Re-Treating Myself

It’s been a beautiful full moon the last four nights. There’s something about the moon for me. I’m a moonchild astrologically so I can almost feel when there’s a shift in the air. And there was this weekend, that’s for sure. Things get a little hectic and crazy during a full moon. Many things seem to come to a boiling point during this time. I never know what it is until I look up and see that moon and think, oh, so that’s what’s going on.

I took a retreat this weekend. I started doing this last year. I had threatened to do a retreat for so long and I’m glad I finally made good on my word. I need to give myself permission to check out for a period of time. I call it a “dandelion break” after a comic strip I used to read, “Bloom County.” Hey, world, I'm stopping for a minute to take a break. I never take vacations. For one reason or another over the years, I’ve been working non-stop to put my life in order and reach goals I’d set for myself years ago. Traveling around the country doing stand up comedy always seemed like a vacation of sorts. I’d go from city to city and stay in either the club’s rooms or some motel and think free HBO was all I needed and the nearest mall with a Nine West or an Ann Taylor. Boy, was I wrong. As fun as that was, Indianapolis, Cincinnati and Cleveland are not great vacation spots. No beaches, no margaritas by the sea, no clean sheets. (Okay, that’s a casualty of living in comedy club condos, yech!)

Then again, I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake. People get married, have children, get new cars, new houses and I’m content to take acting classes, live cheaply and have a library card. I say it’s time for me to join the human race. I have always been the type of person who doesn’t need a lot of make me happy. A clean, well-lighted room with a nice bed and a cup of hot tea with milk, that’s pretty much it. Simple joys are what my life is all about. Only now I’d like to expand my limited view of life and what simple joys can be had. If I can’t travel to Italy and spend a month there writing and living, then by golly, I’m taking a retreat.

This was a women’s retreat though and I almost bolted after the first night. It’s that thing where you don’t want to belong to a club that will have you as a member. And of course, the sharing. I’m so glad I turned out to be wrong. There is no reward in being isolated and separate from your fellow man, no matter how irreverent, sarcastic or how much comedy material you may need. And as a writer, the sharing of the stories, the stories themselves, the joy, the pain, the hurt, sadness, laughter, blessings, the healing, of all these women of such varied backgrounds and age, was such a gift to experience. It reinforced my belief in the word to heal, the stories that let us know we’re all the same, we’re not alone and that women bring such beauty to the world, such resilience and strength and compassion. It gave me a chance to reflect on, realize and recognize all the women in my life who have guided and strengthened me on my journey and how much I am grateful for that: my Aunt Alice, my mother, St. Terese of Lisieux, Joy Mills, my sister, my teachers like Maria Gobetti and Anna Gennari, my friends like Patty Barrett, that lovely woman I met this weekend, Maria de los Angelenos, which is her full birth name and means “Maria of the Angels”, and so many other women over the years including that nameless woman who came up to me after a comedy show that didn't go so well in Toledo years ago when I was first starting out, who looked in the eye and very determinedly said, "You are very funny and very talented," made sure I got it and left.

I came away with a renewed determination to continue writing and continue with my creative work and projects if only because I need to honor my stories and share the stories of others who need to be heard.

I didn’t have a margarita, nor was there a beach nearby. No suntan lotion was involved, nor any free HBO. But, boy, if you can’t get to Italy, taking a “dandelion break” for a weekend sure helps. I have to do this more often.

P.S. It did involve some amazing German Chocolate cake and apple pie. Mmmmm….

Summer Movies

Gotta check in with a few flicks I’ve really enjoyed watching over the last few months. I only have basic cable so I supplement with the three-at-a-time Netflix which is really too many but fills the cable gap well. Sometimes I get a flick or two that I don’t feel like watching and the third one is usually the one I want to watch, so it still works out. I have a friend who got one-at-a-time Netflix and takes her a months to watch it. She’s super busy with her cats and her garden I guess. Ask me if I understand that. Unless you’re married and have any number of children, a full time job and then some, I can’t understand not being able to watch a movie once a week at least. But, there you have it. I have, apparently, too much time on my hands. I don’t, really, I just am avoiding writing. I see it as research. And a way to put me to sleep after a night out or a performance when I’m just too pumped up to close my eyes.

So back to the flicks. I’ve seen lots of films but these stand out because they’re the smaller little indie films that get lost in the shuffle.

Wondrous Oblivion
This coming of age tale about an 11 year old boy who desperately wants to learn cricket may seem predictable and sappy but I found it refreshing and not all that predictable. It’s 1960’s England and the more potent subplot of the story is how a boy learns about tolerance and character when a Jamaican family moves next door and the racist neighborhood that makes life difficult for them.

