Almost everyone having tired of the election, wishing it were over already yet, I have allowed more petty things to capture my attention. Since if the economy doesn’t improve, I will have to give up things along with everyone else, and may have to surrender my bi-coastal status and headquarter in New York. That means this studio must be eminently livable, so, symbolically I will need a new toilet, as that is the thing most in need of replacing, fitting since it is also what we are in.
So I hied me with Mimi to E. 62nd Street, and Kraft Hardware that features a most reasonable line of toidies, called TOTO, not after Dorothy’s dog, though it could be, but the brand of a Japanese firm (out-thought even about that, Gott.) Mimi immediately attracted the attention of a genial salesman, who said he had considered getting a Bichon Frisee(she has a website, BICOASTAL BICHON which I suppose we will also have to give up) and so had researched it completely. Apparently the breed goes back to Roman times, though the temps most publicized is the French Revolution, when it was the chien of Marie Antoinette, who got her wig’s hairstyle from her dog. Once they offed with her head, the people did not like to be reminded, so killed all the Bichons. A few were saved, and emigrated to Italy, where the Italians recognized at once how clever they were and taught them to dance and be circus dogs. Once the French saw they were gifted, they of course took them back and marked them French. But back to the genial salesman.
He told me that this breed had a gene that made it impossible for them to be alone—that they had to be with people, that if left by them(dog)selves they went crazy. They were the first lap dogs, and even now, are desperate in their affection and need to cuddle. The days grow chilly here, and since, along with everything else, one has to watch grooming fees($81 for a cut) I have let her grow long, so she now truly resembles a sheep. I never had a teddy bear when I was a little girl, (Aawwwwwwwwwww) so I have enjoyed her warmth and what turns out now, according to the salesman, to be a personality disorder. She needs me. She is a co-dependent.
Speaking of which I have had my first stalker, a pleasant(I thought she was) Norwegian, who, as I already wrote you, had unexpectedly inherited a fortune from her aunt, a dentist who invented fluoride(or maybe discovered it, science is not my frield.) I had had dinner with her and her sister and counseled her to get rid of her traveling companion, an alcoholic who finished up everything in the minibar—not the same one as Eliot Spitzer’s—and then threw up all over the room. She sent me many e-mails telling me how I had saved her life, but apparently decided I was to replace him, so barraged me and finally called me day before yesterday at 4:30 AM, so I have had to tell her in no uncertain terms to leave me alone. My dermatologist said the woman is a co-dependent and crazy, the reason why she, my dermatologist, has an unlisted home number, as apparently when you fill in someone’s wrinkles they think they belong to you, and she has to hide from recently upholstered patients. Anyway, it’s all back to just me and Mimi, with her lovely long hair, which is like having a fur throw on the bed at night.
I look into her highly intelligent black eyes, sing to her “My fuzzy Valentine,” and no longer grieve that there is no man in my life. I mean, no matter how much they love you, they do not crawl on top of you and leave it at that, and too hirsute are less than appealing. So I am sort of at peace, though I, too, wish the election were over.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Bringing in the Sheaves
Unaccustomed as I am to public service, yesterday was a lift to the heart, a jolt to the spirit, and an illuminating journey. Went with two other women, a New York Good Person—very involved in selfless deeds for the betterment of her community, and a teacher of theatre at Hofstra, the first at the wheel, the second sitting behind me chatting amiably on our journey to Bristol, Pa., to canvass for Barack. We were the first to arrive at the meeting place, at ten o’clock as prescribed, but were sent to the hall of the Boilermaker’s Union, across from which was a flower stall, hanging baskets and Halloween ornaments, where we went while waiting for others to arrive before we were sent on our assigned rounds and squares. The seeming diversion was the first in what felt like the stations of the cross, the pockets of ignorance that less than grace this once great nation. The young woman, a mother of three who was its proprietor, doesn’t trust Obama because of “his background,” didn’t want to discuss it at length(we have been forewarned not to try and argue too forcibly at this late stage of the game) but said they were carrying signs for him in Pakistan. “Why would they want him to win in Pakistan?” she asked me. Back in the shelter of the Boilermaker’s Union, Local 13, I suggested that if it were true, it might be because they wanted to live, and were hoping he had the savvy to keep India from making it all go BOOM! But by this time the rest of the out-of-town cast had assembled, and as we were richer by several hanging baskets, a witch, and a calico turkey for Thanksgiving, we did not dwell, but moved on, as Kevin, the African-American who was gently in charge, advised us to do.
