Winter Wednesdays, Part One, or Why Love (of Downton) is Better the Second Time Around

I don’t want my daughter to be married to a man who threatens to ruin her. . . . I want a good man, a brave man. . .  find a cowboy in the Middle West!

Oh girls, if only we knew that gemstone of sagacity way back when!!! C’mon you Downton addicts, need we even discuss exactly when, why, where and by whom this pearl was said??? You know these lines better than all the info you once crammed into your head during a college all-nighter right before an important final. You've practically memorized the episodes verbatim during the repeat airings of the show. Except this stuff you never forget because you loved it from the first and can see it again and again. And you ruminate on the wisdom of the words whilst wishing Lord Grantham were your dad, right? Castle of course included, gratis, a perk.

But Robert lord-of-the-manor in jolly ol’ Edwardian England isn’t always so soft on us rebels across the pond, like when he exhorts the indomitable dowager countess at one point: Are you afraid that someone will think you’re American if you speak openly?

Oh heaven forbid, not the specter of another noisy American!!!  Banish the thought. On this same, recurring theme, in a later episode we also learn from the ineffable, adorable Mrs. Patmore- as she contemplates the devising of yet another menu of pudding and soufflé like dishes- that we yanks are known to eat things like steak with gobs of ketchup. It seems, alas, that we simply are there for cultural contrast and in the end the Brits still rule, but who cares? How better to pass wintry Wednesday evenings than to immerse oneself in the cozy comfort of an all seasons rerun fest! It’s like a velvety, warm quilt with a silver tray of bon bons within easy hand’s reach.

So thank, you thank you whatever gods of Brit TV may exist for this wonderful gift that keeps on giving!!! And to PBS for offering it yet again from beginning to end on various Wednesdays throughout the winter!

In truth, not all the episodes were equally sumptuous, uplifting, impeccably furnished and gloriously costumed. Remember watching early on in the series as the doc informs a dying patient that his “periocardial sac” was “filled with fluid” (uh oh!) and then jabbing the poor sod with some crazy fluid-removing, suctioning needle thingamajig smack in the chest, at the behest of the ever enthusiastic Mrs. Crawley? Remember wanting to change the channel? But then again, clearly the brewing conflict between  a feisty Flo Nightingale and the ever frisky Dowager was worth hanging in for!

In these early days we also are treated once again to the spectacle of Bates and Anna getting warm and fuzzy together, making the watcher feel that perhaps all is occasionally right with the world. Yet as we get to know the staff better and begin to regard them as family, this good feeling is speedily tempered by our repressed rage at witnessing the ever malevolent O’Brien revealing Gwen’s typewriter to the entire downstairs crew in an effort to “secretary shame” the poor girl. Ugh!

It grabs you from the first we are reminded, and from the second, third and fourth time around as we begin watching all the seasons of Downton Abbey from the start. Amid Napier and Pamuk flying along with the hunt in cute hunting outfits on their majestic steeds, and then the handsome Turkish lover’s corpse being gingerly toted by the Crawley ladies through the dim hallways of the mansion after a wild night with Lady Mary, clearly all sorts of mischief are afoot here. And even though no one watching this believes for one second that Carson ever indeed was/could/want to be a song and dance man, we still accept that Lord G. must make short shrift of a would be blackmailer by throwing the threatening miscreant twenty pounds and essentially telling him to get lost. It seems Lord G. ain’t sayin’ adieu to the head butler anytime soon, so there. Put that in your after dinner cigar and brandy.

Oh yeah, you think you can do this ‘cause you’re a lord? Carson’s former vaudeville cohort spits out in anger as he grabs the dough.

You betcha he can!!!

The winter can be a tad dreary, can it not? But between the holiday marathon at Highclere, and now these heavenly Wednesdays, suddenly I am feeling young and ebullient again- comfortably immersed in a charmed life of delicious melodrama, plush cushions, impeccable manners, perfectly enunciated, aristocratic speech patterns that command, and gorgeous clothes over which to drool with envy and desire (to own, to wear, to be there)!                          

