time favorite King Arthur story: Firelord by Parke Godwin? And, Oh, Geez... I completely forgot about poetry...

Nevertheless, the point is moot, because any one of these tomes strapped to my back during a shipwreck--let alone five or ten of them--would plummet me straight to the bottom of the sea.

[p.s. Lost, Season One: If you look closely, Sawyer is reading a battered copy of Richard Adams' Watership Down, another fine choice...]


Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Love is coming to us all


Carry On
~Crosby Stills Nash & Young

One morning I woke up and I knew
You were really gone
A new day, a new way, I knew
I should see it along
Go your way, I'll go mine and
Carry on

The sky is clearing and the night
Has gone out
The sun, he come, the world
is all full of light
Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice but
To carry on

The fortunes of fables are able
To sing the song
Now witness the quickness with which
We get along
To sing the blues you've got to live the tunes and
Carry on

Carry on
Love is coming
Love is coming to us all

Where are you going now my love?
Where will you be tomorrow?
Will you bring me happiness?
Will you bring me sorrow?
Oh, the questions of a thousand dreams
What you do and what you see
Lover can you talk to me?

Girl when I was on my own
Chasing you down
What was it made you run?
Trying your best just to get around.
The questions of a thousand dreams
What you do and what you see
Lover can you talk to me?

Monday, April 9, 2007

Take time out to smell the flowers...


...but don't get too close!

Last week, a beautiful bouquet of flowers was delivered to the theatre; however, due to a lack of communication with the florist, it was delivered too late to be given to the artist it was requested for. So they were given to me. Very nice!

So I have this huge, gorgeous bouquet of lilies in my office, and they smell absolutely fabulous. They are so intoxicating that I just had to go over and smell each blossom. And you know what, they each have a slightly different scent! Neat.

So I turn back to my work, and next thing I know, I notice that I have this powdery, orange-yellow dust all over the back of my hands. Then I turn around and look in the mirror and the same powder is all over my face! It's pollen, of course. But when I go to wipe it off, I find it has turned my skin bright yellow!

This is what I get for taking time out to smell flowers!
(Actually, I am finding that with a little bit of water, the yellow is mostly coming off... mostly.)

And now my mind is drifting toward the fate of certain Hollywood starlets run afoul of flower pollen: Dorothy in the poppy field, for example; or perhaps when Judy Robinson is duplicated by the plant people...

If you happen to find that my office has been taken over by a giant lily, you will come by and make sure I get plenty of water, won't you?


Sunday, April 8, 2007

Looks like a prison camp, feels like a prison camp...


But it's a museum!

The De Young Museum in San Francisco, that is. Doesn't look all that exciting from the outside, but inside is pretty amazing. The view from the tower-- 360 degrees of San Francisco -- is spectacular. That alone is worth the price of admission. But there's neat stuff to look at, too.

Saturday, April 7, 2007

Man, I need a T.V. when I've got T-Rex


It's been a long time since a dream has waked me in a sudden sweat. In the early hours of morning I had one of those dreams.

It begins in the confused muddle that dreams sometimes are. I'm back in the Cabaret (last summer--I"ll tell you about it sometime), and I'm at home getting ready (except I'm in an actual house, not an apartment, but I know in the strange way of dreams, that this is my home). I'm struggling with my stockings and I can't seem to get them on straight. No matter how I adjust them, the seams are all crooked, and I'm getting frustrated because I know I'm already late.

And something moves past my window-- a huge bulk of a shadow crossing a gauzy white curtain-- and it's a T-Rex. First, he eats the Muppets in the garden: Animal, Kermit, Miss Piggy, maybe a Fraggle or two. (Why are there Muppets in the garden? I don't know! It seemed to make some kind of sense at the time...) Then there's an opera singer standing by the window--and she's either singing or screaming, I can't tell--and the T-Rex's head bursts through the window and wall and snatches her up. I drop to the floor because I know he's coming for me next. I want to wiggle under my bed but there's no time, he's already in the room. And I must stay Absolutely Still. I am lying face down on the floor with my arms wrapped around my head and stomach like they say you should do if you are attacked by a Grizzly. I am lying absolutely rigid and trying not to breathe.

And suddenly in the strange way of dreams I am both the Mind's Eye that sees the dream and Myself pressing my face down into the floor. It's not as crude as a split screen in a film; I am actually experiencing both visions at once. (I've read that only really creative minds dream this way...). And I watch as the T-Rex moves into the room, cocking his great head to gaze along the length of me with his one great eye. And as he leans down closer I can feel his hot breath blasting against the side of my head, scattering my hair in a ruffled plume. And my heart is racing and I'm trying not to breathe and trying not to scream and my lungs are burning... And he lets loose his terrible roar, shattering the world around me...

Is it any wonder I woke up at that point?

NOT my idea of being eaten. Oh, no, not at all.


Current music: David Bowie Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

Friday, April 6, 2007

Talk to Her, J. Alfred!


I recall quite vividly that the first time I read T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" was in the library of Irvington High School. I was captivated by it. I believe that was the last time I read it, though, until just this week. All I really remembered was the image of the yellow smoke curling about the house. So reading it again, and discussing it in class, was a real treat.

My professor, Dr. Samuel Maio, is a damn fine poet and a wonderful instructor; he serves up a lot of humor with his spoonfuls of enlightenment. To participate in his class discussions is a true delight.

You see, my trouble is, I am seduced too quickly by the voice of the poet. I read this poem and think, "Poor J. Alfred! Can't get the girl! Poor guy!" But Dr. Maio backs us up a space and tells us to take another look. This guy is a dandy. He must be 30 years old, maybe more, and yet he's still talking like he's in Junior High. He's wondering, "Should I ask a woman on a date or not?" Well, DO IT, Man! Talk to her! You're not going to get a date by spending all day wondering how you should part your hair! And then he (J. Alfred) concludes that all women are sirens out to seduce men, and if he falls under their spell he'll just DIE, but it doesn't really matter because they're not singing to him anyway... Can you hear the little violins? They whine for thee and me...

