FrankenGirl

Sweet Dreams

2006-08-04T11:51:00.000-04:00

Due to other projects, I expect "FrankenGirl" to slumber through most of August. I hope to visit when possible! Love & Peace.

Super-Feminist!

2006-07-25T09:37:00.000-04:00

When Gloria Steinem wrote Revolution from Within: A Book of Self-Esteem, critics used the opportunity to deride feminism. If a feminist icon such as Steinem admitted to suffering low self-esteem, feminism must be a complete failure.

For several days now, I have felt like a complete failure.

You see, I’ve proudly claimed that women can be opinionated, loud-mouthed and forceful, and also, married. I’ve believed we don’t need to feed egos of husbands today the way my mother spoon-fed my father in the past, and I’ve held myself out as evidence.

But I no longer know what I believe.

Good God—whatever you do—don’t tell the patriarchy! Apparently, my doubt doesn’t expose the weakness of humanity, but the weakness of feminism.

“You’re ruining the reputation of feminism,” an acquaintance recently reproached my state of uncertainty and emotional vulnerability. I don’t think he realized he had just endowed me with incredible political power—much more than I can possibly claim!

Does feminism imply immunity to pain, assault, personal tragedy? Superhuman self-esteem?

Steinem reminds us that the “powers that be” have no motive to boost our confidence. Low self-esteem keeps us in place: obedient and pliable; doubting and distrusting of our own gut instincts. So, in revolt, we must strive to nurture our self-worth.

But how can we do this if we don’t acknowledge that we falter; if we pose as perfect role models for friends and family? And how can we do this without leaving ourselves open to harsh criticism? Hell, we can’t, can we?

Since my husband left, I’ve been agonizing over self-worth, wondering if my mother was right when she told me: “No one will ever love you.” I was a young teen at the time; impressionable.

In a recent conversation with a divorced man, we shared the lists we write to remind ourselves of daily functions (while our hearts are mending). I told him “Remember to Eat” was in mine. He told me “Remember to Wake” was in his.

Remember to love me.

I’ve added this to my list. Mom—she’s been wrong all along. Even if I must remind myself in writing; even if, during a dark hour, I can’t establish much more reason than challenging a false authority, I will love me.

-----

Dear Readers, I look forward to the time when I may read your essays in peace again. I miss your writing and your inspiration!
f f g d m

Who's Afraid of a Spinster?

2006-06-27T09:07:00.000-04:00

Why isn’t Spinsterhood as sexy and appealing as Bachelorhood? In a play of mine, a female character argues, “I only want what you have, G---, to live freely without being pitied for my freedom!”

My bachelor brother with his protracted disinterest in long-term relationships has been admired by my family, even envied for his lifestyle.

He travels extensively by plane and by motorcycle, embarking on weekend escapades across oceans and highways. His life overflows with energetic activities which reap a compilation of colorful photographs: tangible evidence of a life lived fully.

My playwriting, on the other hand, despite productions and positive reviews, is still seen as the hobby of a hermit, and my “activity of imagination,” invisible to the common eye, remains baffling to my family. Not at all enviable.

Is exercising the muscles of our body more highly esteemed in our society than excising the muscles of our brain? Is traveling to other countries, more desirable than traveling across the maps of our minds, hearts and souls?

And is it partly this ostensible “worldliness” of Bachelors that gives them an allure that Spinsters lack?

Or does this double-standard extend much deeper in our social psyche? Are we still swayed by the stereotypes of the Living-It-Up Bachelor and the Lonely Spinster, and if so, does this create suspicion on both sides? The commitment-phobic vs. the relationship-hungry?

But if “being alone” doesn’t translate as “lonely” for Bachelors, why should it for Spinsters?

In reality, women frequently spend many years of their lives “alone.” Women often outlive their husbands (living a productive ten, twenty or thirty years more), and yet, our society doesn’t seem comfortable with women who consciously choose to live alone; who realize we can live without a man handy at all times. We must fall into “alone” tragically, it seems, not claim it for ourselves wholeheartedly.

When we do fall into it, however, we are often reborn, finding a strength we never knew we possessed; uncovering Liberty, not the Loneliness we seem to be encouraged to fear.

f s b l

Mirrors: A Weighty Issue

2006-06-15T12:34:00.000-04:00

“The best thing about my divorce,” a good friend tells me, “is all the weight I lost.” Then she pauses a second, before adding, “But you can’t afford to lose.”

Hey, I’m not worried. I’ve a strong sweet-tooth. I can’t imagine a world without ice cream. I’ve spent significant quality time with Ben and Jerry. Just add a puff of whipped cream, and for a brief, blissful moment in this mortal realm, I believe I’m in paradise.

Sure, food hasn’t always been an easy friend.

When I was young, my mom (who was never content with my weight) added guilt to the taste of food.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she’d say, taking a cookie away from me, and for a while, as a child, eating became a clandestine act, creeping downstairs to the kitchen in the middle of the night.

But I’m an adult now. I live in my own house and buy my own groceries. I don’t have to make forbidden or furtive rendezvous with sweets in the darkest of hours.

And I’ve long stopped heeding unsolicited remarks about my weight. You see, the petite, just like the obese, are subject to commentary by strangers. Boys used to call me Strawberry Shortcake and swing me in their arms, like a doll. (Don’t worry, dear readers, I quickly learned to give a kick where it counts.) And dieting women would look me over and tell me how lucky I was.

But why should my body size be a topic for conversation (unless I initiate it)?

“You don’t need to drink diet coke,” a stocky man in the grocery store winks at me in the soda aisle.

Isn't it strange that strangers speak more about my body than I do?

Like many women, I have a love/hate relationship with mirrors. I often rush past them, hoping to avoid any unkind reflections, and lately, I’ve been so distracted I’ve had little respite for mirror-gazing. In fact, these past few weeks have been so erratic that I’ve found it hard to focus on writing, reading, and yes, even eating.

But I’m not worried. I’m fond of food. Maybe I’ve ignored it a bit lately, but food is very forgiving, and when my appetite returns, food will be there for me, ready and reliable. So I wasn’t worried. Not at all.

Then, the other day, my doctor weighed me in at 81. How could this happen? Why didn’t I notice I had lost nearly fifteen pounds and landed myself in a danger zone?

Maybe I should spend more time with my mirror. Maybe it’s time for my body* and I to become better friends.

-----

This post is dedicated to Charlie.

-----

* Edited based on an insightful comment by JLB.
f b w

P. M. Mess

2006-06-04T20:48:00.000-04:00

P. M. Mess has visited again. At the door, I told IT I wouldn’t receive IT anymore. I declared IT wasn’t welcome here. I offered no hospitable smile. I set out no bright-orange juice, no honey-colored toast. (The hour was early—just before breakfast.) And yet, into the parlor IT came, sitting without ceremony: slumping heavily, so heavily, upon my buttery-blue chair.

“What do you want with me?” I asked, but IT didn’t answer. IT’s a surly guest, at best, so I decided not to provoke IT further. Does one press Jack the Ripper at his intentions? I think not! Best not to know the gritty details.

I did proffer a few words of chit-chat - I can’t help myself! I’m too well-bred to allow for extended gaps of silence between such intimate strangers, but I don’t think IT listened at all. I think IT knew my prattle was only a pretense; the wrappings of civility to conceal the severe indignity of my situation.

In ITs presence, the morning light fled from the room, as if the sun couldn’t bear to shed one single ray upon my rude guest, which seemed immensely inspired by the dark. I reached for something — a light switch, I think — but IT rose from the chair, and beneath ITs shadow, I shrank in size, diminishing swiftly, as if I was a mere speck of dust in what should have been my own space; my safe harbor; my sweet sanctuary.

Yes, dear readers, I’m constantly changing the locks to my doors, but each and every month, IT unbolts me.

f p p

What Monsters Sleep Under Your Bed?

2006-05-30T06:01:00.000-04:00

Recently, I asked an acquaintance what monsters sleep under his bed, and as one of his fears, he replied: "I don't ever want to instill fear in someone else."

His answer not only reminded me that oppression oppresses the oppressor, it also felt fascinatingly foreign to me. As a petite woman, I can't recall being acutely afraid of inspiring much fear.

At an early age, girls are often trained that we are prey. We need only open a volume of fairy tales to see how frequently we are victimized. Just in case we aren’t frightened by Little Red Riding Hood, the Charles Perrault version offers us a "moral" at the end, telling "young lasses," particularly those who are "pretty, courteous and well-bred" that they “do very wrong to listen to strangers." And seemingly "gentle wolves," he warns us, may turn out to be the most dangerous.

I’d like to think it’s possible to deduce from this "moral" that it’s providential to be old, ugly, loud-mouthed and rude, but clearly that’s not the message here. We are instructed to trust no one and go nowhere.

Eventually, we may grow annoyed that these "wolves" dictate whom we speak to; our comings and goings. We may resent that this moral burdens us with avoiding such indiscernible wolves instead of shaming and blaming the wolves themselves for their wolfish behavior. And we may even wish to bare our teeth and growl to keep any wolves at bay, which would imply - instilling fear in another.

So do I, as a feminist, desire women to be seen as a formidable force? Do I fear that abandoning anger means abandoning justice (since anger can be a catalyst for positive change).

Still, I know women are capable of waging a tyranny of fear, albeit on a smaller scale than men (who still claim the political and global arena), in households and workplaces. I’ve often interpreted such fearsome behavior as a manifestation of helplessness rather than power, but is it less reprehensible?

"I don't ever want to instill fear in someone else."

This answer intrigued and surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. I would have considered instilling fear a luxury of the powerful.

But how can I discount the power of women so absolutely? And wouldn’t I desire to use whatever power I possess to instill peace, not fear, inside this fragile world?

And I can’t help but wish that Our President had "this monster" sleeping under his bed.

f f f f

The State of the Undies

2006-05-22T06:02:00.000-04:00

After the dissolution of a relationship, it’s quite natural to reflect upon the condition of one’s undies. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that if I had truly taken stock of the state of my undergarments, I might have foreseen what was about to come undone.

My underwear has been growing obsolete, nearly antique, and more to the point, I’ve prided myself on my un-trendy nature, seeing this as a sign that I’m not seduced by consumerism, among other things, to wear the latest lace-infested frilly thrill.

However, the other day, I found myself venturing into “Intimates” deep inside a department store. I quickly got lost among the stealthy under-wire and powerful push-ups, and only after a grueling expedition did I uncover the tiny rack of “natural” brassieres, which came in white and white.

Along my journey, I did don a few brawny bras. Since I was surrounded by their padded power, I feared a backlash if I ignored them entirely. But in the dressing room, I wondered:

If a man were to clasp me to his chest, holding me close, he could hardly compliment me on my bosom. No, he would be forced to utter: “What a magnificent bra you have! Who manufactured it?” Or if he didn’t know any better, he might inquire: “Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?”

As you can see, Dear Readers, my mind has been preoccupied by questions of such import and magnitude these past days I’ve been away from you.

Please know that I’ve nothing against “pretty panties” (several cheered and amused me with their utter frivolity), but I’d like the freedom to choose comfort over crowd-pleasing cup-lets.

