(A?)musing de Bergerac; artistic, idealistic and ailing

Oh Lord, give me loving friends and . . .

2012-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

...a great virtual assistant, and I'll steal the rest.
So, I've always wanted to blog about the things I'm learning in my journey toward becoming a film producer...and I did a little in one of my Thursday Thirteens.

However. There was no way I was gonna have the strength to write another blog. You know, for Bakery Films. Podcasting was a possibility though.

I've been really sick, fish or cut bait time has come for BF in a number of ways and I simply didn't have the strength for starting a new endeavor, even something as simple as podcasting. If only, you know, if only there was more help in my life with BF, with my life, if only, if only blah-blah, whine-whine. I Even posted about the ways in which this neuro-immune disease known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome can leech away young lives.

I prayed a lot. And slowly this plan formed.

Well first, there were friends who started coming out of the woodwork to help me after the Stevens lab CPET (Cardio-Pulmonary Exercise Testing). Since then, they've been cleaning, doing laundry and even cooking sometimes. It's been amazing. That got me thinking about BF. What if I hired help? After putting together list of all the things which needed to be done to get ready for the fundraising campaign and beyond, I discovered that less than half of it needed my touch alone. So, I invited a friend to invest, she refused and instead gave me a hundred bucks to hire a virtual assistant.

It's down to him Rony Karmaker, that the campaign was launched at all and to him and my dear friends we continue to make progress.

Omigosh I'm a Radio Host

2012-01-07T03:28:00.000-08:00

All I wanted was a way to podcast. To my befuddled brain, figuring that out with Blogger was just....a hassle. Find a site to host it--add the url--shoot myself in the head--
Or, go to Blog Talk and use the membership I'd signed up for months ago. And then simply replace the live cast (which was dreadful) with the one recorded days before. Good deal. And then it seemed a good way to promote the campaign (which I've yet to remember to mention on air) and now it's just kind of fun.

I've always wanted to share my journey toward becoming a film producer with others, like me, who are on the road. There's so much to learn. I'm embedding my second broadcast (first live one) Why Failure is Your Friend here, because there's a lot in it about ME/CFS.

Listen to internet radio with mjewell on Blog Talk Radio

Please Help Me Raise $3000 For Bakery Films This Winter!

2012-01-01T00:29:00.000-08:00

About Bakery Films:

Women over 35 are still staying away from the theaters in in droves.

Bakery Films is about creating the new Woman Pictures. In the 30s and 40s there were magnificent roles for women actors; big stories with bigger characters.
There were movies like The Women with its effortlessly female cast. Other films like Animal Kingdom while not necessarily woman-centric, had characters of great (by todays standards) depth.I want Bakery Films to be considered a legitimate heir (heiress?) to this tradition of filmmaking; writing, producing and developing projects grown up women will love to watch and characters any grown up actor would love to play.

You'll find a link to our campaign on IndieGoGo on the side panel. We're also starting a new blog about Bakery Films and movie production in general entitled, 'What I Know So Far; Confessions of a fledgling film producer' *grin*, that would be me.

Please sign up as that will guide you toward our latest updates, such as our accompanying radio show and new videos.

Please make a contribution, we have a number of great thank you gifts for donors from notecards created by the artist upon whose work our logo is based, to producer credit.

REPOST: Is Worth...

2011-08-25T23:38:00.000-07:00

Assisi en il Cuore Verde

Fingertips trail ancient walls, the 
occasional tree gets hugged; the mood  of a city filters in through my 
senses. Years later, a sound or scent or  taste will take me right back.
 Even better, I have only to call the  experience up in  memory to know 
how a place felt. I've learned that  snapping pics along the way  tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this  process.

During the first leg of my first 
European journey, I took reams of  pictures.  The Moms recorded video  
and snapped  photos of every train  station and street corner across 
five countries. And for a while, their  camera-enthusiasm was infectious
 and I clicked along with them.  My  prepared travel mode; plugged into 
my CD player, the book in my hand a  handy camouflage; was great for 
savoring a city and it's denizens. In  addition to providing a 
soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush 
between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to 
observe unobserved. And because Rory  Gilmore and I were separated at 
birth (omigosh...just realized, that the  phrase "could be my daughter" 
is more applicable...ouch) far too many  books weighed down my luggage 
when the trip began. I developed the habit  of leaving them behind when 
they were. To this day, I wonder  about the travels of those who read 
them after me...and whether they  were as freaked out as I was by the 
ending of Carol  O'Connell's "Judas  Child".

Giving up my camera however, was, like 
most good things that happen  while traveling, an accident. Five weeks 
into the trip, the Moms had  gone. My travel partner and I were spending
 two weeks at a resort just  outside of Assisi. A resort, which,  due to
 an extended  fight  with my friend   and the determined pursuit of the 
Neapolitan handy man, was feeling  just a tad cramped. So a beautiful 
snowy day found me in Siena, a couple  of trains and a bus away...without my camera

Dang it. 

Only, not so much.

I remember scattering pigeons as I 
crossed the piazza, cursing my  forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious
 gazes directed at me from the  white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I
 walked all over old  Siena  that day, not missing my camera nearly as 
much as I thought I would.  And then  I found it.

Down some side street, I will never find
 again was a gallery of  modern art. They were just opened, some of the 
rooms had not yet been  finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some 
pedestrian, some  self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful 
and brilliant pieces  thrown in. I went up and up and up,  and was on 
the roof. To this day,  I'm not sure whether it was the installation or 
the view which first  took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments 
where art and life  collide to create an impression far more evocative 
than either could on  its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the 
scene would be more  descriptive than words. Instead the experience is 
private, jealously  guarded in my own heart. 

An immortal moment...something  in Siena which exists only for me. 

A Picture...

2011-07-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

Photographs have been popping up in the oddest places. While slowly unpacking boxes from my 150th move in the past 5 years, old and/or forgotten snaps are unearthed. From the desk box, emerged a tattered envelope containing pictures from my 'surprise' party 11 or 12 years ago. My German Grandma let it slip the surprise by asking me to confirm the time it was to start. Too funny. I look so...I want to say young, but (thanks to my mother's fabulous genes, I haven't changed all that much) a more appropriate word is uncertain, hopeful; and a girl lacking any notion of the woman she'd become.

In the same box is a picture of one of my dearest girls, at ages 2. In the photo, Lorelei, a blonde angel in a puffy pink jacket and her friend Rosie are absorbed in a school project. The frame is handmade, cut from yellow and orange construction paper, decorated with the squiggles and dots of a marker. I can still see Laur running over to present it to me.

Six or seven years ago, the golden shoebox, which holds a couple of decks of cards and other odds and ends, produced a pic of the girls who warrant Most Favored Nation status. It's of a later vintage. I had already left them when Lisa sent me this pic of Laur and Allie. By then, I'd crossed the Atlantic for the first time. I had eaten brussel sprouts in Brussels, gotten lost in Rome, Marseilles, Paris and Florence; and played the balcony scene with a Napolitano Romeo in Umbria.

When the photo of my favorite girls arrived, a couple of years later; my grand adventure was over and everyday life was kicking my butt. Worse, the thought that I might not realize my dearest hopes and dreams, had reared it's ugly head. For the first time in my life I'd jettisoned a friendship, taken a full-time job, and acknowledged (if only to myself) that the kink in my health was not something I could 'power through'. In that moment, the picture of these smiling girls at the ocean was hard to take. I missed them, I missed what used to be known as my life.

When I find the picture again a few weeks ago while going through the gold shoebox for the umpteenth time (I'm sure there's something important in there that I missed last time), the girl's peek out at me. This time, I know joy with maybe a hint of nostalgia. Okay, and perhaps...perhaps, the teeniest bit of regret, sympathy for the girl I was then. The girl who had not yet learned how to reconcile the life she dreamed with the life she owned.

Tags: pictures, travel, italy, nostalgia, memories, love

Alas and Alack' My Dear Friends....

2011-06-06T12:48:00.000-07:00

I've been the victim of a confluence of events that can only happen to *me*. There are those who might suggest my bed was made by me and now I should lie in it. Whether or not those people are right, it's extremely tactless of them to say so now.

So I have two handsets for my phone. For the longest time only one had a decent battery. And yes, I know that's stupid because every once in a while the thought does occur, 'this is dumb, what if something happens to the good phone battery, you will have no access to your outside world'.

However when push comes to shove, I always find reasons for not buying a fresh battery for the juice-less phone. Generally variations on...I'm too cheap. Besides, what are the chances the good phone battery dies without days, yea, weeks of notice?

'Hello, Ancient Master Dropper of Phones (me<---)!' I say to myself 'ehm, clumsy much?' But I make it a point not to listen to advice from myself, particularly when it's given in that specific *tone*. Of course, last Monday, after dropping the phone and managing (somehow) to break the battery but not the phone. I wished I had listened...regardless of Tone.

After eBaying myself a couple of phone batteries (I'm educable, if slow); the batteries seem slow to arrive. A couple of days past their due date, I discover that I' have neglected to update the eBay shipping address after my last move. Hah, yes....genius.

Have I mentioned the juiceless battery is being a complete and utter jerk? Juice-less is a teensy understatement; as the battery seems to have just enough power to light the little caller id screen. Now I get to watch helplessly as unanswerable calls come in. Let me just say this, I now understand why dogs hate cats. Have you ever watched a cat sit just out of reach of a dog barking itself into a myocardial infarction? Phone = cat. Me = dog.

Looking forward to talking to you (at last!) very soon,

REPOST: The Library Book

2011-05-09T00:00:00.000-07:00

I love libraries. They are, quite literally, the places on earth I  feel most comfortable. Reading is a solitary experience, but the  communal nature of library reading infuses it with a sense of...family,  in a way. We belong to physical families as a result of genetic  similarity, library familiality is a result of like-mindedness. 

My favorite thing, which is what has happened with my current book, Readingsby  Sven Birkerts, is finding the receipt of a previous patron stuck  between the pages of the book. Indulging myself in Birkerts' musings  about reading and time and the human condition has opened a doorway to a  place I barely remember but for which my longing has never died. That  pure...simple place where exists the exquisite and innocent joy wrought  by everything related to reading. 

Books...the way they  smell, the weight of a volume in hand, the texture of the page...are  approached with the pitcher's intent ritual treading of the mound, with  the sommelier's expert palate. Reading...that moment when when letters  and punctuation vanish from the page and the mind leaves this world and  enters another...is a meditation, a cleansing of thought and an  unfettering of spirit. It's a way of taking a vacation from one's self.  To view the world through new eyes, to experience our hearts desires  expressed in words we cannot find ourselves; "we read to know we are not  alone", as someone said. 

So a year ago, this guy in Napa checked Birkerts' book out of the library. Readings,  which is basically a book about books and the way in which they can  help us make sense of our swiftly tilting, sharply spinning world; or if  not make sense, at least give us a vocabulary with which to express our  confusion. I love Birkerts' clear, spare, unsentimentalized sentiment,  he expresses his thoughts in a way that gives me plenty of room for my  own and I find the experience of reading Readings rather like enjoying a sherbet after dinner; a delightful preparation for the dessert of deep thought. 

I  wonder what Napa Guy thought? Does he feel as I do about Birkerts's  writing? Does he find it difficult, as I do and Birkerts does, to  reconcile our present with our recent past and near future? Does he  relish the gifts of libraries and of books as much as I?

REPOSTED From Email: Midlife Crisis, Anyone?

2011-01-31T00:00:00.000-08:00

So my biological clock started ticking the other day...loudly. It's funny because said timepiece has been dormant for so much of my life, I was pretty well convinced the notion of an alarm which goes off somewhere in a woman's DNA and starts demanding babies was a myth; like unicorns, fairies and comfortable heels; perpetrated upon womankind by our mothers and Madison Avenue.

I've never experienced a strong desire for children of my own. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE children. I ADORE children. Like any non-cyborg human being, I've always found babies irresistible. There is nothing which compares to the warm, loving weight of an infant in your arms, except for the "there but for the grace of God go I" breath of relief with which I hand said infant over to Mommy or Daddy at the appointed time. I've spent most of my life taking care of kids. While it's true that babies are cute and cuddly my preference has always been for the sentient years. The experiences and conversations to be had after a child discovers Mom and Dad are not the literal center of the universe, for me, hold a special and intense magic. From, a toddler's first "Why?", I am spellbound. Even so, even so...just as certainly as I knew at eight or nine, caring for children would play a big part in my life, I knew with equal conviction that I did not want to raise children in this system of things and that if Jehovah granted me a measure of contentment, I'd wait until the new one; when I can be the kind of mother I've always wanted to be.

So now what? Is it time to knock a man over the head, drag him down the aisle and make him the father of dozens of fat babies (Firefly shout out)? Um, not so much. The thing which never ceases to amaze me about existential crises...is the mundane-ness of the fix. Several biggish things have kind of happened all at once. I've turned 35, one of my major milestone ages. After years of annoying, debilitating and confusing health issues I have a diagnosis which makes sense of it all; and my companion of fifteen years, a small, fiercely loyal, utterly obnoxious feline who has been with me since she was 1 month old is sick for the first, and probably, last time in her life.

It's this last straw which jump-started the clock. What will it be like when the only heart beat which truly belongs to my life is my own? My body was preparing an answer before my brain even knew the question. Babies! Clear evidence that DNA/emotions/clocks (biological or otherwise) have no I.Q. whatsoever. Is it time for children? No.

However it is time for something; time to begin the process of letting go, time to give a very old kitty permission to find her natural resting place when the time comes. To that end, I stumbled upon a couple of very good, very funny books for animal people. The first is "Tell Me Where It Hurts" which is written by veterinary surgeon (I know, I know, but I"m way more squeamish than you and loved it) Nick Trout (yes, as in the fish), it is funny and it is elegant. I'm taking a break from the current audiobook to write this, because it's great for navel-gazers of all stripes, animal person or not. The book is "It's Okay To Miss The Bed On The First Jump" by John O'Hurley...fun-E and great for where my head is now.

All of this to ask the question of the people from whom I most want to know their answers: What was your last/most significant midlife/existential crisis? And how did you/did it resolve it/itself? It's nearing midnight as I sit working through this particular knot in my psyche, my friends. Help me out.
Much love,
Maya

So there's this really cool site, called instantwatcher.com

2011-01-02T22:46:00.000-08:00

While fiddling around Netflix...I think I was looking for the blog...or something...well, anyway, I stumbled across a nifty little link entitled 'apps'. Netflix has apps? I like apps! And for Netflix...seriously, apps are more necessity than luxury.

A number of limitations crop up for enthusiastic NF'ers. First, only 500 movies per queue? Insanity, insanity, I say! And yes, while it is possible (or was, I haven't looked for it in a while) to save movies to lists, the process is so counter-intuitive you have to re-learn it every time you use it, that is, if you can even find it on the site. You can't even link your list to your queue in order to avoid double entries. The queue itself is kinda clunky. I don't know about you guys, but when going through either 'Instant' or 'DVD' queues to figure out what to watch next, I'm often in the mood for a particular genre. My only option was to scroll through my queues for videos in the 'Television' or 'Classic' genre. 

Which is a huge pain. 

'Yes, #3, Meet Me In St. Louis would be cool, but let me keep scrolling to see if...ooh, #248 One, Two, Three sounds good too. But do I want to watch that more or less than...than...What was that first title?' And back up to the top I go. Not only have I forgotten the name of the first movie, I also can't remember where it was in the queue. 

These were a few of the thoughts tripping through my bean while checking out the 'Apps' section. When I found instantwatcher.com, I wasn't sure it would be particularly useful. The site design doesn't exactly scream 'must have'. In fact it looks a bit like one of those search pages you get hijacked to when you accidentally type in the wrong URL.  However, if  you use NF Watch Instantly heavily, instantwatcher.com is your new best friend. What it lacks in razzle-dazzle it more than makes up for in functionality and ease of use. Not only are titles broken down by any number of useful categories, from 'genre' to 'popular; their categories have categories. 

Let's say you want to browse television? instantwatcher.com includes NF's standard sub-genres (British TV, Kids TV etc); but the site also permits you to sift responses by rating (NF users, New York times, or Rotten Tomatos), year and MPAA rating. See a title you think you might like? Just roll your cursor over it to read the summary. You can find a list of the new or popular; but best of all, you will also find a list of what's coming up. The 'Coming Soon to Instant' link is a must-click. Can't miss Xanadu, coming to NF Watch Instantly 2/7/11. 

Want to sort your Instant queue by genre, date or rating? Want to be able to save more titles than your queue allows? Those are two very cool functions available to premium users. It's incredibly easy to use and view your queued and saved titles. The sidebar presents options to view only your queue, only or saved titles or both at the same time; all for the low-low of $9.95 per month...oops, did I say month I meant $9.95 per year. instantwatcher.com has definitely put the 'fun' back in to managing your instant queue.

Disclaimer: instantwatcher does offer a free membership for bloggers and journalists who write about the project. But truth is I would have signed up for a premium account anyway. Writing this post saved me from spending ten bucks and from shouting my instantwatcher.com joy from the rooftops.

REPOST: Heard On The Bus

2010-12-27T13:43:00.000-08:00

I am a  reasonably well brought up girl, brought up  in the suburbs with, to a  large extent,  small town values. 'Please' and 'thank you' are tattooed  on my DNA, and the idea of occupying (say on a bus) a seat while someone  older or more infirm than myself is unthinkable. Unthinkable to a  degree that I've never given the objects of courtesy much thought at  all. When I thought of the elderly at all, you know, in the group sense,  it was as I knew them in my own smallish burg. Quiet, well-mannered,  nice, etc.  However, it never occurred to me to wonder, what they're like.  What they are really like among themselves. 

What were they like when  thrown together in public, at the front of a bus this one with  cataracts, that one hobbling on a walker, another in a wheelchair? My  role in such situations is clear, to provide assistance and get out of  the way. The pecking order is clear, age and experience, 'there but for  the grace of god', 'this'll be me one day' and all that. And it was that  role which provided me for the first time a fly on the wall perspective  of how one might behave when a member of the Silver Wing of bus riders,  a club in which everyone is just as infirm as you. 

One  of my good friends and I are standing on the bus after a day of  sightseeing, barely speaking. But...let's not go into that. We're  standing toward the front, when it comes to a stop. A gravely voice  somewhere in the direction of my right elbow comes to me. "Excuse  me...excuse me," it growls. "Watch your feet." An older man wearing a  baseball cap rolls into sight, attempting to maneuver his small  mechanical wheelchair past the other seniors who occupy the front of the  bus. "Excuse me, watch your feet," he repeats. Things are going well,  well relatively well, considering the crowd on the bus.  

Oops, spoke to soon.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" A  white-haired old guy with wrap around sunglasses takes a couple of  aborted leaps into the air. "You're running me over! (Blasphemy!)  (Profanity!)" "I said, 'watch your feet'." The fracas dies down as  the old guy in the wheelchair manages to wedge himself into the doorway.  As the bus's lift lowers him to the ground,an elderly Chinese man with  a New York accent speaks up. "That chair (two syllables)--it's so big!  You'd think he'd pick a smaller chair." "These schmucks in wheelchairs,"  the old guy with the sunglasses growls back, "most of them got no  consideration at all." Aahh...welcome to San Francisco.

Tags: san francisco, public transportation, funny stories, senior citizen

Human Target Season 2: Rest in Peace?

2010-12-09T23:57:00.000-08:00

Does anyone remember the last time an action show successfully broadened their target demographic? I don't. The Human Target  I fell in love with, boys-will-be-boys action and all; is all over. The network is attempting to reel in the women viewers. Girls have been let into the tree house.  Sadly, the old and new sensibilities before and behind the camera  have failed to produce a result equal to more than the sum of its parts.

Nobody loves changes to their favorite show but most of us can be bribed with good writing. Unfortunately something is not quite working under Human Target's new regime. Some of the first season's dialogue,  while not Sorkinese, provided much of the humor. 

Winston in the third episode, Embassy Row:

Alright listen; I put a call into Galveston's office to give him a heads up but I ended up having to leave word. Hopefully he's not still holding a grudge after what you did to his boat. And his house. Oh god and that poor horse--well, maybe the horse wasn't really your fault.

