I wonder why it is we try to belong in places we don't belong. One of the sanctuaries(I tried to make it, and failed) I sought out after Don died was The Hamptons, where I rented a house in Springs, the woodsy probably downmarket part of that sooooooooooo cherished weekend and summer escape of wealthy and would-be wealthy New Yorkers. My house was a kind of loft set on the ground, belonging to a woman whose path, I think, was more self-inflicted stumblier than mine: she had a boyfriend who was an architect, so she let him build it, I am sure to increase his self-esteem, which he might have done but he forgot insulation. There were 60 foot ceilings, and it was Fall going into winter, and cold cold cold and damp. I had to keep the house at 55 degrees to keep the pipes from freezing, and that cost so much money I was afraid to turn the heat up lest my son not be able to finish graduate school. So Happy, my yorkie, very little, and a laptop, very little, and a little heater and a little TV lived in a little room upstairs where I tried to finish a novel and pretend this was a life. i had one faux friend, very rich, who let me swim in her pool even though she was too fashionable to be in the Hamptons that time of year, but I swam there in bracing winds every day just out of spite so she would be forced to pretend to be gracious which she had never been, and it would cost her money. Then, I would try to find friends.
Let me tell you about the Hamptons. The reason why Jackson Pollock and Rothko were productive, insane and drunk was there is nothing else todo off-season but be those things. You have either got to become a drunk, or join AA. I dabbled in both, not becoming an alcoholic but going with some frequency to the sushi bar in Sag Harbor and downing a great deal of Sake, as at least I could talk to the sushi master, and I went to the AA meeting in Wilton or Weston or someplace like that, because it was as close as I could come to finding friends. There was an actor in the meeting whose name I shall not tell as it's part of the covenant, but he was funny and bright and in the throes of a great love which has come to no good end and in public, so at least there were people, before I returned to my personal chill. Happy was always a sport, anywhere on the planet I took him, so made no complaint, but I think he had a better time in Germany, which should give you some idea.
So yesterday I went on the Hampton Jitney to Sag Harbor to see a friend in a play, and the rain it raineth all the time, and the sushi bar which was just six people long is now a huge, very successful and slightly overpriced restaurant, where I went first for lunch before the play, and then afterwards with my friend who had been very fine in his role indeed, and in between sushi and play ate ice cream, all the flavors I wanted in two different places because when I lived there I had restrained myself, still imagining love would come along. During the play the rains had been so torrential that the audience thought the air conditioning was turned up too high, but it was really the roof working against collapsing in the downpour. After the second sushi I stood in a doorway waiting for the bus back to town.and observed Main Street, all festooned with American flags over storefronts, and quaint architecture that whistles Americana, but finds it hard to toot in the rain.
And I came to the conclusion that there is nothing sadder than a melancholy day in a place people have pushed their way into, money having been the bulldozer, thinking one could not be both chic and cool without spending summer in the Hamptons. Even the storefronts looked down on this rainy, joyless day, flags sodden and twisted around each other outside the flower store.
The secret, I think, is to always have a resort in your heart, but see a place on its worst day before considering moving there.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Marilyn's 80th Birthday
A Tale of Two Shitties: It was the worst of theater and the best of theater. As intimates know, and some who are not even intimates, I have had a bad time in New York theater over the past several years because I had written a musical, and fine it was, too, that I couldn't get anybody to listen to, because I have no track record here, and what I saw on the stage did nothing to make me feel better. So when I came back to this city where I must admit I now feel a major disconnect, I had no great appetite for Broadway. Still, I enjoyed 'The Drowsy Chaperone,' and looked forward to 'The History Boys,' because I'd heard it was intelligent. I have also made a friend, a very nice woman producer, Chase Mishkin, who goes to fucking everything, and as I enjoy her company, especially as she picks me up in a London taxi lined in Burberry, I often go with her.
So it was that to my sadnesse(I use the Chaucerian spelling) I went last week to 'Hot Feet,' the black musical version of 'The Red Shoes,' which film buffs will remember as one of the great tasteful movies of all time, starring the very gifted dancer daughter of Debbie Allen. To the music of Earth, Wind and Fire. Oy.
Yesterday was 'Boys' day. I went to the matinee of 'The History Boys' where the real life happening was more electrifying than the play, Before rise of curtain, came the usual announcement to please turn off cell-phones and no taking pictures, with the added caveat that"Using cell-phones in theaters is now against the law," which met with applause from the audience. The came the play, with some admirable performances by several of the lads(used advisedly, as with sadnesse), but most especially by the teacher, a Tweedledum&Tweedledee (combined) spinning top of eloquence named Richard Griffiths. Came the key scene of the play, after much jollity in the classroom and some actual singing of a Rodgers & Heart ballad, wherein the fat round teacher is called into the office of the headmaster, to be admonished for feeling the genitals of his students while they ride with him on his motorcycyle, and being told he will have to retire. Just at that moment Griffiths, sitting there in mortified silence, heard a cell phone go off in the audience. He stared up at the offender, so much in character that He seemed still the teacher, and said in controlled tones that he could not compete with the electronics, stopped dead, and then told us that we had been asked quite politely to turn off our cellphones, that it was quite disrespectful and was in fact now against the law, that he was stopping the scene, would start over, and if it happened again, he would leave. Tumultuous applause.
