Monday, June 10, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Great Gatsby 2013
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
When I was in high school, I entered a contest in which I wrote a thesis about "The Great Gatsby;" then, and now, it is one of my favorite novels of all time. What I had going for me even then was a past laden with secrets and a voracious appetite for books, poetry, philosophy, art and music. I remember that my piece focused on the book's battle between Manifest Destiny and the Old Guard. The tightly controlled and linguistically beautifully littered novel has so many things to write "about" that people still grow uncomfortable talking about, writing about, and "figuring out" this novel. I never try to figure anything out, and never have, which is why I think I am able to enjoy the sorrowful sweetness of this novel, for I somehow knew, even as a 17 year old, the pain and glory that exist ever at once in the very act of being alive. I guess I was never a true intellectual but always a poet, even when reading or watching movies.
I saw Baz Luhrmann's "The Great Gatsby" last night in a special screening at the LACMA...
First of all,
Go see it. Go see it for every reason you do and do not want to see it. Celebrate yourself when you see it, for you are a product of this movie and the movie is a product of you.
Caveat: I think Leo is our greatest living actor after Daniel Day Lewis. Caveat 2 was my admission about my wax nostalgic on the pain of loving this novel. Caveat 3 is that I love Baz Luhrmann's "Strictly Ballroom" and "Romeo + Juliet" is one of my favorite treatments of that play on film. What I am trying to say is this: I am this film's target market. I was so excited when I was invited early to this movie that I jumped up and down. Several times.
My friend thought, after the movie, that it would not be well received: that it doesn't cater to the masses, (what? Jay-Z and his folks did the soundtrack!); that the frame of the film, using Nick Carraway's voice to create a character didn't work for him nor the movie (my friend is the opposite of the masses, by the way); that the editing was odd and the script was bad.
I disagreed completely. But recall what I said above: I never try to figure anything out. I feel about Fitzgerald the way I feel about Rumi. It isn't so much that everything can be completely intellectually compartmentalized and understood but that it can be expressed and received like those "boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past," which is the last line of the novel and a beautiful way to experience it. We are not different than the jazz age, even if the hipsters and the hip hoppers of today are the flappers and the jazzers of nearly 100 years ago.
The book was not well received at its time of publication, so I have read, although now, those of us who romanticize it (like me!!!!) defend it as one of the great American novels. I do this because it somehow blends what is great about America (the ability to dream, to create from that dream, and to do it for love... or fantasy) while exposing and shading in, deftly as a painter, a few harsh truths about America (a history of violence and racism, a love of money and greed, a self-entitled arrogance) while yet battling against the "old world" which America was/is trying to escape (and which it has also now become) in which those who "have" use the marketing myth of simple family values to maintain power and in which no matter how hard one tries, "new money" or "new success" is always one misstep away from crucifixion (tweeting about Justin Bieber being gay whether or not he is without regard to the fact that he is also a person, tearing Brittney Spears apart for going through a crisis when the girl needed help- WE build these people up and prop them up and create the mystical status they enjoy and then angrily tear them down saying "I don't pity them for being young, rich and beautiful," when WE were the ones co-creating them.)
You see, the Great Gatsby is all of these things.
This film is so gorgeous, you're going to want to see it just for the spectacle. It is not only a more fully realized expression of the novel than we have ever seen on film before (I've even seen the black and white Alan Ladd film noir version) but it also taps into "our" "modern" jazz age, hip hop, in a manner that is at once effacing and at once inviting. The art deco designs and dresses and suits pop forth from the screen even without the 3-d effects.... and with an incredible score and soundtrack that is almost too emotionally controlling, featuring everything from Gershwin and Jack White, to Beyonce and Sia, to Beethoven and Kanye and Jay-Z. Luhrmann is a great one for the decadence of the novel....
But the real reason to see this movie- for all that snow globe of art deco imagery, of artsy decadence, of beautiful writing and words poetically expressed against a lush visual backdrop.... for all that INCREDIBLE music and ironic use of racism and outright use of race still prevalent today... for any pensive look from Carey Mulligan as Daisy and Joel Edgerton's (I AM a fan, remember) explosive control, like the US bombing Nagaskai, performance as Tom Buchanan..... for the amazing contrast between color, and its broad painting of the haves and have nots.... for Isla Fisher's almost painful yearning to become a part of new America....
Is Leo.
He is, quite simply, an amazing Gatsby. He is vulnerable, and frightened, and smooth and handsome and glorious all at the same time. He is devious and innocent all at once. He is always laughing and crying just under an obsessive surface, and if at time the obsession comes to bear almost too much, in this film, a special treatment of that obsession slowly unfurls as we learn about his dream of freedom and creation and love and ardent faithfulness to that dream and to that love. And at once the love isn't the love of Daisy and is, Gatsby himself is within and without as is Nick Carraway (the narrator of the book and movie, played by Tobey Maguire), and the love of Daisy is almost more a placeholder and impetus for a love of creation.
So I'm perhaps not cynical enough to explain why my friend didn't like the movie. Maybe I just don't want to go there. After all, I saw the film among fans of the book who dressed as flappers for the occasion. I think there are those who are too smart for their own good and they die angry alcoholics not realizing the beauty of the world, or worse, realizing the beauty of the world and writing about it and yet feeling isolated and alone in a world which "values things rather than cares about them," to quote another Fitzgerald work which I cannot remember but know only the line. It's a beautiful spectacle and I loved the music so much I want to buy the soundtrack.
I think you should all go see the movie, because despite what my friend says, it DOES take something beautiful and literary and prepare it for the masses of 2013. And it exposes a lot about us and a lot about love, just like the beautiful novel. AND. And. And. It is one of Gatsby's great parties, really, to which you are invited to come watch... And it is a HELL of a lot of fun!
When I was in high school, I entered a contest in which I wrote a thesis about "The Great Gatsby;" then, and now, it is one of my favorite novels of all time. What I had going for me even then was a past laden with secrets and a voracious appetite for books, poetry, philosophy, art and music. I remember that my piece focused on the book's battle between Manifest Destiny and the Old Guard. The tightly controlled and linguistically beautifully littered novel has so many things to write "about" that people still grow uncomfortable talking about, writing about, and "figuring out" this novel. I never try to figure anything out, and never have, which is why I think I am able to enjoy the sorrowful sweetness of this novel, for I somehow knew, even as a 17 year old, the pain and glory that exist ever at once in the very act of being alive. I guess I was never a true intellectual but always a poet, even when reading or watching movies.
I saw Baz Luhrmann's "The Great Gatsby" last night in a special screening at the LACMA...
First of all,
Go see it. Go see it for every reason you do and do not want to see it. Celebrate yourself when you see it, for you are a product of this movie and the movie is a product of you.
Caveat: I think Leo is our greatest living actor after Daniel Day Lewis. Caveat 2 was my admission about my wax nostalgic on the pain of loving this novel. Caveat 3 is that I love Baz Luhrmann's "Strictly Ballroom" and "Romeo + Juliet" is one of my favorite treatments of that play on film. What I am trying to say is this: I am this film's target market. I was so excited when I was invited early to this movie that I jumped up and down. Several times.
My friend thought, after the movie, that it would not be well received: that it doesn't cater to the masses, (what? Jay-Z and his folks did the soundtrack!); that the frame of the film, using Nick Carraway's voice to create a character didn't work for him nor the movie (my friend is the opposite of the masses, by the way); that the editing was odd and the script was bad.
I disagreed completely. But recall what I said above: I never try to figure anything out. I feel about Fitzgerald the way I feel about Rumi. It isn't so much that everything can be completely intellectually compartmentalized and understood but that it can be expressed and received like those "boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past," which is the last line of the novel and a beautiful way to experience it. We are not different than the jazz age, even if the hipsters and the hip hoppers of today are the flappers and the jazzers of nearly 100 years ago.
The book was not well received at its time of publication, so I have read, although now, those of us who romanticize it (like me!!!!) defend it as one of the great American novels. I do this because it somehow blends what is great about America (the ability to dream, to create from that dream, and to do it for love... or fantasy) while exposing and shading in, deftly as a painter, a few harsh truths about America (a history of violence and racism, a love of money and greed, a self-entitled arrogance) while yet battling against the "old world" which America was/is trying to escape (and which it has also now become) in which those who "have" use the marketing myth of simple family values to maintain power and in which no matter how hard one tries, "new money" or "new success" is always one misstep away from crucifixion (tweeting about Justin Bieber being gay whether or not he is without regard to the fact that he is also a person, tearing Brittney Spears apart for going through a crisis when the girl needed help- WE build these people up and prop them up and create the mystical status they enjoy and then angrily tear them down saying "I don't pity them for being young, rich and beautiful," when WE were the ones co-creating them.)
You see, the Great Gatsby is all of these things.
This film is so gorgeous, you're going to want to see it just for the spectacle. It is not only a more fully realized expression of the novel than we have ever seen on film before (I've even seen the black and white Alan Ladd film noir version) but it also taps into "our" "modern" jazz age, hip hop, in a manner that is at once effacing and at once inviting. The art deco designs and dresses and suits pop forth from the screen even without the 3-d effects.... and with an incredible score and soundtrack that is almost too emotionally controlling, featuring everything from Gershwin and Jack White, to Beyonce and Sia, to Beethoven and Kanye and Jay-Z. Luhrmann is a great one for the decadence of the novel....
