Moment Magnitude

Persiflage

A snippet of light conversation from last night, after at least one too many glasses of wine:

"I don't want to talk about tennis," he said.

"Then what do you want to talk about? Do you...read?"

"No, not much. I'm a simple guy. But, we could make out for, like, forty-five minutes."

"What, what, what what, what?"

(Why did I sound like Jennifer Anniston just then, I thought, in that almost unwatchable film, The Break-Up? Mortified, face gone scarlet.)

"What?"

"I just wanted to stop that big intelligence of yours..."

C'mon, Eraser.

H-O-7-7-Y

When I was three or four years old, just learning my letters, starting to hold a pencil (a new, more grown-up instrument than crayons, though I loved crayons for decades), I wrote my name: H-O-7-7-Y.

"Aitch, oh, el, el, wye," I would say. I printed the letters, all-caps, box-like, and admired the symmetry. They looked so right.

We lived in Okinawa. In fact, we lived there for five years, from 1963 to 1968, during the Viet Nam war.

My young mother suggested to me that my "L's" weren't quite correct. I am pretty sure I either protested, or ignored her. In my mind, I knew that they way I wrote my name was the right way, there was no brooking the argument.

It was only when I started kindergarten that I had doubts about my "L's." The teacher told me my letters were not letters at all, that they were sevens ("Count with me, one two, three..."). I had to admit, in my child's mind, that my letters were indeed, sevens.

Over a few days, I noticed how the other children wrote their letters, and I noticed too that I was the only one writing sevens instead of L's. And then, I doubted myself.

I tried writing my name a new way: H-O-L-L-Y.

I didn't love it right away. The bottom line of the new letter sat on the lined paper, making it stand out less. It didn't look as perfect, but I chose to stick with it.

I think I was embarrassed, for a four-year-old. I didn't want to appear to be too weird. My thick-lenses, magnifying eye-glasses (cat-eye style, of course) made me look strange from the rest of the children. I has been stuck behind Coke-bottle eye-glasses since the age of two.

So I talked myself into accepting H-O-L-L-Y, into preferring it, convincing myself it was okay.

But for a while, I dug in my heels. I was a stubborn little kid. I had to make the change, internally metamorphose, before I allowed anyone to tell me what to do.

Funny, I still behave that way today. Sometimes. 

A Bedroom Occupation: Love Elegies

I met the poet, Mark Scott, in Boulder, when I lived there.

He came to NYC two weeks ago, to read from his latest collection (the title is also the title of this post), at "Sip Lit: A monthly series of readings in a cafe," up in Morningside Heights, Columbia University's 'hood. I drove in from the East End to catch him and the reading.

He sent me a copy of the collection, to be published by Lumen Press. I've never heard of the imprint, but I have heard of the distributing publishing company, Consortium Book Sales, and I know too much about the company that acquired Consortium (I'll leave it at that, 'nuff said). The book publishing world is a very small one.

The cover included the words: "Advanced Galleys." Every time I look at it, I laugh a little.  "Galleys," (a term that describes loosely the preliminary printed copy of a book, usually not preliminary at all) are a publisher's typical marketing device. The word derives from classic printing practices.

But "Advanced?" I am used to the words, "Galleys," or "Galley Proofs - Not for Sale," or "Advance Galleys." No past-tense. These galleys were surely advanced to me, but "Advanced Galleys." It's so precious.

Let me say this about Mark. He is deeply talented.

Poetry, to me, is so dense. Every word has such weight. I find I have to read passages and whole poems several times, often aloud, to get a sense for the interlaced meanings, the cadences, the subtle tongue tones that punch an emotion. Mark's good.

A Bedroom Occupation comprises thirty-four prose-poems, and a slim sixty-six pages, inclusive of backmatter blanks.

And yet. it took me almost three weeks to read and re-read it.

Oh. And yes: A lot of it is hot.

I wonder if the names - for he does name first names, in a kind-of epistolary fashion - are the actual names of people he has known in his life, who are now memorialized in his poems? And if so, I wonder if they know, and if they do, how they feel about it. Lewis? Lauren? Cynthia? Mark (unless he's addressing himself)? Janet? Kathy? Is Kathy the same person as Kate? Paul? Susan? Amy? Deborah? Paula?

There are a handful of passages I will excerpt and reproduce here.

But before I do, I am in awe. Mark included a handful of words I have never seen before - or if I did (Catholic elementary school, spelling-bee practice), I couldn't call up the meanings, and I needed the meaning to understand the poetic context. Herewith:

Blazon: To paint or depict (a coat of arms) with accurate detail.

Casuistry: Specious or excessively subtle reasoning intended to rationalize or mislead. Oh, I like that one.

Intercalate: To insert in a calendar; to insert between or among existing elements or layers (the primary accent is on the second syllable, btw).