The trio of women was joined by a tall young man from Guiana, who had come to this country so disapproving of the political mayhem and injustice of his land that he immediately involved himself in the politics of ours. He paired up with the tiny Hofstra person, while the doer of good and I worked our streets, courtyards, low-lying apartment complexes, only knocking on the doors that had been pre-checked by the Bristol Obama people, so we were just to encourage, reassure, ask those we knew to be friendly to make sure they voted. More people were absent than present, and those who were present were often watching football, but as Kevin was to tell me the people in charge had already decided we were so close to the election that we couldn’t be put off by the fact that we were probably intruding, and just forge on, not getting into protracted conversations or certainly not trying to convert, and just leave the print-out of how flawed McCain was from the pen of a Philadelphia Inquirer writer who had been a Republican. Alissa, my cohort, and I encountered one probable serial killer who looked like Raymond Burr in ‘Rear Window,’ had all the same nervous mannerisms and several pots on his front porch that we ventured likely contained the chopped-up remains of the gay couple who had been living there, who were our committed Democrats. Another man rolled his eyes, was obviously mad in the sanity sense, not just angry at our intrustion, would not give his name, didn’t want to know ours, and ignored our extended hand and obvious fine humor. On the whole it felt more frustrating than fulfilling, but we had done our job and seen many red-leafed trees, which cannot help but fill the heart as they warm the eyes.
There had been few doors that were locked in that working-class neighborhood, the exception being one of an African-American who seemed very anxious and uncomfortable at our knocking, but was going to vote for Barack, and one other black family who also seemed unsettled. One black sailor, on his way back to Virginia said he would vote absentee for Obama but did not talk politics with his fellows. I understand why.
What I didn’t understand was how unsettled the black locals seemed, though Cindy, our cohort who was with Jerry, the Guianan(?) did better, having actually managed a few genuine interchanges. When I got back to base I talked to Kevin, and here’s where it all becomes a sad, dark poem. He told me the reason for the dis- ease (not the sickness, the anxiety) could be traced back to the 60s, when JFK, Dr. King were assassinated, and finally Bobby. He said when the train went through carrying Bobby’s body, the blacks stood on one side of the track, the whites on the other, and all put their hands over their hearts and saluted as that carriage rolled by., And when it was gone, the blacks turned around one way, the whites another, and all went home. Since that time there has been a total disconnect in the Civil Rights movement, the reason why this is such a seminal moment in our history.
But all I could think of was that train rolling through, and the train that rolled through the country after Lincoln’s murder. And I wonder why the hatred goes so deep, and the people are so empty. Anyway, I hope he wins, and we get back what’s left of the country. Still, it felt really good to be doing something that mattered.
The trio of women was joined by a tall young man from Guiana, who had come to this country so disapproving of the political mayhem and injustice of his land that he immediately involved himself in the politics of ours. He paired up with the tiny Hofstra person, while the doer of good and I worked our streets, courtyards, low-lying apartment complexes, only knocking on the doors that had been pre-checked by the Bristol Obama people, so we were just to encourage, reassure, ask those we knew to be friendly to make sure they voted. More people were absent than present, and those who were present were often watching football, but as Kevin was to tell me the people in charge had already decided we were so close to the election that we couldn’t be put off by the fact that we were probably intruding, and just forge on, not getting into protracted conversations or certainly not trying to convert, and just leave the print-out of how flawed McCain was from the pen of a Philadelphia Inquirer writer who had been a Republican. Alissa, my cohort, and I encountered one probable serial killer who looked like Raymond Burr in ‘Rear Window,’ had all the same nervous mannerisms and several pots on his front porch that we ventured likely contained the chopped-up remains of the gay couple who had been living there, who were our committed Democrats. Another man rolled his eyes, was obviously mad in the sanity sense, not just angry at our intrustion, would not give his name, didn’t want to know ours, and ignored our extended hand and obvious fine humor. On the whole it felt more frustrating than fulfilling, but we had done our job and seen many red-leafed trees, which cannot help but fill the heart as they warm the eyes.
There had been few doors that were locked in that working-class neighborhood, the exception being one of an African-American who seemed very anxious and uncomfortable at our knocking, but was going to vote for Barack, and one other black family who also seemed unsettled. One black sailor, on his way back to Virginia said he would vote absentee for Obama but did not talk politics with his fellows. I understand why.
What I didn’t understand was how unsettled the black locals seemed, though Cindy, our cohort who was with Jerry, the Guianan(?) did better, having actually managed a few genuine interchanges. When I got back to base I talked to Kevin, and here’s where it all becomes a sad, dark poem. He told me the reason for the dis- ease (not the sickness, the anxiety) could be traced back to the 60s, when JFK, Dr. King were assassinated, and finally Bobby. He said when the train went through carrying Bobby’s body, the blacks stood on one side of the track, the whites on the other, and all put their hands over their hearts and saluted as that carriage rolled by., And when it was gone, the blacks turned around one way, the whites another, and all went home. Since that time there has been a total disconnect in the Civil Rights movement, the reason why this is such a seminal moment in our history.
But all I could think of was that train rolling through, and the train that rolled through the country after Lincoln’s murder. And I wonder why the hatred goes so deep, and the people are so empty. Anyway, I hope he wins, and we get back what’s left of the country. Still, it felt really good to be doing something that mattered.