So he started the scene again and when the dour headmaster asked him why he locked his doors while teaching, he said "Because I don't like to be interrupted." Laughter and more applause. Nothing in the rest of the play could measure up to that, and I found the second act just okay. I think we always give extra high marks to the Brits because we are so intimidated by their diction which makes us believe they're intelligent. And of course critics are afraid of Alan Bennett because he has such disdain for the US. I sort of love it myself, though I'm still not sure about New York.
Ah, but last night was a New York evening if there ever was one, one where most of the treasures of the city revealed themselves, and it was a joy to be here, collecting. First a dinner at Gallagher's, a steak house, can your mind get around that one in this otherwhere land of vegetarians and fish eaters?. Then 'The Jersey Boys,' the musical about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons, using that sensational music, and it was fantastic. I absolutely loved every minute. I have a friend who's been five times, and I understand why. There is some technical magic with comic strips, but what it is mostly is a joyful piece of theater, and I was happy the whole time, uplifted, the way God and the Greeks meant it to be. Catharsis does not always have to be depressing.
Then today to Le Cirque to celebrate Marilyn Monroe's 80th birthday, which is today. The restaurant is glamorous but not yet quite buzzing: Beverly Sills was there and there was but one empty table by the window, and I worried that the place wasn't full(the official re-opening was yesterday) Then the couple came in and headed for it, and it was Michael Bolton and a woman in shorts. Khaki. Bermudas. It's the end of the civilized world as we knew it, forget about global warming. I think she was trying to make the bottom of her look as light as the top of him(he's losing his hair, and, apparently, his taste in companions.)
Then they brought us Marilyn's cake, with a spun candy cloche, and we made a wish and blew out the candle. I am sure our wishes were about the same subject, as Chase is doing a musical and I am with novel.
Then we went to this perfectly execrable reading of an alleged comedy, where a woman from Sunday Styles, very hot part of the New York Times for those who wish they were really reading 'Us,' comes to the Hamptons to cover the wedding of a son of a Martha Stewart-like character, to a young unlikeable woman. I thought it was going to get darkly comic about a bright woman who gardens and has been in jail because juries don't like bright women, but instead it tipped over into The Philadelphia Story, only not clever or witty, combined with a prison movie. Awful. I left at the half lest it completely undo all the joy that had built up with Jersey Boys(loved it loved it!) and Le Cirque.
Saturday I go to Sag Harbor just for the matinee at the Bay Theater because my nice neighbor Simon Jones is in a play or a cabaret I don't know what exactly, with Kaye Ballard, who is very funny and talented, and Sian Phillips who is the ex-wife of Peter O'Toole and author of a book Gena Rowlands, whom i love, gave me, and the whole thing is supposed to be wonderful. Kaye is a terrific comedienne, and is the first person I ever sold Special Material to, when I was 20. It was a song whose title I can';t remember, but she actually paid me $500. Nobody could get over it. Especially everybody else who wrote material for Kaye.
Mimi is white with a new grooming, the air is heavy with humidity so it's hard to walk with her in Central Park, and you're lucky not to be here except on occasion. Love
So it was that to my sadnesse(I use the Chaucerian spelling) I went last week to 'Hot Feet,' the black musical version of 'The Red Shoes,' which film buffs will remember as one of the great tasteful movies of all time, starring the very gifted dancer daughter of Debbie Allen. To the music of Earth, Wind and Fire. Oy.
Yesterday was 'Boys' day. I went to the matinee of 'The History Boys' where the real life happening was more electrifying than the play, Before rise of curtain, came the usual announcement to please turn off cell-phones and no taking pictures, with the added caveat that"Using cell-phones in theaters is now against the law," which met with applause from the audience. The came the play, with some admirable performances by several of the lads(used advisedly, as with sadnesse), but most especially by the teacher, a Tweedledum&Tweedledee (combined) spinning top of eloquence named Richard Griffiths. Came the key scene of the play, after much jollity in the classroom and some actual singing of a Rodgers & Heart ballad, wherein the fat round teacher is called into the office of the headmaster, to be admonished for feeling the genitals of his students while they ride with him on his motorcycyle, and being told he will have to retire. Just at that moment Griffiths, sitting there in mortified silence, heard a cell phone go off in the audience. He stared up at the offender, so much in character that He seemed still the teacher, and said in controlled tones that he could not compete with the electronics, stopped dead, and then told us that we had been asked quite politely to turn off our cellphones, that it was quite disrespectful and was in fact now against the law, that he was stopping the scene, would start over, and if it happened again, he would leave. Tumultuous applause.
So he started the scene again and when the dour headmaster asked him why he locked his doors while teaching, he said "Because I don't like to be interrupted." Laughter and more applause. Nothing in the rest of the play could measure up to that, and I found the second act just okay. I think we always give extra high marks to the Brits because we are so intimidated by their diction which makes us believe they're intelligent. And of course critics are afraid of Alan Bennett because he has such disdain for the US. I sort of love it myself, though I'm still not sure about New York.
Ah, but last night was a New York evening if there ever was one, one where most of the treasures of the city revealed themselves, and it was a joy to be here, collecting. First a dinner at Gallagher's, a steak house, can your mind get around that one in this otherwhere land of vegetarians and fish eaters?. Then 'The Jersey Boys,' the musical about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons, using that sensational music, and it was fantastic. I absolutely loved every minute. I have a friend who's been five times, and I understand why. There is some technical magic with comic strips, but what it is mostly is a joyful piece of theater, and I was happy the whole time, uplifted, the way God and the Greeks meant it to be. Catharsis does not always have to be depressing.