But the real reason to see this movie- for all that snow globe of art deco imagery, of artsy decadence, of beautiful writing and words poetically expressed against a lush visual backdrop.... for all that INCREDIBLE music and ironic use of racism and outright use of race still prevalent today... for any pensive look from Carey Mulligan as Daisy and Joel Edgerton's (I AM a fan, remember) explosive control, like the US bombing Nagaskai, performance as Tom Buchanan..... for the amazing contrast between color, and its broad painting of the haves and have nots.... for Isla Fisher's almost painful yearning to become a part of new America....
Is Leo.
He is, quite simply, an amazing Gatsby. He is vulnerable, and frightened, and smooth and handsome and glorious all at the same time. He is devious and innocent all at once. He is always laughing and crying just under an obsessive surface, and if at time the obsession comes to bear almost too much, in this film, a special treatment of that obsession slowly unfurls as we learn about his dream of freedom and creation and love and ardent faithfulness to that dream and to that love. And at once the love isn't the love of Daisy and is, Gatsby himself is within and without as is Nick Carraway (the narrator of the book and movie, played by Tobey Maguire), and the love of Daisy is almost more a placeholder and impetus for a love of creation.
So I'm perhaps not cynical enough to explain why my friend didn't like the movie. Maybe I just don't want to go there. After all, I saw the film among fans of the book who dressed as flappers for the occasion. I think there are those who are too smart for their own good and they die angry alcoholics not realizing the beauty of the world, or worse, realizing the beauty of the world and writing about it and yet feeling isolated and alone in a world which "values things rather than cares about them," to quote another Fitzgerald work which I cannot remember but know only the line. It's a beautiful spectacle and I loved the music so much I want to buy the soundtrack.
I think you should all go see the movie, because despite what my friend says, it DOES take something beautiful and literary and prepare it for the masses of 2013. And it exposes a lot about us and a lot about love, just like the beautiful novel. AND. And. And. It is one of Gatsby's great parties, really, to which you are invited to come watch... And it is a HELL of a lot of fun!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The Dali of Dreams
...Last night's dreams were blog-worthy....
...I dreamed that I was in a car being held up by a random person, he seemed like a gang banger from the way he dressed. I his my purse under my sweater but he saw my beautiful gold wristwatch and said, "That looks like a nice watch." I tried to tell him that it wasn't, that I got it for $10 at the bottom bargain clearance sale off of QVC.com but he walked around the car, smashed the window and pointed his gun in my face. "Give it to me," he said. I handed it over and went to surreptitiously grab my iPhone when he said "where's your money?" I shook my head, "no," wondering why no one was calling the police. A few more gang members surrounded the car and one of them was GARY OLDMAN...
...Gary Oldman looked at me and said, without an accent by the way, sounding almost more like Brian Cranston in Breaking Bad, "Give me your money." I handed over my purse. "Look," I said, pulling out my wallet with a picture of my niece in the front see-through pocket, "Don't take this, my passport, or this my social security card, or my iPhone. I'm on my way out of the country...." He hit me in the head with his gun. I blacked out...
...When I came to, I was in a police station, sitting next to Gary Oldman. They were arresting all of us. No one could explain why I, the VICTIM, was being arrested and thrown into ail with the very gang members, and Gary Oldman, who had just robbed and assaulted me. The officer in charge of me was a very beautiful blond woman, beautiful in a 50 year old lawyer, Murphy Brown kind of way. I asked her why I, the victim, was in jail. She said I could talk about that later. I said, "At least let me stay close to this fool. He has my passport!" I nodded at Gary Oldman. She shrugged and said, "Sure."...
...The jail we were put in one was more like an old 19th century hospital. There were no cells, no bars, no locks on any doors, and all of the cops were rather kindly, matronly ladies. I screamed and shouted at the Blonde Officer in charge of me, and she just continued to shrug. "Where was my lawyer?" I asked. I ran through the list of attorneys I knew, mostly all entertainment attorneys specializing in contracts. There was my childhood friend, who was some sort of County Prosecutor. But I figured I'd call my massage client, the most famous attorney I knew, because he was friends with Arnold Schwarzenegger and therefore knew more people and had more money to break me outta this joint...
....The announcement came over an old-school speaker system that it was time for bed. I looked around and there was no bed. "Hey," I called out to Blonde Cop Lady, "where's my bed?" She shrugged and said, "You'll have to share with Gary." Gary and I looked at each other with deep consternation. "Fine," I said, grabbing the full-length body pillow. "This goes between us." He started crying. "I need that body pillow for my rest," he said. I sighed. "Here," I said. "Take it." He smiled and said, "Thank you." "Hey," I whispered, "Where's my passport and my phone and my money!?" "I hid it in a special place where no one can find it and when we get outta here I'll take you to it and give it back to you."...
...The next day, they put us to work. My job was in the pantries, sweeping up rat poo poo. The rats were hanging around as well. They were bold, in fact, almost friendly. Anyone who knows me knows I have a deep fear of rats. Deep, strong, visceral, practically debilitating. These rats were so friendly it drove me nuts. They were of every color: brown, black, white and gray. They pooped everywhere. Everywhere! The only way I could keep myself from going completely insane was by singing...
...Later, my Blonde Cop Lady came up to me. She was wearing a sort of Oriental peekaboo wiggle dress and lots of eye-liner. It dawned on me she was Rebecca DeMornay. "I heard you singing," she said. I nodded, yes, miserably washing down the pantry floors once again. "Can you sing 'A Tisket, a Tasket?'" I nodded, yes. "Like Ella?" she pressed. "Yes," I said, practically in tears and nauseous from the fear of rat disease. "Great," she said, "Come with me."...
...Michael Bloomberg was getting married for a consecutive marriage in Central Park. They brought me to the stage in front of thousands and thousands of people. I wore a dark purple wiggle dress. The microphone was like my old school 1930's style Shure Super 55. I leaned into the microphone. The band started. "A tisket, a tasket, a brown and yellow basket," I began. The crow went wild. Really. REALLY REALLY REALLY wild. They starting cheering and I just kept singing and swinging...
...My next appearance, my national TV debut, was to be on a Reality Television Competition called "America's Top MILF." As the finalists, showing off their fashion designs from the most recent competition category "Haute couture hiking and breast feeding outfits for the Modern Milf" and they announced the finalists for the next category (the gal wearing just the shorts and suspenders part of lederhosen, she was also Australian and had very large breasts... well, she was lactating anyway) I came out and sang "If I could turn back time" by Cher. The Crowd went WILD....
... ... ...
...
...
I awoke with a start. it was 7 am and my alarm was going off. Henry was already stretching in a perfect down dog. It was Thursday morning. I felt hung over even though I haven't had a drink of alcohol in years. It had all been a dream! Just a... frightening, bizarre, and yet wonderful dream!
I decided to share it with you all here on the public intergalactic interwebs because anyone who knows me will know that it features my two biggest, most irrational fears (Wrongful Incarceration and RATS) and my biggest DREAMS (singing in Central Park in NYC to thousands of fans who actually WANT to hear me sing, singing on television, hanging out with Gary Oldman- I mean, Immortal Beloved and the Professional, for goodness' sake!).
Time to walk the dog!
love,
Erin E, 'the Dali of Dreams'
...I dreamed that I was in a car being held up by a random person, he seemed like a gang banger from the way he dressed. I his my purse under my sweater but he saw my beautiful gold wristwatch and said, "That looks like a nice watch." I tried to tell him that it wasn't, that I got it for $10 at the bottom bargain clearance sale off of QVC.com but he walked around the car, smashed the window and pointed his gun in my face. "Give it to me," he said. I handed it over and went to surreptitiously grab my iPhone when he said "where's your money?" I shook my head, "no," wondering why no one was calling the police. A few more gang members surrounded the car and one of them was GARY OLDMAN...
...Gary Oldman looked at me and said, without an accent by the way, sounding almost more like Brian Cranston in Breaking Bad, "Give me your money." I handed over my purse. "Look," I said, pulling out my wallet with a picture of my niece in the front see-through pocket, "Don't take this, my passport, or this my social security card, or my iPhone. I'm on my way out of the country...." He hit me in the head with his gun. I blacked out...
...When I came to, I was in a police station, sitting next to Gary Oldman. They were arresting all of us. No one could explain why I, the VICTIM, was being arrested and thrown into ail with the very gang members, and Gary Oldman, who had just robbed and assaulted me. The officer in charge of me was a very beautiful blond woman, beautiful in a 50 year old lawyer, Murphy Brown kind of way. I asked her why I, the victim, was in jail. She said I could talk about that later. I said, "At least let me stay close to this fool. He has my passport!" I nodded at Gary Oldman. She shrugged and said, "Sure."...
...The jail we were put in one was more like an old 19th century hospital. There were no cells, no bars, no locks on any doors, and all of the cops were rather kindly, matronly ladies. I screamed and shouted at the Blonde Officer in charge of me, and she just continued to shrug. "Where was my lawyer?" I asked. I ran through the list of attorneys I knew, mostly all entertainment attorneys specializing in contracts. There was my childhood friend, who was some sort of County Prosecutor. But I figured I'd call my massage client, the most famous attorney I knew, because he was friends with Arnold Schwarzenegger and therefore knew more people and had more money to break me outta this joint...