Persiflage: Light teasing or banter (v. Jane Austen, don't you think?).

Monadize (I extrapolate from a variety of definitions and explanations of the word, "monad"): To cause an epiphany (aha!), or inspire as in or with "the spark of life." Peut etre.

I have been running those words through my brain - on my daily workout-runs - or at the office, attempting to use the words in sentences. I haven't employed my vocabulary like this in a while. It's fun.

Anyhow, to the excerpts.

From "VI":

"...That age, according to my father, determined the state I'm in: aroused by danger,/doused with grief, by grief aroused, all danger doused."

From "VII":

"...I had to travel to come..."

From "XX":

"...from cumquat leaves/and blueberry, their waxen surface, gaugeless veins, that fruit bitter, this sweet,/stem-end and blossom-end, plum-seam and peach-fold."

And last, from "XXVIII":

"God's as great a bore as the French/when they say He's brilliant fire, a flaming bore, a suck-hole I serve up my big/first serve. That ace fetters me/for the next point, and makes me partial to energy, rebellion, rut -- and I fall to the net/in toil and double, lose love-love/in straights, obey -- am of rigor without pleasure..."

Holy shit - notwithstanding personal reactions, I read the last pages of A Bedroom Occupation today. That line was contained therein - today - the day of the men's final of the French Open. Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer, on clay, again.

Tears Dry On Their Own

My latest obsession is Amy Winehouse. I don't care if the publicity for her album-disc, Back to Black has surfed the curve of acceptable grooviness.

This single is stuck in my head. Find the song and listen to it. Now. I'm not kidding. (Those who now me know I am dead serious about my music choices.)

In addition to Tears, my favorite, there is another single about "home grown," in which the lyric goes something like, "I'm addicted. Better than any dick did." To which I say, "Girl."

Amy Winehouse: Tears Dry on Their Own

All I can ever be to you is a darkness that we knew
And this regret I got accustomed to
Once it was so right
When we were at our height
Waiting for you in the hotel at night
I knew I hadn't met my match
But every moment we could snatch
I don’t know why I got so attached
It’s my responsibility
You don’t owe nothing to me
But to walk away I have no capacity

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I’m grown
And in your way
In this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

I don’t understand
Why do I stress the man?
When there’s so many better things at hand
We could've never had it all
We had to hit a wall
So this is inevitable withdrawal
Even if I stop wanting you
and perspective pushes through
I’ll be some next man’s other woman soon
I cannot play myself again
Should just be my own best friend.
Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I’m grown
And in your way
In this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

So we are history,
Your shadow covers me
The sky above ablaze

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I’m grown
And in your way
In this blue shade
My tears dry on their own

I wish I could sing no regrets
And no emotional debt
Cause as we kissed goodbye the sun sets
So we are history
A shadow covers me
The sky above ablaze
That only lovers see

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I’m grown
And in your way
My blue shade
My tears dry on their own

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I am grown
And in your way
My deep shade
My tears dry on their own

He walks away the sun goes down
He takes the day but I'm grown
And in your way
My deep shade
My tears dry

The Real Mikhail

The whirlwind. The bull in a china shop. The non-stop chatter, the question after question, the endless phone calls. The almost impenetrable accent. The incessant need for instant gratification. The clothes, the books and papers, the light-speed topic-by-topic change, delivered breathlessly in the ceaseless, life-and-death sounding monologue.

He sucks the air out of any room, all six feet-plus of my dear friend, whom I call "The Mad White Russian," one among the litany of phrases and names I use to describe him.

Also: The generosity, the bottles of champagne, that big ole romantic heart, the sensuous love of art and antiquity, the sweetness, the intellect, the passion and curiosity, the friendship we've shared over the years.

I adore him in segments, or intervals: The various visits we have shared together, from New York, to San Francisco. to Paris. More time than that, and I would explode - or pass out.

I expect that after the last three days, a visit to Moscow will feature at some point in my future. And Surfer Girl's too. You see, he brought a friend, and I am not kidding, the fellow is a sausage magnate. Writing those two words, even if they describe one of his actual businesses, makes me chuckle. He also owns Muscovite restaurants and a bookstore chain (!). All that and he seems to be a genuinely good guy. Yes, I sensed a little energy between Surfer Girl and him, sausages notwithstanding.

The Russians have threatened to return to the city - for a more substantial stay. Right on, I say. And maybe we'll all be together for a week in the East End this summer. We'll see how and what may unfold.

Hey You

Wow. In less than twenty-four hours, I received three emailed, powerful comments on the post, Why Not Me.

And they were all from men whom I know. Goodfellas all, and I am grateful.

