Passion–Food for the Soul

It’s not often you witness passion, but I got a firsthand look when in Los Angeles I visited a group of singers. My husband was classically trained for Broadway and the Opera, and although he seldom hits a note on his piano at home, he sings doing dishes, but when he's among other professionals at his level, he lights up.

I see it so well, because I also feel this beaming transformation. Although I don't engage with other writers in the desert, I have writer friends elsewhere, and when I lead my classes, I feel like I'm taking students of a field trip and I become Joan of Arc. A writer will quiver with excitement as they speak and they know the story behind each piece of great work (and there are wonderful stories) and almost fall over from delirium, since the passion becomes somehow miraculous.

One of the things I encourage my students to do is write about their obsessions, but not until I watched Steven with his group of fellow singers am I reminded how important passion is for a writer. For one thing, you want to share your passion and you desperately want to draw the reader in. Much like a performer; they cannot fully enjoy their art unless they know the audience is enjoying it too, and in order for that to happen, they want you to understand the dynamics of the music. Isn’t this the impulse that makes us want to write—the desire to shout, “You have to hear this story!”

Also, passion is big-hearted. Literally, I think your heart swells when you feel strongly about something, and that great-heartedness is the foundation of great writing. Passion is also specific. I don't enjoy writing because I think it's nice or it gives me a title. I adore it because of the specific language and emotions evoked, a gift of spirit, and as an expression of the way my mind works, and in a way that life can be explained. Passion is an energy, that can't be faked, it doesn't reside within an imposter. It it will beckon you to work continuously, tirelessly, with honesty, simplicity and depth–and that is what makes it special.

n is a gift of the spirit combined

terally, I think your heart swells when you feel strongly about something, and that great-heartedness is the foundation of great writing. Passion is also specific. I don't enjoy writing because I think it's nice or it gives me a title. I adore it because of the specific language and emotions evoked, a gift of spirit, and as an expression of the way my mind works, and in a way that life can be explained. Passion is an energy, that can't be faked, it doesn't reside within an imposter. It it will beckon you to work continuously, tirelessly, with honesty, simplicity and depth–and that is what makes it special.s a gift of the spirit combined

Days on San Antonio Drive

Spring is the best time to be a kid in Las Vegas: school may not be out, but daylight stretching past usual, makes a playground right outside my front door. True, our concrete street doesn't cushion a fall, and narrow streets, plenty of rocks, and gated communities are the backdrop; still it's the meeting place with home plates, chalk marks, and kids ride their bikes preferring it over our neighborhood park.

Yesterday evening while walking to get my mail, my soon to be five year-old neighbor Kayla came running over. She still comes to greet me, marvels at my lipstick and jewelry and asks for the key so she can open the mail box, to do so she stands on her tippy-toes.

Visually it's different from my street when I grew up with splendid shade trees, fragrant blossoms, big lawns with rhythmic sprinklers, and the scents that assaulted our noses were cooking odors from open kitchen windows or grilled meats wafting from backyards.

All sorts of games took place on the pavement: Boys hurled pink Spauldings over nets that hung over their garages for basketball, and girls played tether ball, jumped rope, hopscotch, or roller skated and everyone cast yo-yos, rode Schwinns, skateboarded and played kick-the- can.

I don't see many differences between the play of children then and now, except that now adults believing they are enlightening share too much and limit their children's golden age of innocence. I overheard Osama bin Laden name called mentioned.  I can't imagine why an adult would speak about the war on terrorism with a child. I can only hope that most kids think of a no-fly zone as a place where flies can't gather and leave it at that.

My child-sized play seemed to be far from the world events that had gripped our country. I was untouched by the Johnson years–like most of my playmates. Despite some clues, I felt safe on my turf, believing that my world was a million miles from civil rights, and the impending war, a million miles from danger.

As I sped to the can, I pretended I was Jane in the jungle, free and fearless, flying through the air on a ropy vine. With Tarzan’s imagined yell trumpeting in my ears, I turned my hands into fists and pumped my arms as hard as I could.

But as I neared my goal, Alan Kaufmann, came flying in from another direction. Like a fighter plane, the ones that explode in midair combat, Alan and I smashed into each other and fell backwards to the merciless pavement. As we lay groaning, our siblings sprung and sped to our splayed bodies.

I tried to hold back tears as my brother asked me if I was alright. “Get up,” he said, after assuring there were no broken bones. I knew what my mother would say, “that's what you get for playing rough.” Afterwards, I wore my Mercurochromed-bruises proudly, unlike some of the other scars I collected later that year on San Antonio Drive.

Life is all about chances

I get irked when a former student sends me an email asking a loaded question and expects a fast answer when it requires hours of instruction in return. Creative writing and blogging require time and effort. I understand they have allowed time to lapse to take action, and their incentive has died, but looking for a short-cut indicates how much they value the subject matter and what they’ve been taught.