Monday, October 13, 2008
In 1492 Columbus sailed the Ocean Blue
I had forgotten it was Columbus Day. Such has been the emotional, financial and political see-sawing of the past few weeks that the struggle has been to stay in some kind of balance. The trees in Central Park remember their assignment, and turn yellowish, the most audacious of them flaring out bottom branches of orange. A friend newly returned from Massachusetts says the leaves at the topmost of those trees are pink, and I wish I could see that, but understand we are always where we are supposed to be, so I must be grateful that I am here with not just the leaves changing, but the world as we knew it. There is a piece in the Times today about a woman in LA cutting back by drinking espresso instead of Latte, and the writer’s amazement at her then not bursting into laughter. So in a strange way I miss what has seemingly become my home, though one I probably will not be able to keep, where the view is so narcissistic you can’t see the foraging for the trees.
Sitting in the park this morning I was startled to hear a drumroll, and trumpets, and remembered the court-clad(Isabella, la Reina) young man I saw walking there last week, medals and plumes and silk-ribboned cloak flaring, asking him what that was about. He said he was from Spain, and was one of a group of musicians that would be in “the celebration.” So I made my way to Fifth Avenue, though wary of the crowds, and watched from where the carriages are stationed, as a corps of drummers went by, such elation in their drumming. And I realized this was the great event in their year, probably all that had consumed them in these surreal weeks, making sure they were in step, and in tempo.
Then a giant stage, with wine-red curtains, with tapestried ceiling and huge gilded heads at its corners was carried by, and in it graceful young women in harem clothes danced, while beside it umbrella-carrying ladies in long white dresses paraded. None of it made much sense, at least not to me, but so thoroughly were they engaged in what they had doubtless been practicing and living for, that it was genuinely enchanting.
So I realized that between the leaves, which my friend who’d seen the pink ones, explained to me was because of the dying of the chlorophyll with the loss of the heat of summer, doing what they are meant to do, changing colors, and the drum corps and the dancing harem girls, and the proud young man in his courtier clothes, that the most and best we can do is our job, that which we have been rehearsing and sometimes getting a chance to perform. That, and working for the good, and hoping for it.
Made phone calls for Barack over the weekend, and went to dinner with some Norwegian sisters who stopped me on the street because I “looked so happy.” They had both of them been disappointed in love, but left a fortune by an aunt, a dentist who discovered Fluoride, from studying the teeth of porcupines. That would have been, to a dentist, what Don called ‘The Mother Lode’ when speaking of what The Godfather was to Mario Puzo. And it was probably that for Columbus, too, finding us, though he doubtless didn’t know that then. And hey—it really worked for a good, long time. And maybe it will again.
Sitting in the park this morning I was startled to hear a drumroll, and trumpets, and remembered the court-clad(Isabella, la Reina) young man I saw walking there last week, medals and plumes and silk-ribboned cloak flaring, asking him what that was about. He said he was from Spain, and was one of a group of musicians that would be in “the celebration.” So I made my way to Fifth Avenue, though wary of the crowds, and watched from where the carriages are stationed, as a corps of drummers went by, such elation in their drumming. And I realized this was the great event in their year, probably all that had consumed them in these surreal weeks, making sure they were in step, and in tempo.
Then a giant stage, with wine-red curtains, with tapestried ceiling and huge gilded heads at its corners was carried by, and in it graceful young women in harem clothes danced, while beside it umbrella-carrying ladies in long white dresses paraded. None of it made much sense, at least not to me, but so thoroughly were they engaged in what they had doubtless been practicing and living for, that it was genuinely enchanting.
So I realized that between the leaves, which my friend who’d seen the pink ones, explained to me was because of the dying of the chlorophyll with the loss of the heat of summer, doing what they are meant to do, changing colors, and the drum corps and the dancing harem girls, and the proud young man in his courtier clothes, that the most and best we can do is our job, that which we have been rehearsing and sometimes getting a chance to perform. That, and working for the good, and hoping for it.
Made phone calls for Barack over the weekend, and went to dinner with some Norwegian sisters who stopped me on the street because I “looked so happy.” They had both of them been disappointed in love, but left a fortune by an aunt, a dentist who discovered Fluoride, from studying the teeth of porcupines. That would have been, to a dentist, what Don called ‘The Mother Lode’ when speaking of what The Godfather was to Mario Puzo. And it was probably that for Columbus, too, finding us, though he doubtless didn’t know that then. And hey—it really worked for a good, long time. And maybe it will again.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A FAILURE OF COMMUNICATION
Paul Newman has left us. Larry Gelbart, one of our great writer-wits said recently that we were getting out just in time, which might be the truth about Newman, great gentleman, true American, and caring, alive activist that he was, doubtless wracked not just by his illness, but what was happening to this country. I spoke to Hotch, A.E. Hotchner to put it formally, his great friend and partner in Newman’s Own, the organic foods that benefit children with cancer, and my first semi-weighty literary friend when I was embarking on my writing career. Hotch said that it had been coming for a long time which was known, and also that he had left his mark, which he certainly did. “While you’re here, do something,” Hotch quoted his saying. Mimi needed a treat yesterday and I bought her a packet of Newman’s Own for dogs, and even as I did felt some kind of shadow, so am glad I got to make a small contribution to one of his beneficences, while he was still on the planet, though about to leave it.
