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:
vi1665925401

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

Change Gives Us Branches

I’m a real life drama queen, must be my Moon in Leo. My life thus far has been anything but boring. Unexpected. Surprising. Unconventional. Avant-garde. Alternate. Mysterious. Shocking. Turbulent.

I’ve experienced so many bizarre things, spectacular happenings, well, let’s just say that I could keep you entertained for quite a while with my true life stories and you would be excused for thinking that I was making them up.

This is no mean feat for somebody with a start to life as ordinary and conservative as my own. It’s not as if I was born the child of revolutionaries or something. I could have been Beaver Cleaver’s sister.

My paternal grandmother was a bit of a character, a redhead, and led an unconventional life and a passionate one. Scandalous for her day. Perhaps there is a genetic component.

But some people seem to have such straight forward lives, don’t they? Consistent and secure and stable. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Predictable. Constant. One long term boyfriend or girlfriend becomes a life long husband or wife. One or two careers. One address for decades. A safe formula put in place early on and set to repeat yearly like clockwork for the rest of their lives.

That’s what life is like for some folks.
And then there are people like the mistress of the blog.

It seems to me that I’ve been given the perfect writer’s life. A field of rich life experiences and lessons from an early age upon which to draw. A cast of real life characters to excite Dickens. Real life plots, twists and situations reminiscent of a psychological thriller. But most valuable of all for the writer, a heart that shattered into a thousand pieces long ago.

Change, especially drastic change is very uncomfortable for many people, but change can be invigorating and a blessing.

Several times in my life I have completely reinvented myself. I’m not talking about a new hairstyle or makeover. Nor am I implying a modification, a slight reinvention, I mean a complete overhaul. Everything all at once. New job, new career on several occasions, new home, new start, new name. Bang. Overnight. Whole new life.

In each instance, the universe has booted me onto the next path and after the crescendo or should I say explosion, the pieces have fallen in a new pattern bringing a fresh start with many things to discover and nothing of the past left to take along except memories unable to be erased.

The image which comes to mind would be that of tarot’s The Tower card, the tower struck by a bolt of lightning, governed by fiery Mars, where life forces tumultuous upheaval, often with considerable loss and discomfort to clear out what no longer serves in order for change to occur.

This life has been a fascinating excursion thus far and it doesn’t look like it will settle any time soon. I’m looking forward to the ride.

So Happy Together

Sometimes now she'll take me out of the closet and look at me for a minute, I'm high-quality, a sheath silhouette, embellished with ruching to one side and made of burgundy taffeta. She drove all over town searching for a vintage brooch to highlight my simplicity, yet nowadays I never even make it off the hanger! I'm not exactly meant for picnics or being rowed about in a boat or a stroll through the park, am I? I mean, I'm never going to have a puppy in my lap, that's for sure. I understand, I do, but it gets a bit lonely, and when you've only been worn twice, you don't have a lot to fall back on.

From time to time unexpected things happen at parties– there was the time that the husband decided he didn't want to wear a sports-coat, for one. (I always wondered what the other suits thought about that, but of course we hardly talk to them, even when we share a closet. They're so uncommunicative). She wasn't going to let that happen, she wanted to dress-up and he needed to go along.

They went to Howard and Ellen's Holiday party, when Ellen brought out that flaming dessert and the dangling ball fringe on her party apron went right up, just whoosh! Howard had to squirt her with the soda siphon. Luckily her dress was okay, it was a bright green polished cotton. I don't think cottons make very good party dresses, but maybe that's why Ellen went all-out with such a fancy hostess apron. Later that night, she walked in on Phil and Amelia in the spare bedroom. I thought they were dancing, but it seemed odd for them to dance so far from the music. Amelia's dress was all askew, too. It wasn't hanging right at all. 

After that party, on the way home, retelling the event, she laughed so hard I thought she was going to split my zipper. He was at the wheel, holding her left hand, they talk about everyone they just saw, “Jeff's not doing well, not doing well at all. Putting on a brave front, though, for Georgina's sake.”

Sometimes they're quiet, and then I know they're tired, or that they had too many drinks in those little fat glasses.

When they walk in the door, her patent leather Louboutin slingbacks come right off, and her ivory cashmere coat goes over the nearest chair. Her marcasite clip earrings and bracelet land next to her bag on the table in the hall, right by the mail. Sometimes they yawn at the same time, and that makes them both laugh.