....The announcement came over an old-school speaker system that it was time for bed. I looked around and there was no bed. "Hey," I called out to Blonde Cop Lady, "where's my bed?" She shrugged and said, "You'll have to share with Gary." Gary and I looked at each other with deep consternation. "Fine," I said, grabbing the full-length body pillow. "This goes between us." He started crying. "I need that body pillow for my rest," he said. I sighed. "Here," I said. "Take it." He smiled and said, "Thank you." "Hey," I whispered, "Where's my passport and my phone and my money!?" "I hid it in a special place where no one can find it and when we get outta here I'll take you to it and give it back to you."...
...The next day, they put us to work. My job was in the pantries, sweeping up rat poo poo. The rats were hanging around as well. They were bold, in fact, almost friendly. Anyone who knows me knows I have a deep fear of rats. Deep, strong, visceral, practically debilitating. These rats were so friendly it drove me nuts. They were of every color: brown, black, white and gray. They pooped everywhere. Everywhere! The only way I could keep myself from going completely insane was by singing...
...Later, my Blonde Cop Lady came up to me. She was wearing a sort of Oriental peekaboo wiggle dress and lots of eye-liner. It dawned on me she was Rebecca DeMornay. "I heard you singing," she said. I nodded, yes, miserably washing down the pantry floors once again. "Can you sing 'A Tisket, a Tasket?'" I nodded, yes. "Like Ella?" she pressed. "Yes," I said, practically in tears and nauseous from the fear of rat disease. "Great," she said, "Come with me."...
...Michael Bloomberg was getting married for a consecutive marriage in Central Park. They brought me to the stage in front of thousands and thousands of people. I wore a dark purple wiggle dress. The microphone was like my old school 1930's style Shure Super 55. I leaned into the microphone. The band started. "A tisket, a tasket, a brown and yellow basket," I began. The crow went wild. Really. REALLY REALLY REALLY wild. They starting cheering and I just kept singing and swinging...
...My next appearance, my national TV debut, was to be on a Reality Television Competition called "America's Top MILF." As the finalists, showing off their fashion designs from the most recent competition category "Haute couture hiking and breast feeding outfits for the Modern Milf" and they announced the finalists for the next category (the gal wearing just the shorts and suspenders part of lederhosen, she was also Australian and had very large breasts... well, she was lactating anyway) I came out and sang "If I could turn back time" by Cher. The Crowd went WILD....
... ... ...
...
...
I awoke with a start. it was 7 am and my alarm was going off. Henry was already stretching in a perfect down dog. It was Thursday morning. I felt hung over even though I haven't had a drink of alcohol in years. It had all been a dream! Just a... frightening, bizarre, and yet wonderful dream!
I decided to share it with you all here on the public intergalactic interwebs because anyone who knows me will know that it features my two biggest, most irrational fears (Wrongful Incarceration and RATS) and my biggest DREAMS (singing in Central Park in NYC to thousands of fans who actually WANT to hear me sing, singing on television, hanging out with Gary Oldman- I mean, Immortal Beloved and the Professional, for goodness' sake!).
Time to walk the dog!
love,
Erin E, 'the Dali of Dreams'
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Moonchild and Friend: A Sonic Study of a Morning Walk Playlist
Note from the artist:
Every morning I walk Henry and every morning my iPod plays a "random" Playlist from among a gazillion tunes. I love how every morning there is a sort of theme linking the tunes together and so I am posting the songs as they pop up, along with my thoughts (or no thoughts) about each tune.
Amanti io vo se dire - anne softie (scattered rose petals) (deep breathing.... Calm thyself.)
The day - moby (dang I love moby... Kills the pain... Henry chasing after pigeons and the twirling of wrapping and unwrapping the leash around me)
(A haze, a smoggy spring. Thinking of the pain of the people, sending a wish) (I will be right here til all the pain just disappears) (its Easter time. That's for redemption.)
( Haha! Next song)
A Chant for Easter.... Alleluia Pascha nostrum- Milan records 1997- (I swear my phone is bewitched) (walked past two middle aged men kissing.)
A song for me- M83 Moonchild
(Gonna hear the future now, my children in the ethers) (this world is too rich to talk about, only music fits at a time like this) (a homeless young man in the lavender and sage) (this, too, is somebody's Moonchild) (smiles) (henry plays) ("i was in love with the voice... But all I heard was the echo and the light.")
If only to knock hipster off the bottom of my résumé...
And for .. fun....
Cher! Dove l'amore. Yesssssass.
(Unabashedly I Lllllllllluuuurrrrrve Cher! I have seen her live three times. She is amazing and gorgeous and funny. And she is in some of my favorite movies ever, most importantly, Moonstruck. So my playlist is still so connected!... Halfway through our morning walk, a theme is emerging.)
(Dance remix!)
(Oooooooooh. I have been craving the movies the next tune is from!)
An Ocean Apart by Julie Delpy
(Sorry- dropped my phone for a second as Henry chased after an unsuspecting skater.)
(An ironic return to the playlist...)
Black Butterfly, ahem, by, uh... Me.
Oooh! Bon Iver. Blood bank.
Yeah! The sexy voice of Muse....
Oh, man. Everything in life is worth it when you listen to this next tune:
I'm old fashioned, Coltrane
Just enjoy for a bit-
Okay! Back to a different kinda fun rounding out the list...
Are you ready?......
Shania!!!!!! Whoooooooooot! Any Man o Mine!!!
Yeah! I like it that way!!!! Shimmy! Shake! Make the earth quake!
(Last minute entry as I walk in the door- Mon Couer S'ouvre a Ta voix, from Samson et Dalila!)
Every morning I walk Henry and every morning my iPod plays a "random" Playlist from among a gazillion tunes. I love how every morning there is a sort of theme linking the tunes together and so I am posting the songs as they pop up, along with my thoughts (or no thoughts) about each tune.
Amanti io vo se dire - anne softie (scattered rose petals) (deep breathing.... Calm thyself.)
The day - moby (dang I love moby... Kills the pain... Henry chasing after pigeons and the twirling of wrapping and unwrapping the leash around me)
(A haze, a smoggy spring. Thinking of the pain of the people, sending a wish) (I will be right here til all the pain just disappears) (its Easter time. That's for redemption.)
( Haha! Next song)
A Chant for Easter.... Alleluia Pascha nostrum- Milan records 1997- (I swear my phone is bewitched) (walked past two middle aged men kissing.)
A song for me- M83 Moonchild
(Gonna hear the future now, my children in the ethers) (this world is too rich to talk about, only music fits at a time like this) (a homeless young man in the lavender and sage) (this, too, is somebody's Moonchild) (smiles) (henry plays) ("i was in love with the voice... But all I heard was the echo and the light.")
If only to knock hipster off the bottom of my résumé...
And for .. fun....
Cher! Dove l'amore. Yesssssass.
(Unabashedly I Lllllllllluuuurrrrrve Cher! I have seen her live three times. She is amazing and gorgeous and funny. And she is in some of my favorite movies ever, most importantly, Moonstruck. So my playlist is still so connected!... Halfway through our morning walk, a theme is emerging.)
(Dance remix!)
(Oooooooooh. I have been craving the movies the next tune is from!)
An Ocean Apart by Julie Delpy
(Sorry- dropped my phone for a second as Henry chased after an unsuspecting skater.)
(An ironic return to the playlist...)
Black Butterfly, ahem, by, uh... Me.
Oooh! Bon Iver. Blood bank.
Yeah! The sexy voice of Muse....
Oh, man. Everything in life is worth it when you listen to this next tune:
I'm old fashioned, Coltrane
Just enjoy for a bit-
Okay! Back to a different kinda fun rounding out the list...
Are you ready?......
Shania!!!!!! Whoooooooooot! Any Man o Mine!!!
Yeah! I like it that way!!!! Shimmy! Shake! Make the earth quake!
(Last minute entry as I walk in the door- Mon Couer S'ouvre a Ta voix, from Samson et Dalila!)
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The Mirror
Sunday afternoon, 1 PM.
The north part of “The Valley,” suburban
Los Angeles. CA.
So I'm walking Henry on a bright
sunny day. I have just returned from a voice lesson and a long chat after that
lesson with a lovely fellow singer-songwriter about how to make a difference in
this world: Whether through political protest? Or is it better to be making
songs that change people's hearts? Maybe by changing my own heart to become
more open; or whether or not being certain of my ideas (when it comes to things
like, for example, torture, is really the best way to improve the overall
situation for Humanity) or… instead…. to listen with the mind as open as when
one listens to a symphony, or a jazz composition, or a Top 40 pop single.... As
all of these pieces of music are wildly different from one another, but they are ALL music…
And so here I am, ambling down
Victory Boulevard, holding my
iPhone in my hand like a shield, when a man, probably in his 50s, wearing
sweatpants, a baggy T-shirt, and a do-rag notices me. Now, this is the sort of
person I go out of my way to smile at because I guess he would not be expecting
that. He would not be expecting me to smile a friendly smile of: “Hi there,
fellow human, I see you.” I think that, because often when I have NOT smiled at
my fellow human being, they let me know, one way or another, I am behaving like
an uptight white lady. So, not so much because I care about whether or not I’m
uptight (mostly I’m not) or white (definitely am) or what they think of me
(maybe just a little) but because I want to extend humanity and kindness even
in the smallest of gestures, I smile. He walks past, ignoring me, but then I
hear:
"Excuse me," he says. "Excuse me." I turn around to face him. There is an edge to his voice, a sort of edge which puts me on alert… But I am dedicated to growing past my history and growing past my prejudice. Not every dude on the street wants to hit on me and not every person should be avoided. And yet to be honest, as a lifelong single woman who has taken care of herself, I have learned to respond to men in this fashion with a sense of heightened awareness.
