Hummingirl

#unreadbythebed

2010-06-22T00:17:00.005-04:00

So, unread by the bed is actually half-read on the dresser. Still, you can't mess with a Twitter hashtag. It's bad luck.

Here are a few special bits from Melissa Bank's newest book, "The Wonder Spot." She's also the author of "The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing." Bank has a gift for profiling characters so closely that in a few years, you might look back and remember them as friends. This is Cynthia, the protagonist's older brother's girlfiend...

"She was tall with very long arms and a big, red-lipsticked mouth. She was a clothing designer and had one of those personalities that drapes itself all over you at first. She hugged me when we'd met for example, and talk-talk-talked through dinner, not that I minded. She had a pretty voice and in it you could hear the song of the South at the end of a sentence."

And here's Bank's description of the protagonist Sophie's first job in book publishing where she meets Adam in the windowless "Bat Cave" on the 14th floor "though it came right after 12."

"I shared the Cave with three girls and one Boy Wonder, Adam, whom I adored. He was the kind of man who might've fished Zelda Fitzgerald out of the fountain at the Plaza, draped his cashmere coat around her shoulders, never asked for it back, and never told anyone the story."

Exquisite!

follow

2010-06-22T00:08:00.005-04:00

Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetops, child if you’re able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table
Come and touch the things you cannot feel

And close your fingertips, and fly where I can’t hold you
Let the sun rain fall and let the dewy clouds enfold you
And maybe you can sing to me, the words I just told you
If all the things you feel, aint what they seem
Then don’t mind me cause I aint nothing but a dream...

lyrics by Jerry Merrick

2010-06-08T09:59:00.003-04:00

"And the best thing you've ever done for me is to help me take my life less seriously."

Thanks Bubba.

advice

2010-06-06T23:25:00.006-04:00

"Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly."

I've been reading a lot of women's magazines lately, specifically Glamour, and in between comparing myself with the models and stars, I've actually gleaned a lot of very simple sounding but worthwhile advice. It isn't just about moisturizing masks, though I am going to try out the Greek yogurt facial.

On friendship: "If you miss her, call her."

On men: "You should never be in a relationship with someone who doesn't make you completely happy."- Michelle Obama

On finding your passion: "Aren't we all secretly aware that there are things we'd like to try--and might actually be able to do--if we weren't embarrassed to be seen trying."- Kelly Corrigan

On socializing: "You're the most interesting person in the room."- Susan Fales Hill

involuntary quiet time

2010-06-02T23:12:00.005-04:00

I've written about quiet time before. Here , here and here. But my visit to the radiologist was a different kind of quiet time.

I'm getting an MRI in the hope that my first opinion doctor, a physical therapist and all-american soccer player with dimples, is more correct than my second opinion doctor, the one who while firing questions barely answered my own, and spoke only to condescend to me in terms I didn't know. Dimples thinks I have a herniated disk which needs only a shot or a week's worth of pills. Dr. Superior says I've torn my hamstring and tough cookies. Surgery will only make it worse. Dr. Superior has more letters after his name.

Once in my blue gown minus my book, laptop, corpse of a cell phone (it passed on 2 days ago, still waiting on my delivery) or any other supportive friend substitute, I am strapped to a table and my feet are taped together. I lie on one strange medical mat while another is placed over me. I am also given a blanket, which I don't want but assume is necessary.

I ask the technician whether or not the one tiny bobby pin in my hair matters. It does. A flash of my head being slammed against the man-made grave of wonders the moment the machine turns on flits by and exits stage left. The technician puts earphones on my head, the kind Blossom might wear, and tells me to expect some noise. The background "music" which is coming from the room and not the headphones sounds like either the swish and thump of a heartbeat with a vaguely techno accent or the soundtrack to a bad seventies porn movie.

My tray starts to move diagonally and in a few seconds I am fully submerged in my cocoon. This isn't scary. I survived being put into a locker when I was nine. I wanted to try it but I didn't think anyone would close the door. I also survived being dragged around the house in a sleeping bag not knowing where I would end up. Another naive childhood game. Are you sensing a pattern? Anyway, there is no door to shut and no blindfold or blanket to cover my face. My eyes are open.

I refuse to freak out about how close my face is to the ceiling and then the little light just above my forehead. There is a sticker that reads caution "do not look into beam when (medical equipment term I don't know) is open." Do not think of a pink elephant. Do not look at the beam. I look at the beam. Sigh. I close my eyes.

For twenty minutes it sounds like I am inside a video game being shot at by tiny robots with giant guns. It doesn't hurt, but I feel the noise pressing down on me. I really do. I feel the noise. In between attacks I hear the swish and thump of the porn star's heart. Swish and thump. Swish and thump, but after a few minutes I am calm.

distraction

2010-06-01T23:21:00.007-04:00

I picked up a book today, maybe the fifth book I've gotten from the library in two weeks. Ahh yes the library, or as my friend Angela calls it "that magical place where they give you free books."
I was already reading one book, "Brooklyn" lent to me by my book club queen. (She prefers queen to president.) But now suddenly I have five more.

Anyway, this fifth books is called "Distraction: The Erosion of Attention and the Coming Dark Age," and it's written by Maggie Jackson. If you knew me, you'd understand the irony. Not only am I flipping between five books, I'm also pinballing between between three email accounts, two Twitter accounts, one Facebook account, two word docs, and often a phone that lets you text message even while you are speaking with someone else. "How do you know [whether] you have ADD or a severe case of modern life?" writes Jackson quoting Dr. Edward Hallowell. Wouldn't you like to know?

Jackson explores attention and its impact on our everyday communication tasks, our ability to create knowledge, to think deeply, and even to deepen our relationships with others. Jackson is speaking tomorrow night at the New York Public Library.

cary tennis

2010-05-31T23:12:00.005-04:00

"And with the humility came the frightening feeling that I just cannot write. Not today. I just cannot do it. I sit at the desk and nothing comes. I see the desk and fear it; I hunch over, I want to flee!"

Salon's advice columnist Cary Tennis cannot do his job. He's unable to open a letter, afraid to share his thoughts,and it's what he's paid to do. An advice columnist in crisis, struck dumb by his "old way" of pushing solutions on people. How refreshing! I'm glad for the confession. I understand what it's like to feel outside of your supposed comfort zone. And I feel forgiven. Thank you, Cary.

brad watson

2010-05-27T11:04:00.001-04:00

She thought she heard the distant trill of a bird and looked up as a crash of bubbles shot down from the surface. The bubbles cleared and she saw it was the lifeguard, his dark and curly hair about his face like a nest of water serpents. His eyes were a clear blue revelation, open wide and upon her. She held out her arms. He came forward and held her and pulled her gently upward. Her hands felt the muscles moving powerfully along his back. She thought that he must have wings this angel, and he would take her on some beautiful journey.
- The Last Days of the Dog Men: Agnes of Bob

This may read like the most cliche of romance scenes but it's far from that. Read it again and this time picture Agnes Menken, a one-eyed, eighty-something widow, whose only companion is her dog, under water.

carson mccullers

2010-05-25T23:02:00.006-04:00

I had planned to write a post about how Carson McCullers reincarnated Harper Lee's Scout Finch in the character of Mick Kelly. But a little research shows that Mick predates Scout. And a little more digging shows there's a little of Carson in Mick. So perhaps it's fair to say Carson is the original "pass the damn ham" Scout Finch. Though she's a lot more complex than an adolescent tomboy.

In a profile of McCullers, aptly titled, "A life of Confusion," Kelly Geissler explains, "Through her life Carson McCullers experienced loneliness, sexual and emotional confusion and pain that lead her to writing peices of America's greatest works that will be cherishd by all in a world she helped to bring closer together."

On page 51, Portia, the Kelly's maid says to Mick...

But you haven't never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide. But just the same I knows you. This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied. You going to traipse all around like you have to find something lost. You going to work yourself up with excitement. Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you don't love and don't have peace. And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined.

(Mick's little brother interrupts)

"What Portia?" Bubber asked. "What Kinds of things does He [God] eat?"

Mick laughed and stamped out of the room.

-- The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

running

2010-05-24T23:55:00.003-04:00

For the first time in nearly ten years, I took a break from running. And for a time I didn’t miss it. I began to look at runners differently. They seemed not just incapable of slowing down, but incapable of appreciating. Runners seemed focused on pace, time, and form, to the exclusion of the life and landscape existing around them. At some point, the goals of a runner started to seem shallow and self-centered.

As someone forced to walk instead of run because of an injury, I grew critical of runners. It was easy to see how much runners were missing. How little they actually absorbed of the world, even when it was pressing in all around them. While I still believe all of these things to be true, I also know that I was jealous and maybe a little angry. What I really felt was left behind.

On Saturday, I ran a short race, but I ran it differently than before. Instead of weaving through the crowds, playing my own version of Human Tetris, I tried to keep steady. Instead of tagging people ahead of me--the man with the tattooed shoulder, the girl with the tri-colored tank and the red-hair —I let them go. And instead of watching the clock at every mile, I tried to ignore it. I was simply running to finish, and hoping not to stop.

It was hard, much harder than I thought it would be for a lot of reasons. But looking back, even an hour or a day, you forget so quickly just how hard any race is. The feeling that I might not make it weighed on me, on my legs, my eyelids, my lungs and my heart. That feeling of defeat and shame is indescribable, hateful, soul-crushing. And I remembered it from another race, where I'd the fastest possible time I could have run, only to find myself a mile off course in the middle of the night and faced with a hill whose slope made me want to laugh, cry, evaporate on the spot. I felt that very same feeling in this race, a much easier race. But somehow, both times, I did finish and I didn’t stop.

Now that I am healed, or healing rather, I look forward to those runs that are solely mechanical, where the outside world doesn't matter. Nothing matters, but the feel of your arms and legs slicing the air and thrusting you forward. Where pushing yourself until your heart is bursting is a good feeling, something to strive for. And while I want all of that, the independence, the exhilaration, the letting go of control, every so often I will remember this break. I will remember that sometimes I'll need to take a breath, to slow down, and to see what else I’ve been missing.

strangers

2010-05-18T22:48:00.007-04:00

I have about a dozen stranger friends. In my solipsism, they seem to have only one place to be, one job to do, frozen in my own little snow globe. But I know that isn't true. I know they don't always wear a certain style of dress or uniform. I know that they have bad days, can get angry, and sad, and aren't always smiling and waving.

Still, seeing them delights me.

There was a time when New York was very lonely to me. I rode subways to nowhere. I went to bookstores until they closed and coffee shops until my eyes were closing. I remember one Saturday night standing with a bunch of spectators watching street performers in Union Square. I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to, but I didn't want to be alone.

But I've brought my world closer to me. I have a lot of very real friendships and I also have these stranger friends with whom I share a type of friendship, something so frail and surface-y on inspection, but still satisfying. When I catch one of these stranger friends on the sidewalk, or behind the glass of a store, or in the walking a dog, looking at me and catch myself looking back at them, I feel cared about and missed and important in a way that maybe isn't quite normal. Whether it's need or greed or just plain gratefulness, I can't really articulate. Some piece of me connects with some piece in each of them and it sparks.

lost

2010-05-15T01:23:00.008-04:00

I was reading in my corner of doorspace on the subway about a month ago when somebody started shouting. I looked around for the voice and it came from a girl, a woman rather. She was sitting hunched over with her hair hanging in her face. And sceaming, "Stop hurting me. Leave me alone. Haven't you done enough." Nobody was touching her. Nobody was hurting her. The people sitting next to her got up and moved to the aisle.

At first I thought it might be some kind of sociological experiment. Let's see if there's anyone in New York that gives a damn about a stranger. I did, I really thought she was testing us. But the way she stamped her feet, clamped her ears and the way the screams ripped out of her with the force of some deep living thing being wrenched over and over from her insides, the more clear it became that this was not an act.

People weren't unkind. I don't remember any ugly looks or anyone laughing. I remember at one stop, the doors opened and a woman, seeing the empty seat next to the shouting girl sat down. No one did anything to warn her. What could we say? But the gut wrenching screams began again, "Stop hurting me.LEAVE MEEEE ALOOOOONE." And like everyone else, she stood up. The ride continued this way for another fifteen minutes. The stamping, the shouting, she was wearing her throat down and our ears were ringing.

I kept waiting for someone to do something, to sit beside her, to tell her that it was going to be okay. I know there were other people in that car that did care. I cared. I thought I might try, might put a hand on her shoulder. But I was too scared. I don't know if I was more scared of what she would do or what everyone else would think.

