Monday, December 10, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
A voice wafted from stage right. "Stel." She followed the sound, squinting at the faint glow from the back bar. The owner of the voice and The Bar strolled over, reaching for a glass on his way. "Stel. Waddelitbe?"
"Shot. Thankee, Toke. Make it two."
"Stellar. Whatcha doin?"
"I'm done. Done. Done. Did I mention? I'm done." Stellar turned her head to the old hailer on the stool next to the one she slid onto.
"Surly. Ta for the ask. How's it?"
Surly Bugger shrugged his shoulders past his ears. "You'd listen if I said? No. I'm the same. What are you done with?"
"What'll you do instead?"
Stellar clenched her shoulders together front, rotated her upper body twice around, flexed her toes which no one saw because they were exercising inside boots that were, in her toes' opinion, entirely too pointy.
"Well, Surly. I'll just be me."
"There a market for that then?"
"Stellar, your drink. Run a tab?"
"Yes, thanks for your interest, Token."
"Stellar Repo!" A hand slapped her hard between the shoulders. "Good on ya for the Black Feather retrieve!" Stellar glanced at Surly, who dipped to drown a grin in his frosty beverage. Stellar ignored the man and the hard hand. "What is it you know, Surly Bugger?"
"I know nothing. I never claimed to know anything. I am an empty space in a universe of not knowing."
Stellar Repo, newly unemployed again, cranky recollector of lost stuff and such swiveled her stool to the room while throwing back her first shot. She swirled the stool back to the bar, picked up the second shot, slammed, and continued the circuit of the floor she was drilled into.
Back at the bar. "Surly, how do you keep going?"
"When you're not drinking."
"I don't not drink. What's your point? Are you going deep on me?" Surly turned his head toward Stellar, a thing Surly hadn't done in so long, Stellar imagined a creaky noise.
"I've never been done before. Thought you had some insight on doneness."
"I do. But why would I share? Done. Remember?"
A hard-boiled knee banged into Stellar's on the other side. A beefy fist laid itself ungently on the bar rail, and Surly's whole head, eyes pinioned center, took some interest.
"Token Guy, my man!" A drink for the little lady."
Oh deities, Surly moaned, and scrunched his whole body toward an escape route into his glass. Stellar squinched her eyes at the hand on the bar, moved her head once to signal no to Toke.
"Pay me what you owe, Clod, and I'll buy my own drink."
"It's Claud actually."
"Whatever. You have my loot?"
The big man turned to The Bar patrons, heartily stalling. "Madams! Gents! Stellar Repo got me my stole frigate back. This little lady right here," patting Stellar's shoulder in a way that bordered on groping. Surly shuffled his stool farther to the right, moved his drink to his right palm. Halfway into Claud's exploratory hug, Stellar's left foot in the pointy boot landed a kick midway between the man's head and his own feet.
"Watch the hands, Clod. That's not how it is in womanland."
Toke preemptively set another shot in front of Stellar, one in front of Claud, and reaching below the bar, pulled a transfer port out and slapped it next to the glasses. "Drink's on the house, Claud. Pay Stellar. Drink. Go. In that order. My man. Now." Claud shakily picked up the port, poked some, threw the drink down his neck, and tiptoed to the exit. A brief flash of blazing light and the door hissed shut behind him.
A breath that might have been ahem drifted between Surly and Stellar. "Um. Stellar Repo? I have a situation that -."
Stellar flipped a card from her side pocket, extended it over her shoulder. "Office hours on the back. Ta."
Surly bumped his stool closer to Stellar. "What?" he asked. "What did you mistakenly think I know?"
Stellar grinned briefly. "This Black Feather retrieve. I got a tip. A message in the ether, too wispy, no time to trace. Who tips on this level? It was a joystick, a ride, nothing bigger. Why?" She gestured with her head toward the exit. "For a skidder, no less."
"A minute." Surly stilled. "No, nothing." Stellar stared at the side of Surly's bald dome where a flicker above his eyebrow vibrated. All of Surly blinked out in a flash with SIGNAL LOST hovering midthorax. Stellar, a drink in her right hand, leaned, reached across her body with her left and palm slapped Surly in the spot his forehead should have been. Surly winked back onto the stool. "Ta," he said.
