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I remember the astonished look on the mortician's face.
"I am not used to people finding this sort of thing funny," he scolded.
Funny?
Why not?
I believe it was the line, "Now for the merchandise," that set us off.
Whatever it was, the irreverent humor that overtook us was in fact entirely appropriate.
Had he been there, Bob would have led the way with his sardonic humor.
My two nephews and I, making decisions about urns and holy cards, guest books and obituaries.
For Bob.
We were exhausted. We'd been keeping vigil for nearly 48 hours.
And for the first time in months, we laughed.
Got the giggles.
And it felt good.
If you have ever been through it, you know just how absurdly tacky the "merchandise" can be.
Getting the giggles at such a seemingly inappropriate time is one of the great capacities we have as human beings to relieve tension.
We meant no disrespect. To Bob. To the mortician.
But it is true, that morticians do seem to look the part.
You know.
Cadaverous.
Long faced.
Milky white skin.
It didn't help.
It was, in truth, one of those purely human moments when the expectation of solemnity gave way to the honest release of emotion.
The three of us, like naughty children, found a way to get through the unthinkable. The unimaginable. The unbearable.
There was nothing funny about what we'd just come through.
But, I guess it's true what they say.
Laughter is the best medicine.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Ghosts and Guardians
I drive down Laguna Canyon Road in my Mother's Buick to see Gershwinn Alone at the Laguna Playhouse.
Memories stir.
A familiar drive.
A drive that took me as a child in the early 70's with my parents in a Cadillac to Vacation Village for summer beach -front vacations, dinners with the Kavanaghs at Cordon Bleu with its aviary, and Easter brunches with Bob at the latest and greatest new find.
A drive that took me for company Christmas parties at Ben Browns on Aliso Creek and hangovers at breakfast at The Beach House.
A drive that took me in the late 70's in my Camero past the Greeter at The Pottery Shack to Bob and Lenny's leather shop,
Un Bel Di.
A drive that took me in the 80's as a young mother in my Ford Mini-Van to the Laguna Art Museum with Gillian, for walks with a stroller along Ciff Drive, lunches of "Havachips" and salsa at Laguna village, and the occassional margarita at Las Brisas with out of town guests.
A drive that took me with Steve in our Volvo to The Sorrento Grill for birthdays and The Surf and Sand for anniversaries.
A drive that took me to Bob and Lenny's condominium at Blue Lagoon for New Year's Eve parties.
A drive that took me in the early 90's to doctor appointments with Bob as we searched for answers to his weight loss and headaches.
A drive that took me to the Jolly Roger for lunch where Bob felt queasy
and afterward I watched him shuffle to the B of A Versateller machine where I made my own diagnosis.
A drive that took me to South County Medical Center with Bob for the HIV Test.
A drive that took mother and me to Bob's condo on the night of his diagnosis.
A drive that took me to his condo the morning he sounded so breathless and weak.
A drive that took us both back to Mom's the day we went to see the AIDS doctor.
A drive that would be Bob's last on the Canyon Road. April 1994.
A drive that took me back to Bob's condo to empty it out. June 1994.
A drive I stopped taking for a long time.
I drive down Laguna Canyon Road in my mother's Buick to see Gershwinn Alone at the Laguna Playhouse.
2010.
Ghosts and Guardians.
Laguna still haunts me.
Memories stir.
A familiar drive.
A drive that took me as a child in the early 70's with my parents in a Cadillac to Vacation Village for summer beach -front vacations, dinners with the Kavanaghs at Cordon Bleu with its aviary, and Easter brunches with Bob at the latest and greatest new find.
A drive that took me for company Christmas parties at Ben Browns on Aliso Creek and hangovers at breakfast at The Beach House.
A drive that took me in the late 70's in my Camero past the Greeter at The Pottery Shack to Bob and Lenny's leather shop,
Un Bel Di.