The woman was wearing khakis and one of those airy Indian blouses, with a messenger bag. Her hair was dirty blond. She wasn't old. She was close to my age. She wasn't homeless, wasn't drunk or on drugs.

I got off the same stop of the train as she did. I tried not to watch her but I wanted to see her face. I still wanted to say something or do something, but I didn't know what. In the end I did nothing. I did see her face though, as she turned a corner, and it wasn't scary or ugly or mean. It was lost.
(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/risus_in_silva/2306446413/sizes/m/)

window

2010-05-10T23:20:00.004-04:00

Across the street, there are 18 windows, 12 make up one building and six make up half of another. The lights are all off. The light in the fifth window on the second floor usually stays on the longest. It glows blue-white from two bulbs in a ceiling fixture, you can see the bulbs clearly and you can see a man's shirt hanging by the window to dry. Sometimes you see two little boys, watching the street or eating icepops.

The other windows are lit a buttery yellow from lamps and ceiling fans. The blue-white room is really on the third floor. The first floor gets skipped because no one seems to live there, and because those windows are mostly blocked by the leaves of a single tree, so you wouldn't know if they did.

There are two fire escapes, one on top of the other, that noone ever sits on. And there are two stoops leading to the buildings alcoves. One has a lit diamond window cut out of the door, the other a semi-circle above it. You can't see the cars driving by, but you can hear them passing, like erasers on a chalkboard, the clunk of the manhole, and the shadow sound of the heavy air, before it turns still again.

neil

2010-05-09T21:15:00.008-04:00

My friend C, and I are at a coffee shop on our laptops on a Friday night. Yes, if you're wondering this does make us cooler than you. But our cool quotient rises, when I start to gush about the music that's playing. It's Neil Diamond. I was raised on a very rigid music diet of Neil, Barbara, and Elvis. "Love on the rocks, aint no big surprise. Just pour me a drink and I'll tell you some lies," I remember my nine-year old self singing.

The barrista tells me "in any relationship, one person has to like Neil Young and one person has to like Neil Diamond." It's not a pick up line, or doesn't sound like one, but I like this guy.

dance

2010-05-09T20:57:00.008-04:00

In my first year in the city, I remember walking through Madison Square Park on my way to work, and noticing the girl in front of me with headphones on just bopping her head a little bit, then swaying in small circles. Suddenly she broke to a stop, just planted her feet and threw her arms in the air and started breaking it down, like she was 15 standing in her bedroom with her hairbrush as a microphone. The men and women in suits and the early street cleaners, gave her a look, and just kept walking. No matter what happens in New York, the thing to do is always to keep moving. I was still green and didn't know the rules, and so I stared.

She was tracing the pattern of invisible rain with her fingertips, and then she was clenching her fists, and she was knocking on the air, her arms out wide then narrow and then she was shimmying down into a twist. And when she rose, she actually did, she danced a little circle, one pointed toe in front of the other. The whole time, her eyes were shut tight, her nose scrunched, her curls were bouncing. I thought she might just explode or vaporize and simply become the music.

(photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kaitastrophic/3460193557/sizes/o/)

29 things i'm grateful for

2010-05-07T23:54:00.004-04:00

1. dark chocolate
2. quiet time
3. short stories
4. empty parks
5. the best friends in the world, seriously!
6. strangers who smile without cause
7. the MTA driver that reopens the doors
8. rooftops
9. skype
10. black and white photos
11. baby front carriers
12. morning rain
13. relatives that like each other
14. can openers and microwaves (I would starve)
15. hammocks
16. stars
17. favorite hoodies
18. good housemates
19. darby and the bean
20. the perfect apple
21. ann patchett
22. my boys
23. running
24. new york in spring
25. book readings
26. outdoor concerts
27. neil diamond, oh yeah!
28. the ability to swim, think about it
29. street vendors

29

2010-05-06T23:20:00.007-04:00

interview

2010-05-05T22:27:00.001-04:00

When you're interviewing a subject for a profile, you want to sound bright, likable, and clever. You want your questions to sound well-thought out but not rehearsed. You struggle to keep your voice from dipping into a monotone. You struggle to allow the pause after the question. Wait. It will end. Filling the space with rambling incarnations of the same question is never a good idea.

And sometimes you have to fight to connect. It's like trying to make your way through a maze in the dark. Each word brings you closer or further from the substance you're seeking but sometimes twenty minutes in you realize you've walked in a complete circle and gained nothing. You wish you bought that stupid iPhone with that stupid GPS locator. Then finally you take the path that seemed the hardest, the place you didn't want to go, and start to crawl, and you find that connection, the switch was there. It's also a clapper. "You always had the power," you hear Glinda the Good Witch condescend. You glare at her.

humility

2010-05-03T23:31:00.006-04:00

A friend, Amy Cunningham, wrote an article that sought to define the term "humility." As part of her research, she met with cloistered nuns in Washington DC. The sacrifices they endure, living in six by eight foot cells, chanting for 8 hours daily and then waking at 1:30 AM for matins seem unimaginable. But the hardest part to me would be not seeing siblings or family more than twice a year and not being allowed to hug these relatives for TWENTY FIVE YEARS!!

But what resonated most for me in this article was Cunningham's own definition of humility:"Your life’s assignment is to greet your fellow men with the assumption that they have a good thing inside them that you are curious to discover, no matter who they are."

summer

2010-05-02T22:39:00.006-04:00

A life is time, they teach us growing up
The seconds ticking killed us all
A million years before the fall

To me, this song is summer.

I am 14, sitting shotgun in the car my sister has just learned to drive. We are going to the beach. Her friends are in the back. I can't yet drive, clearly, but I'm excited enough to have a sister who can.

The music is turned up, the windows are rolled down, and one of my legs is half-way out the car window, my foot dangling over the side mirror. I expect her to yell at me, but she doesn't. We are singing with every ounce of ourselves, as if we understand all of the singer's angst and suffering, his philosophical ponderings, and what the lyrics actually mean.

You swim like lions through the crest
And bathe yourself on zebra flesh

boxing

2010-05-01T17:17:00.004-04:00

“What made you box?” The question was put to me by an older gentleman I’d met waiting outside in the rain for the community pool to open. He was olive-skinned, and had eyelashes so long they curled, instead of batting his goggles. His question was concise, straightforward and open-ended. It was also somewhat personal.

When people think of boxing, they usually picture two men in a ring--slip, parry, weave, and then a slow-motion blow, eyes closed, lips peeling away from a face and blood splattering. But when they think of a woman boxing, someone like me, they picture an aerobics class. Step kickball change, punch, hop-step, breathe. And punch again!!

The boxing I do actually falls somewhere between the two. It's hardly jazzercize but save for about three minutes, no one is throwing any punches at you just taps—and the more serious “love taps” are always reserved for guys.

So why do I do it? Everyone has an issue to work out and my instructor is quick to comment on "my issues" on days when I hit hard. But the real reason I box is simple. "It makes me feel strong," I said. It’s less about hurting someone else than it is about proving myself to myself. My answer gave a little too much away, but he'd asked the right question in the right way and I trusted him implicitly. Satisfied, he smiled and kept on swimming.

lullabye

2010-04-29T22:20:00.003-04:00

A CD came in the mail today. It’s my lullabye and noone can appreciate it as much as I do. I listened to it years ago lying in my college dorm room, a pile of laundry at the foot of the bed, books across the floor. I was stressed and a little unhinged, and it calmed me.

First there is a woman humming and awwing, then the flute starts to stir, a solitary animal waking. It gets playful but there’s still this blanket of calm, and that’s the piano—a constant. The piano is everything else, the whole world, sky, the wind, the trees, and grasses, one front that seems to draw closer and closer protecting you. The guitar eases in rattling darkly, wildlly, portending something ominous but within a few bars, whatever it is, is subdued, gentled. The threat isn’t gone just transformed. And the story ends with the woman still humming, this time a little more sadly, but also a little relieved.

The best way to listen to this song is lying down. Arms out and legs spread. Noone can lie that way for long, you feel too vulnerable, but it's the best way.

In defense of TMI

2010-04-27T21:55:00.005-04:00

A friend and former colleague of mine wrote, an awesomely convincing parody of Gilbert's writing. Commenters called the parody "alarming" and "jaw droppingly brilliant" and "the best thing on the Internet today." And I agreed and still do. The likeness was stunning but also saddening. If someone like Gilbert could be impersonated so easily, what does that mean for the rest of the writers out there. And while the parody stresses the flaws, the run-ons and the deluge of details, characteristic of Gilbert's writing. It forgets what makes Gilbert's writing so refreshing; she can do what writers are so often told to do: "close the door and write." Someone who worried about sounding vain, desperate, weak, or condescending, could never have written Gilbert's first book or her second.

Best part of my day

2010-04-27T06:30:00.001-04:00

I went to the park in the rain. It was empty. There were no asian brides, (Sorry but it's only ever asian brides.Not sure why.) no moms with strollers, no artists, no girls lying out in bikinis, no pensive writer types stooped over notebooks, no photographers, no dozing hipsters. Normally I can enjoy the scene. It's interesting to me. But yesterday it was just me, the rain, and the tide coming in on the rocks. Just for a few minutes. And I loved it.

the neighborhood

2010-04-26T23:35:00.012-04:00

A man was shot a few months ago on my street. I was at home on a conference call. It was a sunny day and after the police and the ambulance came, all the kids went back to whatever they were doing outside.

From what I read and what I've been told the man didn't live in the neighborhood. He was a "bad apple" and had been in trouble before. He had crossed the wrong people. But he was visiting his mother, who as it turns out wasn't home. He died.

I told at least a dozen people the story. This man’s death became a bragging right. I told his story because it spoke to the character of my neighborhood, it ruggedness, it's toughness and my own by extension. And yes, it makes me sick to think I could be that callous, to treat his life as fodder for gossip, the seed of this blog post, but I couldn't and still can't resist.

When I heard the shots, I didn't do anything. I was still trying to tell myself they weren't gunshots,but cars don't backfire three times in succession. My apartment-mate had called down to the street, "Is everyone okay?" Even at the time, it seemed an absurd question. But it wasn't a scenario, either of us were used to. And in her way, she was trying to help.

A friend asked me later if I had called the police. It hadn't even occurred to me. I stayed on that conference call, shaken but not really wanting to believe the worst.

Only a few days ago, I saw a group of teens shouting loudly in the street and a car take off after a boy who was running. "Get him. Run over the n#%&@r," one boy shouted. Another girl in the crowd screamed, "That's my cousin." She was crying, hands in her hair, bending over as if she might collapse, a few girls held her up. I kept thinking, "How many boys can outrun a car?"

I'm only a guest in this neighborhood, even though I've been here for over five years. There is a linguistic, racial, and economic divide that separates my side of the street from those across the way. The fighting frightens me more than I want to admit, but it doesn't affect me anyway near as much as it effects the neighbhorhoods real tenants. The grieving mother, the scared cousin and the alternately tough and terrified manboys that find themselves running down my block. but mostly it makes me sad to think that in all this time I've probably never said even a "hello" to any of them.

Brooklyn Snow

2010-02-18T13:56:00.004-05:00

I wish I could say I took this photo, but I did nudge the photographer to get outside and take it.

www.allisonmaletz.com

Little boxes

2010-02-05T04:40:00.007-05:00

"I suppose I have always known it is hard to be just one person. The key is in the door and it can always be opened."

~Gloria
Let The Great World Spin- Collum McCann

This quote comes from a scene in the book where a Judge Soderberger who entered his home to find his wife speaking with a dowdily dressed black woman, Gloria, in his penthouse apartment, says a vague hello to the stranger, ignores her, starts talking about his day to his wife and quickly goes upstairs. Relief comes a moment later, when after speaking to his wife, the judge returns and addresses Gloria properly. He offers a sincere apology as well as condolences for the three sons, Gloria lost in Vietnam. Both women were part of the same grief group.

A librarian I spoke with a few weeks ago, Sarah Houghton-Jan, who happens to be a goth librarian, told me that she is often judged by people based on her appearance. On several occasions people have told her to "start dressing like a normal person." Others ask her if she's a satan worshipper. She said something that resonated, "We like to put people in boxes. Our brains just work that way. We like to categorize things. And it’s sad."