"Yes?" I answer, smiling. Henry tugs on his leash in the other direction.
"Is it America or is it me? Am I losing my mind?” he asks, throwing his free hand in the air, gesturing toward traffic. "Am I losing my mind, or is America changing?" I nod, yes, and smile like Mona Lisa. Either or both might be true.
"So it's not just me, then," He says, pointing at traffic now with his finger. "America is really changing."
Silently I ask God to help me speak to this man who is clearly troubled in his heart. I err on the side of listening.
"Now it ain't just black folks in the shelters," he says, gearing up, "It's all folks. White, black, Hispanic. All folks are losing their houses, and all the people are down here in the trenches and America's going off the fiscal cliff. And nobody wants to look at you. Nobody wants to look you in the eye. Nobody wants to smile and they sure don't want you to smile at them. Everybody's angry and mean and unkind and ain't nobody holding each other's hands."
I nod. "I guess we have to be the example," I say searching for something to say to help this man who is so burdened. I don't want to tell him I don't agree with him because that seems unfair given my apparent background and relative freedom and his apparent background.
"I'm tired of being the example!" He is shouting but he seems ready to cry.
"Excuse me," he says. "Excuse me." I turn around to face him. There is an edge to his voice, a sort of edge which puts me on alert… But I am dedicated to growing past my history and growing past my prejudice. Not every dude on the street wants to hit on me and not every person should be avoided. And yet to be honest, as a lifelong single woman who has taken care of herself, I have learned to respond to men in this fashion with a sense of heightened awareness.
"Yes?" I answer, smiling. Henry tugs on his leash in the other direction.
"Is it America or is it me? Am I losing my mind?” he asks, throwing his free hand in the air, gesturing toward traffic. "Am I losing my mind, or is America changing?" I nod, yes, and smile like Mona Lisa. Either or both might be true.
"So it's not just me, then," He says, pointing at traffic now with his finger. "America is really changing."
Silently I ask God to help me speak to this man who is clearly troubled in his heart. I err on the side of listening.
"Now it ain't just black folks in the shelters," he says, gearing up, "It's all folks. White, black, Hispanic. All folks are losing their houses, and all the people are down here in the trenches and America's going off the fiscal cliff. And nobody wants to look at you. Nobody wants to look you in the eye. Nobody wants to smile and they sure don't want you to smile at them. Everybody's angry and mean and unkind and ain't nobody holding each other's hands."
I nod. "I guess we have to be the example," I say searching for something to say to help this man who is so burdened. I don't want to tell him I don't agree with him because that seems unfair given my apparent background and relative freedom and his apparent background.
"I'm tired of being the example!" He is shouting but he seems ready to cry.
I want to reach out to hug him but
I'm afraid he will take it the wrong way and I don't have time to kindly
explain I'm not romantically interested ... Again my prejudices are coming up,
and yet, I feel that history and that prejudice and silently admonish
myself or my fear.
"I'm a musician," he says,
"I'm always the example.
Always. I’m always up there onstage, making you happy, making everybody
smile. Just like actors and actresses. But I am tired. At least if we're
all in this together can't we hold hands and be in this together? What about
Martin Luther King Jr.? But nobody wants to be the light, and they sure don’t
want to see my light shine. Nobody wants to hear what Martin said. It's like
their light ain't shining so they have to push mine out too." He stamps
out an imaginary light in front of him. Then, he stops, stares out into the
street for a moment, and then looks back at me. Through his shaded glasses, I
see his eyes softening.
He shrugs, reaching into his black plastic bag, pulling out a 40 oz. bottle of beer.
"And I don't even like drinking," he says.
"Then all I can say to you," I say, smiling, and really truly meaning my words, "is God bless you."
He cracks open the beer.
"If people like you and me are down here, what hope do we have for the rest of America?" He nods at me, a silent 'good day,' and walks away.
I watch him walk away. I wonder what on earth I could say or do. I begin to dictate the story into my phone so I can put it up on my blog, because it’s all I know to do, because maybe someone in his position will read this and know I do care, at least, I really do care, and I have hope. I have a lot of hope. Even moreso, I have faith. Really, I do. And so we can know, somehow, we are not alone. And I think it is important to be honest about my responses too, about being scared because I don’t want to get harassed but that I am willing to try not to assume every dude on the street wants to harass me, because while it’s minor compared to the pain of losing your house or your family or your belief in life, it’s also something we might as well be honest about too. And together we can overcome our fear- like Martin said. And I want to be honest. And I want to hold hands and be in this together. And I’m scared, too. And also I want to share all this, so I can see that while my fear can be helpful, i.e., I don’t need to be foolish, it is also something to use- rather than be used by- to be of greater service to love. So that I don't get tired of being an example, even if only for myself.
He shrugs, reaching into his black plastic bag, pulling out a 40 oz. bottle of beer.
"And I don't even like drinking," he says.
"Then all I can say to you," I say, smiling, and really truly meaning my words, "is God bless you."
He cracks open the beer.
"If people like you and me are down here, what hope do we have for the rest of America?" He nods at me, a silent 'good day,' and walks away.
I watch him walk away. I wonder what on earth I could say or do. I begin to dictate the story into my phone so I can put it up on my blog, because it’s all I know to do, because maybe someone in his position will read this and know I do care, at least, I really do care, and I have hope. I have a lot of hope. Even moreso, I have faith. Really, I do. And so we can know, somehow, we are not alone. And I think it is important to be honest about my responses too, about being scared because I don’t want to get harassed but that I am willing to try not to assume every dude on the street wants to harass me, because while it’s minor compared to the pain of losing your house or your family or your belief in life, it’s also something we might as well be honest about too. And together we can overcome our fear- like Martin said. And I want to be honest. And I want to hold hands and be in this together. And I’m scared, too. And also I want to share all this, so I can see that while my fear can be helpful, i.e., I don’t need to be foolish, it is also something to use- rather than be used by- to be of greater service to love. So that I don't get tired of being an example, even if only for myself.
Why? Because…. Because I’m alive.
Because I have Henry. Because I’m a musician, too. Because the wind is blowing.
Because the birds are singing. Because there are children playing. Because that
man and me? We are the children and we are “leaning out for love, and we will
lean that way forever.” And I am grateful to him for being my mirror.
Love,
Erin
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Misadventures
Misadventures, partially true
….. a blog for a Tuesday…. By Erin Elizabeth Muir
Good morning and Happy New Year, everyone! I am so full of
joy and dreams as I write this, and the dreams part might be because I just
awoke with a brave and powerful desire to write a blog although I may still be
half asleep…. 2012 was a year full of lots of planning and dreams and last
night I rang in the new year with Dorothy Parker, Zelda and F Scott Fitzgerald
and Ernest Hemingway, and Indiana Jones. No, not at home with Netflix and a
library…. I myself went to the party as the erotic diarist Anais Nin, with whom
I share a birthday. It was a lovely countdown to a night of dreams!
But that is all the clearing of the sleep from my eyes
because as I continue to watch my fingers move across the keyboard of my trusty
old laptop- old, my little Macbook! Old at 5 years of age (gasp)…. That’s like
739 in human years…. I realize I want to share about some deeds I have done of
late and write about it from a perspective of joy, if not poetry…
Recently the Chinese government passed a somewhat nebulous
sounding law in which the elderly (like my computer here) must be visited
“regularly” by their children (of which my computer has none, unless you count
the novel, one woman show, musical, and various songs that MacBook and I have
created together. In which case then this computer is in fact visited OFTEN,
whether it wants to be or not.) If this does not occur, the children are in
danger of being sued by said parents (I imagine it is some kind of civil
offense rather than a criminal one).
Hm!
So yesterday on my local Public Radio station, there was a
show devoted to that idea and what it might look like here in the US, or at
least here in Southern California.
I heard a lot of interesting arguments. Most people thought
the idea was ridiculous, but a few people pointed out that there is a lot of
elder abuse L
and that opening up discussion about this might help us to become more aware
(and hopefully more compassionate) toward vulnerable folks in need of some
help… if not love.
There was a lot of discussion about how these days family is
not always blood but people who have chosen friends as family; about how some
people feel their parents were abusive and are estranged from those relationships;
what about conscientious objection; and what about basic human decency?
Well, I have long been sensitive to the plight of others-
something about being a Pisces or just my own inborn codependency to the world,
who cares? It’s my basic template and sometimes can drive my close friends and
family nuts. “What do you mean you don’t have a winter coat?” “I gave it to an
organization collecting coats for needy people.” Etc. “What do you mean this
strange man from the streets is taking a shower in our bathroom?” “What do you
mean you baked cookies for the penitentiary and we have to skip the movie to go
hand them out?” that sort of romantic, idealized, unrealistic behavior…. My
life is rife with it. Anyone else want to borrow these rose-colored glasses for
a moment?
So back to this elderly thing. As I was listening to the
show, I thought of all the elderly people I know personally as friends or
neighbors or acquaintances and I started running through the list to see if I
have been out of contact with them. I thought about my wonderful former
neighbor Clara, a lady who had married a Jewish man who had survived WWII and
moved to NYC from Hungary to start a new life free. I hadn’t spoken with her in
a while, so I called her to say Happy New Year.
