They say the wild eyed one is back. Like a cockroach. Perhaps only Sarkozy is loathed as much as Blair in Europe and the UK.
If you've seen Kingdom of Heaven, a gorgeous flic that happens to be historical correct, you simply shake your head and try and absorb how surreal it was to allow the Mandatory Palestine; officially becoming their 'real estate'. As Gore Vidal sighs, "based on ancient tablets."
Continue reading "Tony Blair; from lazy eyed to crazy eyed. " »
Beautiful, balmy, moody weather. Early evening, time to relax, temperature calm, light shifts silently; cue rainbow at my feet...
Whenever there's a chance to see his art, I'm there. Salvador Dali makes me feel so happy, always.
Decades ago, before he died in '89, people still spoke about his art as much as whimsical antics. He was a serious surrealist, a technical virtuoso then a question mark was quietly put alongside his name.
Doubt he cared, a superb draftsmen, technician, master artist.
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...
Amsterdam's Alice in Wonderful quality insists this city, or rather this village still boast a dizzying array of eclectic and funky shops.
Shops full of odd and random musical instruments, one replete with one-off antiques, the next full of creative holiday decorations, paraphernalia galore...finally I bought a little something at this store I've been walking by for almost a year, lovely, fun used stuff; sterling silver serving items, colorful crystal goblets, vases, its just fun to walk inside and imbibe the cluttered shabby chic environs...
A recent trip to Brittany reminds me of Grace Kelly's line in To Catch A Thief. Kelly's gently sparring with uber elegant Cary Grant, not quite buying the less than jazzy line he's just a friendly timber businessman from Portland Oregon. Grace suspects what we already know, he's the notorious jewel thief, John Robie, nicknamed "The Cat."
The French. They are friendly and warm, you just need to step inside their protocol. Why just look at the local butcher, eyeing my petite mignon. I offer Colette for a sec before snatching her back...he is the local butcher after all...
October is a wonderful month to visually feel life's cycles. Mother nature works her magic through leaves as we witness death and decay everywhere as if to capture how change and transition feel as necessary as life itself.
For many, death isn't just a concept, especially when seen up close. The cost of a front row seat may allow one to embrace the grief. If you don't and deny the cycle you just may miss the show.
Continue reading "Protests, nomads, seasons and cycles..." »
Parisienne boys have their floppy hair, Berlin boys have their own style that include skateboards, secret handshakes, backward caps...cute, happy, fashionable, either w/their dads or their friends, saw them everywhere or so it seemed...
Amsterdam's full of fantastic museums unfortunately my favorite, van Gogh's "Cafe Terraces at Midnight" lives outside, in a small suburban village called Otterlo, full of classic, relatively compact and elegant homes like this:
When you arrive they give you a bike for free and you cycle the remaining 5 klicks until you arrive at the national Park De Hoge Veluwe.
Kroller-Muller Museum is named after Helene Kröller-Müller (1869-1939), and it's full of major masterpieces by Monet, Picasso, Seurat, braque Cezanne and dozens of others...
Continue reading "Taking a train within Holland, outside Amsterdam to Kröller-Müller Museum" »
Strange how a foreign city can feel like home. Paris was, for awhile, and like anyone I fell in love, completely. On return, my first trip since, initially I felt mildly surprised. Then gorgeously emotional, ecstatic, inspired, rejuvenated, bittersweet...then absolutely content.
Perhaps it felt like home because we'd moved everything to Paris; beds, books and belongings, our entire home from Rome to la ville lumiere.
Perhaps because we banked there, did some biz there, had family nearby.
It felt so familiar and comforting, as if my previously volatile and romantic relationship w/Paris was worth all.
Watching the gay parade in Paris from our flat was immensely fun when living off of Boulevard Sainte-Germain; the emotional environs were so feisty, intense and aggressively interesting in the city of lights. Always so many distractions to compete with one another, it was amazing the options available to its residents.
Continue reading "Gay Pride Parades; from Paris to Amsterdam" »
Growing up I pledged allegiance to my flag, respected my government and gave it little thought. It wasn't until 9/11 happened and I moved away that I began to compare and contrast my government to others.
For example, in Malta, a small and compact island in the middle of the med, the people are engaged with their government. They have a deeply intimate relationship with their politicians, often you find the entire country votes each and every time an election or referendum arrives, dictating they do just that. It's small; it's a place and space of mind where democracy can breathe and live healthily out in the open.
When we lived in Paris and had family living in the south, the culture and country in general were deeply keen on good argument about policy debate. The French are chatty, engaged and feisty and I often got the sense their government respected the will of the people, an emotional group of people. They care.