I’d met Hotch the first time I spoke as an author, at an event in Richmond, when he had just published Papa Hemingway, attached as he’d been to old Ernest, and we became friends enough so when there was a party for Newman on Coldwater Canyon during the time of Nixon’s decline, Don and I were invited. I was in the throes of my Watergate spying—that is to say I had friends who were Republicans that I cherished in spite of all that was going on, so I was in their houses during the fall of that president, spending most of my time in Washington. I stayed first with a loved friend from Bryn Mawr, then through her became a friend and guest of the wife of the Chairman of the City Council, then eventually ended up staying regularly with the Gerald Warrens. He, at the time, was the assistant press secretary to Ron Ziegler, so every morning when the phone would ring at 4 AM with yet another revelation from the Washingon Post, I was right there to observe.
When I went to that party in LA, I remember clearly Newman’s standing behind the bar as I told him about the friends I had who were good guys, and his saying grimly “There are no good guys in that bunch.” My friend Hal Dresner had written on ‘Cool Hand Luke’ and he had told me how every time Newman drove by a billboard for one of his movies, he would say belittlingly, “There he is: old blue eyes.” But the blue eyes served him well, as besides giving women something to sigh over, they also perceived.
The main wit in that screenplay of Luke I would have to guess came from Hal, the most memorable line “What we have here is a failure of communication.” I’m afraid that that has become what could be the anthem for the world the way it is today, for all the blogging and Internet and Youtube and Iphones and now today I learned there are something called Kendalls, where you can download books onto a hand-held instrument from Amazon, God Help us. Nobody is really communicating clearly or we wouldn’t be in the trouble we are. Where I learned about Kendalls was at a brunch at the Waldorf-Astoria—I went because I believe in Serendipity and last weekend I walked to the Book Fair in Central Park with Mimi, and was saddened to see that of all the booths, and for all the writers living and dead, the only two old ones that seemed to have made their mark, as opposed to Paul Newman, were L. Ron Hubbard, who gave us Dianetics and thus Scientology, and Ayn Rand, egoist, both of whom have spawned cults, and businesses. Or maybe you don’t need the ‘and.’ Cults are businesses.
The real writers from previous eras have more or less vanished, a sadly neglected pile, unexamined, being an unfinished novel by Lionel Trilling whom I remember from my long ago college education as one of the great critics, so it gave me a sense of sorrow that no one cared or was moved to examine this work he had doubtless suffered through writing, as it’s easier to shoot other people down than plumb your own soul,now discovered at Columbia and nobody gives a shit. Who discovered it was Geraldine Murphy and I half-hoped she might be the spawn of Gerald and Sara Murphy, the colorful duo who played the Riviera with Scott and Zelda, and wrote ‘Living Well is the Best Revenge’ but their children would probably be dead. Anyway, I dropped my card into a cup that said there would be a raffle to go to this brunch today, and I won, but apparently so did everyone who dropped their card in, because it was the book version of a theater’s being ‘papered,’ with non-paying customers rather than having an empty house. Several hundred people, good eats, and a couple of genuinely witty writers on the dais, Larry Block and Harlan Coben, in addition to the celeb writers, Dionne Warwick(who now lives in Brazil, which my old editor Jim says will be one of the power countries along with Russia and China) and Marlo Thomas who still looks good and is still married to Phil Donahue. A number of librarians were there who had obviously dropped their cards in the cup, and of course the news is the libraries are hanging on by a very slender thread which I guess will be there till Sarah Palin cuts it.
I am in a state of genuine dread over this election, as my worst case scenario, which is of course the one I always have, is that McCain drops dead election night from the shock of winning, and leaves us with her as our ‘president.’ This would be good news only because it would give Tina Fey something to do every Saturday night as she did again last night at the beginning of Saturday Night Live, where she was brilliant, but Oh God, if You’re there, please help us. I remember when Bush won, Jamie Lee Curtis, trying to find the bright side, comforted me or tried to with the fact that “Saturday Night Live will be funny again.” I don’t think it’s a fair exchange. I am going with a bunch of concerned women to Bristol, Pa. next Sunday to electioneer, and this Thursday there’s a Bryn Mawr group getting together at my classmate Evie’s, the first black student to have been accepted to the college and when she showed up they sent her to the maid’s quarters. Supposedly we’ve come a long way since then, but Evie still thinks the country, or at least white working men are not ready to vote for a black man, so she’s working on Seniors.
There was a white haired woman sitting in the corner where the concerned women were meeting the other night, and she will be in charge of the ‘Boobys’, the old Florida ladies the group is trying to pull over the line in this terrible tug-of-war, their reward being a big party that the white-haired Booby will throw. There is some sweetness in this campaign for all the bitterness and rancor, and I am hoping that the Jewish New Year, which I never really celebrate, will bring blessings to the Boobys, -- certainly the one who sat in the corner.
