Bailey Alexander

Updating films like Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory and The Picture of Dorian Gray

Remakes work or they won't and movies like Willy Wonka might best be left alone. Johnny Depp is cute and cool but Gene Wilder took the role on one condition:

"When I make my first entrance, I'd like to come out of the door carrying a cane and then walk toward the crowd with a limp. After the crowd sees Willy Wonka is a cripple, they all whisper to themselves and then become deathly quiet. As I walk toward them, my cane sinks into one of the cobblestones I'm walking on and stands straight up, by itself... but I keep on walking, until I realize that I no longer have my cane. I start to fall forward, and just before I hit the ground, I do a beautiful forward somersault and bounce back up, to great applauseWhen asked why, Wilder replied, "because from that time on, no one will know if I'm lying or telling the truth." 

Reading Anaïs Nin is an awfully romantic exercise...

...what with this 'war on women'. As if it began this past year, newsflash; it was always there.  

Persevere and keep the blinders on ladies, if not, you won't last long in this patriarchal world.

Anaïs Nin; a potent combo of French and Cuban DNA. Living in constant fantasy, in flight yet relied on human reality to get her work published, to get through the day. Relaying a literary style so authentic, discussing her 'bohemian' union with Henry Miller:

I dread going to Spain with Henry because it will mean cafes, streets, whores, streets, cafes and movies. No real enormous or fantastic adventures. Cafes. Just as I am sitting here with Eduardo, drinking vin d'Alsace and watching his minor June-oh, so much smaller-collecting clients.

I want to become a whore but I don't know how it is done. Shall I sit at the Cafe Marignan and let a man with a yellow roadster and a Scotch terrier drive me away? Banal. He, the one I am expecting, must have ears. He may be in Spain.

Larry Kramer interviews Gore Vidal; to be or not to be 'gay' is not the question.

Had a chat with Gore Vidal last night. He never, ever disappoints. Reading the master is like sitting across from the lion, each of us seated in a high back chair, glass of Chivas in hand, relaxed.     

In Sexually Speaking, a series of essays on sex, GV opens his preface with a piece about Tennessee Williams, thinking Tennessee's gay critics cruel, sinister even, insisting everything outside the 'gay' condition must be marginalized. 

Gore admired Tennessee's response to this sort of dull bigotry: "Why should I limit my audience any more than it is already?"  Writers and artists first and foremost. Of course, if you wish to read about Tennessee's private life, you can, I did, it's graphic and honest. But it has little to do with his poetry, his plays. He was far more familiar with heterosexual life, especially in his early, fertile writing days. The heavy cruising came later on. 

GV ends his preface with a quote from Elaine May, "I love a moral problem so much more than a real problem." (where have these people gone...)

Dr. Mary's Monkey; it will unsettle you.

Never fully understood Oliver Stone's JFK; watched it again last night and yes, pieces begin to fit quite nicely. Will we ever know the truth? Perhaps this brings us closer...

Greg Palast gets threat from Romney's billionaire backer.

My favorite muckraker Greg Palast is getting threatened by Romney's billionaire Paul Singer. Singer, in coordination with the Koch brothers is the "cash locomotive of the GOP. Not any worse than Obama's Goldman Sachs, they love Barry even more than the GOP, yet they all overlap in oh so many ways.

Palast's style is old school, "Follow The Money," kind of investigative reporting, exposing mayhem for money across the globe. His book, Vulture's Picnic exposes the vultures that reap billions by the day. The BBC is sticking behind him, good on them. His latest article is worth a read:   

"Well, not legal in most of the civilized world.  Former British Prime Minister Gordon Brown said about Singer and his fellow crew, "I deplore the activities of so-called Vulture Funds, [they] are nothing short of scandalous." Britain has outlawed Singer's re-po man seizures (after all, it's ultimately the aid money we give Africa). In the UK, and in much of Europe, Singer is a finance outlaw. But in the USA, he's a "job creator."

 

 

Truth, beauty and otherly bohemian ideals on display today; The Scream to The Lost Leonardo

NEW YORK (AP) — A New York City art auction will feature the Edvard Munch masterpiece, "The Scream."Sotheby's announced Tuesday that the work will lead its Impressionist & Modern Art Evening Sale on May 2. Dating from 1895, one of four versions. The auctioneer says it's the only version still in private hands.

RMONEY. As Dawn Powell said; Satire is people as they are...

Romney photo via Andycheninprogress. I quote Dawn Powell's quote as oft as possible, in fact she hangs on my living room wall.

Even Gore Vidal marveled ather level of humour, so evolved, so tender but brutally honest. His remarkable essay forced her novel back into print through sheer literary will; "for decades Dawn Powell was always just on the verge of ceasing to be a cult and becoming a major religion."

Stephen Miller's, "Conversation, A History of a Declining Art": Politeness is kinda key.