Toke wandered over, removed the empties and shuffled the trans in front of Stellar. She nodded, swiped her wrist over the black wafer, glanced at the unit, touched the screen and moved it back to Toke, who picked it up and stashed it back under the bar.
Stellar stood. "Surly, you'll report anything that surfaces, yeah. Token Guy, ta. Use some of that loot to get some earth plane light spectrum bulbs, huh?"
Toke rolled his eyes. "Cheers, Stel."
Back on the blistering sidewalk, Stellar paused, eyes slammed shut at the agony of light. She opened one eye a sliver, and whoosh, blackness again as a hood dropped down. She was picked up, tossed over a smelly body, toted four steps and thrown into a hover that shot skyward before she stopped rolling.
The hover landed. Stellar draped nose to armpit again, then dropped on a floor from height. Hard. The hood was yanked off by a grinning ugly face too close.
"Get away from me, slick. This is my drinking night. I want to be alone."
Ugly guffawed. "You know where you are?"
"I do, rockabilly." She cold-cocked him. He went quietly.
An unmanly giggle she recognized turned her head.
She sat up, rubbing her knuckles. "A woman likes to be asked, McCloskey. Asked nice."
"Got a gig for you."
"McCloskey's Rule. The answer is never no. If required, it's I'll get back to you."
"Real marks are involved. Clinking coin of the realm," his singsong wheedle made her stomach think about hurling.
"I could kill you now."
Stellar stood up, fussed with her hair mashed by the hood. She growled, kicked the downed rockabilly just for fun.
"Later, McCloskey. Next time you want me to beat up your goon, make an appointment. Call first. Ask nice." She pointed a finger at him, stabbed once. Walked out. "You'll get my bill," she shouted from the lift.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
The woman opposite the desk glanced wide-eyed at the man seated next to her. "You're sure?" Her voice cracked like thin ice. The whites of her eyes gleamed.
Lady Pierpont vibrated. Her long painted nails flicked the tiny tablet in her hands open. Closed. Click. Click. "What do I do?"
"That's a job for counsel, Lady Pierpont." Stellar Repo leaked breath through stretched lips, gazing at her new client. Thinking.
"Lady Pierpont. May I call you Mabel? Mabel. The suit is a pseudomorph. Oscar Pierpont has been replaced molecule by molecule. You've heard of imaginal cells? No. Anyway. He is a new thing. His apparatus is the same. He may or may not have some remnant of who he was banging around in there. But mostly he's an empty shell named Lord Pierpont. Do you understand?"
"How is not relevant. Irreversible. He is. Gone. You are united in connubial bliss with - let me be blunt - an astoundingly wealthy cypher."
Stella squinted at the shell in the suit. Thinking. Diagnosis got her so many marks. Standard guild stuff. Next steps billed several degrees of magnitude more.
"Lady Pierpont. Mabel. Were your needs being met?"
"Sorry?" The click click of the tab stopped.
"How long are you married?"
"You are much younger than Lord Pierpont."
"I see. Mabel. Think. Blank page. No peccadillos, preferences, predilections. All new gear."
The two women stared at Lord Oscar Pierpont. The man with no preconceiveds. A new thing.
"Well. Mabel. On your way then. We both have work to do. Will you be paying with credit? Or marks?"
