Saturday Speaks: Simple pleasures

Truly, the best thing I heard this week was my cat's mewing when Jo dropped me off at home after my three and a half days in Michigan.

But, seriously, I know I've talked about my cat enough for one week.

For a little contrast, the dumbest thing I've heard this week I heard Friday night after yoga class. I went to the movies with Caro... we've sworn each other to secrecy never to reveal what we saw, so, I know this is somewhat pointless. Still, we left the film disappointed in people and in filmmakers. With all our technology, after all film magic has developed, and even after a decent streak of good films in the late 90s, we're still making cheap sensationalist predictable B.S. Caro and I stood outside in the parking lot picking at the petty lines, weak and overdone plot, and unrealistic character development, while middle-aged women squealed and tugged at their half-grinning husbands shirt sleeves saying, "Wasn't that just great?! It was really, really good!!"

Yikes.

Friday Sabbath: Death has no favorites

I've often felt that many religions are really an answer for death. At least of those religions one encounters around here, most houses of Gd offer a sort of prescription for how to live so that one might, for lack of a better phrase, attain a better death. Most of us have heard of the so-called beliefs of the Islamic extremists shooting down enemies to acquire their virgins or of a little squabble referred to as The Crusades in which both the Catholics and the Protestants had their own ideas of what qualifies you for entrance into The Paradise Club.

I've come across a few interesting people with opinions I hadn't expected. I knew a pastor of a Lutheran church who, while advocating the life that follows the Cross, had no specific belief in the hereafter. Yeah, loves Jesus and all, but didn't believe in an eternal reward for saying so. I've also come across another pastor who looked a passionate teenage girl in the eye and told her that he didn't believe Hitler was in hell (to which my mother would say, "Well, if he's not going, no one is.") It was sort of refreshing to come across people who have done the time, survived divinity school, tolerated a handful of generations of know-it-all children, and came out not so much jaded as liberated (which is the best idea one can gather from Martin Luther... leave out that antisemitic garbage).

I have no great theories on what happens when we die. There are times when I'm content to think that this is it, you live, then the lights go out, and you're fertilizer. Other times, when I'm optimistic, I wonder if there's not so much a heaven as a Step Two... perhaps there are infinite steps along the path of existence and we merely evolve from one to the other as we learn and prepare. Like the rest of us, there's no way to know until you get there, so, I figure I'll cover my bases. I favor living life as a "good person"... but also fully... and all that implies.

I did read an interesting story in this quarter's Parabola... a retelling of a Haitian story by Antoine Exavier. He tells the story of Papa Gd and General Death. The characters are walking through the climate of the story's origin during a dry, hot season. They make a bet to see who can convince a poor man to give his last drop or two of water. Papa Gd visits the man, asks for water, argues for a moment, and then the man finally asks the visitor his name. Papa Gd reveals his identity and the man still refuses him. He does mention, however, that he'd answer differently for General Death. Papa Gd naturally expresses his confusion to which the man tells him that the General has no favorites:

Rich, poor, young, old - they are all the same to him. Last week, he took the owner of the large house on the hill, the week before he took my neighbor's wife, the week before a young baby, and the week before that an old man. Death takes from all the houses. But you, you give all the water to some people and leave me here with ten miles to go on my donkey for just one drop.
-by Antoine Exavier from Parabola

General Death shows up several minutes later, and upon revealing his identity, the poor man gave him as much water as he wanted. The story ends with General Death sparing the man another day from his scheduled departure from earth...

I guess I'm thinking of this because this story doesn't give you an answer for what happens when you die. It marks the inevitability of death and the acceptance people seem to have about its mystery. While I'll continue to enjoy hearing about other people's ideas and thoughts on what happens when you die, I think I'm with the water-deprived that there's nothing to know but perhaps some perspective to be gained. Of course, the tale does insinuate that Gd specifically gives to some and not to others... that is the choice of a Creator of any kind, I suppose... I'm not entirely devoted to this idea. I'd like to think, if Gd exists, that there hasn't been direct giving since the order and chaos of the cosmos was set in motion... a little deist, but, it's the only theory I tend to share aloud.

Thursday Kitchen: When there is no order to things

Growing up I can recall one of the major elements that differentiated my feelings about meals at my father's house and meals at my mother's. Away from my mother's, I ate whenever the adults felt like it... except on Saturday mornings. My sisters and I inevitably rose before their parents, so I would take it upon myself to climb up the kitchen counters to get the cereal and the bowls. At the time, I was lactose-intolerant, so I ate my cereal dry with water or Pepsi... the only other two beverages in the house (and the reason I'm a Coca-Cola girl). With Mom, there were three meal times and options for afternoon snacks.