In Italy, where life is far more complicated, it felt as if the people disregarded their central government, but did participate heavily in both regional politics and debate. It is a chaotic place when seen from outside but from within, not so much. Italians know how the game is played, they're familiar with the players are and respect them locally, not so much as a nation. The left and south are both very Italian in culture but distinctly different in production and attitude.
...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..." »
\ Each play is different and yet the process is often the same.
I love the entire exercise from front to finish. And yes it tis an exercise. And yet is lacks any sense of being rehearsed as the players prove to be nothing less than the sum of their own unique lives.
It takes effort on my part to coordinate, to cook but it is a passion. I love nothing more than to share my home, my opinions, my life. It's lovely when mio marito is around; this isn't always the case.
It is also an exercise for my guests, especially the best ones, for they know in which key, precisely, how to sing for their supper. This does not happen often, but when it does, the melody is nothing short of divine.
Alas, it is an exercise for they must arrive and partake, they must communicate and exercise their curiosity if only to collide adroitly with the other guests. If they don't, and some just won't, this is but the chance I take and one I seem intent on taking over and over again.
Prior to their arrival I pick the flowers, feel the creativity and then prepare. I love the entire process, in particular the bit in be tween when they arrive and coincide and best yet when they wish to argue their side with zest.I love this bit.
When they take their exit, full and grateful, so kind with their own time I can then begin the third act; the final scene. This routine exists within its own pattern and it's almost almost always executed in exactly the same way...
...and yet the memories, the reflections, the ability to re-live it twice while putting everything back in its place; every piece, each plate, one glass at a time; this space feels vastly different every single time.
This makes the entire exercise worth the effort; this is joy.
@the Pantheon in Rome, cruising Croatia along the Dalmatian coast.
The Austrian Alps
Dangling along the cliffs of Dingly in Malta and aboard MADI...
along Lake Garda, Tyrol...
The hike to Chapel Santa Barbara is such a rocky, vertical climb, with its meditative reminders along the way, it feels like a stairway to heaven...of all things we can agree to disagree, it's easy to feel all three will be granted entry...
Just weeks ago you couldn't call a blade of grass your own, but now the beach is wide open, just one guy, one last gasp of sun as another town in Italy closes down....
cylcing along the vineyards to Maeraid's garden, where the kids can hang out and bask in the last hit of sun before the season along Lake Garda closes completely down.
Colette found a flautist, no easy feat, then she found a place to picnic
Continue reading "Sunday in the Park with Joyce Carol Oates" »
Summer was fun, perpetual sun provided color to mio picollo giardino
But so thankful September's finally arrived. Flower becoming bashful, less boastful, quiet even as the basil still feeds. Time for serious months to parade their way into my life, my mind can then respond and thrive in kind.
I must say, this Seattlelite can't handle such light, this Italian sun, wish it would feel shy, just a bit of shame, at least make me miss it for awhile. Almost jarring, I crave cloud cover, I really do.
Channeling Dawn Powell, circa '54, she, typical new yorker transplant from mid west, went to Hollywood to pay off bills that brilliant novels couldn't, her diaries rarely complain, but she does about southern cal, says "this place really lifts you up and then throws you flat down, just like that"...
Could say the same about Italy, it's desire to be sunny, so often, then there's this rather large matter of the mountain, the 'rocketta', like a beast, dominant, looming, stubborn, intimidating, reminiscent of counter productive person. Or so said a guest last night.
Well, must focuse insect like determination on the work at hand, in spite of it all....
Riva's clearing out. The elderly English exit by bus while the young German and Austrian family's pack their beemers and mercs and head back home...life is becoming quiet again, cycling along the lake it feels like its just me, c n g.
Riva del Garda and nearby towns looks similar with red and pink accents everywhere, surrounded by volumes and volumes of deep green, buttressed beautifully against the mountains.
Finally, the fireworks and music festivals no longer occupy our ears in the evening...the sun sets, our environs shift to bliss...by the time early morn arrives the mountains loom large, as if they'd like to enter the bedroom, surreal, like one dimensional cutouts, up close, immense yet so stagnate, the white bits become florescent, hypnotic....
It took 4 hours for Carmen to die but the moon and tunes made it a memorable way to while away a mid summer's eve.