                                      (cont'd on March 17th)

The Story of NooNoo/Nootchie cont'd . . .

One Two, Button Your Shoe. . .Tales of Nootchie Year Number Two! (Golden Globe Winner of Toddler Skype Sessions)

How is this possible???

Is she really that “grown up” already??

It’s less than two months away from her second birthday, winter wet and cold in New York, and I’m mesmerized by the latest video from California. The Nootch is sitting on the floor with a small guitar across her lap; rather skillfully I think at least for a 22 month old, placidly  plucking away at the strings with some concentration, up and down across the length of the instrument her small fingers play, and she is singing along in perfect time. The lyrics to the song are familiar- dubbla yoo ex, why ‘n zee. . .  now I noo m’ ay-bee-seez, wone you say ‘em pliz wi’ mee. . . . And it is she, Navah, not yet two years old, who is humming this intricate ditty! 

I have not seen the Nootch for over a month now since she left, and  watching this little miracle video on my email I am quite blown away. She talks! In verse! And vocalizes along with the tune!  The last I knew she was articulating simple words like “up!” when she needed to be on high, or “Oh Noooo!” when feigning catastrophe, or giddily being "discovered" hiding behind the kitchen door. How is this now possible? A virtuoso letter sounding out performance?? It seems only yesterday she mastered that funny little crawl with the one leg tucked underneath as a means of deftly transporting herself around the living room floor. And now she is not only walking, but running, jumping and attempting to stand on her head (using the soft pillows of the sofa of course for this gymnastic feat, but still it counts!).

She may not be saying complex sentences yet, but the lyricism of the classic nursery rhyme delineating the parts of the alphabet clearly has caught her fine ear. Is she a musical genius, or what? Or, may these heaps of praises merely be the mad musings of a doting grandma gone completely and utterly insane with the wonder of such a miraculous, small personage- no longer an infant but a fascinating little force, with all sorts of new knowledge and “abilities.” I have an acute attack of cuteness exposure on the spot that proves near fatal but quickly recover so that I may watch the video again.

We skype once more not long after and she is sooooo excited about showing me her newest accomplishment. Suddenly the potty appears courtesy of mom’s ever guiding, watchful and invisible hand, and she cheerfully plops down on it, does a “sissy” and laughs gaily. Mommy then lovingly gives her the miniature “commode” to empty into that big potty in the sky, the bathroom toilet.  For one excruciating moment the little bowl tilts a tad perilously in the Nootch’s hand as we wait with bated breath, but in the end it’s all safely balanced by a flick of that tiny, skillful wrist and off she goes to dispose of it. She is so proud!

At one point while we are chatting and attempting to hug each other via and through our respective monitors daddy calls, and the Nootch grabs the phone from mommy and demands to speak with him!!! In truth, she has a lot to tell him, but for the moment seems to be listening so that she may properly respond. 

I have lost my mind, it’s obvious. This brief interaction on the screen regarding the newest “accomplishment” followed by the safe transporting of the potty to its final disposal place actually was more compelling to watch than the burning of Atlanta in Gone with the Wind, and infinitely more brilliant- in truth, quite artistically, ground breakingly iconic if I may say- than Citizen Kane!

A week or so after this unbelievable success, we skype again, and she dives into a package of clothing I have sent in preparation for her second birthday. She plucks out a pair of colorful undies and proceeds to try them on, right over her leggings!  She then moves on to the new socks, dons two pair at one time- one over the other (clever!!!)- after which she begins to dance around the room like the happy and joyous little maniac that she is.

Oh, did I forget to mention she knows four colors?
Yallow, grin, redd and boo!!! Her favorite at the moment appears to be boo. Funny, I like boo too. Navy boo.