Monday, November 5, 2012
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Ariana Gallery I have on my black Motawi tile table, and the collection of essential oils on her Pewabic tile coaster. She loved tile. So do I. We may visit an art tile store. Lunch at Pronto in Royal Oak, where she would have the vegetarian lawash she always ordered. Or at Amadeus in Ann Arbor, where she has never been and I have to guess what she may order there. She will wear her witch hat. I will wear my catwoman mask with my glasses on top. We will laugh, share stories of Halloween birthdays long ago. Dad's joke he told when people first learned her birthday was on Halloween. He'd say "yeah, she rode in on a broom." Tonight I'll put dinner on the table with her ceramic pumpkin hot pads, and later, I'll go to sleep remembering the woman in the witch hat on her birthday, with love.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Sean Rowe's The Salesman and the Shark. He was self-conscious about voice and would erase tapes with his voice on them, leaving only the music. He has a new album with his gorgeous voice all through. Researching background for the novella I'm writing, this morning I googled at-risk children. Link to link traveling, I found a reference to adult children of narcissistic parents (I am one) and read that a daughter who hasn't sorted this stuff out will go from bad relationship to bad relationship looking for a powerful person to grant her voice. I have to grant myself voice. I have to be the powerful person who gives me what I need. That's what I'm mulling, battling and stumbling through. It is a compelling journey. An old soul can be just a slow learner. A woman once read a brooch I have. She said she saw an old woman on the ice, a tribal leader, but she could not tell her whole truth. She said this while holding her own throat tightly. I had written a story about a shaman on the ice, a tribal leader. I thought it was a made-up story. The woman who saw the elder on the ice said it was me. What strikes me now is not the idea of past lives, but a tribal leader not being able to tell her whole truth. If it was a past life, then I've been stifling my truth for lifetimes. I guided a Share Circle in June about using voice. It was scary, but I did it. Since June, I receive at least one message about using voice per day. I don't think I've got the lesson learned yet. And I don't know what the Source wants me to do. But I'm observing, and trying, and that's the best I can offer just now. The change from then to now is that I am excited about what I'll find, what depth of me I'll discover, what I have to say that may be needed in the world. That is awesome. Perhaps that is the lesson. We have choice. We have free will. We can grant ourselves voice, and then use our voices to make our world more loving, more truthful.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Natalie Goldberg. How could I have forgotten Natalie Goldberg? Wild Mind. Writing Down the Bones. And I found on my goodreads list, If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit, by Brenda Ueland. I need to read it again, because although I raved about it, I do not remember it. Brain fade. Power save. I'm going to find it right now, and buy one. And if I forget I own it, I'll buy it again.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
The Artist's Way. Francine Prose, Reading Like a Writer. Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird. Carolyn Heilbrun, Writing a Woman's Life. I looked up Frances Marion, a woman who made a fabulous living screenwriting in 1920s' Hollywood. She published a book in 1937 How to Write and Sell Film Stories, and I just put a hold on it from Hope College. I LOVE Michigan's library system. Web wandering, I found Leigh Brackett, a woman writer with a long career in many writing genres, including screenwriting. Unknown yet if she wrote anything about the writing process. Stay tuned. Keep writing!
Monday, July 2, 2012
Wicked at the Wharton Center in East Lansing yesterday. It was a beautiful day, wonderful performance and a marvelous experience altogether. The musical had two sign language interpreters: Henry Lowe and Tracey Romano. The two were lyrical, expressive, wondrous, and my eyes were riveted on center stage, and on Henry and Tracey performing as well. I called Wharton today to discover if the two men were with the Wicked 2nd national tour, or Michigan interpreters. Nina Silbergleit, Director of Patron Services, returned my call, and said the interpreters are with Michigan's Deaf Community Action Network. After hiring Deaf C.A.N. interpreters for a previous Broadway tour performance, she retains their services for all shows so interpreted. Wicked won 3 of the 11 Tony Awards it was nominated for in 2003/4, and I think the American Theatre Wing needs to honor also those who interpret performances for the hearing impaired with heart, skill and empathy as rich as we saw yesterday. Bravo! Wharton Center and Nina Silbergleit for accessibility options, Bravo! Wicked, and Bravo! Henry and Tracey.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
do Barb's honey label," I first made Barb's raw honey label, and then ruminated on the word. Azimuth came forward out of the dark. Looked that up. I know I knew that word, but I have no idea what my brain was sending me about that word. Planetary alignment? Words with z? How High the Moon? Noodling on the internet, I bumped into Saturn/Venus, Jupiter viewing early mornings this month. Trine, conjunct, quincunx and all that. Then I chose an Osho Zen Tarot card and got the Major Arcana No-thingness (sunyata). Then I read Pisces at Free Will Astrology, in which I was reminded that while the Spanish were looking for El Dorado gold in the New World, what they brought home was the potato. Then I stopped to feel the energy zooming around my body. I looked up sunyata (soon-yuh-tah), and decided I will not have time in this incarnation to learn everything I think I want to know. And that is the message from this morning. The energy zooming around my body is universal energy. Life is the journey from nothingness to nothingness. And in between, there are fun, interesting, joyous, awesome, quixotic, maddening, delightful, gorgeous, crazy, wonderful sidetrips. And potatoes. Why worry?