Apart from action and humor, characterization was Human Target's big strength. Occasionally we'd get a tantalizing glimpse of backstory (Guerrero has a brother somewhere??)and a lot of the funny or interesting was found in what someone did versus what they said. 

 These days  Chance (Mark Valley), Winston (Chi McBride) and Guerrero (Jack Earle Haley) are faded, pretty much riding their rep  from last season. Ames (Janet Montgomery) and Ilsa (Indira Varma) are flat out...flat. Cardboard story  devices.

The writers are struggling with ways to create engaging tension involving the  Ilsa character. Rather than making the tension sexual; or  turning Ilsa into 'Mom' and the rest of the team into chastened little boys  who sneak around behind Mom's back; there have got to be more interesting  options.

Right now Ilsa is used to spout exposition or to state the obvious (a particularly annoying and cynical habit of network shows); she shrieks away in the background the length of the episode, driving everyone, including the audience, crazy. As the guy on the ground, Winston is  stuck selling operational decisions to their new partner. 

Instead of flirting with a Moonlighting will-they-won't-they story for any members of the cast; let the high stakes struggle for control over Chance, Inc. influence Human Target's 'B' storylines. Chance and team were performing their high-wire personal protection act  before Ilsa came along with her bags of money; they could do it now  without them. Whether a negotiation or no holds barred cage match, let Winston and Ilsa go at it as equals.  And for pity's sake unless they're better written...stop, stop STOP with the Cosby Show moments at the end of the episodes.

While last night's return of both John Steinberg and Lennie James was welcome refreshment, it may not have been enough to keep this viewer interested. 

Good News...She Comes Like Flippin' Disaster On Cat's Feet

2010-10-13T22:46:00.000-07:00

*Author(hee...always wanted to do that)'s note: Wrote this a few months ago right after the move. All is wellish now. A little alone time does amazing things. 

What the heck is wrong with me? 

I'm in a funk. Everything is going so well. And now I'm in a funk; a blue one.

Yes, there is some degree of hormonality at play. However,...Or should I say 'and'? It's like the woman who becomes most pissed at her husband once he apologizes and mends his wicked ways.

No, I'm not angry with my heavenly Papa. But there is similar alchemy at work. Alchemy which transforms dumb suffering and a certain amount of stoicism into a funk neighboring on breakdown territory.

For the first time in seven years I will have a home of my own. Yes, there is a roommate, but nothing changes the fact that this apartment is my home. My public response is all joy and gratitude.

Privately, I'm angry, stressed, nervous and tired. In other words, in a funk. I've been fighting it for days. Determined to generate more appropriate emotions; those I've been faking for friends and family, for example.

Instead I keep thinking about my lost 30's. The decade which I've anticipated from the age of 11. Mourning the potential eaten up by constant illness and struggle for survival. In place of joy is rage, in place of gratitude, indifference.

The past seven years have been a nightmare. The only thing more terrifying than the state of uncertainty in which I've lived; is the newly discovered bizarre superstition camping out in my psyche. The earthquake in turmoil sense that saying the words 'My life is a nightmare,' will make things worse.

Bizarre loonybird, that's me. But now I've written this and feel a bit better. Anyone else ever suffer with, 'Things Are Looking Up So The Sky Must Be Falling Syndrome'?

Thursday Thirteen: Happiness Is...

2010-09-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

]

A brand-spankin'-new pair o' monkey slippers.

A good book you know you will love even before reading the first sentence. 

Living a well-tree'd existence in a...

Temporarily roommate-less apartment.

A flashlight which requires no batteries (it's like we're livin' in the future). 

Having a bookcase which perfectly matches a randomly acquired chest of drawers. 

The fact Trader Joe's dutch waffle cookies come in tins during holiday season...

And that those tins so sweetly hold pens and silk handkerchiefs.

My new comal pan, which I use to make everything.

Working on a new screenplay...

After being done for the day.

A Scents Worth Clean Linen room spray, which comes in a pretty blue bottle with a pretty pale blue label.

The fact that my lovely little jewelry box plays 'Fly Me To The Moon'.

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Return of the Laughing Baby

2010-08-19T13:40:00.000-07:00

DO NOT, I Repeat DO NOT Laugh.

Of course, if you don't...you're probably a cyborg or some such and should plug yourself in to the nearest outlet.

Of My Favorite Quotes From My Favorite Movies -- The One That Got Away

2010-07-22T23:47:00.000-07:00

My favorite novel of all time is Jane Eyre. And I'd love to love, really for my favorite movie of all time to be based on my favorite novel of all time. Every version of Jane Eyre (save one) I've ever seen transforms Jane from an independent, slightly temperamental woman of strong character into an insipid Cinderella. It makes me nuts. 

The intermal monoloque with which she answer's Rochester when he asks: 

Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me?

has yet to appear in any film adaptation. Which is a shame. Apart from being beautifully written it reveals the depth and breadth of the heroine's...well, all the stuff I wrote above. I'm hard pressed to imagine an actor who wouldn't love to get her teeth into it. As it couldn't be added to this week's Thursday Thirteen; it is here shared in this special post.

I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad--as I am now. Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth--so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane--quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.

Thursday Thirteen: Of My Favorite Quotes From My Favorite Movies

2010-07-22T23:30:00.000-07:00

1. Ada Doom: I saw something nasty in the woodshed.

Earl P. Neck: Sure you did, but did it see you baby?  -- COLD COMFORT FARM

2.  Cousin Angus: There's NO butter in hell! -- COLD COMFORT FARM

3. Noah Praetorius: The  woman has     yet to be born who doesn't in her heart believe that she'll make her husband a much     better wife than he has any possible right to expect. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

5. Professor Barker: What a bloody mess. 

Noah Praetorius: And who's fault is it, my fine atomic friend? You can't     go around smashing everything you see, you know. Everything isn't atoms. 

Professor Barker: Yes it is. 

Noah Praetorious: Not for     smashing it isn't. Not in my house and not my train. Debra, get out of the way before     Professor Barker smashes you. He's on a smashing bend. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

6.  Debra Praetorius: It's just that I love you so much. And I went and put     all those candles on that cake when you're really only nine years old. -- PEOPLE WILL TALK

7. Gilbert: Come on, sit down, take it easy. What's the trouble? 

Iris Henderson: If you must know, something fell on my head. 

Gilbert: When, infancy? -- THE LADY VANISHES

8.  Gilbert: Can I help? 

Iris Henderson: Only by going away. 

Gilbert: No, no, no, no. My father always taught me, never desert a lady in trouble. He even carried that as far as marrying Mother. -- THE LADY VANISHES

9. One of the best 'Thanks, but no thanks" lines ever.

Reggie Lambert: I already know an awful lot of people and until one of them dies I couldn't possibly meet anyone else.

and then...

10. Peter Joshua: Well if anyone goes on the critical list let me know.

Reggie Lambert: Quitter.

Peter Joshua: What's that?

Reggie Lambert: You give up awfully easy don't you? -- CHARADE

11. Ned Seton: You know most people, including Johnny and yourself, make a big mistake about Julia: They're taken in by her looks. At bottom she's a very dull girl and the life she pictures for herself is the  life she belongs in. -- HOLIDAY

12. Linda Seton: You wouldn't care to step into a waltz as the old year dies, would you Mr. Case? -- HOLIDAY

13. Flora Poste: Highly sexed young men living on farms are always called Seth or Reuben. -- COLD COMFORT FARM
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"Oh Lord, give me health and strength."

2010-07-19T03:04:00.000-07:00

While reflecting on the incongruity of my daily life with ME/CFS and my work life; I found a brief and powerful piece written by film critic Scott Jordan Harris at 3six5 preposterous. Reading about Scott's parallel reality, I had a light-bulb moment: That my work life has grown out of one desperate hope; the hope of regaining the freedom of self-determination.

It's something you take for granted when you are able-bodied. We get up, we go to work, we get a paycheck. And yes, we might gripe about our lot.The work is mind-numbing, the boss is a pain. Deep down, however, we know we have a choice. We choose to remain at the job. We choose to remain in our city, we choose the status quo.

Unless...we decide to change it. We might go back to school. Or look for a different job. Or try our hand at starting a business during off hours. Perhaps, we're less ambitious, and we're just looking for a new way of letting off steam after work. Once the whistle blows, we decide to take up ballroom dancing instead of having a drink with the boys.

Even when times are hard. When we have to start over again from scratch. The Big Bad Wolf huffs and puffs and blows our house down. Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory pulls up stakes and moves to India. We clutch our families to our bosom and say, "At least we have our health."

That bit, that fabulous Fishhooks McCarthy quote about politics, "Oh Lord, give me health and strength. I'll steal the rest." It's so funny. But the truth? Health and strength? It is the ability to steal the rest.

My ME/CFS has gone into remission twice. The last time, I went from sleeping on the floor of a friend's attic; to a nanny job in San Francisco which came with a car and a studio apartment. Health and strength meant the ability to go to the theater and walk down the street for the best sushi in town. It meant damp Saturday afternoons ensconced in a corner of my favorite coffee shop; planning the next step in my career, working on my novel, or mapping out my next European voyage.

So, yes, I want to make movies because I have stories to tell. And because it's been obvious from the age of three, making movies is what I ought to be doing.

But the truck that got me here is this: Getting very sick, very young, means either giving up on the idea of freedom and self-determination; or finding a substitute for health and strength. It means finding a way through the pain, frustration and loneliness of chronic illness to something...

Else.

Thursday Thirteen: Things: What I'm Grateful For This Week

2010-07-15T00:11:00.000-07:00

1. Dark Chocolate...'nuff said.

2. Buying books. Adding to my collection for pretty, pretty bookshelves is such a joy.

3. New Kitty, of course; and the cat condo a friend gave me.

4. The gorgeous, beautiful whether we're having. Maximum awe, minimum heat.

5. My antique pieces. I don't have a lot of antiques (don't want a lot of antiques, a preponderance of which I find slightly creepy) it's a lovely feeling to use a jewelry box or table or lamp which has a long history. 

6. Poetry. Specifically that of Edna St Vincent Millay. She speaks to a wordless part of me, in the same way as music.

7.  Essential oil candles. Yumm.

8. Wasabi Almonds

9. Seeing Abbott and Costello's WHO'S ON FIRST for the first  time in over a decade.

10. The Sartorialist. Fashion. Heaven.

11. The addition of BABYLON 5 to  Netflix Instant Watching. My  heart pitter-pats, yay.

12. New friends.

13. Old friends.

Tags: thursday thirteen, wasabi almonds, dark chocolate, babylon 5, sartorialist, friendship

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Cover His Face,...He Died Young

2010-07-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

When I got the news, I would have given anything for it not to be true. Day and night, for many weeks this poem ran through my head.

~Jason, my baby brother.

1975-2004 

ELAINE

OH, come again to Astolat!
I will not ask you to be kind.
And you may go when you will go,
And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,
Or ask you if you hold me dear,
Or trouble you with things for you
The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,
So very still the lake shall be,
You could not guess--though you should guess--
What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,
The garden-seat so very wide,
You needs must think--if you should think--
The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,
I'd watch you for a little while,
To see you speak, the way you speak,
And smile,--if you should smile.

--Second April, by Edna St Vincent Millay

It's Official I'm Crashed...and Cranky

2010-07-06T23:45:00.000-07:00

Good Lord and Heavens to Betsy, I hate this disease.

I'm a complete psychopath right now; fit for neither man nor beast. I'm pre-menstrual, post-moving, peri-new apartment and pre-brother's sixth death-iversary crashed. I'm a basket case. And I'm a basket case with a fever, a migraine and a limited ability to feed myself.

Back in 2004, I fell into a gaping hole in the social safety net which left me to varying degrees, homeless; moving around more than a gypsy for six years. At long last, the gap narrowed and the net has caught me up. A wonderful nonprofit has set me down in an apartment with a roommate.   

My new apartment has very good bones, which sounds vile,  but is rather lovely. It's also a bit of a fixer-upper and I love  that too. When I moved in the place was filthy. And I mean, 'gross, don't walk on the kitchen floor in your bare feet or you'll catch bathroom germs' nasty. Oddly enough, this was fine with me. There's a ritual cleansing I like to do which helps me establish a relationship with my new surroundings. 

Doing a big clean is a tricky proposition in a place already inhabited. Cleanliness is subjective. One person's disgusting is another person's mildly untidy. So what; the first thing I say to New Roomie is, 'you live like a filthy animal...mind if I sterilize'?

It helped tree-MEN-dously that the place was a kind of a disaster. But, she's older and my sense is that her previous roommate did nothing, leaving New Roomie to either sink or swim on her own. Anyways...yay, I got to clean.

One of the major sucking points of this disease is that I can no longer knock out a major spring clean in an evening or two. Three weeks later, I'm still pecking away at it like a dispirited parakeet. The major work is done and I'm comfortable, thankfully. But now...I'm crashed.

And I hate everyone. Literally. Every. Body Except, maybe my ME/CFS blogging community. But that's only because there's no chance they'll show up on my actual doorstep. And New Kitty. New Kitty lets me rub her tummy. Everyone else can go home.

It Was Like A Mafia Don's Funeral

2010-05-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

She was a little runt of a stray...but wow, talk about personality, she had wayy more than her share. 

She had no front claws (I hated to, but she kept her claws out all the time, I still bear the scars), she was teeny tiny, old and rickety, but still made huge dogs cringe.She has defended her territory against all manner of intruder; from three-year old kid to fully grown realtor.

Even with me, the only human she adored; Nina was cranky and demanding. Every little inch the curmudgeonly; "you kids get off my lawn!" lovable.  

These qualities and many more besides made her memorable. I wish I had a nickel for every time my friends have said: "How's your crazy cat?" "How's Nina doing?" "Do you still have Nina" "How's your cat? She does not like me."

And then late last year, she began to get sick. Really sick. Not "you made me move one too many times so now I'm gonna pull out all my hair' sick. But, 'there's a funny little thing under my tongue. Did I hurt myself when I pulled out all my fur' sick and 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick.

I felt the ticking for months. The clock counting down the minutes to the end of our time together.

When she came home with me, I was twenty and she could fit in the palm of my hand. The kittens at the shelter were sleeping balls of fur. All except for this adorable, svelte black kitten, who curiously tested the air in my direction. When the lady came in to open it's cage, all of the kittens woke up. And suddenly I was eye to eye with a fluffy grey and black striped tabby with huge green eyes and a very pink nose. It was Nina. She started to purr. And I was lost.

She was afraid of wind. And hands...but not feet. At first I was always stepping on her because she'd follow me into a room and curl up behind my heel. She loved french fries. But only if they were hot. She did not like children. She did like men. There was another kitty in the mirror, but Nina would only try to get at it if she thought I wasn't looking.. Being laughed at offended her dignity.  And she preferred to drink her water by dipping a paw and licking it dry.

I tried denial until it became delusional. I tried bargaining.until the deal-breaker. When 'I can't groom myself, even thought it's my favorite thing', sick,  became "I can no longer eat," sick. Sitting in the car on the way to the vet's I was still hoping, hoping, I was wrong. I knew what I was preparing to do and yet could not imagine coming home with an empty carrier.

My grief did not surprise me. My friends did. My former roommate and 'sister from another mother' surprised me with flowers and a card. Another bought an orchid. All called, or wrote, or in some way honored the loss of my crazy feline friend.  And honestly, given her personality...the outpouring of support surprised me a little. It was a little like a Mafia don's funeral. Either that, or the measure of true and dear friendship.

Thursday Thirteen: What I've Learned So Far

2010-05-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

On Becoming Film Producer

1.   Failure is your friend. I could trot out the expected  cliche, 'Failure  is a great teacher'. It's true, but not my point  today. Each failure  adds value to the next attempt. 

2.  Never take no for an answer. Sooo  obvious, right? But it's a miracle how many times we chicken out when  someone puts an obstacle before us. I grow feathers far more often than  I'd like to admit. 

3.   Be humble! If we were Spielberg, we wouldn't be talking to the assistants. 

4.   Assistants are your friends.

5.  Don't be seduced by  the glamour. Say this to yourself whenever your ego starts resembling  that of a mini-mogul; "It's about the work." 

6.   It's the screenplay, stupid. If the story sucks, don't bother.

7.   Don't let the perfect become the enemy of the good. Sometimes we must compromise in order to win the bigger battle. So what if this film is going straight to video? You're building a reputation. Which brings us back to...

8.   Reputation is everything. The movie business, probably more most, is a relationship business. Don't be a jerk and don't lie; unless you want to be known as a jerk and a liar.

9.   Learn from everyone. 

10.  Help others wherever possible, you never know how that might come back to you in the future.

11.  Don't give up.

12.  Don't give up.

13.  Don't give up.

These are some of the things people have taught me matter so far. It's mostly common sense stuff. But you'll be amazed how quickly sense flies out the window when getting started in the biz of Dream Making. Yes, I'm still uncredited...for the moment. However, this is still good advice and your mileage may differ.

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...A Thousand Words

2010-05-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

I'm shy.

Sort of.

Not really.

Okay, it's like this. It's my face. I have  zero control over what appears on it. Every stray thought and emotion  starts in my eyes and makes its way over my lips and cheeks (complete with  wait for it...a visible blush. Lovely!) and into my eyebrows.There are  few people who like playing their cards close to the chest more than I.  There are even fewer who are as spectacularly bad at it as I am.

Want to  know what Maya *really* thinks? Ask her a question and then watch her  face. 

Perhaps, there is some lingering tribal suspicion regarding  little  soul-sucking boxes, perhaps not. At any rate,  the notion of my naked  soul, preserved in the moment for whomever cares to see; sets off  reflexive butterflies in my gut.  The idea of seeing revealed and  preserved some stray thought not covered by my personal Freedom of  Information Act freaks me out. So when "smile pretty for the camera" time comes around; what would I do? Go blank and paste on  a smile.

This is crazy. I know it's crazy. None of us can expect to move through  the world completely invulnerable. Our vulnerability is what elicits the  best of human emotion in others; compassion, empathy, generosity,  protectiveness, love.

Still, in my younger days, my primary goal was  self-containment. This woman was an island. Looking back, I realize few  people were more ill-equipped for that role than I. At my core, I feel  deeply connected to humanity, it is in my nature to love deeply and  forgive freely.I'm a sap.  Such people are rarely invulnerable. Why was I  so afraid for others to catch a glimpse of that girl?

Nowadays I'm better. But still, If you want a great picture of me, don't  let me see you comin'.

REPOST: Is Worth...

2010-04-26T17:28:00.000-07:00

Fingertips trail ancient walls, the occasional tree gets hugged; the mood  of a city filters in through my senses. Years later, a sound or scent or  taste will take me right back. Even better, I have only to call the  experience up in  memory to know how a place felt. I've learned that  snapping pics along the way  tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this  process.

During the first leg of my first European journey, I took reams of  pictures.  The Moms recorded video  and snapped  photos of every train  station and street corner across five countries. And for a while, their  camera-enthusiasm was infectious and I clicked along with them.  My  prepared travel mode; plugged into my CD player, the book in my hand a  handy camouflage; was great for savoring a city and it's denizens. In  addition to providing a soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to observe unobserved. And because Rory  Gilmore and I were separated at birth (omigosh...just realized, that the  phrase "could be my daughter" is more applicable...ouch) far too many  books weighed down my luggage when the trip began. I developed the habit  of leaving them behind when they were. To this day, I wonder  about the travels of those who read them after me...and whether they  were as freaked out as I was by the ending of Carol  O'Connell's "Judas  Child".

Giving up my camera however, was, like most good things that happen  while traveling, an accident. Five weeks into the trip, the Moms had  gone. My travel partner and I were spending two weeks at a resort just  outside of Assisi. A resort, which,  due to an extended  fight  with my friend   and the determined pursuit of the Neapolitan handy man, was feeling  just a tad cramped. So a beautiful snowy day found me in Siena, a couple  of trains and a bus away...without my camera

Dang it. 

Only, not so much.