I could feel how tired she was as she climbed the stairs. She fussed with my zipper, places me on a padded hanger, and heads downstairs in a silk kimono.  Sometimes he makes her a cup of cocoa, they sit on the sofa, talk a little, but usually she just helps him lock up and turn out the lights. She always hangs me right up, which is nice. It's not comfortable to spend all night on the chair, especially after a party. I hope if I go to San Francisco her sister-in-law hangs up her dresses right away, too.

Stop the Madness

Sarah Palin in my opinion has a few missing screws. In her attempt to repudiate charges that her brand of inflammatory rhetoric had anything to do with the tragic shootings last weekend in Tucson, she decided to employ her strongest example of inflammatory rhetoric. In the seven-minute video she posted Wednesday on her Facebook page, Palin accused journalists and pundits of manufacturing a “blood libel” against her.


It makes me uncomfortable when she speaks with total disdain or horror. While I vehemently disagree with her political views, I watched a dose of her reality show, where she was in a gun shop, 
speaking about the crown and glory that Alaska is, delving in and showing us how the simple life is what being an American is all about. It certainly beats her frothing at the mouth over the Evil Left! That said, I’ve found nearly ever action of hers since the election intensely self-serving, (like having a reality show) mean-spirited, and purposely designed to whip up negative mass hysteria. Forget politics—this woman should be a cult leader! Can anyone name one truly positive thing she’s done to help this country since she catapulted onto the national stage in 2008?


I don’t blame Palin for the actions of Jared Lee Loughner last weekend in Arizona, she is clearly not responsible in any way for the shootings. Still, I believe the conversation with the extreme venom employed by Palin and her cronies (yes, I realize people on the left are guilty of this, too!) and the violent metaphors she uses, for example, depicting Gabrielle Giffords in the cross-hairs on a now infamous map of vulnerable Democrats and what effect such things have in our country is a valid discussion that we need to have. But instead of acknowledging any desire for cooler tempers, working together with others even if we disagree with them, or the benefits of basic civility, Palin goes on the attack yet again with her ridiculous and offensive use of the loaded “blood libel.” How she seems to relish her role as National Provocateur!

Southern California Beach Scaredy Cat

As the youngest, I swung the plastic pails and shovels carrying as much as I could. With my feet in barely-buckled sandals, I merrily skipped out the door to meet my Dad who was packing up the trunk of our convertible. The large cooler was filled with goodies for our outing: bread, mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomato, ham, swiss cheese, dill pickle spears, potato chips, grapes, bottles of coca-cola and a thermos of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. My mother came out in a straw hat, beige shorts and a white shirt tied around her small waist; with her ivory skin, black hair and full lips, she looked like a movie star. Carrying a large straw tote, filled with supplies for our outing: suntan lotion, hats, sunglasses, and under one arm carried several scratchy, mustard-colored woolen blankets from the Army-Navy surplus store. My oldest brother had gone somewhere for the day with his friend Karl. My brother Alfred, the middle child was carrying towels and comic books.

As the car reached the beach, we still had a three-block trudge to the ocean. I almost regretted arriving at our destination because it meant the finale of my daydreams. But as soon as I saw the pink sign that would welcome us, I was eager for the pleasure the cool water would offer.


At the gangplank, we removed our sandals, then my brother and I ran barefooted across frying sand until we found a spot. My parents followed. After unloading our things, my parents would settle on one blanket, and there would be another one for us. Alfred quickly claimed a place in the sand for digging, and I still shedding my sundress, with swimsuit underneath, shouted for him to wait for me. 

The damp sand was chilly from the tide. We dug a hole deep enough to accommodate our bodies, and when our work was done, we took turns sliding into the hole, being a mummy. I topped off the look by grabbing my white plastic sunglasses, placing them on him. In glee we giggled, called for our father to look, and he snapped photos of our masterpiece.


Then it was time to hit the water. A few weeks earlier my father held me in the ocean and had me kick my legs, but he hadn't sufficiently taught me how to breath, and he let me go, I panicked, and swallowed a massive amount of water. This technique worked for him as a child, in a lake, but in a deep ocean, it was crude for my sensibilities and what remained was a great fear of water.