A drive that took me in the 80's as a young mother in my Ford Mini-Van to the Laguna Art Museum with Gillian, for walks with a stroller along Ciff Drive, lunches of "Havachips" and salsa at Laguna village, and the occassional margarita at Las Brisas with out of town guests.
A drive that took me with Steve in our Volvo to The Sorrento Grill for birthdays and The Surf and Sand for anniversaries.
A drive that took me to Bob and Lenny's condominium at Blue Lagoon for New Year's Eve parties.
A drive that took me in the early 90's to doctor appointments with Bob as we searched for answers to his weight loss and headaches.
A drive that took me to the Jolly Roger for lunch where Bob felt queasy
and afterward I watched him shuffle to the B of A Versateller machine where I made my own diagnosis.
A drive that took me to South County Medical Center with Bob for the HIV Test.
A drive that took mother and me to Bob's condo on the night of his diagnosis.
A drive that took me to his condo the morning he sounded so breathless and weak.
A drive that took us both back to Mom's the day we went to see the AIDS doctor.
A drive that would be Bob's last on the Canyon Road. April 1994.
A drive that took me back to Bob's condo to empty it out. June 1994.
A drive I stopped taking for a long time.
I drive down Laguna Canyon Road in my mother's Buick to see Gershwinn Alone at the Laguna Playhouse.
2010.
Ghosts and Guardians.
Laguna still haunts me.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Hitting Bottom
Just when you think you are "over it" - meat loaf strikes. It wasn't really the meat loaf. It was weighing the ground turkey and ground beef. I'd never owned a kitchen scale in my life except once a very long, ill fated time ago when I was on weight watchers. It sat in my cupboard unused and eventually ended up on a table in a yard sale. Tonight, I weighed the meat on the scale that Gillian had bought and I might add, left behind. She probably doesn't realize it yet. (Honey, if you are reading this, it would cost me more to send it to New York than for you to go to Target to buy a new one.)
Tare. Never had heard of it. Had no idea what it meant. No clue. But tonight, I sat the plate on the scale, hit "tare" and watched as the weight of the plate turned to zero so that I could determine 12 ounces of ground meat. Just as I was taught by Gillian. Where she learned it, I don't know.
After assembling the meat loaf, I decided I'd better clean out the fridge to get ready for the week ahead. The cream line yogurt container sat waiting for me on the shelf. I had planned on finishing the yogurt off with Gillian's raspberry jam and granola after she'd left for New York, but I didn't.
So, I washed out the moldy container and decided to hold on to it. It could be a handy way for me to carry soup to school, I thought.
Then I remembered the night of the big pronouncement.
She had been digging in the lower corner cabinet with the built-in lazy susan, when she announced in utter frustration that we were "in a tupperware crisis."
Lids didn't match bottoms and vice-versa. I had taken to buying the zip-lock and glad style disposable containers. Some clever marketing executive had made sure that the lids were just slightly off in size so not to allow interchangeable brands.
On the night that the crisis hit, it seemed we had lots of glad lids and no matching bottoms.
I usually resorted to putting foil or plastic wrap over the top of the lidless containers. It never occurred to me to toss the useless, bottomless lids.
My mother never threw out any of the trays from her constant diet of frozen food. Stacks and stacks of little black, plastic trays sat in her lower cabinet.
I used to be frustrated with this idiosyncracy of my mother's.
Gillian was frustrated with mine.
I guess we really do become our mothers.
Gillian also preferred to put cheese into separate tupperware containers in the refrigerator. Bleu, camembert, brie, and goat cheese all got their very own little container. Drove me nuts. I, on the other hand, would scoop up the left over cheese wedges from our fattening appetizer habit and put them all together in a ziplock bag. Gillian found this to be unacceptable since the aroma from the different cheeses would then mix together.
I thought about all of this as I washed out the cream line yogurt tub and tucked it away on to the lazy susan in the lower corner cabinet.
There were all those bottomless lids laying there on the shelf.
Hmm....do they still have such a thing as tupperware parties?
