I was going to write about the World Cup results but something else happened today.
My dear friend, Marion, called and told me that someone we both knew had died. We don't know the circumstances of his death and I don't care if I ever know them. I just know that he's gone.
I hadn't seen Edward in years.
Our first meeting was at Bobbie's house over a wonderful dinner. There were always wonderful meals, good company and even better conversations at Bobbie's.
That's where I first met Edward. He was shy and sweet but when I told him I was Italian, he started relating tales of his first visit to Italy.
He was trekking through Umbria and a group of Franciscans stopped their car and offered him a ride. Edward took them up on the proposition and they brought him to their monastery and offered him lodgings.
He told them that he was Jewish and they replied, "So was Jesus".
Edward had a wonderful time.
Our extended families always met at Bobbie's (Marion's Mom) and again the food and the conversation were always the best. We were Jews, Italians, Irish, etc. but at Bobbie's house, we were all a part of Bobbie and Irwin's family.
Well, time and life have a way of breaking up the best intentions and the best gatherings.
Bobbie and Irwin moved to North Carolina because Burlington had moved their headquarters and Irwin was the only New Yorker they brought with them.
We kept in touch through the phone, back and forth, but it wasn't the same.
Bobbie was like a mother to me and had always been there for me. I'd arrive at her house, not needing any sort of appointment) to discuss my latest tales of woe. She always listened and when she gave advice there was no criticism attached to it.
I missed her terribly.
In the interim, my parents died and just when Bobbie and Irwin were about to return to NY, she got sick. They lived with Marion and her family but Bobbie's diabetes worsened. Although she never complained, and she had reason to complain, her great heart was still open to all of us.
After her death, I started to write a book about mothers: my mother and all the women I had known who had been an inspiration to me. It's a book about their lives and their sayings, their own words of wisdom and it's entitled Mama Says: When A Wolf Is Chasing You, Throw Him A Biscuit But Don't Stop To Bake Him A Cake.
Well, with no money for publicity and no book distribution, my husband and I independently traveled to Book Conventions and to local bookstores.
It was fun, especially when we sold out but it was awful when at some of the bookstores, no one even stopped by our table. I guess they were afraid that if they spoke to me, they would be obliged to buy a book.
I still recall our first appearance at BEA in Chicago. I was quite hesitant but I started talking to a Buddhist nun who put me at immediate ease. As the book was being given away for free and our dear friend, Fruteland Jackson, the great Blues singer was going to accompany me, the nun assured me that all would go well. I'll never forget her words, "The book is free and Americans are grabbers".
One night, we were at Borders and a few people stopped and then ran away as fast as they could so we knew it was going to be one of those awful gigs.
Suddenly, I looked up and there was Edward. We hadn't seen him in years but there was the same shyness and the same sweet smile. He sat down and he picked up the book, leafed through it and saw the chapter on Bobbie.
We were so glad to see each other that it didn't matter that no one else came. We picked up right where we had left off so many years before. It was just like being back at Bobbie's and time flew and it was actually one of my best book tour stops, although I only sold one book.
I wanted to give it to Edward but he bought it. We gave him our phone number and told him to stop by but he never did.
A great writer, possibly Stephen Crane, (I can't remember now), once wrote that "most people live quiet lives of desperation".
With all the noise around us, it's difficult to hone into those quiet lives and with all that's happening to us, we become part of that noise, too.
There are scientists who believe that we live in parallel universes.
I hope that's true. I also hope that acts of kindness, somewhere, reward us for all the cruelties that happen to us in this world.
Edward, my friend, you walked in and out of my life and I choose to keep the memories of you in my life.
Somewhere, however, in a parallel universe, you are trekking through the hills of Umbria and having the time of your life.
Shalom, my friend.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday Thoughts
It's been a few days since I wrote my thoughts of the day or night.
The World Cup has been tremendously exciting and am just thrilled that the U.S. has advanced to the next round. On the other hand, I am very disappointed that Italy chose to put together a team that was not a team. Like the French, their coach was on his last legs and their best player was in Italy and not even assigned to the team.
In 1996, the Italians were pelted with rotten fruit when they arrived home. I wonder what delights await them this time.
Back to the excitement, however. It is great to see nations like Paraguay, Mexico, South Korea, Ghana and Japan advance. It, now, truly is a World Cup.
In between the games, I am reading my stacks of books that have been waiting for me.
When I was employed in my heinous job, I didn't have the chance to even peruse their tables of content let alone read them. I would come home so exhausted that I didn't want to do anything except put on the television and fall asleep to the babblings of the infotainers.
Just finished Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It's a teen book and I would recommend it to all English teachers for their classes. Doesn't sugar coat anything and certainly not life on the reservation or the poverty or the alcoholism but like all great writers, you get to love the characters.
First discovered Sherman Alexie with a fantastic book called Indian Killer. Then, my husband and I had the luck to meet him at the Chicago and New York Book Expos. Great writer and a great guy and I predict a future winner of the Nobel Prize.