I looked around to see where the lifeguard was stationed. A suntanned teen in red bathing trunks stood at the foot of his wooden perch. He was chatting with a teenage girl in a two-piece bathing suit, but kept one hand on the whistle around his neck. Although the lifeguard was at his post, I was troubled he wasn’t scanning the beach. After a while, I quashed my anxiety, and tiptoed over stones, and shells, just enough to get wet somewhere between my knees and thighs, where I could stay on my feet.

Love never dies... it only transforms

My brother calls me with news. “I’m marrying over Labor Day. The wedding will take place in Montreal.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell him, excited for him because he loves her. Their tale is one that will have a happy ending. I go to Montreal ahead of the family so I can explore the city on my own while lodging in my future sister-in-law guest room.
The bride's mother, Hildegard, greets me at the door. She is not her  biological mother, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Hildegard is originally from Hamburg. A tall woman, she can instantly see through anyone playing games in life, and will call him or her on it when something is out of line. Fearless in stating her opinion, she is witty, and nearly always a precisionist in style.
While she makes us coffee, I peruse the bookshelves.
“You’re a reader?”
“It’s my great escape, being in my head.”
“Ach so. What are you currently reading?”
“A biography of Frida Kahlo.”
She lights up, “A painter. A lot of physical misery, she had.”
“It permanently attached her to her interior and imagination,” I add.
Hildegard is also an artist. “Interesting, my daughter told me you share astrological signs, yet she never speaks about the interior.”
“My interior is what I live for.”
“Have you ever painted, dear?”
“Yes. I prefer oils because I can play with color and texture. Painting gives me the chance to connect with myself.”
She smiles and hands me a paper map.  “A map of the city. We haven’t been here since we left, that was eighteen years ago.  I think you’ll find it surprisingly clean, safe and peaceful,” she says.
What she forgets to mention is Montreal is also eclectic. As I roam, I find the city is a hub for ethnic theater, television and film, which stimulates my thinking.
In the process of my experimentation, what I want is to make art for mass appeal. I don’t want to work for another home-builder. It’s more sales than actual designing. Innately attracted to the theater, I think that perhaps my design talent will lend itself to this arena. I establish a new plan; to offer my services gratis on my days off at a theater.
By Friday afternoon, my mother, eldest brother, his wife, and their daughter have flown in. They, too, will be staying here. 
Hildegard’s husband, has joined her. Both he and my father bear the same name, a French and a Spanish version, an unusual name and not generational.  My father having died the year before, I intuit this as an omen–a soulmate union sanctioned by the divine hand of God.
To ease any crowding, the bride and her parents stay at the home of her closest friend Diana.
In the kitchen, my mother grills fresh salmon, roast potatoes, and makes a vegetable quiche for my vegetarian benefit.  I’m dicing tomatoes for a garden salad while my oldest brother sits at the kitchen table with a map, planning day trips. “On Sunday, we can go to Quebec City. It’s a two-hour drive, and it’s historical,” he says.
That evening we hit the Latin Quarter. My niece being a teen thinks I'm cool because I expose her to the nightlife of the city.
The following morning is the wedding. The bride has left us directions on how to get to the church, by foot. I like that Canadians walk. Not only do I find it healthful and quaint, but it gives me a chance to explore the neighborhood.
During the long traditional French Catholic service, where parents join the bride and groom by mostly standing around like confused deer, I fantasize a year back in time, I would have bet my last dollar I’d be up there—but ...

The Dancing Professor

It's not happenstance that I married a musician. Nothing can transform my mood faster than a good beat; something I discovered from my father as a child.

Sometimes when he looked down, unexpectedly he’d put on music, I'd place my feet on top of his slippers and for hours we'd dip, swoop and glide across the hardwood floors in our PJ's. It became our weekend morning pastime. And in the eyes of my father I was as agile as a ballroom dancer.

My father loved music of all kinds and had a lot of rhythm, as a tall and imposing big man, he was finely coordinated, was an excellent dancer and although he did not play an instrument, he had a musical soul. He’d taught me my first steps as a social dancer and as an adolescent, I too learned this trick– dancing as a way to save myself from falling into the doldrums. For decades this is what I did immediately following my journal writing, it helped get me out of my head and reminded me that I have a body.