Tare. Never had heard of it. Had no idea what it meant. No clue. But tonight, I sat the plate on the scale, hit "tare" and watched as the weight of the plate turned to zero so that I could determine 12 ounces of ground meat. Just as I was taught by Gillian. Where she learned it, I don't know.
After assembling the meat loaf, I decided I'd better clean out the fridge to get ready for the week ahead. The cream line yogurt container sat waiting for me on the shelf. I had planned on finishing the yogurt off with Gillian's raspberry jam and granola after she'd left for New York, but I didn't.
So, I washed out the moldy container and decided to hold on to it. It could be a handy way for me to carry soup to school, I thought.
Then I remembered the night of the big pronouncement.
She had been digging in the lower corner cabinet with the built-in lazy susan, when she announced in utter frustration that we were "in a tupperware crisis."
Lids didn't match bottoms and vice-versa. I had taken to buying the zip-lock and glad style disposable containers. Some clever marketing executive had made sure that the lids were just slightly off in size so not to allow interchangeable brands.
On the night that the crisis hit, it seemed we had lots of glad lids and no matching bottoms.
I usually resorted to putting foil or plastic wrap over the top of the lidless containers. It never occurred to me to toss the useless, bottomless lids.
My mother never threw out any of the trays from her constant diet of frozen food. Stacks and stacks of little black, plastic trays sat in her lower cabinet.
I used to be frustrated with this idiosyncracy of my mother's.
Gillian was frustrated with mine.
I guess we really do become our mothers.
Gillian also preferred to put cheese into separate tupperware containers in the refrigerator. Bleu, camembert, brie, and goat cheese all got their very own little container. Drove me nuts. I, on the other hand, would scoop up the left over cheese wedges from our fattening appetizer habit and put them all together in a ziplock bag. Gillian found this to be unacceptable since the aroma from the different cheeses would then mix together.
I thought about all of this as I washed out the cream line yogurt tub and tucked it away on to the lazy susan in the lower corner cabinet.
There were all those bottomless lids laying there on the shelf.
Hmm....do they still have such a thing as tupperware parties?
Praise Song for a Sweater
My newspaper reading habit now includes a new ritual. Checking the weather in New York City. I know there are easier, more efficient ways of doing this. I could, for instance, check my weather app on my iphone. But instead, I dig through the LA Times to the back of the California section and glance down the list of US cities past New Orleans, occasionally passing Oklahoma City until my finger finds New York City. I've become accustomed to the little abbreviated codes. Su, sunny. Pc, partly cloudy. R, rain. Sn, snow. This morning, as the bright sun poured into my bedroom, I remarked to Steve, "It's warm in New York. 47 degrees."
I mentally go through Gillian's wardrobe. I hope her coat will be warm enough.
I know she lived in Seattle for four years and is used to cold, wet weather. In fact, the year that Brendan spent away at college in Philly, the weather was colder in Seattle. All my worries about my California surfer boy adjusting to an east coast winter were for naught. It was Gillian who had to bail out of a stranded bus and walk across a bridge in a snow storm. It gets darned cold in Seattle.
So, New York should be a piece of cake for her.
My obsession with weather goes back to my mother, who insisted in the middle of August that I take a sweater because "it always cools down in California at night." Since I was born and raised in California, I never understood this comment until I took a trip back to Cincinnati in the summer. It doesn't cool down in Ohio at night in August.
To this day, I never leave the house without my "sweater" - be it a microfiber jacket, pashmina, or a cashmere coat. "It doesn't cost you anything to carry it," Mother would say.
Never was I so glad to have a cashmere coat than a year ago, on January 20th, 2009 in Washington, DC. It was 11 degrees with wind chill the morning I herded forty girls from California onto the mall in front of the US Captitol for Barack Obama's inauguration. I wished more than once that the mothers of those girls had taken weather as seriously as my mother always had. Bear midriffs, unlined rubber boots, and acrylic knit hats and gloves that might have been appropriate attire for the coldest California night failed to provide adequate warmth for the eight hour wait to hear that botched inaugural oath.