Was there ever, ever, in the entire history of humankind, such an adorable, brilliant, funny, engaging and fascinating little toddler of almost two years???

I think not.

Andante, Fresco, Ciao! (Part One of a rather long short story. . . .)

 Andante, Fresco, Ciao!       
(A Story in 13 Parts, or                                                          6,500+ words!)

                                                                                 

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?

                      -Percy Bysshe Shelley

It’s the winter of 1963 and I’m all shrink-wrapped up.

Chocolate brown and black enshroud nearly my entire being in dark wraparound skirts, slim woolen “sheath” dresses, short, teasing tunics, tight black turtlenecks, long black tights, snug black leather heels, charcoal eyeliner, cocoa eye shadow, deep amber lipstick and an esoteric major in English and Drama.

A few errant Christmas trees still appear at the curb, tiny strands of tinsel clinging to the branches of a wintry new year. Dark novels nurture the melancholy sensibility; I’m enraptured with words like “ye.”

`Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’- that is all

 Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.

Poignant tales help pass time on the subway, in the back of snorting city buses, under the covers with a flashlight in the early hours of freezing Bronx mornings- paperbacks with shadowy covers that bespeak intense, dour tales of destitution and dolor. A radiator sputters as Thomas Hardy reveals the obscure, unspeakable tragedies of Jude and Tess. 

For comic relief I peruse Conrad, and Anna Karenina is my role model. I picture a brilliantly lit nineteenth century Russian ball teeming with dissipated, bejeweled aristocrats, chandeliers and gleaming floors from whence to make an entrance in one of those low shouldered evening gowns of rich black velvet designed to drive dashing rakes like Vronsky mad with desire. I’m also constructing an imaginary, existential diary of a young life somewhat along the lines of “Notes from the Underground” and I’m inexplicably fond of the prefix “be” in front of certain words to intensify meaning and sound vaguely literary: bestir, bemoan, belie, bedeck, behoove, besmirch, beguile. . . .

To make matters worse, I’ve more or less given myself over entirely to the enchantment of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, longing piteously, as it were, for the world of sedge, mead and the elusive faery child.

Thin, pale and haunted in a “bohemian” sort of way, my mind is not at rest. Everyone I know is dreaming of getting away, bedeviled and besieged as we all are with restlessness and rebellion. You could say there’s an entire generation betaken with thoughts of flying off to Europe, joining a kibbutz, heading out west, living on a commune, signing up for the Peace Corps, be-ing there. The violet, chilly winters of New York are especially biting through the tilted canyons of the borough, with temperatures in the pre-teens.

 Everything is slower, and takes time. You patiently dial a rotary phone for climate conditions at Weather 6-1212 to get something like wild guessing at the other end in those artless days before computers. The entirety of New York City is still 212, even to the furthest, most remote corners of Staten Island with fewer telephone numbers, fewer connections.  

Carla Thomas, little known gospel singer epitomizes the soulful crossover from gospel to R & B and I and others already have been shamelessl humming along to the naked, teenage sensuality emanating from the likes of Gee Whiz, look at his eyes/ Gee whiz, how they hypnotize. . . . It is still prior to the imminent ascendancy of the peppy Motown beat, Diana Ross and the Supremes and eventually Sly and the Family Stone. 

There’s all kinds of abundance everywhere, jobs, jobs, jobs and you don’t have to attend college to prosper. Manhattan rentals are plentiful and cheap, studios of exposed brick walls in five story walk-ups, brownstones with scruffy, wildflower gardens, modern cookie cutter nests in flimsy, white towers manned by smarmy doormen and the illusion of cache- and all so very boring seeming. The notion of a black president is non-existent, pure sci-fi. In any event it’s a moot point. For starters, there are no blacks, just Negroes, no Hispanics or Latinos, only Puerto Ricans, Asians are “Orientals.”  