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
prestige beauty products we buy. How much money do we spend on this war against getting old? Just the anti-aging products alone in the U.S. only are worth $300 billion. How many children will that feed a year? How much healthcare can we afford per annum with that kind of loot? We are practically buried in anti-aging junk hourly. We can ignore it, but we don't. Because the boys in Paris and NY know that the word anti-aging, with enough exposure, causes nostalgia, regret, insecurity, low self-esteem and depression for what used to be; and women are going to cure what causes all that by hauling our credit cards and our butts to the mall. I just chastised a care2 post titled "Embracing Our Sexuality in Middle Age." My hackles got wriggly with the title. How does one exactly embrace one's sexuality? Ugh. Three paragraphs were in quotations, but it wasn't until I got to the 4th paragraph that the author revealed it wasn't her writing, it was Dr. Jean Shinoda Bolen. I admire Jean Shinoda Bolen. Jean Shinoda Bolen is a wise woman, who writes about how to be a juicy crone. She is the real deal. Read all her books, and you will grow just by having the ink in front of your eyes. But the lifecoach, when she did start speaking in her own voice in the 4th paragraph, wrote she hates the word crone. Oh, fine. I was already riled, then glanced at the picture care2 put over the article. A woman, maybe over 55, maybe not. She'd either had a little work done, or she was airbrushed the way I altered my picture here. There is nothing real, nothing embracing, nothing authentic or true about this sort of manipulation. Although it was wicked fun to draw. If a woman chooses surgery, photoshop, or that $150 toner she can't live without, that's her business. And the business of the trillion dollar beauty products industry. The beauty products industry wants us to be unhappy with self, to live every day believing our true selves are not the best we can be. I get that. I buy stuff, too. But I do not enjoy the sort of activity-like scrubbing my own face just now-that makes me discontented with getting older. That makes me yearn for the past. That gives me pain. As I final-checked this picture, I thought I should take the ridges out of my nails. Somewhere in the etymology, yearn must share a common root with fool. I am aging. We're all aging at the same speed. My mother used to say consider the alternative. I get that, too. But the fight is to keep aging, not war on aging. No corpse I know owns 7 MAC lipglasses. I'm going to have to find out if MAC calls anything it puts out there anti-aging. Just looked. No anti-aging. MAC is smart. I want smart cosmetics companies that advertise as PRO-aging. Maybe with some 60+ year old women in the marketing and communications department. With titles. Can you imagine? You're a babe, babe! And you're wise, too, because you buy our goo! If that company ever shows up, my wallet will get more of a workout. For now, if I spend my money, it is with companies that honor, respect our age. No money to companies that want us to be unhappy with who we are.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Canada is still working to clean up the site; the terrible destruction perpetrated by the mine company for the time it was in operation. There has never been a silver/nickel mine that did not pollute its environs. Never. N E V E R. Kennecott Metals (a division of Rio Tinto, world perpetrator of mining earth pillage) is building their Eagle Mine without all the federal, Michigan and local permissions in place. The Salmon Trout River, unique breeding habitat for coasters, is about to be irreversibly polluted. The Yellow Dog River watershed is going to be ravaged. The local population has been denied their ancestral rights to tribal holy grounds. Judges have reversed decision back and forth until the only ones who can keep any damn thing straight are the legal buzzards working for Kennecott and Rio Tinto. Kennecott continues to claim they are environmentally responsible which they have never been. Never. N E V E R. Kennecott has convinced locals that this mine will add jobs. 100 jobs. For 5 years. Maybe. And 100 years from now we will still be cleaning up their shit. Kennecott is now digging the mile long decline tunnel, the ore extraction method called long hole stope mining. This is a more profitable way to extract ore because it's worker free. Did you catch that? Worker free. Where's the jobs, lying Kennecott Metals? Note the lighthearted lies about commitment to returning the area to stable and productive conditions. What the hell does that mean? Lies and damnable liars. Today Huron Mountain Club has finally stepped up and filed a federal law suit against Kennecott Metals because the super-rich families who started the Huron Mountain Club are richer than the rich guys who own Kennecott Metals.This is now not just about the 1% - this is about the .50% vs the .50%. Thus begins what I'm going to call the swinging dick ballet. We will be seeing more acts in this ensemble piece in the near future as the field of combatants in the top 1% battle for financial center stage. In this case I'm cheering for the Huron Mountain Boys because, when the Club was established in 1889 it was a hunting and fishing club, however exclusive, and if the Salmon Trout coasters, and the Yellow Dog Watershed peoples get to live harmoniously with nature after kicking Kennecott the hell out of Michigan, I'm all for that. We need to stand up and be heard about the degradation of our planet, and ourselves. Keep it simple: say it loud. This is my planet, and I will use my voice to keep her healthy, even if I suspect no one who can help stop this terrible destruction is listening.