My cashmere coat had come from Bloomies in New York. Steve had tenaciously searched the outer-wear department for a coat that met my specifications. After hours of searching, he found one and toted it back to California for my trip to Washington, DC.
Little did we know that I would use that coat to wrap deliriously cold and miserable girls in, as I tried everything in my power to keep them warm - from having them dog pile - to jumping up and down - to begging a girl to share the foot and hand warmers her mother had wisely sent with her with girls who didn't have any ( equivalent to asking someone to give up their last sip of water on a desert island). Or that a girl would go into a full fledged asthma attack from the cold and would have to be sent to the Red Cross station with a friend because she had forgotten to bring her inhaler.
Looking back on my freezing odyssey that included being deserted by my fellow chaperone who panicked in the crowd after losing a few students en route to the porta-potties (the students found their way back to us but she did not), dazedly watching the jumbotron as Aretha sang in her now famous hat and holding on to a little freshman girl in a near state of collapse as I said, "Some day you will be glad you did this," I wondered. Would she? Would I?
The moment Obama's speech had finished, those girls were ready to go. As the only adult with a group of now utterly frozen and exhausted California teenagers, I had no choice but to begin the "pardon us, excuse us" through the throngs on the mall as I strove to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite the inaugural poem, "Praise Song for the Day." Those kids could have cared less about listening to a poem.
Had I known, as we began our exit from the mall, that we would be another four hours attempting to make our way to the metro, first over a fence that had been pushed down and then an hour to get past a horse trailer against which we had been pressed to climb over the hitch, all while I held a red and gold pom pom over head, resulting in several trips to the chiropractor, I might have waited until the poem was finished to leave.
It never warmed up - in fact, it just got colder and grayer. As we abandoned our efforts to get to the metro because of the numerous road blocks and barriers, I led the group back to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to get warm. By that point, I was on the verge of desperation and a near emotional breakdown from the stress of the responsibility of getting those girls safely back to our hotel. I will never forget getting into an unimaginably long line in the Smithsonian for a Boston Market chicken meal, ordering two because I was starving, and numbly sitting next to some strangers who were also semi-comatose, asking them, "So - how was it for you?" It was like we were survivors in a refugee camp. I think I was actually in a mild state of shock.
When we headed back out, a barrier was being moved by a security guard, blocking once again our path to the metro, a primal- survival instinct came over me and I yelled "RUN!" and we all ran like mad to make it past the barrier before we were trapped again. As we finally reached the metro, our cell phones once again were operational. They had been scrambled for the hours up to and during the inauguration for security reasons. I had a text message. It was from Brendan who said, "So exciting. Can't wait to hear all about it." He told me later that my texted response was unintelligible.
By the time we exited the metro station back in Arlington, we had been gone for thirteen hours. The excitement of our departure at 4:00 a.m. that morning, seemed a lifetime ago. The victory of having made it through the metro to the Federal Station without getting separated, the strangely silent masses slowly inching their way along Independence Avenue to a small opening in the fence to get on to the mall, the feeling of having "made it" after having lost half the group for forty-five minutes as we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue and frantically waited to be reunited as we stood on a wall in the pitch dark yelling the names of the lost students - seemed like a surreal dream.
I remember I got back to my empty hotel room, closed the door and curled up in a fetal position on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Even as I write this account, my stomach churns with the memory. It had been an endurance test.
We all survived to tell the story.
And my guess is, those California girls, will never forget to "bring a sweater."
I mentally go through Gillian's wardrobe. I hope her coat will be warm enough.
I know she lived in Seattle for four years and is used to cold, wet weather. In fact, the year that Brendan spent away at college in Philly, the weather was colder in Seattle. All my worries about my California surfer boy adjusting to an east coast winter were for naught. It was Gillian who had to bail out of a stranded bus and walk across a bridge in a snow storm. It gets darned cold in Seattle.