A historical tsunami is covertly moving the earth’s tectonic plates and meteors are crashing silently above our heads, but the infrasonic pulses are tucked so far below any level of human hearing the racket can be detected only by certain animals of peculiar sensitivity, such as cats and the occasional elephant herd. . . .
                                     (to be cont'd on 9/23)

Labor Day Weekend. . . Already???

Wishing all of you the best on the unofficial last weekend of summer-  
New story next week!

Life as a Movie

Every life needs a soundtrack,

I thought.

Charlotte Bronte:

Haydn's concertante

for oboe and bassoon

Allegro and Andante

with a spare meal at noon

Profusion of foreplay

from sad, obelisk strings

Short-lived, yet hopeful 

climax soft sings

in B-Flat

and that's that.

Jane Austen:

Don Giovanni

or The Marriage of Figaro

Teasing melody

Romance and Rondo

vestal maidens

in the thrill and thrall

of gentrified satyrs

at the country ball

in Edenic fervor

with astute observer

Me:

Mahalia, Percy Sledge,

Mingus and why wait? 

Sinatra, Ray,

& Bonnie Raitt.

Leo

Our good friend Leo died unexpectedly at home on the last day of July. His wife Helene, one of my bestest besties, died nine months earlier and I am still missing her so very much.

 Apparently his heart gave out unexpectedly. Yes, Helene and Leo were “elderly” but also strong, brave, smart, vulnerable, feeling, interesting and interested- they were funny, caring loyal friends and individuals, and death is never easy. This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends. . . . and of course it always sucks,  whenever, however, and it does not seem poetic or illuminating.  I think I am speaking in the anger stage, but it alternates. 

Eloquence has forsaken me, so let me speak plainly. Can even a marriage of 54 years have worked out all the kinks when the time comes? Has the life of any single individual managed to come to terms with the way it was lived? Can you succeed at this even If you've had a nice, long run and were not terribly sick, aside from the inevitable baddies of old age?

I wrote down some of my thoughts about this remarkable, talented and accomplished friend and mentor in a more formal, memorialized style, something to be shared with relatives and friends, students, former coworkers, and perhaps to be posted along with other tributes that surely will arrive from these friends and relatives who knew Leo and will write into the newspaper to share thoughts about his legacy.

 My formal, spoken eulogy tells of Leo’s impressive successes and talents, his caring, vibrant and never dull personality, his many contributions to making the world a better place, his interest in life, family, music, literature, language, travel, the performing arts, ideas, politics and of course people.

My formal eulogy mentions his unswerving fealty to the daily print version of the New York Times in a speeding universe of smart phones and pixels, this habit prompting the creation each day of a permanent if somewhat mobile collage of large papers decorating his living room, along with the many books, the lively conversation and his beloved sheet music.

But carefully composed memorials never tell the whole story or even a significant part of the tale, and that includes the cleverly spoken remembrances too, or maybe especially the clever ones. It’s always “Rashomon” all over again when someone close passes away, with sudden, dramatic explorations into reasons, motives, meanings, family schtick, secrets, sadnesses and humorous memories for comic relief; there are questions, answers, viewpoints and vantage points from every angle in search of something resembling truth; there are analyses, observations on the purpose of life itself and philosophical surprises budding like wildflowers during the difficult process of acceptance. And often you do not know exactly what to do with all these unruly blooms and partial truths; they barely last when uprooted, and at some point you simply have to leave them there, in the field by the side of the road with the sun shining, nature prevailing and traffic moving.

I surely will miss Leo, he had the gift of gab. He knew how to be, to act, to contribute, how to live, speak, listen, and on many occasions how to imbue some meaning into our crazy, crazy world, this brief existence in which mortality holds its miserable, stupid little sword over our heads with unrelenting impassivity each and every day, daring you to live bravely and not to over think it, as he would say. 

And now I want to do more of that too. Take his advice. Not over think.  Live as if I meant it. More so each day.

 We always say things like this at these times don’t we? I say it anyway.