Peabody's Improbable History cartoons were a feature of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show, a genius Jay Ward enterprise. Peabody, here, Mr. Peabody said to start, and we would then happily journey back in time. In our house, The Wayback Machine begins with that's like... or I remember. If Dad says I remember, there will be a tenuous connection to what we are talking about in real time. If it's that's like, the anecdote will have little or nothing to do with now. Many conversations include these two episodic references. I think older people talk this way because long-term memory is most readily accessible. Humans like to have self-relatedness. We all like to talk about ourselves. But the non sequitur recurrence makes it head spinning to keep up during a crisis that needs attention. In the midst of household problem solving, it's downright hard. It confuses me, it confuses people from outside our house who are participating in what's being discussed. Maybe it's common to try to explain what we did 45 years ago that may or may not have led us to where we are now. But information revealed in this way doesn't clarify anything for the listeners-it makes getting through a sticky wicket that much gummier. Today I said a dozen times, let's focus on the here and now. We moved into the 80s fairly quickly, but never did get out of that troublesome decade altogether. Do we all do that? Dad tells anecdotes to me as though I was not there when the story unfolded. This behavior is particularly perplexing because in every other way his cognitive function is fine. He just won't switch The Wayback Machine off, especially if we're confronting a situation that requires present tense attention and a rapid solution. I think those of us who are stuck in the past tend to stay stuck. Everything is a reflection, living is not done in the present. Problem solving is solving problems in the past. Alternative outcomes get reviewed repeatedly in private, until the past is a wheel in a cage. There must be some brain function that allows a successful conclusion from the past to stand in for what's going on now. I'm over analyzing this. I need more present and accounted for behavior in dealing with situations, because our lives right now contain serial situations. All I know truly is it is not possible to count your blessings when the wheel of self-analytics is going full speed, and I have great sympathy for my father. It has to be exhausting not to have blessings in the now to count.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Story of Ferdinand to bring to the new reading dynamic duo - the newest, minutes old - a Taurus. Found the hardcover at a Barnes & Noble near the hospital (the first book I've bought at a Barnes & Noble, so that's new, too.) Bianca has all the books I ever gave her, in pristine condition. I love that. But I also know I bought two of many, because I wanted the baby and toddler to be able to chew, maim, stand on, and throw books, too. Just so long as the child touched the book. Now Bianca will share her books with her son. And I have new books to get for Lawson James. I wandered through the children's book section, looking for familiar cloth, bath, chewable books, but found nothing. The familiar early books, Bianca already has. I touched favorites, remembering. All of Eric Carle. Good Night, Moon. I did not find Jan Pienkowski, but I know Bianca has many of his books. Chicka Chicka Boom Boom I can hardly wait to read to Lawson. And Owl Babies, although I can do Percy's part by heart - I want my mommy! I did happily discover On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman, and it's a beauty. So I wrote on the flyleaf of Ferdinand to both Bianca and her son, and wrote on the flyleaf of Nancy Tillman's book to Lawson himself. And as Carl, the Henry Ford West Bloomfield volunteer was escorting me to the labor and delivery floor, and I was giddy with all this wonder, I said to Carl, he's 3 hours old, so he can read, yes? And Carl smiled and said, soon enough. On this glorious and singular day of Lawson's birth, my sister and I sat on the couch in the birthing suite (how cool is that?) and Carol asked, so, what is Friday's child? And I said, loving and giving.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Stone Hedge, the home automotive magnate Walter O. Briggs built in 1915 for his family is for sale at the bargain price of $450,000. Architects Chittenden and Kotting designed the pale fieldstone manor at 700 W. Boston Boulevard. 