So, New York should be a piece of cake for her.
My obsession with weather goes back to my mother, who insisted in the middle of August that I take a sweater because "it always cools down in California at night." Since I was born and raised in California, I never understood this comment until I took a trip back to Cincinnati in the summer. It doesn't cool down in Ohio at night in August.
To this day, I never leave the house without my "sweater" - be it a microfiber jacket, pashmina, or a cashmere coat. "It doesn't cost you anything to carry it," Mother would say.
Never was I so glad to have a cashmere coat than a year ago, on January 20th, 2009 in Washington, DC. It was 11 degrees with wind chill the morning I herded forty girls from California onto the mall in front of the US Captitol for Barack Obama's inauguration. I wished more than once that the mothers of those girls had taken weather as seriously as my mother always had. Bear midriffs, unlined rubber boots, and acrylic knit hats and gloves that might have been appropriate attire for the coldest California night failed to provide adequate warmth for the eight hour wait to hear that botched inaugural oath.
My cashmere coat had come from Bloomies in New York. Steve had tenaciously searched the outer-wear department for a coat that met my specifications. After hours of searching, he found one and toted it back to California for my trip to Washington, DC.
Little did we know that I would use that coat to wrap deliriously cold and miserable girls in, as I tried everything in my power to keep them warm - from having them dog pile - to jumping up and down - to begging a girl to share the foot and hand warmers her mother had wisely sent with her with girls who didn't have any ( equivalent to asking someone to give up their last sip of water on a desert island). Or that a girl would go into a full fledged asthma attack from the cold and would have to be sent to the Red Cross station with a friend because she had forgotten to bring her inhaler.
Looking back on my freezing odyssey that included being deserted by my fellow chaperone who panicked in the crowd after losing a few students en route to the porta-potties (the students found their way back to us but she did not), dazedly watching the jumbotron as Aretha sang in her now famous hat and holding on to a little freshman girl in a near state of collapse as I said, "Some day you will be glad you did this," I wondered. Would she? Would I?
The moment Obama's speech had finished, those girls were ready to go. As the only adult with a group of now utterly frozen and exhausted California teenagers, I had no choice but to begin the "pardon us, excuse us" through the throngs on the mall as I strove to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite the inaugural poem, "Praise Song for the Day." Those kids could have cared less about listening to a poem.
Had I known, as we began our exit from the mall, that we would be another four hours attempting to make our way to the metro, first over a fence that had been pushed down and then an hour to get past a horse trailer against which we had been pressed to climb over the hitch, all while I held a red and gold pom pom over head, resulting in several trips to the chiropractor, I might have waited until the poem was finished to leave.
It never warmed up - in fact, it just got colder and grayer. As we abandoned our efforts to get to the metro because of the numerous road blocks and barriers, I led the group back to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to get warm. By that point, I was on the verge of desperation and a near emotional breakdown from the stress of the responsibility of getting those girls safely back to our hotel. I will never forget getting into an unimaginably long line in the Smithsonian for a Boston Market chicken meal, ordering two because I was starving, and numbly sitting next to some strangers who were also semi-comatose, asking them, "So - how was it for you?" It was like we were survivors in a refugee camp. I think I was actually in a mild state of shock.
When we headed back out, a barrier was being moved by a security guard, blocking once again our path to the metro, a primal- survival instinct came over me and I yelled "RUN!" and we all ran like mad to make it past the barrier before we were trapped again. As we finally reached the metro, our cell phones once again were operational. They had been scrambled for the hours up to and during the inauguration for security reasons. I had a text message. It was from Brendan who said, "So exciting. Can't wait to hear all about it." He told me later that my texted response was unintelligible.