As an adult, I haven't necessarily replicated either routine or lack thereof... I try to eat whenever I get up... lunch between 12:30 and 1:30... and I prefer dinner around 7. I used to follow my French friend's program... dinner, coffee, and dessert. Now I rarely eat dessert because I put most of my effort into making an interesting meal...

Tonight I made a recipe not my own but one of the few I've repeated in one year. It's a different sort of grilled cheese made with fig preserves, prosciutto, and brie... I served it with an impromptu salad of harvest grains, lentils, peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a pinch Cajun seasoning... and of course, red pepper and tomato soup. After all that fun (and the Cabernet Sauvignon that Caro kindly brought over), my planned sweet of cherries, plums, and watermelon just slipped my mind.

Still, today I was offered one of those wonderful moments that require no planning... maybe the opposite of planning...

I was a little upset this week and it took me some time to get up this morning. When I realized I was terribly late, I dashed out the door without making at least my daily cup of green tea. I arrived at Anya's tired, weary, and un-caffeinated. She poured me a glass of red, put lunch in the oven, and then made the announcement.

"I think we should have out dessert first."

She pulled out her tray of brownies and warmed up two of them in the microwave. She's one of the truly great hostesses that always has a little something special to offer you... brownies, her own recipe of cookies, some vegetarian delicacy better than anything you'll find in the restaurants... I aspire to having a kitchen more like hers... someday when I grow up...

Reminds me of the one time food was a pleasant issue at my father's house.

I had just come down with this nasty cold. The day before he was supposed to pick me up, Mom had given me the usual... chicken soup (probably a healthy dose of Ramen), orange juice, and decongestant. I was stuffy, tired, and really didn't speak on the car ride over to his house. Upon arrival, I slunk to the dining room table, dropped my bag, pulled out a chair, sat, and flopped my woozy head on the table. I heard some rustling in the kitchen... I started praying to Gd that it wasn't more juice or cold medicine for me...

A plate clinked on the table and tapped me in the head.

I looked up and saw a white plate with a brownie and a fork. I was pretty confused. "Is that for me?"

"Yeah."

"But I'm sick?"

"Exactly. It'll make you feel better."

And that's true. Brownies out of order make everything better.

Wednesday Valuables: My oldest friend

I suppose it could make me feel old, but at this moment it makes me feel more proud than anything. I have one friend with whom I've been close for almost 16 years. We met in a Parks and Recreations acting troupe and fell into what people disgustingly refer to as "puppy love" by our parents and teachers. His audition piece to get into the troupe was a recitation of The Jabberwock... I mean, c'mon... sweet golden curls over sharp blue eyes... It was impossible not to want to turn my preteen thoughts to love.

However, we were awfully young and I was in the midst of dealing aggressively with my issues with my father. Things fell apart and I drifted from crush to crush... if we hadn't ended up in the same high school, our current friendship quite possibly would not exist.

It's similar to what happened between my mother and I when I was 12 or 13... I made the decision that we would be friends and stopped rebelling against her specifically. In our case, Tristan is the one who called a truce. He wrote me a letter... I probably have it in his tin somewhere around here.

Most of my closer, long term friends, have a tin that I select in which to keep their letters, post cards, notes, etc. I have one for my pen pal, naturally, Jo, Anya, and David, though I'm in need of a few more... at least one for Beth who sends me thoughtful notes now and again... Tristan's isn't as heavy as it used to be due to a stupid phase of my adolescence during which I disposed of many letters I wish I hadn't as well as our getting older and finding less time to write. I still have some relics from the early 2000s and the late 90s... like this little cartoon he drew for me to cheer me up, I think, after an impressively nasty break-up:

Aside from being able to make me laugh, we're the kind of friends who can go several months without speaking and then pick up right where we left off when we see each other again... the kind of friends who, if you don't close the coffeehouse down or remind us, we'll talk for hours and hours. When I look at the many types of friends we all have... the one you talk to everyday, the one you can call at any hour of the night, the one with whom you can goof off without shame, and obviously the one who is most trusted with your details... Tristan can easily be any one of these sorts of friends. Our long-term history and openness makes for a relationship that could evolve and stay the same simultaneously.