Opera in Verona's Coliseum is the bomb. Forget La Scala and La Fenice, Italians need a space in which to deposit their drama, a place to give it up to the gods above...the voices, mis en scene, la luna, completely full, lulled our views and minds up towards the sky as the emotions below hung along notes so deep, long and raw. Who needs to memorize the libretto when you have so many well known melodies emanating from the independent Spanish vixen named Carmen and her many lovers.
Alas I was alone, sans mio marito and petite chiens....my mind decides to rewind, reviewing live performances from my past but once the internal exercise began, I was slightly terrified at how little I could recall.
Sitting outside the arena, anticipating the next extravaganza, a little insalata mista, tortellini, lite greco di tufo alongside, the mind tries.
In London's West End I saw Dame Maggie Smith in Three Sisters, Billie Whitelaw (Samuel Beckett's muse) rocking away in that chair, oh yes, I did. Listened in rapture as Tom Hollander sang that song, blowing everyone's socks off in Threepenny Opera at the Donmar Warehouse, just before he and Mendes became such international IT hits. A few musicals like Wicked and dramatic darlings Private Lives with Alan Rickman were't quite as stellar but close and several others, I just can't recall. Age.
Brecht's Causasion Chalk Circle and Mamet's Glenngarry were brilliant but Mamet's profanity missed the mark with English actors...my favorite Mamet happening across the pond at The Seattle Rep during Daniel Sullivan's heyday; he put the Emerald city on the theatrical map with "Heidi's Chronicles" and then Intiman's "Angels in America", saw and loved them all. Seattle's always had tons of theatre and my family had season tickets to everything. For a short time I lived next door to Sullivan downtown, such a cool guy, he once said after meeting my parents and a brother, 'is all of your family that nice', well no, but it was nice of him to say.
6 seasons at PNB with Muv, cooing over Patricia Barker while we sat in the front row, center stage just makes me smile but when invited backstage the sensation was strange; those magical ballerinas morphing into human form, exhausted, leaning against the walls, feet flat, I was grateful to get back to our seats and allow the magic to begin once again.
In NY, I bared witness to one blue and naked Nicole Kidman not even try to act, saw John Turturro overact in Waiting For Godot, met him at a fundraiser afterward, asked him about the scene in 5 Corners when he threw his mother out the window, suffice it to say, conversation didn't last long...but in the winter of '98 finished off that trip by laughing my head off at Sandra Bernhard's one woman show. Funny, clever woman.
Opera in Vienna and Salzburg feel the most civilized, exotic and authentic, it's the fabric, but the piece di resistance was seeing the maestro at Berlin's Staatstoper, the costume and make-up. Watching Herr Daniel Barenboim conduct and then meeting him at a party backstage afterward, well, that's heady stuff for a quirky kid from Seattle.
Absorbed everything in Paris, the ballets @ Garnier, the opera and modern dance at The Bastille, in Rome, grooved on Herbie Hancock and Alicia Keys at Circus Maximus, a randy, rough but cool setting, listened to Susan Sontag at the forum ruins, she wasn't interesting, actually, but the environs were...the Italians have forgotten more about lighting than anyone else remembers...got blissed out while watching/experiencing Swan Lake at the baths of Caracalla, beyond surreal, but listen, why brag when the rants' gone on long enough.
Just grateful I can boast of how my time has flown, it'll be over soon enough.
Husband skids back in from Geneva via Venice, covering business and boat particulars and I suggest he take a hike. He replies, "not without you oh light of my life" so we took one together, high up the rocky mountain, the kind of trip you feel the next day, up to the charming little Chapel called Santa Barbara.
Signed the visitors book, enjoying the environs, feeling calmly euphoric, the exercise of writing, hiking and just being at a Chapel named the same as my beloved Muv, whose birthday was just the day before, gave the entire day a way to feel extra special and well spent. Riva del Garda is simply stunning.
Along the daily cycle, piccola vela di scuola Along my evening walks the swans provide peace, solace, then they swim around to our backyard, taking refuge from the claps and cracks of thunder I've yet to hear outside Garda, offering contrast to the tranquil environs, must be the micro-climates, next day air is so fresh, clear, bliss....
Godot arrives
Everyday I go to the same place, plug in and write....collages happen, here's a typical northern italian couple, she w/short adorable do, flower, hazel eyes, a red n green leafy tattoo just above her grecian shoes, he looks like clooney but twice as sexy cuz he's Italian, they're engaged for hours.
an Austrian couple, some young, so sexy, many older w/grandkids, here, a middle aged couple, he's taut, fit, w/ funny head gear, smokin a cig, she's kinda masculine, unusual, matching grey green attire, content, beach culture.