The supposed stages of grief often commingle, there’s no timetable  and it’s never linear; grieving cannot be categorized and neatly structured into a flowchart of emotions- there are too many thoughts and feelings flooding in all at once. It takes time. It all reminds.

In the end there still exist slews of memories but the feeling of loss remains.

That’s all.

Pymland and the Great Escape

Full disclosure: I’ve recently immersed myself, or rather dived in once again- wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word some years ago. And so while the Ubiquitous Big Screens are instructing us that the citizens of our rebellious, electronic nation are now engaging in screaming, balloon encased orgies about presidential elections, I defer. Quietly and happily I am wallowing in the ironic coziness of English village life in the mother country a la Pym- all of it  just a bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

I suspect some others as well may not be faithfully hanging onto every image and syllable of the political spectacle either, but what are they reading?

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as too stodgy by publishers in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered, resuscitated and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life albeit with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist- what a gal! Pym takes us to locales devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious edges- places where they are short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong, and some truly splendid floral arrangements.

Aaaahhh, life is good.

It’s been going on for the better part of a year, this Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a friend recently lost who turned me on years ago to this delicious feast of rectors, unmarried ladies and and drafty vespers; and of course it also is a wonderful means of escape from the cruel, cruel world.

Coincidentally the last two novels in the oeuvre patiently awaiting their turn for re-perusal happened to be sitting in the perfect time slot time for providing a reading refuge from the two Big Party Political Conventions. You remember those, right? The giant, pixel flickering, bellowing spectacles of millions- i.e. dollars and people- each hogging up four consecutive evenings of hours and hours of crowd manipulation, hate, hope, fear of others, fear itself!, false promises and self aggrandizement? As it turns out, Orwell had it all wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day of bombast to control the populace, but then again, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84.

But I digress. Honestly, where else could you find therapy if not complete solace from the chaos of the madding crowd of prospective voters for a mere fifteen bucks of paperback? Or better yet, reading nirvana at absolutely no charge whatsoever as I already own the entire collection of novels! A meditation class at the local Y costs more for heaven's sake.

The people of Pym's stories are women no longer young yet bound contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. They are unattached and live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never, but we always know into which category of church going (or not) they fall; they work in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes. Alongside these are the interesting and often attractive clerical types, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, eligible bachelors, married men who wish they were bachelors, early middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional self-absorbed, cunning vixen and a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. There are gardens and a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, sharp satire and all is revealed through astute character observation, mostly tongue in cheek and quite hilarious. Yet the whole mess seems quite orderly and even bucolic at moments, amid overtones of subtle social mischief, not so subtle character machinations and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the queen’s touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn  not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Wow! Who says or event thinks that anymore? Drawing in, like some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what other shocking faux pas in the offing. . . .

In truth, the plots have a minimum of narrative cliff hanging and defer to Pym’s many strange characters of lovable quirk to spill the beans- these same single men and excellent or not so perfect but often happy spinsters and spinster wannabes that people her landscape. Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, sensibly, seriously shoed, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the gals sometimes even would prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take, and yet Pym slices and dices with the softest of cake knives.

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums in their carefully tended gardens create a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society at the rectory are a regular feature of village life, as are eligible vicars with doting, unmarried sisters, flirtatious anthropologists, seductive waiters and even the occasional irresistible military cad;  other harmless rakes reside in her English cottages as well, with mischievous subtexts looming under their suitable seeming élan. The ladies make tea, contrive solutions to nearly catastrophic social gaffs and take it all in with a wry flicker.

Who could ask for more?

Food acts as something of a bona fide character in the novels as her British cooks of legendary blandness insist on limping heroically toward a tasty and/or well done effect with their endless variety of casseroles. Often dinner may be “tinned” for a solitary snack, or a meal so sparse that even a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices as the day’s repast for some of her solitary, excellent women; or, conversely, richly trifled chocolate and perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the vicarage.