There are only Two or Three Human Stories

2010-01-12T10:10:00.009-05:00

"There are only two or three human stories and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.
There are only two or three human stories and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before.
There are only two or three human stories and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before."
- Willa Cather (1873- 1947) O Pioneers!

This is from the Library Walk between the Lion Library and Grand Central (yes the Lion Library is it's official name, thank you). And thank you Reid Harris Cooper for taking these photos, I hope it was warm out. Thank you Willa. And thank you Robert. I think they ate the same thing for breakfast that day. Or perhaps they sat together in study hall (I know, I know not possible.) Still, I'd like to have been there.

"Someone is reading in a deepening room
Where something happens, something that will come

To happen again. Something that will happen again as many times
As she is reading in as many rooms

What happens outside that calm like water braiding
Over green stones? The ones of little reading

Or who never read for love, are many places
They are in the house of power, and many houses..."

- Robert Pinsky (1940-) "Library Scene"

Only sunlight

2010-01-09T19:36:00.009-05:00

On short winter days, I remember a little girl I met over ten years ago. I was her home health aide, in other words, I was a babysitter for sick kids.

She couldn't speak, walk on her own, had respiratory problems, and was almost completely blind, except she could tell shapes in light and shadow. I still picture her standing at the window of her house, barricaded into the living room by couches and other furniture so she wouldn’t hurt herself. She's a lean girl of five or six, propping herself up with one hand on a tabletop and one on the entertainment system. Her mother has combed her hair into three little ponytails, then twisted the hair into tiny barrettes. She is wearing a neat pink shirt and overalls. Her nostrils are already beginning to crust even though her nose has been suctioned twice. Her tongue is hanging loose out of one side of her mouth, and her breath comes out in raspy pants. She is looking through the slits in the window blinds, playing with the sun, rolling her head around on her neck, letting it trace a design somewhere, some surface. Instead of white and grey matter, I picture a screen like an etch-a-sketch where the ink is instead light, and the drawing is only pieces of spaghetti, some straight, some curled, with a splash, here and there, but she is smiling.

You can argue that she will never actually be happy, that she doesn’t understand what happiness is, or that this not living. She will never write, never make friends, never hold a job, never fall in love. And in so many ways, she does not exist. Although her mother and one brother who love her fiercely--then six, I watched him carry her from her stroller up a ladder and down the slide--would disagree. I had the same thoughts, quite often, and if I saw her now at 15 or 16, perhaps still in overalls, with a diaper bunching up underneath, I might still. But sometimes you have to let go of every sensible doubt, resist the clever comeback, the scientific rebuttal, and hope for that one small thing that for no reason means infinitely more than you think it should.

(Photo: courtesy of Mornby's photostream on flickr)

Play it sad.

2010-01-08T15:27:00.000-05:00

I adore sad songs. I mean listening to sad music can make you, well... depressed but it's just so much more powerful than upbeat stuff. Sad songs are sad in all different kinds of ways, there's ghostly sad like (Cat Power) angry sad, (The National) existential sad (Cat Stevens) and casual glum (Kate Nash- Navy Taxi). Some don't even have lyrics, like one of Yann Tiersen's from the Amelie soundtrack or Yo Yo Ma's from "Casualties of War".

A few months back I read Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks (thump...thump, I've a crush on him, not in a bad way, just want to adopt him as an uncle or something) and there was one passage that really stood out. Music critic Nick Coleman, wrote about losing his ability to appreciate the emotional resonance of music when he lost hearing in one of his ears. “I used to hear ‘buildings’ … three-dimensional forms of architectural substance and tension … I now only get architectural drawings … I can’t enter music and I can’t perceive its inner spaces.”

I go to sleep and wake up with songs in my head. Every, every day. I don't know what I'd do if I lost the power that music has. I guess then I'd really be sad.

New Year's resolutions

2010-01-06T22:03:00.006-05:00

"Living in the present," said one friend. "Finding some quiet alone time," said another. Because I've borrowed them both and melted them together, I guess I own them now. (Not the friends, the resolutions).

Finding quiet in New York isn't easy. But the loudest places can be quiet too. If you walk under the Manhattan Bridge, you hear the roar of subway trains above, like a hundred man chain gang all dropping sledgehammers in unison, over and over, can drown out the non-stop brain hum, then the smooth blurring of their fury fades into a uniform echo. The white noise of car traffic returns, broken by the occasional trundling of a loud truck. You watch, as the wrinkled water, like a letter recovered, flattened then threatened once again by a rough wind, quietly laps the rocks.

And if you actually ride the train, you can try to block out the noise with a good book, a very good book. Or you can put the book away and try to hear all the voices at once, rising and falling, male and female, along with the grumble of the tracks, an urban symphony. You can look down from another bridge notice that red bridge isn't quite red, and the barren baseball fields, warmed only by field lights, give you the same feeling as an empty chapel.

On the other side, you can hear the sirens below, and you notice for the first time thre are numbers on their roofs. You can see the bright splashes of color inside of other people's homes, paintings, furniture, clothing. You might see a face, a person there inside an apartment, a man cooking dinner over the stove--pasta you think-- a couple watching television on the couch--are they happy? You see them only for a second. A snapshot, a frozen slice of time.

something clever

2009-09-12T17:11:00.009-04:00

A few months ago, at a book party, I met one of my favorite authors. I had read her book years before, between "real jobs," and I say that to the real waitresses out there because I am not a good waitress, if I were I might have worked at a real restaurant.

Anyhow, I could not justify $25 on a hardcover. But I read her book, all 400 some pages of it sitting in the window at Barnes and Noble overlooking Union Square, back when they would let you sit on the sill. I loved her book. I chose my next job, because of her book. I looked up the name of her agent and wrote him a letter--it was more complicated than that--but basically that's what happened. Still by the time I met her, all I could remember was a scene where time slows and light puddles next to a sleeping baby in his crib before making it's way over to him, to blanket him. It was brilliant.

We got into a conversation about travel and I tried to explain just how strange plane travel really is. I said something about the fact of not experiencing the time and the place in between. It's being so easy made it feel artificial, and the new place less wonderful, "unearned" is the word that comes to me now. And looking back on her expression, I think she could tell, I admired her and all I wanted was to be remembered.

So last night I went to a book reading. I had heard of one of the authors, had picked up his book "More Than It Hurts You" at least once or twice without buying it. The poets names both sounded familiar. Had I heard them read before? It was raining and I felt I the way you sometimes need a movie or a book by a fire, or an empty park all to yourself, I needed to be read to.

Readings are complex things, because once you've sat there and listened and watched the author turn themselves inside out, plunge into their mind and yours, reminding you of some strange, ineffable moment in your own life, you know you'll want to share it. It's stealing. The book is their own and it's their story not yours. It didn't happen to you, you only feel that way, all fifty people in the audience feel that way. But still you can't resist.

And everyone there in the audience is some kind of frightened writer, though most will deny it and the ones that are proud of it make you crazy with envy and also a little sick.

When the reading is over, I always want to ask, did you ever think that you would stand in front of a total stranger with something in your hand, something illustrated, with a bolded title, a bar code and blurbs if you are lucky, and say, "Who should I make this out to?" Would they be kind enough to lie? Or would it be more refreshing to hear the truth?

This reading was at a spa, but the space that everyone goes to when the reading is over is a writing space. I go through a couple glasses of wine before I feel brave enough to tell the author, Darin Strauss what I want to say. I want to say, " I have been standing here for half an hour throwing up and swallowing back different phrases in my mind but none of them seem original, I won't be able to tell you anything you haven't heard before,"" but even that sounds pretentious, planned, writerly or worse want-to-be writerly.

So maybe it's better to just say nothing. I will say nothing. And I think something about his line, "How do parents know the things they know" which is clinging to some corner of my brain, just scraping and gnawing, it's so much more than what it sounds like. It is spoken as he is walking into a church next to his father to attend the funeral of a girl he killed, "half a lifetime ago" he says. There had been a car accident and the story he told was true, but I won't give it all away.

Instead what comes out is something entirely unplanned about rawness, richness and honesty and hanging on every word. "I know it's a cliche." I'm so used to that saying that to authors I want to punch myself in the gut each time but it comes out.

Still his book was all of these things and I did hang on every word. But the story begs the question of exploitation. From the first line, "I killled a girl, half a lifetime ago," you think, "And you're writing about this? You're turning this girl's death, her family's loss into art?" You want us to feel bad for you for killing a girl? But because of what happened, the way it happened, he got more than pity, he got anger and grudging forgiveness and then a lawsuit.

But people were compassionate too, empathetic. You can romanticize death, he explains it's possible. You can make it into a story, you can make it about you and your hurt, your anger. It's your ace in the hole with friends, with the opposite sex. But the whole time, you know it isn't yours to own, and as soon as you start to feel okay about it, you wish you didn't. This is what he says, and I don't know why I connect with this.

So, even though people might cringe thinking of the family of this girl, the one he killed, and the friends of this girl who will read this book, I understand why it has to be written. Because it makes you feel something. And whether you need to define it, mold it into some recognizable shape, with a name, and explain how in some twisted way you can relate to even the worst parts of his confession, it is up to you, because it isn't your story it never was, and maybe it's enough to just say, "I was moved."

Guide to Hiring Women: 1943

2009-03-09T17:39:00.008-04:00

My friend Kate emailed me this very helpful article,written by a man for a man who is toying with the idea of hiring women to work for him. Strangely when I found a re-published version online at the Seattle Post Intelligencer, the writer, Alyssa Rose had gotten it from her own friend Kate.

Here are a few choice morsels:

* When you have to use older women, try to get ones who have worked outside the home at some point in their lives. Older women ... are inclined to be cantankerous and fussy.

* General experience indicates that "husky" girls – those who are just a little on the heavy side – are more even tempered and efficient than their underweight sisters.

* Give the female employee a definite day-long schedule of duties so that they'll keep busy without bothering the management for instructions every few minutes.

I think I'll dedicate this lovely slideshow, "Women Who Dared" to the very thoughtful author of this article. Aww snap!

Happy International Women's Day

2009-03-05T23:15:00.014-05:00

On Thursday, I went with some friends to see A Powerful Noise, a documentary about three women living in Mali, Vietnam and Bosnia and Herzegovinia coping with issues of war, gender bias and disease and their effects on the people there. For anyone who missed it here are some quick snatches from the film.

Madame Urbain (Jacqueline) a powerful African woman, leads an organization that educates and defends the right of young migrant women living in Bamako. Madame Urbain gives a ground trembling sermon about educating girls, but the old men sit stone-faced and silent, refusing to clap. She takes one young teenager's employer to court for burning the woman's baby with a knife and refusing to pay her her salary.

In Bosnia and Herzegovinia, Nada, a survivor of Bosnia and Herzegovinia's gruesome has started an organization for women, both Serbs and Bosniaks, to grow and sell produce. They also hold open forums to discuss their problems, business-related and otherwise. One woman reluctantly admit that her husband doesn't want her at the meetings, but she comes anyway.

In Vietnam, Bui Thi Hanh an HIV-positive woman describes taking her sick daughter to meet with a doctor who asks her husband, if he ever injected drugs. "He was silent," she said. "The doctor told us to go home and shut the doors." On top of dealing with the illness the family was shamed into isolation. Hanh lost her husband and daughter, then she created the group The Immortal Flower so people with HIV/AIDs could see they weren't alone.

In a graduation speech, a young girl thanks Madame Urbain for teaching her to read and write. Now, not only can she write her own name but when she goes to the market she can make a list so she doesn't forget anything.

Following the film, Ann Curry led a panel comprised of Natalie Portman, Madeleine Albright, Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times, Christy Turlington-Burns, and Dr. Helene Gayle of CARE. Here is a bullet point summary of highlights.

*Madeleine Albright despite the recession, we have to continue to see beyond our own domestic problems. She said even if you aren't altruistic, helping other countries is a form of national security.

* Natalie Portman described a poignant conversation with women in northern Uganda who would say to her, "I wish I didn't get raped everyday on the way to school." Several panelists brought up the problem of "rape as a weapon" and how it is being used to decimate villages in the Congo.

* Natalie Portman spoke about the role of Hollywood in raising awareness, saying "not every movie should be didactic" but that Hollywood can have an effect on people. In movies like An Inconvenient Truth or Syrianna, she said there's a "collective social empathy" where audiences channel the feelings of character's and try to understand their lives. It something people will remember after they leave the theater.