“Hello,” I said, once she had answered. “This is Erin, your
former neighbor?” “Yes.” Silence. “I just wanted to wish you Happy Hannukah and
Happy Christmas and Happy New Year!” “Yes,” she said, “you too.” And then she
hung up.
Okay! So I knew she was fine.
I thought of Manny, a sweet old gentleman who used to live
in my building and always was asking me out for dinner. He would walk up to me
in the courtyard of the building with a bag of grapefruits and say, “Here!
These are for you!” “Thank you,” I would say, and smile. “When you are not
working,” he asked often, “Do you ever eat dinner?” “Sure,” I said, not quite
getting what he was asking. “I eat dinner.” “Great,” he would answer, at about
82 years of age, “I can pick you up at 8.” Manny had asked me on a date. J
One day I walked up to get the mail and he was standing
there, looking disheveled, trying to open the mailbox with his car key. He had
no other key with him.
“Do you have the right key?” I asked him, looking into his
eyes, which, once bright blue and twinkling, now were covered with a filmy
glaze.
“I don’t know, I think they changed the locks,” he said.
It turns out Manny had suffered a stroke and just a few
weeks later he had died. That was a sad day.
Then I thought of an elderly person I do not really enjoy.
Perhaps I shouldn’t admit that. I’m supposed to be little Miss Nice Nice,
right? It’s my template!
But my grandmother taught me a valuable lesson when I was a
young girl. She taught me that you do not have to like everybody…. But that the
value was in being kind to everybody.
So I sighed. Janis. I don’t think she reads my blog but
quite honestly even if she did I think she’d admit she’s a tough one. I don’t
know, though. Maybe not!
She was another neighbor at my old building. She lived kitty
corner from me and always confused me with the girl who lived upstairs. I know,
because I would say “Hi!” every time I saw her. She moved very slowly and was
mostly blind. She would look up from her dowager’s hump, bent over stance
through thick, thick glasses. “Oh, hi,” she would say with a little nervous
laugh punctuating the end of every sentence. “Hi, heh, heh.” “How are you
today?” I would ask. “Are you that b#$% that lives upstairs?” she’d ask.
Now the first time she swore like that- by the way she always
swore like a sailor, which was totally disconcerting coming out of a little old
lady in pink polyester pants and a floral sweater- I was really shocked. I am
not used to Grandma ladies having such salty speech! I guess both of my
grandmothers were very proud ladies- still wore lipstick every day kinda gals,
still had posters of Clark Gable up in their closet kinda women. So may I say,
I was flabbergasted.
“No, no,” I answered on several occasions. “I’m Erin. I live
across the hall from you.”
“Oh, heh, heh,” she answered, “Because I was going to tell
you to shut the f#$% up! You’re so loud at night. Last night you were so loud
with all your banging and noise that I couldn’t sleep so I banged my broomstick
on the ceiling.”
“Uh, nope! Not me. I live in 103.”
“Oh, well tell the girl upstairs to be quiet, would ya? I
can’t get any f#$%ing sleep.”
Ah, those were among the pleasanter conversations with
Janis.
When I moved out of that building, one day, I had a number
of flattened out boxes propping the door open to the building. I was running
them into my apartment and I saw Janis come out of her unit with some garbage
to throw away and some mail to send. I knew she might not see the boxes so I
ran out and said, “Janis! It’s Erin. There are some boxes here in your way, I
just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh, that’s not very convenient,” she said.
“Oh, they will be there only a few more minutes,” I said.
“I doubt that,” she muttered.
“Can I take care of those things for you? Mail the letter
and throw the garbage for you?” I asked.
She clutched the garbage to her chest. “No, I just need to
mail this letter and throw away my garbage,” she answered.
“Ah,” I said. “Well let me take your arm and help you
navigate the boxes,” I said.
“Oh, okay, heh, heh.” I took her arm and began helping her
walk (VERY VERY VERY SLOWLY) through the threshold of the building. “You moving
in?” she asked.
“No, I am moving out. It’s me, Erin, I’ve lived here for two
years?” I said.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” she said. She stopped, thought
for a moment, and said, “You ain’t that opera singer, are you?”
“I am,” I said, smiling. I was smiling rather like a fool,
because most of the folks in my building had stopped by to say good-bye and how
much they would miss me singing in the afternoons.
“Yeah, you’ve been bugging the s#$% outta me for months,”
she said.
“Ah,” I said, supporting her left elbow as she took a
tenuous step. “Well, lucky for you, I’m moving out, so you won’t have to hear
me any more.” I thought that was very judicious on my part and was about to
congratulate my enlightened behavior (ha.ha.) when she continued:
“You know, you ain’t that good, honey. Just runnin’ them
scales up and down all day. You ain’t that good.”
I thought about it for a second. That might be true. I might
not be that good. Then again, I might be. Then again, she might be partially
deaf.
“Well, thanks for the feedback,” I said.
I helped her down the last step toward the garbage bin and
sprung back to finish packing.
My ex-boyfriend Mike used to say, “Let no good deed go
unpunished.” I started to fume a bit. After all, I was helping this lady
prevent a fall! What a ….
Ah, but then I was just getting sucked into the kind of
attachment and conditional behavior that probably created her surly outlook in
the first place. I scanned through some of our conversations. She had mentioned
to me many times that she had grandchildren than never visited. One had just
graduated high school but she wasn’t going to the party because she had no way
to get there. I started to feel how lonely she must have been, and then I
thought about how hard it must be to be blind and deaf and hunched over and
alone in the world. No wonder she wasn’t very nice, she probably didn’t even
realize it because the world around her was probably very harsh.
I did think about singing scaled right outside her window,
I’ll admit. But I did not. Instead I warmed up as usual and sang my own
composition, “Dream”
Well, so back to yesterday and this radio show. I started to
worry about my curmudgeonly former neighbor and thought I’d do a little drive
by while running errands. The echo of Mike’s old proverb about good deeds
echoed in the attic of my mind but quickly got swept up in the cobwebs. I
parked in front of the Zen Temple and walked half a block to the building. It
was cold for an LA day and I wore my goofy Russian fur cap. I zipped my little
cream-colored leather bomber up a little higher as I bounded up the steps and
knocked on Janis’ window, which faces the street. She was moving around in the
building and seemed to stop when I knocked, but then went back to her
movements.
“Janis!” I shouted. I knocked harder. She came over to the
window and looked out. She seemed to look right through me. “Janis! It’s me,
Erin!” I waved both my arms in the air. “Hello!” She seemed to still not see me
at all but opened the window a crack.
“Well I can see you, girl, you don’t have to f#$@ing yell.
Heh. Heh.” I have never seen her smile. Ever. And for half a second I thought
she was smiling but if she was raising the corners of her lips to the sky, they
fell just as fast back into their habituated frown.
“Happy New Year!” I said.
“Yeah?” she asked, as though challenging me.
“I just wanted to stop by and see if you were alright,” I
asked.
“Of course I ain’t,” she answered. “Whaddya want to remind
me of that for?”
I stood back, surprised.
“Oh,” I said… I truly didn’t know what to say. I wondered if
I should have brought flowers. Then I thought about the silliness of it all. I
was trying to help but maybe I was no help at all. Maybe she hated me. Maybe I
reminded her of a backstabbing friend from youth, the neighbor her husband had
an affair with, the girl that competed in school, an abusive teacher, a mean
mother… Maybe she just didn’t like other people getting in her business. Maybe
she hated opera. Maybe she was tired. Maybe this was the way she expressed
love. Maybe I was out of line. Maybe she didn’t need any help at all.
She closed the window and went back to what she was doing
and I stood there for a moment, wondering just what it was I was looking for
whenever I did good deeds…
See, I like being a bleeding heart do-gooder, but really,
it’s all about my self-esteem. The proof of that is in this idea, that if I truly cared I would not be sitting in my four poster
canopy bed in my beautiful new green velvet robe typing from the comfort of my
warm house with a puppy curled up next to me. I would be digging irrigation
ditches in Niger, or witnessing for a chemically dependent homeless lady at an
AA meeting, or nursing a crack baby. I’d be doing…. Something.
But then again, maybe I do care. Maybe I’m just doing the
best I can, trying to be a good person, trying to be of service to what is in
front of me but with boundaries about my own life… the best I can… kind of
like… Janis.
Maybe Janis can do better. Maybe she could be nicer. But
maybe I could stop needing her to make a show of happiness on my account. Maybe
I could just have room for a salty old biddy who is sick and tired of the loud
neighbors.
Maybe transformation and peace isn’t always some magical
story about a young do-gooder and an old lady who sat down to have tea and came
to laugh together in a non-sequitur friendship akin to a Hallmark movie. Maybe
transformation and peace is in the opening up to all experiences of life. If I
am less attached to things going a certain way, maybe I can be funnier, more
available, a better actress, more at peace in my own heart and less needy for
this old world of humanity to be somehow different than it is. Maybe the
revolution really is within?
Well, let us go then, you and I, as the evening is spread
out against the sky…
(The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot….
Viewable/ readable here: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html)
And let us bring courage to every encounter, especially the
ones that are not going to work out the way we hoped, (by the way that would be
probably almost all of them). Let us be surprised by people’s behaviors and
find the humor and joy in a gal who can swear better than my grandpa and who
tells you her truth even though she may be deaf. Let us feel the stinging
feelings of human interaction not as any truth or punishment but as a moment in
time that gives us an insight into one another. Let us look into one another’s
eyes, and let us be available to love in any form it takes. For I am no
nihilist, no, nor was meant to be… am an attendant lover… glad to be of use… at
times, the Fool.