By the time we exited the metro station back in Arlington, we had been gone for thirteen hours. The excitement of our departure at 4:00 a.m. that morning, seemed a lifetime ago. The victory of having made it through the metro to the Federal Station without getting separated, the strangely silent masses slowly inching their way along Independence Avenue to a small opening in the fence to get on to the mall, the feeling of having "made it" after having lost half the group for forty-five minutes as we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue and frantically waited to be reunited as we stood on a wall in the pitch dark yelling the names of the lost students - seemed like a surreal dream.
I remember I got back to my empty hotel room, closed the door and curled up in a fetal position on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Even as I write this account, my stomach churns with the memory. It had been an endurance test.
We all survived to tell the story.
And my guess is, those California girls, will never forget to "bring a sweater."
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In Defense of the Memoir
In the January 25th edition of the New Yorker Magazine, Daniel Mendelsohn tackles the subject of memoir and its rise in importance within the popular culture in his essay, entitled But Enough About Me. From the internet blogosphere, (of which I am guilty of partaking), to the public's fascination with reality t.v. (of which I am not), Mendelsohn examines the fine line between fiction and memoir and the power that the promise of a "true" story has on a reader. His deft criticism has caused me once again to examine my own fascination and attraction to the genre.
As a late baby boomer, I have had the privilege of being mid-wife to the birthing of memoirs, to witnessing the transformation that comes from the labor of facing the sometimes painful and often times revelatory stories of a generation who did not grow up with a constant diet of therapy and Oprah.
While my bias for self-expression through the personal narrative is obvious, just last week in my memoir workshop with participants between the ages of sixty- something and eighty- something, I was struck by how the need for the high touch experience of sitting in a literal circle reading to one another one's life stories is a phenomenon that will likely die out with that generation of story-tellers.
While I understand the criticism that is heaped upon the genre of personal memoir, I hold to my firm belief that the process of story-telling can be healing. I also understand that the "true" story lends an inherent drama that can be inspiring. Listening to how a family survived the Great Depression, sacrificed during World War II, carried on after the death of their child or built their lives and fortunes from scratch, not only provides perspective for future generations, but allows the story-teller to understand his or her own journey and to derive meaning from their experiences. Some call this self-reflection therapeutic. Some may call it narcissistic.
The fact that the public seems to have an insatiable curiosity and need for such stories I think says something about the post-baby boom culture. The generation of storytellers with whom I work experienced true hardship but they experienced it within the structure of family, church, community, and neighborhood. I realize that much has been written about shifting values, lack of community, and sense of entitlement that permeates the culture today. But, the more I work with "elders", the more I believe that the erosion of the community has contributed to a vast feeling of isolation in our society. This, coupled with the illusion of connectivity through technology, cable television, and reality shows, has distorted and confused the collective psyche. The cheap confessional is a way to make the reader, audience, viewer feel "not so alone." It is a distant replacement for the authentic connection experienced by the pre-boomer generation.
At the same time, the stories that emerge from my circle of writers are every bit as stunning as the stuff of cable television - heroic tales of heartache, intrigue, abuse, deceit, and romance. The fact that these stories are being shared for the first time is liberating and transforming for the writer. While today's generation reveals all - all the time - the writers in my workshop are experiencing the thrill of something fresh and new.
The last of a breed, the generation of storytellers in my workshops may be the last for whom the process of writing one's personal narrative is true "discovery."
I also believe their stories are a history and legacy of heartier souls.
I have born witness not only to a unique period in self-revelation resulting from the boom of autobiography, but because of it, I have also born witness to the stories and the collective wisdom that has shaped their generation.
Because of this, I do not despair for the future. I draw courage because I know through their stories, that even the hardest things are survivable. Especially if you stick together.
I don't need to get lost on some fictional t.v. island to discover that truth.
And I don't apologize for believing that memoir, as a genre, is important and valuable for both the reader and the writer.
As a late baby boomer, I have had the privilege of being mid-wife to the birthing of memoirs, to witnessing the transformation that comes from the labor of facing the sometimes painful and often times revelatory stories of a generation who did not grow up with a constant diet of therapy and Oprah.