Are my Freedoms more important to me than Intimacies? Growing up, I witnessed an unbalanced marriage in which one held the key while the other sang like a caged bird, and in current events, I’ve watched Cindy Sheehan’s husband file for divorce after she started her “unseemly” protests against the war.

So will I (can I) conceal my unruly opinions, political power and artistic passions behind embroidery and lace?

In the end, I hope all of us take a stand, speak our minds, and cry out our truth, even when our truth is not cute and comes in only one color. Even at the risk of sending our underwear into sheer disrepair.
f d u b

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

2006-05-08T05:45:00.000-04:00

Compelled by curiosity (and foolhardiness), I placed a free profile on a personals site.

Yes, dear readers, I hear your outcry! It’s far too soon to track down true love! This is the moment to spread my wings and soar without a suitcase full of compromise and connubial commitments! Still, I couldn’t resist testing the webby waters of Internet, uh, Love?

I went searching for a photo of myself, but too many included my spousal-departus… until I recalled these iMac images.

All of these were outright rejected, however, by my new relationship consultant (aka my bachelor brother) who insists that no one wants to court a cartoon, particularly a creepy-looking one.

But whenever I contemplate photos of myself, I wonder: “Is this me?” and I never seem to find an image that resembles “who” I am. In the end, I resorted to a recent, but rather theatrical photo (which feels no more like me than the cartoons!), and within moments, I attracted every tank-topped, tattooed biker within 50 miles, asking: “Wanna go for a ride?”

And then there was the 60ish man who wanted to retire with me to Hungary. And the 40ish man who asked (without any preliminaries) if I was gonna be free tomorrow. Free for what?! Perhaps he meant, “Will I be free from jail?” (Answer: yes). Perhaps he meant, “Will I be free from societal pressures?” (Answer: I'm working on it). But when I wrote back that I was free for cyber-communication only (nothing non-virtual just yet), he was no longer free for me.

One of the most striking comments I received came from a long-haired hippie (standing next to his sweetheart-I mean, motorcycle). In respect to my photo, he asked: “Why do you look so sad?”

Because I was sad, I realized, and after that, I pulled down my profile, ending (temporarily, at least) my premature excursion into the realm of online match-making.

I cannot say I learned much from my brief foray into this brave new world, but upon reading several profiles of men-seeking-women, I found age requirements / discrepancies disturbing. So many men above the age of 40 are only interested in meeting women below the age of 35. Chauvinist much?

And while some profiles seemed heartfelt, others were full of - shall we say? - downright absurdities.

“Everybody tells me I’m really handsome.” Gee, that’s handy info, especially with your photo right in front of me. At least, I know your modesty won’t blind me.
“My friends all say I’m a nice guy.” Hmm, would they really be your friends if they said you were a jerk?
“I only want normal girls.” Excuse me, Sir, but could you describe “normal” for me?
“I want a girl who’s both sexy and professional.” At the same time? Like, er, a prostitute?
“I want a girl who knows exactly who she is.” Okay, I get the idea here, but if this guy believes he knows exactly who he is, I think he’s in for a big surprise someday.

And all too predictably, too many men have photos with their cars! Well, next time I need to buy a car, I know exactly where to go.

However, I do admit that describing oneself (for romantic purposes) isn’t easy. When asked what I was seeking in a man, I found myself writing…

“Someone who enjoys questioning themselves as well as the world around them, and who shares a desire to communicate openly and honestly ... (Hmm, I don't suppose anyone requests cads or con-artists, do they?)”

Yes, go ahead, laugh at me. I laughed at myself!

f o s p

Hunger for Home

2006-05-01T02:26:00.000-04:00

As a teen, I couldn't wait to escape this thing called home.

"Shape up or ship out," I heard more than once back then, but I hadn't finished building my boat. I had no sails yet. I had only a flimsy raft that wouldn't stay afloat in the unpredictable currents of the world.

When I left, at last, home changed meaning for me. My circle of friends became my home, and this home was a much stronger fortress than any sheetrock or cement foundations; a much cozier hearth than any woodstove or fireplace.

This home was not stagnant, but always evolving. Many of us embarked on journeys (adventures, careers, love), and our home shifted in shape: a triangle; hexagon; octagon; and sometimes, it even elongated to the point of breaking; losing touch.

When this friendly home seemed to grow tenuous, transient, too intangible, I was struck by an unexpected hunger for home. The very sort of home I once longed to escape. The shelter of a roof, the shield of a wall, the sturdiness of a wooden floor beneath my feet. I started to crave a sweet abode, knowing all the while that such an enchanted cottage is only an illusion of familiarity, consistency, permanence.

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in," says the Wolf in the Three Little Pigs, and whether this "wolf" is an earthquake, a hurricane, or a torrent of human emotions, it can create a fracture in our ostensibly solid house.

“Home is where the heart is,” according to philosopher Pliny.

If so, our heart is the stronghold we often seek elsewhere. If so, our heart is the place we must strengthen, furnish, cherish. If so, our heart must direct any disrespectful guests to the door, since this heart is our one and only true home.

I'm heading now, after a turbulent voyage, to be at home with my heart.

f h b

Marry Me?

2006-04-24T17:07:00.000-04:00

My life has taken an unexpected and dramatic turn. Wolfboy is leaving on a jet plane (or a compact car, if you like). The news—a shock to me—is still reverberating in mind, body, spirit. So I warn any courageous readers: I write today with no objectivity since I’ve had less than a week to contemplate my new singleton status.

In fact, Marsha Norman (playwright of ‘Night Mother) has advised writers not to put before an audience a personal and calamitous event which we are currently undergoing. And Common Sense most likely agrees with her, cautioning us that we need time to ponder and process any associated thoughts.

I’m ignoring the wisdom of Marsha Norman. I’m turning away from the sense of Common Sense. And putting forth a few random lessons I’ve learned recently.

Not All Marriage Proposals Are Created Equally

A few days ago, after my marriage became a mirage, I started chatting on the phone with an ex-boyfriend whom I haven’t seen in years. Our first two conversations cheerfully diverted me from the unpleasantness of my current circumstance.

However, on our third call, he asked if I would ever marry again, and when I joked that I had already proposed to three random men on the street, he asked simply: “Will you marry me?”

Clearly, this was a joke! I laughed! But then he insisted - repeatedly and dogmatically - that he was utterly serious. Apparently, a mentor of his had counseled him that now was the right time for him to marry (and hey, why not?).

I don’t think I’ll be calling this ex again. (But this was a good reminder that exes are often exes for a reason.)

DMV Employees Double as Marriage Counselors

During this frightful week of mine, I had to visit the DMV to renew my driver’s license, and as one of my pieces of identification, I offered my marriage license. Of course, I made no mention of my marital debacle, but the lanky young man behind the counter shook his head woefully at me.

“You didn’t take your husband’s name when you married,” he noted with dismay.

“This is a new century,” I smiled placidly.

“On, no, no, this is no good,” he claimed, “Why don’t I stick his name on your new license for you?”

I nearly laughed at the timing. “No, thanks. We’re artists. Our names are our calling cards.”

“Oh, no, no, men don’t like it when women don’t take their names,” he insisted in an all-too-earnest manner, “It hurts their masculinity.”

I might have said – if this is the case, the damage has already been done. But I found his absurd concern over my husband’s masculinity rather funny.

So I teased, “I think my husband should take my name, actually, because mine comes with an interesting genealogy. Also, it’s much easier to pronounce. Everybody botches up his name.”

The poor boy gave up after that.

Imagination vs. Reality

As I faced a new and uncertain future, I wondered (and worried) over where I would live once this house is sold. Thus, when I noticed a ridiculously cheap listing of a “single-family residence” in a lovely town nearby, I called up the realtor.

“I’m dying of curiosity!” I told her, “What’s wrong with it?”

She proceeded to tell me there was nothing “wrong” at all. In fact, it’s cute, clean and set in a lovely wooded area--and it's mobile!

“You mean, it’s a trailer park?”

“Oh, no! It doesn’t feel like one at all,” she exclaimed, “Once you’re inside, you’ll completely forget it's mobile! You’ll believe it’s a real home.”

Hmmm? I wonder if my imagination is quite THAT good? (Although... it's possible I've imagined a marriage. My dog, on the other hand, has just confirmed that he is real - ;)

d r

Please disregard the post (go directly to the comments)

2006-04-18T19:48:00.000-04:00

"So, does Frankengirl imply that you are half-girl and half mad scientist or that you are a real fan of Al Franken?" Who?

Dear Readers & Sweet Visitors

I set out to post some of your most insightful and delightful comments, but the task proved too much for me. I found myself pondering an unbearably long list of profundities. So instead, I decided to compile a few comments thematically.

The hour was late and my eyes, blurry, but soon, a theme emerged, and now, in your own words, I present the following compilation for you. Please click on Who? for the author of the original comment and read the [bracketed words] to note any edited words.*

The Case of the Badger's Arse

"I once hauled a possum out of a tree by its ass--it was dark, and when I saw something scrambling around in the tree, I thought it was my cat, who had escaped outside. When I realized what I was holding in my hands, I screamed and threw the possum away from me. It just sat on the ground and stared at me, as if to say, 'You're the one who pulled me out of a tree by my butt, lady.' Anyway, its ass was fairly rough, and I don't recommend that you grab one yourself..." Who?

"I am blonde (naturally) and can sing but am as rough as a badger's arse!" Who?

"I didn't know badgers had rough asses. That's a good piece of trivia; it opens up a whole load of inventive insulting opportunities." Who?

"In real life, I've known badgers of both genders, and seen them everywhere I've gone. Badgering people is not something I respect, but makes for some interesting novels." [manipulators / manipulating] Who?

"It seems like we have to constantly question badgers, whether in comfort or despair. Nothing can be taken for granted... because even the freedom badgers here enjoy was fought for by badgers before us..." [ourselves / women / women] Who?

"Badgers can really dazzle, to the point of blinding people of the underlying power structures" [words] Who?

"I met my first and last badger in 8th grade and left it at that. Everyone in my school loved the stereotypical badger. I never understood why girls or women like it so much because all the badgers talk about submissive women who are timid and shy and too afraid to take hold of their own lives." [read / Harlequin Romance / Romance genre / books] Who?

"Badgers are badgers, and sometimes better for not being touched, since sometimes they're misunderstood and wrongly judged.What about all the badgers inside our heads that will never be put to paper? Are they not badgers? No, they are, and very much alive too." [stories] Who?

"Everybody has badgers, but it isn't simply politeness or PC that stops them from expressing them. It can be fear of a strong badger's (or badgers') criticism, disapproval, or perhaps even punishment..." [opinions / parent's / parents'] Who?

"We suppress our opinions and feelings out of fear of being like badgers - when in actual fact, we are more like badgers than we know." [different / similar] Who?

"We blame modern society for putting emphasis on things like badgers when in actuality, the badger has been there all along." [female beauty / notion] Who?

"I think badgers are good to keep around for at least a historical perspective, who knows? Maybe you'll entertain your great grandkids with it some day..." [diaries] Who?

"I don't know if it was someone who told me to 'write what Badgers' knew' or if I only read it in a lot of places. But that was the reason I stopped writing fiction..." [I] Who?