Now, I guess, still in honor of Father's Day, I'm tackling the 640 page biography (tackling is the right word) biography of Eugene O'Neill entitled Life With Monte Cristo.
Arthur and Barbara Gelb had previously written about O'Neill but years later they were able to interview more people and to uncover more sources and writings. They determined to rewrite their former biography. That's a task and a half.
The last thing O'Neill asked of his fourth wife, Carlotta, was to release "Long Day's Journey Into Night" 25 years after his death. The other proviso was that it never be staged.
Thank God that she had a mind and will of her own. Although, O'Neill is the only American Playwright to win the Nobel Prize, by the time of his death, his plays were no longer being produced. Twenty five years would have placed him in oblivion.
It took that magic and sublime combination of Carlotta, Jose Quintero and Jason Robards, Jr. to return the words of a genius to a time that was so in need of them.
So, returning to the theme of Father's Day, it was my father, again, who introduced me to Eugene O'Neill.
We had a restaurant for one year and we failed because we were ahead of our time and the location sucked.
Of course, there was a bar. In the bar, there was the ever present television, black and white, of course and for one week (when I was 13, that magical 13) they were advertising an upcoming play to be televised for the first time.
My father was born in Italy and always trying to learn about American and English Culture. When I was 8, and came home from school crying because my fellow schoolmates, made fun of my father's accent, he plopped me in front of the television one night.
He was on his way to work but the ever present Million Dollar Movie was showing Laurence Olivier's "Hamlet" for the entire week. As he was running out the door, he said to me, "I may not be able to speak English, but he can - so listen to him and learn".
I did.
And, now, there was another moment for learning.
I went upstairs to our small black and white TV and left the drunks at the bar. I traded in our drunks for O'Neill's drunks.
The play was "The Iceman Cometh" and my first introduction to both O'Neill and Jason Robards, Jr.
Although, I can honestly say that I watched the entire play and was mesmerized, I don't think I could tell you what it was completely about. However, it was my first introduction to denial and I can still recall the sound of the young man who kills himself and the sight of Larry, the philosopher, at the corner table who still denies that the young man is his son. And all the other characters of Harry Hope's saloon who just wallow in their own fantasies.
Years later, Jason Robards, Jr. reprised the role of Hickey, the salesman and Mom and I went to see the new production. To be in the theatre, on this occasion, wasn't just part of being an audience member. Each of us was a denizen of Harry Hope's Saloon and as we left, shaken yet exhilarated, I wondered how many of us were still clinging to our delusions.
When I was a child, I always held on to the delusion that through my prayers or some divine intervention, my brother would be cured of his brain damage. Or short of prayers, the Blue Fairy would come and make him a real boy. My brother, my twin, died when we were 28. No prayers and no Blue Fairy ever released him from pain. Death released him.
I was grateful to Death. My mother, however, never saw my brother for what he was. For her, he was fine and, perhaps, the only person in her life who gave her unconditional love. She never ceased to grieve for him. Perhaps, we all carry a bit of Harry Hope's Saloon in us.
The greatest American works of art deal with "Family"; certainly, the plays do. From O'Neill through Arthur Miller to Tennessee Williams to Edward Albee, the concept of family has been grabbed, like some giant tree, by both hands and shaken to its last leaf.
As Carlotta O'Neill once said, "The Past is the Present" and as O'Neill said through Mary Tyrone, (his mother in Long Day's Journey) "None of us can help the things that life has done to us".
I think we can. We can never forget them but I think we can accept them. Then, we have to move on.
They are always with us, always lurking behind us, in the shadows. The trick is to just keep on walking and not to look back.
Good night and on to the next games.
The World Cup has been tremendously exciting and am just thrilled that the U.S. has advanced to the next round. On the other hand, I am very disappointed that Italy chose to put together a team that was not a team. Like the French, their coach was on his last legs and their best player was in Italy and not even assigned to the team.
In 1996, the Italians were pelted with rotten fruit when they arrived home. I wonder what delights await them this time.
Back to the excitement, however. It is great to see nations like Paraguay, Mexico, South Korea, Ghana and Japan advance. It, now, truly is a World Cup.
In between the games, I am reading my stacks of books that have been waiting for me.
When I was employed in my heinous job, I didn't have the chance to even peruse their tables of content let alone read them. I would come home so exhausted that I didn't want to do anything except put on the television and fall asleep to the babblings of the infotainers.
Just finished Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It's a teen book and I would recommend it to all English teachers for their classes. Doesn't sugar coat anything and certainly not life on the reservation or the poverty or the alcoholism but like all great writers, you get to love the characters.
First discovered Sherman Alexie with a fantastic book called Indian Killer. Then, my husband and I had the luck to meet him at the Chicago and New York Book Expos. Great writer and a great guy and I predict a future winner of the Nobel Prize.