I’d met Hotch the first time I spoke as an author, at an event in Richmond, when he had just published Papa Hemingway, attached as he’d been to old Ernest, and we became friends enough so when there was a party for Newman on Coldwater Canyon during the time of Nixon’s decline, Don and I were invited. I was in the throes of my Watergate spying—that is to say I had friends who were Republicans that I cherished in spite of all that was going on, so I was in their houses during the fall of that president, spending most of my time in Washington. I stayed first with a loved friend from Bryn Mawr, then through her became a friend and guest of the wife of the Chairman of the City Council, then eventually ended up staying regularly with the Gerald Warrens. He, at the time, was the assistant press secretary to Ron Ziegler, so every morning when the phone would ring at 4 AM with yet another revelation from the Washingon Post, I was right there to observe.
When I went to that party in LA, I remember clearly Newman’s standing behind the bar as I told him about the friends I had who were good guys, and his saying grimly “There are no good guys in that bunch.” My friend Hal Dresner had written on ‘Cool Hand Luke’ and he had told me how every time Newman drove by a billboard for one of his movies, he would say belittlingly, “There he is: old blue eyes.” But the blue eyes served him well, as besides giving women something to sigh over, they also perceived.
The main wit in that screenplay of Luke I would have to guess came from Hal, the most memorable line “What we have here is a failure of communication.” I’m afraid that that has become what could be the anthem for the world the way it is today, for all the blogging and Internet and Youtube and Iphones and now today I learned there are something called Kendalls, where you can download books onto a hand-held instrument from Amazon, God Help us. Nobody is really communicating clearly or we wouldn’t be in the trouble we are. Where I learned about Kendalls was at a brunch at the Waldorf-Astoria—I went because I believe in Serendipity and last weekend I walked to the Book Fair in Central Park with Mimi, and was saddened to see that of all the booths, and for all the writers living and dead, the only two old ones that seemed to have made their mark, as opposed to Paul Newman, were L. Ron Hubbard, who gave us Dianetics and thus Scientology, and Ayn Rand, egoist, both of whom have spawned cults, and businesses. Or maybe you don’t need the ‘and.’ Cults are businesses.
The real writers from previous eras have more or less vanished, a sadly neglected pile, unexamined, being an unfinished novel by Lionel Trilling whom I remember from my long ago college education as one of the great critics, so it gave me a sense of sorrow that no one cared or was moved to examine this work he had doubtless suffered through writing, as it’s easier to shoot other people down than plumb your own soul,now discovered at Columbia and nobody gives a shit. Who discovered it was Geraldine Murphy and I half-hoped she might be the spawn of Gerald and Sara Murphy, the colorful duo who played the Riviera with Scott and Zelda, and wrote ‘Living Well is the Best Revenge’ but their children would probably be dead. Anyway, I dropped my card into a cup that said there would be a raffle to go to this brunch today, and I won, but apparently so did everyone who dropped their card in, because it was the book version of a theater’s being ‘papered,’ with non-paying customers rather than having an empty house. Several hundred people, good eats, and a couple of genuinely witty writers on the dais, Larry Block and Harlan Coben, in addition to the celeb writers, Dionne Warwick(who now lives in Brazil, which my old editor Jim says will be one of the power countries along with Russia and China) and Marlo Thomas who still looks good and is still married to Phil Donahue. A number of librarians were there who had obviously dropped their cards in the cup, and of course the news is the libraries are hanging on by a very slender thread which I guess will be there till Sarah Palin cuts it.
I am in a state of genuine dread over this election, as my worst case scenario, which is of course the one I always have, is that McCain drops dead election night from the shock of winning, and leaves us with her as our ‘president.’ This would be good news only because it would give Tina Fey something to do every Saturday night as she did again last night at the beginning of Saturday Night Live, where she was brilliant, but Oh God, if You’re there, please help us. I remember when Bush won, Jamie Lee Curtis, trying to find the bright side, comforted me or tried to with the fact that “Saturday Night Live will be funny again.” I don’t think it’s a fair exchange. I am going with a bunch of concerned women to Bristol, Pa. next Sunday to electioneer, and this Thursday there’s a Bryn Mawr group getting together at my classmate Evie’s, the first black student to have been accepted to the college and when she showed up they sent her to the maid’s quarters. Supposedly we’ve come a long way since then, but Evie still thinks the country, or at least white working men are not ready to vote for a black man, so she’s working on Seniors.
There was a white haired woman sitting in the corner where the concerned women were meeting the other night, and she will be in charge of the ‘Boobys’, the old Florida ladies the group is trying to pull over the line in this terrible tug-of-war, their reward being a big party that the white-haired Booby will throw. There is some sweetness in this campaign for all the bitterness and rancor, and I am hoping that the Jewish New Year, which I never really celebrate, will bring blessings to the Boobys, -- certainly the one who sat in the corner.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
AS THE WORLD PIVOTS
As I don’t have to tell you, there is great darkness in the world, and as you already know, I have been remonstrated against by a former reader who asked to be dropped from this beloved list, for reasons that remain obvious but puzzling, as all he had to do was delete me if my passion was too passionate. At the same time, I have been heartened and chastised by one of my favorite writer-readers who yelled at me on the e-mail for caving at this time when what we have to do is rage rage against the dying of the light and this country in particular. Anyway I hope it will all be all right, but then I have always been an optimist except when I have been Cassandra as I was a year and a half ago when I told my broker the market was on its way downhill and he didn’t listen to me when if he had I would have been rich. But that is only the material world, and as we know in some of our loftier moments, that is but an illusion, convincing though it seems, especially now.