Re-visiting a clever book with a lovely cover called "Conversation." Almost feels dated even as the subject remains timeless.

Miller elaborates on his subject by focusing on the finest like Cicero, Montaigne, Mary Wortley Montagu and Virginia Woolf, exploring their world of British Coffeehouses and clubs and how this era came to an end. 

He begins by making a point how conversation is in bad shape in contemporary America, how anger undermines conversation. Plutarch quotes Sappho: "When anger takes over your heart, guard your babbling tongue."

"This is the age of the screed, the rant, the tirade, the jeremiad, the daitribe, the venom-fueled, white-hot harangue!"

Long before the TSA, when Lord Berners met Sergei Diaghilev; details were different.

Once upon a time we weren't buried in brands, enticed to 'like' chic luggage and major airlines on FB, as if suddenly glamorous by association. Travel is anything but attractive...    

Mio marito recently skidded in from Eurasia, he'll travel to another 5 countries in the next 10 days. I project nothing but stress, what with sim chips, plugs, phones, currencies, passports let alone packing for multiple places and meetings. Interesting, perhaps. Stressful, very. 

I suppose the change of scenery could provide enough sensory overload to override the reality. But travel can be rough. 

Ironically enough traveling to Paris is far more glamorous than living and banking in la lumiere. Arguing in another language with inebriated neighbors once famous for soft porn movies like Emmanuel was less than, but yes, traveling by train to Paris is glamorous, d'accord.  

Lady Chatterly's Lover and Beckett: Bless Barney Rosset's heart.

Guardian:

Barney Rosset, who has died aged 89, was the most influential avant-garde publisher of the 20th century. He was also one of the boldest, in his willingness to question the laws governing censorship. His decision, as head of Grove Press, to challenge the ban on DH Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover in 1959 led to the novel being published legally in the US for the first time, a year before the British edition. Having won the battle, Rosset immediately set about bringing Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer to American bookbuyers. Another trial involved William Burroughs's Naked Lunch.

Among the first authors to be signed by Grove was Samuel Beckett, in 1953.

Praha; a little Roma, a little Parigi...

I keep saying it if only because it's true; Prague's a luxurious combination of Rome and Paris. Pretty, sad and architecturally magical like la lumiere; world weary, surreal and psychically complex like Rome.  

In Daniela Hodrava's "Prague, I see a city..." she writes, "It is said that Prague, the city in the basin cut in in two by the Vltava, is, like Rome, spread over seven hill."

When walking, taking the metro,  
the bus, the tram with a cool Czech chick, getting acclimated, addressing details or finding the stores and markets, where to buy lights, batteries, butter and bread and exploring by myself, with the kids, feels like Rome.

And Paris. The place we bank, below, with interior lights resembling those used for external use in other cities...we may only have enough currency to cover rent and local bills but the environs resemble Versailles. 

The view with the moon, from our terrace, give bliss.

The police are cool but better have your metro ticket stamped, armed with some kind of ID on your personage or 'whoop, whoop its da sound o da police', and the funny bit is, being from where I came from, it feels so eastern and otherly, the imagination conjures up all kinds of mischief, if only in the mind...

Alas, if you've taken care of business, you're fine. 

The metro, those long trips down the escalator, so long you could finish a novella, feels like London but far less claustrophobic, fewer people, it's easy to get about in this town.

The bohemian crystal lurks everywhere, banks, design stores

cafe's, much ado about art deco.

Like Rome there's plenty of graffiti, and just like Rome, doesn't bother me a twit
I'd rather see the kids vent their frustration through their 'art' than violence, and they do, although I saw a coupla kids giving an old guy an awfully hard time with soft snowballs the other day, but he fielded them fine, another way to while away the day.

This place, Bohemia, sort of surreal, like Lord Berners, the eccentric composer who had a house near Oxford where the pigeons were dyed all the colours of the rainbow.   

Bohemia...

Divinely inspired Pop and then some; John Lennon and Yoko Ono

Moving from Amsterdam to Prague allows past treasures in the form of books and photographs to re-surface and inspire attention.

Not unlike long term relationships, like emotions, items get lost, then found and this one made me particularly happy,  David Sheff's book called "All we are saying: The Last Major Interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono."

A book about the miracle of a man; the mystic prince and the Oriental princess. When I say Oriental, I write the term in the deeply respectful manner of Edward Said. 

Back then, Yoko Ono was reviled, not only regarded as a manipulative bitch, the press crucified her. She was Lucifer and his minister Mephistopheles combined. It's insane in hindsight. She was just a completely independent soul, uniquely Yoko Ono.

HBO; John Adams

Time to turn on HBO, if only to wash the taste of today's political theatre outta my mind. What a terrific 7 part series, chronicling the life of John Adams:

"...this remarkable historical figure, a man whose fiercely independent spirit, reverence for the rule of law and commitment to personal liberty profoundly influenced the values on which our country was founded.  