Then today to Le Cirque to celebrate Marilyn Monroe's 80th birthday, which is today. The restaurant is glamorous but not yet quite buzzing: Beverly Sills was there and there was but one empty table by the window, and I worried that the place wasn't full(the official re-opening was yesterday) Then the couple came in and headed for it, and it was Michael Bolton and a woman in shorts. Khaki. Bermudas. It's the end of the civilized world as we knew it, forget about global warming. I think she was trying to make the bottom of her look as light as the top of him(he's losing his hair, and, apparently, his taste in companions.)
Then they brought us Marilyn's cake, with a spun candy cloche, and we made a wish and blew out the candle. I am sure our wishes were about the same subject, as Chase is doing a musical and I am with novel.
Then we went to this perfectly execrable reading of an alleged comedy, where a woman from Sunday Styles, very hot part of the New York Times for those who wish they were really reading 'Us,' comes to the Hamptons to cover the wedding of a son of a Martha Stewart-like character, to a young unlikeable woman. I thought it was going to get darkly comic about a bright woman who gardens and has been in jail because juries don't like bright women, but instead it tipped over into The Philadelphia Story, only not clever or witty, combined with a prison movie. Awful. I left at the half lest it completely undo all the joy that had built up with Jersey Boys(loved it loved it!) and Le Cirque.
Saturday I go to Sag Harbor just for the matinee at the Bay Theater because my nice neighbor Simon Jones is in a play or a cabaret I don't know what exactly, with Kaye Ballard, who is very funny and talented, and Sian Phillips who is the ex-wife of Peter O'Toole and author of a book Gena Rowlands, whom i love, gave me, and the whole thing is supposed to be wonderful. Kaye is a terrific comedienne, and is the first person I ever sold Special Material to, when I was 20. It was a song whose title I can';t remember, but she actually paid me $500. Nobody could get over it. Especially everybody else who wrote material for Kaye.
Mimi is white with a new grooming, the air is heavy with humidity so it's hard to walk with her in Central Park, and you're lucky not to be here except on occasion. Love
Friday, May 26, 2006
Some New York Snapshots
Walking back through the park, trees in full blossom, pollen wafting through the air like lazy snowflakes, one can see the result of our having refused the ports to Dubai. Turned away from our waterfronts, they are taking over our hotels. Next to the green Mansardish rootop of the Hampshire House, where I live when i'm here-- oh how long have I hungered to be able to say that, my new calling cards reading Bi-Coastal Free Spirit--, stand in letters stretching to the sky in bright red, two, maybe three stories high, ESSEX
HOUSE.
Like that. Standing atop each other. It is now known as the Jumeirah, the same symbol that gilds their airplanes painted gold on its canopy.I don't mean to sound racist, but the truth is The very Arab are different from you and me. When the Shah of Iran fell, his entire entourage or company or whatever the right word is, those thousands who had dined lavishly in tents nights before the Ayatollah took over, moved en masse to Beverly Hills, jacking up real estate prices, and managing to find the only colors in Nature that did not go together. So fuchsia was planted in clashing profusion alongside orange. And, as Rodney Dangerfield's tombstone at Westwoood Memorial reads, "There goes the neighborhood."
On the other hand, or, in the other direction, taxiing through the park on my way to an appointment, feeling sort of sluggish, I noted a group of youngish women doing yoga, so I got out of the cab and joined them. It was very Bangkok, the last place I got into a class with people yoga-ing in public, the postures moving faster than the traffic. The woman in the park conducting the class was about seven months pregnant, her belly naked over her tights, beautifully ostentatious, as Demi made pregnant bellies be. The park was full of gorgeous little flaxen-haired children, and mothers telling them "Good sharing!" One toddler in sagging jeans near the children's zoo was lagging several feet behind his mom, older brother in the pram, and I suggested she hold on to him so someone wouldn't steal him, including me. Then I told him to grabd on very tight to the bottom of his mother's shorts, and not let go, and he did, I am incredibly effective with other people's children.
Then came the good news about the Enron boys, unfree at last!unfree at last! Last night I went with a friend to The Da Vinci Code, and with every ponderous scene congratulated myself on never having been able to read the novel, my eyes locking from the bad prose. Miraculously they managed to translate every ounce of setentiousness onto the screen, the only thing more ridiculous than the scenes in the present being the flashbacks, rife with double exposures and all manner of costly historical reconstructions as pointless as they must have been costly. Poor Tom Hanks. The ridge over his nose deepened with every improbable dialogue exchange, as he seemed to hear it, and wonder what has ever made him agree to be in the picture. At one point he actually said "What am I supposed to do?" and I wanted to cry out "Get a haircut." But I will admit the film affected me-- I awoke at 5 AM in a state of terror, the terror being I dreamed I was going to have to see the movie again.
Mimi joined her little buddies this morning in the park,--New York dogs are much more social than the ones in LA. On the path by the pond, a woman looked through binoculars at the trees. "What did you find?" I asked her. "An oriole," she said, and told me she had heard that about New York, that she would enjoy it even if she wasn't a shopper, filled as it was with exotic birds. "That's what's so great about this city," she said. "Something for everyone,"
Oh, I do hope so.