Shut Up And Sing
I knew who the Dixie Chicks were and was mildly interested in buying a CD but thought they were too country for my tastes. After watching this documentary on the difficulties they had after a truthful moment of expression during a concert, I instantly became a fan. It amazes me how even still today in the 21st century, we want to shut women up. We’re just supposed to look pretty and do our thing and not make waves. The whole point of America is freedom of dissent and expression, whether you agree or not. It’s a really good film.

Water
This is an Indian production by a female director and filmmaker. It’s a terrific story about the plight of a group of widows forced into poverty at a temple in the holy city of Varanasi. It focuses on a relationship between one of the widows, who wants to escape the social restrictions imposed on widows, and a man who is from the highest caste and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi. Of course, I love these stories about women who have to face and survive these oppressive traditions. Even though it’s set in 1938, the practice still goes on today. Great film.

Children of Men
This is a stark, bleak film set in the future where there are no babies being born. Women have become sterile except for one woman who is about to give birth and give hope to the world. Storytelling and the cinematic art at its best. Ultimately, it is a film about hope.

The Italian
This is a Russian film about a six year old boy from an orphanage who is accepted for adoption by an Italian couple and in two months will be sent to live with them. Only he worries that his birth mother will come looking for him and he will have missed her. So he embarks on a search to find her before its too late. This film is totally unpredictable and not as bleak as it sounds. This Russian kid who plays the boy is a genius. Rent this flick.

The Secret Life of Words
I have watched every film now by Isabel Croixet, a Spanish film director and writer, and I love every one. Her second film, “My Life Without Me,” is a gem. This one is tragic and moving and wonderful and inspiring and joyous all at the same time. Tim Robbins plays a burn victim on an oil rig and Sarah Polley plays a hearing-impaired factory worker and nurse living in isolation, who volunteers to tend to him. In the process, they both learn how to mend their wounds. Stick with it, it’s a beautiful story that will haunt you after its finished.

Other fun stuff:

Breach
True story about the FBI agent who spied for the Russians for years before he was finally caught. Good thriller.

The Good Shepherd
Damon excels in this DeNiro directed flick about the beginnings of the CIA. It’s long but stay with it, it pays off.

Summer Reading

Being a voracious reader, every so often I like to check in and take note of some of the great books I’ve read in a period of time. Whenever I travel, I read a lot and buy or bring at least three books with me at any time. This year was no different.

I decided to start reading all those classics that believe it or not I had never read. I’m a little behind on this than most people.

I must say I’m biased towards memoirs and female writers. And I’m sorely lacking in young adult fare and children’s literature but we’ll remedy that soon. While on my travels, I picked up two new children’s novels. Can’t wait to read them. Oh and I’m behind on my Potter reading. I’ve yet to read Book 5, the Phoenix thing. But I’m waiting until all the hype dies down.

I was sitting outside reading a hardcover at lunch in a large courtyard the other day when two women walked past and one of them blasted me out of my reading reverie, screaming, “Is that the Harry Potter book?” To tell you how absurd this question was, not only because this is an area of business and office people and it’s just rude to disturb someone that way, but the book I had wasn’t even a fraction thick of what the Potters books are and it had a black cover. It was, in fact, Uta Hagen’s Challenge for the Actor, which is amazing, even better than her first book. And holding it up for this woman, I replied, “No, something much more magical.” And she gave me and the book a quizzical look and walked away with her friend, chatting once again at a high decibel level. Lovely.

Some of the titles may not be perfectly correct. I’m working off memory here.

Charms for the Easy Life, Kay Gibbons
I discovered Kay after reading Divining Women about a year ago and loved it. This is no different. Great story.

Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert
I usually eschew whatever is on the Bestseller Lists but hey, anyone that can travel to Italy for four months and write about it can’t be all that bad. Really great book of self-discovery and her journey.

My Antonia, Willa Cather
Now I know what all the fuss is about. She’s an amazing writer and this is a great book. But I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. What took me so long!

Something Wicked this Way Comes, Ray Bradbury
I really do enjoy good science fiction and other-worldly stories. I enjoyed reading Arthur C. Clarke many years ago, so it’s a surprise I’ve never really read any Bradbury. This was an eerie, suspenseful horror story. I’ve read only his book on writing, “Zen and the Art of Writing.” Twice.

Ethan Frome, Edith Wharton
Wow. This is a downer. Great writing. I’m glad I read it. It’s still with me. Just a tragic story. Don’t read the next one and this one together.

The Awakening, Kate Chopin
I read this years ago and didn’t get it, probably too young but now, it seems so tame and yet, it is so tragic. I can understand why it caused such a hoopla when it was published although sad that the writer was so vilified for its subject matter. I do find the ending problematic.