The miniseries also explores the extraordinary relationship between Adams and Abigail, his wife of 54 years, a partnership regarded as one of the most moving love stories in American history."

Now that's what I call an extraordinary husband and wife team. Interesting idea, that it was even made, showcasing this less than flashy guy, surrounded by all the cool ones who took away the spotlight; TJ, Ben, George, John Quincy and the gang. 

Of course, anytime Tom Hollander's in the cast, I'm happy. 

Boing Boing; Be A Book Giver

"On April 23, 2012, tens of thousands of people in the U.S., U.K., Ireland, and Germany will go out into their communities to spread the joy and love of reading by giving away free books. All you have to do to participate is register by midnight EST tonight."

 

Cultural DNA and the British Costume Drama.

How do they do it. Perhaps its in their cultural DNA. Like acting. Their enunciation, that language. The English costume drama is displayed on film like no other.

In which other country is it so obvious. The Russian cultural DNA might reside in their poetry, their peculiar and superior discipline in almost anything having to do with the arts. If the Russians apply that discipline to mining their natural resources, it's all over people. Bow now. 

Ana Marie Coz and Melinda Henneberger; too few female political bloggers in DC...

I wondered where she went, that snarky chick, the one who started the political blog Wonkette. Such a clever girl, too elusive to categorize, having written the kind of blessays capable of inspiring love or hate and little in between; so deliciously low, left leaning and deeply satirical; american style.

Bestiality and the NDAA; if you want to marry your donkey, now you can.

Not only can an American be murdered anywhere on the planet, without any rights whatsoever, apparently this bill also permits serviceman to have sex with a donkey, or whatever his pleasure.  This bill still awaits signature as of Dec 30th but it's expected to be signed by Obama.  Indefinite detention without trial, for everyone.

The UK and the US

Still a strong bond and so many movies to support said fact. Re-visited a personal fave last night called 84, Charing Cross Road.

Ann Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins are perfectly cast. The movie is nostalgic, dear and I'd forgotten all the lovely poems.  

Including this one by W. B. Yeats:

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

EU and UK; an arranged truce, until now.

Der Spiegel presents a calm and rationale way of looking at the Failure of a Forced Marriage". 

It was forced, of course, but if living in Europe for the past decade has taught me anything, its the lack of cultural overlap between the EU and the UK. 

Perhaps that little 'bridge' from London allows francophiles to imbibe in the Parisian lifestyle and vice versa, who doesn't love London. And Paris.

Alan Moore: The Man behind The Mask

The Author discusses the message, the image and the tricky tightrope he must walk in The Guardian:

"It turns protests into performances. The mask is very operatic; it creates a sense of romance and drama. I mean, protesting, protest marches, they can be very demanding, very gruelling. They can be quite dismal. They're things that have to be done, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they're tremendously enjoyable – whereas actually, they should be."

Prague: Kafka to Carmen, a bittersweet symphony.

Today's itinerary ran the gamut, from absurdest writer to hedonistic gypsy with a cup of chocolate fondue in between. As If I'd died and gone to heaven. 

Prague and Paris are Europe's two most visited cities, each full of fantastic distractions. Nota Bene: Prague is far more affordable than La Lumiere. 

We meandered over to the posh district where Franz Kafka's museum lives, a mecca I'd visited before.  Perhaps the existential writer would appreciate the notion Godot has arrived.

This city of old souls, torment, multiple cultures and communities shift through the city's imagination.  Not unlike Rome and its seven hills, a city in the basin cut in two by the Vlata. 

Peklo Restaurant, as atmospheric as the name implies, peklo meaning inferno or hell...I order a local wine and enjoy roasted duck and red cabbage. Again, heaven. 

Gore Vidal was softly shocked by Dawn Powell

GV's essays are brilliant mini intellectual breakdowns, particularly fine when focusing on a fellow writer and their collected work. Vidal efficiently digests it whole, like a snake, and regurgitates it back in finer form, far more elegant in its reincarnation. In this, he's very much alone.  

One of my favorite essays is the one devoted to Dawn Powell, arguably America's premier writer of satire; forever. No wonder she'll never cease being a cult and become a religion. We're not fond of the truth, we're not much for mirrors, it's a rather cruel culture, solidarity is not necessarily our strength.  

Dawn was all about strength. Of mind, of spirit, a genius. Hemingway knew it, Diane Trilling knew it, everyone who was anyone in the literary world knew it, but refused to give her fame because she refused to live by their rules. She could not write about women in a romantic way, nor the war. And the rare moment she did write of war, it was without romance. 