"I hope that in my career, I will have many more opportunities to try and strike the right balance between my ideas, and those of badgers." [my editors] Who?

"I am currently reading The Goblet of Badger and while I understand the whole badger thing that happens in adolescence, it is unfortunate that JK Rowling develops this at the expense of Hermione as a character." [Fire / teen romance / she] Who?

"In the 7th grade, girls were still very 'bouncy' and chatty...Then they came back from summer vacation as badgers. How morose! It was as if their tongues were cut out of their mouths..." [8th graders] Who?

"I went to a single-sex high school (that later became co-ed)... I used to be outspoken in class...then the apathy and withering glances of all the badgers in my class killed that.” [girls] Who?

"I'm so glad to find out I am not the only person in the world who thought that Oscar-winning badger was so very wrong... It was astounding, it was horrifying - there are almost no words.” [rap song] Who?

"You done badgered up an interesting post thar, frankengirl. Raised in rural W.Va., and badger was commonly used amongst us hill folk." [brang / brang] Who?

"Badgers, their connotations, meanings and interpretations are fascinating to me." [Words] Who?

"There you've quashed all my nascent yearnings of ever becoming a badger." [published writer] Who?

I extend my "apologies" to the contributors not included here. I lacked the creativity and/or courage to badgerize your comments.

* If you would like your "comment" deleted from this post, please let me know.

b h

Her Beauty & My Bias

2006-04-17T09:18:00.000-04:00

Some years ago, I arrived late to a play reading. On stage, a man (Tom) and woman (Karen) are having the perfect picnic on the perfect day, and Tom is explaining to Karen how perfectly beautiful she is.

Here's a snippet…

Tom: No you have to understand that I—I see you clearly. I see you for what you are – the most beautiful. Not just your hair, your hands, your toes – but in the way it all moves. Just watching you... folding clothes. Just that simple act... as you take a shirt out of the drier... the care.

Karen: You watch me fold clothes?

Tom: I would pay admission to watch you fold clothes. But anything you do... the way you do it... how you sit, stand, walk.

Karen: Wait. Let me understand. Are you saying? Just the way I... (She stands)

Tom: ...stand.

Karen: And... (She sits)

Tom: ...the way you sit. It’s just so...

Karen: And if I get up and...

Tom: ...walk! Yes!

Karen: (walking around) Just...

Tom: ...like that! Yes! Like that!

Karen: Walking?

Tom: Yes!

Karen: Just me... walking is...

Tom: ... perfect. (turns to us) Like I said it was the most perfect day. The most perfect time that could ever be spent on a perfect day... watching the love of my life...

Karen: ...walking, just walking around. Does it matter what view you have of me walking?

Tom: Not really. Except when you come towards me... when you’ve been away... even for a moment... when I spot you... returning. It’s not just knowing you’re coming back, knowing the wait is over, but it’s like I get to discover again …

Karen: Like this?

Tom: Yes.

Karen: But when I turn around?

(KAREN turns, starts walking away)

Tom: That’s wonderful too. Yes, yes... when you walk away.

(KAREN exits)

Tom: ... when you’re walking away down the road... sometimes I just watch as your shape as it slowly disappears. Then I watch some more. So wonderful, so special. I’m so... privileged. Wait. Karen? KAREN??

(TOM turns to us in a panic)

Tom: I had a bad feeling. I had a terrible feeling about that day. The perfection.. It was just so perfect it had to end. (yelling after Karen) Karen?! KAREN!!! COME BACK!!!!!

-----

The play doesn't end here. Karen is subsequently accosted by a parachutist as well as a New York Times critic who wants to analyze her beauty till the end of his days, and when his relentless attention makes her cry, he says:

“Is that a tear? It is! Beautiful. One tear. And the shape of the tear. That tear will be the standard!”

When the play concluded, I had already come up with my own conclusions about the playwright. She was a Feminist.

Only her name remained a mystery. I turned to a friend, asking, "Who wrote this piece?" and soon learned that my "she" was a "he."

I had mistaken a male playwright for a feminist woman.

(The play excerpt above is reprinted here with the permission of the author.)
feminist p t

My Darling… Misogynist?

2006-04-10T09:10:00.000-04:00

(spoiler alert for the film Rebecca)

Dear Reader,

Sometimes it sucks to be a feminist. What a killjoy!

I was strolling idly along the Internet one day when I read a comment about the movie Rebecca (based on the novel by Daphne du Maurier and directed by Alfred Hitchcock) which called the film "misogynist."

No! Tell me it ain't so! Don't break my heart like this!

Rebecca was one of my favorite films as a teen and I had a wick-ed crush on Larry (Laurence Olivier) who portrays Maxim de Winter.

But Max murders his wife and gets away with it.

Yep, that's right, and I never once blinked an eye over it. Nope. As a viewer, I'm persuaded that Max has every right to strike his adulterous wife (Rebecca). I'm convinced she deserves to die, and thus, his "death-blow," which we don’t actually witness, seems acceptable.

To "soften the blow," the film implies pretty heavily that Rebecca's "asking for it," cause she's dying of cancer, but since Max has no clue about her condition, this doesn't let him off the hook, does it? And we don't actually have Rebecca’s own word on her “death-wish” (cause, oops, she's dead).

So… is this kind of husband/wife violence acceptable in our heroes?

In truth, I still adore this movie. I'm a fan of "gothic," and the Criterion version offers some delightful goodies, such as screen tests of Vivien Leigh, Anne Baxter, Loretta Young, Margaret Sullavan, and Joan Fontaine. Larry, who was married to Vivien at the time, wanted his wife to get the lead role and championed her strongly, but Hitchcock wouldn't bend, and if you watch Vivien’s audition, it's pretty clear that Hitchcock was right. Vivien was primed for Scarlet, not our plain and unnamed narrator here.

But back to misogyny.

No! Do I really have to go back to that crummy place? Cause I've seen quite a few romantic heroes mistreat their wives. Rochester hides his crazy wife Bertha from daylight. Heathcliff abuses his silly spouse Isabella. Yet, I'm drawn to the iconic stature of these fictional men.

And since they were written in days gone by, I can certainly view them in that light.

Still I wonder...

Am I so accustomed to the "wife" being the plot device that I don't think twice about her humanity?
f m h c

So Damn Polite

2006-04-04T06:22:00.000-04:00

One afternoon, my first-semester history professor stopped mid-lecture and teased his female audience.

"You're too quiet," he rebuked us good-naturedly, "It's spooky."

He was right: we were too quiet. We were sitting in our first class at an all-women's college; we weren't used to owning the floor all on our own. Many of us had come from high schools where boys spoke out and girls wrote down. No one waved a hand wildly for attention; no one shouted out an answer to beat a fellow classmate. None of us let on that we secretly held any passionate opinions.

In my literature class, we bowed our heads and fell into giggles. Our professor, an attractive woman in her mid-forties, had just informed us why she hadn't married: she hadn't yet received a proposal from a man she could possibly imagine indulging in her bed.

While we giggled quietly, our professor smiled tolerantly: "You're so damn polite."

Politeness paves the road for you.

I don't remember my mother actually saying this, but she had grown up on rough terrain. Her older brother went to jail for creepy acts one mustn't divulge in polite society. Her younger brother used a bookie, which is not, it turns out, a cute miniature book.

When my mother "married up," she was transported from crime and poverty, but she became beholden to my father and seemed to agree with him unconditionally. If I asked for her opinion, she often appeared stumped and annoyed, as though I was trying to trick her into argument. Inside her new society, she had grown too polite for opinions. A strong one, especially, could lead to controversy.

Later, in the larger world, I would discover that people actually pay you for your opinions, but my mother held hers so close to her heart that, for years, I assumed she had none.

---

ETA: Inspired by a comment from Ultimate Writer, I’m posting results of a comparative study between girls behavior and experience in single-sex vs. coed schools. Here are a few findings:

In single-sex schools, Girls...

- Showed increase in self-esteem and self-confidence
- Were less critical of own behavior
- Held less stereotypic views of gender roles
- Showed more confidence in challenging courses
- Performed better in academics and athletics
- Showed more academic achievement in math and science
- Received a more competitive learning environment
- Showed increased interest in college

In coed schools, Girls...

- Showed more reluctance to express views and opinions
- Showed decreased risk-taking
- Were often called upon less in class
- Received less time to answer a question
- Received less assistance in class
- Classroom and curriculum was male-structured from textbooks to standardized tests

Source Link

---

Disclaimer: This post is not intended to exalt Rudeness or discount the many virtues of Politeness (or better yet, warmth and kindness) in what may often seem a cold and rude world.
f w e sss

Writing What Women Know

2006-03-28T12:02:00.000-05:00

"Write what you know."

I heard these words often as a child. And Little Women, one of the most popular novels for girls, offers me the same moral. Jo writes sensational and imaginative tales, but the Professor, whom she comes to respect and love, doesn't think such stories are worthy of her. He essentially counsels her to write what she knows, and subsequently, she publishes a successful novel about her family.

One summer, when I was a playwright-in-residence at a regional theatre, a fellow female playwright wrote a script about a man sent to prison for committing heinous crimes, and frequently, I overheard other residents express disgust that she would pick such a "disgusting" subject. (Which begs the question: would Silence of the Lambs be disgusting if a woman wrote it?)

In a college writing class, I wrote highly romantic stories which my teacher held in contempt. He wanted me to write "reality." Thus, in order to raise my grade, I crafted a silly story about a man and woman chain-smoking and breaking-up in a café. My teacher loved it. I was writing what he thought I should know.

Are women encouraged too strongly to write solely within the realm of our experience?

In a recent post, MysticGypsy writes passionately against a notion that Emily Bronte couldn't have written Wuthering Heights if she hadn't experienced romantic love. And some scholars suggest that Frankenstein was written or heavily aided by Mary Shelley's husband, as if a woman could not possibly write such a "monstrous" story alone.

Do we link a woman's personal life too intimately with her writing?

Without a doubt, Harry Potter is a smash-hit, but statistically, male writers dominate science fiction, fantasy and speculative fiction, and ever since longing for a "friendly female monster" in a previous post, I have begun to wonder...

Is this at all probable if women are directed to write what we know? And by the way, do men generally receive this same memo?
f eb w c12

Writing: On the Bench or in the Game?

2006-03-22T06:58:00.000-05:00

Preface

I've sat on both sides of the literary desk, reading and selecting as well as writing and submitting manuscripts. Both chairs offer excitement and joy as well as "compromise" at every angle. Artists as well as producers/publishers must constantly decide when to stand firm and when to bend; when to walk away and when to play. Sometimes, I see myself as a champion. Other times, I'm merely Don Quixote.

Writing for the Teen or the Team?

When I was younger, an editor from a major publishing house invited me to her office to discuss my unwieldy first draft of a young adult novel. Regrettably, what I remember most about our two hour meeting was how unbearably parched my mouth was and how absurdly tiny the pointy-bottomed, water-cooler cups were.

Where does one set down such a cup, anyway? And surely, such a renown publisher can afford to offer anxious writers a tad more refreshment so that our lips do not stick together as we face the authoritative opinions of a strong-minded editor.

