Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
The Once and Future Us.
Here's
to passing through- to meeting the love of your life- to wine, to
sobriety- to ancient ruins and eternal thoughts- to stardust- to
farting- to pretending not to fart- to children laughing- to arguments-
to pizza- to books you have to read that turn into books you wanna read-
to all night conversations- to coffee shops - to coming of age and
growing old- to wayward youth that becomes your adult pride- to the way
it used to be and the way it never was but could have been- to
vulnerability- to the mundane, the profound, the silly, the lowdown.
Here's to life, to being alive. Here's to you.
Time to Teach Passion: THE ONE
July 9th, 2013
Hey people!
So here I am, on a trip to the majestic mountains of
Gunnison, Colorado, rewriting the screenplay version of “The One,” my one-woman
show I toured a few years ago, based on the actual events of my love life.
Based on.
I am currently rewriting a part of the project that is based
on my high school years and even though the project is taking on a life of its
own, I am reaching into the annals of both the internet and my own memory to
look for what is accurate and true, and what is imagined and playful, and where
the two meet and create art. Well, we can all guess that the internet and my
mind are equally reliable. Er. Unreliable. Okay. Sometimes both are just
outright liars.
With some distance, I can look back both painfully and poignantly
at those parts of my life. Maybe it’s the epic scenery all around me, or my own
romance and drama, but somehow I feel so impassioned to make things right for
that 17-year-old version of me who was so full of creativity… A 17-year-old
about to make a series of really stupid and sometimes tragic mistakes. I want
to go back and shake that girl, grab her by the shoulders and look her in the
eyes and say:
“Don’t believe anyone who tells you you can’t do what you
love. Don’t follow the advice of anyone who tells you to be realistic or
practical. Don’t shut down because other people fear for your future.”
If I ever give a speech at a graduation, and I’m sure I
won’t because I’m too much of an upstart, that’s what I would say.
And I would tell them that from experience. I tried to do
what everyone thought was “right” and what was “safe.” I did the right thing
and messed up my whole life. It wasn’t until I finally started following my
dreams that everything started to work out.
II understand that people were mostly worried about me not
paying rent, being broke, getting taken advantage, etc. Well, all of that
happens whether you do the right thing or not. I’ve always paid my rent and
I’ve often been broke, but it’s kind of amazing what happens when a person is
passionately pursuing her dreams and believes in them and herself: she either
makes money doing what she loves, or has other support systems in place such as
a day job which she is HAPPY to go to because it is servicing her true dreams.
Why don’t we teach passion?
Why don’t we teach faith in self and the ability to listen
to that small, sweet voice which directs us toward our true destiny?
And sometimes that voice is loud!!
Because it doesn’t really matter if we “make it or not,” in
the end. What matters is that we were true to ourselves, to our own heart, with
integrity.
So now, looking back at that part of my life, I am going to
look myself in the mirror, and see that 17 year old. I am going to look her
right in the eyes and say, “You have an awesome life ahead of you. I promise.
Just go for it.” And, I am then going to say to my self now: “And that goes for
you, too.”
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
The First Time I Made Them Laugh
I remember the first time I ever made people laugh.
I mean… let me say… the first time I ever caught on that
people were laughing and then continue that thing!
Because most of my childhood, people were already cocking
their heads to one side with a secret smile when I would open my mouth to
speak. Most of my childhood, people were already nodding with curiosity, saying
“Uh huh,” and then laughing just a little. In fact, whether it arose from my
bad behavior (I could be a bit of a diva) or my good behavior (but I was very
loving! I never meant bad!) I already had a catch phrase: “Call Me Baby.”
(This was long before Carly Rae Jepson co-opted something
similar for a pop tune! When I was three, I was playing with my spaghetti and
meatballs in my special big girl place at the table. Meaning, I was playing
with my food with my HANDS, something my rather behavior-appropriate father
HATED. “Honey,” he said, appealing to my desires as a
little-girl-wanna-be-big-girl, “if you play with your food, people are going to
call you ‘baby.’” I looked right at him, took a big scoop of noodles and sauce
in my hand, and as I smeared that dinner all along the wallpaper, I said,
“Caaaaall me baaaaby.” …
…even now as an adult, I will still get comments at family
functions and e-mails saying, “Call me baby.” …)
But I wasn’t trying to be funny then…
I was just expressing my desire to be myself!