I accidentally erased one (apologies), but I extracted the salient components from the other two. Herewith:

The first:

"Just read your post. Hey, that's a sad one. You show fortitude and honesty, and all that, but it's still a raw one. Sorry, not for the TP thing, but for the glimmer of mortality and uncertainty it reminded you of."

And the second:

"Why do you torment yourself with TP? He obviously does not consider you a high priority. Stupid man! Methinks that you should cut the cord and start anew. I know, easy to say and hard to do. I found it quite hard when I was single (before marriage), but a divorce sure puts it into perspective. It always happens when there is a different level of interest by each of the parties. If I was not such an old fart, I would try and win you over. You should have the good life thrown at you by the perfect significant other. As long as you can say 'no regrets,' then you are okay."

My responses, I hope, were as straightforward as I could write them.

For the first, I wrote back to say, I (or it) was not so sad. I chose to put myself in the situation, and I not only experienced a strong emotional reaction (one whose root cause is deep in my past), but I also paid attention to it, and invoked a behavior modification exercise I learned years ago - when I was in therapy. That brought me around. I expect that I will have to divulge further and perhaps write about the handful of such exercises so-learned and so often practiced. I know now, and I am happy for it every time, that to experience my feelings, and to be present in them is good for me. I find too, that even when I am made or make myself anxious or angry, it is better for me to be aware of those feelings, and to understand why they rear their nasty little heads. The added benefit is that those kinds of emotions inform and fortify my writing. It may not feel pleasant, but oh my, they do open the floodgates. I'd rather experience the discomfort - it acts, and my artist-friends aver, as inspiration. My muse may have thorns, but better that she is there, hovering over one or the other of my shoulders.

As for the second, I wrote back to say that the torment was short-lived, and (maybe more important), I do not cast a judgment or dispersion on TP. He is whom he presents himself to be. I doubt that he is a bad person, nor would I render such a criticism. I take responsibility for the risk(s) I took, and I think I dealt with my momentary topsy-turviness pretty well. I added that I am curious-as-hell about people and what motivates them, and I am not shy about exploring that, often among the men in my life or in my past. I do wonder why some men seem so very definite about having me in their lives - especially when it's really and finally about their own self-aggrandizement. I am better at recognizing those cues anymore, but I am sometimes astonished when I see it for what it is. Surprise, even unwelcome surprise, reminds me that I am not the smarty-pants for which I am habitually taken.

Smart people know what they don't know, and the best of the smart people I know, know that, they ask questions, and welcome new experiences, new things to learn.

A ditch digger knows more about digging ditches than I do.

Another thing about evolved pointy-heads is that we are open to being disabused about our ideas. I can be persuaded, dissuaded, and convinced otherwise, provided the argument is compelling and well-thought out.

Heck, I could be wrong about that friendship-neediness-as-narcissism-self-puffery thing. But I think I would need to be grabbed by the shirt-collar. I would need some hard evidence and one helluva counter-argument.

And that has an equal likelihood of happening as not.

Special Relativity

I am reading Richard Ford's Independence Day. The first-person main character, Frank Bascombe, is reflecting on his failed marriage (as he did in Ford's earlier novel, The Sportswriter, Independence Day is a continuation of said character's story), and this popped me straight between the eyes:

If I'd thought back in '81 that Ann would get remarried, I'd have fought it like a Viking instead of giving in to divorce like a queasy, uninspired saint. And I'd have fought it for a damn good reason: because no matter where she held the mortgage papers, she completely supposed my existence. My life was (and to some vague extent still is) played out on a stage in which she's continually in the audience (whether she's paying attention or not). All my decent, reasonable, patient, loving components were developed in the experimental theater of our old life together, and I realized that by moving house to Deep River she was striking most of the components, dismembering the entire illusion, intending to hook up with another, leaving me with only faint, worn-out costumes to play myself with.

Oh, Mr. Ford, you are good.

Something about how after I break up with someone, a lover, a friend, a family member, I remain mindful of how they might react to my ongoing and new activities. I have an internal, imagined audience, and I create in my mind the separated-one's reactions, based upon my history with that/those persons. 

Sometimes I think I do a specific thing just to imagine how they might or must respond. It's a fool's game, and vain, I'm embarrassed to admit. It does fade over time. Still, the pinpricks of memory, and to a degree, longing, color what I conjure in a day's moment for my spectral (former) observers.

This, my own introspection, reminded me of something I learned once about Einstein, about the nature of the observer and the observed. I found this:

Events that one observer considers happening in his present might already be in the past or still in the future with respect to another. Do these events "exist" at that moment? If they exist from the point of view of one observer, how can they be part of a future that has not happened yet for another? No matter how much we try to weasel our way out of this conundrum, we'll have to accept that all these events, future and past, "exist" in some sense. Mathematically, they are just points in the four-dimensional space-time continuum. But now..., we have to admit that the existence of all these events is physical...All events, past, present, and future, exist.