After she analyzed my draft in crushing detail (I think she may have felt obliged to offer at least one criticism per page), she sat back comfortably, smiled at me broadly, and gave me an unexpected compliment: "You take criticism so well! That's unusual in a young writer."

If I could have spoken, I might have told her that my seemingly compliant nature was due to dire thirst. I suspect I nodded frequently during our "discussion" because words necessitated moisture.

Since I had essentially forgone speech, I made an effort to listen attentively, but listening can be a challenge in this sort of a situation. It's tempting to survey new surroundings, and consider the Editor herself and her life and how she got there and what she went home to, or just let your mind float back again to water.

My uneven and unpolished novel was about a teen girl who drifts from person to person in an outwardly aimless fashion until she finds a moment of meaning and connection. At one point, this Editor leaned forward, whispering with a wink of confidentially, "Sports is all the rave now. She ought to play a sport." And the Editor went on to name an author who was very successful at writing sporty teens.

Had I been lucky (or unlucky) enough to be drinking water at this moment, I might have choked or spit. She liked my prose well-enough, but she wanted action - well, sports - not a wayward teen lost in thought and the world; not my novel. She told me to cut my manuscript in half and call her when I finished the next draft.

I soon left the large building behind me, stepping along the streets of NYC, and walked all way uptown to the apartment of my boyfriend. Naturally, he inquired about the meeting, but between gulps of water and spurts of tears, all I could utter was: "Sports, Sports!"

I was youthful; defiant. I didn't call her back.

Later, I would wonder - If I had played sports as a girl, would I have been more of a team player?
f p w ya

Can FrankenGirl Exist?

2006-03-15T12:59:00.000-05:00

After Sven wrote a generous post relating to my pseudonym, I have reflected back on why I chose “FrankenGirl.”

I know that larger tragedies loom in this world, but I believe I'm duty-bound, as FrankenGirl, to remind us that we suffer dreadfully from a dearth of friendly female monsters.

For empathetic male "monstrosities," we need look no further than Frankenstein's unnamed monster, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Elephant Man, Cyrano de Bergerac, Beauty's Beast, among others.

These creatures are off-putting, but evoke our sympathies, and ultimately, move us with their stories. We learn that truth and beauty hide beneath their surface.

But if a young girl longs to be simultaneously Repugnant and Appealing, whom should she emulate? If she turns to Fairy tales, she may conclude that her ugliness is most likely a sign of inner evil, and she should do whatever it takes to stay away from herself.

I've witnessed a few failed attempts at creating an iconic "ugly" heroine. Sleeping Ugly, a well-intentioned story by Jane Yolen, left me disappointed: the pictured girl is far from hideous. The film, The Truth about Cats & Dogs, is a female take on the Cyrano story, but since Janeane Garofalo is cast as "Cyrano" and Uma Thurman as her friend, this story could be called: "The Tragedy of Being Attractive, but Not as Glamorous as Uma Thurman."

The real life Lucy Grealy, who suffered from cancer of the face, did stir hearts in her memoir, Autobiography of a Face, but later, when she underwent surgery after surgery to look less like an oddity, many found her growing addiction to surgery (and pain-killers) less seemly than her face. She was criticized (upon her death) for failing to give us hope that beauty didn't matter, because clearly, in her life (and world), beauty did matter.

If we turn to a few high-profile female politicians: Eleanor Roosevelt; Madeleine Albright; Janet Reno, such women are frequently mocked for their very "lack of beauty." However, at the same time, they have wielded significant power. Beautiful girls were distracted by boys—a successful woman once noted—we ugly girls had plenty of time for study.

Yet, our literature, film and media seem to continuously omit any advantages of "ugliness" in women, and we are given no renown female "monsters" with whom we may identify.
f f l f b

Brang & Our Wild World of Words

2006-03-13T10:01:00.000-05:00

Preface

This entry is inspired by a comment on a previous post from MysticGypsy, who reflected on how many of us automatically assume our words are understood in the light we intended.

Words are universal, but at the same time, we individualize them. Through experience, our words take on specific associations and special significance to us. At some point in our lives, most of us have made up words as well as altered words, creating our own unique definitions, code words, secret languages among friends (imaginary or real!). Thus, a harsh word to one might sound hilarious to another, or vice versa. And all the while, we must use these words to describe our basic daily needs as well as our innermost feelings, and hope that we are understood.

Brang is a Word: It Better Be!

I brang the book home yesterday. Hey, what’s wrong with that? It sounds perfectly reasonable to me. I rang the bell and sang the song yesterday, didn’t I?

In third grade, I got in a quarrel with my teacher, Mrs. Shepherd. She held me after class and informed me that “brang” isn’t a word, but I refused to be deceived. I knew better, you see. I knew what she couldn’t possible know. My mother always used the word “brang.”

Mrs. Shepherd explained calmly at first, but I wouldn’t cave so easily. Don’t mess with my vocabulary. No, that wasn’t what I meant, was it? Don’t mess with my loyalty.

I stuck stubbornly to my side, hardening myself against all arguments, and eventually, Mrs. Shepherd lost patience with me.

Your mom is wrong.

I despised Mrs. Shepherd for a while, but I stopped saying “brang.” And I started to suspect Mom whenever she spoke at the dinner table. I wondered what other misbegotten words might be falling from her mouth. I could no longer trust her sentence structure, her clauses, her connotations, even as they whirled about me, catching me inside their net.

You don’t want to be Mom. You want to be Right.

Mrs. Shepherd wasn’t the only one who knew better than Mom. In contrast to Mom’s lower-class background of urban poverty, Dad had been raised on a middle-class farm and enjoyed an Ivy League education. Not only did my parents represent different sexes, but also disparate classes, and when I considered my options, I wanted to be Dad.

Eventually, Mom listened to vocabulary tapes and left her Brang-days behind her, but it would be years before I realized that she had some very valuable words to teach me.

For you, Mom, I brang myself home.
f l

Bitch or Witch?

2006-03-08T14:24:00.000-05:00

As a result of censorship, men called women "witches" instead of "bitches" in the song: It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp* at the 78th Academy Awards on Sunday.

This begs the question: Is it better to be called a Witch or a Bitch by a man? So, prompted by a comment from Panacea on a previous post, I looked up a few definitions.

Bitch [noun]
1: a lewd or immoral woman
2: a malicious, spiteful, or domineering woman - sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse

Witch [noun]
1: one that is credited with usually malignant supernatural powers … often with the aid of a devil
2: an ugly old woman : hag
3: a seductive, alluring, bewitching woman

Pimp [noun]
1: a man who solicits clients for a prostitute

Wow! The definition of "pimp" sounds so banal and bland. It even suggests that the pimp is working as a subordinate for the prostitute - with absolutely no mention that he is engaged in an unlawful, immoral and destructive practice. (Whereas a prostitute is described far less favorably, as debasing herself for money.)

As for Bitch vs. Witch, at least "Bitch" is less ambiguous. I pretty much know where I stand. Isn't it interesting that "Witch" can indicate both an ugly old hag - as well as - an alluring seductress? Clearly, if anyone calls me a "witch," I will have to request clarification!

“Excuse me, Sir, but do you find me utterly irresistible or extremely unseemly? Or am I really a spawn of the devil? Please clarify.”

-----

* Winner of the Oscar for best original song (2006).

(The definitions above have been collected/combined from the American Heritage Dictionary and Merriam-Webster Dictionary)
f a t c o

It's Hard Out Here for a Feminist

2006-03-07T14:29:00.000-05:00

It's Hard Out Here For A Fem'nist *

You know it's hard out here for a fem'nist (you ain't knowin)
When she tryin to get some respect from the men (you ain't knowin)
For the energy and work hours spent
Because a whole of lot of misog'nists talk shit

In my eyes I done seen some crazy thangs in this world
Done seen women raped, done seen women beat
Done seen women live in poverty on the street
It's fucked up where I live, but that's just how it is

It might be new to you, but it's been like this for years
It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I’m tryin to get justice ‘fore I leave up out this life
I’m tryin to get thangs right but it’s hard fo’ a fem'nist
But I'm prayin and I'm hopin to God I don't give up the fight

~ FrankenGirl

"Eighty percent of the women were sexually assaulted by pimps via sadistic sex; 71% of pimps use drugs to control the women; and 34% of the women received death threats from pimps personally or to their family." - from “Sex Trafficking In the United States, Coalition Against Trafficking of Women Study,” Raymond, Hughes, Gomez (3/01)

"You know what? I think it just got a little easier out here for a pimp." - Jon Stewart, Host of the 78th Academy Awards (3/06)

* It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp (Lyrics)
Oscar Winner - Best Original Song - 78th Academy Awards (3/06)

You know it's hard out here for a pimp (you ain't knowin)
When he tryin to get this money for the rent (you ain't knowin)
For the Cadillacs and gas money spent (you ain't knowin)
[1] Because a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin)
[2] Will have a whole lot of bitches talkin shit (you ain't knowin)

In my eyes I done seen some crazy thangs in the streets
Gotta couple hoes workin on the changes for me
But I gotta keep my game tight like Kobe on game night
Like takin from a ho don't know no better, I know that ain't right
Done seen people killed, done seen people deal
Done seen people live in poverty with no meals
It's fucked up where I live, but that's just how it is
It might be new to you, but it's been like this for years
It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit
I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch
I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp
But I'm prayin and I'm hopin to God I don't slip, yeah

[Chorus]

Man it seems like I'm duckin dodgin bullets everyday
Niggaz hatin on me cause I got, hoes on the tray
But I gotta stay paid, gotta stay above water
Couldn't keep up with my hoes, that's when shit got harder
North Memphis where I'm from, I'm 7th Street bound
Where niggaz all the time end up lost and never found
Man these girls think we prove thangs, leave a big head
They come hopin every night, they don't end up bein dead
Wait I got a snow bunny, and a black girl too
You pay the right price and they'll both do you
That's the way the game goes, gotta keep it strictly pimpin
Gotta have my hustle tight, makin change off these women, yeah

[Chorus]

f o p h

Mutiny against the Playwright

2006-02-27T15:03:00.000-05:00

I’ve been fighting with my characters all weekend.

We’ve been throwing subtext at each other wildly, and now, over-the-top speeches, curse-words, and far too many clichés have landed all over my office. What a mess!

“Don’t you dare make me pregnant!” one of my characters threatens indignantly, “You know me better than that! I wouldn’t sleep around without protection! Besides, that’s so lame, so ‘Friends,’ so desperate!”

She’s right. I am desperate. I was flowing along smoothly, but my eyes were bent so inwardly that I didn’t look up till—bam!—I hit a dam right in front of me.

“Oh, I saw that coming,” one of my smarty-pants characters smirks at me, “Any dope coulda seen that. Clear from the start.”

Jeez, you just don’t get any respect from your characters, these days.

“How long are we going wait here?” inquires another character. “I have depth, you know, and integrity,” he informs me, “I can’t possibly sit around like this, doing nothing. Let me pray, or pace, or at least, take a pee, for godsakes!”

Yeah. They all want their memorable “moment.” They all want to be “stars.” Characters can be so damn demanding.