9,638 square feet, 11 bedrooms, 9 fireplaces, 7 bathrooms, copper gutters, a cold fur closet, a liquor safe, stained glass windows, Pewabic tile. Carved into the library mantel are famous Detroit Tigers and famous opponents - Hank Greenberg, Babe Ruth, Charlie Gehringer, Lou Gehrig. Mr. Briggs owned the team from 1920 to his death in 1952. Tiger Stadium was originally Briggs Stadium, home to both the Detroit Tigers and Detroit Lions, but despite being on the National Register of Historic Places, it was completely demolished in 2009. Neighbors in the Boston Edison neighborhood included Charles Fisher (next door on Boston Boulevard) and Henry Ford's family was around the block. Mark Hickey has some beautiful pictures of houses on the two streets. I've loved this part of Detroit for decades. My mother lived in a house there that was a home for working single women. My father courted her from the parlor - no men allowed anywhere else in the building. I wanted to buy a house on Boston back when the two streets were terribly neglected and unloved; boarded windows, fire-licked roofs, bedraggled gardens, only a few homes maintained. Since 1980, people have bought homes, repaired and planted, and the house I wanted to buy is now lovely and occupied. I hope someone who will love Stone Hedge buys it, lives happily in it, and doesn't change too much of the gorgeous history.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
enjoy every sandwich this week. He had an extraordinary end of life experience, which he credits to his medical background, his professional path, in combination with his spiritual state. He meditated, he could put his consciousness in connection with all. He was at peace with his mortality as a spiritual and human being. He wrote of the God spot. When Janice mentioned the bliss void last night, I thought of that place in the parietal cortex, and I did a perfunctory internet search this morning. There are a couple scholarly articles about brain tumors and self-transcendance, and many sites debunking the whole notion that connectivity to God can exist in a brain spot. In My Stroke of Insight, Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor describes a stroke that washed out her motor skills, while heightening her sense of spiritual well-being. She moved out of left brain and into right brain. This morning I flipped an Osho Zen Tarot card for the day. It was Turning In. Turning inwards is not turning at all. If you try to turn in, you are seeking and that leads to frustration. Oy. Did the brain invent God? Or did God invent the brain? I don't know and neither does any other human we know. We all do our best to balance the experience, and perhaps that is the key to the kingdom. As Teilhard de Chardin said, we are not humans having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience.
Monday, April 16, 2012
INFJ and I feel good about that. Thanks to Susan Cain and her new book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking, I finally feel fine about being an introvert. Her book reveals the research regarding nature:nurture (you're born that way Intropal), temperament is not necessarily personality, that American corporations' celebration and promotional love of Harvard Business School extraverted clones is not necessarily the best choice for American businesses. Witness the run-up to 2008, during which the Harvard MBA non-risk averse/ reward seeking/ dopamine-addled CEOs brought the global economy to a crashing halt. Witness also that the government bodies supervising these extravert extreme money sportsters were populated with more of the same. My brother David sent a link to a TED Talk given by Susan Cain, and I was impressed that, although her voice shook a little, she stood there and gave us all this great information. I put a hold on her book immediately. Thanks, bro! I wrote back to David that I remembered 10th grade, the first card marking in Mr. Manos' Social Science class, what should have been a slamdunk A for me. He gave me a C. I gathered all my data, made an appointment and quaking with fear, outlined my reasons why I thought I deserved an A. He listened. He reminded me that at the beginning of the year he said class participation would be 50% of our grade. I squeaked that my participation level was the best I could pull off. He didn't budge. I didn't budge. I told him I'd take it up with my counselor. Manos changed my grade to a B-. In the business world much later, I sat during a performance review while my boss held her pencil over the "Team Player" evaluation box. "Opportunity for improvement?" she queried, pretty damn sure she'd get acquiescence. I thought about it a minute or two. I was tired; tired of forced participation over many decades, and tired of extra work to change what was essentially my core temperament. I shook my head. No. I am not a team player. I will never be a team player. I do not do well in work pods, on team building activities, or in groups of more than 2. She checked the box anyway. I took it along to my next boss, explained my position and he erased it and checked satisfactory. Introverts like quiet, minimal stimulation, privacy and the opportunity to wield their business and creative magic away from the klieg lights, and off the stage loved by extraverts. Introverts need to be given a little room. With a door. And a lock.