I remember scattering pigeons as I crossed the piazza, cursing my  forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious gazes directed at me from the  white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I walked all over old  Siena  that day, not missing my camera nearly as much as I thought I would.  And then  I found it.

Down some side street, I will never find again was a gallery of  modern art. They were just opened, some of the rooms had not yet been  finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some pedestrian, some  self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful and brilliant pieces  thrown in. I went up and up and up,  and was on the roof. To this day,  I'm not sure whether it was the installation or the view which first  took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments where art and life  collide to create an impression far more evocative than either could on  its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the scene would be more  descriptive than words. Instead the experience is private, jealously  guarded in my own heart. 

An immortal moment...something  in Siena which exists only for me. 

Push -- Burn -- Crash

2010-04-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

All of my ME/CFS mates can relate to the push and crash. But am I the only one who suffers from the push -- burn -- crash phenomena?

'Instance, Last week, had a doctor's appt. Now I'm in a foul mood during doc appt days, at the best of times. There's the whole night before, can't really sleep, body ringing with 'prep for unpleasantness mode'. Yes, you're right, I set myself up for unpleasantness by anticipating unpleasantness. Yes, I need to change my attitude about doctor's appointments. Look for the positive. Turn it around in my head. Going out of my way to languish 20 to 60 minutes (after my appointment time) in a petri dish -- ahem, waiting room; for a doctor who will then take five minutes to either 1) poke and prod my trigger spots; or B) read my chart and shrug; is great fun!

People, that I no longer sing the 'I hate doctors' song I made up when I was 11, is very big progress for me.

Now...why did I start talking...oh, right. Push -- Burn -- Crash. Does anyone else have this issue? If forced to go well beyond my limits for a planned thing -- something I have to get adrenalized for -- like a doctor's appointment; my body seems to ride the high for up to 72 hours. It feels like burning . I can't sleep, tend to be kind of jittery (no, I don't do caffeine) and buzzed for a day or two. And then I crash. Ka-put. That's all she wrote...for days (and yes, italics are my friend this post).

Does anyone else experience this particular phenom?

The Age Of Innocence; and why I love it's ending ~spoiler alert~

2010-04-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

"And [I] walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme/ A ghost in marble  of a girl you knew." Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thirty years after looking down into his wife's triumphant, frightened  eyes; thirty years after the news of her pregnancy broke and bound up  his heart, the widowed Newland Archer sits on a Parisian bench, below  the window of the woman he'd loved and lost. 

Will he go up to her? Will they find a way to be together after so long a  separation? I don't think so. Madame Olenska had become a part of the  private world to which he retreated. The world of beauty and letters and  transcendent love. She belonged to the inner life which sustained him  through a long marriage to a woman who could not hope to be his true  mate; through the mundane trivialities of daily family life and New York  society. 

Approaching her home, he realized that the desperate, clutching, painful  process of turning the dream of his beloved into the reality of  relationship; would invade and lay waste to his private landscape.  And  for what?  In his memory's halls she reigns supreme, his lovely girl in  marble. How can the real Madam Olenska, aged thirty years possibly  measure up? And how can Newland at fifty, measure up to the ardent lover  of twenty? He is wiser, richer, yes. But also coarser, more plebeian and   more frightened.

It is not only the memory of Ellen, the girl, he preserves by staying  put on the bench beneath her window; but that of Newland, the boy. He preserves the illusion of the man  he could have been, if only.

Thursday Thirteen: Reasons I Love/Hate British/American TV

2010-04-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Pro-Am: Long seasons. There's nothing like the wondrous 25 weeks of new eps of my favorite show. This is the main inspiration for my Fall Happy Dance.
Pro-Brit: Short seasons. It took me a looooong time to come around to this way of thinking. But short seasons keep everyone fresh. Mamet once said that writing for TV is like running as fast as you can until you die. That can't be good. Plus, it's cool to see your fave actors in different roles throughout the year.
Anti-Am: Too, too shiny. Everyone and everything is just too slick and pretty. I find it hard to empathize with the plastic-ness of it all.
Anti Brit: For pity's sake break a window! I swear, if I see one more action sequence with someone trapped inside a many-windowed house banging on the FLIPPIN' GLASS -- I'm gonna have a heart attack and die.
Pro-Am: The adrenalin-laced, testosterone-driven glee with which action guys break stuff: glass, limbs, automobiles, spaceships (Enterprise shout-out)...oh yes and entire buildings. Sooooooohohohoo much fun.
Pro-Brit: The actors, the actors, the actors....omigosh, the actors. The care, feeding and education of actors in the UK has created a pool containing the best actors in the world. And the killer thing is you're just as likely to see them playing a minor role on TV as you are to see them playing a big role on film.
Anti-Am: The actors, the actors, the actors...omigosh, the actors.We live in a world where character actor means: 'good actor, but not pretty'. Too many of our actors look as if they've never had a real emotion in their lives and wouldn't know how to express one if they did.
Pro-Am: Shows that are so much better than they have any right to be. My favorite trend right now is the hour show which takes the formula and stands it on it's head. From the description, you think you know what you're getting into (or avoiding), and then blammo, you're hit with something very, very cool. Fave examples; Invasion, In Plain Sight, Life, Life Unexpected and Veronica Mars.
Pro-Brit: I dunno, maybe it's the short seasons or theater-centric creative culture; but I love the varied genres in UK TV land. A lot of their best programming would be absolute non-starters in the States. Can you imagine trying to pitch Lark Rise to Candleford in Hollywood?
Anti-Am: Encroaching commercialism. Ten years ago, the television hour ran about 47 minutes, now it's down to 41 or 42. Seriously? Seriously? Advertising suits have the nerve to complain because TiVo'ers avoid the mulchfest of cranky, crass and crude; which now makes up nearly 1/3 of a viewer's hour? Cry me a river.
Pro-Brit: Doctor Who. Need I say more? Probably, not but I will. I'm not sure about the new guy...he's all wrong. His name is Matt Smith for pity's sake and he's like, 12. His main problem, though? He's not Eccleston. Eccleston's my Doctor. I had the same issue with Tennant...right up until I didn't.
Pro-Brit: Cast musical chairs. At first I hated it, but now I love it. Perfect (though perhaps not the best) example of how cast musical chairs keeps a show fresh; MI-5, or Spooks as it's known everywhere but here. There's a dimension of suspense added to a thriller when you know that no cast member is safe.
Pro-Am: Comfort of the franchise. We have a lot of franchises here in the States. And we love our genre-rated TV. I love (or am in at least strong like with) all the Law & Orders. I love court shows and medical dramas. I like other things too, and it's good Hollywood is picking up on the developing appetite for more variety, cause I like a lot of the new stuff too. We do good TV pretty darn well. But I'm not always in the mood for good or thought-provoking. A lot of times I'm just looking for a show to hit all it's marks and give me a satisfactory ending. We do that, spectacularly.

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Tags: thursday thirteen, meme, television, british TV, American TV, lark rise to candleford, veronica mars, life, life unexpected, doctor who, matt smith

On Being Ill; and other blessings

2010-04-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

Illness is a secret and strange thing. The processes of a disease; symptoms, emotions, coping mechanisms are all incredibly private. However, the effect of the process is often very public indeed. Your life is measured by others, those on the outside of the process, by how well you look and how well you function.

It's impossible to explain to someone how one might be at peace, or happy, or even joyous; while tied to a bed by sickness; many find the notion incomprehensible. The idea that a bedridden or housebound person might find contentment in their present state is for them, unthinkable, even offensive.

Portrait    of  Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette by Shoshana Kertesz

 I've had this conversation with friends; very dear and loving friends. People who have never experienced the insanity of sickness which unpacks it's boxes and moves in to stay. Some friends cannot understand why I'm not despairing or distressed; why I'm not beating every bush for a cure. When asked how such efforts will help me get through the day; of course, they have no answer. 

I'm an old campaigner. After living with ME/CFS  for fourteen years, I've learned what does or doesn't work for me. I've learned that hope is a double-edged sword to be wielded carefully. I've learned how to want what I have, while not forsaking dreams for what I want.             

ME/CFS has taken large parts of a life I once took for granted. Being an excellent nanny, or an excellent anything employment-related? Gone. Dinner with the girls on a summer evening? No more. Taking in a movie or making plans to attend the midnight showing of the latest Spiderman/Superman/BatmanX-Men? Vanished like a puff of smoke.

ME/CFS has taken from me a lot of the hopes I took for granted; things such as; a home and husband of my own, moving to Europe; exchanging my career as a nanny for one as a personal assistant.

But here's the strange, crazy and wonderful thing;  My illness has given to me as well. It has given me a deeper, truer connection to my authentic self, to my family (those related by blood and by love), to my God. Illness has enhanced my empathetic nature and  my listening skills. In the process, I've learned to offload a lot of garbage. My former obsession with being the 'good girl' seems ludicrous. I no longer live and die by other people's opinions. 

Most of all, ME/CFS has given me something I never believed possible...my dream. What could be better or more beautiful than that?

You know what they say, if all else fails...

Do what you were born to do.  

Tags: ME/CFS, illness, dreams, ambition, life,
cfids,
cfs, growing up

Room For Rent

2010-04-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

So I've finished my screenplay.

As in, really, mostly  done.

It's sooo funny, the first week or so after completing it, I was  like 'yayyy! wooohoooooo! How much do I rock!!!!' It was fabulous. I  love celebrating. Then...something happened. Thoughts about being finished triggered starting up with the noise-makers and party hats again. I'd do the Dance of  Joy again. But really, it was starting to feel a little forced, a little  phoned in; more of of a 'whoopee' than a truly heartfelt 'WAHOOO'.

Writers 'get it'.These things, these, books, poems, whatevers we write; they're a part of our lives. The story takes up lodging our brains. Until it's finished, we have no idea how much real estate it occupies.

Then we're done. Or sort of done, or mostly done; done as we're going to be at the moment. And it's as though the really annoying renter upstairs; the loud one, with insomnia and the polka dancing; has moved out. First we enjoy the peace and quiet, then the house starts to feel empty-ish, we realize, 'oh yeah, that room doesn't have to be empty, I can rent it out to someone else'.

So I'm taking applications; doing a mental search for the fresh or unfinished.

I wonder what I will write next?

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things I Wish I Hadn't Never

2010-03-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

1. Said nice things about Mimmo. When that guy asked me to tell him what I thought of Mimmo in Italian, my response should have been two words; "Troppo giovane".

2. Started pretending I can add and subtract. I. Cannot. Balance a checkbook. It's online banking for me, baby!

3. Told a certain person he could come see me. We weren't just on different continents, we were on different planes of existence.

4. Started Tweeting. 'Cause now, even though I rarely tweet; I still think about tweeting when I'm not tweeting.

5. Finished my screenplay. Um...'cause I don't exactly know what to do with myself...hence, the blog.

6. Left when the vet told me I shouldn't stay while he put down my cat. I promised her I'd be with her. There will always be a blank space where I should find the end of our lives together. 

7.  Had root canal. Whoof!

8. Started watching The Bachelor again. They pullllled me back in.

9. Been at my brother's funeral. It was a circus.

10. Let my mother co-opt my relationship with my niece. I was very ill at the time, but I should have fought harder to have her brought to see me.

11. Heard the song, 'I Shot The Sheriff'. The version which continues to play in my head is a really bad rendition by an American Idol hopeful. Yikes.

12. Tried sushi. I had no idea how much I'd love it; or how much I'd miss it now that I have nooo money.

13. Been exposed to the Thursday Thirteen. Now I'm completely hooked.

Tags: thursday thirteen, meme, death, siblings, italy, cfs, cfids, regret

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So...Spring Has Sprung

2010-03-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

I should be happy, I know. I am kind of, almost happy. The weather is beautiful; which is wonderful. But I'm filled with dread.

Heat intolerance. One of my least favorite ME/CFS symptoms, looms in my non-to-distant future. I have Spring Fever and I want to rejoice with everyone else. But there's this doomsday countdown taking place inside of me. How many days, weeks until my body feels as though it's cooking from the inside? How long until the recurrent low grade fever becomes an ever-present mid grade fever? Heavens to Betsy, I really want to love Spring and look forward to Summer, I really, really do...oh well.

'Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop'

2007-08-03T16:06:00.000-07:00

So I've been reading a lot of Millay lately. There is a book of sonnets which tell the story of a love affair, tragic from the start. It's called Fatal Interview. The way this woman could string together a thought is extraordinary. Here's something from #18: "Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop", or from #20: 'let your mind,/ Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought."

Ordinary sentiment, ordinary words; put together in a way which captures and exalts the emotion. "Til my pulses stop"; easily understood. Some form of the meaning is common, cliche even. 'Be still my heart, 'racing pulses', hearts that 'skip a beat'; these and more are all part of our cardiovascular vernacular. But to put the words together in that way, so close to what is familiar, but not. It gives the phrasing a startling freshness which is met with immediate recognition.

Millay was an artistic genius an intellectual romantic; with emphasis on 'artist' and 'romantic. She never tried to impress with tricked out words. She communicated in plain language on topics of love, death nature artistic integrity. And with such beauty and ingenuity. Amazing. There's no one like her. Let your mind wearied with thinking doze upon that thought.

More evidence of my startling brilliance....and a teaser

2007-08-02T17:25:00.000-07:00

So in the middle of the night I was fooling with ideas for an online auction to raise money for Bakery's film (yes, I said film...more on that tomorrow) project.

Actually, no . . . I can't wait. I had this idea for a movie..have had for years, and now with  my new 'If I Fail...Fail Spectacularly' mind set I thought, 'Why the heck not?' Give it the old college try.

My brain turned to first steps of lawyers and screenplays and incorporation and coming up with the green to make the bus go. One of the ideas was to do an online auction featuring these fabulous little getaway packages put together by a Charity Villas LLC specifically for nonprofits. But where, oh where, to list the auction? That's when I made my third mistake (the first and second being to surf the web in the middle of the night with 'ideas' brewing in my brain) of downloading Overstock.com's listing software.

It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, create the listing now and fine tune it over the next week or so while laying the groundwork for the auction itself. . . promoting it, etc. Well. . .don't ask how ('cause I don't know) some how I managed to list the darn trip . . . twice. I soon discovered that though I could cancel the items, I would be charged for listing them anyway...and given the high-ticket reserve . . . um . . . they ain't cheap. So my dearly darlings if you are or know anyone who is hankering after a 4 day, 3 night stay at the Hyatt Regency in SF w/ airfare included please point them in the direction of our first auction...or the second.

Life is like a box of chocolates...

2007-07-29T21:53:00.001-07:00

Well, the kids have started school, which of course means I have tons of free time during the day. Time to explore the city, time to catch up with myself, find cool little cafe's for writing or reading, lovely long walks, hanging out on the beach. Maybe you can tell that I've been looking forward to the time off. So why have I spent the first three days of the new school year indoors, with a migraine? The body wants, what the body wants. The summer's eleven hour days were a bit much. The grind definitely took it's toll on my body. Oh well, there is tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... Life is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're going to get. ---dB

Tags: forrest gump, nanny stories, life

The Roses of Victory...Or the Smell of De-feet

2007-07-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.
I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.
Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.
He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.
Now I say, what the hay.

The Roses of Victory. . .Or the Smell of De Feet?

2007-07-24T22:10:00.001-07:00

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.

I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.

Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.

He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.

Now I say, what the hay.

Will the real General Cranky please stand up?

2007-07-20T01:00:00.001-07:00

I live in San Francisco. I'm in San Francisco. I am living in San Francisco. Weird. I've lived twenty-five years of my not terribly big, not terribly interesting life, in one not terribly big, not terribly interesting town on the outskirts of the Bay Area. But now, I've moved to the City on the Bay, where everything is considerably larger...except for me. I am sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean and soon my body will collapse into itself, unable to bear the pressure of the vast, dark, deep. It's an odd feeling. You spend your life surrounded by people. The same people. That isn't what it sounds like. It's not boring, or confining or annoying. Okay...it is all of those things. But it just isn't those things. There is comfort in living your life among people who have known you all of your life. People who know your moods without explanation. Growing up in a semi-small town is a little like living in the theme song to CHEERS. However, being grown up in a semi-small town make you remember the first word of that song. "Sometimes." There comes a point when you would like to change, or would like people to notice the changes you've already made by treating you differently. But of course they don't. You're like wallpaper. They looked at you once when you were nine and haven't really taken a look to note the changes the years have wrought. Anyway, enough whining, presently, I will sort myself out. Yes, I feel a little isolated. Yes, this is a big adjustment. But yes, I'm glad I'm here and yes I love this city. And yes, soon, you'll have to watch my dust. ---dB

Tags: san francisco, moving, small town, personality

Heard on the Bus

2007-07-16T01:04:00.001-07:00

I am a reasonably well brought up girl, brought up in the suburbs with, to a large extent, small town values. 'Please' and 'thank you' are tattooed on my DNA, and the idea of occupying (say on a bus) a seat while someone older or more infirm than myself is unthinkable. Unthinkable to a degree that I've never given the objects of courtesy much thought at all. When I thought of the elderly at all, you know, in the group sense, it was as I knew them in my own smallish burg. Quiet, well-mannered, nice, etc. But it never occurred to me to wonder, what they're like. What they are really like among themselves. What were they like when thrown together in public, at the front of a bus this one with cataracts, that one hobbling on a walker, another in a wheelchair? My role in such situations is clear, to provide assistance and get out of the way. The pecking order is clear, age and experience, 'there but for the grace of god', 'this'll be me one day' and all that. And it was that role which provided me for the first time a fly on the wall perspective of how one might behave when a member of the Silver Wing of bus riders, a club in which everyone is just as infirm as you.

So . . . absolutely, complete and utter true story:

One of my good friends and I are standing on the bus after a day of sightseeing, barely speaking. But...let's not go into that. We're standing toward the front, when it comes to a stop. A gravely voice somewhere in the direction of my right elbow comes to me. "Excuse me...excuse me," it growls. "Watch your feet." An older man wearing a baseball cap rolls into sight, attempting to maneuver his small mechanical wheelchair past the other seniors who occupy the front of the bus. "Excuse me, watch your feet," he repeats. Things are going well, well relatively well, considering the crowd on the bus. Oops, spoke to soon. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" A white-haired old guy with wrap around sunglasses takes a couple of aborted leaps into the air. "You're running me over! (Blasphemy!) (Profanity!)" "I said 'watch your feet." The fracas dies down as the old guy in the wheelchair manages to wedge himself into the doorway. As the bus's lift lowers him to the ground. An elderly Chinese man with a New York accent speaks up. "That chair (two syllables)--it's so big! You'd think he'd pick a smaller chair." "These schmucks in wheelchairs," the old guy with the sunglasses growls back, "most of them got no consideration at all." Aahh...welcome to San Francisco.

Tags: san francisco, public transportation, funny stories, senior citizen

A Dream Deferred

2007-06-13T08:20:00.000-07:00

HERE is a wound that never will heal, I know,

Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,

But of a love turned ashes and the breath

Gone out of beauty; never again will grow

The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow

Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath

Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath

Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.

That April should be shattered by a gust,

That August should be levelled by a rain,

I can endure, and that the lifted dust

Of man should settle to the earth again;

But that a dream can die, will be a thrust

Between my ribs forever of hot pain.

Sonnet IX

By Edna St. Vincent Millay, from The Harp Weaver and Other Poems, 1920

A few months ago I spent dark days attempting to avoid this thought; that my dream,  Bakery had died. And then I remembered that people die dreams do not. I love artists and the arts and I know that I am fiercely committed to both. After I have a greater measure of health and before I go back to finishing my novels or polishing that screenplay. I will again take up the banner of Bakery of the Poets and the ideal that in this modern, tech-mad bottom-line loving world therere is room for artists to survive and thrive, spiritually, socially, financially; and that if not me and if not Bakery, someone will bring that dream to fruition. I've played

down my illness in these blogs for a whole host of reasons. The truth is that a

few months agoI feared. Bakery was a relatively simple endeavor the needs of which were easily adapted to my diminishing abilities...life is not.

Of all the things I've lost it's my mind I miss the most.