I will try to illustrate some of my examples. Whether or not I can be perfectly honest, I doubt. But still.

I will preface these examples with today's "democratization of technology," as GV Wonder often says. Anyone with access to a fast modem and computer port can type my name into an Internet search engine, and probably will get pushed, well...here.

I might flatter myself that an old lover, maybe the one living in the UK, can see for himself that my life has continued in the years since, that my life is not the mirror in which I allowed him to admire his own reflection. 

Or take those who have hurled the harshest of epithets, who, in the fiercest of rages, cursed me claiming, that I am miserable, lonely, friendless, liberal (oh my), and more. Well, they might see that they were misguided at best.

I do not suppose for a second that anything I do might inspire another's introspection, but perhaps they will examine their own behavior, think twice, maybe learn something. Or not.

In truth, it's not up to me. Real or imagined, the watcher or the watched, the incidence does recede, and gives way to the regular, tangible, grab-it-by-the-collar existence.

Famous in France Again

The film crew was here, at my loft this week, taping us for a multi-part documentary to air on France 5 television a year from now. On Women and Beauty, we represented New York City as one segment, and we would argue the most important segment in the series.

       

                 

Antoine Lassaigne, the director, instructed his crew mike us up like reality show participants. The crew hail from Montreal, and we women decided that such Quebecois can come visit us any old time. Once wired, Antoine popped a series of words, one at a time, and asked that we repeat each of those words within our responses.

I'm sure I don't remember all of the words, but here's a truncated list, and my answers. I should add that I went last, in the "wrap position," so I took the liberty to embroider, to add deeper context. Not sure how it will turn out - for all I know I may be cut out and left on the editing room floor (if not, the French dub or subtitles may distort what I said), but here's a gander:

Make-up: I find that as the years speed by, I prefer to wear less and less. Light powders, simple lipsticks, decent mascara and eyebrow liners. Not much else. When I was in my twenties, I liked to wear more, but now I find that it can look garish and cheap, somehow. A little goes a longer way.

Clothing: I like garments that stay close to the body, that show the body. I am a little bit of a Pilates junkie, so when I feel confident about my body, I like to wear form-fitting clothing.

Hair: Ah, hair. I am blond-ed, as if the word were a verb. I have no idea what my actual hair color is, but I love going to the hairdresser for highlights. I have to sit still for almost three hours while professionals play with my hair. It feels glorious, It calms me down. As with most American women who color their hair, I prefer it to look fairly natural.

Plastic surgery: No knives, no cutting. I don't mind injectables, and I am overdue. I had Botox done from the outside of laughline area of one eye, clear across the brow to the other side. But I can wiggle my eyebrows right now.

Shoes: We women love shoes. It has been said that women look at shoes the way men look at breasts: there are two of them, they come in pairs, and we want to own (or at least fondle) all of them. Maybe it's evolutionary, biological, but no woman I know can walk by the window of a shoe store without staring, or stopping to look.

Beauty - are you beautiful? But of course. And the reason why I believe I am beautiful, the reason why I feel beautiful, is because of my friends, my women and men friends. The love and regard we have for one another makes us shine, and I could not be beautiful without them.

Now gals - and you know who you are - tell me what your responses were, or how you remember them. And if forgot any of the trigger words, let me know those too. I desire completion, or at least more than this.

For me, this will be the third time my mug appears on French television. The last two times were France 2, and Arte.

Another New Yorker "big" in France. Not the ranks of Paul Auster or Jim Jarmusch, but hey, in the remotest of senses, this could be the start of something.

Five Waits

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait."

Said in rapid fire, I have heard this word, repeated very often anymore. I say it myself, usually in fast-paced conversation. I've taken notice of it when other people utter it - and last night, I caught it on Huff - or was it Big Love? I hope it was Huff. Big Love makes me itch. And it's "wait," always five times in a row. Always.

Anyhow, some screenwriter has added it to a script, picking up on everyday lingo. Let's say it was Huff. I want it to be Huff.

Because my new small-screen crushes is Andy Comeau, who plays the schizophrenic Theodore - Teddy - on Huff. And Teddy is one sexy m.f., as last night's episode will attest.

The other new crush is Alexander Siddig, whom I scrutinized in his scenes in Kingdom of Heaven, when it was in rotation on HBO Cinemax. He was also in Syriana, which I saw on the big screen. Yes, George Clooney happened to star, and co-produce that film, winning the Oscar too. But it was Siddig, all Siddig. 

Good thing I have On Demand. Because I can cycle back through episodes of Huff, or call up Kingdom of Heaven, and pause when I want to, the word in my mind, repeating, five times, "Wait."