tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-126907902024-03-06T20:43:29.739-08:00REPORT FROM THE FRONT Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comBlogger524125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-31140394493352369152018-03-08T10:59:00.000-08:002018-03-08T10:59:28.920-08:00SWIRLINGSwirling is not a word I would usually use, it seeming excessive. But swirling is what it is doing outside my New York window, or, more accurately, terrace if a terrace can be really small and more than hazardous to step out on, especially with the snow swirling. Flakes, or sideways sort of clumps are seemingly trying to fall. Over the rooftop edging the overbuilt seemingly Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-42680896213038531512018-01-13T17:56:00.000-08:002018-01-13T17:56:17.474-08:00You Said WHAT?????!!!!So to my surprise, and, I suppose, in a way, gratitude, I am growing older. This is not an anticipated eventuality, as I was always the youngest one: in my class at Bryn Mawr, in my building in New York, in Bikram's yoga class, till he started promoting himself and hitting on students... you get the idea. It came as a shock then when I was contacted by my audiologist, I Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-77903486570659850392018-01-08T12:21:00.000-08:002018-01-08T12:21:14.475-08:00THE DAY AFTER NOT QUITE OSCARSSo it is the morning after the Golden Globes honoring of Oprah, the boomstart to the speculation that she will run for president, and my understanding that I am more Californian than New Yorker in spite of Jeannie in the basement who keeps me from going madder than I am, and Acacia, Flower of the West, whom circumstance and her tough fortune and my Good one have brought into the Central Park  Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-60184466740043174092017-12-25T12:36:00.000-08:002017-12-29T13:31:42.093-08:00ALMOST EVERYTHING MOVED EXCEPT...for my heart.
It is frightening or surreal, I have not been able to ascertain which, how unmoved I am by what is going on. The truth that this terrifying clown has the whole world in the palm of his stubby-fingered hand is too much a treatment for a bad TV not-quite comedy not to be tossed out the window, except that it would doubtless land on somebody, somebody Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-21729075359926380582017-12-15T19:37:00.000-08:002017-12-15T19:37:54.056-08:00THE WANDERING JEWSo as we enter what I hope will be a peaceful and productive next year, I am trying not to let what is happening paralyze me. I have
such happiness when I remember how it was here, when I was young.
We were living on East 8something Street. There was a little news store a block away, with a gentle old man selling magazines and papers on the Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-74033175208679082222017-12-14T13:01:00.000-08:002017-12-14T13:01:49.934-08:00PICKING UP PEOPLEWhat still works better in New York than anyplace else is picking up people. Better even than usual is when there are blustery winds and folks, as newscasters try to call them in their hope of trying to make all this sound connected and friendly, move into coffee shops and bump into other people, as I did today. Two very sharp and attractive women, one with tiny scarf covering Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-31874774189755099112017-11-19T13:32:00.002-08:002017-11-19T13:32:53.567-08:00REPORTFROMTHEFRONT: The God WithinSo as I continue my struggle to find out where I belong, if one is supposed to belong in one place, I attended my Quaker meeting this morning and that certainly ain't it. First, there is the reality of Memory, which, though I was given a Still There by the Memory doctor, is better when there is someone else nearby who remembers, is best in another place, spiritually anyway. The Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-25421439289491967472017-11-19T12:51:00.001-08:002017-11-19T12:51:44.813-08:00WHAT THE HELL: Why Not?
So I have lowered my head against the wind, and my expectations, bought an overpriced book (Callas) at one of the few remaining independent bookshops in Manhattan, have given up hope of a predictable schedule, (pronounced the British way,) and decided not to run away, not today anyway. Somewhere inside me I am borderline terrified, as I have not been this old before and am surprised to Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-80817851937094841302017-11-10T09:06:00.001-08:002017-11-10T09:06:40.346-08:00So to my happy surprise, I am starting to be glad to be in New York. I spent this... I guess it is: Holiday weekend, and the day after in this allegedly festive town where I have been sullenly less than glad, running into some really nice people, some of them picked up in coffee shops which you can do here, and on the streets themselves where there were parades and races and quests for Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-75859180397283900882017-02-05T15:29:00.002-08:002017-02-05T15:29:55.144-08:00Where Do We Go to Scream?So as it turns out, this Rube isn't really president. The fascist who runs him is.