HOUSE.
Like that. Standing atop each other. It is now known as the Jumeirah, the same symbol that gilds their airplanes painted gold on its canopy.I don't mean to sound racist, but the truth is The very Arab are different from you and me. When the Shah of Iran fell, his entire entourage or company or whatever the right word is, those thousands who had dined lavishly in tents nights before the Ayatollah took over, moved en masse to Beverly Hills, jacking up real estate prices, and managing to find the only colors in Nature that did not go together. So fuchsia was planted in clashing profusion alongside orange. And, as Rodney Dangerfield's tombstone at Westwoood Memorial reads, "There goes the neighborhood."
On the other hand, or, in the other direction, taxiing through the park on my way to an appointment, feeling sort of sluggish, I noted a group of youngish women doing yoga, so I got out of the cab and joined them. It was very Bangkok, the last place I got into a class with people yoga-ing in public, the postures moving faster than the traffic. The woman in the park conducting the class was about seven months pregnant, her belly naked over her tights, beautifully ostentatious, as Demi made pregnant bellies be. The park was full of gorgeous little flaxen-haired children, and mothers telling them "Good sharing!" One toddler in sagging jeans near the children's zoo was lagging several feet behind his mom, older brother in the pram, and I suggested she hold on to him so someone wouldn't steal him, including me. Then I told him to grabd on very tight to the bottom of his mother's shorts, and not let go, and he did, I am incredibly effective with other people's children.
Then came the good news about the Enron boys, unfree at last!unfree at last! Last night I went with a friend to The Da Vinci Code, and with every ponderous scene congratulated myself on never having been able to read the novel, my eyes locking from the bad prose. Miraculously they managed to translate every ounce of setentiousness onto the screen, the only thing more ridiculous than the scenes in the present being the flashbacks, rife with double exposures and all manner of costly historical reconstructions as pointless as they must have been costly. Poor Tom Hanks. The ridge over his nose deepened with every improbable dialogue exchange, as he seemed to hear it, and wonder what has ever made him agree to be in the picture. At one point he actually said "What am I supposed to do?" and I wanted to cry out "Get a haircut." But I will admit the film affected me-- I awoke at 5 AM in a state of terror, the terror being I dreamed I was going to have to see the movie again.
Mimi joined her little buddies this morning in the park,--New York dogs are much more social than the ones in LA. On the path by the pond, a woman looked through binoculars at the trees. "What did you find?" I asked her. "An oriole," she said, and told me she had heard that about New York, that she would enjoy it even if she wasn't a shopper, filled as it was with exotic birds. "That's what's so great about this city," she said. "Something for everyone,"
Oh, I do hope so.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Some Birthday Wu Wu
Shirley MacLaine, the Princess of Wu Wu, was kind enough to tell me what to do on my birthdayto ensure that the year ahead brings me all I want it to. Shirley always goes into the mountains or someplace peaceful and meditates on her birthday(she is also a Taurus), and it must work, because she is still going strong. So my instruction was to find a quiet place, and a half hour before my birth time in whatever zone it was(Pittsburgh, so EDT) and a half hour after, to meditate and write down three times what it was I wanted.
I was to have lunch with my friend Steven at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so he was going to find me a quiet place in the garden for my visualization. Unfortunately I took a wrong turn, found myself on the highway to the Getty, and had to come back on a jammed freeway, so when the hour was approaching I had no choice but to pull into a quiet street off Sunset and begin. Unfortunately again I am not sure whether I was born at 3:35 or 3:25 so the heavens came in for a little extra quiet and loving energy from me, and the lady whose house I parked in front of looked at me tolerantly, gave a frightened, fake smile, but at least did not ask me to move on. I will report at the end of this year how much of what i asked for actually came to be.I had to write what I wrote three times with an eyeliner pencil as it was all I had in the car.
Then I went on to lunch with Steven and his partner, and we ate well and gossiped merrily as one will in LA no matter how spiritually evolved. But besides the meditative instruction, the Daily Word, which I do read every day as I failed to get a Ritz Diary this year and the Lord works in mysterious ways, had the word for today being 'Pray for Others.' So we did that in-between courses. I prayed for my darling friend Carleen that she should get a good job, and I prayed for Joie, and I prayed for my lovely friend Pat and her puppy who's having a hard time. Then Steven said he wanted to pray for Mohammed Ali since we haven't heard much about him lately, always a bad sign. Then we allprayed for the Democrats, that they'd pull it together. Then we had two birthday cakes as Tom, Steven's friend.has a birthday tomorrow. So we got a chance to make yet another wish, candles and all.
Scenic report on the Beverly Hills Hotel: all the young girls look like Lindsay Lohan, with cell-phone attached to ear, even as they stand talking to each other while talking to someone else. All the old girls look like Cloris Leachman, probably because that's who it was. A woman pianist(a pianistess?) played songs from an era when there were songs, wearing a straw hat. Everyone was very upset about Chris being thrown off American Idol,and I was even more upset that I have actually been watching. The couple who have been most welcoming to me here are a darling pair, Tom and Pam, who are addicted, and it has rubbed off. I am ashamed of myself, but even more ashamed that he lost, as he could really sing. This is my self-consciously self-condemning while really being self-congratulatory take on 'O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.' My embarrassment at what I have become knows no boundaries except that I am very happy and highly productive, so if I am a moron in the evening, I forgive me.
