Much ado about something

Last night I caught the last twenty minutes of a HBO special on tennis players John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg who played against one another at Wimbledon in 1980. I was astounded not so much by their emotional problems as much as I was by their similarities; despite at one time being rivals, both men came to share losses, one quit the game at age 26, and the other never won a major title after he turned 25, which implies certain talents die with age.

For the most part sports figures have short careers, nevertheless, it brought to mind two distinct ideas; whether you engage in a sport or a creative gift, it's an attempt to release and dissipate inner anxiety, and particular talents die with age, as opposed to others that enhance with time.     http://bit.ly/jataqM

 

Take writing for example; every writer knows about the labor involved in writing, some may even feel they have a cross to bear; the many hours of imagining, drafting, writing and re-writing that go into a novel. How many query letters are left unanswered, and when the world looks like an uncaring place–it's no wonder that many writers become alcoholics to dull the pain of being ignored.

But when you continue to polish your craft and your work gets recognized, it's like winning the Wimbledon Championship (http://www.wimbledon.com/en_GB/index.html) and kissing the trophy. Others speak of it; for weeks, or months, perhaps years, people may continue to read and talk about your work; and you look at letters or e-mails with compliments for giving an enlightening or entertaining read, how wonderful that feels, you're satiated and you return back to where you started–to write another novel, and another, and continue to throw words at the world with your thoughts, ideas, creations and stories.

Just one more thing

Recently, I was sent a package from Nielsen Media to participate in television ratings. What a golden opportunity for a selective viewer like me- here was my chance to have my opinion make an impact.

Yesterday I read that actor Peter Falk (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000393) had died. I vaguely remember watching a few episodes of the television show, Columbo, that he starred in. Never being much of a television viewer; I do recall the show being on the air when I was growing up and his signature role–the gravely voice, the squint in his eye, the cigar and the crumpled trench coat.

My husband occasionally makes reference to the character so I looked at him on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=leybGZjiqoE). As a police detective his interview technique was famously disjointed, and his inevitable awkward afterthought ("Ah, there's just one more thing...") that tries the patience of his suspect as he was halfway out the door. He was underestimated, patronized or simply overlooked by nearly everyone he met – especially the culprit. And yet he was quite the salesman making sure he got one last chance to make his close.

As a character, he also gave us something else, in his disheveled way, he proved that his mind was at work. Let's hope that television executives remember that viewers crave for intelligent characters like Columbo and have his legacy live on with more shows of caliber.

Pipe Dreams of the Past

I've never written about a film on my blog before, but today I saw one that was so in-tune to my inner being that I wanted to share it. Like many of Woody Allen’s films, Midnight in Paris relies on an imaginative universe, a main character's phobias becomes it's charm. It may not be one of his best films, but it's easy, graceful, shares a similar soundtrack of flamenco guitar to Vicky Cristina Barcelona and is a pleasure to watch.

The hero, Gil, is played by Owen Wilson, a successful Hollywood screenwriter who considers himself a hack and wants to write novels, preferably in Paris, where he’s on holiday with his fiancée, Inez played by Rachel McAdams. And if he had his druthers, he’d be doing it in Paris in the twenties, alongside Scott and Zelda, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Cole Porter, Picasso, Dali, Cocteau, and all those giants creating enduring works of art.

Gil considers Paris in the twenties as its golden age and finds disappointment at living in the here and now (something I identified with) while Inez scoffs.

The mechanism by which Gil travels back in time to his beloved era is through a vintage automobile at midnight and this goes happily unexplained. Allen breezes past all that, the way he did in his great The Purple Rose of Cairo– another one of my favorites.

The Hemingway character looms so large and his lines are so good, I wish I would have had a pen in hand. And Adrien Brody as Salvador Dali was such brilliant casting and a greater treasure than a thousand clowns– his rhinoceros line was pure Allen schtick.

Marion Cotillard plays a mistress to the star-artists of the twenties, and she fits in so well to the era that she creates her own cinematic presence. But her character Adriana also fantasizes about another time period and for her Paris was in its' heyday during la belle epoque.

Like many of Allen's films it's beautiful to look at; a visual feast with characters looming larger than life and ends with a moral, this time vaguely self-deprecating, with an anti-nostalgia kick: Everyone wishes that he or she lived in another era, even people in that other era.

What would you say to that?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-5RFMiFQpc&feature=fvst 

All About You

Sometimes I'm asked where I get my ideas–quite honestly coming up with ideas has never been an obstacle undoubtedly because my mind is so active and I believe the best writing is personal.

What happens between a writer who gets personal and the reader is like an intimate friendship, where you exchange secrets, share emotions, and feel your friendship growing. It comes from inside, a certain vulnerability that you expose on the page.

I was talking to a student the other day who shared a personal discovery with me. Early in the class, she couldn't think of any ideas for a short story. I suggested she journal daily as a way of forming story ideas. After a few weeks she reviewed her entries and realized that she had gone years without pen-in-hand and not tapped into her emotions. It was the reason she’d not been able to write anything other than school- taught structured pieces that lacked any creativity. While she didn’t unearth any big secret from childhood, or recover any repressed emotion she did have an epiphany the equivalent of a literary breakthrough. And her writing and confidence level improved tremendously.

Personal writing can help unplug wound up tension and will get you started. It’s an avenue of writing that never gets old and never fails to reward. It’s about you and even if you choose not to share, you will produce pieces that are true, unique, and ultimately self-satisfying.     

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdopMqrftXs

Set Yourself Apart

One of the things I disliked during my time in Europe was the lax attitude toward cigarette smoke. What was the point of bathing, washing and styling my hair, putting on clean clothes and lint-brushing my coat to go out, if in a couple of hours I'd return home reeking of cigarettes, from my skin to my clothes. I'd have to air out my clothes on the balcony, jump back into the shower all over again and go to bed with wet hair, to avoid smelling like a stink bomb.