* Christy Turlington- Burns talked about maternal healthcare, the dangers for women ranging from death to fistula. She spoke about delaying marriage explaining that when girls get married at 13 the chances of ever getting an education decrease.

* In response to Anne Curry's question, Do men feel disempowered when women are empowered, Helene Gayle of CARE said no. She said, "The men look at their wives differently. Now she is contributing something." She added, "Brothers look at their sisters differently when they are sitting next to them in a classroom"

* Albright said that men can be supportive, but they aren't always, sometimes instead they do feel competitive, especially when women take jobs that were traditionally men's.

* Nicholas Christof spoke about microfinancing and put forward the idea that when there are women leaders in government there is less corruption. Turlington-Burns gave Liberia as an example of a country where microfinancing started as a grass roots movement and then exploded and the women involved in it were basically responsible for electing the country's next president. As Ann Curry pointed out, "Africa beat the U.S. "Liberia elected its first woman president, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. Natalie Portman championed KIVA, a site that lets you partner with one woman in a developing country, through direct communications and loans.

* All the panelist and Ann Curry encouraged audiences to write to their congressmen about these issues and to visit CARE's Web site.
The film's organizers have also designed a downloadable discussion guide.

Cat Power= Real Power.

2009-02-24T18:15:00.005-05:00

I was introduced to her music two summers ago and listened to her sing at a park in Brooklyn. She came back a few weeks ago, but I missed her. Most of her songs, even the upbeat ones sound sad in her smoky voice, but oh so pretty. Come back Cat!!

Inspiration from TED

2009-02-23T12:33:00.004-05:00

This posting is a simple referral. For anyone in a creative profession, and I'm not only talking about the arts but the sciences as well, I think you might really enjoy these two lectures from TED.

The first lecture is from author Elizabeth Gilbert, who discusses her anxiety over writing her next book, after the "freak success" of her recent bestseller, "Eat Pray Love."

Pointing to a number of authors who were considered "geniuses" and whose creative condition was assumed responsible for their inescapable melancholy or even suicide. Gilbert believes that the problem lies in our perspective. She distinguishes between the constructs of "having versus being genius" and explains that for hundreds of years when someone created a masterpiece you always credited "the muse," or "the genius in the walls" as this theory dissipated, we decided to credit the actual individual and that was where the problem started.

Gilbert explains, "Allowing somebody to think To believe that he or she is the vessel, the fount and the essence and the source of all divine creative unknowable, eternal mystery is like a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile human psyche. It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun."

Gilbert also touches on others who believe in the concept of the muse, as a force, based on antecdotes from songwriter Tom Waits and poet Ruth Stone.

The second lecture, I'd like to highlight is from a woman named Jill Bolte Taylor a brain researcher who explains what it was like to experience her own stroke. She explains what it felt like when the vessel in the left hemisphere of her brain burst and she narrates each of her thought processes, from trying to move her legs, and trying to decipher letters and numbers, to discovering she's lost the inability to speak. It took 8 years for her to fully recovery from her stroke, but from her perspective the loss was actually a gift.
Bolte Taylor recalls, "Because I could no longer feel the boundaries of my body, I felt enormous and expansive ... and it was beautiful."

Slumdog Millionaire

2009-02-22T23:09:00.008-05:00

SPOILER ALERT: Do not read this if you haven't seen Slumdog Millionaire.

I took a mini-vacation from blogging, partly because I was busy and partly because I didn’t feel I had anything of substance to share. Since I’m years past being a student, everything I’ve learned in the past 5 and a half years has come from one of a handful of sources, books, the news, conversation, and movies. And frankly, only when and if I discover something insightful, engaging or memorable, do I feel I have something worth writing about. And even then I risk being misunderstood or worse, ignored.

After a week’s worth of dismal recession talk. I 've counted no less than five long conversations in person or on email about people losing their jobs in publishing, television, or the Internet. I worry over which writers, lawyers and banker friends still sitting at their desks waiting to be tapped, will actually be next. Sunday morning, I listened to a two-week old BBC podcast. I don't mean this to sound funny, but the man being interviewed sounded so incredibly hopeless and his voice reminded me of Eeyore. He'd run a forklift for over 31 years and his father, had worked for GM before him. He told a BBC reporter, "We can see that it's all necessary, it's just a matter of giving us you know, a little consideration, down on the shop floor, We'd like to be able to plan a little bit. It is our lives after all."

In the context of all this desperation, I decided perhaps rather appropriately that I needed to see Slumdog Millionaire. The film is in some ways the kind of cotton candy rags to riches fantasy that fuels the Bollywood industry, and it’s interesting to see that in the U.S. it’s the kind of escapism we crave right now.

A boy and his brother are orphaned, in a vivid and very true-to-life scene, where Hindu extremists slaughter Muslims. As they flee the area, they take along a third girl orphan girl, Latika. The three clever urchins scrimp scrounge and steal until circumstance splits the third musketeer , the girl, from the group. The younger brother Jamal, makes it his mission to find her and to save her.

I won't reveal the entire plot but this is where the spoiler begins so stop now if you haven't seen it. Leaving the theatre I noticed, the same Christmas-like exuberance that follows a fairytale ending. I remember feeling it after seeing Amelie in the theater for the first-time. And why shouldn’t people have been happy? Boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, it was the formula we wanted. On top of that, and in true Indian fashion, the good guys get rich. It was heart-warming, purist, but not Disney-fied, apart from the Bollywood (Bhangra?) dance routine that ran through the credits.

While I didn’t want to be a buzzkill, it seemed the giddy excitement of the romance triggered some form of instantaneous amnesia towards the much darker ending, Saleem, the protagonist's brother’s suicide. I felt like the entire audience had forgotten him. In a reflection that seemed out of character, (I generally look for the silver lining rather than pointing out the thorny and jagged edges) I wanted to consider the story from a realist’s perspective. And to me it seemed the sadder and quickly forgotten story of Saleem, a scrappy slum kid, hardened by society, taught in Darwinist fashion to bargain, steal, lie, kill, and even rape his childhood friend (while only vaguely alluded to, this seems highly likely) seemed the more powerful and perhaps the truer story. But who am I to say what's real.

I have never been to India. My sister, curiously, was on a flight to India just as I was sitting down in the theater. I texted her as her plane prepared for departure, to let her know that while she was on her way to a town outside Vellore, where she had lived for a year, I was attempting to experience life in India on screen.

I have never been to India, but I have visited Southeast Asia. During my visit, I did see a sliver of the rough side of life there. I saw beggars that had been maimed by roadside bombs in Cambodia. On Kho San Road in Thailand, I saw teenage girls petting and being petted by men decades older and even listened nauseated as an Australian man attempted to explain to me that this was a different kind of a woman, who wanted these things. This was a life that was worked for her, that it was a "good life." I did not slap him, but would anyone have blamed me if I had.

I did not give money or food to every begging child, mother, or grandmother. I took their photos and occasionally bought a pencil or a soda. Much like in the movie, there were so many sad faces, so many beggars, children holding babies, mothers wailing, and I found that in less than a week I had hardened myself to all of them. But in some places the children despite whatever tumultuous past they had, despite whatever horrors they had seen, they actually did seem happy.

I visited an orphanage run by two Swiss women where children ate together, sang together, played together and prayed together. The older girl acted as mothers for the younger ones. They lived with them, as if they were true families in individual huts. Each one cared for every child younger than themselves and seven and eight year-olds took turns carrying around the babies.

Unsupervised, they all played together in a big room, regardless of age. They played games that looked like "buck buck"-- where a train of bent over bodies forms a line with their heads tucked in and a team of kids one by one literally runs jumps and throws their little bodies at the train, trying to collapse it. Some would chat in groups while others would kick and punch helicopter-like in tiny buzzing circles without any regard for who got in their way. But when someone got hurt they didn't cry for more than a minute. They never expected anyone to hear them and to see that they were okay. They liked having their picture taken. They liked holding my hand and sitting in my lap. But as much as I liked seeing them I did not know how to say goodbye. On the day that I was leaving, I was afraid to go back. I worried that the women who ran the orphanage, and had been somewhat hesitant to let me in, thought that I considered myself self-important. That saying goodbye was an invitation to be missed, after only a few days. Or maybe I was afraid that the children would actually miss me, that they might actually cry and ask me to stay. I did not say goodbye and apart from realizing that this orphanage was where I should have started my journey instead of ended it, it was the greatest regret or my trip.

Still, this slip of life, this glimmer of how others live was as close as I have come. If a movie, by inducing pity and horror and then washing it away with a light-hearted, sparkly ending, (though admittedly, traces of darkness did seep through) can bring back that same unsettled feeling, that realization of how little I actually know of the world, I think it's worth experiencing.

Define Boyfriend

2009-02-12T14:23:00.002-05:00

An excerpt: Marguerite Field's "Want to Be My Boyfriend: Please Define"

"I thought I knew something about monogamy. Because, despite the fleeting nature of most of my encounters, and despite my own role in their short duration, I think what I have been seeking in some form from all of these men is permanence.

Sometimes I don’t like them, or am scared of them, and a lot of times I’m just bored by them. But my fear or dislike or boredom never seems to diminish my underlying desire for a guy to stay, or at least to say he is going to stay, for a very long time."

Happy Birthday Sweet Search!

2009-01-26T16:35:00.006-05:00

Today findingDulcinea declared war on "search engine fatigue" by launching a new product called SweetSearch.

Anne Kostick writing on findingDuclinea's Blog explains, "SweetSearch is the offshoot of three years of research by findingDulcinea’s staff—an ever-growing collection of tens of thousands of Web sites, all evaluated and approved for reliability and ease of use. FindingDulcinea’s researchers use multiple search engines and databases to uncover many sites that don't routinely appear in the search engines most people use (Google, Yahoo! and MSN)."

Make sure to check out the comparison searches link on the blog. In two minutes you can see why Sweet Search offers better results than Google.

And for my own example, when you're having fun on the weekend, drinking some beers and trying to name the 44 presidents of the U.S. just for fun. (Yes, my friends are cool.) After you've spent an hour and a half trying not to look on anyone's Blackberry, you can go to Google for an answer or you can go to Sweet Search. Where the second findingDulcinea result is The US President and the Cabinet which includes results from the History Channel and the Intenet Public Library. The top results on Google's page include the White House's Web site multiple times (which Sweet Search also surfaces along with the Library of Congress) but Google suggests Wikipedia-- an encyclopedia who's credibility is always in question. Decide for yourself.

If your right-handed it's hard to brush your teeth with your left hand instead and it will be hard to switch over to SweetSearch from Google, but try it for a week and let me know what you think.

Girl Meets Boy

2009-01-23T11:01:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine, Cathy Day, wrote an amazing books (two amazing books really), her first "The Circus in Winter" was a finalist for the Story Prize, The Great Lakes Book Award and the GLCA Book Award, you can read about it in an old post of mine. Her second book, "Comeback Season: How I learned to Play the Game of Love" published in 2008. Essentially, this is a book about trying to meet "Mr. Right" in Pittsburgh, where there aren't many single men in their 30s period and fewer still can handle dating a woman with a PhD and a novel. It's sensitive, full of raw emotion and brave confessions, but it's also wickedly funny. I am not going to spoil the book for you. Imagine discussing your match.com options with a mother who's as sweetly innocent as the mother from Bobby's World. Or having to repeatedly explain to your dad why "but we love you honey" just isn't enough. The reason it's called "Comeback Season" is because at 38, Cathy, a single professor and writer, was hoping to make a comeback, just like her favorite football team The Colts. As they trained, she trained, quitting smoking, interviewing the happily married types, watching Sex and the City, taking notes. As she was writing and dating, everybody, her friends, her agent, her family and especially Cathy's publisher (readers want a happy ending) were all rooting for her.

I won't give it all away. The book ends on a happy note, a confident note. And perhaps that is what made this last twist possible. (I hope this gets written into the back pages of future books.) While Cathy was on her book tour she did a few radio interviews, and a man she'd known in college but lost touch with was listening. He had been sent her book while he was teaching in China. His name is Eric. He googled Cathy and emailed her. They talked. They met. In October he moved to Pittsburgh. They are getting married this June. The rest is history.