Then I came home where Jamie brought me the gift of a tiny iron teapot from Japan that sits on a prayer wheel, and some mint to pass the water through. Very simple, as she pretends to be.
Next I am going out to dinner with a friend to Toscana, where the other night I ate with Vicky and we saw Tom Hanks whose hair looks really silly, long in back as if it will make people not notice it is gone in front. That's all the news from Hollywood, which is not exactly the Rialto, but we do get a lot more done, and the flowers are fresher if you get them at Trader Joe's.
Thank you all for your birthday greetings. and doooooo join me in praying for the Democrats.
I was to have lunch with my friend Steven at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so he was going to find me a quiet place in the garden for my visualization. Unfortunately I took a wrong turn, found myself on the highway to the Getty, and had to come back on a jammed freeway, so when the hour was approaching I had no choice but to pull into a quiet street off Sunset and begin. Unfortunately again I am not sure whether I was born at 3:35 or 3:25 so the heavens came in for a little extra quiet and loving energy from me, and the lady whose house I parked in front of looked at me tolerantly, gave a frightened, fake smile, but at least did not ask me to move on. I will report at the end of this year how much of what i asked for actually came to be.I had to write what I wrote three times with an eyeliner pencil as it was all I had in the car.
Then I went on to lunch with Steven and his partner, and we ate well and gossiped merrily as one will in LA no matter how spiritually evolved. But besides the meditative instruction, the Daily Word, which I do read every day as I failed to get a Ritz Diary this year and the Lord works in mysterious ways, had the word for today being 'Pray for Others.' So we did that in-between courses. I prayed for my darling friend Carleen that she should get a good job, and I prayed for Joie, and I prayed for my lovely friend Pat and her puppy who's having a hard time. Then Steven said he wanted to pray for Mohammed Ali since we haven't heard much about him lately, always a bad sign. Then we allprayed for the Democrats, that they'd pull it together. Then we had two birthday cakes as Tom, Steven's friend.has a birthday tomorrow. So we got a chance to make yet another wish, candles and all.
Scenic report on the Beverly Hills Hotel: all the young girls look like Lindsay Lohan, with cell-phone attached to ear, even as they stand talking to each other while talking to someone else. All the old girls look like Cloris Leachman, probably because that's who it was. A woman pianist(a pianistess?) played songs from an era when there were songs, wearing a straw hat. Everyone was very upset about Chris being thrown off American Idol,and I was even more upset that I have actually been watching. The couple who have been most welcoming to me here are a darling pair, Tom and Pam, who are addicted, and it has rubbed off. I am ashamed of myself, but even more ashamed that he lost, as he could really sing. This is my self-consciously self-condemning while really being self-congratulatory take on 'O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.' My embarrassment at what I have become knows no boundaries except that I am very happy and highly productive, so if I am a moron in the evening, I forgive me.
Then I came home where Jamie brought me the gift of a tiny iron teapot from Japan that sits on a prayer wheel, and some mint to pass the water through. Very simple, as she pretends to be.
Next I am going out to dinner with a friend to Toscana, where the other night I ate with Vicky and we saw Tom Hanks whose hair looks really silly, long in back as if it will make people not notice it is gone in front. That's all the news from Hollywood, which is not exactly the Rialto, but we do get a lot more done, and the flowers are fresher if you get them at Trader Joe's.
Thank you all for your birthday greetings. and doooooo join me in praying for the Democrats.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Further Miracles
As I wrote of the Gerber daisies, giving us a sign that all things are possible that we didn't think were, since they stood straight up, never bending or drooping all that week, I must tell you now that the miracle continues, three week-fold. They still have their heads high, and I compliment them daily, as human beings may not be the only things that need affirmation and praise.
But it certainly doesn't hurt us. I have had the great good fortune to have my once and future editor, Bob Gutwillig, who edited The Pretenders, on my case lo these many semi-uncommunicative weeks, supporting me as I stumbled toward the finish line on the novel I am writing. I have 72, 507 words but who's counting. So I am within sight of my goal on the eve of my birthday-- Thursday, no gifts or flowers but please send me wishes as I'm not sure all of you have transferred to gmail, and my early morning messages are strangely silent, The New York Times, Peace and Social Justice,Moveon.org, and the Democratic party having been trapped in Earthlink, which as you probably know has been outsourced to India, so we may never hear from any of them again.
I have hardly been out of my apartment which I love, both the apartment and hardly being out of it, I am having such a good time writing this novel and hope all of you will, too,reading it-- will tell you the title and what happens to it when I'm finished-- but have been a few times to the Barrington dog park with Mimi, who still hasn't interacted much with the other dogs, though a corgy named Blaze fell in love with her and she had to be rescued. A trainer of a pack of huge dogs-- he walks about 13 of them and they swirl around him like fish-- said it is very like a little girl's first day at school, that she has to get to know the other kids before she will be comfortable letting go of Mama.