Today being Saturday, I heard Lovergirl by the R&B singer Teena Marie this morning, did it ever bring back memories of tape decks and hitting repeat over and over again. And despite it being 25 years old, I still can't keep still when I hear it and love this song as much today as I did then.

http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/--2144425

Fast forward to 2011 and I'll share my listening favorite of 2010, I bought it for myself as a birthday treat, it's got a cool beat and video reminiscent of the 1980's, fun and light especially with the jump rope scene.

The musical group Les Shades are from Montreal, a city I fell in love with when I visited the summer of 1988 when my brother married. More on that trip later.

Their Chinatown album features the single, Penelope:

http://www.youtube.com/user/Chinatownmusique#p/u/1/aJMZUeGshvU

I hope you'll enjoy it and that music will do for you what's it done for me, make you glad to be alive and be a lifelong friend. Have a new year filled with happiness and abundance on all levels of your lives.  À votre plaisir!

Age of Utopias

A few weeks ago I was sent an email that included the de-industrialization of America as a national crisis. In it were facts of the United States becoming the first “post-industrial” nation on the globe. All great economic empires eventually become fat and lazy and squander the great wealth that their forefathers have left them, but the pace at which America is accomplishing this is amazing. It was America that was at the forefront of the industrial revolution. And it will be the heavily mortgaged America that doesn't produce anything – other than garbage that will not have any kind of viable economic future.

One thing I saw time and again this past year was the obliteration of photographs. Having been shown this holiday season a photograph of my maternal grandfather from 1917, as a young man, I quickly asked to make copies, before the process is wiped out. Many of our possessions that we used to own are still in our lives, but we may not actually own them in the future. Today our computer has a hard drive where we store our pictures. But even that is changing.

Photo labs no longer process Kodachrome, they have stopped developing the iconic film forever. Most people believe that this is “progress.” It seems we are losing touch with everyone and everything that constitutes History and Art.

When I was a kid, I marveled at the thought that I would be able to command a robot to take on menial tasks, but now I see the advent of robots will come with a high price- this ever increasing amount of automation comes with an end to human contact for what may turn into many hours in a day or perhaps several days, or weeks at a time, and that comes with the psychological impact of social isolation.

Oodles and Oodles of Red

I'm in a flurry of preparations, I'll let Diana Vreeland share her holiday wishes along with my suggestions for you. They are culled from her longtime column in Bazaar, "Why Don't You."

This holiday season, why don't you...

Sleep-in

Have tiramisu for breakfast

Play “Jingle Bell Rock” and boogie in your pajamas until noon

Drink expensive champagne in the middle of the day

Bake and eat sweets to your heart's content

Snuggle up with a good comedy and a cup of cocoa

Get a professional massage

Splurge on a piece of fine jewelry

Read romantic poetry in the bare under the duvet

Call for take-out

Cuddle in front of a fire

Carry around mistletoe

See a Christmas tree lighting

Take a girly-girl's hot leisurely bubble bath by candlelight

Ice Skate; or if not possible get a bike, find a hill, ride down with your feet planted on the handlebars laughing all the way!

http://bit.ly/7J9NIa

Movies, a gold-rush business

In the holiday season, Hollywood releases movies, packing them in for year-end nominations. As any studio executive will admit, there have always been box-office failures, but successes counter the losses. But does Hollywood know what we want as an audience? Or do they only know what they are giving us? 

 

One of the losses we experienced moving to the desert was we no longer saw premieres at the Directors Guild, with a respectful audience, where talking was not permitted during the show, no snacks, cell phone rings, no shuffling around until the final credit rolled. Occasionally, after the film, one of the actors who starred in it, would be in attendance for a Q&A. Three actors stand out as memorable- Shirley MacLaine who is as comical as she appears on screen, Keira Knightley who is as smart as a whip and John Lithgow who is a wonderful orator.

But we moved, and the thought of not seeing movies was painful.

Being a cable subscriber for the first time, I saw movies I had never seen before. I'm even more demanding of film than I am of television. I sat there and saw generally a lot of movies where nothing circled the orbit, and there was no gravitational pull.

This morning I groaned at the Golden Globe nominations, I no longer pay them heed since they nominated Slumdog Millionaire, Sideways, Before Sunset, Dark Knight or Up in The Air. All bland, soon to be forgotten films, which had nothing unusual, but were a total waste of my time.