The pain of CFIDS and Fibromyalgia, the hundred little and not so little discomforts are pinpricks when compared to the devastation, to me personally, of the the neurological and immunological symptoms. Sadly, putting together a coherent thought has become a challenge and pushing past the pain generally ends in migraines and/or

other illness (colds, flus, weird rashes and allergic reactions).

It is only by thinking of my chest as a cannon from which I can fire these words

(to mix in a little Melville)directly from my heart that has allowed me to write this post today. And still, it will take a lot of time and editing for them to come right, if they ever do.

Words get lost, the ability to process new information and plan have all but gone. I felt and feared in a way that while Bakery was my domain, a goal...an artistic project which I ate, slept and dreamed, my ability to make progress and impact the world around me was not completely gone. I discovered,

once I tried turning my brain from more artistic and passionate pursuits to the

day to day issues of navigating the social system, (one unkind to destitute sick

people) I was well over-matched. Expected assistance in navigating the bureaucracy to prevent my landing in a shelter never materialized and I can't seem to figure out how to put the pieces together on my own. And I don't know, maybe it isn't possible. As far as I'm able to understand, I fall between some peculiar crack in the system which affects those who have applied for, but not

yet received a final determination in their social security disability cases.

My mother has never been a strong woman. And if there is one thing required when coping with chronic illness in a family, it's strength. So come Friday June 15th, both I and what there is at this moment left of Bakery are out on the street, literally. And likely under police escort, as I rather foolishly signed the lease termination agreement she slipped under my nose about

six weeks ago. In my own defense, my brain isn't working well and I never imagined it would come to this. I know that something will work out, though right now my brains are too scrambled to figure out what that looks like. 

Bakery is officially on indeterminate hiatus, but it is not dead. The moment I have an address and have enough healing under my belt to turn thecrank, the works will begin moving again.

Until then my friends, my love, my respect and my dreams are yours.

A Cool Site...

2007-04-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

which is truly a work in progress. Artist Kenny Mencher blogs the daily progress of his paintings.

Destiny

2007-04-02T17:17:00.000-07:00

Destiny by John William Waterhouse, 1900
It's late in the evening now. I'm sitting on the side of my bed with the night air and the sounds of crickets filtering in through the open window. Nostalgia is thick on the ground tonight; scents that remind me of the house Rhonda and I shared for a few months in Italy. The night sounds recall safe and happy memories of summer nights spent with friends on the patio of Merchant & Main, eating garlic fries and having a glass of pinot. Blog entries and comments blog comments which bring back the sense, almost like a physical pain, of how it felt to write my novel; even food cravings remind me of cities and streets and people. All these snippets of time and space combine to make me feel how keenly I miss being out in the world. It's good news I know, this nostalgia, this growing dissatisfaction and the madness which accompanies them both.

I'm getting stronger. I'm getting better.

Tags: cfids, travel, cfs, health, europe, nostalgia

If Still Your Orchards Bear by Edna St Vincent Millay

2007-04-01T17:16:00.000-07:00

There are things to be said of this poem...

If Still Your Orchards Bear

Brother, that breathe the August air

Ten thousand years from now,

And smell¿if still your orchards bear

Tart apples on the bough¿

The early windfall under the tree,

And see the red fruit shine,

I cannot think your thoughts will be

Much different from mine.

Should at that moment the full moon

Step forth upon the hill,

And memories hard to bear at noon,

By moonlight harder still,

Form in the shadow of the trees, ¿

Things that you could not spare

And live, or so you thought, yet these

All gone, and you still there,

A man no longer what he was,

Nor yet the thing he'd planned,

The chilly apple from the grass

Warmed by your living hand¿

I think you will have need of tears;

I think they will not flow;

Supposing in ten thousand years

Men ache, as they do now.

Something I Stumble(d) Upon

2007-03-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's official people, the web is fun again. This great new...okay maybe not so new it's been around a while but new to me) program? extension? web thingy? web-thingy called StumbleUpon. It's all very technical and involved but it's a little like MySpace meets Google. Let's say you like a website...you then put a little sticky note thing (metaphorically) on it saying 'If you're at all like me and into, I dunno, cat's pajamas, boy will you love this site.' Someone comes behind you who likes cat's pajamas and has a sticky note finder thing attached to their computer. They switch it on and lo and behold! it takes them to the cat's pajamas site you earlier recommended. There's a lot more to it than that, but you get the idea. Anyway...Yeah...What was I saying? Oh, I like StumbleUpon and you will too. Just trust that and ignore the weird and slightly disjointed description.

Oh, and I'm getting another cold. This makes Number 5 since the beginning of February. I'm goin' for the record folks. But in the mean time I StumbledUpon this really funny cat video someone put together.

Cats: It's oh so quiet
Uploaded by chiaraf

Thursday Thirteen: Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind

2007-03-28T00:01:00.001-07:00

Thirteen Things I Would Never Leave Behind. In no particular order.
Oh, and books will probably be heavily represented.

1. A 1935 edition of Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
2. The story of my life. An old boss and dear friend gave me a journal from Rag and Bone Bindery just before I left them to make my first trip to Europe. They're quite lovely, handmade, acid-free paper and bound in natural materials like cork and silk.
2. A paperback copy of Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte. There's an interesting reference in it about the dangers of thoughtless people (as in, 'she's not cruel, merely thoughtless') and it's quite a nice read. But it's special to me because I picked it up at a bookstore in Venice. The first book I'd seen that was writen in English for many weeks.
3. My ring, which for the moment is lost. Ever have one of those items you feel some deep connection to; that no matter how many times or how far away you misplace it, it always comes back to you? I bought this silver ring from a sales rep of the now defunct Mineralore. It's silver with a gold starburst and a blue tourmaline set in the center. It was the first piece of real jewelry I ever bought.
4. My love bag. I've kept every congratulatory or loving letter or card ever sent me. And sometimes, when times get ruff, I find comfort in reading them to remember I am loved.
5. My notebooks. They contain my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done.
6. My laptop. It contains my ideas and some of the best writing I've ever done.
7. A passel of silk handkerchiefs. I love them and yes I have actually used them to blow my nose. There is no graceful way of blowing the schnoz, and I'm not a cute crier; a fluttery hanky adds a dash of drama. But mostly they're used to clean my glasses.
8. My cashmere sweater. I read somewhere that every woman should have at least one cashmere sweater and I couldn't agree more. Mine came dirt cheap from Ebay but it's so pretty and soft. It's a reminder of and hope for prettier and softer times.
9. An antique art deco tea set from Czechoslovakia. This was also an Ebay find. When it arrived there was actually a card which said whose anniversary it was for and the year 1935. A card which I have most foolishly lost.
10. This wonderful soft knit cardigan I call my Holland sweater. I bought it as (what I thought of at the time of purchase) an inadequate replacement for one stolen by an old roommate. But it's grown on me tree-mendously since then.
12. A paperback copy of Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. She is one of the most undersung poets of the 20th century and her work connects very deeply. This book has all of my notes and markings, including those written while reading Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay the intimate biography written by Nancy Milford.
13. Pinkerton the feline.
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Tags: thursday thirteen, books, meme, stories

2007-03-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

A little something I wrote a while ago.

Yes. Cause love it or hate it (and there are plenty on either side of that particular fence) Oprah is Queen of America. She is certainly the most influential woman and possibly the most influential person in the United States. Personally, I go back and forth on whether to love her, hate her or forget her. But anyone who can get America reading Faulkner! and Tolstoy! forever wins a place in my heart.

The brouhaha over James Frey illustrates the peril faced by by public figures for whom the perception of the line between public persona and private become blurred. I'm talking about Professional Personalities, not actors. Feeling as though we have the right to know whether Brad Pitt prefers boxers or briefs does not make him a Professional Personality (though I do have concerns about what that feeling makes us). Pitt does not use his personal life as fodder for his public career. It's those people who come into our homes over the television screen every morning or afternoon with stories about their husbands, children, pets and what they did over the weekend, who earn the designation Professional Personality.

When the Oprah expressed her support via telephone during Frey's appearance on the Larry King show saying among other things that the 'emotional truth' was what was important. I think she was speaking for herself, the private individual who was unutterably moved by the experience of reading Frey's book; and that this assessment, gauging the book by the impact of its emotional truth is perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, making that statement in a public forum is problematic; because she's not merely a private individual. Her Professional Personality has standards and an image associated with it that may have little to do with how she feels about herself privately. Her PP is bigger; living in corporations, brands, on the air waves and is owned by us 'we the people'. Years ago, we decided that we liked Oprah and as we do when we like people we conferred upon her certain rights and privileges and demand of her certain standards and practices. This is why it is that when she likes a book, it becomes a bestseller, when she makes a call to the Larry King Show it makes headlines. As a PP she doesn't have the luxury, as I do, of calling and expressing her private opinions without hearing from thousands of people about violations of certain of the standards and practices.

Rather like the CEO of a candy bar company sitting at his desk, happily munching a chocolate bar he's just removed from a taffy bar wrapper. He is perfectly within his rights to enjoy eating the irregulars. It's just going to get thrown away and the candy is perfectly good. What he can't do is sell these mislabeled bars to Raley's and sell them to us as taffy bars.

In Oprah's case, a person can understand her wish to withdraw the public statement of a private sentiment, without calling into question her sincerity. It's the way in which it was done. To take Frey apart on national television was an unnecessary cruelty. It isn't Frey's fault that instead of lacing her fingers in her lap, she chose to dial the Larry King Show. But for that phone call, she would not have tried clean up her public (and again, voluntary) comments, by ripping Frey a new one in front of millions of people. But once she did choose to speak up for Frey, I can't help thinking, the correct and even-handed thing would have been to make a statement on the show making her apologies to the public and retracting her words of the previous week.

As for Frey, he was drug addict, what a shock that an addict would lie. Why is everyone getting so hysterical? In fact, the only people who rival drug addicts for mendacity is the writer of an autobiography. Imagine the number of lies that have gone into memoirs of some of the most notable figures of our time. Fiction? Science fiction some of it. It is nearly impossible for any one person to tell the truth about themselves.

It's impossible not to feel for Frey. He did the back-breaking, heart-rending work of coming out the right side of addiction alive. He wrote a book. When he wrote it, there is no way he could have imagined his life or his 'life' would end up under such an enormous microscope. According to some reports he first submitted his manuscript to publishers as a work of fiction and had it rejected, he then resubmitted as a memoir without changing anything, and Doubleday chose to publish. Whose fault is that? My opinion...Frey might be cashing a check, but he's also taking most of the fire. Considering the many demons he already wrestles with...well let's just say many a man has been broken by far less. The only one who really makes out in this fire storm is the publisher...they are laughing all the way to the bank.

Tags: oprah, james frey, books, fraud, authors, memoirs, television

What I'm Reading Now

2007-03-27T12:29:00.000-07:00

So I just finished this book called A Way Through The Wood. It's by a guy named Nigel Balchin about . . .Gosh, that's a tough one. I want to say it's about the unraveling of a marriage, but there's a lot more to it than that. It's about conscience and the manner in which we are human. It's beautiful, complicated and a page-turner.

It was recently made into a film starring Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson and Rupert Everett (if you read the book, you'll know that no one but Everett could play the character of Bule)called Seperate Lies. I haven't seen the movie and probably won't. The book has left me plenty satisfied. It might be difficult to find, but I definitely recommend making the effort.

Technorati Tags: books, literature, emily watson, nigel balchin, rupert everett, tom wilkinson

2007-03-26T03:59:00.000-07:00

Seriously....can we talk about how much I hate that song? Why is it then, that I can't get the song out of my head? Not even the version generally acknowledged to be a classic; but the nightmarish American Idol version sung by one of those turkeys from the 'Worst of the Worst' show.

I shot the sher-i-i-iff...but I did not shoot the de-pu-teeee....

Lud.

Am I in hell?

Technorati Tags: i shot the sheriff, songs, annoying songs, lyrics, bakery, writing

Drumroll Please

2007-03-24T22:28:00.000-07:00

Da-da-ta-TUM. Okay. So I can't actually do a drumroll. Whatever the point...the point my friends is that I'd like to welcome to the blog our intrepid hero, Air Force guy and Bakery author...dramatic pause...Eric Pardue! He's currently travelig through Eastern Europe. At least that's what I think he said when he called me last night at 3am.
Yes, three people. With a capital 'THR'. That MySpace is a ruddy ankle bracelet. Or maybe I mean a beacon or tracking device or something? It's something I never really considered before because Marissa has always done our MySpace-ing in the past. It occurs to me that being signed in is a great way of signalling the state of your life (or lack thereof) to several hundred of your new (and old)best friends. I kid...I kid Eric. 'Cause, well that's my job; or one of the perks of my job anyway.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Mr. Pardue, Skyped me early this morning in order that we could enact his brilliant plan for lettting you guys get to know him by chronicling thoughts and exploits from the road of his latest trip. So please, my friends, enjoy The Travel Journals of Eric Pardue. And let me tell in the wee small hours of the morning, seeing these go up onto the blog was much, much better than counting sheep.

Happy Friday

2007-03-24T01:53:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday All!!! Heh. Okay. That was fun. Now on to the good stuff......................... And there we have a problem. I'm afraid today's is a post of all flash and no substance. Come to think of it, not that much flash either. Sorry guys, I'm pretty out of it, this cold is kicking my behind.
I've been watching Raines, the new show with Jeff Goldblum. Imagine my delight to have a date with Goldblum every week, there is no such thing as too much of him as far as I'm concerned. Watching the pilot marked the continuation of an encouraging trend for viewing public.
What eerie trend is that? That of heavy talents...sheesh, Hollywood-speak. I'll say it; artists on hiatus from moviemaking are playing on a blue box near you. Writers like Aaron Sorkin (Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip), David Mamet (The Unit), Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco (The Black Donnellys); actors like Sally Field, Minnie Driver and yes, Jeff Goldblum.
And now, directors. Imagine my surprise when to find Frank Darabont's name in the credits of the aired pilot of Raines. Yes, Frank Darabont that Frank Darabont, of Shawshank Redemption and Green Mile fame. He also directed a beautiful little film starring Jim Carrey called The Majestic.
Does this mean television is getting better? I don't know about that. There seems to be a Taj Mahal/Streets of Calcutta dynamic going on. There seems to be less middle ground in quality than there was ten or fifteen years ago. There was plenty of mediocre TV, don't get me wrong; and I don't know that there was more or better good TV. But it does feel as if there were more fair to middlin' shows and much less that was truly objectionable. Um, Simple Life anyone? Throw a dart and hit just about any reality show currently on the air to find another example.
TV is much better for people like me than it has been in a long time. I love turning on the tube to watch Field or Goldblum work. I love knowing without seeing the credits; like recognizing the style of a composer, that Mamet penned this week's episode of The Unit. Now if we could only get a Zwick/Herskovitz offering back on the air, then I'll know true happiness.

Technorati Tags: raines, jeff goldblum, david mamet, aaron sorkin, bobby moresco, paul haggis, televsion, sally field, minnie driver, frank darabont

I. Hate. Everybody.

2007-03-23T02:16:00.000-07:00

So I have a cold right now and you all know what that means...I. Hate. Everybody. There's this fabulous list that The Sophisticated Writer came up with, number 6 is my personal favorite. In my current state of mind I would indeed like breathe on all the people who've ever really ticked me off. I'm nothing if not generous. Soph and some other bloggers have a tradition called the Thursday Thirteen, which is basically exactly what it sounds like. So . . . this Thursday I'm writing my own list. And I'm calling it:

#1
Thirteen Persons/Entities With Whom I'd Like to Share My Cold
1. The people who killed the electric car. I remember seeing the ads and being excited about the prospect of having an EV one day soon. Did you know that GM has crushed almost all of their electric cars? They revoked the leases of the owners once they and their pals managed to get California's emissions law quashed. Even threatened them with legal action if they refused to turn the cars over. Though protesters (many of whom were formerly EV drivers) offered 1.9 million dollars for the remaining 78 cars, GM took took them off to be crushed anyway. I'd no idea. Great movie: Who Killed the Electric Car?
2. My doctor; because he's been absolutely clueless about my illness. Going to see him means two hours of misery plus three days of recovery for 15 minutes of conversation, during which he never even looks me in the eye.
3. Buena Vista for not releasing the third season of Once and Again to DVD. Still.

4. Whoever it was that decided to change Popular from the truly sensitive and funny comedy-drama of the first few episodes into the bizarro plastic teen dark comedy that I really want to stop watching.

5. Telemarketing companies who call and then put me on hold.

6. Parents in grocery stores who force me to listen to them tell their kids, 'This is the last time I'm going to tell you.' . . . Ten times.

7. Movie critics who love the sight of their own words more than they do movies.

8. Film actors who are ignorant of their film history. Brad Pitt...this means you and well, almost every UPN 'actor' ever to tread a soundstage.

9. My upstairs neighbor who seems to enjoy moving furniture while having a party at 2 am.

10. People who drive slow in the fast lane.

11. People who drive fast in the slow lane.

12. People who always always bring the conversation back to themselves. 'You have cancer?! Wow that's awful. You know my neighbors' dog had cancer and they were simply devastated, I actually watched their three-year old when they took it to the vet to be put to sleep. Amazing, isn't it?'

13. Anyone who says, "To make a long story short . . . " 'Cause by the time they do it's always too late. And really . . .we're talking. . .I've got the time to listen.
Links to other Thursday Thirteens! (leave your link in comments, I¿ll add you here!)

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It¿s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

Technorati Tags: cold, sick, thursday thirteen, list, meme

The Curse Is Upon Me...

2007-03-22T18:04:00.000-07:00

. . .yet again. I truly believe that some people are water-dwellers and others are not. In tonight's whimsical state of mind, I feel salt-water in my veins,crying out for the sea. Edna St. Vincent Millay proves that I'm not alone in this feeling. But how does it happen? Why do some feel an affinity for the ocean that stays with them all their lives? Who knows how it really happens. Is it about growing up near water? I didn't really grow up near water. I've spent most of my life living on the very outskirts of the Bay Area.
Perhaps the craving for salt air is the result of an earlier imprint. Birth? I was born in the Phillipines, an entire nation of islands. DNA? Perhaps the memory of being lulled by the rock of a boat or by crashing waves is genetic. My grandmother's were Island people from as far back as we know. Deeper? The Irish and Scots blood flowing like a current from both sides of the family tree? Were our other ancestors from a coastal or island region of Africa?

Who know's? It's all mystery. And one day I'll solve it. Until then, it's enough not to be alone in the feeling. Edna has her finger on my pulse tonight:

Exiled


SEARCHING my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness	5
Of the strong wind and shattered spray,
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,	10
Rooted in sand and dragging driftwood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet pea.
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath big buildings,	15
Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning.
Under the windy, wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs;	20
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls;

Feel once again the shanty straining	25
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,
I should be happy!¿that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine.	30
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again.

I should be happy, that am happy.
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water;	35
I have a need of water near. Ainslee¿s Magazine

Technorati Tags: edna st vincent millay, poetry, exiled, water, ocean, beach

So I took the Matrix Persona Quiz..

2007-03-21T03:50:00.000-07:00

I openly admit to being a quiz junkie. I know IknowIknow most online quizzes are junk themselves. But I can't help it, it's the teacher's pet reflex coming back to haunt me. Or maybe, it's just that I like answers. Whenever life gets annoying or I'm working a puzzle, I find some comfort in going to one of those quiz pages and and answering my brains out. I ran across this one a while ago and took it again today. The first result was Morpheus as you can see.

You are Morpheus, from "The Matrix." You
have strong faith in yourself and those around
you. A true leader, you are relentless in your
pursuit.

What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Tonight...well I was a bit dry and needed something to post (you know, the whole 30 in 30 thing)so I hunted down the poll and took it again, thinking to show off my Morpheus-ness to you guys. But this was the result:

What Matrix Persona Are You?

You are The Oracle, from "The Matrix." Wise, kind, honest- is there anything slightly negative about you? You are genuinely supportive of others. Careful not to let people take advantage of you, though.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla | Join | Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

Huh. Wonder what that means?