And yes, she trifles with our sensibilities too, but in the most charming and delightful of ways, wrapping up her readers in a warm blanket of perceptive humor and gentle sarcasm about the perceived on goings of the sexes and their captive audience- the town denizens and busybodies who never miss a trick. Occasionally one of these observant watchers even can be made to expire, in her rocker for example on a chilly evening, a favorite kitty on the lap, proving that this is not entirely a fairy tale but also a clear lens on all our village-y life concerns about existence and mortality.

I know this paean to Pym may seem somewhat overstated, the average, informed anglophile reader having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and you’re really not sure what to serve. And it’s not that I wish to write like her, nor ever could purport to aspire to (thus ending my phrases with prepositions as so often I am mis-inclined to do!). 

It’s simply that I think I would like to live as a character in one of her marvelous tales of angsty guffaws and reside therein forever in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory soft intrigue. There will be no ubiquitous screening of Big Party Conventions either in view or earshot, and only birdies will be providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of teapot tempests, smart quips and witty character revelations you will find me as you open the novel's pages, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably with the neighbors. 

The Writing Exercise, Part Two

The writing instructor, Marvin, begins to speak, but as it turns out he really does not invoke or even vaguely resemble the figure in his concertedly impressive bio, the one in the course catalog with the nice photo and a row of books behind him. He’s actually a bit silly and quite shlumpy- I pictured a tall British poet with sculpted features and flaxen hair, not a pot bellied gnome with scruffy beard gone brillo gray in a wrinkled shirt. 

For the moment I have the insane urge to laugh, you know, really crack up until the tears come but force myself to control the impulse. The guy lisps too. This has got to be a sitcom about a lisping writing instructor who wildly mispronounces certain words and destroys whole sentences with great concentration.

Thally’s Thtory raithezz an interething quethion Marvin offers, as Sally of the floppy bangs thits there continuing to thulk in what she hopes is a vaguely literary pose.  Marvin as it turns out also has a kind of  vocabulary suggestive of the verbal part of the SAT and knows how to turn- or mangle- a phrase exquisitely, depending on contexth, and what’s more he is giving the victim of the vengeful hair cutting shears her full due. But if it continues like this much longer, I will be compelled to run screaming from the room.

The word of the day appears to be resonant. Does Floppy Bangs' story have resonance (or rethonance as it were)? He glances expectantly around the circle.

I hate the word resonance, I really do.

Resonant is not much better, and in fact may even be worse.

Why in the hell do words have to resonate????

Personally, I would much rather they evoke. . . but why split hairs? Am I simply being too judgmental, and not empathetic enough to the sad tale of the botched bangs???

The apathetic circle quickly stirs to life and sheets of paper begin to rustle as pens flick back and forth in nervous fingers.  A lady with lots of eye makeup and a little red cowboy bandana rakishly caressing her skinny neck says that although she understands Sally’s frustration about the bangs, the narrative voice simply is not childish enough. Then the neighbor to Bandana’s left in a loud, spangled, low cut t-shirt purchased at a street fair no doubt and platinum spikes with the roots showing says she understands Bandana’s problem with the story but feels the real weakness has to do with the description- or lack thereof- of the invasive shears. This last comment provokes murmurs of assent all around as the next "suggestion" creeps silently into the air awaiting its miserable little turn. Finally an elderly pixie in size zero entrenched on the other side of Floppy Bangs comes in for the kill: Do these bangs actually suggest castration or simply a haircut gone wrong? I have a problem with the ambiguity- it lacks punch.

I cannot bear to look at Floppy Bangs at this point and decide it really is time to leave. These people are out for blood! Do I really want them eviscerating my own pathetic little tale of woe? I think not. I picture strutting in with a bouffant or an afro of a story and leaving bald, bereft, crumpled like a discarded draft, and near tears. This will never do and soon I’m wriggling quietly out of the seat looking appropriately so very sorry as I make my writerly way out that goddamn door.