Kenneth Tynan on "night-club Cassandra" Lenny Bruce

So few subjects like Lenny Bruce; only one quite like Kenneth Tynan to cover such a subject, Tynan's earthy, bawdy, style, w/out bitterness, blissfully politically incorrect.

"Constant, abrasive irritation produces the pearl: it is a disease of the oyster. Similarly-according to Gustave Flaubert-the artist is a disease of society. By the same token, Lenny Bruce is a disease of America. The very existence of comedy like his is evidence of unease in the body politic.

Language can be magical, it can also be a curse.

Marcel and Fritz the cat @ Luxembourg Cafe

Marcel's a swell Dutch guy I met@the book market; we meet on the odd Friday at the classic cafe Luxembourg. We 3 are so comfortably ensconced; the house cat cuddles with me and my Issey Miyake. Without much imagination I've named him Fritz.

"Silk" by Alessandro Baricco

Sometimes a novella is all you need for an afternoon read.  Nothing but a sliver of an idea, capable of competing with the most complicated of notions, achingly beautiful, enchanting. Haiku-esque, fairy tale like, repetitive, meditative, sensual, this petite novel is intense.

Forget epic, think tease, erotic thriller and very young women enticing French farmers traveling to the end of the world in search of something they'll never truly comprehend.  A clash of civilizations, the thrill of entering an isolated Japan, so uber exotic and otherly at that time. 

Silk. It covers all want, the reader's needs met immediately, no verbosity. Who wants to excavate decades of tedious family history wrapped within miles of concentric circles.  No, just an hour, maybe two and you can put it down, having enjoyed a purely poetic exercise explaining the kind of yearning that comes and goes, just like that, like life. 

Silk is such a slight yet deceptively heavy fantasy describing the kind of chemistry that happens when one must elude their own desire, due to familiarity, loyalty and sacrifice, so they can return to one place and stay for the rest of their entire life...and I'm not talking geography...

Persephone rising in a clever "Little Book"

What a wonderful read, "The Little Book" by Selden Edwards. Finished it last night, apparently it took Edwards 3 decades to get it published and finish it properly but wow, well worth the wait. 

So much stuff to digest; beautiful English Jewish pacifist Flora Zimmerman falls in love with old Bostonian WWII veteran Frank Burden, dozens of conversations with Sigmund Freud, sexual scenarios with Gustav Mahler, Hitler as a youth, then evil incarnate, the Jung Wien, anti-semitism Vienna style, all visited randomly within vast voyages of time travel from 1897 Vienna to San Francisco in 1988.

He weaves quite an epic family tale of concentric circles through high historical drama, an intense journey covering so much time in such dramatic settings, and yet he finds a way to keep it deceptively light at times.

Jumping from Fin de Siecle Vienna to post Haight Ashbury San Francisco becomes almost too intense a time warp twice too often; just writing about it seems confusing, but it's really lovely stuff and it works.  Women's sexuality has come an awful long way, explored through talk therapy, Freudian analysis and Greek mythology, all playing a role. 

And listen, anytime a writer includes Persephone and feminine rising can only be construed as a good thing, all the female characters are easy to fall in love with, especially the pacifist, they provide the strength.

It's good to be in a foreign country, searching for a novel written in English, even if the selection proves painfully small. Good to stray away from the usual suspects and "The Little Book" is anything but a usual suspect. Glad I found Selden Edwards, happy he found a publisher, it was certainly worth the wait.

Silvia Plath + Ted Hughes = emotional spectrum.

To suggest it was an explosive marriage seems to defeat the exercise of reviewing the "Last Letter." Two souls, both brilliant, poetic, on a collision course with life and death.  Aren't we all.

Reminds me of reading "The Bell Jar,"  when she says, "sometimes simply being a women is an act of courage."  Like many women reading this book young, it sits and simmers, awaiting its day. 

I suppose this is why Godot never arrives... and yet, contrary to literary myth, Godot arrived. Here he is, on our table, post luncheon. 

Here's to Persephone rising and dispelling conventional wisdom...
 

Joyce Carol Oates; Blonde and Black Girl White Girl.

 

Dawn Powell wrote all the time, Joyce Carol Oates writes even more, in fact, she must be the most prolific writer of today.  So abusive, so violent, she lacerates, she whips with her words, you feel yourself falling off a cliff, it's terrifying at times.  You'd think she'd gift you with a reprieve, but she won't.  So don't prey for that parachute, that rope will never appear, it will not end well, why? Because Joyce Carol Oates is a truth teller, that's why.  

Her milieu is dark, I know dark but violence is foreign to me. Abuse, torture porn, I'm not normally drawn to this world, but when she creates a period of time, a slice of drama, I'm fascinated and find myself willing to go anywhere she's willing to take me, knowing it will all end in tears.