Technorati Tags: matrix quiz, morpheus, oracle, quizzes

AFI? Schm-AFI...We'll Make Our Own List

2007-03-18T18:02:00.000-07:00

As an upstart movie snob I of course take severe issue with the AFI's Top 100 Movies of the last century. They are, in my opinion either insane or deluded. Okay...and so am I...maybe...a little bit.
The point is that movie-watching is an incredibly personal experience, I'm less interested in the what than in the why. Artists especially are deeply infuenced by film, or perhaps are merely able to do a better job of articulating the whys and wherefores for everyone else. At any rate, I'm starting a list and would love to know what you think.
What, are the five most important films in your film-watchin' career and why?
I'm starting the list with my top 5, in no particular order.
Bringing Up Baby (1938, Howard Hawks)
Night of the Hunter (1955, Charles Laughton)
The Browning Version (1951, Anthoy Asquith)
Tango (1998, Carlos Saura)
All About Eve (1950, Joseph L. Mankiewicz)
These five films have had the greatest (I'm pretty sure about this) impact on my career as a film buff. Seeing each one changed something in the way I watched movies forever after.
Howard Hawk's Bringing Up Baby was my introduction to the world of the screwball comedy. I'd no idea it was possible to laugh so much during a movie that didn't involve bodily function humor.
My brother and I saw Laughton's Night of the Hunter one afternoon when we were supposed to be doing our homework. I think it came on like, A&E, when they used to show classic films. I had literally never been so frightened in the middle of the day. That began my love affair with thrillers in black and white.
The Browning Versionis a film I saw more recently. I'd heard of it of course, but had only the vaguest idea of it's existence. I don't remember now why I Netflix'd it, only that it blew me away. On the surface, it is a film in which very little happens but just under the surface, plays a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. I've always been fascinated by the ability of the movies to show us two completely opposite realities at once. Asquith's The Browning Version is a defining example.
Seriously, I've had musicals on the brain since early childhood but until Tango, I never knew the power a musical film can exert. Saura's Tango tells complicated stories, a private story of memory and regret,a human one of tyranny and oppression. The film is beautifully shot by Il Maestro, Vittorio Storaro and uses the Argentine Tango as most peope have never seen it, as its narrator.
All About Eve? Bette Davis, 'nough said.
But of course, I'm gonna say more. This is the movie that helped me fall in love with the theatre (spelled 're' please darlings) and the idea of acting.

Yes I KNOW I Wimped Out

2007-03-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

30 in 30. Ha! Yes,yes I know. My resolve held for two whole days. I do however, have an excellent excuse. I forgot and then fell asleep. So now we begin again. 30 posts in thirty days starting from yesterday. But enough recriminations.
BakerySL is up and running. Twice artists and arts sympathizers gather around a virtual fire and share our thoughts, argue and dream under virtual stars. We talk about the nature of art, the role of the artist in society, the corrupting and necessary influence of commerce and sometimes we just talk about movies. It's an amazing experience. Health and geography have isolated me from my idealist brethren, at least physically. But technology has made it possible for us to commune 'face to face'. A few nights ago we talked about popular culture and whether mass popularity/mass marketing and artistic integrity were incompatible.
The general consensus was, well, mixed. Some said that art done with the wish to make money was no art at all. Others said that it there was nothing wrong with creating with one eye on marketability as long as one doesn't compromise one's vision.
Truth to tell, my own thoughts on the matter are decidedly mixed. I believe that public opinion is a succubus that can suck creativity from the soul and skew one's view of one's work. Ever notice what happens when an artist becomes really popular? Take as an example, my love-hate-love relationship with the talent of Leo Di Caprio. He is talent as an actor is undeniable and yet, for a little while, his ego outstripped his talent. After Kate Winslet carried him through Titanic (don't get me wrong, he was good, but no where near as good as the howling estrogen-laden masses seemed to think)he turned in a few performances that were smug,even lazy. 'Everyone' thought he was great, therefore he was great...full stop. His ability to self-edit, suffered.
Whether an artist becomes famous and begins to bring thoughts of his press clippings into his creative process; or whether she craves more attention than the work is getting and brings that need to be noticed into her process; it hurts the work. Having other people in your head makes it hard to sit down with you and your creative core and say, 'yes this part here, does what I need/want it to do, but this part doesnt.'
Don't get me wrong, an artist needs confidence. The only way to stand before a canvas or sit down before a blank sheet of paper and create anything of worth, is to believe that you can. To in fact, somewhere inside you, have the belief that you are the only one who can communicate a certain, thought or idea or emotion in this specific way. There is plenty of time for doubt and self-hatred--before you sit down or after you stand up. But in the moment of creation there is none.
On the other hand, a girl's gotta eat. If no one is buying her work she's not eating, or she's working at a sucky day job and painting at night. Or she's cobbling together a few less sucky jobs to support herself and her work. Which eventually begins to suffer. Creative energy is just that, energy. There's only so much of it that can be drained away by nothing jobs (or even a really great non-art job, which in my experience, can have an even greater impact on one's creative energy bank)before the the work starts to suffer.
I don't think one should have to choose between one's art and the ability to make a living. I don't believe one has to. There's a lot of greed at the top which is making life unnecessarily difficult for the artist on the ground. The longer I work on Bakery, the more I'm amazed by the amount of greed involved and the basic unfairness-es under which artists struggle to support themselves.

And that is of course, why I do what I do.

2007-03-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest challenges our artist support project has faced is finding a way for artists and friends to get face time with us and each other. BotP has international aspirations (we have artist friends in Italy, Ireland, Canada and Costa Rica) and I've always wanted us to be a moveable feast. We rely heavily on technology to communicate with volunteers and the artists we serve. Which is great for keeping costs low and maintaining our flexibility. It does, however, make it difficult to gather everyone around the fireplace, so to speak. Our artists can't really drop by for a casual chat and we've missed out on the electric energy that is created during those spontaneous 'jam sessions' of creative minds. Second Life created by Linden Labs has changed all of that.
Second Life is a virtual world which allows people to interact on many levels, business, social, entertainment and much more. It is a phenomenon which has become an epidemic. When I signed on in late August to see what it was all about, the number of accounts was buzzing somewhere around 650,000 and people were talking about whether or not SL accounts would hit the big 1mil by year's end. That happened in October, and last week the number of Second Life accounts topped 2.2 million. Corporate America is sitting up and taking notice; Sun Microsystems, Dell, NBC and MTV, to name a few, have all created places in SL. And now, so has Bakery of the Poets.
Artists will be able to come over and hang out to talk shop or just talk. We will have book readings (including one from our new author Eric Pardue) concerts and art shows. Our first building is nearly finished and should open sometime next week. To check out SL and BotP's virtual progress sign on at: http//www.secondlife.com

Btw: The SL learning curve is a bit steep (but like most things, it's easy when you know how), feel free to email me before signing on. We can arrange to meet in-world and I'll show the ropes.:)

The Ol' One-Two. Or a little something I like to call; 'Thirty in Thirty'. Or why Wil Wheaton is ruining my life

2007-03-13T17:44:00.000-07:00

So I'm a fan of Wil Wheaton's blog. It was required reading for a loooong time. Then I lost track for a while, went through a time of no computer and then he went through a period of no blog, ships passing in the night. Anyway, I started reading again yesterday. My timing could not have been worse. Sadly, for me I can never resist a challenge whether it's a book meme or a challenge to do thirty posts in thirty days. Suffice it to say, right now I hate everybody. Hah! Didja miss me? Ready? Well, here we go.

How Many Books Have You Read? Book Mem

2007-03-12T17:39:00.000-07:00

I was minding my own business innocently reading Sophisticated Writer's blog when I stumbled on this little landmine. And a very seductive and irresistible landmine it is too. If you have a blog leave me a comment with the link and I'll come over to commiserate on being captured by yet another almighty meme...and ridicule your reading choices, of course.

How Many Have You Read?

*Look at the list of books below.
*Bold the ones you've read.
*Italicize the ones you want to read.
*leave same the ones that you ardent interested in.
*If you are reading this, tag you're reading it.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher¿s Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte (Only my favorite book of (practically) all time. I actually blogged about it once.)
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker¿s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte) (A book I found intensely irritating. Could Catherin have been more of a twit?)
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie(Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella) (Sophi is not in love with this series, I didn't even know there was one, but I did enjoy it for what it was; Brit Chick Lit, which is for some reason cooler than its American cousin)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy) (my favorite novel ever!)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela¿s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She¿s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
53. Ender¿s Game (Orson Scott Card)(Loved this book, loved this series, love OSC)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid¿s Tale (Margaret Atwood)(Grrrr...Margaret Atwood. She's like a bad ex-boyfriend I find her novels enormously frustrating, and yet I can't stop reading and each time I read one I swear its the last.)
60. The Time Traveller¿s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71. Bridget Jones¿ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte¿s Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84. Wizard¿s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)(I tried, what can I say? But I do think Archer is the master of the short story.)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

It's Amazing What $5 Can Do

2007-03-10T17:37:00.000-08:00

Bakery's $5 Fundraiser!

Hello Bakery Friends,
We're working on making the Bakery webzine one of the best literary arts and culture publications on or off the net and we could really use your help. You know my dear friends I am all enthusiasm and fire, but these sadly, do not pay for the lights, the website, broadband and other services which help keep Bakery going and growing. Neither do they pay our wonderful and hard-working writers and so now I come to you; you who have been so encouraging and helpful to Bakery in the past and ask you once again to open your hearts (and your wallets) to give the Bakery a little boost.

Just $5

Five dollars is not a lot of money, nowadays it barely buys a gallon of gas. Five dollars is less than the cost of a movie ticket or an 'Extra Value' meal at a fast food joint. But, what if we multiply that by 600? With a $5 donation from 600 people Bakery can do an awful lot. If 600 generous souls give $5, the resulting windfall will pay Bakery's operating expenses for 3 months, allow the Bakery to reserve spaces for 3 writers to attend workshops given by The Writing Salon, including one taught by former US poet laureate Billy Collins and pay for editing, development and other expenses related to putting Single Servings in print! Giving a great start to the career of a wonderful new writer, and allowing Bakery to give other writers, painters, musicians, sculptors and poets opportunities for education, inspiration and career development. A glorious snowball effect that makes the Bakery's mission possible; to help create artists .

Give and Forward

So please go to our page on Fractured Atlas' (our fiscal sponsor's ) website and make a tax-deductible gift of $5, you can even give monthly! I know that a few of you rock stars out there would love to contribute regularly, well now you can set up an automatically recurring monthly gift. Whether or not you choose to give at this time, please help Bakery's mission by forwarding this message to 2 art lovers whom you know would like to be a part of helping a writer get into print. Come on let's start a tidal wave that will sweep a promising writer's book into bookstores and begin a cycle that will benefit artists for years to come!

Thank you all for your good wishes and unstinting support during the past few years. I can't wait to see what 2007 holds for you, for Bakery and for artists everywhere. Be well my my dear friends.

Warmly,

Maya Jewell
Founder, Bakery of the Poets
http://bakeryofthepoets.org
707.416.0868

Bakery of the Poets is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Bakery of the Poets maybe made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law

Over The Rainbow; But Not If I Have To Go With That Dorothy Girl

2007-02-23T15:41:00.000-08:00

Am I the only person, who when the Munchkins sang Ding, Dong, The Witch Is Dead, felt a little sorry for the witch?

It's just that I can recall as a child watching the Wizard of Oz for the first time; and feeling it unseemly (yes, 'unseemly', I didn't know the word at the time but looking back I recognize the sentiment. I was a four year old maiden aunt.) to celebrate anyone's death so tunefully. Then I began to think on how lonely the witch must have been if an entire land of people, even if they were very small, were so happy to see her die they burst into extemporaneous and dare I say, award-worthy song. And that perhaps if she had not been so lonely she would not have been so bad. Thus spake the thoughts of an infant Maya; she and Dorothy, forever out of tune.

Bakery of the Poets: The story behind the name

2007-01-29T11:56:00.000-08:00

It occurs to me after all this time, that I've never told the story of Bakery of the Poets; or rather the story behind our name. My favorite literary work of all time is Cyrano de Bergerac. Rostand's play is a work of great humor, artistry and love and his hero...truly heroic. Cyrano is big in every way; not just his nose but his heart, his courage, his idealism and his creativity; are all of epic proportions. I love and adore this character. But I admit that I don¿t much identify with him. Yes, in that deep part that is my creative spirit; bold, unfettered, idealistic beyond belief, we are kindred. But as a character or a person...let's face it, he needs a keeper. He seems to careen from one catastrophe to another with unparalleled style and verve.
My own particular style is not conducive to catastrophe; has, in fact, more to do with catastrophe-avoidance than catastrophe-seeking. The character with whom I identify most is Ragueneau; pastry chef, poet (in a small way) art and artist lover; owner of a cafe identified simply as Bakery of the Poets. His love for artists prompts him to allow perennially impoverished scribblers and sketchers to exchange their work for food and wine (a habit which drives his bottom line-watching wife mad) his own poetry, he uses to wrap the bakery goodies he sells. Bakery of the Poets is a gathering place for artists and an artist-watching place for the nobility, the intellectuals and the ordinary citizens who find them fascinating. In Rostand's Bakery of the Poets artists fill their bellies, socialize, fight and find patrons and discuss the big ideas.
Once I really decided to do my part to help artists, the creation of a Bakery of the Poets for the modern age came very naturally. We are using technology to create a place where artists can find all kinds of support; 'bread' for their labors, people who nurture their talent, the encouragement and society of other artists. BotP is a forum in which they are published or promoted, helping artists find new audiences and patrons for their work. We want to give them the support they need to do their work and in that way help create artists. During 2006 we reached our tipping point where making progress no longer feels like pushing a boulder up hill. And with your support, 2007 promises to be a banner year for BotP and artists everywhere. On to the news.

Author! Author!

2007-01-17T17:35:00.000-08:00

We have one!! Bakery of the Poets is publishing a novel by first time author Eric Pardue. His book is based on his own experiences as an Air Force sergeant who travels through Northern Europe while recovering from a traumatic divorce (Ever been married in a foreign country? Try having an ugly divorce in one). Interspersed with tales accommodation adventures, quirky travel companions and eccentric locals, is a beautiful and evocative examination into the nature of travel itself and its power to rebuild the human spirit.
We are committed to discovering and nurturing new literary talent and are pleased to welcome Eric as our first novelist. There is a limited opportunity for BotP donors to become a part of this writer's success. All donations will be acknowledged at the appropriate donation level. However, major donors toward this special project receive partial publication credit and/or acknowledgments in the front of the book, as well as pre-publication excerpts and updates from the author and a signed copy of the completed novel. To donate up to $1000.00 online please go to our Fractured Atlas donation page. To make a donation over $1000.00 or for more information please contact Darya at: giving@bakeryofthepoets.org.
Bakery of the Poets is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non-profit arts service organization. Contributions in behalf of Bakery of the Poets maybe made payable to Fractured Atlas and are tax-deductible to the extent permitted by law.

Rising Starr

2007-01-02T17:33:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow Sean Starr celebrates the launch of his book!
MORRISSEY RUINED MY LIFE SHOW IN SF
Sean Starr will paint live to the music of The Smiths and Morrissey at the Workspace Gallery in San Francisco Saturday, February 3, 2007.

Colin Nasseri, co-author of "You, Me and Morrissey" will also be present to sign copies of the book.

Sean's "Morrissey" Series pieces will be on display at the gallery.

More details soon. Show sponsored by IFUC
.

Writer Colin Nasseri and Painter Sean Starr's book You, Me and Morrissey will soon be released. The book chronicles the influence the music of The Smiths and Morrissey had on the lives of two young men as one became a writer and the other a painter. Sean is a tremendous friend to Bakery of the Poets and we couldn't be happier for his continued success. Sean's next book will contain artwork from his series based on the play by Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac. His work always connects with me on a deep level. The Morrissey collection is astounding, his Coupling series truly fascinating Check out Kurt and Courtney or Morrissey and Marr. The 10 Muses was my true introduction to his work and will always be my favorite...or so I thought.
The Cyrano paintings are unutterably moving. My pre-Starr de Bergerac conditioning plays a factor no doubt, giving me a particular perspective. Sean has managed to capture the spirit of the characters and adds to it something that is almost an artistic communion or collaboration with Rostand's overriding theme. He manages to stay true to the play, and in addition, to say something about the artistic condition and the energy of idealism.
Okay, so obviously, I'm a fan. Here's a fun story: BotP provided a small spark of his inspiration for these paintings. He had recently completed a series based on Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream and was researching possibilities for his next. While corresponding about Bakery of the Poets' website (which Sean is redesigning) he learned the story behind our name and decided to give Rostand's play another look. The rest, as they say...The book based on the Cyrano series is due out in '07 with a preface by yours truly. You have the opportunity of owning some of the artwork before the book is published. Check out Sean Starr's website for the de Bergerac paintings and other works.

2006-10-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

NOT in this chamber only at my birth --
When the long hours of that mysterious night
Were over, and the morning was in sight --
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;
And never shall one room contain me quite
Who in so many rooms first saw the light,
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.

So is no warmth for me at any fire
To-day, when the world's fire has burned so low;
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,
And straighten back in weariness, and long
To gather up my little gods and go.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tags: poetry, edna st vincent millay, sonnets

The Sky Is Falling? Part 2 of Why Firing People For Quoting The West Wing Is Bad For . . . Everyone

2006-09-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

But I do know this. As there is very little new under the sun, nothing, in fact. Writers are inspired by the ideas, words and rhythms of those who came before us. T. S. Eliot said that good writers borrow, great writers steal. This I believe.When you are sensitive to language, when you have read and read well, great words and ideas and rhythms become a part of you, inform your pattern of thought. You feel able not only to to express, but to shape language. Sitting at your little computer at a little desk; sitting with your yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen under a big tree, you are the master of words, of language, you see words move before your mind and know that . . .here, this one is wanted to evoke pain, that one, for beauty. Whether a sentence should flow like water or fall as spare and barren as a dried twig from a dying tree. Writing well, is a glorious experience, and is also a public service. As I said earlier and as King Solomon said far earlier than I, 'there is nothing new under the sun' what great writers do, whether quoting or inspired by other writers, is keep alive what is the best of us in our language and ideas and give them new significance and relevance for our lives today.

And we need great writers right now. In the U.S. at least the English language expression of ideas is devolving into sad, stupid thing. It's embarrassing. The lyrics of rap, which is (at least in it's mass marketed form) crude, unintelligent, and usually unintelligible has entered into the vernacular with all of its idiocy and none of the its eloquence. Now more than ever we need good, brave English teachers who make sure that our kids can use the language properly if the wish. But more and more teachers are too timid, placing too much emphasis on 'relating' to students rather than teaching them, too undereducated themselves to instruct young adults in using the language with confidence. And at home. Ha! Parents have all but abdicated responsibility for giving their kids the tools they need. And silly me, I'm craving eloquence? I'll settle for being able to understand them when having to face them over this counter or that desk out in the world.

Actually, no. I'm lying. I'll settle for eloquence.

The fact is that we used to read much more as a culture. We learned poetry and plays. Great writers like, Shakespeare and Whitman, Cummings and Hellman informed the American --

Truth to tell, I'm not sure whether any of this matters. Is it the education system? Is it the fact that we don't read enough? I'm not sure. I think that great writers make for great language. They hear or see something in words most others don't. They put it into a book, play or (Thanks to NBC and CBS in the cases of Aaron Sorkin and David Mamet) television show. Many people or a few, read or watch the finished product, another writer uses a version of some line in their work. A few become enamored of the book or play or TV show (ever heard of a 'Wing' Nut? As in 'The West Wing'?) And the language from that work or in it's style begins to pepper their language. What happens? They're throwing out brilliant sounding language, at the office or while standing in line for a movie. Someone hears or overhears, chuckles to themselves and thinks, 'Very clever, that's exactly what I mean to say. Hmm . . . I'm gonna use that. How did he say it again? He said . . .' and an eloquent line enters into our daily language.

Hmmm . . . well . . . So I guess we'll be fine. We'll probably be okay. The sky is not actually falling, good language isn't dead, maybe just hibernating a bit. And so long as there are still good writers out there writing and a few siren intoxicated sailors to become wrapped up in words and infect others with their beauty, the English language may not devolve completely.