A pattern I have witnessed is many students do not fulfill commitments made to themselves. They invest in education (writing classes, books, seminars, etc) and then don’t use the tools they’ve been given, or they put it off and implement what they learned in the future when the material is stale, or they make an attempt get discouraged by the labor involved and give up prematurely. Rare is the student who applies what they’ve learned and puts it into practice.

Here’s a caveat to how creativity works– you get an idea and the unknown tempts you but you need to act quickly otherwise the mind sets in a fear of failure that will creep in, scare you, and immobilize you. But if you don’t play the game you’ll miss all the shots. 

In your endeavors, act quickly, trust yourself because there will be someone with you, to celebrate your success and stand by your failures– and that someone is you!

April showers, April flowers

Today's post not only honors family members long gone, such as my uncle Ruben who would have celebrated a birthday today, but also celebrates those hale and hearty–specifically my mother, his sister and only remaining member of his immediate family.

My uncle passed away last July. I gave and wrote a bi-lingual eulogy, and considered it a honor. Most of all, I did it to praise his dignity, intellect, and accomplishments and thereby give him something in return.

His corporeal absence doesn’t stop me from considering the sorts of gifts I’d like to bestow on him. For nostalgia’s sake, there would be the aftershave, and, uncle Ruben gleefully accepted my perennial gift as if it was the cleverest choice on earth.

There were many more gifts I could think of that would have pleased him, but his library was full of books and although we did have a common quest for esoteric material, my uncle was always rather hard to shop for. He didn't just like anything. It’s wasn't just disdain for all things pedestrian; a lot of popular gift items got lost on him. He went from suits to no longer wearing anything more elaborate than jeans and button down shirts. Not even to his Masonic meetings. And this ruled out fancy ties.

Last year, on what we perceived might be his last birthday, after we ate the mango cake that I had brought along, my uncle, reached over to me, sated, impressed, touched, and, I can only hope, adequately loved said, “You’re a good niece, and a nice girl,” after draping a leaden arm over my shoulder.

With remains of my cake before me, I was glad to have something to look at because I couldn't look at him. It made me feel too influential and I hadn't done anything to warrant his statement but to pay him an occasional visit. I was both embarrassed and touched by his remark and I didn't know what to answer and to keep myself from choking up, “I'm glad you liked your cake, because your hard to shop for” I returned.

We both smiled.

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb

Today is my father's birthday and if he were alive to celebrate, we’d be figuring out how to place colorful candles atop his cake, a cake he wouldn't eat. But he died in 1987, freed from his body on July 4^th, a few months after his 62^st birthday.

I’m certain Dad would not have chosen to succumb to a debilitating massive stroke at 51, but I do know he never wanted to be “old.” And something about him was youthful, in touch with his inner child. His traits comprised of high energy, fiery, bold, and he was full of surprises and excitement.

We started out with a love affair that grew into a ouchy relationship by the time I was a teen. He loved me, and I felt it; but in my mind, I never measured up. I always thought I wasn’t practical enough, didn't excel in math as he expected, wasn't as proficient in languages as he was, didn't play the piano with finesse and basically was not good enough to please him.

I often wonder how my father would critique his only daughter today–would be proud of me or not? Would he see my persistence as a reflection of his persistence. For his part, Dad was successful and he earned it, a born leader, confident and competitive he always had a goal, and the drive and determination to see it through. He never worked for anyone but himself, took risks and wanted to win to prove something to the world, with a sense of fair play- he wasn't interested in envy, deceit or cheating. No time spent frustrated, moping, just go, go, go.

Today I realize I know very little about what he was thinking or feeling, I never asked him what was in his head before he got sick because he was always so busy. Maybe he intuited his time was short and sickness would be long so he tried to do as much as he could.

Dad did not live long enough to see me become a writer or my brother a civil engineer.

Sometimes I wonder if he reincarnated, where and who he is? Or if he entered the Gates of Heaven.

As he surely reads my words from his special balcony seat, I can almost hear him asking, “What's happening with your writing?”

I have conversations in my head with him. “Listen, Dad,” I say. “I have to apologize. I think I was too hard on you in my book.”

“You think?” he repeats. The tone sharp, but he would smile. His gray eyes twinkle confirming that he is kidding.

“Writers embellish,” he says. He tosses a hand upward, as if to fling my apology away. “That’s what I tell the angles here.”

He had to have conflict, drama. And of course, he gives the orders.

“What kind of author would my daughter be, if the book didn't have sadness to contrast joy and it would be blah, with no fights.”

“Whew, I’m glad to hear that,” I add. “I’ve been worried about your reaction. By the way, you look wonderful as always,” I say.