I'm reminded of a book my mother gave me as a child... it was called Orlando's Little While Friends by Audrey Wood (who is absolutely one of my favorite children's picture book authors of all time). The book takes the reader through what's basically a family vacation on which little Orlando meets several kids at parks, monuments, etc. However, he has to leave all these people behind, so, he records his good memories of those friends in his scrapbook to share with his long-term friends back home.

It's a little different when you get older... and perhaps nowadays kids are exchanging MySpace pages or Facebook profiles so that this point is moot. But, there are some friends that we eventually weed out. This is not to be cruel... it's not a episode from one of those vapid dating shows where one twerp picks from three other morons. I think some relationships simply run their course. I had one or two in particular who simply chose a path and lifestyle I didn't have the energy to follow. That could perhaps indicate that it wasn't a real friendship, but I knew it was genuine when we were both different people. We just grew apart.

I'm happy to see that this isn't the case with Tristan (and a kind handful of others). We certainly have grown, changed, and we're on completely different routes on our life paths... but it doesn't seem to matter. Some of what makes us who we are transcends the details and here we are, still close. We have seen each other through deaths, break-ups, weddings, boredom, fabulous dinners, bad movies, moves between colleges, and, nowadays, studying for the bar exam. The test of time has had little to no effect on us.

I've learned from him to lighten up... he is one of the most intellectually brilliant people I know and yet he knows how to let his hair down and have a good time. I've learned to be more considerate, too... once, when we were younger, I selfishly monopolized a moment when he could have used a friend to talk to about the loss of someone significant. Due to our closeness, he was unafraid to call me out on it and I took better care with most people afterward to pay closer attention to how a person was feeling before unloading. I've also dared to believe I might be special since someone like him, who had gone through the silliness and aggravation we've imposed on one another, could be as good of friends as we are. I have a few self-image issues that encourage me to be as modest as possible... but he encourages me to allow for brief moments self-appreciation.

I hope he knows how highly I think of him...that he is very loved... and a cherished friend.

Tuesday Hobbies: The neglected hobby

I've actually been singing since I was about 6... and performing in an acting troupe as young as 4. I suppose I did at one point or another humored the idea of being a Broadway actress... I played Annie on the record player at night or the tape recording of Fiddler on the Roof that Daddy made for me from the Topol movie while falling asleep. Daddy also made tireless recordings of other musical programs I loved... Fraggle Rock (I can hear my gdchild cooing in the background as I once did), Sound of Music, The Muppet Show, etc. I also took acting classes, voice lessons, joined church and school choirs, and performed in summer programs as well as middle school and high school plays, recitals, and musicals.

This is not to brag... simply to illustrate how I grew up...

So, when people asked me this weekend how it felt to sing in front of Joyce's guests at her wedding, if I was nervous or scared, I didn't know what to say. When I say, "Not really," it's not because I'm confident or hot snot... it's just what I've always done. I'm more nervous in front of some audiences than others, but I don't think I've had butterflies since fourth grade... not true, shaky, jitters about performing in front of people.

I received many compliments this weekend... people were very kind and gracious. I was told to go on American Idol (not happening people... unless someone's bringing back the crooners of the 50s and 60s, I don't see this working out very well), asked if I had a cd, and one truly kind woman gave me her email asking me to let her know the next time I'm performing.

Which I really don't do anymore other than the occasional wedding request. In the past several years, I've sung at Joyce's wedding, my parents' renewal, my own wedding, a church service or two, and Anya's wedding. It's a joy and a hobby of mine I've truly allowed to fall by the wayside. I usually have a number of handy excuses... I don't know any piano players who would gig with me... I'm not that good... I have more practical things on which I should focus... but it really is a wonderful outlet for emotion that I no longer explore save in car driving to Newport News or in the shower.

I sang at the Roostertail in Detroit. I won't mention the specific band who allowed me to perform with them, but it was a kick to sing with a whole band. I've sung once with a four piece band and that was quite an experience... this was slightly more enhanced and very exciting.

(from detroit.metromix.com)

Some of the true greats have performed there... Peggy Lee, the Harris Brothers, Tony Bennett, Bobby Darin, etc... I'm not one of these people. I guess if I was nervous about one thing, it was walking the boards of truly amazing artists. I couldn't hear anything the way the speakers were arranged, but it was both humbling and exhilarating to be on that stage with the waves and the fountains to my back offering my own rendition of Mack the Knife. I blended the lyrics and styles of Bobby Darin, Deana Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, and Frank Sinatra...

My greatest influences, my heroes, include Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, and Andrea Marcovicci.