So we'll be fine. So long as publishing companies, television networks and the like don't start trying to sue people for using it. You think I'm being paranoid? Possibly.
Tags: language, english, education, writing, david mamet, aaron sorkin, the west wing, eloquence

So I've Been Reading This Book . . .

2006-08-29T09:01:00.000-07:00

So I just finished this book called A Way Through The Wood. It's by a guy named Nigel Balchin about . . .Gosh, that's a tough one. I want to say it's about the unraveling of a marriage, but there's a lot more to it than that. It's about conscience and the manner in which we are human. It's beautiful, complicated and a page-turner.
It was recently made into a film starring Tom Wilkinson, Emily Watson and Rupert Everett (if you read the book, you'll know that no one but Everett could play the character of Bule)called Seperate Lies. I haven't seen the movie and probably won't. The book has left me plenty satisfied. It might be difficult to find, but I definitely recommend making the effort.

Other faves include:

Classically Speaking
Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell

Shiensh FicshunEnder's Game by Orson Scott Card
Star Wars (Thrawn Trilogy) by Timothy Zahn

Literar-ilySnow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson
A Way Through the Wood by Nigel Balchin
Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery
Fatal Interview by Edna St. Vincent Millay (Best. Sonnets. Ever!)

Genre-ally
Ngaio Marsh's Alleyn Mysteries
Agatha Christie's Miss Marple
Stone Angel by Carol O'Connell
Anything Martha Grimes
Flowers From the Storm by Laura Kinsale

Why Firing People For Quoting The West Wing Is Bad For . . . Everyone!

2006-08-26T18:54:00.000-07:00

There are those who are completely insensible to the lure of an abstract painting or a finely crafted line. There are those who hear such expressions like siren songs, like ringing in their veins; who crave artistic communion as their daily bread. Yet it is of little moment whether a person is art lover or art indifferent. The creativity of the few and the passionate regard for creativity of a few more, benefit us all; siren-intoxicated sailor and sober ship's captain alike. And that is why, the notion of NBC firing a writer for using words penned by Aaron Sorkin for an episode of the West Wing is such complete and utter crap.

There are two issues. The first is (though of course, Sorkin rarely notifies me of his thinking on such issues), I have difficulty imagining that the punitive hoopla has over this situation is about anything more than corporate claim-staking. And that it has nothing to do with Sorkin or his feelings on the matter. Corporations think in terms of ownership, rights and exclusive property. Artists think in terms of communication, contribution, freedom and expression.The second, is that firing people for speaking the words of great writers is bad for everyone, which I'll get into next time we meet (or the time after).

Here's an excerpt of the story reported by the New York Times a few months ago:

NBC Admits Plagiarism in Feature Before Derby
NY Times ^ | May 11, 2006 | RICHARD SANDOMIR

A freelance writer will no longer receive assignments from NBC Universal Sports after copying two passages from a 2002 episode of "The West Wing" in his script for a feature that preceded the Kentucky Derby on Saturday.
Ken Schanzer, the president of NBC Universal Sports, confirmed that the plagiarism had occurred. He would not identify the writer but said, "He won't work here anymore."
The short feature, which was preceded by a commercial for the final two episodes of "The West Wing," looked at the difficulties faced by Barbaro's trainer, Michael Matz, who survived a plane crash in Sioux City, Iowa, then led three children to safety; Alex Solis, who broke his back in a track spill two years ago but rode Brother Derek on Saturday; and Brother Derek's trainer, Dan Hendricks, who was paralyzed in a motocross accident.
In the script, read by NBC's Tom Hammond, Matz was extolled because he "ran into the fire to save the lives of three children." Hammond paused dramatically and added, "Ran into the fire."
The two-hour opening episode of the fourth season of "The West Wing" included a plot line in which two pipe bombs exploded and killed 44 people in the swim team's facility at the fictitious Kennison State University in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Martin Sheen, who plays President Josiah Bartlet, delivered a speech praising the rescuers who "ran into the fire to help get people out." He paused and added dramatically, "Ran into the fire."

The Derby script summed up the changed lives of Matz, Solis and Hendricks by saying that the "funny thing about life is that every time we think we've measured our capacity to meet its challenges, we're reminded that that capacity may well be limitless."

(Excerpt) Read more at nytimes.com

Please note, that the firing of this writer was precipitated not by a complaint from Sorkin, but an email from a West Wing fan who recognized the quote. What is ironic, is that just a few minutes after the Bartlet gave the speech now the cause of so much misery, the character of the speech writer Sam Seaborn in response to being complimented on it paraphrased T.S. Eliot, saying, "Good writers borrow, great writers steal out right" Aptly spoken, as Sorkin is not the originator, but the adaptor of many words in the hotly-contested Bartlet quote.

As a writer, here's what I know. There is no greater compliment than to find your words taking life in the language of others. No I don't mean plagiarism. I'm talking about language, the spoken word, the vernacular. People today say, 'Here's looking at you', 'I'll be your Huckleberry', 'Go to the mattresses', Good fences make good neighbors', 'The road not taken', or 'Once more into the breach'. What we forget to remember is that someone, at sometime, wrote those words. All of them.

Many times when we quote Shakespeare or Mario Puzo, or Robert Frost, we are merely speaking words spoken by others which sound well to us. Long after the cultural memory of a phrase's origin is lost, a well-made line will live on, carrying the life of its author along with it. Writers tend to lead a somewhat isolated existence chained to a desk in front of a blank computer screen or white piece of paper. We rarely realize the impact of our expressions on our audience. When a writer's words take life in the language of the guy four booths down in the diner, or the girl at the check out counter, this is no small thing. And the notion that in language words you have written may outlive you, or that you have given new life to some arcane expression found in an obscure novel, that is a glimpse into immortality of the sort which gives us permission to think in terms of big words; words like legacy and posterity.

So I can imagine Sorkin, who did a great thing in a small way, who put a beautifully worded and moving speech into the mouth of a fictional president to lament a fictional tragedy, must gain some satisfaction to see those words ennobled and given true significance when put into the mouth of a news anchor in aid of expressing the exaltation of Michael Matz, who risked his own life to save three children one day in Sioux City, Iowa. And perhaps a thought touched his mind? Perhaps, ten, twenty a hundred years from now, he could hear people saying "the streets are too full of angels" to speak of those who die heroically and had his own glimpse of immortality.
take my poll: Plagarism? Language?:
htmlGEAR.com

Tags: aaron sorkin, plagiarism, writing, writers, the west wing, west wing, nbc Tags: language

So Yes, Hello

2006-08-26T04:11:00.000-07:00

I'm up. Still. Again. And yes the posting time is correct. If I'm not careful I might see a sunrise. And you know how I feel about that. My dear friends it has been a long time and I am quite simply bursting with news. But it has been a long time and I'm feelin' shy. So, I am taking the bull by the horns and breaking the silence the only way I can at the moment, with a simple:

G'morning.

Tags: cfids, cfs, insomnia, hello, blogging

Various and Sundry

2006-08-09T01:24:00.000-07:00

One of our friends, Flautist and Composor Carol Alban is involved in the upcoming IDA (In Defense of Animals) benefit concert. If you are in the Bay Area you might want to show support for the organization and the artist. Here's the info:

Benefit Concert for the Animals

Featuring Flautist/Composor Carol Alban, Cellist Suellen Primost, Pianist Dylan Snodgrass, Flautist Nancy Tyler, Pipa Player Ma Jie and others.

Sunday August 27th at 3 pm
Chapel of the Chimes
4499 Piedmont Ave. Oakland Ca 94611
$10 Suggested Donation
510.595.9009
All proceeds benefit In Defense of Animals (IDA)
http//:myspace.com/idausa

****The New News****Check us out on MySpace !
Volunteers old and new: The Divine Daphne is still the editor who makes us look like -- I don't know, think of the most fabulous writer and you'll know just how good Daphne is. She has the gift for stripping away the dreck, without sacrificing the writer's individual voice.

Then there's Sir Alan Scher, he is a great writer and our favorite reviewer. He's always game and a good soul to boot.

Introducing!!!!
Sean Starr. The Sean Starr? No, my Sean Starr. Okay, fine . . . the Sean Starr. Sean is an artist who has graciously offered to tackle the redesign of out web site. Yay! His work is stunning and so is his website, check it out. While you're there stop by his blog to say hello and sign the Idealist Manifesto. I have.

Last, but certainly not least Little Marissa our student-volunteer and MySpace Mistress. It's down to her that our circle of friends keeps growing and growing. Others are waiting in the wings to be introduced and shall be during the next few weeks.

Until next time . . .

--db
****The New News****

Number 5 Is ALIVE!!

2006-07-26T14:07:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else remember that movie; Short Circuit? My brother and I must have watched seen it . . . what, like eight hundred times; and every time we came back from the video rental place (What was the name of that store?) clutching its video box in our hot little hands (and yes I mean 'hands' plural, there was almost always some argument about who got to hold the box, that usually ended with an equal distribution of carrying time), my Dad would start a rant the pre-film rant; you know the drill: "There are other movies in the video store. Why don't you get one you haven't seen twenty times." And then there was the 'during-the-movie' rant: As Jason and I broke up at the same places; ("Hey laser lips! Yo mamma was a snow-blower!") "How can this still be funny to you? You've seen it fifty times." Usually said during valiant attempts to quash his own laughter. And then there was the eye-rolling which took place during our 'Who's Johnny? Dance' when the song by El Debarge played (remember El Debarge?) My poor father. The evenings he suffered and the hours of his life that live in that movie. Because it never ended with the watching of the movie itself. He also had to endure the post-viewing-celebration, usually consisting of: jumping around while singing the one verse we knew of Who's Johnny?, random yelling ( we were kids, and so had two volume levels: loud and off) out of lines ("I am standing here beside myself.") and then inevitably, someone would call someone else 'laser lips', which is when the real trouble began.

You can imagine my dad's relief when we grew up a little and moved onto other film choices. And then they came out with Short Circuit 2.
Can anyone say . . . marathon.?

Only until this cigarette is ended . . . by Edna St Vincent Millay

2006-07-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

ONLY until this cigarette is ended
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu, -- farewell! -- the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Happy Anniversary

2006-07-12T23:56:00.000-07:00

****The New News****
Check us out our new presence on MySpace, While you're there stop and say howdy.
****The New News****

So, we are officially one year old. A lot of progress has been made, though you probably haven't seen most of it. The experience of getting this project going has really taken me to school, I've been learning an awful lot. But, in spite of my extended learning curve and health issues, there have been tangible results. Our number of hits continue to double and triple each month. Botp now has fiscal sponsorship which enables it to raise money for our cause. We have developed a network of wonderfully supportive people. In fact, this is what amazes me; I mean, artists don't tend to have it easy. We have, in fact chosen a way of living that pretty much guarantees long stretches of poverty and hard hard work. And yet, I never cease to be amazed by the spirit of generosity that seems to infect the artistic community like a virus. I know for certain that without you guys I would have given up on this madcap idea of mine long ago. Thank you for a remarkable year, and the will to fight on. I lift my glass to you.

Happy Anniversary!

Fiction: No Closer Than This

2006-06-26T19:02:00.000-07:00

She must have loved him all of her life, she thought, it was a sure truth, as sure as wind as sure as the breath in her lungs. They sat, the two of them, at a table by the window in the cafe that looked out on Clement street. The lowering sky was gray streaked with colored lights as unseen, the sun set over San Francisco. She had seen it all before; this street, this sky, from this seat. She had even sat with him a few times like this. Always like this. Her eyes on the street, knowing his eyes were on her.

Just like this. Today would be the last time. They were close. The tables in these places are always so small. She had to angle her knees to keep them from brushing his, draw her hands close to keep their fingers from touching on the table. But still they were close, even settled back in her chair she could still feel the heat of his body, leaning toward her. Very close. But a million wintry miles apart, separated as if a sheet of thick cold glass formed the barrier between them and not the ice in her own heart.

A month ago, she had been warmed by his regard, charmed by his school boy smile and gentle manner. He was everything he should be; exactly right. And she was more than prepared to love him until the end of her days. Or so she'd thought. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to be with her and this was good, right? So why could she not move beyond this? This . . . sitting in this chair, overlooking this street, watching the sky? At first meeting, he'd found it interesting, stimulating, that she wouldn't give him her address, or phone number. That she refused to `date? him, challenged him, brought all of his masculine mating instincts online and she could see he was prepared to enjoy wooing her. During that first meeting, she'd even thought she was prepared to enjoy his wooing.

That was when she'd still had hope. By their third meeting, she began preparing herself to end it. As afternoon faded into evening they talked for hours, as coffee drinks and scones gave way to the dubious pleasures of pear ale and a shared dinner of pizza with artichokes. It was lovely, but she could see the occasional flashes of uncertainty that grew in frequency as their time together drew to a close. He felt her withdrawal from him and anger made his movements jerky as he waved off her money and paid their tab. She saw his confusion and frustration when he realized she would allow him to come no closer, gently refusing him a `date?, her address, her phone number. She saw the pain he tried to hide. And that somehow he still believed her reticence would fade or could be overcome. She knew differently.

And now the future she had always feared stared at her in her ephemeral reflection on the window. As much as she loved him. And she did -- love him. As certainly as she'd kept him secretly in her heart all her life; she knew that she could not bear to let him love her. The idea of being so, close of his needing so much of her felt like suffocation, like death. She could not bear the claustrophobia of the two of them, together forever, building a life. Would there be any room for her, herself as she was now in this new life of theirs? Would that essence which made her herself be eroded over the years or would she abandon it willingly right from the start? She feared intimacy with someone so wholly apart from herself, feared his unknown, alien agendas, reactions and needs. And though she could feel her love for him as relentlessly as an oncoming tide, she was much too cold, her heart too frozen to be loved . . . and to love in return. She would be alone, loving him for the rest of her life. A whisper of pain in her heart, she allowed her fingers to brush his; no closer than this.

Stephen Tulloch's New Home

2006-06-24T04:06:00.000-07:00

****The New News****
Just sent off the first round of individual fundraising letters. Dear -- celestial toads! It took forever. I kept writing and scrapping and then rewriting and scrapping at least half a dozen drafts. Sometimes I get so much in my head that I lose all perspective. Finally I just had to sit down on Wednesday and say to myself, "Self. This is it. Today is the day. It's a fundraising letter, not a sonnet. It is essentially what 9 out of 10 people will consider junk mail not a first edition draft of Shakespeare's sonnets. It doesn't have to be perfect; there's no such thing. So. Chill. Write the dang thing and send it out. TODAY!!!

And so I did. At least I sent out eight of them. The rest will have to wait till I can buy more stamps and a new printer cartridge.

But the point is: The letter, she be done.****The New News****

From StephenTulloch.com:

Artist Statement
"Human nature naturally reaches for a higher consciousness and in this search we return back to the foundation of nature - the endless cycle of life." Stephen Tulloch

As with most artists, My artwork is a reflection of both the inner world and my philosophical take on the outer world which we all share. Technique is everything - it realizes on the physical plane the complex imaginings of an inspired mind.

Yay it's here! Stephen Tulloch, the marvelous artist (and nice human being) who has graciously allowed us to use an image of his pen and ink Cyrano de Bergerac as our logo (check out the front page) has arrived on the web with a brand new website. You'll find some beautiful work there, more ink drawings and oils as well as some mixed media work. My favorites so far are the Water Jesters diptych and Deception.
At any rate you'll want to check him out. P.S. he also designs web sites.

No respecter of persons

2006-06-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight, or rather this morning, I like that phrase. It's weird my thing about words and phrases. I fall in love with them so easily and completely. At any rate I sit here at nearly two am, unable to get to sleep, watching Star Trek DS9 on dvd, with the phrase, 'no respecter of persons' dancing through my brain, no idea why.

Good morrow fine people.

--dB

Tags: cfids, cfs, insomnia, hello, blogging

Travel -- By Edna St Vincent Millay

2006-06-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

THE railroad track is miles away,: And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn't a train goes by all day: But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,: Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,: And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,: And better friends I'll not be knowing;
Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,: No matter where it's going.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

So Be Brilliant Already...The Sad, Serious New News

2006-06-08T23:31:00.000-07:00

But I'm afraid I'm not. Brilliant that is. At least not tonight. What I am is pensive and a little worried. Things have not been going to well for BotP. We are nearly a year old, but have made little progress in raising money to fund the magazine and the work we hope to accomplish. There are a lot of factors involved, but primarily, I haven't the stamina to both raise money and publish the 'zine. I thought I did, so for the last few months I've been getting in my own way with efforts to do everything myself and doing nothing well.

So here's the deal. The 'zine is officially on hiatus while I focus my efforts on fundraising and getting some help. You will still find me here, blathering on about whatever I have to blather on about. Articles will be added to BotP Proper on occasion and I'll let you know when and where to find them. I will be doing some clean up work over the weekend, updating the archives, so that you are able to find previous issues and articles that appeared on the site, and posting a couple of pieces by a couple really wonderful new writers.

Yes there are interviews outstanding, three to be precise. They still need to be transcribed, a rather labor intensive, tedious and tricky job I haven't strength for at the moment. I'll let you know what is up with those as soon as I know something. If you have enjoyed this site, if you like the blog, if you love artists and would like to help us help them -- please, click on DONATE and select Bakery of the Poets from the pull-down menu. You will help BotP stay afloat. If you are not comfortable donating online, email me and I will send you information on how you can help us out via snail mail. I want to thank everyone who has been so kind, supportive and excited about our work, and to them I say, 'Don't count us out yet.'

In spite of setbacks and obstacles, I still believe that the future of Bakery of the Poets is 'so bright . . . I gotta wear shades.'

ArtSpeak: On Artists and Arti-types 2; The Bluestockings

2006-05-26T00:26:00.000-07:00

Bluestocking, how cool is it that I finally have the opportunity to use that word in a sentence? Fabulous. Anyway.

As the word itself. Most of you probably know what it mean. But I love an excuse to do a little etymology spelunking. So here goes.

The word 'bluestocking' has it's origin in fifteenth century Venice. Della Calza, 'of the stocking', was an elite society of Venetian intellectuals (men and women) known by their elaborate leg coverings. The movement reappeared in France during the sixteenth century when Parisian women took the name Bas Bleu ( literally 'blue stocking') to describe the denizens of their literary and philosophical salons. The final and most well-known incarnation came in eighteenth century England. Lady Elizabeth Montagu took the French name for her salons. Later English men used the English translation of the name and transformed the word bluestocking pejorative to describe scholarly women, or very likely any woman that was smarter and better educated than the speaker. And that, unfortunately is the definition that stuck in public consciousness.

So. Anyway. There are these artists. I'm going to continue to use actors an to illustrate . . . it's easier. So. There are these artists. They are often very intelligent and it is by means of their intellect that they enter the world. Whether they are discussing politics, food or the latest fashions; everything is run through that supercomputer upstairs. I find it a delectable combination. Art is a subject that is so germane to our make up, to many the idea of intellectualizing it or viewing it through an analytical lens seems like sacrilege. There are many creative people who feel about art the way 85 percent of the world feels about God.

The Bluestocking has no choice. Everything is processed intellectually. Even emotion. Even creativity. Even Art. They are intensely curious and concerned with every detail of a character's story and environment. They will often take reams of notes getting obsessive about the what's and wherefore's of their characters actions and interior life. Their interest is often not limited to their character, but the screenplay, the directing; the overall production of the film. You will find a lot of these actors have taken on multitudinous roles within the film and performing arts communities, and often end up directing, composing and producing in addition to acting.

When watching a Bluestocking on screen, I'm always struck this sense, an awareness of . . . I don't know, like you can feel the brainpower. There's a movie I like and own. The Sum of All Fears is great fun and as get-it-done kind of thriller, it works like charm. But you don't really need to see it more than a couple of times. The story is pretty by-the-numbers, the films major selling point is the cast; actors like Morgan Freeman, James Cromwell, and Ciarian Hinds are in it. Great actors who are criminally underutilized, especially when you consider what a time-waster is most of the third act. Or do I mean fourth? Anyway, the reason I bought the movie and continue to watch it from time to time can be summed up in two words: Liev Schreiber.