I'm telling the truth. In all the 62 years of his life, I doubt if he had a less than polished minute. Impeccably groomed, tall and slender, even when he lay in the hospital, up to a few days before he drew his last breath, he remained one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.

I like to imagine that wherever he is, all the good deeds and caring for others that he demonstrated gives him a pay-back in either a healthy life or a sunny existence. And that he holds onto his good looks and the child in him.

Happy Birthday Daddy!

I'm expensive but worth it

Pull up a chair; I'm here for you. Don't be shy because you find yourself turning to me for a writing consultation. Many other souls–lost, confused, or indecisive– have made the very same pilgrimage. But before you submit your writing, be forewarned there’s a hitch in my mode of problem solving. 


First off, while I have had my share of writing experiences, rejections, let downs, highs, and acknowledgments, I know my strengths. If you stick to fiction, short stories, plays, screenplays, memoirs, ghost writing, social media writing, letters, spirituality book edits, non-fiction, business writing, sales letters, press releases, media alerts, proposals, grant writing, it'll be smooth sailing.

But if instead, you looking for me to skim your piece of writing and eye-ball it, and give a one or two blurb or superficial comment on what I thought–sorry but I do not work that way. I can't do anything half way, it offends my sensibilities and the love of what I do. I'd suggest you do a Google search to temporarily bandage your writing woe instead. (I could go on, but am trying to limit this to 350 words.)

Now, as to the forewarning I hinted at: If you turn to me for a writing consultation, analysis, critique, developmental edit, or writing assignment, do not expect that my work comes gratis. Who works for free? Time is money and my time is valuable. I teach writing and I'm not cheap. While you may think your writing issue will be resolved with me giving you a few minutes of my time, think again.

I, on the other hand, am a perfectionist and take my fifteen years of paid experience seriously. And it will not end there. My job is thorough and I may have to press on, refuse to dislodge even when you plead, "That's fine, that's all I needed to know." Well, maybe that's fine for you, but I have to get to the root of the problem and fix it. And I will, to make sure your work like mine, shines.

Fear is only as deep as the mind allows~

Japanese proverb.

I’ve been posting on this blog more often. But most bloggers digress. I teach blogging (http://www.click-here-now.to/getblogmoney/) and tutor privately having just finished a series of sessions with a student blogger, and counseled him, “The hardest part is to fulfill your self-promises. Now do it!”

I realize that for many, that a blog before created, spends months of existing only in an imagination.

Suddenly, one day, without warning, a shift. Perhaps even, a life altering discovery. A day to break a pattern.

In my case, I stepped out of my cozy but still uncomfortable denial just long enough to ask myself exactly how many more days of my life did I plan to fritter away running my eternal reasons why not story to myself.     

Foot poised, but, always finding an excuse to never take the step forward into the possibilities which await me. Sound familiar?

Confronted with the fact that I could continue, change nothing, rest upon my excuse filled with all the reasons why not story and knew that I would watch the rest of my life stay exactly the same, one day ticking into the next, and the next.

A slow death by procrastination.

A funny thing happens when you get honest with yourself. You are confronted with the face of self sabotage masking as writer’s block and procrastination, and in it is nothing but plain fear. Nothing special. Just fear of being known, seen, heard, visible, vulnerable, bared, authentic and accountable.

As a writer, if you look at fear in the face for what it is, it evaporates. And you may find all the above-mentioned list of attributes unconsciously appealing.

My own take on it is that we move forward when we are ready and in perfect timing. Whatever the project. Whatever the dream. I, also plead guilty to have taken my sweet time to get here.

So, what are you waiting for? As for me, the blogging continues...

The 9 Greek Muses

When I'm not writing, I'm usually in a reading mode, but since I really don't like nor can I sit for extended periods of time, I augment my creative juices by dancing, baking from scratch or changing the color of my nails, on a daily basis. I may also on a whim make alterations on my clothes such as running out and buying vintage glass buttons at Joann's and replacing them in all of my sweaters. I've also been known to repaint a room in my home again or refinish a piece of furniture. 

Creativity has been a dominant force in my life. Before I started school, make-believe, dress-up and staging shows such as putting on a mock wedding with my father was my playtime. Later, it was painting and puzzles. As an adolescent bursting with angst, I wrote poetry and etched charcoals. By the time I was a teen, it was dance and I would change the furniture around in my parents home every few weeks. Normally I would do this when alone and surprise my family when they got home. My mother being a creative woman and possessing more talents than I, sanctioned my need for change with a smile. My father, somewhat indifferent would not be pleased that his chair was not in easy reach to the phone. My brother who was a year older than me, seemed to bark at everything I did, demanded to know why the sofa was not in front of the television set.