Obama's New Playground

2009-01-22T12:26:00.007-05:00

Out of laziness and fear of getting frostbitten or maybe feeling claustrophobic, I missed what is already being recognized as and will forever be considered an unforgettable event. When my children, or nieces and nephews are grown, they will be asked by their teachers to ask someone old enough to remember, "Where were you when O.J. was ruled innocent?,"(answer: phys ed class in the locker room, we heard it on the radio), "Where were you when Princess Diana died?," (answer: my basement with Megtar, sobbing over some teen drama, sorry Diana but we weren't sure if you were really gone, the newcasters kept changing their minds) and now... finally "Where were you when America's first African American president gave his inaugural address?"

For that last question the answer will be easy but not exactly exciting. While I'm sure it was much warmer and more comfortable sitting in front of a big TV surrounded by editors, writers, our outreach team, IT team, and lawyers from the office next door, some of whom were a little teary. I am a little saddened not to have been there. Having spent four years in Washington DC, the Lincoln Memorial has special meaning to me, I've slid down its "banisters" with friends until of course the police told us not to. With my running partner, Susan, I've run up the steps and stopped for water in the underground museum's bathroom a few hundred times, (Susan and I are the Where's Waldos in the back of every tourist photo). The Reflection Pool is where I stood for an anti-war vigil, my first, though I never tramped through the water as Forrest Gump, it was still pretty cool. So, yes it might have been nice to make one more memory there, to welcome President Obama to his beautiful new neighborhood, my old one, but I'll make sure to be there in 2013.

PS. If you missed any part of the inauguration or want to relive the celebration, including reading Obama's inaugural address. Find the best sites for doing so here.

Atlantic Writer Says to NYT Print Edition DNR

2009-01-22T10:00:00.000-05:00

In early January, Atlantic writer, Michael Hirschorn, wrote that the New York Times was battling to stay afloat. While he conjectured that David Geffen, Michael Bloomberg, Carlos Slim or Rupert Murdoch had the ability to throw the paper a lifeline, Hirschorn doubted that anyone, after seeing Sam Zell's invest in the now bankrupt Tribune Company, would take such a risk. In the end, he determined that the print version of the New York Times was on its death bed: "The Times is destined for significant and traumatic change. At some point soon—sooner than most of us think—the print edition, and with it The Times as we know it, will no longer exist. "

Moreover, Hirschorn while expressing some regret over ending the ritual of gathering one's paper off the stoop and measured sympathy for the journalists-- who have, until now, lived semi-charmed kinds of lives of the mind"--he views the transformation from print to digital-only distribution as hardly tragic. After all but the most talented writers have been laid off the new reporters/bloggers will see more traffic to their stories. He envisions this new nytimes.com as "a bigger, better, and less partisan version of the Huffington Post,"

Unsurprisingly, The New York Times publishers refuted Hirschorn's predictions, saying "With regard to the specific point made about the demise of the print edition of The Times in May, it may make for a good a story but it is poor analysis. " Since Senior Vice President of Corporate Communications' Catherine Mathis' response on January 12, The NYT has found its Superman, selling $250 Million worth of stocks to Carlos Slim, a Mexican billionaire. Slim, the owner of a telecommunications company is allegedly the 2nd richest man in the world! So what does this mean for the paper. Should we be worried that despite that stories of kidnappings and murders, Mexico might be suddenly be whitewashed from the paper's pages. Perhaps not. According to findingDulcinea, "Despite becoming one of the largest single shareholders in the company, Slim will not get representation on the Times’ board and would have no special voting rights."

Let's hope not. As publishers and journalists alike shoulder the blow of the recession, what other last resort solutions will have to happen for print journals to stick around?

It's mom's fault?

2009-01-08T13:03:00.006-05:00

I read another post from The Psychology Today Blog called "Tears of a Clown"which has been pinballing around my brain for a few weeks.

In a nutshell, the writer, Scott Barry Kaufman, writes that some researchers have argued that comedians have chosen their career and essentially adapted their humor, as a survival trait. They needed to be funny. Why? Well, it all goes back to the parents, mothers specifically. It's mom's fault. Again.

According to the article, Seymour and Rhoda Fisher, two researchers who studied the personality, family background, and motivations of 40 "professional humor producers," (comedians and clowns) then compared them with those of 41 professional actors.

Curiously, the Fishers found that many comedians, landed in comedy via after first exploring music and that professional comedians were forced by their circumstance to grow up faster than other professional actors, taking on heavier "responsiblities" (read problems) at earlier ages. And what might be there most controversial finding was that comedians while generally fond of their fathers, viewed mom as a "disciplinarian, an aggressive critic, non-nurturing, and non-maternal."

It may be significant that the majority of the comics were from lower socioeconomic backgrounds, while the background of the professional actors was unclear. However, their finding about distant mothers repeated itself in a different study at the college level.

I don't know any professional comedians, not well at least, but I do know a few very funny guys. I tried asking one of them, whether his father or mother was more strict, but he ducked and parried. Ultimately, admitting that perhaps is mother was more strict. But does every comedian have to have a mean mother or a hard upbringing. I'd like to know. What's the rule? Does whatever doesn't kill you, make you funnier?

And the reason, I'm mostly asking men and not women is because I'm trying to see if the Fishers were right. Since most of the comedians in all of the studies mentioned were men, I need to ask men to get a fair comparison. So, we still don't know anything about what experiences or traits motivate women to be comedians, or if they share similar family dynamics.

On second thought, maybe I will ask women. While it was too late for me to get Barbara Walters to ask Tina Fey about her childhood and her parent's child-rearing style.
Barbara Walters did come out with this zinger, all on her own:

BW: (You're a comedian.) How come you're not neurotic?"
TF: (Nervous laugh) The women that I've met in comedy are much less of that. They're good daughters. They were good students. Their only act of rebellion is doing sketch comedy.

Or maybe they had better relationships with mom? Who knows.

(The dialogue happens at around 3:30)

PS. This shout out goes to Wicked Witch of the Web, for helping me post my first video. I'm not exactly tech-savvy, but I'll get there.
PPS. If you consider yourself a comedian, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Environmental Autism: The Girl in the Window

2009-01-05T20:43:00.003-05:00

I read this piece called "The Girl in the Window" from the St. Petersburg Times a few weeks ago and have not been able to shake free of it, so instead I'll share it.

The writer, Lane DeGregory describes the horrible circumstance of one young girl's life. Police entering the cockroach infested house, whose walls and carpets were covered in human and animal excrement, discovered a young girl locked in a closet, wearing only a diaper. A neighbor had reported seeing a girl in an upstairs window of a house. The girl turned out to be a seven year-old, feral child, who had never been brought outside, talk to, held, or cared for in any way. She weighed only 46 pounds.

The girl seemed incapable of eye contact. DeGregory writes, "The insertion of an IV needle elicited no reaction ... With a nurse holding her hands, she could stand and walk sideways on her toes, like a crab. She couldn't talk, didn't know how to nod yes or no. Once in a while she grunted."

The police took her immediately to the hospital. She was not deaf or autistic. There was no reason for her behavior other than the fact that she was deprived of the love and attention a parent is supposed to provide. Her condition was labelled "environmental autism."

Fortunately, the story gets better. The girl, Danielle, now called Dani, was adopted by a couple, Bernie and Diane, who admitted that she was not at all the daughter they were looking for, but they took her in anyway. And the kindness their son, her brother William showed Dani. I'm not going to steal any more of the story. You'll just have to read it.

Learning to Stumble

2009-01-05T08:51:00.005-05:00

So, a few months ago. I joined the social networking site Stumble Upon. The site exists so that you can locate hard to find Web sites in every category, for example, humor, politics, music, and books then share them with others. The stumble upon tool bar works like a remote control for the Internet, you simply click the bar and start flipping through channels. There are a few preselected channels like Funny or Die, the Onion, the Huffington Post, and PBS, or you can search by your preferred interests (chosen when you complete a profile). You can make friends, join groups, and send the best links to people you know will like them. If you get addicted to stumbling, you may even become a top stumbler.

To get started visit the sign in page and register. You will be asked to download the stumble buttons. Make sure you have the tag and review buttons as well as the thumbs up, thumbs down, and of course the stumble bar.

Build out your profile, choose your preferences, post an image and a short bio
Invite your friends to join by uploading them from your email address books
Make friends with top stumblers and people who are new to stumble
Review other peoples' profile pages and stumble them. Tag them as "stumblers"
If you find a page you really like, see who else likes it and friend them
Look at the What's New page from time to time and make friends with anyone who has viewed your site (you can see this on the what's new page)
Add all your suggested friends (these are chosen based on your preferences)
Before you add a friend stumble a few of his/her sites
Join suggested groups and add other members as your friends
You get the poin. MAKE FRIENDS. There is a special button where people can stumble only friends' stuff instead of the general stumble population that means your sites will come up randomly as others stumble through pages. It also means you get to limit your view to only the sites that people you think are cool like.
Categorize your links with broad tags (and 1 or 2 specific ones-just my preference, so you can find them later)
Try messaging people. If someone gives your page a positive review thank them.
Make sure your page has interesting, bizarre or beautiful photos
If you're trying to promote your own Web site or blog, just be practical about it. If you stumble and review only your own work, your your page will be looked at as spam. If you're going to thumb up one of your pages do so only every 25 or 30 stumbles and make sure it's stumbe-worthy.
Mix it up. Use videos, images, and articles.
Thumb something down occasionally. I'm not certain of this, but i hear it improves your algorithm.
Learn a new trick/tip. Find a good guide to stumbling. TELL ME ABOUT IT.

For more advice about stumble upon check out Xineann's guide to stumbling.
This answers nearly every question you can think of about stumbling.

For advice specifically on how to promote your site, how to make it "sticky," read David Risley's blog.

Besides finding great sites about your hobbies and interests Stumble upon is a great way to break up your day with a laugh.

And when you join stumble, make me your friend.

Skimming the waves in the suburbs

2008-12-28T21:00:00.001-05:00

Driving back in the suburbs of Philadelphia, I spend most of my time with my finger on the scan button, praying to get just one good song out of a forty minute ride. Though I will confess to liking them, there's only so many times you can lisen to "Womanizer" and "All I want for Christmas is You." As the radio was skipping through stations, I heard the words "a little like the National" and abruptly slapped the scan button, and seeked (can you say seeked?) backwards to the station I'd just passed over. This woman Heather, Hannah someone, was talking about a band that had a sound similar to one of my favorites. So I stopped to listen and while I don't see the similarities between the bands, I decided Heather, Hannah was right. This new band, Frightened Rabbit, is pretty great.

And for further confirmation, not that I believe everybody has to second my tastes, Pitchfork said, "Sure, Frightened Rabbit aren't the first band to explore loneliness, horniness, or emptiness in song, just like they aren't the first set of siblings to decide to jam together, but their jangly melodies claw their way inside your brain just the same."

PS. Found her today (one day later). Her name is Heather Browne and she has her own blog: I am fuel, you are friends.

"An Affair to Remember"

2008-12-28T09:00:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine sent me this story from Slate's top 10 stories, called, "An Affair to Remember. "
The article reminded me of an Alice Munro story that was made into a movie called "Away from Her." Yet this story is entirely true. It's about an elderly couple in a nursing home, and if you're yawning already it get's more interesting that that, but I'm keeping this blog pretty PG.
Essentially, it gets at the question of autonomy and age. At what point do people stop being allowed to make their own decisions about love? This is not a happy Christmas-y story, but I promise you won't forget it.

My two cents

2008-12-21T22:13:00.004-05:00

Feeling pretty zen today, so entirely unprompted, but hopefully appreciated, I'm offering you all one piece of advice that may help you in your dealings with friends, family, and strangers in crowded lines, returning unwanted gifts. Before you blow a fuse, stop and think.

1. Everyone's lost someone
2. Everyone's loved someone
3. Everyone's afraid of something.

That's it. That's all. Hope it helps. For more advice, see what the Dalai Lama has to say. He's been around and can offer a bit more wisdom.

Gifts for the holidays: Books for Him (or Her)

2008-12-19T09:44:00.009-05:00

A little while ago, I compiled a list of books that I thought might be useful for those buying Christmas gifts. When I looked over my list, I noticed that the majority of these books were geared towards women. So, I've compiled a shorter list, that while not strictly for men (because we all know women will read books traditionally for men, while men seldom read women's books), I think your uncle, father, significant other, brother, and nephew will enjoy these picks as much as you will.