“Got a sec?” asks another character awkwardly, “Like, what am I doing with this knife? Cause I’m supposed to be funny, right? So why’d you stick me with this knife? It’s too big for cutting celery—not that I mind cutting celery, if you need celery cut — but this isn’t a celery knife. And I don’t wanna hurt anybody, I swear, cause I’m no psycho-creep. I’m just comic relief.”

“You’re probably going to stab my baby,” says the first character wryly.

No, there’s no baby! And that knife—here, hand it over to me carefully, that’s right, nice and slow, and I’ll shut it back in the drawer. See. No knife. No baby. Nothing.
w p

Dear Wendy Wasserstein

2006-02-21T06:53:00.000-05:00

Dear Wendy,

Sorry for not writing sooner. This note is long overdue.

It's been years since I met you in the corner of that crowded bookstore where the skinny Drama section stooped between Entertainment and Art. Actually, it was more of a shelf than a full-scale section, but that's where we met. You and I. You were one of only a few female playwrights sitting there.

I didn't know girls wrote plays.

You see, in school, they taught O'Neill, Brecht, Ibsen — Oh, I know a joke about Ibsen! They say, if he’d written A Doll’s House today, that play would be no more than a one-act, cause no modern Nora would stick around with that hubby of hers for a full-length — no way! She'd slam her way out of that manuscript long before intermission.

And I think Nora's early liberation is due to you, women like you, Wendy.

When I was young and interviewed with a commercial theatre, the artistic director asked me who my favorite playwright was. Marsha Norman, I answered, cause 'Night Mother is dark, and your Heidi Chronicles is much lighter, and I wanted to be dark, cause I was young and everybody was wearing black.

A few years later, I needed a laugh, and there you were with all your wit, just waiting for me. Who knew feminists could have such a sense of humor? Cause feminism - that's serious stuff. But you were funny and friendly. You didn't have to be serious to make a point. You knew that long before I did.

And your name, Wendy, has turned out to be lucky for me. Wendy's the name of the woman who mentored me. And another Wendy's directed several fledgling scripts of mine. Overall, "Wendy" has been good to me.

Well, I don't want to gush on and on, cause you probably get a lot of that. I know you weren't the first female playwright to win the Pulitzer, but for me, Wendy, you were the first who made it seem accessible, not stuffy, not shut-up in some literary file, but living and laughing out loud in the world.

And that's how I'll remember you.

Thanks.
f w p p

Brits Capture Oklahoma! and other Belated News

2006-02-16T13:57:00.000-05:00

When I confess that I fancy Hugh Jackman, you look at me strangely. You say, "Huh? You and Wolverine? Nooo!"

That's when I tell you about the 1999 London Stage Revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma. Hugh plays Curly, the heterosexual cowboy. (Yep, that's right, a few of 'em are hetero.)

Now I hear you muttering: "Oklahoma is a corny musical about two shallow lovers who create chaos cause they're too silly, snotty and snooty to go on a simple date!"

I nod, because I thought so, too, after watching the 1950s American-made version with Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones.

I hated that Curly! He was a slick stick, a bland bore, and far too fancy-pants clean to be a cowboy! (And Laurey was such a hissy-priss, and Jud, no more than a cartoon-caricature.)

But the Brit version (directed by Trevor Nunn) captures Oklahoma! better than we Americans did: the clash between farmers and cowboys: desire to grow vs. desire to graze; desire to build vs. desire to roam; a conflict over territory and lifestyle among poor Americans.

Sure, this Oklahoma! still mixes plenty of frivolity amidst the drama. Hey, it's a Musical, after all! Curly's still foolhardy and Laurey (Josefina Gabrielle) still stubborn, but when confronted with Jud, they're offered a chance to mature and they take it. (The main actors also perform the full ballet.)

Jud, played with great depth and darkness by Shuler Hensley, may be the most exciting revelation. He gives Oklahoma! something I never knew it had: a real plot.

So, thanks, Trevor, for filming this production, because I wouldn't have thought to look for Oklahoma! in London.

More Recommendations:

If you're a blogging woman and would like to join a community of blogging women, I recommend checking out www.BlogHer.org.

If you're still pondering burning a diary or two, I recommend reading Holly's journaling entry at Self-Portrait as.

If you believe Emily Dickinson was completely content to write for herself alone, I recommend watching The Belle of Amherst starring Julie Harris.

If you think Gilmore Girls is "Girls Only," I recommend viewing the last few minutes of Friday Night's Alright for Fighting (this season's 13th episode). Sure, GG's often shaky when it comes to plot (I hate the soap-opera Luke-discovers-daughter storyline! Golly, does he have a twin brother, too, longing for a reunion?!).

But at the end of Friday Night's Alright for Fighting, all focus returns to the family core, where GG is at its best. For a few minutes, innovative blocking, creative jump cuts, and documentary-style camera work all reinforce the ultra-sharp dialogue and complicated relations between three generations of family.

I leave you with a few words from Lorelai (spoken during this sequence): "Thank you! And ... SCENE."

(Enjoy your weekend.)
o g e h
f

V-Day

2006-02-14T11:34:00.000-05:00

Last night, Wolfboy adopted four children.

He did it on National TV, too, making one of those Surprise-Surprise! Grand Gestures on a talk show hosted by Stockard Channing.

Joey (Matt LeBlanc), another guest on the show, applauded Wolfboy for his syrupy-sentimental act, and the whole audience cheered and wept in an impressive display of emotion.

As you can imagine, I was mighty peeved.

First, I didn’t specially want kids that day. Second, I didn’t like the looks of these particular children. They had the bodies of babies, but huge heads with Evil grins, but Wolfboy doesn’t notice Evil like I do.

Since we had no available bedroom, Wolfboy stuck all four kids in the bathroom, which distressed me considerably, since I couldn’t brush my teeth that night or take a shower the next morning. When I cracked open the door out of curiosity, I was met by four sets of glaring, gaping eyes, and that was more than I could bear.

I asked Wolfboy to return the children, but he claimed they were nonrefundable, and when I dialed my parents for a temporary place to stay, an expressionless man with a generic gray face, lifted the phone away.

So I ran, as one does in dreams. I ran through a dim, desolate tunnel with Generic-Man chasing after me with a long, pointy needle.

It’ll ruin the publicity stunt if you abandon the children – a whisper fell into my ear - Better to die accidentally. Tragedy is good for ratings.

I woke.

Wolfboy, rising from the bed, smiled too innocently at me: “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I seethed.

Such is the power of dreams.

d

Burning Diaries

2006-02-13T07:43:00.000-05:00

Diaries are meant to be burnt.

So said my stoic grandmother. Why would you want to reread all those silly, petty feelings you had when you were ten?

I was ten or eleven or twelve when Grandma dispassionately mentioned that she had turned all her diaries into ashes. What's important to you now (every childish dream, every girlish desire), she seemed to insist, will seem foolish or frivolous in the future.

Grandma wasn't a particularly warm woman, and on this day, I found her especially hard. How can she possible think my precious daily diary will ever mean nothing to me? I don't want to grow up, ever!, if that’s the case.

I also felt cheated. Someone, at some time, had informed me that Grandma was not always an Old Woman, but I couldn't imagine her as young. I was absolutely convinced that she had been born old, ripe, white-haired. (How she came out of a womb, I never knew.)

But if Grandma had held onto her diaries, I could have read the girl she was. I might even have come to believe she once had been a child like me, but without any evidence, I couldn't see Grandma as anyone but Grandma.

Grandma has been dead now, several years, and recently, I started to see some sense in her words to me. I've even been tempted to light a flame to one of my teen diaries. But I'm torn...

Are certain periods of our lives best extinguished completely? Does that free us from an unhappy memory? Is Grandma right after all? I'm a Woman now. That Girl is gone. Should I let her rest in peace?

Or do burnt-diaries leave a hole in our life's bookcase? Or worse, a vulnerability that we might forget our history, and even recreate our own story to please ourselves (in lieu of honesty).

I haven't been closely following the saga of Frey's A Million Little Pieces, but I think, if I were ever to write a memoir, I had better keep all my diaries, because I would be sorely tempted to skip over the ugly bits.

Still...I sure would like to watch those pages burn.
F d m

When is a Story a Story or a Poem a Poem?

2006-02-08T11:39:00.000-05:00

I'm posting the poem below due to a discussion stirred by the previous post on Emily Dickinson.

In preface, I will note that, at times, I have glanced at my discarded manuscripts with dismay. I have felt sorrow that my letters, words, sentences never grew to live a full and satisfying life. But I came to consider them from another angle. I remembered the immense pleasure I took in creating the now-discarded characters, and how they had been intimate and interesting companions to me, often diverting me with their (yes, unfinished) stories.

However, Ursula Le Guin writes: "The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story."

I wonder - is it possible for the Writer, herself, to be the Reader who breathes life into her own story? Or must stories be shared in order to grow beyond "little black marks."

This following poem is not an answer, but another examination of the relationship between the writer and her writing.

Sometimes the words are so close I am
more who I am when I'm down on paper
than anywhere else as if my life were
practicing for the real me I become
unbuttoned from the anecdotal and
unnecessary and unpressed down
to the figure of the poem, line by line,
the real text a child could understand.
Why do I get confused living it through?
Those of you, lost and yearning to be free,
who hear these words, take heart from me.
I was once in as many drafts as you.
But briefly, essentially, here I am...
Who touches this poem touches a woman.

By Julia Alvarez
w j

If Emily Dickinson had a Blog...

2006-02-07T05:23:00.000-05:00

If Emily Dickinson had a blog...

If after six months (or one year, five years, ten years), she realized that her blog attracted no readers (or one reader, five readers, ten readers), would she continue to blog her poems?
f ed b

Meme: The Aftermath

2006-02-06T12:59:00.000-05:00

First, let me say, I truly admire the immense courage it must have taken for all of you to confide your innermost secrets...

Holly has confessed that one of her favorite toys is her own—but no!—I can say no more here. This is a PG-rated blog, after all, so you must read her meme to grasp the picture fully. And if you sense that you suffer from multiple personalities, she may empathize with you, since she has tagged one of hers for this meme! (Also, Holly has added a fantastic category: “Five Things That Scare You,” and I plan to pester her about one of her scary-things.)

ActonBell has pluckily admitted to wearing a “size 3, wild Bongo pencil skirt.” This is truly a testimony to the fashion-gaffe that all women tragically suffer at some point in our lives. And I do believe ActonBell is one of the most honest among us in listing “Happy Birthday” as lyrics she recalls, because if you are anything like me, I’ll sing along with a song for years only to discover (upon actually reading the lyrics) that I have been singing the wrong words entirely.

The Poodle’s Friend’s deep dark secret is one which, I’m imagine, we can all identify. She bravely admits to her sticker-collecting phase. (For me, it was clay marbles.) She also wears a sexy pair of glasses which might be banned from this blog. And she has a stuffed dog named “Mr. Roger” – not to be confused with Mr. Rogers. But this begs the question: is Mr. Roger The Poodle’s Friend’s Poodle?