 Such is the stunning effect of this writer.  When you're reading Black Girl White Girl you might assume it's all about the relationship between two young women, one white, one black who happen to be room mates in an exclusive liberal arts college, if only because she writes about that relationship in the most devastating way, but its not.  It's really about a white girl and her relationship with her radical Dad. Her Dad and his extreme left-wing activism, his attitudes about money, class, politics, the deceptive left-right paradigm that began to unfold in America circa 1970.  Oates gets to highlight reverse racism, hypocrisy and liberal guilt in post-Vietnam America as only she can do.....

God she's brilliant, so brutal and honest. Her high literature style collides with informal, staccato, internal thought.  In this book, it feels reminiscent of falling back into the blissed out, bonkered, wonderful, horrible life that was Marilyn Monroe in Blonde.  I've blogged before but I'll blog it again, any women that wants to read about their own sex, their own fear, control, love, knowledge or lack thereof regarding their own sex, read Blonde, I dare you. That book is fierce. 

Sunday in the Park with Joyce Carol Oates

Colette found a flautist, no easy feat, then she found a place to picnic

Words written to move, morph and fly like the Glorious Bird...

When reading Gore Vidal you feel the control, the captain is at the helm, his reference points wide and learned.  Why then does modern thought read narrow as if strapped by fetish like behavior.  Therapy, meditation, anything but giving ideas the wider more playful berth they deserve.

A financial fable from the FT; The Ant and the Grasshopper.

Aesop explains distrust of America,but Marin Wolf continues, "Yet life is more complex than in Aesop’s fable. Today, the ants are Germans, Chinese and Japanese, while the grasshoppers are American, British, Greek, Irish and Spanish.

Why Italians don't go "Bowling Alone"

Italy's complicated and if you're interested in getting a sense of this place, there's 20 regions, each one specific and completely different re food, politics and culture. There's a reason Italy has at least 28 political parties, laugh all you want, but they tend to laugh last. 

25 yrs ago I studied at the Univ of London, fell in luv, became an anglophile, then promoted myself to europhile when I could afford to travel across the pond and see more, which I did every year until I moved here permanently.  Initially, regarding Italy specifically, I compared it to California. My family's from San Fran but I spent time in SoCal playing jr tennis so I compared Italy to California, the north and south feeling so extremely different.

Firenze; Wall to Wall Fresco

What is Florence but wall to wall fresco, wall to wall special. As I head down south to Rome favorite haunts demand attention and I'm most happy to oblige, at the top of the list sits the Uffizi Gallery.

With this pic the artists depicts the Duke and his Duchess au naturale; their skin, warts, even nose-jobs on display.  The most powerful of Dukes, of Milan, Venice, Verona...this museum finds humanity and all its skin unfolding, naturally, powerfully... 

The first gallery begins with Byzantine art circa 13th century, clinging dearly to one dimensional art, religious, gilded, with relief we wander further and further past medieval worlds, witnessing art, evolving into relatable images, leaving sin and fetish symbols in their wake as artists feel free to draw the skies, so blue, heavenly on earth as we viewers literally imbibe the fresh air.

Ever the twain shall meet between East and West

For those bestowing their precious eyes upon my tiny slice of cyberspace they must oblige some time for my deep obsession with Sergei Diaghilev.

Sergei, the man that introduced one end of the earth to the other in a blissed out state of grace; on stage where dance, design and music meshed into his heavenly net.

So few have written about the Russian's ode to the East and too little have scribbled on why so much magic transpired and inspired Modern Art to meet at Ballets Russes, so much costume and dance delivered by Eastern imagination.

 Wonderfully enough, East and West continue to open their wide, kind and complicated worlds to the other. whether we travel in our minds, trip along the internet or travel by plane, train or bateau. Today, like then, when Kipling wrote about the Asian and the European:

 

Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

  

This poem highlights the rendezvous between Asian and European at about the same time Diaghilev began applying all things East of Saint Petersburg to the West, via Paris then on towards the Americas.

Perhaps it implies that no matter how many wicked and corrupt countries and lobbies try and decry the reality of similar unions, the farthest points on this planet and their philosophies will invariably meet in the most beneficial ways.  It's rather dependent upon the broker, of course, whether they're benevolent or malevolent, whether insisting their role is a necessary evil, or persist on playing interlocutor, or just possibly, if we're ready to receive something really divine, they'll boast the magical kind and give us an impresario to present things so lovely they'll make you laugh, stuff so true your heart will melt, something so genuine and kind you'll feel inexplicably very, very well loved, forever and ever and ever.

But until the muse has rehearsed and become united with instruments and conductor, before they've been fancy dressed up and their nerves calmed down, until then, the only sound we'll hear is the steady din as we listen to the various classes chatter.  And this requires so much scaffolding, these political and religious posers, these consulting and accounting types, so little imagination.