"The Brothers K" by David James Duncan follows the Chance boys, four sons of a former baseball player, through adolescence and adulthood. Traveling from India to Vietnam to Alaska, the boys struggles with loneliness, love, faith in God and in their country and their own identity. Tremendous both for its humor, poignancy and style. My friend Melissa brought this book my way. Thank you! (Duncan is also the author of "The River Why" a shorter, slower moving but no less enjoyable book. There's a chapter there about rain that will leave you soaking, shivering, and exhilirated.).

"Drive Like Hell" by Dallas Hudgens is simply the funniest book I've ever read. You wouldn't give this book to anyone but a good friend. No one looking for inspiration or hoping to learn about history or how to make the world a better place would read this book. If you aren't trying to keep with the Jones's or the Pullitzers and just want to laugh til you have to cross your legs, read this. It's about Luke Fulmer a sixteen-year old boy living in a truly dysfunctional family, who is trying to be a decent guy, to do the right thing, but finding "goodness" an elusive quality which was never part of his upbringing. The dialogue is matchless for wit (and yes, it's crass). Publisher's Weekly called it "a shaggy but thoroughly enjoyable debut." This book has been tested on at least three twenty-something boys. All approved.

If you don't mind something a little on the heavy side, I recommend Dexter Filkin's "The War Within." While at times it's hard to find your place as the book covers a lot of ground from Afghanistan to Iraq, no one can bring you closer to this war than Dexter Filkins. The Washington Post said, "Filkins's singular skill in this book rests in showing how war shatters lives and how some people manage to survive amid fear, violence, intrigue and chaos.”
I agree. I think writing and experiencing this book changed Filkins, for better or worse, he will never be able to look at New York or any other American city without thinking of the freedoms we have that Iraqis don't, and perhaps neither will you.

For more books like this check out finding Dulcinea's Political Book Must Reads.

For the younger set...

"The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" by John Boyne is recommended for any age, but it is technically a young adult book. It's written in simple accessible language for readers who are just beginning chapter books. The story traces the friendship between a Holocaust prisoner and the lonely son of a Nazi general. It's a very light read in one sense, but heavy emotionally. An excellent book for beginning a serious dialogue. As Harper Lee's Atticus Finch said, long long ago, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. "

"Spud"by John Van de Nuit is a charming young adult novel about a boy growing up just as apartheid in South Africa is ending. While the book touches on race and culture, it's primarily a coming of age story about the struggle to survive boarding school when you're just a scrawny spud. Funny and touching. Not sure that you'll agree but I'd say it's the lighter, PG version of "School Ties." Along with pre-teens, I predict this book will be especially popular with teachers.

And for even more book advice, check out 20 Amazing and Essential Non-fiction Books to Enrich Your Library.

A Bluesy Afternoon

2008-12-11T15:20:00.005-05:00

Like many people I know, and some that I don't, like Kris Kristofferson, I sometimes get the Sunday Blues.

Maybe you're familiar with the feeling. The weekend is over, you didn't get half of what you thought you would have accomplished done, and you're too tired to do any brain work. But you also don't want to stay out late or make yourself tired because you have a solid 5 days of work, or more, to look forward to.

From reading a few articles, I learned that besides being hung over, one of the reasons, we feel kind of down on Sundays is because our sleeping patterns are off. I've tried to fix this by getting to bed as close as possible to my weekday time, and I try not to let this slip by more than 2 hours. This makes me a lame party guest but a happier person. Taking the occasional afternoon nap also helps, but I don't know if that's considered cheating.

I usually reserve Sundays for laundry, grocery shopping, half-cleaning my room (making it bearable instead of plain revolting), and over-thinking everything I've said and done that week. Having a routine is nice but it can get boring. The winter chill makes me even more sad because it keeps me trapped indoors. But one of the ways to avoid just sitting thinking of what you should have done, and just suffering in your apartment or your house is of course to do something nice for yourself. You can bake, read a book, make fun plans for the week or get out of your home entirely. Bookstores, libraries, and coffee shops are the obvious places for people who want alone time without being alone. Or you can do something fun, something that's typically off-limits on Sundays that you would have done Friday or Saturday but didn't.

I went to see Cadillac Records, take note of the blues theme. And pardon the cliche, but I did, I loved every minute of it. Without giving too much of the story away, though music junkies and Chicago natives probably already know the story, it fulfilled the trailer's promise of sex and violence. But there was also substance. It touched on race and gender stereotypes and each actor was given a complex role to fill, each having his own flaw and moments of greatness. Plus the music was stunning--when I heard the breezy intro for "At Last" I literally held my breath in anticipation--and the plot held me until the end. I've been listening to Etta James, Chuck Berry and Muddy Walters all week, and their lyrics mean more to me now, than they did before. See it.

Oh Christmas Tree!

2008-12-08T09:21:00.004-05:00

Part of growing up is taking care of your home and that includes decorating for Christmas. While I'm the furthest thing from Martha Stewart, in other words all my cookies are made from Betty's bag mixes, this year I am determined to create a warm, inviting and festive home for the holidays.

And the first step is buying a Christmas Tree. My friend Cora, who celebrates Chrismakuh and loves any excuse to wander Brooklyn, was as excited as I was about my plans and offered her services.

She pulled out her laptop and in seconds landed on Gothamist's Christmas Tree Superfun map. There was a spot just around the corner. Having never bought my own tree, the deliberation was intense. It felt like buying a puppy. I wanted one that was cute, had a little spunk something with character, kind of plump, but small enough to fit in the living area.We found one towards the back of the bunch and the Christmas tree man said he would discount it because it was a little flat in the back, and it had a kind of bare poky branch that stuck out the top, the equivalent of a floppy ear. We fell in love. Sold.

We went to get Walgreens and picked up lights then for most the day the tree sat in my old inspector gadget boot. The boots my friend Fabio, delicately informed me looked like they belonged to my grandfather. (It helps to get fashion advice from someone named Fabio). When I told another friend about the tree and how brooklyn it looked sitting in my boot, she wasn't impressed. She asked me if I planned on watering my boot. This is how I know she's no longer a Brooklyn-ite. She's practical."Christmas trees need water. Dry pine leaves are great for kindling once you put that lights on."

So, now I have a tree, a stand, and lights. One thing left to decide: Star or Angel?

Forget the sweater

2008-12-06T20:44:00.014-05:00

A few weeks ago, I met with a friend of mine at a business luncheon. When the subject of Christmas and buying presents came up, she told me that each year, her whole family buys each other books. It's been a tradition since her childhood. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, considering she's a literary agent, but I was impressed. It's not easy to find the right sweater for someone, finding the right book could be even more difficult.

Anyway, with that in mind, I'd like to share my own list of books to buy this Christmas. Since many of my friends say they never have time to read, except for magazines, I think short story collections, make a great gift. Your cousin, boyfriend, aunt, or father can tear through one on the subway or while waiting in those long lines for returning the sweater you might have bought them instead.

This list is a blend of commercial and literary fiction. Since I don't really believe in pigeonholing literature. I'm not going to segregate. None of these books are brand new, but they're still my favorites.

Brad Watson's stories are exquisite and deeply felt. In a style that's lyrical yet subtle, Watson's "Last Days of the Dog-Men," introduces the readers to salt of the earth folk in rural towns and the deep mid-west, teaching them about trust, companionship, and the wonders of our imagination. You don't have to be a dog-lover to love these stories.

Circus folk and their descendents, former clowns, dwarves, and tightrope walkers populate Peru, Indiana, Cathy Day 's hometown. As an author, she didn't recognize the legends and rumors of her neighbors and ancestors as storybook material until a professor at University of Alabama's MFA program pointed it out to her. Nearly ten years later, she completed her collection. "The Circus in Winter" is a blend of fiction and history. Day's passion for the magical town where she grew up, and its delightful but also believable characters is contagious.

"A Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing" by Melissa Bank is witty and insightful. It's a good book for the best friend, who is bored of the overly serious books her book club assigns and wants something shamefully accessible and wholly satisfying.

"Dogfight and Other Stories" by Michael Knight is funny. Your male friends will like it, because even though it isn't set in Iraq or Pakistan or mention war in the title, the protagonist isn't a wuss. Your girl friends will appreciate it, because it's a window to the male psyche.

"Cures for Heartbreak" by Margo Rabb is both hilarious and deeply sensitive. It's a book marketed for young adults but loved by adult women. It's about recovering from all kinds of loss and learning to distract yourself from hurt.

If you're still not convinced that the short-story form is as worthwhile as those larger tomes, read Rachel Balik's article She'll tell you where to down-load stories for free. She'll also introduce you two three other phenomenal writers: Anne Enright, Alice Munro, and Peter Selgin. If you haven't ever heard of Alice Munro, here's an old post explaining what it's like to meet a legend.

Play my song

2008-12-04T14:22:00.008-05:00

It always surprises me when I ask someone what kind of music they like and they respond with "Oh, I like everything, anything, or whatever." I can never tell whether these people are worried I'll make fun of their taste, or they just really and truly don't notice the difference between elevator music and Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." When the lyrics are right, I love anything sad.

I've heard it said that our sense of smell is one of the strongest triggers of memories, and while there are a handful of scents that awaken thought of certain people, moments in your life and even foods--my new soap smells strangely like the inside of a box of Lucky Charms--I have to argue that songs, especially song lyrics have an even stronger effect, instantly tapping regions of your brain that shoot back images, sights, sounds and feelings. And I'm not just talking about the songs your ex put on a mix tape, I'm talking about the song sung by that goofy has been singer that your dad sang along to in the car, the song that your gym teacher with the mullet always played when you ran laps in the gym, (the same one that happened to be playing when you crossed the finish line for your first long race), and the song that will always belong to that friend you haven't seen and won't see for a long time.

These are songs that you will miss the next train for if someone is strumming them on the platform. You'll sit there in your car or a crowded shoe store or even a concert hall and absorb every word and every tone until they're over no matter the hour.

****

This posting seemed like the appropriate place to let you know how to find more of the great songs and bands that move you. You may already know about Pandora, which helps you find new favorite bands that sound similar to your old favorites, but you might not have heard of Senuti, which lets you download music to your computer from other people's Ipods. Wow! You do have to pay for the service, but you can try it free for 30 days. To read about what's fresh in the music world, plus pick up on some interesting gossip, and funny videos, check out Lizzyville. And for those of you who who, like me, have never downloaded music, or never known how to do it legally, there's findingDulcinea's Guide to Downloading Music.

Are blogs dead?

2008-12-01T11:14:00.004-05:00

According to Wired, "The blogosphere, once a freshwater oasis of folksy self-expression and clever thought, has been flooded by a tsunami of paid bilge. Cut-rate journalists and underground marketing campaigns now drown out the authentic voices of amateur wordsmiths."

So, apparently blogs are dead. They are soooooo 2004. Jason Calacanis says they're over and so does Robert Scoble. Why? Because of the insult commenter. So that's it. Those crazy little buggers who fill the comment boxes with drawn out diatribes got under they're skin and now they're done. Poof. Well, this is rather unfortunate since I've only just created mine. It's also kind of fitting. It takes me a while to catch onto trends, jams, curling your shoe laces into little ringlets and not tying them, umbros, cell phones, three-quarter lengths sleeves (I actually don't buy them that way I just shrink my clothes by accident, they call it DIY) , then Macs, and now blogs.

Sorry for that, I'll try to keep the navel-gazing to a minimum but rather than discuss the popularity of blogs, I want to share why it was so difficult to create one in the first place. Look, I said I would "try." Anyhow, I believe that there are other people out there who have the same issues that I do with blogs. Aside from my worry that my blog would turn into a list of complaints. (I had a high school teacher who wore a button that said "no whining" and I try to remember it when I write. ) My bigger fear about writing a blog was that I knew I couldn't help but make it personal. Whether anonymous or not, it's a space where you share your thoughts, your beliefs and passions or maybe just your favorite photos and paintings. It's giving a little piece of yourself to the world and asking them to be gentle with it. Whatever you put out there is your own and it makes you feel a pin prick and sometimes a lightning sized dose of vulnerability each time you click "publish post."

People might not think what you have to say is funny. They might think the art you like is cheesy, or the advice you give is just worthless pop-psychology. Readers might see you as self-involved and vain or on the flip side, insecure and unaware. But still you should keep writing. Write for yourself and for people who care about the things that you do in the same way that you do (some of them may not even know this until they start reading). Or right for the sake of controversy, to start a spark to engage in a debate, meaningful hopefully, with those who disagree. And excuse me for paraphrasing, because I know someone else has said this same thing in a slightly different way, but the more you write, the more you'll trust that the people who matter will take into account your imperfections, your poor grammar, run-on sentences, sudden tangents, political beliefs and musical tastes that don't jive with theirs, but they won't judge you. And the people that judge you, won't matter.