I haven't been stunned since Atonement, which had a beautiful plot based on a novel with a wonderful score. It made me think; once a moment is lost, it's lost. Another film of a lesser quality yet moved me was Australia, because there was a child element and the Aboriginal culture and its relationship with nature, that fueled an imaginative vision.

Don't the moguls know movies are an essential part of our culture? Instead of spewing out stories that denigrate the soul and bore the mind, when will they give us real stories? The kind that leave you speechless and in complete utter awe for hours after. Enchanting throwbacks to an era which strives to entertain its audiences with dazzling spectacle and melodrama, and all of the beauty and dark impulses that comes with it. 

 

Home to Vincent

I've never met a vegetable I didn't befriend, although I had to work at peas and lima beans but eventually chummed up to them. I like my vegies fresh and in season for optimum flavor. One thing about living and visiting different regions is your palate gets exposed to a novelty of tastes. A green that is currently available in your supermarket is Kale. I came by way of it during a trip to Amsterdam as a student, a time when I hardly ate, much less cooked. Although the Dutch use Kale in several ways integrating potatoes as a winter staple, I visited before the cold struck and got a simpler version of it. How I recall sitting in that homespun cafe, where staff brought their dogs to work. What impressed me about the country was how unpretentious the Dutch were. Years later, I made Kale adding lemon to brighten its flavor and enjoy it as a salad.

1 bunch raw Tuscan kale (sweeter than regular Kale)

2 slices country bread, or two handfuls of good, homemade coarse breadcrumbs

1/2 garlic clove

1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 cup (or small handful) grated pecorino cheese, plus additional for garnish

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus additional for garnish

Freshly squeezed juice of one lemon (1/4 cup)

1/8 teaspoon red pepper flakes

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Trim the bottom few inches off the kale stems and discard. Massage a little with your hands to tenderize and slice into 3/4-inch ribbons. Place the kale in a large bowl.
Take bread and toast until golden brown on both sides and dry throughout. Tear into small pieces and pulse in a food processor until the mixture forms coarse crumbs, or to the texture of your liking.
Using a mortar and pestle, pound the garlic and 1/4 teaspoon of salt into a paste. Transfer the garlic to a small bowl. Add 1/4 cup cheese, 3 tablespoons oil, lemon juice, pinch of salt, pepper flakes, and black pepper and whisk to combine. Pour the dressing over the kale and toss very well (the dressing will be thick and need lots of tossing to coat the leaves). Let the salad sit for 5 minutes, then serve topped with the bread crumbs, adding a little more cheese, and a drizzle of oil. Can keep in the fridge and tastes even better the next day.

Juice Joint

We begin, in true 1920' style with a man in a three piece pin-stripe suit and black derby hat with his back to the camera. He stands at the shore with the azure blue sky in the horizon in the style of surrealistic painter Rene Magritte. His eyes flash, and the last shot of the opening credits, the camera pans to the tide that recedes but his regal two-toned wingtips remain clean, untouched, opposing realities and one of the coolest intro's I've seen. A strong visual hook, engaged, I had to see more.

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

When I stated in a former blog that I went years without watching television, I wasn't exaggerating. The shows I missed read like a scroll; Hawaii Five-O, Miami Vice, Hill St. Blues, Cheers, Ally McBeal, Family Matters, 3rd Rock from the Sun, Friends. I could on and on; I am bored by sitcoms, and didn't feel I was missing out–I was studying, not putting myself to sleep, feeding my mind, feeding my soul. All these shows were on network television, and the programming styles from cable to network are radically different.

In 2009, I tuned in and discovered HBO, cable, which is like an art form, a visual cinema aesthetic, with stylistic authentic period pieces, wonderful sets, and excellent writing–storytelling with narrative and real acting. The pace is also slower not jumpy like network television because the close-ups require the actors to develop their inner artistic truth and convey their emotions--those of their character to the audience.

Last Sunday was the season finale of Boardwalk Empire, a show that takes place in 1920, during prohibition in Atlantic City, with the rise and fall of politician Nucky Thompson. In real life, Nucky Johnson's largesse was legendary, he was a benefactor to the poor, a power broker for the politically ambitious, and a staunch protector of mob interests -- all while serving the Republican Party.

Now I can catch up on the beginning episodes I missed and I'll stay tuned for the crime, politics and life on the boardwalk next year.