Well, my heart resides with the Diaghilev's of this world, seated somewhere between Dawn Powell and Michael Powell, enough room for a Beckett and Wilde in between, but those Irish come with such guilt....I tend to reach for those that have none, like Gore Vidal, I thank all the Greek Gods I can think of for Vidal, the honest biographer of a country, the chronicler of some of its most colorful residents.  All these people creating truth without guilt because like love and beauty, their brethren, they've no need for moral absolute truths, no scaffolding needed...

they simply exist...

 

 

 

A Fairy Tale

Today's writing workshop covered fairy tales, so in keeping with the theme I'll begin my own...

Once upon a glorious morning Dorian unfolded the bicycle that had long lived on their sailboat, letting it stretch its round legs upon land once again. Her utmost desire was to attend a lovely school located not far from the family' flat on time and in good form.  

Her first test was to successfully cross the bridge called Mont Blanc situated along Lake Geneva.

 

 

This proved both an easy and enjoyable task as everything about her lay tranquil and absolutely still, until she fell upon the dreaded dark green tree monsters sprouting mischievously along the lake. 

Dorian pedaled furiously, suddenly understanding this could present the biggest struggle of her day. She made her way past the deceptively docile creatures, so dignified and coiffed, intuitively knowing the minute her gaze would stray they could pounce!

So glued was she upon their invisibly wicked ways, assuming just one scant glance away could bring peril, she passed, sighing with great relief, proceeding along her merry way to Webster University.  

She glided serenely along the bike path, ultimately reaching her last landmark, the United Nations, their flags lay so flat and strangely calm, as if all nations pretending to get along.
Her mental state was safe, her personality now perfectly transformed by the sheer majesty of the early morn environs as her wheels quietly rolled along the last stretch of road, finally arriving at said destination. The End.  

Hope you enjoyed my tale, I'm so glad I chose to take my camera to class today.  The day was great with preliminary instructions to review how folk and fairy tales channel all the archetypal energy. We then exercised our right to enter into our own tale, assisting us in our craft and desire to put pen to paper.  Maybe it helps us to know ourselves a bit better or be a bit more honest in accepting our own narrative, our own journey. 

Who knows, it could happen.

So when was the first fairy tale told anyway?  Was it Cupid and Psyche? And when did Cinderella begin her dance around the globe, was it in China, circa A.D. 800.  It makes sense if you've read about how that country used to squash those little feet with those contraptions.  My own feet are so large, I'd have been doomed from dawn til dusk.

Either way, the ideas and lessons spread from folk to fairy tale, from myth to fable, detailing local sagas, reserved for adults sharing and passing down their own drama long before the Brother's Grimm got into the game.

Not sure which ones I can apply to my own life, but anytime I can invoke The Red Shoes and think about Anton Walbrook I find myself perfectly content.

 

 

memory as process or repository

Writer's conference I attended was packed with people, ideas and inspiration, wonderful workshops full of precious pearls, helpful advice, so much I must write about it to relive it twice.

Thought oft about Proust's idea that memory is more process than repository; obviously it's a  fluid activity within his work. And with the various Q n A sessions full of publishers, agents and information, it was like a series of windows, reflections and phases...and if you're working on a memoir like I am, I'm reminded which windows to open for review, which frame to place around those parts, what light and dark issues shall be included or excluded, ultimately, hopefully, creating a pattern to effectively connect to the reader.  

I had an epiphany of sorts in one of the workshops, realizing water is a central theme in my book. I suppose that idea's been hanging about my sub-conscious as my recent dreams seem to be solving bits and pieces for me while I sleep.

After all, it was while living on water my stable life became less so; while living in a large houseboat that a secret stumbled from one to the other, gasping for air, settling within the air between sender and recipient, slowly, awkward at first, then not, finally arriving, inspiring me to seek out water constantly, channeling and challenging me to confront its dangerous and passive nature; it's inability to stand still, even while living on top of a lake, or it's ability to terrify me while crossing the Atlantic ocean aboard out sailboat back in 2002.

Also, I'd received news of my biological daughter crossing the Atlantic when collecting and returning messages on our satellite phone.  Later on, blissfully living aboard MADI while parked, calm, at marina, comforted by the tranquility one acquires as a live-aboard. 

I'd blogged about that, but it wasn't until this conference came and went that I did actually comprehend how great a theme water has played in my adult life, my journey, our adventures, searching out otherly ways in which to live, multiple countries on which to reside, bank, and live long enough to argue with or simply become good friends with new neighbors in another language. 

Water, like life, evolves, impossible to capture for a minute, change so imminent, each second ticking away, teasing, allowing, opening us up....to yet another change...

The biz of writing, the biz of biz and the art of social media.

This weekend gives way to full immersion towards the biz of writing as I attend a 3 day writer's conference at Webster University in Geneva. 

Living in Geneva is kinda like being on Facebook, the perspective is broad and the cost of building and keeping contacts is kept at an affordable rate.  Increasing the size of human social groups proves fluid, both literally and virtually.  