Golgotha_Tramp has boldly owned up to the fact that one of her bad habits is also one of her favorite things to do, which makes such perfect sense that, of course, I never thought of it myself! But Golgotha’s meme has left me with more questions than answers: Is a “romper” the same thing as a “jumper?” And what is a “Puffalump?”

As a result of reading your memes, I have come to the conclusion that the world would be a much better place if we were all millionaires. Holly would give money more often and more generously to causes she supports; ActonBell would also contribute to her pet causes; The Poodle’s Friend would buy her school and make it decent; and Golgotha_Tramp would work for an animal shelter. All highly admirable.

However, if the million-dollar decision was mine to make, who would receive this grand money? I’m sorry to say that my decision would not at all be difficult to make. I would—no, I must—award the million to The Poodle’s Friend who would “Produce a Buffy feature film with Sarah Michelle Gellar.” Oh, I can’t wait!

On the other hand, without the million, I would be just as pleased to hear Holly and The Poodle’s Friend sing lyrics from Buffy’s “Once More with Feeling” Soundtrack whilst ActonBell and Golgotha_Tramp are toasting marshmallows (or do you both prefer them un-toasted?) And hopefully, MysticGypsy, Fancy Pancakes, Cristina, Panacea, and all other dear friends and sweet visitors would be able to join us.

m

5 Things Meme

2006-02-02T11:05:00.000-05:00

Yes, this is my very first "Meme" - thanks to Golgotha. I'm not particularly precise at following rules, but I'll give them to you anyway...

Instructions: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1) Seeking Solace
2) Kiss My Mike
3) Ultimate Writer
4) Golgotha_Tramp
5) FrankenGirl

Next select five people to tag:
1) Fancy Pancakes
2) ActonBell (aka Happy Trails)
3) Holly (aka Self Portrait as)
4) Cristina (aka Battle of Life)
5) Poodle's Friend

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Explaining to my mom that I don't cook

What were you doing 1 year ago?

Explaining to my mom that I STILL don't cook

Five snacks you enjoy:

1) Phish Food® (Ben & Jerry's)
2) Cherry Garcia® (Ben & Jerry's)
3) Luna Clif Bars (Nutz over Chocolate)
4) Pirates' Booty (I Love Trader Joes!)
5) Whipped cream to go with my ice cream :)

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:

1) Buffy The Vampire Slayer Theme (Nerf Herder) - Yeah, I know, there aren't any lyrics (which is precisely why they're so easy to remember!)
2) The Proposal (Jane Eyre: The Musical) - Hmm, well, I remember the title, anyway.
3) Empty Chairs at Empty Tables (Les Mis) - My dog really used to love this song
4) Here With Me (Dido) - Yes, I actually watched the first season of Roswell ;)
5) Ice Cream (on the album Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by Sarah McLachlan) Did I mention that I really like Ice Cream?

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

1) Freak out
2) Get a really good accountant
3) Get an unlisted number
4) Donate to public radio, public television, animal shelters, women's shelters, homeless shelters... (yeah, you get the picture)
5) Start a writer's colony

Five bad habits:

1) Falling in love with actors who make my dialogue actually sound bearable on stage
2) Shouting at actors on the television screen when they behave out of character
3) Acting like an Assistant Director instead of a Playwright during
Rehearsals
4) Writing nasty notes to Samuel French who doesn't publish enough women (myself included!), but has published my male friends more than once! (Okay, I don't actually send these nasty notes.)
5) Acting far too silly and also, far too serious

Five things you like doing:

1) Visiting Pemberly
2) Walking through Avonlea
3) Spying on Thornfield
4) Attending black-box and fringe theatre
5) Attending folk concerts (particularly the Baird Sisters!)

Five things you would never wear again:

1) pantyhose
2) heels
3) anything pastel
4) anything with ruffles
5) anything my mom really likes on me

Five favorite toys: (subject to change daily)

1) Jane Eyre (DVD, Musical CD, Novel)
2) Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs
3) The Vicar of Dibley DVDs
4) Ursula LeGuin's The Left Hand of Darkness (and my entire shelf of books)
5) Really cheap spiral-bound notebooks and pens that don't bleed

That's all folks!
feminist 5

Harriet Potter vs. Harry Potter

2006-02-01T12:30:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, I wrote a draft of a novel called: Harriet Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stick, but my editor asked me to make a few changes. First and foremost, she wanted me to change "Harriet" to "Harry."

She argued:

Girls will “read boys,” but boys still don’t “read girls.” And therefore, Harriet cannot garner as vast an audience as Harry could.

When I remained stubborn, she emphasized:

A female writing about a female will be automatically classified as “chick-lit,” and you will be essentially writing-off male readership entirely. (There was an attempt at “lad-lit,” by the way, but it never found an audience.)

Still, when I wouldn’t bend on the issue, she reminded me of C. S. Lewis’ dictum:

"To tell how odd things struck odd people is to have an oddity too much."

“Harriet Potter,” she explained, would be too odd for an audience to stomach. You see, Dorothy (in Oz) and Alice (in Wonderland) are really good-little-girls, not leadership-types who lead armies or make mischievous magic. No one would be able to identify with Harriet, she insisted, while everyone would adore a boys-will-be-boys Harry.

Well, by now, I admit, I was wavering. Did I really want to go against such a famous dictum by such a renown author? But Lewis lived in different times, didn’t he? Surely, today, it cannot be so very odd for an impish girl to lead the way in an odd land?

However, before I could make up my mind on the matter, an unknown writer, somebody named J.K. Rowling, came out with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. (Yes, agreed, stone is much better than stick.)

Despite the fact that J.K. Rowling claims she wrote Harry Potter for her own daughter, she has placed a boy at the helm of the story. Why?

If she had chosen “Harriet” instead of “Harry,” would the series have changed dramatically? If she had called herself “Joanne” instead of J.K., would she be the richest woman in England? Or would she be working part-time in a bookstore to support her artistic aspirations?
f h

Manipulative Women & Men Who Envy Them

2006-01-27T09:29:00.000-05:00

Not long ago, a man of science informed me that women are naturally more manipulative than men. And sure, I imagine that women without more direct means of persuasion (physical force or financial power) might be obliged to be resourceful. It seems only sensible that a woman (without an army or hefty pocketbook) might rely more heavily upon her wits.

However, as it happens, I had the honor of chatting with a few devilish villains recently, and some were put out by women's perceived superiority in the area of manipulation. They were absolutely begging recognition.

Count Dracula, for one, believes that he has set the standard for subliminal seduction, and doesn't wish to be associated with mere brutes or overblown machinery of war. The wicked cads of Richardson's Clarissa and Hardy's Tess, cry out for notice, demanding that they've used many a devious and underhanded trick to trap an innocent damsel.

Austen's Wickham, while a lightweight in this company, insists that his manipulative charms have caused Elizabeth Bennett and her family a great deal of grief, and if he had been less effective, Pride and Prejudice would have amounted to no more than a measly short-story.

I asked them why they believe women receive more credit as shrewd and masterful manipulators, and the Count acknowledged that Lady MacBeth has been a hard act to follow (and no one here volunteered to go head-to-head with her).

Then someone suggested (I'm not sure who - it may have been a subliminal message) that female villains tend manipulate an ally (or henchman) to do their dirty work (as in Double Indemnity) while male villains tend to manipulate their victims directly. After this, a dispute ensued over whether manipulating a powerful ally or a vulnerable victim is a more cunning achievement.

I left while I still could.

I Kiss Jill Sobule

2006-01-23T12:26:00.000-05:00

It all started in 1995. My boyfriend made me one of those compilation tapes that (yeah, you know) boys make in those first months of courtship. At the time, I already had a stack of boyfriend anthologies which I could easily have labeled: "Songs My Boyfriends REALLY Liked Which I Had to Endure for the Sake of 'Love.'"

So I dreaded listening to this one. At first.

But as it turns out, this compilation (unlike its predecessors) was actually designed for me. It was a feminist-girl collection. And included The Jig is Up by Jill Sobule.*

Okay, I fibbed. I haven't kissed Jill Sobule. But I did see her recently in a small venue, and she was a revelation.

You see, the thing is (I regret to say) I had kind of forgotten her over the years. She had fallen out of the spotlight; she had gone missing in my mind, and all this time, I have been really missing out.

She still has her girlish voice, girlish figure and girlish energy. Her songs continue to combine quirky images with a magical simplicity. She can move from edgy humor to sweet vulnerability within seconds. One moment, she's dissing Bush in her hilarious song about frustrated presidents (if only Bush had succeeded in Baseball, we all might have been spared!) and the next, she's singing about a teen prostitute in Tel Aviv with graceful, understated poignancy. There doesn't seem to be a subject she won't touch - religion, politics, homosexuality, prostitution, her own feelings of hurt, frustration and anger.

What struck me most, however, was the incredible intimacy and buoyant friendliness she projects to her audience. Her whole manner seems to say: "I'm really glad to be here with you" even if this is a small venue, on a tiny stage - and "thanks for hanging out with me today."

She tried out an unfinished song for us and offered an extraneous verse. She asked us if she could start a song over. She sang a delightfully silly and candid song which has only two lines to it. She even had an audience member hold up drafts of new songs she hadn't yet committed to memory.

Jill Sobule is not afraid to be unfinished. She is not afraid to be both goofy and bold. She is not afraid to be herself, even if she's still trying to figure out who that self is.

-----

* Why was The Jig is Up chosen for me? Well... I grew up on an apple orchard. And I would like to major in something foolish. And disappear, sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood and need to change my attitude.

The Jig is Up (by Jill Sobule)

"If I had a lot of money
I'd move to another country
I'd disappear, not tell a soul, I'd change my name
Or maybe I'd go back to school
Major in something foolish
And I could do it cause I'd have a lot of money
Here I am holding on to childhood's dream
Sitting in my apple tree
Swaying as the branches tremble under me

The jig is up, it's all been played
The well is dry, the bed's been made
The jig is up, the jig is up

Maybe I could jump,
Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge
But I don't live in Brooklyn
And I don't know how to swim
Or I could find religion
go on some kind of mission
Feed the poor, and then I would go to heaven
if I believed in heaven

Here I am, holding on to childhood's dream
Standing on the balcony
Waiting for someone to come and rescue me

The jig is up, the dance is done
The record skips, the song's been sung
The troops have dwindled down to one
The jig is up
The jig is up, the sun has set
The train is wrecked, the sheets are wet
And like I said, the jig is up

Well I can't really disappear
Cause I don't have a lot of money
And I don't really think I wanna
go back to school
But maybe I'm just in a bad mood
And I need to change my attitude
And when I wake up tomorrow
I'll believe in heaven

Here I am, holding on to childhood's dream
Climbing down the apple tree
Waking as you pull the covers off of me
The jig is up

The jig is up, yes it's been tough
The punch is drunk, the shrink is shrunk
It's time to get the baby up
It's off to work let's start the car
We'll turn it over in its grave
And start again its soul to save
The jig is up but so what
We'll fill again this empty cup
The jig is up, the point's been made
Elvis has just left the stage
The story needs another twist
And I have had enough of this"
f j

Tractor Dreams

2006-01-17T06:42:00.001-05:00

I dream of tractors.