I just got back from my Quaker Meeting. Don, my darling husband, too long late, said I should introduce myself as a Quaker-Buddhist-Jew: "That will really confuse them." But it doesn't confuse me. Quaker is what I am when I go very deep and quiet. Buddhist is what I am Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-85946443645909630622017-01-13T13:53:00.000-08:002017-01-13T14:27:09.867-08:00A WEDDINGSo I am inspired and amused by the news that they have a TV movie, FEUD, about Bette Davis and Joan Crawford.
When I was getting ready, organized and spirited to marry Don, I went to the Plaza to book the place where we would be married, on a day when my mother couldn’t have my father arrested for failure to pay child support, for me. I was 29.
I put that Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-54099935173069764372017-01-07T11:26:00.000-08:002017-01-09T13:03:16.709-08:00A KESEY LOOK-ALIKESo I am feeling in an unaccustomedly creative mood-- unaccustomed because who has felt inspired with what has been going on with our manipulated and potentially disastrous politics-- when I open this week's New Yorker, and there is an article about writer-director Mike Mills, and his film, 20th Century Women. He looks exactly, from the angle they have him, like Ken Kesey who was a Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-27512415466245074482016-12-31T16:39:00.002-08:002016-12-31T16:39:35.840-08:00A CARTOON FOR THE NEW YEARTwo Birds sitting on a wire
FIRST BIRD: When the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and there's music in the air, it's hard to feel bad about life.
SECOND BIRD: Trump is president. Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-79869134931765011692016-12-17T15:25:00.000-08:002016-12-17T15:25:00.005-08:00EUNICE HARRIS, BETTE DAVIS, ROSALIND RUSSELL, AND OTHER GIRLS There was, and, I hope, still is, an artist in Hollywood named Paul Jasmine. Nobody knows how to find him, not intimate friends, not those who collected his work. But he was/is of such an original turn of mind, I can only imagine he would never have done anything as usual as die. Besides his gifts as painter and, later, photographer, he also had an assumed persona, a nasal, twangy Midwestern woman named Eunice Harris. It became a bit of a local legend that his was the voice of Norman Bates’ mother, in the upstairs of that weird house in ‘Psycho.’ I’m not sure of the truth of that-- I never checked it out with Tony Perkins, though I know they were close friends, if not more. But it will help to convey the timbre and sound of the voice he put on, when he made some remarkable telephone calls. I don’t know where or how he obtained the phone numbers. But he successfully got through to many of the women who were major stars at the beginning of the Sixties. More impressively, even miraculously, he managed to really engage them on the phone. By the end of their conversations, this perfect stranger would have made them his/her friend. It was a late-night sport to which some of us were privy, lying around in jeans on the floor, our vestigial adolescence making it the hot ticket in town, to be one of those listening to Paul putting on the stars. But we had to learn to contain our laughter, as it was the early days of speakerphones: the person on the other end, Ingrid Bergman, for example, hearing the sniggers, might hang up. But only one person ever did. “Hi,” he would say, in his funny, aging, just-got-in-from-the Midwest voice. “This is Eunice Harris. Colonel Tom and I just drove in from Iowa and tired as I am, I just had to call you before I could even dream of sleeping. I hope I’m not inconveniencing you,” he would say. “I know how busy you are, and of course I am one of your most ardent admirers.” They almost never asked him how he had gotten their number. By the time they might have thought to ask, Eunice had gently wormed her way into a real conversation, telling them what a hard time she’d had finding a decent place to stay, the smog was so terrible that night, people were so unhelpful, what a hardship it had been driving in from Nebraska or Wyoming or whatever her place of origin for the sake of that particular call. She would ask about their children by name, having dutifully pored over fan magazines. That would inevitably get them. In the case of Doris Day she was very proud of young Terry. Best of all the conversations was the one with Rosalind Russell, who began talking so fast and so much that Eunice could lay back and just listen. Miss Russell, every bit as elegant and funny on the phone as she’d been in Auntie Mame , was gently guided by Eunice into a discussion of her visit to the Eisenhower White House. “Is it true,” Eunice asked, “that Mamie is an alcoholic?.” “Oh, what nonsense!” Rosalind Russell said. “Mamie just enjoys her Old-Fashioned. She’ll say, ‘Oh, any minute now we can have our Old-Fashioned.’ Then a little while later, ‘Soon the sun will be over the yardarm, and it’ll be time for our Old-Fashioneds.’ Or, ‘It’s almost five o’clock, and then we can have our Old-Fashioned.’ Then the clock will strike five and she’ll absolutely light up and say ‘Old-Fashioned time!’ But no, of course she isn’t an alcoholic. “And what she’s done with that White House is not to be believed!” Miss Russell exclaimed. Then the actress launched into a discussion of the Lincoln bedroom, and the other rooms, the fabrics, the materials Mamie herself had chosen, surprising, Roz said, in view of the way people saw the First Lady, which was mostly chintz. It was at this point that we had to hold our stomachs, along with our mouths. Stanley Kubrick made a tape of the tape we’d made, ‘Eunice Harris talks to the Stars,’ and secreted it in his vault in Elstree when he moved to England. But while he was still in Hollywood, he’d had me invite the bona fide Eunice (Paul) to his house, and had her call, watching how she did it. Stanley, who did not smile easily, sat there grinning all the while, reveling in the mischief. He gave her Janet Leigh’s number, and Janet was so gracious I felt bad for her, knowing her and liking her as I did, but the phone call was harmless. Eunice said at the end of it that they’d have to get together, and Janet, very much the kind lady, agreed. “Yes, we must do that,” she said. “Would you mind coming over to the Valley?” Eunice asked. “I’m in this little motel right by the freeway, and there’s all this noise from the traffic, but I’m sure we can find a Mexican restaurant or something, and I’d love to treat you to lunch.” “Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” Janet said. “All right,” said Eunice. “I’ll let you pick up the check just this one time. When do you want to do it?” “I’m sorry, I haven’t got my book with me right now,” Janet said. “Well, why don’t you go and get it, honey,” Eunice said. “Or I can call you back in a few minutes.” “I’m sorry,” Janet said. “I’ve got some company here.” “I’ve heard you give the best parties,” Eunice said. “I’ll be right over.” Then she hung up, leaving, we were sure, a very anxious Janet on the other end of the phone, crouching against the fearfully anticipated ring of the doorbell. By this time, Stanley, giggling like the bad little boy I always suspected he secretly was, turned over a prize: author Vladimir Nabokov’s number. One must understand that as protective as people in Hollywood are of their friends’ privacy, on the right occasion, under the right circumstances, many of them will betray one another on a dime. In this case, it was not for money or power, but for a really great laugh, as rare and prized in those environs as a heartfelt hug. Stars allowed into Eunice’s circle would happily volunteer their dearest pals’ unlisted line. So it was that Stanley, in the midst of making the movie of Nabokov’s erotic bestseller, Lolita, gave Eunice the number of the master, at the moment ensconced in a rented house in Cheviot Hills. “VLADIMIR!” Eunice enthused, the moment he answered the phone. “Colonel Tom and I have been driving night and day from Council Bluffs, hoping to get here in time. You’ve got to get rid of that dreadful Sue Lyon. There’s only one girl who can play Lolita, and that’s our daughter, Cindy. We brought her with us, Colonel Tom and I, and she’s perfect for the part. Delectable. Adorable. And she doesn’t look a day over thirteen.” “Who did you say this was?” asked the hapless Nabokov. “Eunice Harris. Mother of the girl who must play the part. Cindy. You’re just going to love her, being the prevert that you are. You’d never be able to tell that… she’s… well.. thirty.” Stanley lay curled up with laughter on the floor of his living room, holding his mouth and his stomach. Poor Nabokov, genius though he might have been, was no match for