The jacaranda are finally in bloom along my street-- it has been unusually cold this April May, coldest since the '50s, so the fiends who run this home owners association won't turn on the heater in the pool, and I have had to drive a distance to a friend's house to swim these past mornings, as it does clear my head. Hope her gas bill doesn't kill her. I would rather it killed the board of this building, where I am not even allowed to speak at board meetings as I am not an owner-- I was told I could go but not speak. Still these are not really hardships-- I am lucky I have a friend who turned on her heater, I am lucky I can swim, I am lucky I can breathe, I am lucky to be alive,especially now as I near the finale of the book. I am nervous about even writing this, nervous about flying, nervous about doing anything to break the rhythm, nervous about this fucking administration, but otherwise life is good. My Jewru Jack is working in east Marin with the Dalai Lama on prison meditation and gave me the good news that Al Gore is alive and well up there and, more important, not a stiff, that he is apparently at last at ease and funny as he travels around with his Green documentary, so we do have someone to think about that we can like, and Jack said as he already won the presidential election once, maybe he can win it again. My friend George-Anne said not even to think about that, that we have to unseat people in the congressional election so we can impeach this jerk, but my doctor Keith said that would be the waste of a year, as it was with Clinton, and people would throw the government's not moving ahead back on the Democrats. He also said the war is the least of it-- the true sins of this administration are the killing of the middle class, the collusion between the government and oil interests, the collusion between them and the drug companies so that Plan D kills the old people on Medicare. He thinks they should stop Saddam's trial, put him back in power so that all those over there who want to kill each other can, and he will take care of Iran and find bin Laden. It was an interesting lunch.
Ahead lies an interesting dinner, and a journey to New York next week. And as it the season of jacaranda, when I usually wrote a novel when we were living in Beverly Hills, all signs are encouraging. On top of which I have baby-sat twice for my little grandboys, my son is acting almost like a human being, so all is surprisingly well. Now if we can just get rid of these dangerous morons. Love to you all,and Hi there, NSA!
But it certainly doesn't hurt us. I have had the great good fortune to have my once and future editor, Bob Gutwillig, who edited The Pretenders, on my case lo these many semi-uncommunicative weeks, supporting me as I stumbled toward the finish line on the novel I am writing. I have 72, 507 words but who's counting. So I am within sight of my goal on the eve of my birthday-- Thursday, no gifts or flowers but please send me wishes as I'm not sure all of you have transferred to gmail, and my early morning messages are strangely silent, The New York Times, Peace and Social Justice,Moveon.org, and the Democratic party having been trapped in Earthlink, which as you probably know has been outsourced to India, so we may never hear from any of them again.
I have hardly been out of my apartment which I love, both the apartment and hardly being out of it, I am having such a good time writing this novel and hope all of you will, too,reading it-- will tell you the title and what happens to it when I'm finished-- but have been a few times to the Barrington dog park with Mimi, who still hasn't interacted much with the other dogs, though a corgy named Blaze fell in love with her and she had to be rescued. A trainer of a pack of huge dogs-- he walks about 13 of them and they swirl around him like fish-- said it is very like a little girl's first day at school, that she has to get to know the other kids before she will be comfortable letting go of Mama.
The jacaranda are finally in bloom along my street-- it has been unusually cold this April May, coldest since the '50s, so the fiends who run this home owners association won't turn on the heater in the pool, and I have had to drive a distance to a friend's house to swim these past mornings, as it does clear my head. Hope her gas bill doesn't kill her. I would rather it killed the board of this building, where I am not even allowed to speak at board meetings as I am not an owner-- I was told I could go but not speak. Still these are not really hardships-- I am lucky I have a friend who turned on her heater, I am lucky I can swim, I am lucky I can breathe, I am lucky to be alive,especially now as I near the finale of the book. I am nervous about even writing this, nervous about flying, nervous about doing anything to break the rhythm, nervous about this fucking administration, but otherwise life is good. My Jewru Jack is working in east Marin with the Dalai Lama on prison meditation and gave me the good news that Al Gore is alive and well up there and, more important, not a stiff, that he is apparently at last at ease and funny as he travels around with his Green documentary, so we do have someone to think about that we can like, and Jack said as he already won the presidential election once, maybe he can win it again. My friend George-Anne said not even to think about that, that we have to unseat people in the congressional election so we can impeach this jerk, but my doctor Keith said that would be the waste of a year, as it was with Clinton, and people would throw the government's not moving ahead back on the Democrats. He also said the war is the least of it-- the true sins of this administration are the killing of the middle class, the collusion between the government and oil interests, the collusion between them and the drug companies so that Plan D kills the old people on Medicare. He thinks they should stop Saddam's trial, put him back in power so that all those over there who want to kill each other can, and he will take care of Iran and find bin Laden. It was an interesting lunch.
Ahead lies an interesting dinner, and a journey to New York next week. And as it the season of jacaranda, when I usually wrote a novel when we were living in Beverly Hills, all signs are encouraging. On top of which I have baby-sat twice for my little grandboys, my son is acting almost like a human being, so all is surprisingly well. Now if we can just get rid of these dangerous morons. Love to you all,and Hi there, NSA!
Friday, April 14, 2006
Easter Friends
I doubt it will be too joyful a Sunday for Rummy. Those of you who have read these not-exactly-bulletins for a long time know that one of my closest friends stopped speaking to me because I expressed opinions, and Rumsfeld was one of her closest friends. To have earned the right front page headline in The New York Times, and a whole half page inside with all these retured generals calling for him to step down can not make him believe in the Easter Bunny.
At the same time, Judas has been elevated to Best Friend of Jesus, according to the newly announced-- it was found some time ago-- Gospel of Judas, which espouses the 'truth' that Judas was only obeying orders. It was Jesus' wish to be betrayed, so he could get on with his destiny. Sometimes we don't know who our friends really are.