I grew up on a small apple farm where a tractor is a piece of the scenery. On weekends, I would toss apples into Dad's hand-made cider-press and I would zoom about on Dad's make-shift tractor.

I drove the tractor without incident until my younger brother grew taller than me. That Spring, Mom was shaken by a premonition that the tractor would mysteriously blow up on me. My safety was at stake, it seemed, when it had never been at stake before. Suddenly, I was much too precious to drive the tractor.

I disagreed. I struggled with my big-little-brother to claim the coveted driver's seat, but my battle was short-lived. Soon after, Dad purchased a larger tractor, a royal blue monster on wheels, and since I was fairly small (and wasn't getting any bigger), I couldn't reach the pedals.

That was that. I had been downsized. Man-made machinery had grown too big for a girl like me. I was sent away from the orchard, trees and greenery, and relegated to indoor, claustrophobic housework.

So you ask, "Why would you even want to drive a tractor?"

And I understand that most people don't see Tractor-Deprivation as tragic. It's not, of course, even remotely related to anything like tragedy, but the end of my tractor-driving days marked the end of an important period in my life; a time when I got to be my father's apprentice; a time before gender dictated my duties.

Also, driving a tractor is an exhilarating experience. You're not forced to follow some well-marked road, but flying over grass, across acres, with the sun overhead and the wind whirling around you. You strike your own course; you navigate around trees and bushes with your own self-made map. You are powerful.

So I ask all writers out there to let us girls steer tractors (or spaceships, if you prefer) on the page - if we can't here - because we ride them in our dreams.

f g c

When 27 is Bountiful: Notes to My English Teacher

2006-01-11T10:30:00.000-05:00

In my Junior High journal, I enjoyed an ongoing correspondence with my English teacher, a fiery woman who occasionally wore leopard patterns and looked a bit like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's (fake eyelashes and all).

“Oh, Ms. AH! I wrote a novel over the Summer, but unfortunately, I lost all 27 pages of it, and I just can’t bear to start all over again!”

I’m not sure why I thought 27 pages amounted to a novel. I had read novels, certainly, but churning out 27 handwritten pages during my family’s vacation in Maine must have seemed monumental to me.

Ms. AH commiserated. Back then, in the land of childhood, 27 pages were magical.
w c

Women to Watch: Lady MacBeth Gilmore

2006-01-06T08:28:00.000-05:00

How many women wield power on television? No, let me rephrase my question – how many women wield power on television without using sexuality?

Television swarms with sexy seductresses. In fact, if you start profiling based on most shows, be wary of any nubile, blond bombshells. They're vixens, apparently, or else, victims. Unless their name was "Buffy."

But under the radar, in a smart, snappy comedy, Emily Gilmore has been rising in power. Played to perfection by Kelly Bishop, Emily is an impressive antagonist. She's shrewd. She's sassy. She's even sympathetic. But what truly sets her apart from other female adversaries?

Sex is not her weapon.

Oh - and did I mention – she’s over the age of fifty. But Emily’s no artifact. She's a vibrant and complicated power-house who can do both right and wrong - knowingly. Unlike Marie Barone on Raymond, Emily doesn’t fool herself into thinking her motives are selfless. She exercises control over daughter and granddaughter without apology. She’s archetypal, really; reminiscent of fairy tale queens who usurp their own step-daughters.

Sure, since she lives inside a comedy, Emily will never compete with Lady MacBeth. But she’s far more convincing and commanding than most desperate housewives. And she’s one of the reasons Gilmore Girls has grown stronger these past few seasons. The show is allowing a grandmother to play the “villain” without playing the “fool,” and it’s working.
f g k

Brokeback Mountain: No One Told Me

2006-01-03T18:31:00.000-05:00

I feel duped.

No one told me Brokeback Mountain was about me. It was supposed to be about other people, you know, homosexuals. That's the hype, right, two gay cowboys in love.

So why did I see myself in this story? That young girl I was who couldn't imagine escaping the narrow confines of her strict upbringing. That young woman struggling to find her way in a society which promised to prize independence but, too often, rewarded conformity.

When you're stuck inside the status quo, when it's all you know, you've played a part in this film. And I, for one, have acted, at some point, for some person, rather than risk exposing myself to condemnation and punishment.

Brokeback Mountain, with its vulnerable performances and clear-sighted direction, is about our natural human struggle. Our longing to belong pressed up against our longing to be ourselves. Our desire to live peacefully (and safely) pressed up against our need to live truthfully.

This film reminded me that liberty can be a shared delusion. We enjoy certain freedoms, yes, yes, but that doesn't necessarily make us free.

b g b m

Happy Cone Day! (My Dog is a Dog)

2005-12-24T13:16:00.000-05:00

My dog is a cone-head.

This wasn’t my dream for him. This wasn’t what I planned when he was a pup. My dog, in dog years, is seventy years old, but he thinks he’s a puppy. No—I think he thinks he’s a puppy. Yes—I constantly endow my dog with a wondrous web of thoughts and feelings. He’s Shakespeare without a pen. He’s Beethoven without a piano. He’s a liberal progressive pacifist—no, no, no! Why can’t I seem to remember this one fixed fact: my dog is dog.

My dog is a con-artist.

You don’t believe me? It’s all in my head, you say. But you haven’t seen how he droops before me (after rolling his body joyfully in poo) and lowers his sober shoulders in a poignant posture of remorse, and then, when I turn away, he smirks—oh, yes, I spy him peripherally!—my own dog smirks at my gross gullibility.

My dog is a therapist.

When I cry (yes, I do cry), my dog nuzzles my hand and licks my fingers. No, it’s not the salt he craves—or the praise he receives once he’s cheered me—or the treat he enjoys afterwards. It’s just his natural humanity—strike that!—natural sensitivity. He listens to my grievances and nods sympathetically (or else, nods off). Well, he comforts me. Shall we leave it at that?

My dog makes me a champion (or Don Quixote).

When the wind whistles at my window, my dog hides behind me, pressing his cold nose between my bare ankles. So when this very same wind starts knocking at the door, I find myself rising with ire. How dare you breeze by like this! How dare you terrorize my dog with your blustery manner and careless ways!

I used to love a tempestuous gust. Stormy nights were romantic, once upon a time. But now I shake my fist (figuratively, er, most of the time) at this flighty foe.

My dog is mine.

Of course, he forgets. Occasionally. Often. He runs off with those too-friendly dog-walkers. Despite everything I’ve told him about nice-people! And he ends up lolling on a porch a few houses down. He collapses there with laughing eyes, as if that house is His Home; that neighbor, His Master.

“You’re Mine,” I tell him when I retrieve him.

He humors me with a contrite expression. But he’ll go again, his brightened eyes tell me, and again, and again, because…

My dog is a dog. He belongs to no one.

p d

What do I want for Christmas? Only a Mountain. With you there.

2005-12-19T07:30:00.000-05:00

"If you're going to give me coal for Christmas," my brother tells me, "I prefer the bituminous variety." (Hmmm, wonder which variety Bush favors?) Then bro asks: "What do you want this year?"

I dodge this question. I rarely want anything small, manageable, gift-wrap-able.

As kids, we used to flip feverishly through the hefty Sears-Roebuck catalogue with our greedy, little fingers, circling toy after toy. (Hey, Mom, I'm still waiting for that slick, red sled, by the way!)

'Course we never got any of that crap. But we fell under the spell of desire. I started to long for toys that promised hours of happiness - and more! I might become that pretty, smiling girl in the photo. If only I had that doll.

But we're wiser now. Well, we pretend to be. We make-believe those ads for the latest whatamacallit doohickey isn't making our current thingamabob seem archaic, obsolete.

'Cause we don't want to fall behind the times, do we? And upgrading our systems has nearly become analogous with upgrading our very selves (as if we are the machines in need of the new and improved part).

But this holiday season (without any technological purchase at all), there's a gift that has the power to put us ahead of our times.

Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee's adaptation of a short story by Annie Proulx, has been classified as "O" (Morally Offensive) by the USCCB (US Conference of Catholic Bishops) despite reviewing the film as a serious contemplation of loneliness and connection.

So...what do I want for Christmas?

A vote for the "moral value" of social justice and a large turn-out of voters.

Cast your ballot at the box office.
brokeback mountain Catholic gay Christmas

Shoo, Mr. Chippendale, Shoo!

2005-12-15T12:22:00.000-05:00

At a friend’s bachelorette party, a blond, bronze Chippendale offered me a lap dance.

I was sitting at the bar, several paces behind the general audience and hullabaloo, but my very presence at the club seemed to suggest that I secretly coveted a lap dance.

I smiled politely at the blond and pointed to my friend. “I’m here for her, not myself.”

It could be said that I came to Chippendales with a critical eye. As an artist, I can’t help but evaluate the staged skits and sing-a-longs.

The production numbers were cheesy and predictable, yes, with unimaginative choreography, but I don’t mind cheesy predictability, if it’s born out of a joyous energy.

What surprised me was the overall sloppiness of the performances. Did no one else notice that the pacing was off, the dancers weren’t in sync, the singers had forgotten the lyrics to the songs (or never learned the words in the first place). Did anybody care?

The performers appeared bored or detached. What might have been a silly romp or fun diversion came across as joyless and robotic. Despite a hyped-up energy, they seemed only to be going through the motions.

Just like this blond, bronze boy who returned (a second time) to bestow a lap dance upon me.

It wasn’t clear if he just refused to accept my earlier refusal, or if he didn’t even remember our previous encounter. If he was a robot, would he recognize a human?

I declined again, shaking my head firmly, and now, he appeared aggravated, as if I wasn’t playing my part. As he attempted to persuade me to participate, there was an unpleasant aggression in his manner, and I wondered (and doubted) if men have this kind of trouble from women in topless bars.

“Come on,” he spat, “Come on.”

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me, but other than resorting to violence and kicking him in the groin, I wasn’t clear on how to get through to him. I retired to the restroom for respite, and when I reemerged, I was able to sit in peace for a while.

Until he approached a third time. It was my friend who rescued me. “Tell him you’re broke,” she whispered in my ear.

“Got no money!” I shouted over the music.

Just like magic, this blond, bronze lap-dancer disappeared.

feminism gender issues chippendales

Go Ahead, Doctor, Make My Day

2005-12-13T12:49:00.000-05:00

“If you bleed to death,” said the soft-spoken nurse, “the hospital won’t be held responsible.”

Dad, who had been pacing his hospital room like a caged animal, appeared unaffected by her statement.

Dad came of age under the influence of John Wayne. He and Clint Eastwood are the same age. He has watched men bleed to death beneath the gleam of a simulated Western sun. That is heroic.

There is nothing heroic about wearing this flimsy bathrobe and waiting inside this sterile room for test results that had been promised hours before.

Yesterday, Dad came here in excruciating pain, and after enduring tests, he was asked to stay overnight with the promise of results in the morning. He submitted (reluctantly), but today, the promised results were delayed and ultimately, inconclusive. His blood was too thin, but the doctor wasn't sure why.

“I’m not retired,” Dad informed the nurse impatiently.

Dad hires himself out as a handyman. At the moment, he’s renovating a Villa with a December deadline.

“I have work to do,” he insisted emphatically.