People may laugh at Twitter but it's a swell cocktail party with great news feeds that influence and channel news traffic.  Even The Economist is convinced social media is much more robust that critics think. It''s a vehicle driving much of today's global interaction. 

Linkedin is a trusted and effective tool, cutting the costs of headhunters and recruiters while facebook never ceases to surprise how many friends utilize, specifically when they travel, replacing email, although I'm not convinced it's a replacement per se.  So for now, I must keep my internet addiction to a minimum and focus on the biz of writing, until Monday arrives at least, replacing my chapeau to another shape and color, indeed.

The writer as migrant, countries as characters and the voyage to Ithaka

Whenever I'm out and about, meeting new people from another country, I find myself 'interviewing' them because I'm curious, but my antenna is most attuned when the word 'tribe' enters the conversation. Possibly because I've so little desire to be a part of one. Whether this item was engineered long before my journey began, or at which stage it became the most glaringly apparent, no matter, it's simply and verily true.  The burning question resides in whether or not I ever felt like I belonged to one in the first place. 

Writing workshops, networking and uber cool women.

Since arriving in Europe we've domiciled in Malta and lived in Rome and Paris, both latter capitals luxurious and historic beyond belief and yet Geneva, with its equally ancient tapestry seems to be the city in which I find myself networking most effectively.

Dreams of Diaghilev, Ctd.

Now that I've finished reading the bio about Diaghilev's life I'm so terribly sad as he feels dead, yet again.

Maybe the sensation is simply compounded by the winter weather, the snow, as blankets upon blankets abound, layers that receive no relief as new snow arrives daily, creating a deafening sound, compressing my memories of previous lives and loves, suddenly, completely, especially as this very week witnesses two anniversaries precious to me, making up the most primal aspects of my life.  

As a lover of aesthetic pleasures, almost every page of this book provide a slice of bliss, lending the reader the license to live vicariously through Diaghilev.

I am, I confess, yet another voyeur, fan and friend, feeling dearly akin to all those that asked permission to enter his world, like Balanchine and Massine, like Nijinsky and Stravinsky, Picasso, Coco Chanel and de Chirico, like Ravel, Rubinstein and the rest.  One might ask, "just who didn't drop by", who didn't wish to be part of the mis en scene, who didn't pine to be combined into such a recipe, comprised of only the freshest ingredients, prepared to perfection by thee Impresario to end all, M. Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev. 

Listening to "Prescious" on itunes; an otherly experience to embrace.

Lee Daniels digestivo; "I'm a little euro, homo and ghetto."

Dawn Powell on Gore Vidal, "not to be fit in any fashion"

Sig.Vidal's sun is setting and he may be grieving for a circle and country long gone but while we overlook Lignano this October eve his views prove as probable and prescient as ever.

I love Vidal, read him often, but must rely on Dawn Powell's acute observation circa '54: "Something of a Disraeli, a high patrician like Solomon in judgment and philosophic power with wit, poetry and music.  Not to be fit in any fashion, but will outlive them all, like the great ones."

Discussing de Chirico up north while watching Gomorrah down south

Mio marito skidded in from Geneva as did an old pal from Seattle, Ian Mcfail, visiting while in the midst of his adventure having a Giorgio de Chirico authenticated at the foundation in Rome.  I bestow all the de Chirico energy as I've posted about friends with their own originals.  Either way, Ian has a pretty spectacular collection for your purview if interested on Facebook. 

Even though the cold winds have arrived and the men have left it still feels like la dolce but now I'm alone and Zurich and Milan remain one week away, it's time for new film. Fortuitously enough, upon picking up my MacBook Air from the techie hospital in Venice I located what mio marito suggested I see and I say there's a reason we've driven thru this commune, quickly, without dropping in for a caffe macchiato, rather than stay for a tour.

MADI, Mother Nature and Antonino Morocutti's Memoirs

One of the benefits of a 'liveaboard lifestyle' is close proximity to mother nature.  You become much more aware of everything, including oneself while in close proximity to mother nature. Everything you do and use is inspected on a base level and I've become even more weather obsessed than ever.

The next/new 'American Revolution'; let the silly/scary season begin.

Re recent protests, I assumed the next american revolution would arrive in the form of a financial one. I thought the flavor would have a whiff of 'for the people' rather than 'for the corporate interest', via les lobbyists'.

But then, who are the people?  Are they the older, confused, quasi racist kind that are easily incited by FOX and Limbaugh?  The really racist guys who's brains were broken when Barry became Prez?   Are they the young, activist kids that helped elect Obama?  Are they the 'liberal media', or the propagandists on the right, the progressive bloggers, moderates or what? 

