"The weight of the world depends on Unit 4 reactor," so they say. Hard to know, like Manuel on Fawlty Towers, I know nothing.
Friends living there post ominous posts on Facebook but its mentally taxing to process potential scenarios. One can only imagine the stress of child bearing mothers, less inclined to grow food in such a potentially toxic environment, becoming activists in their daily regime. As the saying goes, "Hell no, we won't glow."
Apparently another book's been written about Princess Diana. They'll write about her forever, however, if you were the same age when she arrived on the world stage, it was easy to project our dreams as she took our breath away in a very specific, personal way.
The feathered hair and that fresh, charming face. A short life and violent death. The details seem to fade away as she remains in that way. Talk about zeitgeist.
So goes Sarko, so goes Carla Bruni. A relief for many. Bruni always struck me as a higher end version of Liz Hurley, the kind that earn celebrity currency through high profile partners. Carla won, then lost, so their game goes.
...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.
Continue reading "Reading Anaïs Nin is an awfully romantic exercise..." »
Adrienne Rich passed away last month, what a precise mind, it resonates, more than ever. Her words vital what with all kinds of people disappearing; blacks, muslims, hispanics across the borders. So much strife and racism and divisive behavior, even less solidarity on some continents than before.
Since moving to Prague I've met more often with Russians, Czechs and Ukrainian expats, the further East I move the more real their political realities appear to surface in the West, as they always did but now each of us, too many of us, as vulnerable as the other.
Adrienne Rich; 1929-2012. Poet, essayist, feminist.
There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.
Just reading about Candice Bergen starring in Gore Vidal's play "Best Man" restores the faith and quietly calms the nerves; reminiscent of when celebrity inspired us to project our dreams onto their beauty. How could you not love her, I always did, 'specially when everyone else didn't...
Gore Vidal, my uber idol, America's biographer and prescient for over 6 decades, no wonder the plays' hitting a nerve.
Almost makes me want to go to New York, hit broadway and see the play.
Almost.
Communism could suppress, however now, the Czech people express as they wish.
Easter arrives on the calendar even as religion isn't emphasized here in Prague; Christianity is fine, of course but the date's another way to embrace the sunny season, provide some color around the city, relax and welcome back the sun....
Continue reading "Czech chicks enjoying their Bohemian Easter Season" »
Checked out the Alphonse Mucha Museum today.
A Czech Art Nouveau painter and decorative artist known for his distinct work and whimsical commercial style. Apparently his breakthrough came when he designed theatre posters for Sara Bernhardt.
The most moving portrait was of a Russian peasant woman, far different from all the rest:
Continue reading "Alphonse Mucha and the Russian Peasant." »
Carpe diem, indeed.
Maureen Dowd does go on about Manskirts, manscara, guyliner and guylashes in her inimitable Irish-American girl fashion. Alas, before Priscilla Queen of the Desert dragged our collective conscious in that direction I was producing and directing my very own fabulous Drag Shows 2 decades back. Such articles and items fail to raise a well tended eye-brow. And, I'm terrifically happy to report a few of my recruits have gone on to wonderful careers in Vegas and stay connected and update me via Facebook, this gives joy.
However I'm with Gore Vidal per usual; forget Hetero or Homo there's just sexual acts.
Continue reading "Maureen Down on Manskirts, manscara and guyliner, oh my!" »
Her namesake is Colette of course, author of Gigi and all that it might imply.
Like the author and my petite papillon, I too believe in being true to your beloved. Be intimate, be explicit and explore life's wide range of reference points...
Continue reading "Greg Proops; Smartest man in the world podcast, ctd." »
Other than Anonymous, there's too few making an impact. Too few modern day muckrakers, with their heart in the right place...alas, we have Greg Palast.
His thoughts on Alex Jones align with my own. Alex is a force not to be denied, the most popular radio host on the internet in North America, nooooo dispute on that data...and the fact he showcased the women that run democrats against the UN agenda 21, two lesbians that are pro-choice proves he is on the side of the angels. He actually stopped talking for an hour.
Go Greg, your book, Vulture's Picnic is doing well, as it should. Go Alex, go RON PAUL!!
Here's the link, apparently it does not want to play cut and paste. Greg Palast in Praise of Alex Jones
Continue reading "Greg Palast on Alex Jones; couldn't have said it better myself." »
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.
Continue reading "Divinely inspired Pop and then some; John Lennon and Yoko Ono" »
Unpacking 192 boxes, again, inevitably lends to reflection as old photos arrive, tease the mind, make me smile and wanna skip down memory lane.