Ella Fitzgerald was born in Newport News, Virginia (my birthplace as well) April 25, 1917. Her father and mother split up shortly after her birth (like mine) and she ended up closer to her "step-father" (also like me). I love to tell people these sorts of details... mostly to hear myself say it because it gives me hope for myself. I don't particularly seek out fame, but I would like to maybe find a way to perform more often. Ella has it all anyway... I could bring up her fight against discrimination and the honors she eventually earned, but she dazzles me most with her incredible voice... the way she sounds is like no other...

I'm also rather enamored with Dean Martin. Aside from being disgustingly charming, he was never trying to be more than who he was. He had a handsome voice... he was not as technically beautifully as his childhood pal Frank, but he didn't need to be. I don't want to sound like the gushing of Greg Garrison, but Dean has a sweetness about him and seems so very genuine. He appreciates people more than himself or the illusion of being famous. You can see it when he performs with others that he's spending time with that performer rather than sucking up to a camera. I'd love to learn more about how to hold myself as honestly on a stage as Dean...

Among the living legends, one of my major influences is the intensity of Andrea Marcovicci. She, like Dean, is not technically perfect and has so few true notes in her... but you can't possibly care because the sound of her soul is clear as a bell and more moving than most sounds I've ever heard. She paints a picture, a feeling, and evokes a full scene rather than producing pretty notes. She's an amazing storyteller with sound... and research. She makes a point to know about composers, eras of music, details of the lives of performers... and it shows in her interpretations of great songs. She has introduced me to the most gorgeous love song I've ever heard (and aren't there enough of those already?)... I wish I had told her that the one time I had a chance to meet her rather than just standing there, staring at this hero, and crying... She was gracious and kind though patting my arm and not asking what was wrong with me.

I'm not these people. I'm never going to be. But it might be fun to explore what it would be like to be more of this part of me... if I dared to try.

(images of artists from www.ilovethatsong.com, farm4.static.flickr.com, www.downtownexpress.com)

Monday Review: First and Last Viewing Types

There are certain films that aren't really suitable, in one form or another, for more than one screening. Obviously the reasons for this are endless... you have movies like The Sixth Sense... which, after you realize Bruce Willis' character is dead, too, what's the point? So much of the movie leaned on the fact that you weren't sure what the deal was with this weird guy and his sad wife. Or there are some "B movies" like most chic flicks that were entertaining enough that one night you were really bored but end up not being worth your time ever again.

Well, after a fast-paced, eventful weekend, I decided to find a recent film to end the day. I ended up with a movie called The Last Word, starring Wes Bentley (American Beauty), Ray Romano (Everybody Loves Raymond), and Winona Ryder (Beetlejuice).

The story's about a writer who writes suicide letters for clients intending to end their lives. This writer, Evan, meets a girl at one of the funerals of his clients who pursues him aggressively. Just as she's starting to seem crazier than the suicide ghostwriter, he falls for her and they start a relationship. This naturally brings about some roadblocks as they get to know one another. He ends up having to cover his reasons for being at his girlfriend's brother's funeral and thus his profession. Eventually, the girl notices he's covering up something when he turns her down for lunch two days in a row. She sees him at his normal meeting place for clients having lunch with a woman. She assumes he's cheating, so in a fury she returns to his apartment to get her things and angrily goes through his filing cabinet. She discovers her brother's file and when the writer arrives after his lunch, the late brother's file is strewn all over his desk. It all ends with the girl breaking up with him, he moves away, and he and one of the clients he rescues from a jump starts a business video-taping people throwing things that piss them off over a cliff.

Yeah.

I think the filmmakers where depending on the absurdity and Wes Bentley's cool weirdness to carry the film. Had the ending been a little more interesting, it might have worked. I'm not going to say that there weren't some well-written moments of dark humor... particularly in the beginning. However, the seriousness of the topic and the end of the writer's love relationship over-shadow the gallows humor.

(from theenvelope.latimes.com)

Winona Ryder's character is both painfully normal and a little psycho. After seeing some stranger at her brother's funeral, she walks up to him, introduces herself, looks up his home number to call him, and asks him to go out to pie, a club, and lunch. Then she drops her top out on boating deck and the affair begins. All the while, he doesn't give her much to work with... he speaks very little, seems socially inept at making conversation, and lies about what he does for a living. It just doesn't add up to something terribly believable. You could stretch and think that the girl is acting out a little in response to her brother's death, but, that's a bit more work than an audience should have to do to enjoy a movie.