As for my Friends who are literally Friends, that is to say, the Quakers, I have had to step away from attending Meeting, which I have done in my questing as Quaker-Buddhist-Jew, for many years while and whenever in California, as I spoke a few Sundays ago, during the Concerns part of Meeting(that follows the silent meditation and greeting of other attenders,) and asked that everybody there get neighbors out to vote in the upcoming congressional elections, because we have to unseat these fucking Republicans, (though I was careful not to say 'fucking') so we could impeach Bush. I was chastised afterwards by the Clerk, who is more or less the elected minister of the meeting, admonishing me that we were not allowed to be political, that if a Democrat were advocating war they would be opposed to the Democrat. I understand, and always have, that the Quakerly philosophy, advocating as it does, Peace, follows the path of passive resistance. But I don't think we can afford to be passive anymore. So I ain't going back there.
At the same time, my Buddhist is in the desert with my beloved friend and Jewru Jack at Joshua Tree, in a horrible compound called the Institute of Mentalphysics that was one of Frank Lloyd Wright's few mistakes, so it's no place I want to be. The masseur sent by my girlfriend the retired psychic Pattie to relieve my weary shoulders, from hunching over the computer, pronounced my work room 'austere' and in truth I loved that. There is nothing on the bright yellow walls of the clean, square, non-windowed workspace but a metal cut-out lettering, 'Faith,' and a beautiful watercolor of a blooming cactus, by the paintress(why not? I hate that women call themselves 'actor,') the gifted and giving Nancy Boyarsky, who brought it to my housewarming(but not too warm.) The only excess is in the flowers, which are sparingly everywhere, and keep me renewed. My studio in New York is heavy with stuff, most of it tasteful, but inarguably cluttered. So it is a spiritual joy to have become spare, at least in my externals. And I guess what I have to return to is my non-observant Jew, whose religion is writing.
I said to my friend the airheadedly focused on follicles hairdresser Dusty, that I get up, walk Mimi, do a little yoga, feed her and myself and then do nothing but write. He said to me "Isn't that what writers are supposed to do?"
The gas on the corner has gone up since March 1st, when I moved in, from $2.43 to $2.95,and the Indian who is the cashier says it is going up again this afternoon. I took Mimi to the doggie park on Barrington the afternoon it was clear with no sign of rain, where they have all the new in-bred breeds, pugles(a mix of pug and beagle) Labradoodles, and one mix that was terrier and chihuaha(Ter-a-wa?) and discovered for the first time that she's shy. Kind of reticent in the company of other dogs, so perhaps she never really knew she was a dog, as she's never been shy with people. She continues to be my best friend, as is appropriate.
And then there are all the friends I have lost, some, sadly through their passing, some, surprisingly, because they got mad I was rapt and attentive at Fitzgerald's sentencing Scooter Libby, so I feel no loss. And there are the friends I let go as I try to grow up, and the friends who, abruptly, just disappear, a phenomenon brought up by Bill Boyarsky, my friend the great newsguy, who marked friends he thought he'd have forever, who simply vanished when he wasn't writing for the LA Times anymore.
Then there are the unanticipated friends, like Anita Pointer, of the Pointer Sisters, our friendship beginning in a most entertaining way, a story I will tell in full next week when I go to the funeral of her sister, June, who died, sadly of cancer, a few days ago. I got a fortune cookie last week that said 'Am Unexpected Friendship that will prove long-lasting,' and I immediately thought of Anita, who greeted me when I dropped in on her last Sunday with "Oh, Gwen. You always show up when I need a hug." But maybe it wasn't Anita on the cookie. Maybe it was all of you. I hope so. Happy Easter.
At the same time, Judas has been elevated to Best Friend of Jesus, according to the newly announced-- it was found some time ago-- Gospel of Judas, which espouses the 'truth' that Judas was only obeying orders. It was Jesus' wish to be betrayed, so he could get on with his destiny. Sometimes we don't know who our friends really are.
As for my Friends who are literally Friends, that is to say, the Quakers, I have had to step away from attending Meeting, which I have done in my questing as Quaker-Buddhist-Jew, for many years while and whenever in California, as I spoke a few Sundays ago, during the Concerns part of Meeting(that follows the silent meditation and greeting of other attenders,) and asked that everybody there get neighbors out to vote in the upcoming congressional elections, because we have to unseat these fucking Republicans, (though I was careful not to say 'fucking') so we could impeach Bush. I was chastised afterwards by the Clerk, who is more or less the elected minister of the meeting, admonishing me that we were not allowed to be political, that if a Democrat were advocating war they would be opposed to the Democrat. I understand, and always have, that the Quakerly philosophy, advocating as it does, Peace, follows the path of passive resistance. But I don't think we can afford to be passive anymore. So I ain't going back there.
At the same time, my Buddhist is in the desert with my beloved friend and Jewru Jack at Joshua Tree, in a horrible compound called the Institute of Mentalphysics that was one of Frank Lloyd Wright's few mistakes, so it's no place I want to be. The masseur sent by my girlfriend the retired psychic Pattie to relieve my weary shoulders, from hunching over the computer, pronounced my work room 'austere' and in truth I loved that. There is nothing on the bright yellow walls of the clean, square, non-windowed workspace but a metal cut-out lettering, 'Faith,' and a beautiful watercolor of a blooming cactus, by the paintress(why not? I hate that women call themselves 'actor,') the gifted and giving Nancy Boyarsky, who brought it to my housewarming(but not too warm.) The only excess is in the flowers, which are sparingly everywhere, and keep me renewed. My studio in New York is heavy with stuff, most of it tasteful, but inarguably cluttered. So it is a spiritual joy to have become spare, at least in my externals. And I guess what I have to return to is my non-observant Jew, whose religion is writing.