I can practically see the nostalgia kick in but the heart survives, a soft pain at first, then quickly lessens for what better way to move on in life then to honor ones past. Isn't this how the Goths or Visigoths prayed, by honoring their ancestors? Yes, I like that, that's my kinda faith.
Of course one can pretend to be what they wish to become, why not, there's nothing quite as hopeful as the day following the one being lived; self-help and therapy provide so much promise, to so many.
And yet what about the past, we can't possibly deny how manners and the ability to focus created balance even as modern life, full of informality and distractions, expedites the chaotic nature of our collective lives.
Alas, reviewing the past can be an insightful exercise, the kind that carries emotional weight, enough to lighten the load in future.
I was surprised by how quiet the film felt, how The Iron Lady remained relatively silent about so many issues surrounding such a forceful and compelling woman.
A good film, emotional, as much about its subject as it is about Meryl Streep's moving portrayal of Margaret Thatcher.
Perhaps too obvious as I shake my head in endless admiration, regarding both the actress and politician: "What a woman!"
Streep is so technically brilliant it's impossible to deny her emotional insistence, her adroit ability of imposing a layer of warmth and meaning upon a woman intent on ideas, on change, on making her mark when women played such a minor role in political life.
I remember Thatcher's era, having lived in London in the mid 80's. I may have lived less than a year but my time was filled with intense memories and events unfolding almost daily.
I had little clue let alone focus on my future, fantasizing about becoming a playwright after studying at the University of London for a semester, interning at a fringe theatre in east London. It was insanely fun and eerily stark at the same time; I was not only living with a card carrying labor party member and activist, a man known today as much for his mind as his acting ability, but I was surrounded by one very colorful and illustrious theatrical crowd. And yes, they almost all loathed Margaret Thatcher.
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.
I like podcastland. My progressive left memes are re-enforced by Amy Goodman and for my far right, evangelical listening pleasure there is but one Alex Jones.
Amy Goodman & co are natural extensions of a political lifestyle while growing up along the west coast. Alex Jones, on the other hand, presents a bit of a challenge.
I found his voice while living aboard our sailboat in Venice back in 2010. It was a solitary existence in northern Italy, finite and nice because I knew it to be finite. Our teak salon and deck chairs created a calm environment; my time was spent differently, as if I had more than I had before.
So, for three hours each day I'd listen to this guy called Alex Jones, from Austin, Texas of all places, his voice so uniquely passionate and very, very rare.
An immesely entertaining guy, kinda like the Italians. When they try to be funny, they fail, when they're naturally engaged; nothing less than sublime. Little surprise Alex has many Italian fans.
The Guardian: "Politicians, ugly buildings and whores," growled John Huston in Chinatown. "They all get respectable if they last long enough."
The Iron Lady makes its subject appear not merely respectable but poignant and sympathetic to boot: a woman who wanted nothing more than to change the world and make children happy (her children specifically). It leaves her shuffling plaintively from room to room, the legend at rest, or being examined by her doctor, who asks her how she feels.
"Feelings?" scoffs Thatcher. Feelings do no not interest her. Thoughts and ideas are what matter the most. "What we think is what we become. And I think I am fine." The Iron Lady, to a fault, seems to think that as well.
Once upon a time we could be shocked. And we were when Roseanne Barr arrived on the media scene. I remember her debut on Carson in '85. Johnny knew funny and she was; not fussed with pretty and pretentious, forget feminine wiles, bring on the class warfare cuz Roseanne Barr's a 2nd amendment, straight shooting kind of gal.
In '86, David Letterman, by '87 she was crowned funniest female. Punchlines weren't so much delivered as admitted, point black, hard boiled. No veneer necessary, her package delivered w/out wrapping or ribbon. She was kinda like an updated version of W. C. Fields.
Continue reading "The Raw Goddess Ms. Roseanne Barr on The Alex Jones Show." »
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.
Continue reading "Gore Vidal was softly shocked by Dawn Powell" »
Forget the latest gimmick; it's simply a sign of times. The recently unveiled 26 foot statue in Chicago is but a replica of the Marilyn Monroe that will live in our dreams forever.
So let's refresh and re-visit the vulnerable creature, the sublimely divine image that ate up the screen; the woman that was all of 'us'.
She wasn't simply a figment of our culture's collective imagination. She was real and very much about sexuality; our ability to own it, fear it, abuse it, exploit it, take care of it, celebrate it.
When Joyce Carol Oates wrote "Blonde" she didn't just research every minutia of Marilyn's life, oh no.