You may or may not know who Schreiber is, he's kind of on the periphery of fame, he's a decorated theater actor, a noted character actor and director of the film Everything Is Illuminated. If you don't know who he is, don't worry, you will. What he does in forty seconds of screen time most actors couldn't do with a full hour. Watch his character's introductory scene with Morgan Freeman on the tarmac and you'll see what I mean. There is an immediate sense that his is a fully inhabited character with depth and history. It's amazing. That type of habitation can only really be accomplished once the kind of exhaustive research and soul-searching and question-asking that a Bluestocking is only too thrilled to do, has been done. They are intensely prepared and enjoy the process of getting there. Bluestockings' innate curiosity make them inveterate puzzle lovers, so that each new acting assignment is 'candy store' to their 'kid'; presenting a cornucopia of new questions that need answers.

Bluestockings

Don Cheadle
Geena Davis
Vincent d'Onofrio
Chiwetel Ejiofor
Jodie Foster
Liev Schreiber

Pinkerton's Rules For Living

2006-04-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

Naps are good.

Mom is good...even if she is hairless.

The sky could fall at any minute. When in doubt sit under something. Beds are good. Chairs are good. Bed trays are the best, they sit up high so you can see everything. Plus they give you that nice secure feeling of something over your head.

Warm french fries are very good.

Looking outside is good.

Being outside...not so much.

Naps are medicine

Hands are scary.

Wind is scary.

Vacuum cleaners are scary.

People are scary . . . and not that attractive.

Other cats are scary. Watch them till they go away or growl if they don't and run. This is also a good time to sit under something

Little people are evil. They have loud high voices and grabby hands. Avoid at all costs. If Mom is there ignore them or growl. If Mom is away attack attack attack and then go sit under something. Remember to punish mom when she gets back for leaving you alone.

Naps = gorgeous me.

Towels are a good place to sit.

Bathtubs are fun. Baths are evil. Avoid at all costs. If you can't, resist resist resist. When resistance is futile, go to your happy place until it's over. Then go sit under something while you dry. Remember to punish mom for getting you wet.

Toilets are fun. Falling in isn't.

Bugs are fun. Small bugs.

String is fun . . . but don't eat it. Remember what happened that one time. Eww.

Staring is fun.

Naps are fun.

A food dish less than a quarter full is unacceptable.

Too much icky in the litter box is unacceptable.

To much hair on favorite sitting towel is unacceptable. It should also smell freshly laundered.

Being told to sit on favorite sitting towel is unacceptable, resist resist resist.

Get mom to rub your head while you eat. This is good.

Get mom to sing and rub your head. This is good.

Get mom to brush your head as much as possible, back also good. Brushing tummy is unacceptable, resist, resist resist.

Nap on favorite sitting towel, under the bed tray after strenuous resistance.

I'm Entitled, You're Entitled, Everyone's Entitle-titled

2006-04-20T00:14:00.000-07:00

Here's a thing. I've been watching the amazing, revealing and sometimes painful new series Black.White. on F/X. Bruno (the white guy made up as a black man) in particular throws a word around a lot that has always been a button-pusher for me. Not the `N' word (have you ever heard anything more silly?), the `E' word. Entitlement.

I hate it when people (and by people I mean moneyed people referring to un-moneyed, white people referring to non-white, naturalized people referring to non-naturalized people), go on and on about `entitlement' as if the very act of feeling you have a right to something, means that you don't deserve it. The ludicrous, the ridiculous hypocritical, pseudo-self-righteousness with which they denigrate the angry unwashed for their errant sense of entitlement, never fails to get me hot under the collar. Of course `they' whoever the `they' is under discussion feels entitled. Everybody does. Why should the poor, and non-white be any different from Middle America, Middle-Class America or Corporate America?

It doesn't matter who we are or where live, or the color our skin or the bracket in which we file our taxes. We all feel entitled, as if we have a right to expect things to turn out well for us; whether or not we put in the requisite effort to ensure success. We're Americans for goodness sake! Our entire societal psychology is built on achieving a Dream. They don't call it the 'American You Really Worked For It Didn't You?' or the 'American You Get Exactly What You've Earned And No More' The phrase is the American Dream, a term which in and of itself betrays a cultural inability to deal with reality.

I say American, but the truth is having a sense of entitlement, a feeling that we have a right to the things we need or passionately wish for, is just part of the human condition. However, if you are if you are poor or black (or really any minority, but sticking to the subject of the show), you likely have a much better sense of reality and thus, a lesser sense of entitlement, than your middle-class or white brethren. You have seen the myriad ways in which it is possible for things not to go well. Experience has taught you that just because things are bad, it doesn't mean they can't always get worse. You don't expect breaks, or rescues, or for people to just help you out. Nothing `turns up' (as in the saying `something will turn up'?), things don't `work out'. You have enough of a sense of entitlement to be pissed, but not necessarily enough to hope for better.

On the other hand, entitlement among the moneyed and white is alive and well. I grew up in a very white town. And I came up old school. While other black suburbanites were attempting to insulate their kids from the realities of racism and just the general unfairnesses of life by pretending they didn't exist. Telling them things like, `You're just as good as anyone, in fact better, you can do anything you want.' Which incidentally is what most of my white classmate were being told by their parents. My parents drummed a different message into my head. `Being black in America means you have to work twice as hard as the white person next to you in order to get just as far. Yet another of those axioms I don't really believe, but have found to be true. Another is that taking Vitamin C helps keep you healthy.

I can't count the number of times I've been on a job or whatever and have watched my fellow workmates get away with murder. It's not so much that they didn't get caught taking the extra breaks, taking long personal calls, taking home the office supplies, barely getting their work done or not getting it done at all; it's the attitude with which they perform, or don't. The sense that they have a right to cheat the boss or behave incompetently and not get their butts fired. And if, by some (amazing) stretch they do get fired, guess who's fault it isn't, as far as they are concerned? As if somehow they had done their employer a favor by condescending to show up; whether or not they actually did their jobs was irrelevant.

Now I admit to having a kind of old school Southern girl work ethic. So I get that my take on workplace deportment is in the minority. But what I'm getting at is that no one really feels that they should be condemned to living with the consequences of their actual actions.

We do, on the other hand, feel that other people should face the music. You know if 'they can't take the heat, they should get out of the kitchen'; 'if they can't do the time, they shouldn't do the crime. For ourselves we expect -- feel . . . a-heh . . . entitled to a little mercy. 'Yes, my son knows he shouldn't have groped that woman on the subway, but calling the police? Isn't that just a little extreme? After all, boys will be boys.' 'Well, sure, I padded my expense account just a little, everyone does it. Should that cost me my job?' Or 'Why are you pulling me over? At least two other cars were going faster than I was.'

We all have our thing, a little thing, a big thing; some behavior for which we would really, really prefer the chickens not come home to roost. After all, we feel we are good people and if nothing else, entitled to having our lives go on undisturbed by excessive consequences. So why don't we all just ease up on deciding what godless excesses to which other people should feel entitled?

A Little Night Music, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Chopin

2006-04-16T21:41:00.000-07:00

So I’ve been listening to a little Chopin. I’ve always been interested in classical music. Have always been transported on my tentative forays into the symphony. But . . . and it’s the usual but . . . have always been intimidated by the wealth of material and the depth of my own ignorance.

Which composers will I prefer? What period? Style? Instruments? Which musicians? Which recordings? Good heavens there are so many options, it’s positively paralytic. I always thought that the only way I could really and truly get into classical music was to have my own personal tutor. Actually I feel that way about music in general. CALLING ALL MUSIC SNOBS! HELP! However, I have found a way to begin feeling my way around. Amazon.com reviews and the Yahoo! Music Engine. I love it! For like six bucks a month I can get almost any artist, recording, whatever and download it to my computer for my listening enjoyment. Which is great, cause I’m not a person for whom purchasing CD’s is a good option. I have enough trouble committing to a style of music, much less a particular artist or CD, I like having the option of buying without having the pressure that comes from, ‘okay now I bought it so I really gotta listen to it...for the rest of my life’ this of course leads immediately to my listening nonstop for a month or two and then never picking it up again.

Anyway, about classical music. Here’s what I did. First, I broke it down to the very basics. What are my favorite instruments? Piano and cello. Okay great, start with piano. Next which composer? I already had a composer in mind; Chopin. If you’ve never seen Impromptu featuring Hugh Grant and Judy Davis, you are missing out! It’s a beautiful, fun, funny and literate movie for which the headline stars are just the tip of the iceberg. Also appearing are Mandy Patinkin, Julian Sands, Emma Thompson and Bernadette Peters. Anyway, Impromptu began my fascination with both George Sand and Chopin.

“I am not full of virtues and noble qualities, I love that is all. But I love strongly, exclusively, steadfastly.” – a line in the movie adapted from Mauprat by George Sand.
And the music! I couldn’t believe how beautiful the music was.

So . . . Chopin it was. Then to find a recording. Dear god this was where things got extremely . . . extreme. So I went to Amazon.com and started browsing the classical music section looking for customer selections that mentioned Chopin; trying to find consensus on which were considered the definitive, essential, can’t-miss-this-one recordings. Amazingly, Yahoo Music had many–well, some of them. As a result I’ve been listening to Rachmaninov Plays Chopin.

Color me amazed. I mean shocked. The complexity, the sheer artistry is astonishing. And there’s something else. As complex and intellectual the structures seem in comparison to modern music, almost left brain; the effect, the affect is so primary, so basic I can actually feel certain notes -- certain combinations strike up corresponding emotion inside of me.

Like any good INTP I generally listen to the music I’m in the mood for. Yet something about Chopin’s Scherzo in C Sharp Minor, Op.39 No.3 as played by Sergei Rachmaninov, puts a mood in me.

So. Music experts and snobs, where should I go from here?

Getting Back Into the Swing...

2006-04-14T23:38:00.000-07:00

...of things.

I've had a crazy time lately. I've had fibromyalgia for a while now. It and CFIDs are two of the most tedious illnesses known to man. People ask how I'm doing. You know, the two or three who ask that really want to know. And for these ailments there are never interesting answers. It's like yeah...I feel like I'm dying, but I don't think I'm actually going anywhere. That particular answer is only interesting once. And mostly for the shocked expressions on the other person's face.

I've learned that I am not my illness, that as has always been the case, when it comes to how I am doing, my body is all but irrelevant. As Yoda once told Luke, all my life I have looked away...to the future. Never my mind on where I was. What I was doing. Why should now be any different? So when people ask me how I'm doing I tell them I'm great, or I'm lousy depending on how well I'm writing; how wellthe work on the magazine is going.

As for myself aside from the cursory healthy-fix-it routines I follow, my interest in my physical health is limited to whether or not it is limiting the flow of ink from the pen. Which brings me to this past Thursday.

I found this weird bump, like, near the base of my skull under my ear. I couldn't figure out whether it was just an estroenated blemish or whether I had now developed some interesting sort of tumor. So I started kinda pressing on it to see, you know, if I could tell from the way it felt. However, whatever said lump turns out to be, it is certainly located near a pressure point. Those of you who have Fibro can sing the next verse with me...that's right. I developed the mother, brother, aunt and uncle of all migraines. Which the next day landed me in the ER for the first time in my migraine-having history.

They actually gave me a shot! In the bum! Two shots really. One was a sort of morphine-derivative, the other to prevent me from vomiting as a result of the first shot. Does this sound ridiculous to anyone but me? So I'm shot up on drugs and given scrips for more to take home(like party favors or some crazy thing)...and when I stand up and start (well, sort of) walking to the car, I can still feel the migraine. Like out there somewhere, waiting for me. Except now I don't care so much.

One of the first things I noticed when I was again in a noticing mood, was that not only had the headache receded to the background, is that the fibro pain, which I'd noticed peripherally had been increasing over the past months had also receded somewhat. Up until recently, I had refused to take anything stronger than over the counter aspirin or Tylenol. As if I were playing that kid's game of how long can you hold your finger in the candle flame. As if somehow, by enduring the pain I would beat the disease. I'm a Jewell and Jewell women are nothing if not stoic in our own eccentric ways.

The next thing I noticed when I was again in a noticing sort of mood about six hours later, was that I was in excruciating pain. Like cry out pain. Not my head so much (though not so little either), but my knees and lower back, arms...all of the fibro greatest hits. So apparently my little pharmaceutical vacation shed new light enabling me to take exact measurement of the height of my stupidity. Like the frog who is boiled to death slowly, my level of pain had increased and my level of activity had been decreasing by degrees, and I had not noticed how impaired I'd become, the amount of pain I was enduring. That is until Dr ER Feelgood came and took the pain away, aye? (It's a Cold Comfort Farm reference, rent the movie you'll love it I promise)

Now that I'm moderately medicated. I'm back. And I guess that's all that matters.

Tags: cfids, cfs, Tags: coping, fibromyalgia, personal growth

Women in Fiction and the Cult of Victimization, or...

2006-04-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

...why we are getting no better than we deserve. There is one thing that stands out about women (women...not females...women, when did we start accepting the view that we deserve no better distinction than animals? You rarely hear of men referred to as males.) in modern fiction.

My how she suffers. And in SUCH a boring way. Granted, I have been reading the literary equivalent of sitcoms...or perhaps even reality TV. But the truth is whether you are reading early Oprah’s Book Club or late Hilary de Vries, the thing that women do most and least interestingly in pop fiction, is suffer...and at the hands of women authors. I’m not saying there aren’t great books clearly written with the intent of being significant literary works. But what most people are sucking down, like McDonald’s or Baskin and Robbins are these ridiculously reactive intensely bland female (and I do credit them with that dishonor) protagonists, who think, believe, stand for...nothing at all. All they do is emote...and suffer. The Order of Poor Claire’s (White Oleander, the movie. Check it out it’s a lot of fun and a startling exception to my current rant. Michelle Pfeiffer is fabulous). Boring.

So right now, I’m engaged on a course of light reading. I just read. Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, and I’m still depressed. I ought to have known better. I saw Howard’s End, like 80 times ten years ago and still haven’t gotten over it. So anyway, I thought to perk myself up with a foray into light, non-genre popular women’s fiction. And is this how we see ourselves. Or rather because fictional characters are about how we would like to perceive our existence, is this how we want to see ourselves? Twenty something, amoral, dull and victimized. And truth to tell, as far as I’m concerned, ‘dull’, is the worst of the four. Be Kate Winslet in like, every movie she’s ever done. Be Linda Fiorentino, in like...well, every movie she’s ever done. You can even be...okay, I’m looking for the Hollywood actress who does suffering, to complete the analogy. But I can’t think of anyone. Help me out here?

But do not, do not invite me inside the head of a character and then put me to sleep. When did bland become so cool? I know I know. My head has been in the sand while MTV and Madison Avenue took over the planet. Somehow I did not notice that everything about women today has become drop dead...boring. As if straight [hair, faces, clothes], skinny conformity has become the ideal of every woman under 40. I expect girls on TV to have a certain sameness about them. But when did this happen? When did every girl on every TV show or in popular film, begin to look, act and dress exactly alike? And for so long? I mean, sleeveless cotton/spandex T’s and hip-hugger jeans have been hot for, what, ten years now? Is there anything more uninteresting?

We complain about men. We complain about men a lot. We blame them for objectification and the unreal media expectations. We say that they either want to infantilise or brutalize us. We blame them for our unhappiness in whichever relationship we happen to be in at the moment. But the truth. We do this to ourselves. The unrealistic expectations and objectification . . . women’s magazines, reinforced by women’s fiction and chick flicks; often written and promoted by . . . you got it . . . other women. As for infantilisation and brutalization . . . have you seen Lifetime TV, the WB or any ‘women’s’ television show? And again, reinforced by popular women’s fiction . . . written by whom? Women.

And I admit . . . I get into my Markie Post-Judith Light-Lifetime Movie marathon moods just like everyone else. It’s just. . .am I wrong or is insipid victimization our most prevalent form of escapist entertainment? I mean really. Am I wrong?

Of Artists and Arti-types, Part 1

2006-04-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

I have this theory about artists.

Having a brain which requires everything to be quantified (especially the weird and wonderful worlds of art and emotion) means that while watching a film with tears streaming from my eyes some part of me is still going, "that is an amazing shot, how on earth did he do that?", or "why am I so moved? Is it the performance or the music? Or is it just the idea being presented? Eh...yeah, it's the music". Yes, it sounds obsessive and slightly robotic; but I, I assure you, am really quite cute and cuddly.

And if you will take a moment from pondering my weirdnesses you will find I'm trying to make a point (yes, fond of the italics today).

So there are artists, all kinds of artists. Artists that I love. But what I've noticed about them is that no matter what their discipline, just as with personality there area finite number of types. Artistic types, like temperament, falls into certain categories. Really, I think I'm on to something here; so I've been working it out in my head.

La Belle Artiste

It started a little bit, when I was watching something or other and realized that the actor was completely naked onscreen. Yeah, he was fully clothed, but he was completely bare, vulnerable. His technique...is not the greatest, there are awkward moments where a more technically proficient actor might finesse, but with him there is a break. Actually more like a hairline fracture than a break. At first I'm irritated, because I think, you know, 'This guy is terrible! Why doesn't he learn how to act?' This went on for a while.

But then I begin to realize that I am aware of his despair, his character's despair, like I can feel it in my own body. And I keep watching him, because for the life of me, I can't see what he's doing. Usually I can tell. All actors have their tricks, their habits, their 'tells', if you will. If you watch them long enough you can learn how they do that thing they do. But there are some artists for whom their intense vulnerability is their entire bag of tricks. It's this stripped down naked, honesty of soul they are able to convey on camera, on stage, that is barren of intellect. It's just them. And it's just beautiful.

I've written about actors here this morning, but I believe that in every discipline there are these belle artistes these people who can't help but put all that they are on the stage, on the page, on the canvas. They require special handling when in creative mode, because at such times they lack natural defenses of any kind. And I love them. I admit, most freely that of all the arti-types clanking around in my head the belle artiste is the type for which I feel the most. It's a mother hen thing, their vulnerability which makes me want to clear their path, to make sure they take care of themselves, or that they are taken care of; making sure they are better able to do that thing they do; it's also an admiration borne of envy. I myself, have never figured out how to get of my own way while creating. I over-think, I get scared and put up walls. Artifice and pretense and intellect become my allies and obstacles.

So anyway, that's my first classification.

La Belle Artiste: (actors, 'cause it's easiest)

Minnie Driver
Gale Harold
Julianne Moore
Rufus Sewell
Derek Luke
Dakota Fanning

Tags: acting, julianne moore, derek luke, dakota fanning, movies, actors, art, entertainment

'How Naked, How Without a Wall'

2006-04-08T03:51:00.000-07:00

So I just saw Rent for the first time ever on DVD. When the stage production was going strong, I was well into my Boubil Shoenberg phase and could not be interested in a ‘gritty’ ‘rock’ musical about modern Bohemians. I was firmly inoculated against the Renthead fervor that seemed to be infecting the nation. And then . . . I guess it was about four or five years ago . . . I watched a special about Jonathan Larson. There is a poem by Edna Millay the title of which has always struck home somehow How naked, How Without a Wall. This is the life of the artist. Larson took the voluntary involuntary vow of poverty of artists who choose not to bisect themselves by using their talent for more lucrative commercial work. He believed in his talent and his work when no one else did. And what do you know, all his hard work paid off, he was a success story! Larson had hit musical on Broadway, won two Tony awards and a Pulitzer, all before the age of forty.

Of course, he died at 35. Just a few hours after his first interview with the New York Times, just hours after ‘Rent’s final dress rehearsal and days before its debut on Broadway; he died of an aortic aneurysm. He’d been in and out of emergency rooms (composer/waiters can’t afford health insurance or private medical care) during the weeks before he died complaining of fever and chest pain. The diagnoses received seems to have ranged between depression and food poisoning. What is awful and enraging is that the aortic aneurysm which took his life was likely a complication of a treatable (though tricky) illness called Marfan Syndrome. If Larson taken on a steady 9 to 5, he might still be alive. Health insurance might have saved him, of course, we wouldn’t have ‘Seasons of Love’, ‘La Vie Boheme’, 'One Song Glory', or any of the other songs that tell the story of Rent.