Eunice. And it was from Jasmine’s inspired, lunatic dialogue, that Stanley was to harvest the word ‘prevert,’ that echoed throughout the screenplay of Dr. Strangelove. Eunice was merciful with Ingrid Bergman, who was back in Hollywood after the disrepute of her running away with the Italian director Roberto Rosselini. Because her image had been virtually angelic, her public equating her with St. Joan, a role she had portrayed in Otto Preminger’s production, filmgoers found it unacceptable, her turning out to be a passionate, living human being. She had even been denounced by Congress. So Bergman was quite anxious at the time. When Eunice asked her, ‘just between us girls,’ about the end of her marriage, Bergman said she really didn’t want to talk about it. “Not even with me?” Eunice said cheekily. “Well, I’m not really sure who, exactly, you are,” said the great lady. “I understand, dear. We can’t all be Ingrid Bergman.” “I didn’t mean that,” Ingrid Bergman said, apologetically. “I’m not really that sure who Ingrid Bergman is supposed to be.” Bergman was really a lovely, if openly melancholy woman. I met her in the still- striking flesh a few years later, when the writer Sterling Silliphant invited me to join them for a drink at ’21.’ She seemed edgy and depressed, having survived her fall from sainthood. She and Rosselini had had twins, a daughter, and a couple of terrible movies. Now she was making films in Hollywood again. But the remarkable success of her early career had vanished, as evanescent as the glow of her complexion. I don’t think there was ever a more carved, exquisite face on the screen than hers in ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,’ where she was victim to Spencer Tracy’s temporarily murderous villain, or in ‘Gaslight,’ when she was driven nearly mad by Charles Boyer. Phillip and Julius Epstein, the writers of the all-time classic ‘Casablanca’, graced by that face, were later to be accorded a standing ovation by the same U.S.Congress that had denounced her. But there in ’21,’ she seemed lustrous and sad. “You are,” I said to her, after some moments, sensing her unhappiness, “the most beautiful woman ever to be in films.” It sounded, I know, sycophantish, but I was sincere. “How very lucky for me,” she answered, coldly. It dismayed me slightly, her haughty and ironic delivery. It disappointed me even more when I saw Saratoga Trunk on television some years later, and heard her say the same line in the movie. She was, after all, only an actress. But she’d been cordial on the phone with Eunice Harris. I cherished her for that. And now we come to the only movie star ever to hang up: Bette Davis, staying at the Chateau Marmont with her then husband, Gary Merrill. Once connected by the operators at the Chateau, who, in those days were a little air-headed, and didn’t always screen the calls, or necessarily connect them, Eunice launched instantly into her most successful terms of entrapment. She told Bette Davis she had just been selected to be the poster girl for the Daughters of Bilitis. That was a name for a lesbian organization, but Miss Davis didn’t know that, and Eunice didn’t elucidate. She said only that there would be a photographer there the next morning to take the star’s picture for the cover of the Daughters of Bilitis magazine, and they’d like her to be in a tennis outfit. “I don’t play tennis,” Bette Davis said. “And I’m not posing for your magazine. Now go away!” Even the way the phone crashed into the cradle sounded soooooo Bette Davis.<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-49183137698535328612016-12-15T15:10:00.002-08:002016-12-15T15:13:40.493-08:00ALL GORE IS DIVIDED INTO THREE PARTS
ALL GORE IS DIVIDED INTO THREE PARTS
There is a review
in this week’s New Yorker, to which I have after a long time away started to subscribe
as magazines have so fallen in favor, they are cheap, and you can feel their
desperation—so literate in a world where so few people now turn to the actual
page—of a Gore Vidal biography. And I
feel how lucky I am to have had Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-59327718820975178812016-12-05T20:50:00.000-08:002016-12-05T20:50:10.604-08:00JESSICA'S BIRTHDAYIt's my sister's birthday. I know most of you don't even know I have a sister, as it's one of the things in my life that has least factored into it, my life that is.