Now, I guess, still in honor of Father's Day, I'm tackling the 640 page biography (tackling is the right word) biography of Eugene O'Neill entitled Life With Monte Cristo.
Arthur and Barbara Gelb had previously written about O'Neill but years later they were able to interview more people and to uncover more sources and writings. They determined to rewrite their former biography. That's a task and a half.
The last thing O'Neill asked of his fourth wife, Carlotta, was to release "Long Day's Journey Into Night" 25 years after his death. The other proviso was that it never be staged.
Thank God that she had a mind and will of her own. Although, O'Neill is the only American Playwright to win the Nobel Prize, by the time of his death, his plays were no longer being produced. Twenty five years would have placed him in oblivion.
It took that magic and sublime combination of Carlotta, Jose Quintero and Jason Robards, Jr. to return the words of a genius to a time that was so in need of them.
So, returning to the theme of Father's Day, it was my father, again, who introduced me to Eugene O'Neill.
We had a restaurant for one year and we failed because we were ahead of our time and the location sucked.
Of course, there was a bar. In the bar, there was the ever present television, black and white, of course and for one week (when I was 13, that magical 13) they were advertising an upcoming play to be televised for the first time.
My father was born in Italy and always trying to learn about American and English Culture. When I was 8, and came home from school crying because my fellow schoolmates, made fun of my father's accent, he plopped me in front of the television one night.
He was on his way to work but the ever present Million Dollar Movie was showing Laurence Olivier's "Hamlet" for the entire week. As he was running out the door, he said to me, "I may not be able to speak English, but he can - so listen to him and learn".
I did.
And, now, there was another moment for learning.
I went upstairs to our small black and white TV and left the drunks at the bar. I traded in our drunks for O'Neill's drunks.
The play was "The Iceman Cometh" and my first introduction to both O'Neill and Jason Robards, Jr.
Although, I can honestly say that I watched the entire play and was mesmerized, I don't think I could tell you what it was completely about. However, it was my first introduction to denial and I can still recall the sound of the young man who kills himself and the sight of Larry, the philosopher, at the corner table who still denies that the young man is his son. And all the other characters of Harry Hope's saloon who just wallow in their own fantasies.
Years later, Jason Robards, Jr. reprised the role of Hickey, the salesman and Mom and I went to see the new production. To be in the theatre, on this occasion, wasn't just part of being an audience member. Each of us was a denizen of Harry Hope's Saloon and as we left, shaken yet exhilarated, I wondered how many of us were still clinging to our delusions.
When I was a child, I always held on to the delusion that through my prayers or some divine intervention, my brother would be cured of his brain damage. Or short of prayers, the Blue Fairy would come and make him a real boy. My brother, my twin, died when we were 28. No prayers and no Blue Fairy ever released him from pain. Death released him.
I was grateful to Death. My mother, however, never saw my brother for what he was. For her, he was fine and, perhaps, the only person in her life who gave her unconditional love. She never ceased to grieve for him. Perhaps, we all carry a bit of Harry Hope's Saloon in us.
The greatest American works of art deal with "Family"; certainly, the plays do. From O'Neill through Arthur Miller to Tennessee Williams to Edward Albee, the concept of family has been grabbed, like some giant tree, by both hands and shaken to its last leaf.
As Carlotta O'Neill once said, "The Past is the Present" and as O'Neill said through Mary Tyrone, (his mother in Long Day's Journey) "None of us can help the things that life has done to us".
I think we can. We can never forget them but I think we can accept them. Then, we have to move on.
They are always with us, always lurking behind us, in the shadows. The trick is to just keep on walking and not to look back.
Good night and on to the next games.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
My King
In speaking and remembering the passing of friends and people (although never met) who have influenced my life, I came across the newest issue of Vanity Fair with the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor on the cover.
It seems that now she has decided to release some of the letters sent to her by Richard Burton.
All of us of a certain age remember the tremendous scandal when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor ran from their respective spouses and ran off with each other. It was the love affair of the era.
When Richard Burton died, there were many critics who said that he had wasted his talents by relinquishing the theatre for million dollar movie roles starring "Liz and Dick".
The one thing that remains certain in life is that no matter what decisions we choose, there will always be those who will criticize. The choice or decision has no relevance; the criticism will always be there.
For me, Richard Burton was a King.
As a child, I had one real friend.
The rest of my time was spent with my books, dreaming of the adventures that I would have when I was grown. I couldn't wait to grow up for there were no adventures to be had in our small town except for re-enacting in our neighborhood swamp every movie that we devoured on "Million Dollar Movie".
Directly across the street was the home of Edna and Clyde Wilson. Mrs. Wilson was crippled with arthritis yet she never complained. The only drawback was that she had this awful boxer, Suzie, who never actually attached me; she just drooled all over me.