While swimming laps I see this babe in arms, blissed out in fetal position w/father's head down, stroking her back...I have to ask if I can take a pic, they change, pose, sigh, still sweet...luv the muv reading her german version of 'People'.
Taking a vaca from MADI, internet went dead for a day or two, three possibly.
Everything's affordable, including hotels. Germans, Swiss and Viennese hang here for a month w/kids, must be sensible, they want quality for their currency.
It's lovely, fragrant pine, golden sanded beach, local Italians speak German @ their resort, softening the guttural, sounds lyrical.
Our friend Eliza suggests we spend some time in Venice, away away from San Marco and the maddening crowd where we can crawl deep into the Venetian scene. She finds quiet bars full of friends and ancient patrons as we imbibe petite glasses of white wine and polpette along the way. We then arrive at the Osteria and enjoy the baccala, a precious dish of Venice, creamy mild codfish with more white wine, while old men line up along the bar as Eliza's friends come and go...we hang out for hours before even thinking of eating dinner...
'Caio', Claudio, the chef comes out to say hello
then Eliza hangs out in the kitchen while I'm entertained by everyone including Valentina, behind the bar. She's a voluptuous gal from Bologna who moved here 9 years ago, never looking back. When I ask, she speaks of the magic of getting lost in Venice, this most artificial, mystical of cities...Valentina's so animated it's pointless to try and capture her esprit, sometimes a name is as natural as love....
by the time the menu arrives, it's ignored of course, intense discussion follows, all the other talk, light gossip, some politics, luv silvio, hate silvio, blank ballots, life outside known though not that interesting, especially when Venice is your world.
After many, many blissed out hours, it's early morning, i take the kids off the leash as we waltz back towards home, dark architecture just barely there as colette with her venetian mask slips in and out of the shadows, the few merchants of venice still open to our petite canine thief...la serenissima...
No wonder Shakespeare was inspired by this town, there's so much Machiavellian historical drama to be found.
Verona, 'piccola roma' as its known. I played Juliet to my Romeo, we laughed that Colette and Godot rhyme with the famous characters. My first visit to the lovely, funky ancient city was practically perfect. I caught some pics of local brides with their own two gentlemen from Verona...they met in the street, kissed, then waltzed off to have more pictures taken.
The tiny trips can be the sweetest, most cherished.
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.
If you've the time to bypass Mont Blanc and Grand St. Bernard when traveling thru Italy from France, I'd advise riding the passes, cruising thru the clouds, atmospheric, scaling the Alps, the Rhone Valley views, bliss, this time of year.
Perfect day to cycle to a special town, walk around, enjoy the environs
Continue reading "A Spring cycle along the Alps to Annecy in Haute Savoie" »
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.
Death hangs everywhere; in Haiti, on our calendar, dear friends battling new born crisis, so heavy all this memory and emotion, sealed into my heart by the silent snow surrounding Geneva.
Emotions moving at their own pace, insisting I take out Muv's jewelry, her stuff, mixed with my stuff, two years ago she passed, asking me to wash her pearls, faux and real, so real everything feels. Precious, semi-precious, costume, they are all precious, they all appear the same to me now.
I hang these fragments atop boxes I'd sent to her from Vienna, these boxes in which she replied, quietly, storing our stuff.
While visiting Salzburg, we took a detour to visit a cemetery in Bavaria where my husband's Germanic side of the family has laid several generations to rest, dating back to the 1700's.
...every time we travel here, this place provides joy,...whether it's the magnificent Alps or the houses ensconced within the hills
or the mandatory cake and cafe for breaky
dogs allowed everywhere...Colette escapes the cold, happily tucked into dad's pocket,
the hills are so humbling and comforting
we drove over the border back to Bad Reichenhall where Robert's family lived once upon a time, leaving the tourists in Salzburg to enjoy the gorgeous fare served at The Bürgerbräu....sauerkraut so light and fluffy, fantastic beer, served efficiently by cool waitresses in full dirndl and bosom to match sorry, waitress not included for your perusal....after all, Salzburg is a civilized kind of place...even the McDonald's sign, which I've posted before,
is discreet, the lingerie stores not without their own humor,
these people lack any self-consciousness re the body politic, as we drive into the city at night we see a large spa on top of 4 story building with windows hinting at the unisex spa clients upstairs, no worries, it's simply something they don't get fussed about, however, they do still get fussed up and wear their lovely traditional hats with feathers and pins, like the one I wear in my chistmas pic, their coats and boots are so beautifully made it takes your breath away, in fact, the entire place takes my breath away, every time....