No, it wasn’t until a few years later, with a group of
girlfriends, that I realized I was funny, and then discovered the way to encourage
the laughter.
I don’t remember how old we were. I’d say it was around 4th
or 5th grade. There was a group of us, and to be honest, I don’t
even remember which if my childhood girlfriends were a part of the scheme. I am
pretty sure it was Gina and Sarah but beyond that, sadly, I do not recall. I
just know there was a TALENT SHOW at our school and I was SO EXCITED because I
had already done a few plays and already been on the news for different
artistic endeavors and just KNEW I was going to be a famous movie star, singer
and novelist when I grew up.
(Hey, little Erin, all chubby with coke-bottle-lensed
glasses and funky hair that would sit properly on your head, shy with your
little hands in fists in your pockets…. Guess what? You did grow up to be a singer,
and an actress, and a writer! Maybe not famous, but guess what? It all turns
out okay in the end. So… I’d like to tell you to relax and enjoy the journey
more, but I guess maybe all that passion is what got you here in the first
place, so on second thought, just keep going and know that you end up living in
Hollywood and yes, you get the guy!)
Okay. Sorry, had to give a side commercial to my childhood
self.
Anyway. Back to the TALENT SHOW.
My friends and I were so excited to be in it! We were thinking
of all the millions of options. I think I wanted to do something like a
full-blown production of Phantom of the Opera, [sic] but my far more practical
chums would have nixed that pretty immediately. I was old enough to know I
wanted it to be beautiful and grown up and sexy. And naïve enough not to
realize I was absolutely NONE of those things. Remember my aside, from a few
seconds ago, when I talked to my childhood self? Yes? No? Let me remind you by
painting a picture with words.
As a kid, I had several stand out features. I was a dreamer.
I was a performer. I sang and danced and played piano. I wrote stories and
illustrated them myself. I spent hours wandering around the forest singing to
myself and imagining adventures in great and glorious detail.
I would wake up at the crack of dawn on a June morning like
this one and run out to catch the sun rise over the pond, feel the dew on my
bare feet as I would wade in the tall, wet, grass, and feel this special thrill
of “something’s gonna happen… I just know it.”
And were I to go home and pour a huge bowl of cereal and
then look in the mirror, I would see:
Huge blue eyes, made huger and bluer, almost owl-like, by
very thick horn-rimmed glasses. Hair that was unruly and unbehaving, kept short
because I would never comb it enough to keep it from getting gnarled, but with
a special cowlick veering off to the right. Most likely there was some kind of
juice or food smeared on my shirt. I would be very tan and quite chubby,
bursting from my shorts, because even then I would be on a diet (my first diet
was age 8) but not realizing I didn’t look like a slim, beautiful 18 year old
grown up. (!)
Okay. Again, back to the TALENT SHOW.
My friends and I, after much debate, settled on a dance
routine. Although I desperately wanted “Swans,” from “Carnival of the Animals,”
by Saint-Saens, which my mother would play on piano while I would dance around
the living room… my friends decided on a Totally 80s song: “Walk like an
Egyptian,” by the girl group “The Bangles.”
We came up with a dance routine but I never quite blended in
to the actual routine. Then, my attention-needy…. Er, um… star-focused…. Uh,
oh… um…. My very CREATIVE brain came up with the idea that ONE of us had to be
an Egyptian, and furthermore, like the song said, WALK LIKE ONE. Also, we
should wear outfits exactly like the ancients.
My girlfriends, normal-esque, cute, and sweet, said “no.”
THEY wanted to wear rocker chick outfits and be the BANGLES. Duh.
Well, I had different ideas.
Performance night. The boy before us lip-synched to some
rock tune. Most of the talent in my town was focused on lip-synching,
apparently. The girls in my group were all done up, complete with neon colored
80s bangles and bracelets. I ran up at the end with a big surprise. I was NOT
wearing an awesome lace skirt with sprayed up 80s bangs. No.