My mother got pregnant in her affair with Puggy, whom I came to adore, I think while Elizabeth, his wife, was still alive. Puggy and Elizabeth pulled up to the front of the hotel where my mother Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-4308850415379324052016-12-01T17:07:00.000-08:002016-12-01T17:11:35.401-08:00VERY BAD PLOT INDEEDSo I went to the Apple store after being up most of the night to correct my e-mail. But the Apple store is canceling one-to-one (the sessions where you can actually be helped) because they were not making enough money. I guess it's good Steve Jobs died.
There has been little in my life I was unable to solve other than mathematics and George Segal being a Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-40102706061346677862016-11-13T17:07:00.001-08:002016-11-13T17:07:25.887-08:00VERY BAD PLOTComedy was once my best suit, one I could wear on the most sophisticated of occasions. But I find myself caught in a plot so unthinkable, even for high-line farce, that I am hardly able to function. That is, I appear to be functioning, but I cannot believe my surroundings, or, indeed, anything that appears to be taking place.
Let us play this one out Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-49265215677019479802016-09-30T11:52:00.000-07:002016-09-30T11:52:15.652-07:00BURYING A CHILDIt is, I would suppose stupidly, one of the last things you would ever imagine: Burying a child. In this case, Madeleine Anne Mitchell, as I read from her death notice just received in the mail from Arizona, was very much more than a child. But she was mine, though I hardly gave her the attention I should have. More than remiss, I am. Stupid. Insensitive, for such an Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-84738892027354100112016-07-02T12:48:00.001-07:002016-07-02T12:48:57.891-07:00ARE WE STILL FREE? So it is 4th of July weekend, the celebration of our nation's Freedom, which may be coming to an end with the ascendancy of Donald Trump, the blatant fascist and closet ignoramus. I have just returned from the commemoration in Scottsdale for my daughter, Madeleine, looking teenagerly beauteous in the photo at her service, but actually fifty at her death, though still Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-59197011491698646112016-06-25T10:02:00.001-07:002016-06-25T10:06:52.629-07:00PLOT Plot was always the last thing I thought of, if at all. It was being able to express myself, feeling through the ends of my fingers, the few I used, connecting with my characters as I connected with the keys that carried me along. That anything would hinge on who did what never occurred to me.
But yesterday I started to sort out maybe not Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-42722818173775117252016-06-24T12:37:00.001-07:002016-06-24T12:42:23.494-07:00MADELEINE
Strangely, I was in
my drugstore in Beverly Hills when I received news of my daughter’s death. She was just turned fifty years old, and when last I
saw her she was really pretty.
She’d had her nose fixed when she was
still a student at Beverly High, which most of the girls who didn’t consider
themselves pretty enough—almost all of them—did. Disappointed with Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-26286165955000245212016-06-06T10:50:00.001-07:002016-06-07T07:38:29.261-07:00NAME DROP: Doris Day When I first arrived in Hollywood, I was able to drop the biggest name of the day: Doris. I had met the singer and movie star(#1 in her radiance) when I kid-sat her son, Terry, in London, having met their traveling troupe in the south of France, where I'd gone with my mother, who'd come to Europe to check on me, convinced I could be up to no good, singing in the Mars Club Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-7462458537608277582016-06-05T14:30:00.000-07:002016-06-05T14:30:11.601-07:00SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAYSo like the good English major I was, fortunate to be still alive on this, the Bard's birthday, I decided to celebrate him by going to SHE LOVES ME, the musical I most wanted to see-- after Hamilton, of course, for which I have a ticket in June, box-office rated at a fortune that can be apparently charged legitimately when a civilization, so-called, is impressed (and guilty) enough.
  Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12690790.post-22189181390023754842016-06-05T14:28:00.000-07:002016-06-05T14:28:30.397-07:00CARY GRANTStill my favorite name to drop, after a long lifetime, Cary Grant said "Hate will keep you alive longer than love will." So I believe Donald Trump may live forever.
There seems to be absolutely no secret subtext in his rants. It is all right out there: loathing, loathing and loathing. That the seemingly least insane of his cohorts should have endorsed him, is the Gwen Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15521914180149532945noreply@blogger.com