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Late Bloomers is a Julie Gavras film about coping with aging. Yay! Starring the real life cinema elders Isabella Rossellini and William Hurt, written by Olivier Dazat and Julie Gavras, translated by David H. Pickering. The film looks into the oppositional denial/engagement behavior of a married couple of retirement age. Marvelous, timely, real life and needed. I can't wait to see it. Reminds me of interviewing a financial planner as a married woman. When do you want to retire? he asked. Never, said the ex. Tomorrow, said I. Most importantly, the audience for this film is eager, has money and will spend it at the cinema. In 2011, movie attendance was down. Again. 2011 saw the smallest movie going audience in 15 years. Blame it on whatever you'd like, people aren't going to the cineplex. Google docs houses a pdf file of global theatrical market statistics through 2010. In recent years, women have been staying home more than men. Meanwhile, obtuse Hollywood is gambling on cash cow movies re-released in 3D despite the clear evidence that 3D attendance worldwide is going downhill fast. We have more women than men in this country. Women make over 80% of the purchase decisions for the family. We have an aging population worldwide, in bigger numbers every year. Mark Jenkins, in his review of Late Bloomers, casually tosses off the marketability of the film as not distinctive enough to draw viewers who haven't given much thought to aging. And so? It's a big, rich global crowd that wants films like this to pay to see. Perhaps the tide is turning. Women filmmakers globally are taking the next step, identifying the big bucks yet to be gathered, and employing excellent actors with maturity and skill to play characters of a certain age. Yay! to Julie Gavras and the women in film who make us cheer. And who are savvy and brave enough to detect coin in our pockets that most of Hollywood cannot discern.
national healthcare, women, the bogeyman, and the color green in business attire, undeserved negative attention has been its unlucky fate. 13 is an object of derision since patriarchy got the license to run the planet. 13 was a beautiful number when women ruled the world. The goddesses loved 13. 13 in antiquity was a holy number, a stroke of luck, good omen, shiny with divine auspices. Mama Donna Henes covers the history in depth today. There was a reason for 13 witches in a coven, and it wasn't just because women like odd numbers. If you squint at this Chinese character for luck, you can see a number 13. Or maybe I'm just lucky to be so nearsighted. And there are instructions here to draw luck. I had the good luck to review Hobart's Winter/Spring2012 literary journal titled Lucky 13 for The Review Review this month. You should be so lucky! Fingers crossed.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
WNBA draft is April 16. LPGA schedule is in full swing. Start watching women professionals compete.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Monday, April 2, 2012
Mirror, Mirror plays Julia Roberts as the evil stepmother queen. Snow White and the Huntsman features Charlize Theron as the obsessed woman on the throne. I think we're getting these princesses and the wicked (but oh, so beautiful) stepmoms because there just aren't any women caped crusaders to follow the guys into the theater. Have we had enough of comic book heroes? Probably not. But since we have no equally famous and powerful women in that realm, we're stuck with fairytales. Fairytales have a beautiful princess who either sleeps, pricks her finger spinning, falls down running and is rescued by a bunch of short guys, or just hangs around waiting for a handsome prince to rescue her from whatever lowly existence she thinks she has. And an evil wicked nasty queen is just good fun, right? Well, not according to a Harvard professor quoted last week in an article by Linda Holmes about Snow White's recidivist film appearance. We're addressing aging women's anxiety about...aging, according to Maria Tatar, Harvard professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures. She chairs the mythology and folklore program, and Holmes claims she specializes in fairytales. Oy. I want to know what research supports such ludicrous speculation, and what the hell the article is playing at. None of these plots indicate pop culture connectivity of any kind. The queens want the young girls dead. The queens want to eat the princess's liver. The queens are murderous psychopaths, and this relates to women anxious about aging? Lest we all forget - again - boys with money who want more money decide which movies are made. Boys have no interest whatsoever in addressing boomer women's anxiety about getting older. This is not why these movies are getting made. What a load of...fairytales.