I love painting and creating unique things based on my love of color, design, interiors and mundane objects. This urge to express myself gives me a sense of arriving at the end of my artistic process with a work that engenders a great vibe or visual experience, so much so that the method, materials, or explanation of how I got there seem unimportant. One reason that I can't pin point it (nor do I want to) is this reckless creative drive is inspired by everything around me; my love of the Creator, nature, books, travel, different cultures, interior magazines, fashion design, and especially color!

What does this all mean? It means when you're brewing about to write something and you don't know what it is, you need to break away from monotony. I urge my students when they get stuck in their writing to dodge their computers, it's not likely to lead to much debauchery. By singing a song or taking a walk, they can get back to their feeling natures. By exploring new and different, worries drop which allows to start trusting the ideas that come to them. Creativity is not something that already exists, we need to find out how to bring it into being... and that requires a child's spirit, and at the same time allowing yourself to be a playmate with God.

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?”

–Benjamin Franklin

Fourteen Years Old

Today marks the second anniversary of my teaching in Las Vegas. If I were to convert that into dog years, I’d be a teen-ager. So, what have I observed in these last two years?

1. Students show up. This seems basic, but it doesn’t always happen. There is nothing more discouraging than expecting to see fourteen smiling faces and instead see four puzzled ones. My worst experience was the summer before last when only one woman showed up. She was pleasant, and I didn’t want to cancel the Blogging class as she had gone to the effort of attending. We should have gone out for drinks. This is not something CSN encourages, however.

2.Students submit writing. This also seems basic, but it is often the case, especially in a Creative Writing class, where people are too nervous about the final assignment. I would start the class by saying, “You choose the subject and I will give you the tools you need to write it.” But sometimes they panic and to take the edge off I’ve compared it to surgery, “The week before their will be a pre-operative assessment. When in the Operating Room (OR) you will go under the knife, all eyes will be on you but you will survive.”

3. Students are willing to revise. I always get a sinking feeling when someone hands out a story to be critiqued and says, “This is my first and final draft.” The fact is, you could always find ways to improve it. There is always something to say and it’s not always right, but a lot of the times it is. Several of my students this term have done a masterful job of revising, and have brought their stories up to a publishable level, which brings me to the next point…

4. The students are serious about their craft. Yes, this is continuing education and no one gets grades and no one, probably, is going to get thrown out of class. And yet, especially in the classes I taught this semester, I was struck by how seriously the students approached their writing. This is not a hobby. This is something heartfelt and beautiful.

5. The students like each other. It is very hard to teach a class in which students feel contempt for one another or just don’t care about each other. One of my more discouraging moments came once in a class when a man read an absolutely harrowing story about physical abuse and another man sitting behind him, for seven straight weeks, said to him, “And what’s your name?” Jarred, what felt like a walnut was lodged in my throat, I needed several minutes to compose myself and resume to speak. The best case scenario is what I saw last week as I approached my room, students forming friendships, talking, discussing and laughing, it made my heart sing. I hope that they will form a bond and continue after the class is over, and form writing groups. Or that they will re-enroll.

6. The students like me. Well, I won’t go into that at length, except to say I have faced down my share of steely looks in the past, and it is much nicer to see a smile. And I enjoy when students participate and tell me what’s on their minds. More importantly through their stories they have trusted me enough to share very personal information–and that’s an honor.

It’s been a great ride and I can’t wait to see where it goes.

Who, What, Wear

I've been browsing through fashion magazines looking at pictures  and on the Internet for images of spring 2011 trends. One designer's creations piqued my interest, Yōji Yamamoto, an internationally known Japanese fashion designer based in Tokyo and Paris. He became influential after making his Paris début in 1981. His commercially successful main lines, are especially popular in Tokyo.    

Yamamoto is known for an avant-garde spirit in his clothing, far removed from current trends. I admire how different and forward his lines are. His signature silhouettes are a feature in drapery in varying textures. He swathes and wraps the body in non-traditional ways.

This dress is one from his spring 2011 collection. 

This dress doesn’t scream 'fashionista,' but it's a warm weather dress you can’t go wrong with. It’s strapless fitted bodice form is classic, and the peplum gives it a flirty fun retro 1940's edge. I would say because of its volume, it's suited for someone tall, and doesn't need jewelry. It would look well combined with a neutral wedge espadrille or wedge anklet, and Jackie O sunglasses. 

It can be worn on many occasions; from lunch, on a date, to the horse races with a big straw hat or even on a stroll, and its stripes give it a daytime flavor of fun and play.

Land, Sea, Sand and Sky

“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give”

–Sir Winston Churchill

This morning in my dream I saw writer Junot Diaz (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junot_D%C3%ADaz). I was in my apartment in New York trying on a new wool coat with satin lining that had been given to me as a gift, like a dervish dancer I twirled from delight, he then walked into my kitchen.

Mr. Diaz is a creative writing professor at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). The irony is that I don't read Mr. Diaz's books but I am familiar with his short stories through the New Yorker.