So trying to take my counsel from the wise who tell you to present-moment it, I took Mimi to the groomer Monday—she is much more beautiful in New York where her groomer is as gifted as the man who cuts my hair in LA, and just as expensive, so these moves eastward are very much to her benefit, as she becomes a cloud of white, admired by all, at fifty-one bucks a pop, so I may never cut her which would be 80 something. But while she was being washed only, I went around the corner to a food shop where I was lifted by the lunchtime sight of the sophomores from Dwight, a private school in the neighborhood, I would venture, who have a dress code(button down collar shirts for the boys, any tie they want, same kind of shirt for the girls or polos or sweaters and any pants but jeans, and any shoes but sneakers,) and they all looked very clean and upbeat and one was a gorgeously fresh-faced girl who had no idea how beautiful she is and would have been signed by Fox when they still were looking for the next Tuesday Weld. Then I went to the baby shop to buy a gift for my longtime great pal and editor who remains the smartest man I know and just became a grandfather, which made me want to go back and put the fresh-faced girl on alert to live her life fully and as smartly as she is beautiful. The night before I had run into Sirio Maccioni the great restaurateur, and he was sad about the country, and sad about being old, as he said you never appreciate what life is until it is almost time to leave it. I would title my new book Seize the Day but Saul Bellow already did, so I am hereby opening a contest(all are invited to join and the rewards will be Infinite) to title my new novel something like that. Active. Upbeat. The titles so far discarded are The Age of Experience, but few remain alive and certainly none in the publishing business who think or read Edith Wharton, and it does sound a bit over-weighty, which it ain’t, and then LIFE FORCE which my agent says sounds like a Self-Help book. Come one come all. I have mileage that will take you to Bali.
Then I met a bright-faced, bright-eyed young woman who has been playing Phantom on the road, so sweet and bright that it overcame my loathing for Andrew Lloyd Webber, and two of her friends, young men who had started booking musicals on the road and have made it a success which is always an up thing to hear at these times. Then I made the mistake of watching the news, so I turned out the light and asked for sweet dreams, and got one. A new baby was born and I was asked to write it a lullaby, and so liberal was my license in the dream that I was allowed to be joined in the writing by my mentor when I was a young songwriter, really what I wanted and intended to be, Yip Harburg, the gentle genius who gave us the lyrics from Wizard of Oz, Finian’s Rainbow, songs full of heart. So Yip, though long gone from the real world, as it is called, was available in my dream, and here is what we wrote.
There will be summer and there will be wintertime
There will be many a bright, sunny day
But when clouds over take you
And thunderclaps shake you
I wish you a Unicorn to carry you away.
There will be some who say there are no unicorns
There will be many who tell you ‘Don’t dream’
But life’s great consolation
Is imagination
To show you that things are not just as they seem.
For the wonder of life is the Great Unexpected
The light that disperses the dark
The sound, like a song
When your love comes along
Or sometimes a walk in the park
There will be heartaches and there will be Valentines
And that’s as far as we got in the dream, so I will take Mimi for a walk in the park and see if Yipper is there, hiding behind a tree.
My friend Ann just got back from a cruise she took her dad on to Alaska, and tells me she researched Sarah and it isn’t as bad as it seems. That she’s just a complete pol who wanted to win, so she’s taken on all these protective colorations to get the Republicans. Yeah, sure. But we agree that McCain may not even make it through the election. Which leaves us where? NO NO. Don’t go there. A walk in the park. A walk in the park.
So trying to take my counsel from the wise who tell you to present-moment it, I took Mimi to the groomer Monday—she is much more beautiful in New York where her groomer is as gifted as the man who cuts my hair in LA, and just as expensive, so these moves eastward are very much to her benefit, as she becomes a cloud of white, admired by all, at fifty-one bucks a pop, so I may never cut her which would be 80 something. But while she was being washed only, I went around the corner to a food shop where I was lifted by the lunchtime sight of the sophomores from Dwight, a private school in the neighborhood, I would venture, who have a dress code(button down collar shirts for the boys, any tie they want, same kind of shirt for the girls or polos or sweaters and any pants but jeans, and any shoes but sneakers,) and they all looked very clean and upbeat and one was a gorgeously fresh-faced girl who had no idea how beautiful she is and would have been signed by Fox when they still were looking for the next Tuesday Weld. Then I went to the baby shop to buy a gift for my longtime great pal and editor who remains the smartest man I know and just became a grandfather, which made me want to go back and put the fresh-faced girl on alert to live her life fully and as smartly as she is beautiful. The night before I had run into Sirio Maccioni the great restaurateur, and he was sad about the country, and sad about being old, as he said you never appreciate what life is until it is almost time to leave it. I would title my new book Seize the Day but Saul Bellow already did, so I am hereby opening a contest(all are invited to join and the rewards will be Infinite) to title my new novel something like that. Active. Upbeat. The titles so far discarded are The Age of Experience, but few remain alive and certainly none in the publishing business who think or read Edith Wharton, and it does sound a bit over-weighty, which it ain’t, and then LIFE FORCE which my agent says sounds like a Self-Help book. Come one come all. I have mileage that will take you to Bali.