While my bias for self-expression through the personal narrative is obvious, just last week in my memoir workshop with participants between the ages of sixty- something and eighty- something, I was struck by how the need for the high touch experience of sitting in a literal circle reading to one another one's life stories is a phenomenon that will likely die out with that generation of story-tellers.
While I understand the criticism that is heaped upon the genre of personal memoir, I hold to my firm belief that the process of story-telling can be healing. I also understand that the "true" story lends an inherent drama that can be inspiring. Listening to how a family survived the Great Depression, sacrificed during World War II, carried on after the death of their child or built their lives and fortunes from scratch, not only provides perspective for future generations, but allows the story-teller to understand his or her own journey and to derive meaning from their experiences. Some call this self-reflection therapeutic. Some may call it narcissistic.
The fact that the public seems to have an insatiable curiosity and need for such stories I think says something about the post-baby boom culture. The generation of storytellers with whom I work experienced true hardship but they experienced it within the structure of family, church, community, and neighborhood. I realize that much has been written about shifting values, lack of community, and sense of entitlement that permeates the culture today. But, the more I work with "elders", the more I believe that the erosion of the community has contributed to a vast feeling of isolation in our society. This, coupled with the illusion of connectivity through technology, cable television, and reality shows, has distorted and confused the collective psyche. The cheap confessional is a way to make the reader, audience, viewer feel "not so alone." It is a distant replacement for the authentic connection experienced by the pre-boomer generation.
At the same time, the stories that emerge from my circle of writers are every bit as stunning as the stuff of cable television - heroic tales of heartache, intrigue, abuse, deceit, and romance. The fact that these stories are being shared for the first time is liberating and transforming for the writer. While today's generation reveals all - all the time - the writers in my workshop are experiencing the thrill of something fresh and new.
The last of a breed, the generation of storytellers in my workshops may be the last for whom the process of writing one's personal narrative is true "discovery."
I also believe their stories are a history and legacy of heartier souls.
I have born witness not only to a unique period in self-revelation resulting from the boom of autobiography, but because of it, I have also born witness to the stories and the collective wisdom that has shaped their generation.
Because of this, I do not despair for the future. I draw courage because I know through their stories, that even the hardest things are survivable. Especially if you stick together.
I don't need to get lost on some fictional t.v. island to discover that truth.
And I don't apologize for believing that memoir, as a genre, is important and valuable for both the reader and the writer.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Of Mice and Gillian
The squeal on the other end of the phone abruptly ended my long awaited update from Brooklyn.
"A mouse. A mouse. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. It just ran into my closet. I've gotta go."
Click.
While I've been lamenting my empty nest, it would seem that Gillian's is not so empty.
While things around here can only be described as "quiet" - it most definitely has not been so for Gillian in NYC.
From learning the subway system, to apartment hunting, to wrestling with internet connectivity issues for her job, to adapting to the cold weather - it would seem that I've had the easier adjustment.
Heck, at least I have a bed to sleep in with Steve for a roommate.
Gillian is on a mattress with a mouse for hers.
I told her she should have taken our cat Lido with her.
I guess this gives new meaning to "creature comforts."
The next box I ship to New York will include a mousetrap.
"A mouse. A mouse. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. It just ran into my closet. I've gotta go."
Click.
While I've been lamenting my empty nest, it would seem that Gillian's is not so empty.
While things around here can only be described as "quiet" - it most definitely has not been so for Gillian in NYC.
From learning the subway system, to apartment hunting, to wrestling with internet connectivity issues for her job, to adapting to the cold weather - it would seem that I've had the easier adjustment.
Heck, at least I have a bed to sleep in with Steve for a roommate.
Gillian is on a mattress with a mouse for hers.
I told her she should have taken our cat Lido with her.
I guess this gives new meaning to "creature comforts."
The next box I ship to New York will include a mousetrap.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Theatre On Purpose - Homelessness
My latest Theatre on Purpose Directorial Project in the OC Register. http://tinyurl.com/yb9k3vj
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