Mrs. Wilson, like my mother was another staunch New Englander and my mother would send me there to help her. We soon realized that we both shared a passion for books and she became more of a help to me than I ever was to her.
Because she had a beautiful New England accent, she would have me read aloud poems and Shakespearian verse and gently correct my diction. It was at her feet that I first learned about King Arthur and Camelot.
I can still recall reading "The Idylls of the King" with her and running across the lines that described Sir Galahad:
"My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure".
Many a rainy afternoon, that little house became the setting for legends, myths, damsels in distress, heroes and villains. In those moments, even Suzie' sat still and I did not have to contend with any drool.
My own home was often a center of sadness. My twin brother was brain damaged and any dreams my mother and father may have had were put on hold in caring for both of us. I, of course, always believed that I got the short end of things so whenever I could escape, I would bolt.
But escape meant only three places: the home of my best friend, Mrs. Wilson's house, and the library.
Every week, I would carry a bag and walk to the library with two paper cards: one for Mrs. Wilson and one for me.
She delighted in mysteries and I just grabbed anything that looked like it was an epic. With both cards, hand stamped, I would make my way home.
There is no joy quite like opening a book and losing yourself within its pages.
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and Robin Hood were my first heroes. I certainly spoke enough about them to the annoyance of everyone. I felt I knew them. I made them a part of my lonely life.
Yet, when I was 13, an amazing thing happened. The world, at least what I knew of it, was catching up with me.
Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe followed their hit "My Fair Lady" with a new show called "Camelot". It wasn't an immediate smash but on Sunday Ed Sullivan had the cast on his show and all of America tuned in to Ed Sullivan.
The next day there were lines around the theatre for tickets.
My father, who had once been my childhood hero had begun to be a distant creature to me. Yet, he was one of those people who stood on line.
When he came home and announced that he had bought the tickets for us, I was astonished. I thought that he had tuned me out of his life and never listened to a thing I said except to yell at me. I couldn't believe what he had done and I couldn't wait for that particular Saturday matinee.
And then the date arrived and we drove into New York. We ate lunch and walked to the Majestic Theatre. Along the way, we bumped into Roddy McDowell, (who played Mordred). With camera in hand, he was looking up, seeking something that was camera worthy to photograph. I was so shy, if anyone who knows me can believe that, and I didn't say a word to him.
I can still remember the thrill of the first notes of the Overture. I can still recall the first words I ever heard in any theatre spoken by one of the greatest actors who ever lived who just happened to possess one of the greatest voices that has ever been heard.
It was Richard Burton, my King Arthur.
I remember them all: Julie Andrews, Robert Goulet, Roddy McDowell but, above all, I remember the King, the brokenhearted king who spoke the precious words that ended the performance with "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot".
The tears that stained my face that afternoon have long dried and the child who shed them has gone through many metamorphoses.
But for one brief shining moment, my father, who had once been the world to me, had reclaimed his place in my heart. I still have the ripped tickets, the old Playbill and the original vinyl Broadway cast recording.
As the years passed, it would not always be that way. My father and I both grew distant and only after his death did I realize that he was a man who never had a dream come true.
Life had defeated my father and in those letters in Vanity Fair, it seems that Richard Burton's life was not always a million dollar showcase either. He, too, was haunted by family obligations and he did all that he could to fulfill them.
Perhaps, Burton felt that he had never truly lived up to his potential. I know my father felt that way and the bitterness that claimed him destroyed him.
In seeking my own path, I could not help him.
I can only say, now, after all these years that my father did the best that he could under very tragic circumstances. It wasn't my way but it was his way.
My brother, my mother and my father are all buried together. My best friend is buried near them.
Richard Burton is buried in Switzerland with a large stone that bears just his name and his years of birth and death.
Still the romantic, I want my ashes scattered to the winds. I want to become as Tennyson once wrote "a part of all that I have met".
I want to be remembered in some other time and place where legends and myths abound.
Let it be written in eternity that once I had a father that I adored and he made one of my dreams come true.
And once there was an actor who still lives in my memory as My King.
He was and always will be My King.
I am grateful to my father and to Richard Burton.
I have had my share of these "brief, shining moments".
May they occur in every child's life and as the years pass may the memory of those moments
light up what remains of our place in time.
It seems that now she has decided to release some of the letters sent to her by Richard Burton.
All of us of a certain age remember the tremendous scandal when Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor ran from their respective spouses and ran off with each other. It was the love affair of the era.
When Richard Burton died, there were many critics who said that he had wasted his talents by relinquishing the theatre for million dollar movie roles starring "Liz and Dick".
The one thing that remains certain in life is that no matter what decisions we choose, there will always be those who will criticize. The choice or decision has no relevance; the criticism will always be there.
For me, Richard Burton was a King.
As a child, I had one real friend.
The rest of my time was spent with my books, dreaming of the adventures that I would have when I was grown. I couldn't wait to grow up for there were no adventures to be had in our small town except for re-enacting in our neighborhood swamp every movie that we devoured on "Million Dollar Movie".