Then I met a bright-faced, bright-eyed young woman who has been playing Phantom on the road, so sweet and bright that it overcame my loathing for Andrew Lloyd Webber, and two of her friends, young men who had started booking musicals on the road and have made it a success which is always an up thing to hear at these times. Then I made the mistake of watching the news, so I turned out the light and asked for sweet dreams, and got one. A new baby was born and I was asked to write it a lullaby, and so liberal was my license in the dream that I was allowed to be joined in the writing by my mentor when I was a young songwriter, really what I wanted and intended to be, Yip Harburg, the gentle genius who gave us the lyrics from Wizard of Oz, Finian’s Rainbow, songs full of heart. So Yip, though long gone from the real world, as it is called, was available in my dream, and here is what we wrote.
There will be summer and there will be wintertime
There will be many a bright, sunny day
But when clouds over take you
And thunderclaps shake you
I wish you a Unicorn to carry you away.
There will be some who say there are no unicorns
There will be many who tell you ‘Don’t dream’
But life’s great consolation
Is imagination
To show you that things are not just as they seem.
For the wonder of life is the Great Unexpected
The light that disperses the dark
The sound, like a song
When your love comes along
Or sometimes a walk in the park
There will be heartaches and there will be Valentines
And that’s as far as we got in the dream, so I will take Mimi for a walk in the park and see if Yipper is there, hiding behind a tree.
My friend Ann just got back from a cruise she took her dad on to Alaska, and tells me she researched Sarah and it isn’t as bad as it seems. That she’s just a complete pol who wanted to win, so she’s taken on all these protective colorations to get the Republicans. Yeah, sure. But we agree that McCain may not even make it through the election. Which leaves us where? NO NO. Don’t go there. A walk in the park. A walk in the park.
Friday, September 05, 2008
SEPTEMBER SONG
So, as the West sinks slowly in the West, we bid farewell to the still surprisingly appealing Southern California, and make our way (we hope, what with Hurricane Hanna) to New York. This has been a very unsettling time in which a great many personal things were settled, but I have great fears for the future of our country.
Anyway, I love you all, but find my brain pan empty of thought, so angered and saddened am I by the level of venality of the Republican convention. I am also saddened by the truth that I am not as evolved as I thought, as I really would have been happy to have a bomb fall on it.
I have to pack up the computer now, as I fly out early in the morning, so I will bid you all a fond Au Revoir(I hope.) But the new novel is finished and good, I have a funny idea for a movie, have made peace with my children, joy with my two little grand-boys(I actually made Lukas(8) laugh, and Silas(almost 5) told me today I was funny,) so all’s right with the world except for the world. And up the street, around the corner, is Napoleon, 15 months, with whom I have fallen very much in love, and he with me, so there is much to come back to, if it’s still here.
God Bless You all, as they said constantly, and God Bless America(ditto.) Oh, God. Help us.
Anyway, I love you all, but find my brain pan empty of thought, so angered and saddened am I by the level of venality of the Republican convention. I am also saddened by the truth that I am not as evolved as I thought, as I really would have been happy to have a bomb fall on it.
I have to pack up the computer now, as I fly out early in the morning, so I will bid you all a fond Au Revoir(I hope.) But the new novel is finished and good, I have a funny idea for a movie, have made peace with my children, joy with my two little grand-boys(I actually made Lukas(8) laugh, and Silas(almost 5) told me today I was funny,) so all’s right with the world except for the world. And up the street, around the corner, is Napoleon, 15 months, with whom I have fallen very much in love, and he with me, so there is much to come back to, if it’s still here.
God Bless You all, as they said constantly, and God Bless America(ditto.) Oh, God. Help us.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
BELLE OF BRENTWOOD
I am having great and little second thoughts about leaving LA permanently, although my funny friend Sandy said: "Say aloud: Central Park South; Montana Avenue." There is no question New York is livelier and will probably offer me more diversions, but I wonder what I am diverting from. Here, besides a few good buddies, all I do is write, and then wait for someone to read which is the true challenge, as there isn't a lot of that going around in today's publishing world.
But I read in today's New Yorker yet another tale of Emily Dickinson, this one an almost romance, and am reminded that her seclusion left a lot of good poems, not to mention a house that they are trying to raise money to keep going, the same real estate fate that is befalling Edith Wharton's abode, and Mark Twain's, and there is no question, if, as my lawyer suggested yesterday, my "body of work,"which he was kind enough to call it, were to catch on 'posthumously' nobody would have to try and raise money to keep up this condo. But I confess being attached to painting on my little terrace, and being able to walk Mimi in little more than pajamas, and the lack of sleet and humidity that flesh is heir to in New York, except for the best seasons(Spring and Fall.) So I am ambivalent about giving up this apartment, as I imagine I would suffer about giving up my place in the South of France if I had ever managed to get one.