Wanderlust ... inspired by film

2008-11-30T06:00:00.001-05:00

While I recognize the film for its artistic merit and unparalleled talent, I did not enjoy the film 'There Will Be Blood," quite as much as a few people I know. Maybe it was just too dark for me or perhaps too slow, though certainly it wasn't too quiet. The silent periods in the film lent themselves to the mesmerizing scenery and for whatever flaws I saw in it, I remained glued to the screen.

I've never planned a trip based on a film, but others have and it doesn't sound like too terrible an idea. In fact there's a Web site for people who want to know where movies were filmed. It's called The Worldwide Guide to Movie Locations.

The film "Australia," just released in the U.S., is banking heavily on viewers' attraction to the landscape. So much so that their tourism board invested millions of dollars into its production. I haven't yet seen the film, yet, but since I'm already intent on one day visiting Australia and New Zealand, I don't think it would hurt to watch the 3 hour advertisement. And it doesn't hurt that Hugh Jackman plays the lead male.

In the meantime here's my list of films in no particular order, that have inspired my own future travel plans. Unfortunately, The Worldwide Guide to Movie Locations isn't a comprehensive list and not all of these films were on it, but if and when I find all of their locations, I'll update the list.

1. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

2. The King and I

3. The Year of Living Dangerously

4. Brokeback Mountain

5. Bennie and Joon

6. Lost in Translation

7. Hook

8. Anne of Green Gables

9. Out of Africa

10. Shadowlands

Speaking of turkeys...Have you seen Murder on the Orient Express?

2008-11-29T21:07:00.010-05:00

Thanksgiving found me in front of the television a bit more than usual. While most of the time, I'd be upset about the amount of wasted hours spent lounging in front of the gogglebox and I worry that this attachment won't be easy to shake post-holiday weekend, still it makes me a little nostalgic for the days of the MMC. What? You've never heard of the MMC? Well, that's because I made it up. I did, or my sister did. I'm not quite sure. The MMC was the Murder Mystery Club, my siblings and neighbors dreamt up when we were in junior high. We played games like Murder Wink and our own version of Clue, watched a lot of Agatha Christie movies, especially Hercule Poirot mysteries, and "Ten Little Indians" and most alarming to our parents, created our own murder scenarios

We also watched a lot of murder mystery television shows, always making our guess of the killer known half-way through. So in honor of these morbid childhood memories here is my second list of the week. Great murder mysteries series of the 80s and 90s. I owe all of my paranoid delusions to these and The Nancy Drew books.

1. Murder She Wrote

2. Remington Steele

3. Scarecrow & Mrs. King

4. The Father Dowling Mysteries

5. Matlock

All of these are available on Amazon except "The Father Dowling Mysteries."

Hoping to find your own favorite TV shows online, check out findingDulcinea's Guide to Television.

findingDulcinea on Mashable

2008-11-21T09:18:00.001-05:00

Unless you’re Tracy Flick, it’s a little uncomfortable to go around talking about how phenomenal you are, and how the work you do is going to change the world. But for one day, or rather one month, call me Tracy, because I am slowly, before your eyes going to morph into a brownie-baking, ribbon-wearing, twinkly-eyed, self-promoting little spazz. But show Tracy a little love. She isn't exactly a spazz. She's a person, a very ambitious and very confident person with singular focus. Yes, I HEART Tracy Flick. But this is isn’t about my attendance record or how great I’m going to make prom. This is about ME making your life easier. I’m not promoting myself, just my company’s Web site findingDulcinea.com. Our Web site takes all the stress out of finding what you're looking for on the Internet. Whether it's news about the financial crisis, advice for your next job interview or tips for the holiday party you're throwing, we have pulled together the most credible sources on the Web to answer your questions. We’ve been nominated for an award on Mashable, the world's largest social networking blog. And if it takes buttons, cookies, elaborate banners and seeing my shining face behind a table (in your front hall?at your subway stop?) I plan to get the message heard. Whatever it takes, kidneys, first born children, wait, nah, I think I’ll keep my first-born, but aside from that whatever other organs I can spare are yours. Check out our site findingDulcinea.com and if you like it as much as I do, then vote for us. You can vote everyday for the next month. It's simple. There’s a widget on my page at the right and all you have to do is click, type in your email, then confirm your vote when Mashable emails you. MWAH! Thank you in advance!!

XOXO Tracy!!!

Baby, it's cold outside.

2008-11-21T09:00:00.011-05:00

Even though you sometimes feel like it's your duty to go out after a long week, you might not always feel like braving the lines and the frigid winds just to get into that too-cool bar that just opened downtown.

Instead, have your friends bring their board games, some wine or beer and some snacks to your place. Cozy around that warm fire or if you don't have a chimney, heat up some hot cocoa for those cold hands.

When you get tired of Monopoly, the Great Museum Caper, and Sorry, here are a few other games to lighten up your evening ...

Celebrity is an easy game to play. All you need is a pen, a paper, a hat, a watch and a backlog of useless trivia, somewhere in the furthest reaches of your brain, unless you watch too much TMZ or AOL news and have instant recall for these kinds of things (guilty).

I can't resist recommending the Kids Party Cabin Web site, because it has directions for Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. If you're a guy, you've probably never heard of this game because it was mainly popular at girl's sleepovers. It's hokey, it's hilarious, and I would love to see grown people play.

Feel like getting clever. Check out findingDulcinea's blog Geography Games that Make You smarter than a Fifth Grader. This can be good, clean fun or you can make it into a drinking game. Either way you'll need an Internet connection. Most of these games have the option of letting two or three players compete, so if you have a good size group just divide into teams and prepare your brain for a geography joyride. Whoo hooo...

Wrong way on a one-way track

2008-11-21T09:00:00.010-05:00

The first time I really got to thinking about the problem of runaway teens was when I saw Soul Asylum's music video Runaway Train The lyrics and the images are heart-breaking. While browsing the Web, I noticed this month is national Runaway Prevention Month. According to the National Runaway switchboard between 1.6 and 2.8 million children runaway each year. Saying that this is a tragedy would be an understatement to the nth nth degree. I cannot imagine what it would be like to feel so completely alone that the only solution you had was to disappear.
On a different note but equally saddening is this news from Nebraska. According to findingDulcinea, it seems that because of a loophole in their legal system parents are abandoning not only babies but full grown children even teenagers.

On Thanksgiving take a minute to think of this video, these parents, and these children.
If you'd like to learn more about helping runaway children and teens visit Covenant House's Web site.
And for your reference or should you or someone you know need them. Here are resources from the National Runaway Switchboard for children and teenagers seeking help.

Fee Fiii Foo Fumb ... I smell....Bin Laden... or wait no...Angelina Jolie...noo. I give up

2008-11-13T23:05:00.005-05:00

I just noticed this article Human Odor May Be New Tool for Identity
written by Rachel Balik at findingDulcinea. Apparently, mice can identify each other by body odor, regardless of what they eat. The study's results may suggest, according to some scientists, that humans may be capable of the same behavior. In fact, they are suggesting that body odor could replace fingerprints? That would make for some interesting conversation at the police department. So now, gang lords and assassins on shows like Law and Order and 24 will not only have to get their fingerprints burned off, but they'll have what other people's sweat glands implanted in their skin. EWWWW!!

And on a more serious note Balik also touches on a report about pheromenes. I find this an interesting plot point. I mean wouldn't it be kind of sad if everything you were looking for in a person common interests, looks, books, movies, music, sports, and values meant nothing and that the laws of attraction were all predetermined by one little microscopic lego block (that's as scientific as this blog is getting) matching or rather fitting someone else's.
TRAGIC!

A lesson from the Positivity Blog

2008-11-12T22:13:00.004-05:00

I know the idea of a Positivity Blog sounds a bit hokey but I found myself really appreciating this article about that touches on the Pareto Principle or the 80/20 rule. According to blogger Henrik Edberg, it means basically that you only get 80 percent of the value you derive from 20 percent of the activities you engage in. This could be a depressing a thought or a valuable one, depending on where you're coming from. I'd like to think it will remind me to take advantage of the time you're given and spend it wisely. But value doesn't just have to mean productivity ...right? I may climbing a different branch or a whole different tree, but here's the lesson as I see it. When you're watching a movie, enjoy it, when you're listening to a song, give it your attention, when your working on a project, treat it like it's more than just a task, and when you're with a friend, be with that friend not the friend on the phone or the problem in your head. If this were possible, then our time really would be precious and we'd feel better at the end of every day.

And for boring tasks that seem to really have no value like washing dishes (Though I do have one crazy friend, she lives in BK and I braid her hair on the subway, yup just like her mom did when she was 5, anyway she says she finds doing dishes relaxing. ) The solution for these tasks is called batching. #3. Check it!

Also check out #8 Assume rapport. This is considered one of the best ways to have less awkward conversations when you first meet someone. Hmm... so I guess that's what those people wearing the Free Hugs signs were thinking.

16 Things I Wish They Had Taught Me in School

What it means to do the right thing...

2008-11-12T15:05:00.002-05:00

As someone who listens to, reads, researches, and writes news, I can see how easily one can get bored of hearing about child soldiers. We think,"Of course it makes me sad, but there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it."

I was riding on the bus from NY to DC when I started talking to my seat mate. He was from Western Africa, I want to say Ghana, but it may have been Guinea. (I KNOW there's a big difference here, probably Ghana.) He told me how little boys that he used to shoo away with a wave would come to his house. "They would come down the hill to my door and ask for money. They were high. A whole row of them would be waiting at the top of the hill. If you didn't have money they would burn your house. "And he said, "They would decide whether or not you'd be on the inside or the outside." He also told me of the horrible game they played. They would see a pregnant woman on the street and one of the child soldiers would ask the other, "Is it a boy or a girl?" and they would make a bet. Then they would find out. Monsters, I thought. But if these stories horrified me, I can't imagine what it was like for his children who lived there and saw and heard everything that was happening around them. He brought his whole family to the U.S. except for his eldest son who is at university. He said it's been years and his younger boys still have bad dreams.

With this portrait of child soldiers in mind, it is hard to have compassion for them. It's difficult if not impossible to think of them as people. Still it's important to realize that they weren't born to be evil. Had the man, and I do have trouble writing this because it sounds horrible to even think, but had he been killed along with his wife, his own children no doubt would have been orphaned and they might have been taken in by one of these gangs just like the other boys.

This 2007 New York Times story Taking the War Out of a Child Soldier showed me that child soldiers and what we do about them is as much our problem as it is developing nations. You may have heard of Ishmael Beah's book "A Long Way Gone," and if you haven't I'll give you a synopsis: orphaned, drugged, and forced to maime and murder others in Sierra Leone...then redemption. For those of you who doubt that anyone could ever be forced to something so brutal against their will, believe me it is true. I've read the stories. First, if you're an orphan and you have no money, you'll do anything for food. Second, and I know this is at least true in Uganda and the DRC, when children try to escape from these guerrilla armies, they are beaten, sometimes to death. So where do we come in? What does this have to do with us? with me? Elliot Kaye, might have asked that question, but fortunately for Salifou Yankene, he didn't. After Yankene, a child soldier from the Ivory Coast was smuggled into JFK's airport he was first arrested tossed around in different jails and ultimately released by immigration.

Salifou remembered standing on a dark street in lower Manhattan: “They say, ‘You free to go,' I say, ‘Go where?’ "
For him New York, with no family, no friends, and no place to live, was as frightening as the wilds of the Ivory Coast.

Even though he was concerned for his wife and two-year old son, Kaye took Salifou into his home and defended him in a court, in front of a judge who had rejected 83 percent of all asylum requests.

Salifou's life story is heartbreaking. His father and sister were killed, his brother lost one of his hands and even as he fled his country (at his mother's request), he worried about what kind of revenge the warlords would inflict on his family for letting him leave. This article does not give a definitive end to the story, but it's still inspires me, because it shows sometimes the problems we hear about happening overseas can find themselves in our living rooms. I don't know whether or not Kaye's wife, his parents, and neighbors thought he was crazy to bring an ex-child soldier into his home. I am sure he had doubts himself, but in spite of enormous danger to himself and his family he did it, because it seemed like the right thing to do.