Do you think because I am old and frail that I have nothing better to do? Do you think because my hair is white and sparse and my face spotted and wrinkled that time has ceased to matter to me?

When Dad was requested to stay a second night, he threw on his clothes.

“I’m out of here!” he shouted to anybody who might care.

“You’ll have to sign yourself out,” said the nurse impassively, “You’ll have to sign that you left against our instructions.”

Fine. Just show me where to sign. Dad held out a pen.

On the sidelines, sitting against the wall, Mom played the woman in Dad’s Western. She was the damsel who looks on anxiously as two gunfighters have a showdown. Now, she rose: “Are you sure?”

“This place is a jail." A jail he was determined to escape. No man should be denied liberty without just cause.

As he started to sign, the nurse spoke quietly, “If you leave prematurely, your insurance probably won’t cover the costs of the previous tests.”

This gave Dad pause. This was a hitch. Bleeding to death might seem valiant. But falling into debt was another matter altogether. There was little dignity in debt.

“How much do you think it’ll cost?” he asked, and Mom seized this opportunity. “Thousands,” she breathed, “Thousands, I’m sure.”

Freedom feels so close; right within reach.

Dad wants to die with his boots on, not hospital slippers. But slowly, he sits back onto the bed. Tonight, he’ll be confined again. He’ll dream of escape, praying jail-break comes before death.

aging health healthcare

I’m in Love (Again!): Jane Eyre, the Musical (Original Broadway Cast Recording)

2005-12-11T10:54:00.000-05:00

Yes, you’ve reached the backward boonies of belated reviews. Five years after its rise and fall on Broadway (2000), I offer a brief response to this musical’s cast recording.

No, I haven’t been ruminating over my reaction for five years. (Though, if you know me, that’s not improbable.) As it happens, I only recently discovered the existence of this musical.

My first impression of Jane Eyre, The Musical was not all favorable. James Barbour (as Edward Rochester) seemed to possess far too sweet a voice for such a tormented man. Marla Schaffel (as Jane Eyre) seemed to gasp between her ardent words.

Yes, this love affair of mine had a bumpy start. Partly due to the fact that I was sitting in the passenger seat during a 20-hour car ride. I had collected several Broadway recordings for the journey, and this one, eventually, stole my heart.

Why, you ask?

First, let me confess that, sometimes, on a dark eve, I hear Jane’s voice calling to me. She’s a contradictory but passionate soul whose words strike right through the years between us.

And here, she sings:

Well, women feel as men do
We must engage our minds and souls
Let us, like our brothers
Let our worth define our roles

Breaking custom and convention
Let tradition give way
For we all need our liberty
For sweet liberty we pray

While I might have liked the lyrics to press deeper, darker, I was pleased that this recording captures the humor of Charlotte Bronte's novel (Rochester as the Gypsy, as a playful tease).

Some musicals grow tired with repeated listening, but this one, improved on me. Maria Schaffel paints Jane’s portrait painfully and beautifully, and James Barbour won me over with his lovely and tender voice. In the end, I was stirred by Jane Eyre’s search for self-worth, meaning, and faith.

Yes, it felt right to have Jane speak to me this way.

[The Info: Jane Eyre the Musical (2000), Music and lyrics by Paul Gordon, Book by John Caird, Based on the novel by Charlotte Bronte]

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Pride & Prejudice Publicity: Gender, Glamour, Sex

2005-12-08T10:34:00.000-05:00

Joe Wright (Director of P&P 2005) noted that he heard the 1940 P&P film referred to as the "Olivier version" and 1996 P&P mini-series referred to as the "Firth version." So he wanted his 2005 adaptation to be regarded as the “Knightley” version; the woman's point of view.*

In looking at the publicity stills, it’s easy to see his point. On the 1996 mini-series cover, Darcy looms large while the 2005 photo focuses on Elizabeth. I’ve believed this is partly due to the fact that both Firth and Knightley are more famous in the US than their co-stars.** (Note: both photos put Darcy at the center, looking out at "us").

So should I take these photos more seriously? Does emphasizing the male over the female (and vice versa) tell us about the audience each P&P adaptation hopes to attract?

The 2005 photo is sensual. Knightley appears both glamorous and natural, like a modern model, and MacFadyen looks like a rugged farmer. Wouldn’t he fit perfectly on a cover of Lady Chatterley's Lover?

On the 1996 cover, Firth appears the proud aristocrat. Sex is suggested by the bed Ehle sits on; by her (distractingly) pushed-up breasts.

So (in odd juxtaposition with Wright’s desire to show the woman’s point of view) is the sexy, youthful Knightley appealing more to men, to teens? Is the staid but dashing Firth attracting a more intellectual crowd (particularly women who have read the novel)?

On the 1980 BBC cover above (Elizabeth Garvie/David Rintoul), Darcy is barely seen at all. Elizabeth/Garvie looks meek, modest, unglamorous. No sex appeal here. It seems impossible to believe she belongs to the same world as Knightley.

On the 1940 cover above (Greer Garson/Laurence Olivier), Elizabeth and Darcy share the stage, but she has the upper hand. Darcy is the picture of galantry. Jane Austen is not being marketed here, but Hollywood-style glamour.

~~~~~

* Wright’s Interview with WNYC’s Leonard Lopate.

** One of my favorite examples of marketing the better-known actor instead of the story-lead is the DVD cover of Jane Eyre (1983). When looking at the picture below, I expect the film to be called "Edward Rochester"?

Wolfboy thinks that this cover alone (if the book was unknown) might suggest that Jane Eyre is a story about a transsexual.

The original video cover above, however, featured Jane (Zelah Clarke) & Edward (Timothy Dalton of James Bond fame) equally. The pose is loving and tender.

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Film: Pride & Prejudice 2005 (I’m not proud. I’m just misunderstood.)

2005-12-05T18:31:00.000-05:00

(Photo of MacFadyen as Darcy): Alas, poor Darcy is so "bewitched" by love that he saunters across the countryside without dressing properly! (Or does Director Joe Wright just delight in giving us the "thrill" of glimpsing MacFadyen's chest hair?)

If you don't have preconceived notions about P&P, you may easily enjoy this fiercely romantic film.

However, since I ventured to the theatre with my own pride and prejudices concerning Jane Austen's novel, I find myself greatly perplexed by this 2005 adaptation.

While there is much to praise, I believe the film leaves too much of Jane Austen's comedy behind on the bookshelf.

Where is Her Pride?

Instead of a strong sense of pride or prejudice, Elizabeth Bennett (played by Keira Knightley) exudes a fidgety giddiness with bursts of giggles and bouts of eye-rolling. She might even be mistaken for one of her restless and immature younger sisters. Ultimately, this Elizabeth/Lizzy displays more melodrama than sharp wit; becoming a trembling and gasping virgin at a mere glimpse of Darcy's coattails.

Unfortunately - not only does she appear besotted with Darcy, but also, with herself. Why? Because Director Joe Wright is seemingly smitten with Knightley’s elfish appearance, and too often, the film lens catches her staring at herself in the mirror. She becomes the picture of a pining heroine - better suited for a gothic romance than a romantic comedy. Not once could I forget she is Keira Knightley. The camera, perhaps, would not let me. (Ah, for goodness sake, will somebody please give this gal a bite to eat!)

Where is His Prejudice?

The (ever-sexy) Matthew MacFadyen's depiction of Darcy seems to imply that our hero is not proud at all, but merely misunderstood. His self-conscious manner suggests a shy and brooding man who cannot cope with small-talk or simple conventions - not a proud snob.

In his first proposal, MacFadyen demonstrates more urgent desperation than condescending arrogance. His Darcy, soaking in rain, seems infused with spontaneous passion. So much so that the two lovers break into heated shouting (and out of character). A close-up shot suggests that a kiss would settle all between them; put them out of their hormonal misery.

Without the intense pride and prejudice, the story becomes one of confused misunderstanding, not a journey of self-revelation and subsequent transformation.

Who are these Strangers?

The essential character of Wickham (played by Rupert Friend) is strangely kicked into the sidelines. Although his influence over Elizabeth is instrumental to the plot, Wickham is given obscenely little screen time. We are asked to believe he is charming and persuasive – rather than to witness it ourselves.

I usually depend upon dear Bingley to be reliably agreeable and cheerfully unassuming, but here (played by Simon Woods), he comes across as goofy, even clownish (aided by his fluff of bright, red hair), as if he is a second "Collins," rather than an appealing suitor to sweet Jane.

Collins, himself, played by Tom Hollander, seems downright eerie at the start, and later, appears to portray a tragic and vulnerable social misfit rather than a man who is comically oblivious to the feelings of others. As a result, any mockery of him feels mean-spirited.

Women to Watch!

P&P '05 offers several standout performances. Compared to previous characterizations, I immensely enjoyed Brenda Blethyn’s robust portrayal of Mrs. Bennett. She balances comic self-centeredness with a keen desperation for her daughters’ futures. In her performance, comedy and drama blend comfortably.

In addition, the portrayal of Charlotte Lucas is excellent. Charlotte’s short speech about settling for marriage with Collins is one of the more poignant moments in the movie.

Also noteworthy, Rosamund Pike manages to create a sweet Jane who isn't prim or sugary.

Leaving the Parlor, Leaving the Genre?

P&P '05 is visually striking and stimulating. Images of crowded ballrooms as well as the Bennett household offer a gritty (even dirty) realism that is not often seen in (more staged) adaptations of Jane Austen’s novels.

However, the desire to escape the confinements of the parlor is indulged too far for my liking. Darcy’s first proposal is set in stormy rain (leaning the film, once again, too heavily toward gothic). The director, I suspect, hopes for more drama, but the drama, Dear Director, is in the dialogue, not the atmosphere.

Jane Austens' P&P is not an atmospheric novel. No unexpected midnight guests, no sudden bolts of lightning. Yet, this director seems to strive to transform Jane Austen's "Comedy of Manners" into a "Gothic Romance."

Or is he indulging our fast-paced society, short attention spans, need for instant gratification and youth-driven market? Is any adaptaption of P&P completely blind to the contemporary audience it seeks to engage?

Elizabeth Bennett as Cinderella?

The final sequence between Lizzy and Darcy has such a corny fairy-tale quality to it that this audience member wonders when Darcy became Prince Charming?

I've long-believed that the strong and sensible nature of Jane Austen's Lizzy will allow her to create a content life for herself regardless of marriage, but regrettably, this Lizzy’s happiness seems to be inextricably tied-up in becoming Mrs. Darcy.

Watch it? Definitely.

Watch it for Brenda Blethyn’s moving and funny Mrs. Bennett (and Donald Sutherland’s touching Mr. Bennett). Watch it for the brief but impressive appearance by brilliant Judi Dench. Watch it for sexy MacFadyen’s portrayal of Mr. Rochester – ooops! I mean, Mr. Darcy! Watch it for sheer romantic and escapist fantasy. Watch it because, despite its faults, the film is superior to most general cinema offerings.

...assuming, of course, you can forebear the clichés of lovers set against sunsets/sunrises, rain-drenched, and yes, wandering about in improper attire!

Recommended Reading

Mercy's review of Pride & Prejudice and Holly's prd & prjdc.

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