Directly across the street was the home of Edna and Clyde Wilson. Mrs. Wilson was crippled with arthritis yet she never complained. The only drawback was that she had this awful boxer, Suzie, who never actually attached me; she just drooled all over me.
Mrs. Wilson, like my mother was another staunch New Englander and my mother would send me there to help her. We soon realized that we both shared a passion for books and she became more of a help to me than I ever was to her.
Because she had a beautiful New England accent, she would have me read aloud poems and Shakespearian verse and gently correct my diction. It was at her feet that I first learned about King Arthur and Camelot.
I can still recall reading "The Idylls of the King" with her and running across the lines that described Sir Galahad:
"My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure".
Many a rainy afternoon, that little house became the setting for legends, myths, damsels in distress, heroes and villains. In those moments, even Suzie' sat still and I did not have to contend with any drool.
My own home was often a center of sadness. My twin brother was brain damaged and any dreams my mother and father may have had were put on hold in caring for both of us. I, of course, always believed that I got the short end of things so whenever I could escape, I would bolt.
But escape meant only three places: the home of my best friend, Mrs. Wilson's house, and the library.
Every week, I would carry a bag and walk to the library with two paper cards: one for Mrs. Wilson and one for me.
She delighted in mysteries and I just grabbed anything that looked like it was an epic. With both cards, hand stamped, I would make my way home.
There is no joy quite like opening a book and losing yourself within its pages.
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and Robin Hood were my first heroes. I certainly spoke enough about them to the annoyance of everyone. I felt I knew them. I made them a part of my lonely life.
Yet, when I was 13, an amazing thing happened. The world, at least what I knew of it, was catching up with me.
Alan Lerner and Frederick Loewe followed their hit "My Fair Lady" with a new show called "Camelot". It wasn't an immediate smash but on Sunday Ed Sullivan had the cast on his show and all of America tuned in to Ed Sullivan.
The next day there were lines around the theatre for tickets.
My father, who had once been my childhood hero had begun to be a distant creature to me. Yet, he was one of those people who stood on line.
When he came home and announced that he had bought the tickets for us, I was astonished. I thought that he had tuned me out of his life and never listened to a thing I said except to yell at me. I couldn't believe what he had done and I couldn't wait for that particular Saturday matinee.
And then the date arrived and we drove into New York. We ate lunch and walked to the Majestic Theatre. Along the way, we bumped into Roddy McDowell, (who played Mordred). With camera in hand, he was looking up, seeking something that was camera worthy to photograph. I was so shy, if anyone who knows me can believe that, and I didn't say a word to him.
I can still remember the thrill of the first notes of the Overture. I can still recall the first words I ever heard in any theatre spoken by one of the greatest actors who ever lived who just happened to possess one of the greatest voices that has ever been heard.
It was Richard Burton, my King Arthur.
I remember them all: Julie Andrews, Robert Goulet, Roddy McDowell but, above all, I remember the King, the brokenhearted king who spoke the precious words that ended the performance with "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot".
The tears that stained my face that afternoon have long dried and the child who shed them has gone through many metamorphoses.
But for one brief shining moment, my father, who had once been the world to me, had reclaimed his place in my heart. I still have the ripped tickets, the old Playbill and the original vinyl Broadway cast recording.
As the years passed, it would not always be that way. My father and I both grew distant and only after his death did I realize that he was a man who never had a dream come true.
Life had defeated my father and in those letters in Vanity Fair, it seems that Richard Burton's life was not always a million dollar showcase either. He, too, was haunted by family obligations and he did all that he could to fulfill them.
Perhaps, Burton felt that he had never truly lived up to his potential. I know my father felt that way and the bitterness that claimed him destroyed him.
In seeking my own path, I could not help him.
I can only say, now, after all these years that my father did the best that he could under very tragic circumstances. It wasn't my way but it was his way.
My brother, my mother and my father are all buried together. My best friend is buried near them.
Richard Burton is buried in Switzerland with a large stone that bears just his name and his years of birth and death.
Still the romantic, I want my ashes scattered to the winds. I want to become as Tennyson once wrote "a part of all that I have met".
I want to be remembered in some other time and place where legends and myths abound.
Let it be written in eternity that once I had a father that I adored and he made one of my dreams come true.
And once there was an actor who still lives in my memory as My King.
He was and always will be My King.
I am grateful to my father and to Richard Burton.
I have had my share of these "brief, shining moments".
May they occur in every child's life and as the years pass may the memory of those moments
light up what remains of our place in time.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Bette Davis Eyes
It's Friday and Pizza Night and Salad at our house. Pizza always makes the week make sense.
The World Cup Games were astonishing today and I didn't even take one nap.
Serbia beat Germany who had trampled the Aussies, the Socceroos, in a 4-0 debacle. Well, Serbia beat them 1-0.