I've known men like this. Maybe that's why I feel sorry for him. Or maybe I am J. Alfred, or like him, an inhabitant of the Waste Land. Or maybe I am the Waste Land. [whoa. deep.]

Nevertheless, I love this poem. Therefore, for your reading pleasure, it is reproduced below. Notice how Eliot uses imagery to suggest a thing without really naming it: the smoke rubs like a cat against the window, but he doesn't say "cat"; J. Alfred wishes to be a crab at the bottom of the sea, but he doesn't say "crab." That's using objective correlative. I'm a grad student now. That means I Know Things. ;-)

Oh, and the opening quote is from Dante's Inferno. Basically, it says, "I'm not really supposed to tell anyone my story, but since you're here anyway and since I know no one can ever escape from hell, I'll tell you my story anyway." See? Enlightenment.

Enjoy!



The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

~T.S. Eliot




Thursday, April 5, 2007

Quote(s) of the Day



Some can absorb knowledge, the more tardy must sweat for it.
~T.S. Eliot


Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

~T.S. Eliot


Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Everyday Heroes



Earlier this week--I think it was Monday--when I was driving to work through downtown San Jose, something unusual happened. There was this blind woman out in the middle of the street, nowhere near a crosswalk, just completely disoriented walking in circles. Traffic slowed to a crawl, but still kept moving. She was clearly getting frantic, unable to find her way. I was about three or four cars back when a man pulled his truck over, hopped out, took her arm, and led her to safety.

It was just so surreal. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, including my own thoughts. Did anyone else think to help her? Did I? I like to think that I had only had enough time to assess the situation--that if I had been a little bit closer, or had a little bit longer to think about it, I would have done the same as that man. But I don't know.

Sometimes I am frustrated by my own inherent passivity.


Tuesday, April 3, 2007

Yes, Virginia, there is a Sigmund Freud...



Some of you may already know I'm taking Critical Theory this semester. Now, you really have to have a sense of humor with critical theory. You see, the trouble is, the scholars take it all so seriously. They set up their forts and wage heated battles over who is right and who is wrong. Whole careers are made and broken over what stance to take toward literature. This is the kind of thing that drives some people to run screaming from higher learning; they believe that once you get sucked into critical theory, you will never enjoy a book, a movie, hell, anything in life ever again. But I don't see it that way.

I believe that critical theory is like my closet. The text is like the human body, and choosing a critical theory is a bit like getting dressed in the morning. Let's see... what shall it be today? An Aristotlean Unities three-piece suit? That little Feminist miniskirt? A Postcolonial evening gown? Maybe a Mythological long red velvet cape or a New Historicist ruffled shirt? How about a Deconstructionist handknit sweater (if you catch one strand on something it will unravel completely)... We can put Queer theory in the top hat and tails. And Psychoanalysis? Well, that's that naughty black lacey thing brought out for special occasions (hey, it's all about sex, right?).

The thing is, the text, like the human body, well, it's beautiful just by itself, isn't it? You don't have to dress it up in anything if you don't want to, or when you do, you're going to have your favorites and things that don't fit so well. It's all about finding what fits and what's fun. Of course, even the act of observing brings with it its own theory: Reader Response. That's what you bring with you when you read a text. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. What you see is affected/distorted/interpreted by everything you've read/seen/heard/experienced up to this point. I believe it was the Chinese philosopher Lao Tsu who said you cannot step into the same river twice, because you are no longer the same person and the river has changed as well; the same applies with books. (Hmm. Maybe Reader Response is like that favorite pair of blue jeans that only gets better with time...).

Of course, even applying this analogy of the closet is putting a structure on the whole thing. I am reminded that no matter how hard I try I remain a structuralist, which in literary circles is considered tres passe. It's Old School. Nobody who's anybody does it anymore. Eh, what can I say, I'm an old fashioned kind of girl.

So most of this weekend, I was reading Sigmund Freud. Whatever happened to old Siggy? you may ask. Well, basically when most of his theories were discounted or disproven, he packed up his bags and moved into the literature department. You see, we don't have to worry about sticky things like scientific facts. Our art is illusion, so most of what he said fits rather well. Oedipus complex? Penis envy? Repressed desires and Unconscious wish-fulfillment? We can work with this.

We can't be too hard on old Siggy, though. He really got the ball rolling when it came to psychoanalysis. He was a product of his times in more than one sense of the term. There could not have been a Freud before Freud, so to speak, because science, medicine, philosophy, and religion had to advance to a certain point before what he was thinking about was even possible. Were there complexes before Freud? Did they exist in a nameless state, or did they come into being upon being named? Then, too, his own forays into the field were affected by the culture he was a product of. He was a German in the Victorian age: How more uptight can you get? Repression was the game of the day.

But without him, we would not have this idea of psychology at all. He was a pioneer in the field: He may have gotten a few things wrong, but at least he let us know there was a field. And he opened a path for those who came after him, like Jung, my personal favorite. When it comes to psychoanalysis, Jung is the man!

One thing that Freud never understood, though, was women (see yesterday's quote). They were a complete enigma to him. What do women want? Psychologists are still trying to figure that one out. It's funny, though, the question Psychology can't seem to answer was answered hundreds of years before in medieval literature.

What does a woman want?

Do you really want to know?

Well, read it yourself and find out....

Chaucer's Wife of Bath's Tale



Monday, April 2, 2007

Quote of the Day



Female sexuality is the dark continent of psychology.

~ Sigmund Freud