I’m grateful that my parents didn't smoke and that I never picked up the nasty habit, but it’s not hard to see why millions of people did. They thought they were being cool.

I can’t even imagine some of my old favorite black and white movies without smoking, it was such an essential and glamorous element. In many old films, smoking was a romantic mating ritual. Try to imagine Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in a cigarette-free world. Or what about one of the most famous smoking scenes of all time—between Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now, Voyager. Henreid’s gesture of lighting two cigarettes and handing one to Davis is, in my opinion, is rather sexy and inviting. Clark Gable, Joan Crawford, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, and many others actors used cigarettes as an effective prop. Of course a good many of these folks squandered their good looks and health and had hideous deaths from cancer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-KGiwGn1d8

And then came the massive anti-smoking campaigns, but despite them, smoking didn't fade and it made a strong comeback. I welcomed the ban on smoking in planes and restaurants and in many cases, even outdoor venues.

Everywhere I go I see misguided kids lighting up, begging for life threatening diseases. I can't help but wonder if they have ever seen the effects of a smoker afflicted with emphysema or heard how they labor at speaking from all their wheezing and hacking. 

So why do I care? I think youth mistakenly believe they are infallible.  In time, they come to understand that we all have health ills that we meet as we go along, through a pre-disposition and our genes, self-inflicted diseases need not add to the list.

The Rich Innner lives of Women

My book buying methods are unconventional; I tend to browse bookstores without an agenda, don't necessarily pick up what's on a table and pay no heed to titles that make it to a particular list. For me, book purchases are all about being in-the-moment and my mood. A few months ago I read the poignant, evocative, and unforgettable, The Space Between Us (http://amzn.to/jQ9135) by author Thrity Umrigar. Since I tend to gravitate toward books on the inner lives of women, it was the promise of friendship that piqued my interest. Set in modern-day India, it is the story of two compelling and achingly real women: Sera Dubash, an upper-middle-class Parsi housewife whose opulent surroundings hide the shame and disappointment of her abusive marriage, and Bhima, a stoic illiterate hardened by a life of despair and loss, who has worked in the Dubash household for more than twenty years. A powerful and perceptive novel, it demonstrates how the lives of the rich and poor are intrinsically connected yet vastly removed from each other, and how the strong bonds of womanhood are eternally opposed by the divisions of class and culture.

In August 2005 I was at the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, I also go to museums based on mood. Walking through an exhibition, I learned that writer Lisa See would be discussing and signing her new book. Entranced by Ms. See's delivery, I didn't buy or read the book until early 2006. Not only was I transported but I couldn't get it out of my mind long after I read it. The literary masterwork– Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, ( http://amzn.to/koK1QG) is an extraordinary novel set in nineteenth-century China, in a remote Hunan county, a girl named Lily, at the tender age of seven, is paired with a laotong, “old same,” in an emotional match that will last a lifetime. The laotong, Snow Flower, introduces herself by sending Lily a silk fan on which she’s painted a poem in nu shu, a unique language that Chinese women created to communicate in secret, away from the influence of men. As the years pass, Lily and Snow Flower send messages on fans, compose stories on handkerchiefs, reaching out of isolation to share their hopes, dreams, and accomplishments. Together, they endure the agony of foot-binding, and reflect upon their arranged marriages, shared loneliness, and the joys and tragedies of motherhood. The two find solace, developing a bond that keeps their spirits alive. This well written tale is related with clarity, sentiment, and remorse. And it's through remorse that the reader comes to know the true character of Lily, as she reflects upon a misunderstanding she had with her one true love.

To read more on footbinding review this fascinating article:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=8966942

Clothes Make the Man

A weather pattern typical of southern California that results in overcast skies formed by the marine layer is June gloom. This condition left me with a perplexing question; what do I wear? I would change multiple times to adjust to the temperature rising. Now in Las Vegas, I see the same pattern emerging and experience the same dilemma–which brings me to my question–does anyone care about looking nice?

Seems a pity that living in what some call the “entertainment capital” that most folks walk around like they rolled out of bed. Last night, on our wedding anniversary we went to see Jersey Boys (http://www.palazzo.com/jerseyboys.aspx). It seemed that everybody was in flip-flops, shorts, and t-shirts; beach frolicking attire. An odd choice given that it was an evening show where you smack down anywhere between 101-161 dollars for a front Orchestra seat–and that’s the discounted price.

I use to think it was a local blunder being under-dressed, a combination of desert heat and lack of aesthetic stemming from roots in the Wild West. I’ve since changed my mind. Last year in Spain I was amazed at how European style had changed since the days when I lived there. In fact, I wasn’t surprised at the recent violence in Spain since I witnessed little if any contrast between Europe and the U.S.

On the fashion front; Europeans went from mink to sneakers. Back when, they faulted Americans for being loud and for wearing jeans. They can’t blow the fashion police whistle for American poor taste; since they have embraced dingy and become a portrait of sloppiness. I think it’s why Kate Middleton’s wardrobe is such a big deal– putting on real clothes makes headline news.

People enjoy doing what everyone else is doing– it’s effortless and has made grunge popular. Just as the recession has everyone talking about their woes and lack, it becomes a cycle–folks claim poverty, and in turn, think, act and look poor– which brings to mind the quote by Persian poet Hafiz- “The words you speak become the house you live in.”

Mind you, I enjoy comfort, and spend most of my mornings in P.J.’s but once I get dressed, as a woman, I think it’s fun to think of myself as a canvas and all that I can create- a mood of sorts. And I don’t find any redeeming quality in looking poor, I like looking rich. But I am hopelessly old-school, proper, and fashion addicted.