England was a bore with a tie but Algeria really kept the place rolling and played really well. The English fans showed their class by booing their team off the field.
The shocker, however, was the U.S. game that ended in a tie but they really deserved to win although they were dead in the first half. It seems the referee from Mali invalidated the U.S. third goal and everyone watching said that from every camera angle, no one could see a foul.
I couldn't see one either. In Italian, we call that sort of referee, "Arbitro Venduto" (Sold Out Referee - it sounds much better in Italian).
Again, FIFA, one of the most corrupt organizations in the world, has a rule that a referee can make any decision and not have to explain it or give any particular reason for his stupidity.
Going back to some good things about being unemployed, I look better and I look younger with the stress of working gone from my face. Thinking about money brings a little stress back but I'll deal with it.
The best thing about being unemployed and watching the World Cup is that unemployment has also given me time to read again. I've got stacks of books just awaiting me and each one is a new adventure.
I finished Shutter Island and thought the movie was better although Scorsese followed the book hook, line and sinker.
Today I finished The Girl Who Walked Home Alone by Charlotte Chandler. It's a bio of Bette Davis in her own words.
Kate Hepburn and Bette Davis were the two greatest actresses Hollywood of the Golden Era ever produced. Both were New Englanders and true to themselves and their own personalities.
She took instant dislikes to fellow actors, like Errol Flynn and Lillian Gish, but could be quite gracious to newcomers.
And, yes, it was Bette Davis who uttered the immortal phrase "What A Dump!" in one of her movies which was used in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" She even said "What A Dump!" as her opening line in NYC when she was honored at Lincoln Center.
The book was filled with lots of quotes and lots of one-liners but, like Hepburn, she danced to her own tune although it meant broken marriages and even estrangement from her daughter.
Beneath the sarcasm, her life was one of sadness which she never allowed to defeat her. All her life, she took care of her mother, her sister and a mentally challenged child with no complaints or pity pot seeking.
She fought for her artistic integrity and was suspended by Warner Brothers when they gave her stupid roles to play. A two time Academy Award Winner, she lived to act. Although she didn't save her money and had to resort to some ghastly roles, in the end, she acted to live.
And like her arch rival, Joan Crawford, she never let her fans down.
I still recall when the then President Reagan honored her as one of the Kennedy Center Artists, she kept interrupting him as he spoke going on and on about "Little Ronnie Reagan and the fact that he was now the president". (He had appeared in one of her most famous films "Dark Victory". )
Reagan, in his finest role as president, didn't miss a beat when he responded, "Bette, if I had been given your roles, I would have stayed in Hollywood". (Or something to that effect - I'm paraphrasing).
What's it like to devote yourself to one ideal, although it destroys everything else that could bring you happiness?
What's it like to keep on going although each role isn't a success?
What's it like to be deliberately unaware of those around you as long as you achieve the one thing that you believe in?
I guess, it's your life force. Davis called it her aura. It could also been her own particular brand of courage, with all caution thrown to the winds.
My favorite Davis quote is the last one she gave to Ms. Chandler:
"Happiness should never be postponed. Life is the past, the present, and the perhaps..."
I believe we all have our own forms of "perhaps", the forks in the roads that tell us we have no other choice at that particular moment in time.
Sleep well and on to Saturday's games.
The World Cup Games were astonishing today and I didn't even take one nap.
Serbia beat Germany who had trampled the Aussies, the Socceroos, in a 4-0 debacle. Well, Serbia beat them 1-0.
England was a bore with a tie but Algeria really kept the place rolling and played really well. The English fans showed their class by booing their team off the field.
The shocker, however, was the U.S. game that ended in a tie but they really deserved to win although they were dead in the first half. It seems the referee from Mali invalidated the U.S. third goal and everyone watching said that from every camera angle, no one could see a foul.
I couldn't see one either. In Italian, we call that sort of referee, "Arbitro Venduto" (Sold Out Referee - it sounds much better in Italian).
Again, FIFA, one of the most corrupt organizations in the world, has a rule that a referee can make any decision and not have to explain it or give any particular reason for his stupidity.
Going back to some good things about being unemployed, I look better and I look younger with the stress of working gone from my face. Thinking about money brings a little stress back but I'll deal with it.
The best thing about being unemployed and watching the World Cup is that unemployment has also given me time to read again. I've got stacks of books just awaiting me and each one is a new adventure.
I finished Shutter Island and thought the movie was better although Scorsese followed the book hook, line and sinker.
Today I finished The Girl Who Walked Home Alone by Charlotte Chandler. It's a bio of Bette Davis in her own words.
Kate Hepburn and Bette Davis were the two greatest actresses Hollywood of the Golden Era ever produced. Both were New Englanders and true to themselves and their own personalities.
She took instant dislikes to fellow actors, like Errol Flynn and Lillian Gish, but could be quite gracious to newcomers.