I said to my friend the airheadedly focused on follicles hairdresser Dusty, that I get up, walk Mimi, do a little yoga, feed her and myself and then do nothing but write. He said to me "Isn't that what writers are supposed to do?"
The gas on the corner has gone up since March 1st, when I moved in, from $2.43 to $2.95,and the Indian who is the cashier says it is going up again this afternoon. I took Mimi to the doggie park on Barrington the afternoon it was clear with no sign of rain, where they have all the new in-bred breeds, pugles(a mix of pug and beagle) Labradoodles, and one mix that was terrier and chihuaha(Ter-a-wa?) and discovered for the first time that she's shy. Kind of reticent in the company of other dogs, so perhaps she never really knew she was a dog, as she's never been shy with people. She continues to be my best friend, as is appropriate.
And then there are all the friends I have lost, some, sadly through their passing, some, surprisingly, because they got mad I was rapt and attentive at Fitzgerald's sentencing Scooter Libby, so I feel no loss. And there are the friends I let go as I try to grow up, and the friends who, abruptly, just disappear, a phenomenon brought up by Bill Boyarsky, my friend the great newsguy, who marked friends he thought he'd have forever, who simply vanished when he wasn't writing for the LA Times anymore.
Then there are the unanticipated friends, like Anita Pointer, of the Pointer Sisters, our friendship beginning in a most entertaining way, a story I will tell in full next week when I go to the funeral of her sister, June, who died, sadly of cancer, a few days ago. I got a fortune cookie last week that said 'Am Unexpected Friendship that will prove long-lasting,' and I immediately thought of Anita, who greeted me when I dropped in on her last Sunday with "Oh, Gwen. You always show up when I need a hug." But maybe it wasn't Anita on the cookie. Maybe it was all of you. I hope so. Happy Easter.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Why Aren't We Marching?
It is interesting to see that they're out in vast numbers, the illegal immigrants, peacefully organized and protesting the loss of their chance to become citizens. What's more fascinating is why those of us who already legitimately belong here aren't taking to the streets protesting the loss of our country. It is only a matter of time-- probably just before the elections-- until we/they go into or onto Iran. The New York Times pointed out yesterday that the same kind of diction that preceeded our going into Iraq is being used by the administration now about Iran. Our forces are training for a new kind of air war. Bush is spidering his way through an ever-more entangling web of lies, shameless. But he doesn't like to say he made a mistake, and he doesn't apologize. So his only choice, in view of the enormity of his ego and the small of his brain, is more war. Where is Civil Disobedience when we need it?
It occured to me last week that what was wrong with this war, besides that it never should have started, was that there were no songs, and said I was open to suggestions..A few friends offered "Over Where?"
On the lighter side of the news, at least mine-- I have happily bi-located in Southern Cal where I am halfway through a new novel that I hope we will all live to enjoy reading, having a wonderful time in the writing of, unless I look at the papers. Tomorrow I go for my first(and probably last) lesson in Tae Kwan Doe which plays not a major part in the plot(Eureka! I have one!) but I have to know a little about. Every week I do the equivalent of a seminar, in addition to the writing, My good friend and wry journalist Bill Boyarsky connected me with a politico for the plot element I needed there, the politico connected me with a Korean for what I needed to know in Koreatown, last week I went to the Queen Mary(don't ask) and tomorrow Tae Kwan Doe. Have no idea what next week will bring-- I knew the beginning and the end of the book but am building the rest like Leggo-- no idea what was to come in-between, until it falls into place. Can say no more as my new personal aim is Silence. Fermez la pisque.
hope you are all well and have made the transition with me to gmail as Earthlink sucks and I am tired of talking to India while they pretend their names are Tex. There's an idea. Can't we outsource the presidency?
It occured to me last week that what was wrong with this war, besides that it never should have started, was that there were no songs, and said I was open to suggestions..A few friends offered "Over Where?"
On the lighter side of the news, at least mine-- I have happily bi-located in Southern Cal where I am halfway through a new novel that I hope we will all live to enjoy reading, having a wonderful time in the writing of, unless I look at the papers. Tomorrow I go for my first(and probably last) lesson in Tae Kwan Doe which plays not a major part in the plot(Eureka! I have one!) but I have to know a little about. Every week I do the equivalent of a seminar, in addition to the writing, My good friend and wry journalist Bill Boyarsky connected me with a politico for the plot element I needed there, the politico connected me with a Korean for what I needed to know in Koreatown, last week I went to the Queen Mary(don't ask) and tomorrow Tae Kwan Doe. Have no idea what next week will bring-- I knew the beginning and the end of the book but am building the rest like Leggo-- no idea what was to come in-between, until it falls into place. Can say no more as my new personal aim is Silence. Fermez la pisque.
hope you are all well and have made the transition with me to gmail as Earthlink sucks and I am tired of talking to India while they pretend their names are Tex. There's an idea. Can't we outsource the presidency?
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