I had gone into my mother’s makeup kit and borrowed black
eyeliner. I had thickly lined my eyes and drawn the little lines pointing out,
like the people in the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. At the last minute, I got
creative, and drew on a thick black beard.
But the biggest surprise, for most people, was to be my
costume.
That damned 80s song commences with the tell-tale jungle
stick, followed by, if memory serves, some sort of timpani or tuned bass drum
on the down beat after the first measure. Well, my cohorts rushed on stage as
the lights were down and I hid in the wings, staring at the cord that pulled
the curtains open on the front of the stage. The lights came up and I heard the
audience cough and settle in their seats again. The, that jingle stick, and the
girls, stunned in the lights, barely moved. Then, that drum. Sarah or Gina, I
don’t remember who was the leader, one of them, though, as they always were,
nudged the other girl and they began to move. From back stage, I could see that
the audience stunned them into a lesser version of themselves, a timid version
in which they were no longer rockstars but little girls; no longer famous
performers at a huge venue but pre-pubescent small town darlings in a talent
show at the old junior high school which was dilapidated enough it was no
longer safe for kids and had therefore been converted into office space only
but which still had the best thrust stage in town for things like the local
talent show…
I was not standing for this! I re-wrapped my surprised: a
bed sheet (We didn’t have any straight white sheets so I used my mother’s peach
and light green Santa Fe style sheets) wrapped around my body like a toga, and
a gold hand band pinned onto my head to look kind of like the tall golden hats
I had seen in the photos of the hieroglyphs. I was too late to add more black
eyeliner as a beard, but in the heat and humidity of a Minnesota summer, and
already sweating from stress, I could see it running in streaks as I wiped my
sheet across my face to remove the sweat.
And then it was time for my entrance….
I moved onto the stage quickly, thrusting my arms into the
zig zag pattern of the Egyptians on the wall, and indeed, in my mind, began to
“Walk like an Egyptian.” From the moment I moved onto stage, arms thrusting,
makeup smearing underneath my crazy huge glasses, sheets slipping…
The audience ROARED.
I stole one brief look at my friends. One of them had eyes
wider than saucers. I imagined somehow she thought this was a good thing, me
dancing in a bed sheet. The audience laughed as I rounded the girls and doubled
down on my commitment.
I moved even jerkier, faster. I got my head into the game
and I am sure I began to look more like a chicken jerking her head forward and
back than an Egyptian, but what did I care? The audience was responding and
something in me knew: “Do it more. Get more serious. YOU ARE AN EGYPTIAN!”
I was a nerdy kid who had done her homework. So I said, “I
am Nefertiti!” and moved front and center stage. The audience howled as I moved
to point my arms at THEM! To my horror, the sheet slipped half off, revealing
my black and white diagonally striped bathing suit underneath. They laughed
even harder. I moved faster.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, after all those weeks
of preparation, it was over.
After the show, my mother came to find me with my sister
Laura in tow. The look on her face was one of surprise. I think none of us knew
quite what to think of what I had just done, what we had just done. My part in
the performance had been… unusual. I was not like anyone else, in that I hadn’t
been pretty. Nor appropriate. But I also had not been timid, nor shy. In real
life I was VERY shy. But something about that stage had created this other
Erin, this other me who just KNEW the audience didn’t want to watch little
girls be little girls. They wanted to watch little girls transform into
EGYPTIANS.
A lady walked up to me with her kids in tow, one two three
four. She had a huge grin on her face. She put her hand on my shoulder.
“You’ve got guts, kid,” she said, laughing. “You’ve got
guts.”
Shy again, I looked down at the floor and felt my cheeks
flushing red. I wasn’t sure what she meant. I knew I was chubby. But I knew I
had made her laugh…
I don’t remember if my friends were happy with the evening
or not, but I am sure it was quickly forgotten as we gathered at the Dairy
Queen for dilly bars. Later that night, standing in the front yard, staring at
the stars as they twinkled in the sky, I smiled at God. We had a secret
together, God and I. I could make people laugh. And I was gonna find a way to
make use of that. And I knew in my heart, God was laughing, too.
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.
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