And, yes, it was Bette Davis who uttered the immortal phrase "What A Dump!" in one of her movies which was used in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" She even said "What A Dump!" as her opening line in NYC when she was honored at Lincoln Center.
The book was filled with lots of quotes and lots of one-liners but, like Hepburn, she danced to her own tune although it meant broken marriages and even estrangement from her daughter.
Beneath the sarcasm, her life was one of sadness which she never allowed to defeat her. All her life, she took care of her mother, her sister and a mentally challenged child with no complaints or pity pot seeking.
She fought for her artistic integrity and was suspended by Warner Brothers when they gave her stupid roles to play. A two time Academy Award Winner, she lived to act. Although she didn't save her money and had to resort to some ghastly roles, in the end, she acted to live.
And like her arch rival, Joan Crawford, she never let her fans down.
I still recall when the then President Reagan honored her as one of the Kennedy Center Artists, she kept interrupting him as he spoke going on and on about "Little Ronnie Reagan and the fact that he was now the president". (He had appeared in one of her most famous films "Dark Victory". )
Reagan, in his finest role as president, didn't miss a beat when he responded, "Bette, if I had been given your roles, I would have stayed in Hollywood". (Or something to that effect - I'm paraphrasing).
What's it like to devote yourself to one ideal, although it destroys everything else that could bring you happiness?
What's it like to keep on going although each role isn't a success?
What's it like to be deliberately unaware of those around you as long as you achieve the one thing that you believe in?
I guess, it's your life force. Davis called it her aura. It could also been her own particular brand of courage, with all caution thrown to the winds.
My favorite Davis quote is the last one she gave to Ms. Chandler:
"Happiness should never be postponed. Life is the past, the present, and the perhaps..."
I believe we all have our own forms of "perhaps", the forks in the roads that tell us we have no other choice at that particular moment in time.
Sleep well and on to Saturday's games.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
June 15th World Cup Musings and More
The three World Cup games for Tuesday, June 15th are over and there were some surprises.
New Zealand vs. Slovakia ended in a tie with a thrilling last minute goal by a Kiwi.
Japan vs. Cameroon ended in a 1-0 victory for Japan.
Brazil played as expected with a 2-1 victory but again in the last minutes North Korea made a thrilling goal.
Soccer as it is known in the U.S., Calcio as it is known in Italy and Football as it is known everywhere else in the world is the beautiful game. Like living, it combines balance, choreography, excitement, defense, attacks, and sometimes, boredom. Whether it will ever be acknowledged here as the world's greatest sport is not for me to decide but once every four years, and I don't mean the Olympics, it is a great feeling to belong to the entire world.
ESPN is doing a fabulous job and intertwining their comments with some of South Africa's history. One of their reports showed a return to Robben Island where Nelson Mandela and the freedom fighters of modern day South Africa were interred for demanding equality.
It took three years for the Apartheid government to give permission for the prisoners to have their own soccer league and a Soccer Constitution was written. Years later, the same prisoners would write the new South African Constitution with this preamble:
"We, the people of South Africa, recognize the injustices of our past; honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity."
Actually, we could add that statement to our Constitution as more words of hate seem to be creeping into the American vocabulary, especially on some of the so called cable news channels and the rantings, I mean, real rantings of "the infotainers" as Frank Rich so rightly called them and defined them.
It is a strange sensation to be living in small town America and pass the post office and see people waving petitions to sign against the President (whether you agree with him or not) and see him depicted as Hitler. I mean for eight years we had a vice president who was really a co-president and we never saw him because he was formulating all of his machinations from his sealed bunker. Where were these petition seekers then? Why were they not demanding an open government eight years ago?
It is a strange sensation to be unemployed and watching all these World Cup Games. On one side, I need a job and a paycheck. On the other side, I left a position which had become heinous to me with no balance or choreography, stress (not excitement), lots of attacks and playing defense and in the end acceptance (not boredom) that I could not change anything or even have my thoughts appreciated.
It is a strange sensation to be aware of the passing of time. It is happening more to me now with the deaths of friends and people whom I have admired since I was a teen.
One of them, Andrei Vozneshensky passed just recently. He was one on the great rebel poets of Russia during the period of Krushchev, et.al and before Gorbachev.
He could fill arenas with recitations of his poetry. He was a rock star of literature and we followed him like groupies. One night, at Carnegie Hall, I wedged my way backstage and got his autograph which is now, sadly, fading.
Poetry is revered in Russia and hundreds of thousands of people can recite verse.
Actually, this is a real tradition in Russia. During the horror years of Stalin, the verses of banned poets, such as Mayakovsky and Essenin and Mandelstam and Tsetayava and my favorite, Anna Akhmatova, were set to music or memorized by ordinary people, like us, to pass down to their children.
I have always wondered if Ray Bradbury got his inspiration for Fahrenheit 451 from them.