Thanks for making Hermione the most competent and Harry so fierce. Thanks for sprinkling eye candy throughout the movies so we might miss the joy of reading your magical books a little less.
Continue reading "Dear J.K., thanks for keeping it clean, classy and fun." »
Politics are checked at the door; hearts and minds opened, ready to engage as 8 american women display their humanity@Chez Bay.
It's been years since I've seen the States so when opportunity arrives to pack the place with fellow expats; I do.
Artists, corporate types, students, writers, they're all represented. Fellow nomads from NY, San Fran, L.A. now living abroad, re-inventing themselves; confident, secure and ready to sing for their supper; lord it looks like I've hit the trifecta!
It's a safe space, everyone let's it all hang out, immediately; it's rather magical in fact.
Continue reading "3 Generations of the rarer, fairer species unfold @ Chez Bay" »
...about being a female, in fact, was just ruminating on said fact the other day, playing out my shudderbug voyeurism @Chez Bay.
Most interesting, informative read from Cintra Wilson. And no, no need to see the film. Most edible amuse bouche;
Continue reading "Chastity to Chaz, Cher and Cintra; if possible, happier than ever..." »
For a couple of decades my monthly mag read was a trilogy including Harper's, The New Yorker and Vanity Fair. However, after living on this side of the pond its becoming harder to justify the indulgence; the mags can cost up to 20 USD, depending upon the city.
We move too often for subscriptions and I can't curl up online while taking a bath or reading before sleep; my eyes need the gentle reprieve.
Also, my perspective morphs with age just as my cultural realities shift slightly with every new country; what didn't appear as propaganda suddenly reads as nothing other.
Of course I want to be influenced, to escape, I want to embrace and allow the content to impact my creativity, politics, emotions. However at this stage of the game I'm incapable of projecting morality of any kind and my mind now insists on more philosophical reactions.
Continue reading "The Gentlewoman; a bunch of opinionated and passionate women. Brava." »
Recent Humphrey Bogart bio/gossip rings too Walter Winchell meets Matt Drudge medley for me, barely worth a glance but Bacall's allure...now that's worthy of a blessay.
In fact, I remember my mother talking about her, as an artist would, her long lines, her new look, unique, captivating, how she arrived on the scene, suddenly, stunning, independent and sophisticated, sensual yet almost asexual and all the more beautiful because of it...fun to watch How To Marry A Millionaire, Grable; the pin up girl, MM; the gorgeous girl that eats up the screen and tall Bacall, so interesting to see on screen, she seethes, she breathes and smokes those cigarettes so.....
...wish I could have been drinking it in my formative years.
Just look at this woman, what did someone once utter, "after Loren, bone structure is just boring"...she simply defies time.
Congrats to the winner but shame about the tattoo...all the young, lovely, european women seem to love their tattoos...
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.
Is there a man in this picture, I couldn't tell.
The day starts out fine, starboard view @ 7am offers Italian Alps beneath a low ceiling, soon to disappear, port side, just as nice.
By 9, sky's fine, transitional April in play, throw the kids in the basket, just we three as mio marito's left me for Geneva and Milan for a week, so we cycle to the station, hit Venice, just as nice as last time.
Heading back, not so much. Just two stops from home, The strangest and smallest of creatures moves in a crooked line toward me, in control of little but barely a phone and ticket in hand, all of 13, 14 maybe, completely swathed in nero and rosso, top to bottom, skirt, tights, shoes, red and black alternates everywhere. Hair combination not so rare in these parts, long, wavy, thick slices outline two large, sad sockets, covered in slashes of black liner applied to either eye with a large dome of coral red completing the effect. She's in deep need of braces, she's powdered her face heavily, losing the fight to cover acne ridden young skin. I'm captivated, saddened, deeply, she's more than tragic, inside and out, this rare gothic spirit, under some kind of influence beyond hormones, so odd as drink and drug are never evident in Italy, down South, in parts, but this isn't Palermo or the London tube, this is northern Italy, odd, very.
I watch her struggle with her phone and catch the woman facing me across the isle, smiling, cooing at Colette and Godot, everyone's oblivious but me.
C n G, so happy in their bags on either side of my lap, a portable Dorothy Parker in between, closed now, I have a live version, full of far more emotional angst than Dottie's tragic female characters, this one's got teen hormones to boot. She's so bizarre, I feel maternal, compassionate, confused as I watch her try and attach the black back to her red telefonino, the exercise alone causes such vexation she can only roll her head back slowly, her eyes try to close, open, both actions prove impossible.