As a native of the Dominican Republic, his roots bring to mind my time in New York. I met Maria, originally from the Dominican Republic. She had fled an abusive husband and was revising her life. As a warm and congenial middle-aged woman she called me “Leendah” in a sing-song. She asked me to tutor her for a citizenship exam. Honored that she acknowledged me, it brightened my time in the cold concrete city. We covered English, social studies and American history. Since I was doing this without remuneration, it brought a smile back to my face. She wasn't the best of students, but we trudged on; most of the time she made me laugh, it was like teaching my mother also a native Spanish speaker, all over again. She would cackle at her mistakes just the way my mother does, so much in fact that it made my stomach ache from laughter. I went with her to take the exam the first time and she failed, but I wouldn't allow her to give up. The second time I didn't go with her due to work commitments, but she passed and we celebrated the victory.

Now back to the dream. Symbolically the kitchen can link to new appetites and may be linked to new plans and ideas. Also a new coat is a good omen. When I awoke it got me thinking about an exciting break from my routine.

As a creative writing teacher, normally I start the semester with a discussion of opening paragraphs, which seems a sensible place. And I don't get into revisions, until week 8. The last class is always about publishing and I know people want me to finish nattering on about revision so we can get to the good stuff. So I’m usually rushing through revision myself.

Revision in writing just as in life can be embraced. Specifically I want to move past the idea of revision as being “fixing errors.” I want a more holistic approach to revision. I want students to view it not as a necessary evil but as an opportunity to explore their stories and bring out deeper meanings that may have been dormant in early drafts.  Of course, the only problem is that it’s hard to teach. I can tell you what a good opening paragraph looks like, but a good revision is much harder to quantify.
So here are a few tips:

1. Have a title that works. Almost always, if the title’s good, the story’s good. The reason is that an author with a title knows what the story’s about.

2. Retype the story. From the beginning. Don’t try to squeeze every little correction into the draft. Take a bold approach and be open to start again from scratch.

3. Cut out a quarter of the words. You don’t need them. Trust me.

After you've done all that, have a good snooze, maybe we'll see each other in dreamland.

Whimsical kid zone

Art Linkletter (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0512939/) was adept at putting small children at ease, which he did regularly on the concluding segment of his show, “House Party” a amusing question-and-answer session that provided the material for his best-selling book “Kids Say the Darndest Things!”

He had a gift for probing into children's minds and they spoke with unabashed honesty. I got the impression that his sincerity made children feel good about themselves.

Linkletter passed away last year. What many people don't know is that he was abandoned as a baby and adopted by a middle age couple whose children had died. I think his warmth and his history gave reason as to why children were important to him.

A few days ago my sister-in-law sent me: Why do we love children? I took out excerpts (source unknown) since it made me think of Linkletter who liked kids with spunk. 

NUDITY

I was driving with my three young children one warm summer evening when a woman in the convertible ahead of us stood up and waved. She was stark naked! As I was reeling from the shock, I heard my 5-year-old shout from the back seat, “Mom, that lady isn't wearing a seat belt!”

A little boy got lost at the YMCA and found himself in the women's locker room. When he was spotted, the room burst into shrieks, with ladies grabbing towels and running for cover. The little boy watched in amazement and then asked, “What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a little boy before?”
KETCHUP
A woman was trying hard to get the ketchup out of the jar. During her struggle the phone rang so she asked her 4-year-old daughter to answer the phone. “Mommy can't come to the phone to talk to you right now. She's hitting the bottle.”
POLICE
While taking a routine vandalism report at an elementary school, I was interrupted by a little girl about 6 years old. Looking up and down at my uniform, she asked, “Are you a cop?”

“ Yes,” I answered and continued writing the report. “My mother said if I ever needed help I should ask the police. Is that right?” “Yes, that's right,” I told her. “Well, then,” she said as she extended her foot toward me, “would you please tie my shoe?”

It was the end of the day when I parked my police van in front of the station. As I gathered my equipment, my K-9 partner, Jake, was barking, and I saw a little boy staring in at me. “Is that a dog you got back there? he asked.
“It sure is,” I replied.
Puzzled, the boy looked at me and then towards the back of the van. Finally he said, “What'd he do?”

DRESS-UP A little girl was watching her parents dress for a party. When she saw her dad donning his tuxedo, she warned, “Daddy, you shouldn't wear that suit.”
“And why not, darling?”
“You know that it always gives you a headache the next morning.”

ELDERLY
While working for an organization that delivers lunches to elderly shut-ins, I used to take my 4-year-old daughter on my afternoon rounds. She was unfailingly intrigued by the various appliances of old age, particularly the canes, walkers and wheelchairs. One day I found her staring at a pair of false teeth soaking in a glass. As I braced myself for the inevitable barrage of questions, she merely turned and whispered, “The tooth fairy will never believe this!”