Of the rock star poets, Yevgeny Yevtushenko is still my favorite but Andrei Vozneshensky wrote my favorite poem.
It's called Divagation About Me
I am a family, a spectrum.
There are seven of me inside of me: unbearable.
And the bluest of these keeps whistling through his pipe.
But when spring comes, dreams come, that I'm the eighth.
May I wish you all for this evening dreams that you, too, are the eighth.
New Zealand vs. Slovakia ended in a tie with a thrilling last minute goal by a Kiwi.
Japan vs. Cameroon ended in a 1-0 victory for Japan.
Brazil played as expected with a 2-1 victory but again in the last minutes North Korea made a thrilling goal.
Soccer as it is known in the U.S., Calcio as it is known in Italy and Football as it is known everywhere else in the world is the beautiful game. Like living, it combines balance, choreography, excitement, defense, attacks, and sometimes, boredom. Whether it will ever be acknowledged here as the world's greatest sport is not for me to decide but once every four years, and I don't mean the Olympics, it is a great feeling to belong to the entire world.
ESPN is doing a fabulous job and intertwining their comments with some of South Africa's history. One of their reports showed a return to Robben Island where Nelson Mandela and the freedom fighters of modern day South Africa were interred for demanding equality.
It took three years for the Apartheid government to give permission for the prisoners to have their own soccer league and a Soccer Constitution was written. Years later, the same prisoners would write the new South African Constitution with this preamble:
"We, the people of South Africa, recognize the injustices of our past; honour those who suffered for justice and freedom in our land; respect those who have worked to build and develop our country; and believe that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, united in our diversity."
Actually, we could add that statement to our Constitution as more words of hate seem to be creeping into the American vocabulary, especially on some of the so called cable news channels and the rantings, I mean, real rantings of "the infotainers" as Frank Rich so rightly called them and defined them.
It is a strange sensation to be living in small town America and pass the post office and see people waving petitions to sign against the President (whether you agree with him or not) and see him depicted as Hitler. I mean for eight years we had a vice president who was really a co-president and we never saw him because he was formulating all of his machinations from his sealed bunker. Where were these petition seekers then? Why were they not demanding an open government eight years ago?
It is a strange sensation to be unemployed and watching all these World Cup Games. On one side, I need a job and a paycheck. On the other side, I left a position which had become heinous to me with no balance or choreography, stress (not excitement), lots of attacks and playing defense and in the end acceptance (not boredom) that I could not change anything or even have my thoughts appreciated.
It is a strange sensation to be aware of the passing of time. It is happening more to me now with the deaths of friends and people whom I have admired since I was a teen.
One of them, Andrei Vozneshensky passed just recently. He was one on the great rebel poets of Russia during the period of Krushchev, et.al and before Gorbachev.
He could fill arenas with recitations of his poetry. He was a rock star of literature and we followed him like groupies. One night, at Carnegie Hall, I wedged my way backstage and got his autograph which is now, sadly, fading.
Poetry is revered in Russia and hundreds of thousands of people can recite verse.
Actually, this is a real tradition in Russia. During the horror years of Stalin, the verses of banned poets, such as Mayakovsky and Essenin and Mandelstam and Tsetayava and my favorite, Anna Akhmatova, were set to music or memorized by ordinary people, like us, to pass down to their children.
I have always wondered if Ray Bradbury got his inspiration for Fahrenheit 451 from them.
Of the rock star poets, Yevgeny Yevtushenko is still my favorite but Andrei Vozneshensky wrote my favorite poem.
It's called Divagation About Me
I am a family, a spectrum.
There are seven of me inside of me: unbearable.
And the bluest of these keeps whistling through his pipe.
But when spring comes, dreams come, that I'm the eighth.
May I wish you all for this evening dreams that you, too, are the eighth.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Maria's First Rant and Rave
Hello World! I know that's a cliche as I have no knowledge to whom I am writing and who will be reading my musings.
As for today's musings, being unemployed has its advantages. Thus far, I have been able to watch every single World Cup Game and to the disappointment of all the hypers of the English-USA Game, I found that one to be the most boring one of them all and I fell asleep after the first 4 minutes when the English made their goal.
It is amazing! A world cup - with a real world and not just Boston playing New York City or one American football city, such as the Green Bay Packers playing another football city, i.e. the New England Patriots.
However, in all fairness, FIFA which oversees the World Cup may be one of the most corrupt organizations in the world alongside the New York State Legislature and the U.S. Congress. FIFA forced South Africa to build at least seven stadiums alongside hovels and shanties and did nothing to improve the lives of the native South Africans, not even going through the townships and handing out a few free tickets!
But we love the sport and although the deck is stacked towards Brazil or Germany or Argentina or Italy, etc., it would be wonderful if one of the little guys managed to win the cup!
As for my further unemployment musings, you will just have to come back.
Sleep well until tomorrow at 7 AM and tune in to ESPN for the next game.
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