But more often, I am Prufrock’s Mermaid, “riding seaward on
the waves, combing the white hair of the waves blown back/ When the wind blows
the water white and black….” Yes, I am singing, each to each, and I AM singing
to you… ‘til human voices wake us….
Happy New Year, everyone! Have a great day, and please, let
my tale inspire you to help another today just for the fun of it in your own
heart. Love, of the deepest sort, to you my friend.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Music For The Beginning of the World
December 22nd, 2012
The world didn’t end.
And I am listening to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony-
to the Ode To Joy, and I am feeling this moment the taste of eternity and
therefore the world is ever ending and ever beginning. To live is to taste the
layers of such candy, the sweet followed immediately by the bitter, and to look
to the stars, and to laugh, and to look down into the violent heart of creation
and to weep.
I actually don’t believe in world endings, per se, but a
greater obliteration into the sands and stars of eternity, perhaps the end of
the world as “we” know it but then, who are we, anyway?
Among the many things we are, we are makers of music as well
as we are committers of violence (even if only in our thoughts and if only
against ourselves [sic].)
Four things: (but I’m not actually going to talk about the
first two, just putting them in here for context.)
- The Newtown Tragedy
- NRA and guns in every schools
- Music again in Afghanistan after the Taliban, as told by Andrew Solomon on THE MOTH
- Marin Alsop, of both the Sao Paolo Symphony Orchestra and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, speaking on NPR about how in the US we are struggling to get any arts education but, in South America, both government and private funding sources are increasing classical music education in schools.
One week ago, I spent the weekend in Minnesota. I was at the
Mall of America, comparing little pink dresses for my niece, as I looked up and
saw Santa walk by. One moment later, my NY Times App on my phone reported the
breaking news about the massacre in Newtown. Just as I snapped the photo of
Santa getting on the escalator (I chased him to get a good shot, because I just
knew my niece and nephew would love to see it), the notice popped up and I had
to reshoot. “Dang!” I had said in the moment, frustrated that I had the “push
notices” feature up and running on the App. But I got my pic of Santa, and I
waved and shouted out “Thank you!” as he disappeared into the floors below me
(it’s a VERY big mall) and he shouted back “You’re Welcome!” And then I read
the App, and then I read it to my parents, and then I sat down and I wept.
I came home a few days later to Los Angeles, because I had a
lovely opera-tunity (haha, you can tell I was hanging with my Dad because my
jokes are corny) to sing an audition (ah, joy! Ah, terror! To sing, to risk the
tension of my own laughing and my own crying held in suspense at the stakes of
the character, to show you my own pain and my own hope and the feelings of this
heart, too great for mere words, which must be SUNG.) And then I heard the
proposal from the NRA about armed guards in every school.
Well, I have my own political opinions about it but this
blog isn’t really about politics, or even about Jesus Christ (What WOULD he do
at this time? Clearly, as the precedent in the Bible shows, it would be to
gather up armed volunteers and…. Wait a minute….. wait a MINUTE! Which Book of
the Gospel has the part about Jesus’ arsenal of weapons….. okay I’ll get back
to you about that…..) No, this blog is not about that. It’s about the gifts of
music….
I heard tonight, just now, while baking cookies for
Christmas, Andrew Solomon’s wonderful story on the Moth about his time in
Afghanistan. Please listen HERE: http://www.flumecast.com/watch/andrew-solomon-a-time-of-hope-12038.html
You see, so much of it is about the continuance of something
divine and immortal that we humans get to touch and to be part of… that is
music, and that is life, and that is holy. And these are the holy days, and
every day is an opportunity to remember something divine, and to touch it, and
to be grateful for that opportunity. … but I know full well I am one of the
lucky ones. I am an artist, and I am a poet. Vissi d’arte, and I really mean
it! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zXQvPwYYVBI
It moved me to tears, Mr. Solomon’s story, because these
artists were not allowed to share music. MUSIC! Under the rule of the
Taliban….. and then finally when they had the opportunity, their hearts were so
full of joy the played for 13 hours straight….
…and here in the States we allow ourselves to take music and
art out of schools to become more pragmatic…. And increasingly, violent…. There
are no separations between the warlords and the hegemonists when art and music
and poetry are excluded from public discourse and more and more the people are
led by means of fear, manipulation and violence. We are the terrorists, too, in
another context. Terrorists of the heart, perhaps, but think long term for a
moment and you, too shall weep, and then cradle your beloved in your arms,
sweetly singing, “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…”
But how to reach the heart? How to reach that place where
the heart and mind commingle in an ecstasy of systemic comprehension, of
thoughtfulness, of beauty, or math and art mixing as one, of the end of isolation (a COMMON THEME among those who commit these
massacres!) because in order for this system of fun and beauty to work, we must
all work together?
May I humbly propose: music.
Earlier I had listened to an interview with Marin Alsop, a
conductor both in Baltimore as well as in Sao Paolo, talking about music programs
for children in South America and then here in the US…. It seemed to me that we
have let ourselves become so needy to be “right” and so “afraid of being wrong”
that we leave little room for places of experimentation and exploration. And
yet this isn’t making us smarter or safer or better! We can see quite clearly
that it is leading us toward more violence and more death…. Not to mention….
DULL.
Ms. Alsop was talking about a program in Baltimore called
ORCHKids, which is giving inner city school kids an opportunity to learn about
music, and to see opportunities outside of anything they ever dreamed was
possible. …
And you see, we all mean well, really. I truly believe, like
Anne Frank, that deep down, people are still good at heart. I just also pray
for us to be led back toward love, and I ask for blessings upon music and love
and peace and these values that we all DO hold dear but forget from time to
time require practice.
Just like music. Music requires practice. I started at age
5, sitting at the piano every day for 20 minutes. And I’d like to pretend I was
a prodigy but it wasn’t until I was 11, really, and actually focused my time
every day, that I really began to play.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t have earlier but that I just did not practice. But
something in me clicked around the time of puberty, and although it is more
systemic than what I am about to present, I will simply say that something in
me sought an outlet for all these feelings that were just, well, too BIG to be
dealt with in a “normal” manner. And that’s why there was John Lennon’s
Imagine, and Debussy’s Deux Arabesques (or Portrait of Jenny, as we called it,
because it was heavily featured in the film from the 1940s starring Jennifer
Jones, which my grandmother loved.) That’s why there was Ani Di Franco ( well,
I am a product of the 90s) and R.E.M., and anyone’s list can go on and on.
Insert your favorite songs here: Moon River. Fields of Gold. Dance me to the
Ends of Love. Songs My Mother Taught Me. Zippity Doo Dah.
Believe it or not, violence and anger and hatred also
require practice. Oh sure, in the moment, it seems like a flash. But it is a
groove in the nervous system, a highway laid down on a bed of myelin (fat!) and
imprinted deeper and faster every time that particular road is taken.
American Poets Frost and Emerson talked about this, and who
knew whether they knew a wit about the nervous system… the both wrote very
famous poems about taking the road less traveled by…. To go where there is no
path and leave a trail….
And what can this mean to us? Little old us? For anyone who
is not a great poet nor an infamous murderer? Not a movie star nor a statesman
or women nor a leader but merely a school teacher…. A movie theater ticket
taker…. A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker?
And what does music have to do with this again?
Everything.
When we can see an opportunity outside of something we
already know how to know, we can follow that opportunity toward something- and
that something is the key to our own heart. Maybe it is changing a pattern so
we don’t develop a disease. Maybe it is to learn a language and to therefore be
inspired to travel to a place we never thought we could get to. Maybe it is to
help us have more joy in our own lives, and maybe it is to inspire us to build
an orphanage and donate a dollar. Maybe it is to try something we always wanted
to but never dared before…
And music, well, this is what music is like. We set out to
learn a new song, one we may or may not have heard before, but which we fumble
through the first few times…. Which we soon get into a groove to, having
learned, and then discover perhaps we have learned something wrong and get to
relearn the piece…. If we are lucky and are playing in a band or an orchestra
or in concert with others somehow, we learn to listen to one another with an
open mind, and respond in kind. We rely upon one another for rhythm and timing
and pitch. We open a doorway through our hearts and minds and bodies and
through that doorway, a spirit of something greater than ourselves flows
through from one to another.
Perhaps this, music, this can be the “escape” that becomes a
new way of salvation for us. I mean, it has existed for so long for a reason,
regardless of man’s own inhumanity. Birds, whales, the wind…. Humans. We all
have this in common. We all have this gift to quench our desire for communion
and to calm the fires of terror and violence. You may say that I’m a dreamer…..
but…. You know how the song goes…. I bet you’re already singing it, right
now…….
Friday, September 28, 2012
a broad harvest of palms and gold
a broad harvest of
palms and gold
(…because
I’m still in love with you, I want to see you dancing…
-Neil Young.)