Ready for my close-up

              

               

Every February Turner Classic Movie has its annual 31 DAYS OF OSCAR (http://www.tcm.com/schedule/month/). Pure heaven for movie lovers, what better way to spend the rest of winter than watching classic movies from Hollywood's heydey. 

I can't wait for this Saturday, they'll be showing a favorite, It Happened One Night. A screwball comedy of the 1930's directed by Frank Capra, written by Robert Riskin with brilliant dialogue and impeccable timing. The touch of Frank Capra can be seen everywhere; he was a master at using the familiar - eating, verbal slang, snoring, washing, dressing - to produce cinematic magic.

The intelligent dialogue sparks where Claudette Colbert and Glark Gable have a donut dunking lesson. Another wonderful vignette is where Colbert and Gable have a hitchhiking scene. When none of Gable's showy hitchhiking thumb signals is successful, he laughs at Colbert's offer to stop a car. She steps forward to prove her own technique and says, “I have a system all my own.”

One of the most pleasurable aspects of watching these films is lord and host Robert Osborne. As a film historian he gives a behind the scenes look that went into the production. 

On Valentine's day I was out for the evening but returned to catch Casablanca. He called it the best “accidental masterpiece” Hollywood ever created. Apparently there was no finished script for the film when shooting began, the story kept changing, pages were given to the actors just prior to the cameras rolling, and some scenes were improvised on the spot. The stars were miserable—none of them wanted to be in it because of the chaos and disorganization. And yet, against all odds, the ingredients added up to one of the greatest screen classics ever made. Has there ever been a more natural beauty than Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa? And what movie has more memorable quotes? “Here’s looking at you, kid.” “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” “We’ll always have Paris.”

This Saturday I'll be watching and feel like Cinderella in my living room. I'll put on a long, bias-cut pale pink dress that flaunts a soft grey and white lily print. To it, I'll add, a thin black choker, and slip on high heels like a drama queen watching —and visiting another era. My consolation prize for not seeing them at the red carpet event– a dozen films down, six to go!

Ix Chel

In early June 2004 while in Cancun, we left the beach rental one morning and headed to the pool. Nearby was a well-dressed woman setting up her fathers' wares on a small table. She proudly said he was an artist; a former silversmith, and was currently designing jewelry, one-of-a-kind pieces. What caught my eye was a necklace in a deep purple, a color I swoon over. Opaque and set in a dramatically different design, elongated, it seemed like sharp teeth, or an Indian motif, and got me thinking of a symbol of an ancient Mayan god. I held the weighty piece in my hand for a moment before gently placing it down.

My husband saw how fascinated I was by the necklace and later bought it without my knowledge. I have since called it, my Mayan Goddess necklace.  

As a side trip we went to Isla Mujeres, (http://wikitravel.org/en/Isla_Mujeres) a small island devoted to the ancient fertility goddess, Ix Chel. Paintings of her are displayed with the glyph of a moon on her heart and a moon of deep purple behind her. She's portrayed as a woman who, when faced with adversity, took charge of her own life and turned it around.

Later, based on my curiosity and the questions and compliments I would receive, I researched to find out about the gem.

A mineralogist, Dr. Ken-Ichi Sugi, discovered sugilite, in 1944 on the Iwagi Islet in Japan (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japan).  Because of the lithium and magnesium within the deposits, it can give the gem interesting black spots on their surface. Sugilite is also known under the trade names of "Royal Lavulite" and "Royal Azel".

A rare and breathtakingly modern discovery, sugilite beads are said to have mystical properties. They are quite expensive, but considering how rare and mysterious they are, they are a bargain for something so exclusive.

Later that summer while staying at the Hyatt Regency in San Diego, (http://www.missionbay.hyatt.com/hyatt/hotels/index.jsp) we checked out and I left my Mayan Goddess necklace behind. I called the Hotel and remembered Ix Chel's saving grace. The following day the Hotel Manager reported that the cleaning woman had found it under a chair. They mailed it back at their expense. In a gesture of appreciation for the integrity and generosity they demonstrated, I reciprocated with a box of chocolates.

Isis Unveiled

As the recent upheaval was occurring in Egypt, the first thing that ran through my mind were my own desires; every time I've wanted to visit the country, some catastrophe has taken place. First there was the Gulf War, then there was the Second Intifada and although those incidents didn't take place in Egypt, as a American I could be in danger. And most recently, the uprising. Despite having a love of the Egyptian ancient civilization, and yearning to see the ancient sites, their remarkable collection of tombs and excavations, I believe Egyptians must be concerned with the enjoyment of life—so much that they desired their existence to be continued in the afterlife, and equipped their tombs with all the trappings of life pleasures and pastimes. 