Pondering this yesterday, of course, I was slightly helped by a little earthquake, which does seem to urge one to flight, but I have been through two Biggies, San Francisco in'89 and LA whenever that was, so have learned to rock on. That I have no real life here, other than my love affair with Silas, to whom I do not have easy access, friends at lunch, and the boys at the Sushi bar, is something I think I can live with if the great work emerges.
Still, I am reminded of a terrible camp I went to the year I first struck out as an independent, forswearing the usual West End Avenue kiddies' summer in the Poconos, for a work camp in the Black Hills of Massachussetts which perhaps exist only in the distortion of memory, but I do believe they were there, and the work camp certainly was, run by one Nathan Arnold, a name that would do service to Stephen Vincent Benet. He whipped us with a leather belt if we got twelve demerits in a week(two for being on the wrong floor at bedtime, five for failing to do chicken duty-- almost literally-- you had to wade through pullet droppings to get to the birds and reach underneath them for the eggs, at which point lice would run up your arm.) I think I was twelve. I had enlisted my friend Emanuela Fine to go there with me, and as she was a bit more upmarket than I, as I remember she freaked out fairly early. When my mother came to visit, reluctantly, as there were no potential estranged fathers waiting in the wings(not chicken's) I told her everyone was committing mutual rape, since I understood little of sex at the time, and had not yet learned to say or even think 'fucking.' But there had been many shocking incidents, threatening letters found,(UNLESS YOU MEET ME TONIGHT) tales of guns, all in all the reason why I remember it as The Black Hills, which I really think they were.
Anyway, my mother sprung me, and even as I left, freed at last, I suffered separation anxiety, pangs of wanting to stay. I imagine I would have felt bad about leaving Auschwitz.
Anyway, you're all free to offer comments and suggestions. Maybe we could be like Entertainment Tonight and you could text your opinion: Should Gwen give up her LA apartment where she could hold fabulous salons except that there's no parking? Should Gwen return full time to New York? Will anyone ever read her work? Does it matter?
I would tell you where to text it, except I don't really understand or use or like or condone texting, and anyway, you probably don't give a mutual rape.
But I read in today's New Yorker yet another tale of Emily Dickinson, this one an almost romance, and am reminded that her seclusion left a lot of good poems, not to mention a house that they are trying to raise money to keep going, the same real estate fate that is befalling Edith Wharton's abode, and Mark Twain's, and there is no question, if, as my lawyer suggested yesterday, my "body of work,"which he was kind enough to call it, were to catch on 'posthumously' nobody would have to try and raise money to keep up this condo. But I confess being attached to painting on my little terrace, and being able to walk Mimi in little more than pajamas, and the lack of sleet and humidity that flesh is heir to in New York, except for the best seasons(Spring and Fall.) So I am ambivalent about giving up this apartment, as I imagine I would suffer about giving up my place in the South of France if I had ever managed to get one.
Pondering this yesterday, of course, I was slightly helped by a little earthquake, which does seem to urge one to flight, but I have been through two Biggies, San Francisco in'89 and LA whenever that was, so have learned to rock on. That I have no real life here, other than my love affair with Silas, to whom I do not have easy access, friends at lunch, and the boys at the Sushi bar, is something I think I can live with if the great work emerges.
Still, I am reminded of a terrible camp I went to the year I first struck out as an independent, forswearing the usual West End Avenue kiddies' summer in the Poconos, for a work camp in the Black Hills of Massachussetts which perhaps exist only in the distortion of memory, but I do believe they were there, and the work camp certainly was, run by one Nathan Arnold, a name that would do service to Stephen Vincent Benet. He whipped us with a leather belt if we got twelve demerits in a week(two for being on the wrong floor at bedtime, five for failing to do chicken duty-- almost literally-- you had to wade through pullet droppings to get to the birds and reach underneath them for the eggs, at which point lice would run up your arm.) I think I was twelve. I had enlisted my friend Emanuela Fine to go there with me, and as she was a bit more upmarket than I, as I remember she freaked out fairly early. When my mother came to visit, reluctantly, as there were no potential estranged fathers waiting in the wings(not chicken's) I told her everyone was committing mutual rape, since I understood little of sex at the time, and had not yet learned to say or even think 'fucking.' But there had been many shocking incidents, threatening letters found,(UNLESS YOU MEET ME TONIGHT) tales of guns, all in all the reason why I remember it as The Black Hills, which I really think they were.
Anyway, my mother sprung me, and even as I left, freed at last, I suffered separation anxiety, pangs of wanting to stay. I imagine I would have felt bad about leaving Auschwitz.
Anyway, you're all free to offer comments and suggestions. Maybe we could be like Entertainment Tonight and you could text your opinion: Should Gwen give up her LA apartment where she could hold fabulous salons except that there's no parking? Should Gwen return full time to New York? Will anyone ever read her work? Does it matter?
I would tell you where to text it, except I don't really understand or use or like or condone texting, and anyway, you probably don't give a mutual rape.
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