(…Jadis, si je me souviens bien,
ma vie était un festin où s'ouvraient tous les
cœurs, où tous
les vins coulaient…
-Arthur
Rimbaud.)
teasing full moon- my
sweetest friend-
you see me here, iconoclastic,
more of myself in trash and couture,
my body betraying such costumes
as we crash a tortured fete.
i, a yogi cowgirl riding off into the sunset
eating every last heart in the sky,
and-
you, the sky.
oh, what happened to the wild ones inside?
did they grow up a while back?
a decision to be regretted and fretted over and-
witnessed by a gypsy in the stars.
your heart calls upon my soul,
as the sirens sang to odysseus aeons ago,
as distraction forever woos the world
of human, mortal, near human, barely human,
immortal, immoral, for-getted?
here now grammar forgotful
hammered forlorn
lost for nothing
as I am none
of these
I chewed up every last mortal morsel,
and spat them out.
they needed salt.
but back to this full moon,
for this is a modern world
lacking romance,
romantics leaping in twos and threes
into the sky
for dearth of meaning
for lies of mirth in feeling
for phony sighs and American thighs
and here, I.
legs out the window,
hands like wings,
I dangle for none to see,
to think such wondrous things!
for nobody.
nobody but me….
…and an imaginary you
portrayed in this evening’s performance
by
sir firmament,
notes by Bach and Bacharach,
Sawhney, Young and
let me list a thousand loves
upon my fingers
if it distract you long enough to listen to
the wind,
which
reminds me:
presently i’m hanging upside down
outside the window
right side up
in a mobius world
just waiting for a reason to stay
just waiting for a reason to run
….away.
Love Always,
Whatever that means,
Erin Elizabeth
Saturday, September 22, 2012
marathon
a dog chases his tail while the slivered moon climbs ladders in the sky.
it was one of those evenings where there was nowhere else to go,
like every evening, full of stars lingering behind thoughtless clouds,
the city's eventual crumble into the firmament of smog and grey.
and freedom? well, who can answer, what is freedom?
it is running along the same dry lake bed for a thousand years
just for a single taste of salt mixed in with your tears, and, after footstep after footstep, lifetime after lifetime, when finally you sense the stream along your cheek, in a moment of forgetful wonder you wipe the wetness from your eyes.... laugh, and let the marathon commence again.
it was one of those evenings where there was nowhere else to go,
like every evening, full of stars lingering behind thoughtless clouds,
the city's eventual crumble into the firmament of smog and grey.
and freedom? well, who can answer, what is freedom?
it is running along the same dry lake bed for a thousand years
just for a single taste of salt mixed in with your tears, and, after footstep after footstep, lifetime after lifetime, when finally you sense the stream along your cheek, in a moment of forgetful wonder you wipe the wetness from your eyes.... laugh, and let the marathon commence again.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
autoharp angels, blue moons and weddings
When i was in college... rather, a more accurate depiction of the era
which I am trying to describe would be, um, hmmmm.... in between
colleges.... something about wandering, and waiting, and watching the
water roll over the Mississippi.... ..... anyway, during the time of
which I speak, I worked for a home for developmentally disabled people.
There were four gents in my house, aged 17-45, with varying degrees of autism, mental retardation, and other disabilities. I loved them all. there was the youngest fellah, who loved cars and trucks and called my car "The Mighty Topaz!" He did this because he loved cars and when I began working there, he asked me what kind of car I drove, and I said, "Why, The Mighty Topaz!" Only he had a way of raising his pointer finger in the air like Tony The Tiger when he would say it. "The Miiiiiighty Topaz!" A person had to be careful, though. If you didn't hide your keys, this kid might run out and start your car and drive it down the street for you.... or, maybe even through the garage door if you had been silly enough to park in the garage AND leave your keys out in the open.
Then there was the one who was not by first glance developmentally disabled. I remember the first time I walked into the house and saw him. I thought, "Hell, yeah! Hot coworker!" Then he started rocking back and forth, bringing the three middle fingers of his hand in an ASL "W" rapid fire to his mouth, again and again and again in rapid fire progression. Turned out he was one of our guys. He was handsome, though, and sometimes I would say, "Come on. You're just pretending, right?"
The third guy was a sweet one who.... nope, wait. I can't lie. The truth is, I never quite connected with him. But still, I massaged his head and shoulders at night because it helped him sleep. I can still remember how tense his shoulders were and what a fun challenge it was to get them to go from concrete to the feeling of hard earth so he could fall asleep.
But then there was my music lover. One of our guys loved music desperately. Unfortunately, fortunately, he played autoharp and sang. Also, fortunately, unfortunately, he was OCD and only knew two songs: Buffalo Gals, which is the unfortunate part. And fortunately, and even surprisingly, he could play autoharp and sing THIS song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fmBChhEoo8
Un amor... one love....
Always and ever love is on my mind, love of all varieties as fantastic expressions of one grander variety. My sister was married over the weekend in what was simply the best (http://youtu.be/aIrCFrFpHvw) ceremony I've ever attended. I know I'm prejudiced, but it was personal, honest, vulnerable, romantic, present, emotional, communal, familial. It was under the blue moon on a yacht called the Fantasea, out in the waters of the Marina del Rey. Everyone in attendance was in joy, in love, in excitement for the union of two beautiful people.
I love the unlikeliness of life and how beautifully that unlikeliness continues to surprise me. Laura and Kevin, by all accounts from each individual's beginnings, were never supposed to meet, let alone fall in love. My developmentally disabled friend shouldn't have been able to mimic the Gypsy Kings pitch perfectly. Blue moons are rare, like the willingness to grow into a true and deep love with a high stakes partner. And when it happens, it's gorgeous.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sp6zoc84NcU
Life can really knock you off your feet and sometimes that's the best thing that can happen. Let the waves take you and turn up on the other side, surfing all the way from Malibu to the Marina. And if you float under the water, deep beneath the current, dreaming til human voices wake you, then let that sea salt flaxen your hair and melt your unwillingness until the stars pop up in the sky once again and you are them. It's your life, damn it! Are you really living?
I am.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOMyS78o5YI
There were four gents in my house, aged 17-45, with varying degrees of autism, mental retardation, and other disabilities. I loved them all. there was the youngest fellah, who loved cars and trucks and called my car "The Mighty Topaz!" He did this because he loved cars and when I began working there, he asked me what kind of car I drove, and I said, "Why, The Mighty Topaz!" Only he had a way of raising his pointer finger in the air like Tony The Tiger when he would say it. "The Miiiiiighty Topaz!" A person had to be careful, though. If you didn't hide your keys, this kid might run out and start your car and drive it down the street for you.... or, maybe even through the garage door if you had been silly enough to park in the garage AND leave your keys out in the open.
Then there was the one who was not by first glance developmentally disabled. I remember the first time I walked into the house and saw him. I thought, "Hell, yeah! Hot coworker!" Then he started rocking back and forth, bringing the three middle fingers of his hand in an ASL "W" rapid fire to his mouth, again and again and again in rapid fire progression. Turned out he was one of our guys. He was handsome, though, and sometimes I would say, "Come on. You're just pretending, right?"
The third guy was a sweet one who.... nope, wait. I can't lie. The truth is, I never quite connected with him. But still, I massaged his head and shoulders at night because it helped him sleep. I can still remember how tense his shoulders were and what a fun challenge it was to get them to go from concrete to the feeling of hard earth so he could fall asleep.
But then there was my music lover. One of our guys loved music desperately. Unfortunately, fortunately, he played autoharp and sang. Also, fortunately, unfortunately, he was OCD and only knew two songs: Buffalo Gals, which is the unfortunate part. And fortunately, and even surprisingly, he could play autoharp and sing THIS song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fmBChhEoo8
Un amor... one love....
Always and ever love is on my mind, love of all varieties as fantastic expressions of one grander variety. My sister was married over the weekend in what was simply the best (http://youtu.be/aIrCFrFpHvw) ceremony I've ever attended. I know I'm prejudiced, but it was personal, honest, vulnerable, romantic, present, emotional, communal, familial. It was under the blue moon on a yacht called the Fantasea, out in the waters of the Marina del Rey. Everyone in attendance was in joy, in love, in excitement for the union of two beautiful people.
I love the unlikeliness of life and how beautifully that unlikeliness continues to surprise me. Laura and Kevin, by all accounts from each individual's beginnings, were never supposed to meet, let alone fall in love. My developmentally disabled friend shouldn't have been able to mimic the Gypsy Kings pitch perfectly. Blue moons are rare, like the willingness to grow into a true and deep love with a high stakes partner. And when it happens, it's gorgeous.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sp6zoc84NcU
Life can really knock you off your feet and sometimes that's the best thing that can happen. Let the waves take you and turn up on the other side, surfing all the way from Malibu to the Marina. And if you float under the water, deep beneath the current, dreaming til human voices wake you, then let that sea salt flaxen your hair and melt your unwillingness until the stars pop up in the sky once again and you are them. It's your life, damn it! Are you really living?
I am.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOMyS78o5YI
Monday, August 13, 2012
Moving outside the tangle of fear-thinking
Moving outside the tangle of fear-thinking…..
…so I am having a day, and I want to write about it and blog
it so that it forever is writ upon modern day water, i.e., the interwebs. And I
want to share this not because anyone is a good person, a bad person, although
we are (in this tale) a bit polarized in behavior… perhaps. And yet in my own
un-awareness, of which I know only there is a lot of it, I am certain I have
yielded the same to my most beloved helpers…. But before I preface more:
Today I spent a few hours in the dentist’s chair. I love my
dentist. He is so calming, his voice is as soothing as any massage therapist.