In present times, this view may have faded. I know for the Egyptian friend I have, it has.

Watching Charlie Rose every night while discussions take place between economists, politicians and scholars, I wanted to know why Egyptians are so unhappy.

I found out that Egyptians have basically no more freedom than Tunisians. Egypt is ranked 138 out of 167 countries on The Economist's Democracy index, a widely accepted measure of political freedom. That ranking puts Egypt just seven spots ahead of Tunisia. With an autocratic government, high levels of corruption, and grinding poverty, Egyptians are significantly worse off than their cousins to the west.

But like their Tunisian counterparts, Egyptian protesters have pointed to a specific incident as inspiration for the unrest. Many have cited the beating last June that resulted in a death, of Khalid Said, allegedly at the hands of police, for their rage. But it's also clear that the issues are larger.

The Muslim Brotherhood, says it plans to achieve a democratic Islamic state by peaceful means, as the only truly organized bloc in Egypt they believe they could win up to 30 percent of votes in a free election. This could mean hostility for Israel, and perilous indeed, surrounded by practitioners of hybrid warfare.

But life in Egypt is still far from normal almost a week after the popular revolt focused on Cairo's Tahrir (Liberation) Square, with tanks on the streets, banks closed, workers on strike and schools shut.

Egyptian pro-democracy leaders plan a "victory march" in Cairo tomorrow to celebrate the overthrow of Hosni Mubarak's 30-year rule last week, and perhaps remind the military of the power of the street.

In an effort to make sense of it all, I consulted with the stars.

Tomorrow is a Full Moon. Venus will square Saturn at 16º Capricorn/Libra; Mars approaching conjunction to Neptune at 26-28 Aquarius and opposing a Full Moon.  What this indicates is that these positions are likely to cause a great deal of social turmoil and havoc. People will be up and at arms about economic conditions. This will be the culmination of all of the social upheavals combined.

Full Moons always exacerbate the collective solar plexus and thus the feelings of personal (in)security. Mars, Moon, and Neptune are the rulers of the astral plane and all will be very powerfully stimulated now with issues of power and control, blame and guilt, ethics and honor. For those who are conscious of their lower gut tendencies such as fear, anger, forms of manipulation, and conflict, this is a time to stay vigilant and work from your own source of loving detachment.

For those who are not in Egypt, use the power of the mind to visualize peace for the region and pray. Meditate and observe in your own life where your own buttons will be pushed and respond not from a place of instinct, or revenge, but from a place of conscious choice.

A kiss is still a kiss

Today being Valentine's Day makes me think of all the hype that has gone into this day–the display of diamonds, retailers selling women's clothing in shades of red, restaurants having a set and exorbitant priced menu, and expensive roses –these “things” make the day contrived. The “things” that makes it special is simplicity. The joy of being a child and exchanging valentines; receiving an I love you card with no name, or expressing your emotions through a simple- be mine, unsigned. As a young adult making a hand-made valentine with lace and ribbons and composing a poem. And when your older, kissing your beloved like you mean it, as if your life depended on it–a case of do or die.

Italy is a romantic place. It's no wonder that Verona is where Shakespeare wrote Romeo & Juliet. I have a long list of favorite films but if I had to choose one, it too is Italian, one in which there are flashbacks of the most wonderful kisses on the silver screen.

Cinema Paradiso is a story where a boy develops a friendship with the fatherly projectionist, Alfredo, who takes a shine to the child and often lets him watch movies in the projection booth. In the several scenes of the movies being shown, there is frequent booing from the audience, during the "censored" sections. The films suddenly jump, missing a critical kiss or embrace. The local priest has ordered that these sections be cut out. It also has a lovely soundtrack. Enjoy the day with your cherished one and enjoy the view:
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Snow White lives on...

One of my favorite parts of being a fiction teacher comes in the beginning of the first class, when every student goes around and talks about what drew him or her into writing. I’m always struck by how early the desire to be a writer starts. I love children of all ages but for the past several years as a Clark County READS volunteer, I have requested to work with children in the third grade, age 8, when children begin to be interested in things and people outside of their home. They become bold and are willing to try something new. They can also become dramatic and lose themselves playing a character.

Almost everyone remembers feeling different from other kids, feeling as though they saw the world in a different way from everyone else, and I’m no exception.

I was a bright, aware, zany, sometimes quiet or talkative, very sensitive, dreamy child, always imagining myself somewhere else. It didn’t help that the kids in school called me Snow White. Although I lived in the suburbs, I often imagined that a King and Queen would burst into my classroom and tell me that they were taking me back to the Kingdom, where it would be announced that I was their secret long-lost but never forgotten child. And although I was close to my parents, more so my father, I would have to choose whom to live with; royals or commoners (I might have been read too many fairy tales.) Although I’m an Angelino, I often imagined myself in New York, in the middle of Eloise at the Plaza. In this rendition, my brothers nor my parents would be around. My Godmother would be the Nanny, my cat would be Weenie, and I had the freedom to roam in search of adventure.