As I write this tonight, I realize that it was on an afternoon five or six years ago, with Jonathan Larson firmly in mind, the seeds of BotP were sown in my heart. I kept saying to myself ‘It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this hard. This person is creating something transcendent out of pure thin air. Is that so easy? Why should everything else in his life be so hard?’ Over and over again. Life for artists, is unreasonably difficult; the poverty, the lack of respect, lack of support. However exquisitely talented, however hard they work, if they keep at it, they are far more likely to die poor and early than most of the rest of us. It’s ridiculous, particularly when one considers that they give all that they are and all that they have in every moment of every day.

They are our record-keepers. They are our story-tellers.

When the world has had its fill of burnt flesh and twisted metal and must turn its minds away.
When the world has had its fill of rotting limbs in mass graves and must turn its mind away. When the world has had its fill of injustice that cannot be redressed and agony for which there is no succor and must turn its mind away.

Artists do not–cannot turn away. Their eyes and their hearts remain open to all the ugliness long after it has overwhelmed the rest of us into turning away. And then they reach inside themselves and tell us how it feels to be human in an inhumane world. In song, in verse, on canvas, on film, on stage . . . with the written word, they give us a place to put the pain and words with which to express it. They lead the way past the wreckage to a place of beauty, of truth that makes all endurable. And all that is needed is that genetic quirk that compels them to stand naked in a hailstorm, so to speak, in order to give rest of us a more nuanced weather report.

Okay . . . I’m not kidding myself. I do love artists, I love the very idea of them. But let’s not fool ourselves with the notion they are called to their work out of some sense of altruism and idea of public benefaction. When it comes to why they work, they could care less about the rest of us. They do it for one simple reason. They must. They can’t not create. They are driven by this insane compulsion to cut open their guts and then tell us what they look like. The good, the bad and the downright disgusting. And so they are extraordinarily sensitive and intensely vulnerable.

Don’t believe me? Think about the last time you talked to someone about the fact that a certain item on the news made you feel so bad, your stomach hurt for two days and that you kept crying and couldn’t figure out why. Yes...I’m taking (ahem) artistic license here, but you get my gist? With whom did you speak about these feelings? Your spouse? Your mother? Your boss? That chick you can’t stand whose desk is by the copy machine? You talked to someone you trusted. Someone who made you feel safe, a person you knew would not think less of you or deride you or think you weak for being so vulnerable to far away suffering.

Now imagine feeling those feelings and feeling the need . . . to put them into a song, or a painting, or in an article or book or . . . you get my drift. Imagine going over it and over it until you get it just right...have found just the right . . . thing. The expression, color, brush stroke, movement, whatever, that most perfectly expresses that feeling. And then imagine, expanding on the theme until you have created something where nothing once stood. Not because you wanted to open up your soul and put it on canvas for the world to see, but because you had no choice. How naked, how without a wall.

All of the rest . . . shouldn’t be so hard.

But anyway, One Song Glory, the tale of an HIV positive rocker racing against mortality to write that immortal note is ridiculously poignant and feels like something shared by all artists. And . . . it makes me cry like a baby.

Thank you Jonathan.

"How Naked, How Without a Wall" by Edna St Vincent Millay

2006-04-02T01:56:00.000-08:00

I'm not really sure what Millay meant by this poem, but it has alway made me think of artists.

Excerpted from How Naked, How Without a Wall:

The man who ventures forth alone
When other men are snug within,
Walks on his marrow, not his bone,
And lacks his outer skin.

The draughty caverns of his breath
Grow visible, heart shines through:
Surely a thin which only death
Can have a right to do.

--by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Wine From These Grapes

Solano Rep, Missouri Street Theater and It's An Actor's...

2006-03-26T22:49:00.000-08:00

Life For me.

I spent an evening in a pretty amazing place speaking with some pretty amazing people. Before I get into specifics--I'm gonna brag a little.

When I was four years old my family moved to a smallish city in Northern California called Fairfield. The two main industries were Travis Air Force Base and some variation of farming...or something (you can guess into which of the two demographics my familly fell). The main drag was, and is the very wide Texas Street, built wide to make room--not for rush hour traffic--but for tractors and cattle. School was an interesting brew, an atmmosphere that developed from throwing kids who have grown up all over the world and kids who had never left the county together in one room. Left to it's own devices (minus Travis AFB) Fairfield's demographic was primarily agricultural, Mormon and white. Air Force culture could not have been more different in every way, infusing the area with an amalgam of cultures, colors, languages and fresh ideas. As a kid I remembered being fascinated by the contrast, and the manner in which the two worlds melded...or collided.

Okay, technically, you don't need to know all of this in order to get the rest of the story. Maybe. I do think the social makeup of the town is one of many factors that contribute to the little tidbit I'm about to convey.

In an area of something more and something less than 150,000 people, there are something like a dozen theater groups and nearly a dozen performing arts theaters or performance venues. And the number continues to increase. Can I talk about how much I love my town?

Last Thursday I was to meet with a woman whom I'd long admired and about whom I'd been curios for years. An actor, when Barbara Norris moved to Fairfield, she could find very little in the way of local theater work. And so, being the intrepid soul she is, she began the Solano Repertory Theater company and hasn't looked back since. She acts and directs and manages her company and contributes her time to local community arts efforts. So now, I have this magazine and I thought, 'Cool, I can go be nosy.'

When I arrived at our meeting place, it was to discover that yet another theater and theater company had sprung up. The Missouri Street Theater and Theater Academy, made available for the purpose by Pam Spering, and presided over by Serena, Sylvia and a few other wise women who have turned a suite of offices into small theater and arts academy. Have I mentioned how much I love my town?

Home Again Home Again Jiggety-Jig

2006-03-24T23:06:00.000-08:00

****The New News****
Hi everyone, we've been gone a long time. We had a terrible...and then a really wonderful time with technology, what with computer crashes and trying to keep the bills paid. Our computer crisis is history and hopefully our new Five Dollar Fundraiser (which is exactly what it sounds like) will help alleviate the financial one.

In other news, one of out favorite artists and BotP friends, Chris Fabbri has new paintings for sale at PaintingsDirect.com. Be sure to check him out. And buy something, he's a wonderful artist!
****The New News****

Heeyyy! I'm back!!

Did you miss me? DidyouevenknowIwasgone?

Well I was. The computer I was using had a tragic accident; a crash to be precise. Its owner took it away for Rx and it has yet to return. However.

And this is a BIG however that rates its own line and repetition.

However...

A dear wonderful, excellent human being donated a brand new Dell notebook and printer to Bakery of the Poets. And so I'm back.

Hellooo!

I'm very excited. Now I just need money for paper.

But paper or not, I can be here with you fabulous people once again...tooting my little horn and enjoying your music as well.

Yay.

Hello again.
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Netflix and Vocal Minority, an Open Letter to Reed Hastings

2006-02-12T15:20:00.000-08:00

I love Netflix! Totally. I signed up in February of '02 and have been gleefully renting ever since. Here's the problem. I began to notice something strange. When I first opened my account the speed with which my movies were delivered thrilled me beyond description. I told literally, everyone I knew, some people I only sorta knew and a few I didn't know at all to sign up for this amazing time-saving and fun service.

And then...I don't know something started to happen. I really noticed it in late '04 when it started taking longer for movies returned to be reflected on my account. And then, even more strangely, instead of immediately shipping my next selection, it would show in my account as "shipping", not just for a few hours as it had in the past, but for a day. I called Netflix a couple of times and got some sort of tap dance about distribution centers or some such. But I suspected Netflix found my high rental activity a liability and was 'slowing my roll'. I was pretty annoyed, but even so I figured (and still do) the big N is the best game in town, I would like to see my account function with the speed with which it once did, but I could live with it.

Then the news broke and my suspicions were confirmed by the company itself. The practice Well...at last. No I'm not crazy and that really would have been the end of that for me, had I not read a quote from a Netflix spokesperson attempting to calm customers fears by letting them know that this phenomena is being experienced by a 'vocal minority', I would have been fine. But instead I'm ticked. And I told them so...read on:

To: Reed Hastings, CEO
From: One of the 'Vocal Minority'
Re: 'Throttling'
An Open Letter

Here's the thing...I'm one of those customers who has been a target of throttling. I have health problems and work from home, so I'm home a lot and I'm a complete movie addict. Like most of my addicted brethren, I'm pissed at you guys for delivering poorer quality service nowadays than when I first signed up. My righteous indignation condition flared out of control when I discovered said service lapse was entirely intentional. Really...you guys, for shame!

The other thing is this. My friends and I...the Netflix Movie Addicts...The Brethren. We are remarkably benign; not interested in filing lawsuits, (gasp!) canceling our accounts, or even telling others that Netflix sucks.

Given the givens the quote from Steve Swasey dismissing the problem as something that affects only a "vocal minority"; comes off a bit whiny and more than a bit back-stabby. I did not notice Netflix complaining when this vocal minority was busily talking everyone they knew into getting a Netflix account.

Don't get me wrong, you guys are successful because at the perfect time, you had great idea and executed it elegantly. But it was an idea that appealed to a particularly 'vocal' segment of the population, my brethren…the rabid movie fan. And I daresay we helped a little.

We have been your most loyal customers and your most effective marketing campaign. For every one of us 'heavy' users you can count at least 3 to 10 new subscribers for whom we are directly responsible and the ripple effect is likely in the hundreds, because we have been preaching the Netflix word to all who would listen. We are Patients Zero for the Netflix virus that has infected America. We don't ask for special recognition or special deals. We don't need glory, Netflix merchandise or superhero capes; but we durned well want the service for which we first signed up.

We're mad...we're tired of artificial waiting times...and as you have so eloquently pointed out--vocal.

So shut us up! And make a little more money at the same time. Offer a heavy hitters club. Tack on an extra, I don't know, whatever your marketing guys figure out each month to join. Club members get special perks that movie nerds love, arcane movie facts, podcast interviews with lesser known filmmakers who have cult followings. Allow club members to interact with each other, perhaps by creating a blog.

But first, do the right thing; offer that service for free for a year to those accounts which have been throttled. In particular for those accounts whose existence pre-dated the practice (like mine) Call it beta testing or whatever the heck you want. Market it right and you'll get a lot of new subscribers to sign on for the extra service simply because it's there. I and my brethren will sign up because we want truly unlimited service and a club with a cool name.

Live long and prosper,
Maya Jewell
Tags: reed hastings, netflix, throttling, movies, dvds

On Being Vulcan, Part 1

2006-02-04T00:30:00.000-08:00

****The New News****
Scooooore! Last Friday I completed an interview with the lovely and talented Kriss Turner, head writer for Everybody Hate's Chris and screenwriter of the new film 'Something New'. But, yes...that's right. I'm transcribing look for the article next Friday. She was very cool and it was a great conversation.
****The New News****

When I was ten or eleven my cousin Cynthia nicknamed me Mr. Spock.

We were at the waterslides in Manteca, dripping wet and barefoot, padding from one ride to another on a hot summer day. You know, the kind of hot you can only get in that particular part of California...all pine needles and red dirt. She'd said something--I have no idea what. I do remember my ten or eleven year old brain considered my older cousin to be one of the most irrational creatures alive.

My knee jerk response to whatever it was she'd said was likely along the lines of what 'made sense' or what 'logic demanded' (oh yes...I was one of those kids). It was, of course an incredibly irritating thing to say. I had not yet learned the value of sugar coating the truth for the sake of not being annoying. Operating as I did on the principle that Truth was Truth; its wardrobe was beside the point. Speaking the Truth (and no, in my head there was no "as I saw it" caveat to handicap me) was my responsibility, receiving it, the listener's problem.

So anyway, on this hot summer day while I was being annoying and my cousin was being irrational (she was! that much, I'm sure of) at the waterslides she called me Mr. Spock. I still remember the little thrill I felt as she spoke. Mr. Spock! Very cool.

"Thank you." I said. This of course annoyed Cynthia further...and really...I was a pill. There are few things more exasperating than making person feel complimented while attempting to offend them. One of which, is having to explain to the complimented person that you are insulting them and then having them (patiently) explain why you're wrong and then describing the manner in which your epithet was really a rather nice thing to say. Which is what I did next. Then the conversation hit a lull.

You will find it hard to believe, but Cynthia and I have never been what you (or anyone) would call close. The years, our disprate upbringings and interests thoroughly divided us. But her comment stuck with me. Mr. Spock...I prided myself on the moniker. It helped give flesh and in strange way, a role model to the nebulous sense of ease thinking my way through a situation always brought. There was comfort in having the ability to analyze a situation and know the logical response, to know what 'made sense'. It was like math for living. When I was young (very young) I took this ability to mean that (apart from a bloody temper)I was bereft of emotion...an emotion-free zone. And when I was a child that seemed...safe.

Living La Vida Loca...Not

2006-01-27T17:53:00.000-08:00

So they arrested my roommate's son this morning.

First let me say that I am a person with a very low threshold for drama. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a total drama queen. But, as I often say, I prefer dramatize my life; I don't like drama in my life. So while I do possess the ability to make a trip to Trader Joe's sound like something out of the tales of Scheherazade, it is rare that you will find me inviting such things into my life as can blow up in my face.

And frankly, I have very little patience for those who do. The world is filled with enough misery. If we “shake disaster until the fruit falls down” we have no right to be surprised at the state of the lawn. We also sacrifice our prerogative to feel victimized by the size of the landscaping bill. We did, after all, achieve the result we sought. Be heedless, be passionate, be a little self-destructive. These are all valid life choices. But don’t be stupid. Don’t pretend for your sake or for the good opinion of others, that your actions and the resulting consequences are unrelated and somehow have nothing to do with you.

So this morning…I am awakened by the sound of doorbell ringing. While I lay there trying to figure out whether or not to really wake up, as in getting out of bed to answer the door, it occurs to me that the ringer is probably my friend dropping something off for me. So without actually deciding to get up, I twitched the curtain, still too groggy to actually look out of the window. But apparently the ringer saw the curtain twitch and began knocking on my window. Yes, definitely my friend. Except…no. As I walk up to the door I see my roommate’s son sidling away from it. This is not unusual. Ever since he began crashing in the living room a month ago; he’s seemed inordinately shy about answering doors and taking phone calls.

Before I open the door there is just enough time for my befuddled brain to register the gold letters on the black sweatshirt; “Fugitive Retrieval Squad”. So when when one of the men asked for my roommate I felt a little shock of surprise that he wasn’t there to ask about Crazy Neighbor-Lady; the one with habit of picking a fight with her teenage son whenever his dad came to pick him up. No, he wanted to know whether I was my roommate and then whether or not her son was in the house.

Now here’s the thing, nothing remotely like this has ever happened to me. Well, when I was fifteen, my little brother stole some guy’s remote controlled airplanes and the police did knock on our door to ask him about them. On the whole, I live a very dull life, very uneventful. I don’t care for complications. I have no drug-addicted friends, no friends who jump from one rotten guy to another and then embroil me in their altered state of living; I don’t go to bars and flirt with tattooed thugs.

As said, I have a very low tolerance for chaos. And yet I am immersed in an atmosphere of high drama and chaotic living. During the past 3 months I have found myself involved in three crises, none of which had anything to do with me or my life; just the high, loud-talking jollity of those who prefer la vida loca to peace and quiet.

I would love it...love it, if this were the end of the episode. But it isn’t. I can look forward to an estrogen-rich, emotion-saturated evening of loud phone calls that will rehash--not only this incident, but any incident that can possibly be linked to this incident that has occurred within the past decade. And at some point my roommate is going to want to talk...you know...about why she didn't tell me that the guy she moved in on top of me was wanted by the cops. In my view there isn't much to say. I understand why. He's her son and she wanted to protect him. A simple concept and a relatively short conversation. I wish. This could take literally hours. And I'm exhausted, I don't feel well and I don't want to talk.

Tags: cfids, cfs,: roommate drama, arrestpersonal growth

Interview with Shona Auerbach

2006-01-25T21:31:00.000-08:00

When I first saw Dear Frankie, I threw myself a little party. (Just saw Scott's Off The Map and inspired a similar reaction) It is a beautiful, character-driven piece of film-making created by first time feature director Shona Auerbach, a consummate filmmaker. Hah. Yesterday Ms. Auerbach was nice enough to grant BotP a phone interview.

Now all I have to do is transcribe it, and I hate transcribing. So you guys be patient with me.
But yay team!

VI -- Bluebeard by Edna St. Vincent Millay

2006-01-21T23:20:00.000-08:00

Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets are perfect. One of my favorites begins "I will put Chaos into fourteen lines/ And keep him there; and let him thence escape/ If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape"

She was past master of sonnetry. Discovering that which is great and petty in the human heart...the chaos of the human condition and defining it--confining it to fourteen lines, beautifully spare, weighted with meaning, infused with passion. Perfection. Bluebeard is Millay's take on the old legend and also describes my mood tonight.

VI -- Bluebeard

THIS door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see. . . . Look yet again --
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.

I'b tubbing down wid a code

2006-01-17T21:37:00.000-08:00

Yecchh!! I hate getting sick. I mean really, really hate. When I was a kid I sort of enjoyed it. While it was true that colds and flues meant gargling apple cider vinegar and drinking tea made from golden seal capsules (the worst thing you'll ever taste, I promise). Being sick also meant sleeping in my mom's bed while my brother went to school, making forts out of the covers and plenty of face time with Mom. It was like a snow day. But just for me.

As I got a older the occasional sick/snow day still had its charm. True, a flu at twenty-one didn't mean as much Mom face-time as it did when I was twelve. However, living away from home brought other perks. In addition to sole possession of the remote control while enjoying sole possession of my comfy couch (though...yes....I did make fewer Blanket Forts) I was able to commission pots of chicken soup and shipments of teas and juices from a Mommy who would pat my head and then leave me to suffer as I preferred...alone.

Now that I'm thirty-one and have CFIDs (best defined as a permanent flu). The occasional cold or flu is merely an invitation to deeper misery. It sucks. Whenever I get a cold I become that person...you know...that person; the one for whom the phrases 'big baby', 'terrible patient' and 'mean sickie' were invented. Charme de invalide is hardly my middle name. Okay...so charme de invalide isn't anyone's middle name, you get my point...charmless and joyless and bored out of my mind.

Tags: cfids, cfs,: roommate drama, arrestpersonal growth , nostalgia, childhood, colds, singleness

Reading Jane Eyre...

2006-01-14T21:46:00.000-08:00

again. It's something I used to do regularly, every couple of years. The first time I read it I was 14. The story of this lost young girl had affected me deeply, changed me, I believe. Childhood was something less than idyllic for me and while I was far from rebellious or difficult, I found it impossible to knuckle under to the concept of being oppressed. My innate sense of justice forbade it, an innate sense I found I shared with Bronte's heroine.

She was a lost young girl but lost in the world-- orphaned, rootless, subsisting on crumbs of affection-- not lost within herself. She governed herself by certain laws and principles independent of popular opinion. She was able to submit without subjugation, to assert her will without dominating.

Jane Eyre was something new for the time, and she is unique still. As we look around at women in fiction, the complexity of her character and strength of her will put her up there where the air is very rare indeed.

These are my thoughts on reading her story again, for the first time in eight years.
Tags: artistic activism, nonprofit, philanthropy, zine, artists, bakery of the poets, jane eyre, reading, literature

Solving the Mystery: A Man's Guide to Surviving PMS

2006-01-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

I think this would make a great book.

Frankly, I get annoyed by both sexes. Men who act as if a woman "around that time" is something like a cross between a Hela Monster and Cyclops and are still ridiculously and childishly squeamish about discussing the monthly facts of life. Monsters only live in the closet, so be a man and educate yourself. Women who swear they don't get PMS (when they clearly do). I had a friend who after half threatening to impale her husband with a 10 inch kitchen knife (really, really unusual for her), swore her emotional state was completely unaffected by the fact she was nearing her period.

So maybe I'll write a book. Just for men, giving them a few tips. It could be fun. It could be educational. It could save a marriage. Or a life.