Probably the most interesting aspect of the film was Ray Romano. He plays the part of one of the Evan's suicidal clients who is dark and blunt. I'm not a Romano fan, but he pulls off depressed and sick very well. He likes to find Mom's with babies facing backward so he can make faces at them to scare them and make them cry. He works as a composer for elevator music who puts the idea in Evan's head to start a business with a cliff and charging people to heave their fax machines, computers, and other infuriating appliances to a noisy and explosive end. There's very little say other than that... and that's the best part of the movie.

The writer, Evan, has a few interesting quirks whose ends are never tied up. He doesn't own a car or a cell phone. He takes the bus and has an old corded phone. He doesn't even get an answering machine until after he begins his love affair with Charlotte (Winona Ryder). It's never really explained why... one could deduce that there can't be but so much money in the suicide letter industry, but again, I think that's too much to expect out of an audience.

(from windriderforum.org)

So, the movie ends with Charlotte forgiving Evan but declaring she'd never want to see him again and then with Evan and Abel (Romano) taping a guy throwing his fax machine off a cliff.

My last word on this movie is, "Okay............................................"

Sunday Reflections: Joyce

Today's obviously special since my father-in-law is marrying this completely lovely lady today... what I'm finding funny, as I think about Joyce, is that I actually met her at my first big Jewish wedding.

I was naturally nervous at the prospect of meeting all these people... Joyce has three great kids and a very large family filled with characters and fabulous people. Still, it felt a little "Me versus the world," because there were just SO many of them. I mean, I thought my family was big, but this one is extensive and willing to travel to be close again. I still have relatives in Okinawa that I've never actually met... but these people have really stuck together.

Joyce was wearing this fantastic purple, two-piece formal with her hair up when we were introduced. I was pretty nervous and trying to take in all that was happening. It was her niece getting married (I had never met her before, but, after my father-in-law asked Joyce to marry him, I guess we were "mishpocheh") and I was witnessing the many parts of the Jewish wedding. There's the signing of the ketubah, some speeches and heckling, the tish, the actual ceremony, and then a lively reception kicking off with a horah (I'm still shuddering from being dragged into the line of dancers by a total stranger having absolutely no clue what the steps were... they were mocing so fast I only had time to run.

Joyce and I didn't really get a chance to connect... if anything, though she might not admit it, she might have thought I was a bit rude. She tried telling me about the ketubah during that portion of the ritual... it's a natural assumption that, since I'm not Jewish, I might not know the customs. However, not only did I have Jewish friends from high school and was better informed than some, I had just taken a survey Judaic Thought class in college. I sort of nodded nervously (I don't do well in crowds of people I don't know) and mentioned that I knew about the ketubah. As I told Anya when I came home that weekend, I feared I had ruined my chances for friendship with Joyce during that exchange. Following Anya's advice, I wrote Joyce a note telling her how good it was to meet her and that I looked forward to better chances for getting to know her...

And there have been many of those chances since then.

After that wedding, sometime in late summer, Joyce and Dr. Sella came to Virginia to visit us. On that trip, Joyce and I learned about all we had in common and meshed like old friends. Since that trip, it's been hard to imagine not having her and her family in my life. After a few more trips to meet people, spending time with the whole big family is almost as natural as sitting with my own. My hair's not totally down, but the clip is loose and strands fly in the wind without concern.

Joyce has asked me to sing during her reception and her band director has given me permission to do so. It's going to be a new experience... just like Joyce. You can look at this as a favor she's asked of me, but really, Joyce sizes up her loved ones and finds ways to include them most appropriately in all major family events. I might never have another chance to sing like this in front of people who may actually be listening with interest... with a real band no less! I sang with a four piece once and that was considerably different from singing with a piano (which is all I'm used to) or a high school orchestra. As usual, Joyce multi-tasks with the most love I've ever seen in one human being. She'll be erntained, but she's really giving me a chance to shimmer a little.

With a philosophy like hers, to bring out the best in people, one can imagine she has loads of friends... it's going to be a packed house tonight judging on the number of out-of-towners that came to the Rehearsal Dinner last night. You only come across a few gems like Joyce in life... people who take our their personal pride and care the most about you, how you're feeling, what you're all about... I've seen her listen, really listen, to the sorts of people for whom I'd just nod and smile. I hope I learn to love like her, to bring out everyone's inner light, and to not see it as a tax on myself to be this way.

I love you, Joyce. Good luck today!