My books were my treasures. I read constantly. Often I walked to the library, reading a book as I went, tripping over curbs. At one point I decided to read the entire fiction section at the Public Library, but I didn’t get too far with that. All I succeeded in doing was accumulating a very long list.

There was not a lot happening in the suburban Los Angeles of my childhood, or so it appeared to me then. Later, of course, I realized that there were whole veins of drama to mine. But the great excitement in my life came when my Uncle and Aunt invited me to visit them in San Francisco. They were Yoga devotees and I was taken to an Ashram. It was summer and it was a magical experience. There was adventure everywhere. Once back at their home, there were astrologers in their living room and Yogis chanting while incense burned and bodies contorted in various positions. Tarot cards placed before me predicting my fortune. Although I am an honest person, I’ve always had a fondness for scoundrels–they tell such great stories.

No two ways about it

In my classes I was recently asked two questions, “When did you know you were a writer?” And, “Is that all you do, write?” They are identity questions, self-worth questions, personal freedom and fulfillment questions, a nascent creative soul’s penetrating questions. And loaded into the questions seem to be an underlining ground-zero that tethers the asker to a primary sense of identity — something presumably more real, more acceptable, more common, much more stable. To be a loan officer, you apply for the job and show up every day for work; to be a writer, you have to know – via, perhaps, some mystical experience – that you’re a writer.

You are a writer when you are writing. I know it sounds simplistic, yet it is true. Do not roll your eyes, reader, as if I’ve heard that one before. As we evolve in our work lives, piecing together various kinds of work to earn money, step-by-tiny-step nudging out the non-writing stuff and making the writing central (or at least that which is writing-related), I find it to be even more starkly true: I am not a writer when I am editing or critiquing someone else’s work, or composing social media articles. I am not a writer when I am grazing on wine and cheese at a fashionable literary event. I am not a writer when I am teaching, i.e. talking about craft and helping others with theirs. I am not a writer when I am tweeting other writers or keeping up on my self-promotion, or reading literary blogs. I am not a writer when I am on a search for a new book to read or when I am drinking coffee in Starbucks leafing the New York Times.

I know I am a writer when I am writing. When I am working with words, when I am making ideas and characters come to life with language. When I am laying out the pages on the desk and taking my blue sharpie to chunks of text that I know don’t work in the story, when I am lose myself and forget basics like the hour, eating, brushing my hair or teeth, while typing a paragraph where something terrible, or euphoric, or quietly illuminating is happening. This may sound naïve, but I feel strongly that I must be honest ; I must be writing while I am talking about writing. Otherwise, I feel like a fraud. Even if it’s just an hour of work on novel number two in the morning because that’s all there’s time for, or even if I’ve been working on the same damn narrative arc problem in a short story for months, I know that I cannot stand in front of either my own mirror or even in front of you, dear asker of questions, and exhort you to “show, don’t tell” or “up the emotional stakes” or instruct you to “live your passion” if I am not myself at the writing desk, messing with words, living in the trenches and heights of which I speak.

That is how it feels to be a writer; nothing more, nothing less. It’s a full-time job, anything else distracts from it. I’ve had my share of work that has taken me away from writing, and it may not be all I do, but it’s my priority in life, and the secret to being a writer is to not stop writing and to show up for work.

All the Beautiful and New

The last week cats have been surfacing in my life which took me into a tailspin about having one of my own. My kitty was given to me when I was nine years old. I liked cats, but the little creature that I quickly named Tiny Mimi, being eight weeks old and Siamese, had all the remarkable traits of that breed, inspiring affection and admiration at once. Within a few days, she quickly developed thoroughly into an engaging personality in our household. She was my ideal companion. I bought her a collar with a bell and blue gems to match her piercing blue eyes. I doted on her; drew pictures of her, groomed her, coddled her, played with her, placed in her my Schwinn bicycle basket for rides, fed her my favorite (tuna-fish and ice cream), slept with her, photographed her beauty; laughed at her mischief, and spoke softly to her when I wanted her love and attention. Being a clever Gemini kitty, she spoke back. And I being her devoted mother, listened to all of her meows. 

Photographs of her are inserted in my mothers' photo albums, perhaps I'll post them sometime. Today I discovered Hollywood film stars also had a fondness for Siamese. I completely understand. How could they not? Siamese are as loving as dogs, are intelligent, sociable, quick, adaptable, athletic, and they gravitate toward people, not on occasion as other cats do, this fine fabulous feline pedigree does because they are truly the royals of the cat kingdom. 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aVbJhg23Ao