Who are we, 'the people' in America, anyway? What faction of the 320 million souls deserve to have their voices heard above the rest? Can Paul Giamatti save any of these cold souls?

I dunno.  All I do know is that America's prosperity has hit a speed bump. The paperwork is confusing and the verbiage verbose, the litigious environment obvious and overwhelming, the christianists too easily co opted in their righteousness. The precious media vent their agenda, no longer independent, capable of separating fact from fiction or opinion, partially due to the pressure to entertain, or so they say.

The country's diversity is finally and widely represented.  This would be great for we're adroit at assimilation if anything, but now that people are losing jobs, security, maybe, not so great.

America stopped arguing towards the middle long ago but now they not only resent but seem to detest outside advice.  There's an extra dose of bitterness mixed into those pockets of anger and protests, it's overt and valid, even if the arguments are anything but.

So be it, let the silly and very scary season begin.

Movies and Michael Powell; A Matter of Life and Death

I thought Les Chaussons rouges lived permanently at the top of my list of Michael Powell films, alas its been usurped by A matter of Life and Death. 

So whimsical, allegorical, cinematically creative, and yet, so serious.  All about the emerging relationship btwn the US and Britain circa 46-7, just when the UN was shaping itself up for the future.

This Movie.  This movie makes me think and dream.  Mischievously gorgeous actor Marius Goring and romantic leading man Roger Livesey compete for divinity and take complete control even though the two central characters, played by David Niven and Kim Hunter are supposed to take center stage and represent the 2 countries, respectively.

Marius is anything but Mephistophelean as he plays the French 'Aristo' who lost his head in the revolution. However, rather than appear the sinister character for whom we all know to collect souls, Marius simply collects my heart and plays the part for laughs, even though it's all about life and death and chess and so much more.

This movie. All about revolutions, debate and how the US and UK should unite through marriage for the sake of modernity. Enuf of all that imperialistic nonsense!  Let's move on from the narrow, isolationist ways of America, let's move on!  And let the nations begin to get along, svp?

Such is the kind idea of time.   And what about a perfect accent.  For the first time we have an actor, Marius Goring, providing the perfect French accent.  How odd and adroit and refreshing, he even giggles in Gallic.

So inspiring, what with all its visionary delights, fluidity, fantasy and painterly ways, the matter of life and death allows us to dream and debate and wonder whether love does conquer all....

Warhol's last gasp of cool and then China began to buy...

...alors, how time flies...Andy's dead and now our landlords prefer we no longer carry the power to print money.  Today, China suggests a new currency reserve, no more altering the value of their investment.  Mother is no longer happy with its greedy child.

Couldn't help but compare and contrast the present while viewing the past through Andy's lens.  The current collection at the Grand Palais left too few images for me to linger upon, wonder about. 

Wandering around, the series felt too well weathered, almost sour, past its expiration date. All those Polaroids and prints of beautiful people, most of which are dead or no longer beautiful, specially Jagger.  Two exceptions possibly; La Liz's light just won't go out until she's dead and Brooke Shields, she who defies nature...the layout of her entire face from brow to mouth is simply spectacular.

Andy Warhol's clever and contrived life, like his work, which was his life, was so deeply superficial, obviously, but what struck me were the two generic pieces; An American Man and An American Lady..  The former, the male blonde waspish figure, so familiar as this made up much of my childhood, has completely lost all perceived sense of authority, finally.

The latter, the American lady. Well, the women can still sport their clone blonde bobs over there, they can pretend they haven't aged, believe their lives and society are interesting. I knew and grew up amongst many of those kinds of clubs, still belong to some; their lives as boring and bland as their blonde bobs.

The surface, the image, the consumer.  Andy got the gig.  America as the little child that must be spoon fed its candy and sweets, producing nothing of substance nor value, unless you qualify fast food as something other than what it is....and now the parent, China, would like to  create a  global super currency reserve. Apparently the parent is no longer proud of its child, in fact, it's fed the monster and would gratefully trade it in for another country or continent if it could, but can't.

We shall wait and see until it digests that last waifer thin mint, when then, the dollar will literally implode.

Erotic writing and may the rabbit requiescat in pace...

Libby Brooks argument for erotic writing feels lackluster, but maybe that's just me...when I peruse my library I reach for Dawn Powell rather than Anais NIn. 

So sorry to hear of John Updike, I hope his passing was uninterrupted and peaceful, but neither adultery nor suburbia are topics I find remotely interesting.

But I did purchase one of his books long ago, his memoirs, "Self Consciousness".  I find it and re-read, if only to honour such a literary career.  He does write such lovely, careful sentences, that reflect such a culture, yes, especially one of the last...,"...I 'present' to others, as an amiable, reasonable, interested, generally healthy, sexually normal, dependable, hopeful, fortunate human being.  Which goes to show what a vexed thing even a fortunate human being is. "

R.I.P......