(And I should know!) “good… very good….” He murmurs sotto voce with his Russian
accent. It wasn’t very fun when he grew suddenly quiet and turned to look me in
the eyes. “I am not so happy,” he said. “You have big, giant cavity behind
broken tooth. You need crown.”
Why does going to the dentist make us think we have the
leisure to be coddled? Okay, maybe only I think that, but I left with a painful
tooth and the promise of the final new crown in a lovely pearlized white in two
weeks when the Dr. returns from his vacation. In text messages to friends, I
whined a bit while running errands. My tooth really hurts. Dang.
Home again, home again, jiggety, jig. I am moving out of my
place and in with a terrific friend and so still wincing from my Dental
Adventure, I pulled into my garage only to remember that my parking spot is
temporarily being used by my roommate while she is out of town. We have only
one spot per unit…. Doh! This is the kind of building where people are
particular about their parking spots, so although I had thirty moving boxes in
the backseat of my car, (apparently dogs are illegal and I would never give up
my Henry! So when the landlord said, “he goes or you both go,” you can see
which way I decided.), I decided to pull out of my building to find a spot on
the street… just in time for an accident to happen on my busy street, thereby
taking me about ten minutes to park four spots down from my house.
Nooooo problem. I finally got my spot, and in my 3” spiked
heels and jeans and tank (I had, early this morning, gone to a successful
meeting with a new potential agent and I had not brought more comfortable shoes
with me), I unloaded my car and all my boxes. Hm. How was I going to maneuver a
purse, a bag full of books, a backpack with my laptop, and thirty moving boxes?
A little maneuvering and voila! I felt so tough, yet girlish. Like Lori Petty
or something. Or maybe more like Gwen Stefani. I noticed I was so very tan from
last week in Colorado and, I will admit it. I was feeling pretty good about
myself, despite the tooth.
I got to the front door and dropped the boxes, ‘cause there
was no way I was gonna fish my keys out of my purse with my arms laden like
that. I opened the front door, ran around the corner to my unit, said hello to
Henry, dropped my purse, backpack and bag, and ran out to start bringing the
boxes in. I stuffed two flat boxes under the wide front door to keep it open as
we have no door stopper to this building. It disappeared years ago! Then I
started bringing the boxes in.
It was on the second trip I ran into one of my neighbors. I
get along with all my neighbors, some better than others! Some I consider good
friends and some I consider “people I pray for.” Please, I know I shouldn’t
admit that but I might as well. This gal is one I pray for. She is always
confusing me with the girl upstairs, who looks about as much like me as you do,
and is always yelling at me for making too much noise above her. I tell her
it’s not me and she tells me I need to go tell that girl to shut the f^%$ up.
At that point I smile and wish her a good day. She’s an older gal, I’d guess
70s, and fairly blind. She moves very slowly, and I imagine it’s because of her
being so hard of seeing. Anyway, she is difficult but I try always to be extra
kind to her because I imagine it must be very tiresome to be legally blind. I
also have lived next to her for two years and have never seen anyone come
visit, come or go at all! She has mentioned to me in the past that she has
grandkids in college, but they never come visit her. So I fancy she is lonely,
and I have a special place in my heart for loneliness in people.
She was coming out of the door with her garbage and her
mail. I knew she would have trouble with the boxes and I know she doesn’t hear
very well and doesn’t always know if there is a person around, so I said,
“Hello!” very loudly. Then I said, “I have all these boxes here, so watch your
step!” She said, “That’s really inconvenient for me!” “I’m sorry,” I said,
“they’ll only be here for a few minutes as I bring them inside!”
“I doubt that,” she said, feeling along the side of the
building for support as she made her way to the mailboxes.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “Maybe I can take the garbage
down for you.”
“No, I just need to take the garbage out and mail these
letters,” she said. I took her hand and she let me help her over the boxes
keeping the door propped open. Then I brought in a few of the boxes and when I
came out, she was really struggling to get her mail in the outgoing mailbox.
“Here, let me help with that,” I said.
“Are you moving in?” she asked.
“No, it’s me, Erin. I live right here,” I said, tapping on
the wall of my apartment. “I’m moving out.”
Apparently she does not take part in the gossip of the
building, because, really, everyone else has been talking for a month about
this illegal dog thing here in our place! We all didn’t think it would be a big
deal, but it was and is. I respect that! Had I known, honestly, I probably
still would have gotten Henry if I had seen him, because he is my boy! Maybe I
wouldn’t have gone looking. Maybe I would have. At any rate, I am moving and
that is all there is to that! I think it will be a great thing because I am
moving in with one of my best friends. So, yay for me! J
“Oh,” she said. “Is Pinya still alive?” She asked.
Pinya is our former manager, who retired last month. He’s an
older gentleman from Russia and I love him. He is so dear. He always smiles and
waves at me, and he and his wife love to tell me about opera singers they knew
in Russia.
“Yes!” I answered, surprised. “He just retired as manager
and now Marla is manager.”
“Oh, yeah. I know that,” my neighbor said.
She began feeling her way along the side of the wall toward
the front door so she could take out her garbage.
“Here! Let me help you,” I said, taking her elbow. I started
walking slowly with her down the steps. I thought about just insisting on
taking the garbage but she seemed so insistent, and I had the thought that
maybe she could use the exercise.
“Oh!” she said.
“Are you that opera singer!?”
“Yes,” I said, swelling with pride. Most of my neighbors
seem to like the music in the building, and those that don’t have never said
anything. Also, just in general, I try to be respectful- singing in the late
morning and early evening only so as to not wake anyone prematurely or keep
anyone awake, etc.
“You’ve been driving me nuts for months,” she said.
Oh!
I am sure my mouth dropped for a moment, but since she was
blind and looking at the ground to watch her footing, she would never have
noticed.
“Well, luckily for you, I am moving out,” I said, praying at
the same time that I was not being sarcastic but just responding without
reaction.
“You ain’t that good, honey,” she said. “You’re just runnin’
those scales.”
“Thanks for the feedback,” I said. Then I walked back up the
steps to take in the last of my boxes.
“Uh huh,” she answered.
Now, I was really upset. Why? Why does it matter if she
thinks I’m not that good? Who the hell is she? She doesn’t know me. Then, I admonished myself. Erin, stop it.
Oh my god. You’re triggering out on some blind and lonely curmudgeonly old lady
that no one in the building likes and you think because you helped her she
should not share her opinion with you? Let no good deed go unpunished, as Mike
(my ex boyfriend) used to say….
Besides which, maybe you aren’t that good. So what? You’re living YOUR life.
It went on like that for some time as I cleaned up inside my
apartment and hooked Henry up to his leash to walk him around the block. I’ll
admit, I cried. Maybe I’m PMSing. Maybe I worried she was right. Maybe I was
hurt that I thought I was being such a good person and doing such a nice thing
to help this old biddy and….
As Henry and I walked out the door to our apartment, I
watched my neighbor slowly trudge back up the stairs. I thought for a moment
about going out the back way so as to avoid her, but that is not my policy. My
policy is to embrace what is in front of me. So Henry and I walked outside, and
I said cheerfully, “Stay cool!” I wanted to say, “You have no grace, and you’re
an angry old bitch.” But that was my anger and that would not have been an
appropriate response, at least not in the moment of trigger. Perhaps, if, in 24
hours, I thought, I felt there was value to ME as a person to assert that my
feelings were hurt, than that would be appropriate.
Ah. The ego runs RAMPANT.
As Henry and I rounded the corner past the Chateau Marmont,
I caught myself using another tried and true coping mechanism, fantasy. I was
imagining that Ryan Gosling would come walking down the street and say, “Hey
pretty lady, why do you look so sad?” And then I would say, “Oh, I’m having a
rough day- a broken tooth, a crown, and then a mean old lady.” “Tell me about
it,” he’d say, taking Henry’s leash, and ….
Wait a minute! That’s not a fair use of coping with
mundane fears, sorrows, triggers and situations, either, I thought to myself!
Then I went to my heart.
I always want to be a better person, a kind person, a loving
person. I was taking this stupid comment from my neighbor- who is entitled to
her opinion- WAY too far. But it was touching me somewhere deep and vulnerable-
just like this aria I am preparing for an audition: Rosina, in the Barber of
Seville, sings exactly about this: Io sono docile. Sono rispettosa. I am sweet,
I am respectful…. Me se mi toccano dov’e il mio debole? Saro une vipera! But if
you touch me where I am vulnerable? I turn into a viper!
Well, I thought to myself, no viper. Prayer.
So I prayed, as best as I could staying out of ego and
staying in heart- and hurt- for my neighbor. Then I prayed for all lonely
people, including myself. And for anytime I have thoughtlessly dropped words of
acid upon another’s heart out of my own intolerance or ignorance. Then I
imagined that it was fine, that maybe I was or wasn’t that good, but it was all
an opinion and I sing for the love of music, not for the approval of others.
(well, mostly.)
And then,
A four leaf clover.
Henry and I walked back inside. I put all my four leaf
clovers in my book of Rumi poetry, which is now encased in a plastic bag as it
houses literally hundreds of four and five leaf clovers, as well as other
artifacts of magic that I have discovered in the last 11 years of owning it.
The book fell open to this poem:
A COMMUNITY OF THE SPIRIT
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street,
and being the noise.
Drink all your
passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the sheperd’s love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don’t accept consolation.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.
You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
And now, it’s time to warm up. I like singing. And I sing
for joy. So I will be the disgrace, but with the intention of blessing all who
hear me.
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