Mindfulness ...how to get there from here

2008-11-11T22:00:00.008-05:00

I have gotten into a series of arguments lately with a housemate, mostly over my need to sleep and her need to have a life. And after an argument Thursday, I haven't been able to stop myself from mentally writing and re-writing future dialogue and emails to her in my head. And when you can't get a break from your brain you can't get a break period. I now understand what it means when people describe their brains as reeling. I was running in laps around the park near my apartment trying to let myself enjoy the sun, the breeze, my body in motion, and an anger-fueled faster than normal pace, but each time I rounded a corner, my promise to release my thoughts was crushed a few yards later under the weight of remembering something she'd said that drove me wild, setting off little emotional landmines, brain mines. Until I literally hit the wall-- actually it was a fence-- I wasn't able to slow down my brain, but there are better ways.

This article The Art of Now: Six Steps to Living in the Moment from Psychology Today, is one piece I found genuinely useful. The author, Jay Dixit, cites Jon Kabat-Zinn, father of modern meditation, who says, "Ordinary thoughts course through our mind like a deafening waterfall." This I can relate to. Dixit explains the benefits of mindfulness, "Mindful people are happier, more exuberant, more empathetic, and more secure. They have higher self-esteem and are more accepting of their own weaknesses." Perfect! So how do I get there. Step 2 of 6 cites author, Elizabeth Gilbert. I know some people thought her book "Eat, Pray, Love" was self-indulgent, whiney and perhaps even offensive (not everyone can afford to go to an ashram to recover from her divorce) . However, reading it brought me a measure of perspective, and I was proud of Dixit, a guy, for knowing to look to a woman's book for advice. You don't have to own a lab coat to be wise.

Gilbert writes of a friend who each time she sees a beautiful place, is so taken with it that she immediately panics: "It's so beautiful here! I want to come back here someday!"Utterly frustrated Gilbert writes, "It takes all my persuasive powers to try to convince her that she is already here."

Dixit ask explains that living in the moment makes us happier "because most negative thoughts concern the past or the future."

Still I wanted to know how do I get there. How do I get to "the moment"? I was trying so hard. It turns out what I was looking for was called "flow"...Dixit admits it's an "elusive state" akin to romance, but he makes it sound so enticing "The depth of engagement absorbs you powerfully, keeping attention so focused that distractions cannot penetrate." This is what I was looking for freedom from my distracting thoughts.

In step 5, I found myself nudging towards the answer. Acceptance. One of the reasons I could not get away from my frustration was because of my secondary emotions, I felt guilty over my anger, angry over being angry, frustration at not being able to appreciate "the moment" a good run, stunning weather, friendly people. If I just let myself be a little mad and stopped trying so hard I could forgive myself. Dixit writes: "The present moment can only be as it is. Trying to change it only frustrates and exhausts you."

Lastly the article reminds me to breathe. My brother and I love tossing around the line from the movie "Ever After." It's the only line in the entire movie where Drew Barrymore, dressed all in white, very dramatically and with a Russian accent that comes from nowhere says, "Just Breathe."
Turns out Barrymore was right.

What we learn from Fiction

2008-11-07T18:43:00.009-05:00

Today I read an article by Emily Coakley of findingDulcinea that finally proves something booklovers have known for years. Fiction lets us see the world. The Kite Runner teaches us about friendship and betrayal in Afghanistan, more than we'd learn from a historical textbook and it engages us in the process. The Poisonwood Bible, also mentioned in her article, teaches us about colonialism in Africa. But stories don't have to focus on struggles across the globe, we can learn a great deal from books written about other worlds, ones we don't always notice and accidentally or intentionally ignore, right here in the US.

In high school "The House on Mango Street" introduced me to the Spanish-speaking world through the character of Esperanza whose name means "hope" or even "ambition". More recently, in reading Eric Puchner's short story collection "Music Through the Floor," I learned more about the people living next door to me, than I could ever learn from a news article. One story about a Hispanic construction worker chronicled his late nights and early mornings, his chronic exhaustion, his pitiful earnings, and his frustration with people who treat him like he's nothing. I think of him anytime I ride the subway at 6 am. And stepping away from the short story form, while it's still short in length, (the book would be considered a chapter book for middle grade readers) I recommend it to anyone. It convincingly portrays an adult problem through a child's eyes. The Boy in the Striped Pajamas looks at the Holocaust from the perspective of a Nazi general's son. There are countless books that invite us into new worlds, fictional or real (The Forever War--Iraq and Afghanistan, Eat, Pray, Love,--Italy, Indonesia, India, The Circus in Winter---Peru, Indiana) . When you're talking to someone new and you reach that uncomfortable seven minute silence, give it a moment, then ask them what books taught them the most, you may learn something in the process.

Fiction More Than Escape, Researchers Say

Lessons from strangers

2008-11-06T16:44:00.009-05:00

Last fall, I met a woman at a restaurant. I was not having a good day, but for some reason she smiled at me. I noticed her coat, which was long and colorful and lovely and complimented her on it. She immediately urged me to try it on. I resisted at first, but she was persistent and I gave in. It really was lovely and I did a spin. Anyhow, the woman was one of those exceptionally good listeners who immediately takes interest in others and asks the right questions. She was a total stranger but she exuded something maternal almost professorial, without any of the condescending baggage. Anyhow, we got into a conversation about international affairs, and I admitted that despite being a first generation American with European and African heritage, I still felt my knowledge of world affairs was limited. So, the woman, I think her name was Asha, told me that she worked for the UN. She mentioned a few books that I might read and told me about the JCC, the Jewish Cultural Center, which I assume she has some affiliation with. Anyhow, it was through her that I heard about the Other Israel Film Festival. The festival focused on Arabs living in Israel and the films were a mix of contemporary movies and documentaries. I decided to invite my mother and we went to see "Behind the Walls." The movie was filmed in the 60s or 70s and shared an incredibly powerful message. The story was about two rival prison gangs, Arab and an Israeli, led by two very angry and bitter men. Anyway, as it turns out the prison guards themselves were fueling the animosity between the two groups and once that was discovered well... it gets more interesting. I definitely recommend the film. After the credits had rolled, one of the actors, who played the leader of the Israeli gang, who must be now in his 70s or 80s came into the theater and spoke about Arab-Israeli relations at the time the film was made and today. Neither my mom nor I knew there was going to be a guest, no less the leading actor, and we found the whole thing very moving. He was witty and thoughtful and wise. Not having any relatives in the middle east I can imagine it was even more powerful for others in the room. Anyhow, we are going back tonight to the opening night of the JCC film festival gala and i'm excited to see what this next film can teach us.

Other Israel: Past Festivals: 2007 Films

2008 films

http://www.independentfilm.com/resources/other-israel-film-festival-2007-films.shtml

DAY 1 If you could ask just one question…

2008-10-30T12:57:00.001-04:00

My first ever posting to the world is a personal one. Recently I had the chance to visit with one of my favorite writers, Alice Munro. I wish I could say we sat down to cocktails, then dinner, and then shared a warm apple crisp—I’d even let her have the last bite—but it was not a one-on-one meeting at all. My friends and my editor from the Web site where I work, and a few hundred other people filled the auditorium at the New Yorker Festival event where she was speaking. Thanks to the sheer foresight, and only one desperate phone call from me, my friend Rachel nabbed seats for all four of us, just a few steps away from the stage. After rousing applause, her editor Deborah Treisman introduced Alice and we sat there quiet as children at a birthday party, waiting for the magic show to begin. I don’t think anyone was disappointed.

Let me preface this story by saying, I have an inside relationship with Alice Munro, though she would not know me from Eve. Until the day of the festival, we only ever spoke on the phone. When I worked in book publishing, I worked for Alice’s literary agent, and as the person who opened all of my boss’s mail, I saw and read her stories first, before anyone else in the entire world (or at least in New York). One day, I must have been giddy from caffeine or delirious from the summer heat, when she called because I worked up the nerve to speak, and we had our first real conversation. She had written a story “Child’s Play” which is essentially a very dark story that exposed the feelings, the impulses, and the unpolished truth as children see it, without the urge to be politically correct or sensitive to others’ troubles. I told her how moved I was and then prattled on about my own childhood memories of a girl I grew up with who had been burned in a fire. I told her how meanly she was treated by the other girls and sometimes by me. I think she listened, but she did not give in to the impulse to explain herself or her story, to share what was true and what wasn’t. The story stood on its own. She had written it for herself and no one else. What readers took from it wasn’t the point. I honestly can’t remember what it was she said in response to my story. She was kind, gracious even, but nothing more was discussed and I passed the phone onto my boss. I was pleased, though a little embarrassed.

A few weeks later, I was on vacation driving with my cousin to Missouri, where she was moving. I was reading her the same story, “Child’s Play,” aloud in the car, when I got a phone call. It was work. I smiled. They must need my help, I thought. No. No. They didn’t. I had, in fact, run off with the original copy of “Child’s Play” and one of the pages was missing from the photocopy. Rats! Now that is embarrassing. Inside of fifteen minutes, we had stopped at a hotel, much nicer than the motel we would stay at later that night, and had faxed the single page back to New York. Imagine, if we had lived when Alice had first started getting published, I might have had to dictate the story through the phone or sent the story through the mail. By then it would have been too late to get it to the New Yorker. This thought seemed like something Alice, who is always skipping back and forth in time through her stories, might ponder and even though it was dreadful, I felt a little less shameful about the whole incident. We got in the car and I finished reading the story to my cousin.

Back in the auditorium, after Alice told us that as a woman choosing college wasn't a feminist gesture for her, it was simply her way of hiding from the world. At at a time when women were told that they should spend any free moment they had knitting, (Sundays were the exception) Alice needed a place to hide away to read and to write. After an hour’s worth of insights mined by Alice’s editor, the audience had a chance to ask their own questions.

I sat there trying to either resign myself to my shyness and live with it or simply stand up. Suddenly, I found I had pushed past the people in my row, rather brusquely, and was standing in line behind the microphone with only two people in front of me. I heard the warbling of voices and the shuffling of paper. I could see that those who didn’t like readings or thought that there was something more important than listening to Alice speak were getting antsy. My heart was thumping, like the actual Disney rabbit himself were inside my chest. And then I found that the man and the woman in front of me had somehow disappeared. I had not heard a word they said. If either one had already asked my question, I would not have known it and I thought of the look of the baffled stares and the jaws I might have been about to drop if I stumbled into that faux pas. Just then Alice’s eyes were trained on me and the room was quiet. I did not mention our phone conversation. I did not tell her I’d read nearly every story she’d ever written. I did not want to bore her. Instead I asked her about the subtlety of her work. If you’ve ever read her stories, you’d know she crafts them with such a soft touch that often you’re not sure if you believe what you’ve read. Sometimes the last paragraph holds an observation that seems unrelated, until you realize that it changes the entire meaning of the story. I did not get my question where I wanted it, so I tried again. She responded and I followed up. Actually it’s the ending of your stories that I want to know about, I tried to say. I was thinking of one of my favorite stories, “Apples to Oranges,” where, Alice never explicitly shows the reader what happens at the ending, whether the protagonist ended her affair or her lover rejected her. With no clear answer the reader is forced to rely on her (and most of her readers are women) instincts. I didn’t include this example as part of my question because a) Alice said after her work is published she never re-reads her stories and b) it was a little too scandalous a topic for me to broach in front of such a large audience, when I was focusing on simply getting my words out without stuttering too much.

Essentially, what I wanted to know was how she managed to balance writing so much of the story in a way that readers were compelled to use their intuition to make sense of what had happened. How did she know if the reader actually got it? How did she balance the actual telling with the "making you believe" and do it in such an understated way. And here is what she said: Endings are the hardest. She said she writes and re-writes her stories and she always worries that they won’t make sense, but she doesn’t want to tell too much. For a moment, I'm worried I may have insulted her. I worry that it sounds like I don't understand her writing and I want to shout, “No, no. Don't explain too much. That would be horrible!!! It would kill everything.” But, I realize I don't need to. She knows this. At least in my view, Alice never does overtell a story. Ultimately, Alice Munro answered my question with what might have seemed like a cop-out but wasn’t. I can’t quote her exactly, but to paraphrase she said: It’s a feeling. When you read the ending you should feel something. Something specific and the reader should feel it too. I am nodding my head madly like a live and fully animated bobblehead. And that’s when you know you’ve gotten it right.

To read more about Alice’s interview see a review of the event from the New Yorker

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/festival/2008/10/things-you-may.html