Just then the ticket lady arrives, I offer my ticket, the girl struggles to do the same, unfortunately she suffers the same luck with phone. I'm thinking, 'something's gotta give'. I then lean forward to say, "tutto bene signorina?" and she tries to focus, saying, slurring, 'noooo', then everything changes pace, no more slow motion, her face defies makeup, turning bright red as I turn towards C n G, grab their bags and quicker than you have ever moved in your entire life, we are in the isle.
The ticket lady, in shock watches as the girl's head goes down and vomits over and over and over again. Maybe it's a metaphor for the Catholic church, maybe it's how the Italians feel in general about Berlusconi triumph, contrary to polling, he's done it again. maybe, maybe it's just about a very young, sick girl.
Who knows, all I do know is that it's a first for 10 yrs riding trains throughout Italy.
Not only do I move quickly but soon the entire cabin clears, Italians don't like to interfere.
But I'm not Italian so I stay. Another young Italian women is curious also, concerned, watching her as well. The ticket women calls for assistance. They arrive at the next stop, checking her pulse, trying to ask questions, it's all rather murky. Piano, piano, I've seen the Italians deal with street kids before, they move slowly, giving them time, room, respect, until they've proven otherwise. She can talk, her name's Miriam. She's just tired, out of sorts.
I take a picture, as if I'm here to bear witness, or somesuch. They check her arms, they're clean, they get a gurney and take her away, such is this wee slice of life, this precious girl, on Easter Pasqua my thoughts are with her all day long.
We'd hoped for Sunday but Monday's just fine by me. One should never, ever challenge the weather gods or the gods of fate when setting sail long distance.
So now, tis time to bid adieu to persephone's myth near Mdina, to 7,000 yrs of Maltese history, to all that and all that jazz.
Alas, I was taught that both a good entrance and a good exit by whom else, other than Muv. Speaking of, would loved to have set sail on Muv's b-day, but that's why we create pictorial blessays.
And here she is, escorted by my grandfather in their home in San Fran, Muv walks towards her betrothed, the man she would marry for some 55 yrs...
The second is her last sketch, outlining her own exit; with style and strength;
My biological realities, so much in evidence this past week as I spoke for the first time in 2 decades to my daughter. We'd emailed and I'd provided the background to particulars surrounding her unique birth. Even though she boasts a double degree from Univ of Washington, she opted to become a dancer in New York, a young women that proves both delightfully fierce and artistic, making her way into an all female dance company in the big city. I sigh with wonder. I may have given her up for adoption while at University so long ago, but her DNA probably plays a part in the space in which she lives today. The fact she studied in Argentina, speaking Spanish, simply completes the biological bookends, Basque et al.
Magic and mystery abounds, almost always.
So tomorrow, this time, when we set sail towards Sicily I'll pray to Calypso, documented as the first feminist, Homer's character of 2800 yrs ago that lived on the isle of Gozo, not far from Malta.
I've never been in danger of placing a mirror to the nymph's mistakes but departing this patriarchal island and entering a more matriarchal spirit is more than a bit symbolic.
And if Muv was a bit proper, funnily enuf, she luved nothing more than painting La Nu.....
.
Pompidou in Paris showcases an all women show, finally, the largest of its kind. We've come a long way but nice to note the quote from 1989 by a group of women plastering posters across New York. "Do women have to be naked to get into the Met?"
Makes me grateful but nostalgic, thinking of the predecessor to the Women's Tennis Association, Virginia Slims.
When I was a kid, I played competitive tennis. As a ranked player in the PNW you got to be 'ball girl' when Virginia Slims came to town. I ran after those yellow balls enthusiastically for Chris Evert and Navratilova, etc, it was such fun but not without its odd moments.
Whenever we had a break we'd view the matches from the isles. One night someone came up quietly behind me and asked for the score. She had a deep, 'female' voice and as I turned around I found my 13 yr old face inches away from Renee Richards, the controversial player who'd undergone a sex change. No wonder I went on to direct Drag Shows in Seattle.
But I digress.
It's 2009 and we've come a long way....even if I currently live in a country, a member of the EU, where both abortion and divorce are illegal, and unlike all other EU members, abortion is absolutely illegal under all conditions. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL, DO NOT PASS GO. Well, at least the women aren't stoned to death.
It simply makes me enjoy the american activists blogs a bit more, like Tennesseeguerillawomen, reminds me of the fight. I was lucky to grow up around smart, strong women, like Muv, like cousins that became Superior Court Judges, growing up with close friends w/mother who lived on the lists like Who's Who of Women in America. They worked it, not relying upon sexuality, but instead, their intelligence, their femininity, c'est vrai, one works with what they've been given.