A Woman in Berlin, Anonymous
This book shouted out to me in a bookstore. Never even heard of it. I’m fascinated by World War II history and this book chronicles the life of a journalist right after the liberation of Berlin for six months afterward. It’s horrific not only because this woman lived through it but it also seems tame compared to what is going on in the war-torn world now. Because I’m so grateful to be seemingly safe here where I am, I am drawn to how people survive both physically and emotionally in such difficult situations. I highly recommend this book.

Runaway, Alice Munro
She’s just the greatest writer. I love short stories and have read many of her books but this compilation of stories is magnificent. Every one.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safron Foer
I saw “Everything Is Illuminated” recently on film and found it so moving and odd and original that I sought out his newest book. It is moving and odd and original. And since Dad passed, I am reading many things on how people deal with loss and grief.

Complete Plays: Five Plays by Sarah Kane
I had no idea what I was getting into when I discovered this at the library while going through the play files. She was a troubled playwright whose writing is so disturbing that I can’t imagine it performed on stage. Yet, oddly enough after I read her final play, 4.48 Psychoses, I was at a theater to see another play and there in the lobby was a sign for the play being performing that weekend. Weird coincidence? A gal in my acting class, who had seen it in London in French, no less, told me that what happened was genius. I said, what? She said, you had an intention and it manifested. Great. Now if I can get that to work in other parts of my life. Oddly moving and disturbing and like Glenn Close said about theater, “It should move molecules.” Well, it did. Does. Tragic.

And continuing my fascination with physics, quantum and other:
Further Adventures of A Curious Character, Richard Feynman
In one story in this book, the great physicist details his now famous incident investigating the failure of the space shuttle Challenger’s O-rings. You don’t to have understand science to read these exploits. And he’s very humble with a great sense of humor.

And there’s still eight more weeks of summer left!

Sports Expert

Whenever I go back to Detroit to visit family, I have to turn into “Sports Expert.” That is, I need to be able to converse intelligently (is that an oxymoron here) in all manner of sports news and general knowledge. Honestly, I’m not a big sports fan. I enjoy watching a game here and there and of course, the pseudo fan at whatever is the Academy Awards of sports. Baseball, hockey, football, soccer, basketball, all the same to me: you hit the ball with a stick. What else is there to know? Whatever. So my sports knowledge goes something like this:

“Hey, I vote for the team with purple and gold. Oh is Detroit playing? Then I vote for them. Except if they’re losing.”

“Is that guy Babe Ruth playing?”

“Which team is George Clooney on? That’s the team I want.”

Being a sports fan is a full time job. I know, because growing up and into my early 20’s, I was a big baseball fan. I have a little bias toward baseball because of Dad being semi-pro early in his life. But I like baseball. It’s a great game. It’s exciting at times and also gives you time to chat and not miss anything or look at the boards and see who’s cutest on the team. And they all have their teeth. It’s great. Back then, I could tell ya the stats of every player on the Detroit Tigers team, I knew their names, what position they played and if they were married (very important to a young chick). I also had a lot of time on my hands. I didn’t work three jobs, or spend time fending off pre-menopausal side effects like depression, bloating, mood swings, and psychoanalysis. Ah, the innocent days of youth. Or as they say in Brooklyn, “yewt.”

So I’ve fallen by the wayside on any conversant sports and like any language you learn, you need to practice it. It’s like Russian, French, Italian or Swahili. You lose it if you don’t use it. And I had lost it.

It didn’t matter so much when my nephews were younger. I mean how conversant does a person need to be to talk “T-ball?” Not much. “Hey, you look cute in your uniform.” “Okay, run!” “Tree!”

Now the nephews are large and tall and speak with deep voices and tower over me. How did that happen? A chat with them at any given time in the year will tell you what season it is. They’re into football, hockey, baseball, golf, bowling and whiffle ball. But not soccer, apparently that’s not a sport or so I’ve heard out there in the Midwest. The majority of any time spent is taking them to sports camps, practices, scrimmages and games.

So in the beginning, I’m trying hard to fit in. “Hey, yeah, they should’ve traded that Willie Mays guy.”
“He died.”
“Oh, well, all the more reason to get rid of him.”
Not good.

Even my 85 year old mother knows stats. “Inge hit a homerun! Now he’s got a .275 average and he’s on a roll! Can you believe it?”
No, quite frankly, I can’t believe it. And Inge is who now? And why are you talking like this? What’s happening with AARP? C’mon, woman, let’s talk insurance. Are you okay?

No one has a first name in sports. You only use last names. That’s cool. Inge, Granderson, Leland. And if you’re using them as punchlines, as in, “You looked like Leland with that pitch,” well, you are the coolest.

I’m confused, “Leland? Who’s Leland? A relative? Which side of the family is he on? Is he a singer?”

Then there’s serious discussions about team trades, player stats and series outlook. Like its détente. “They shouldn’t’ve traded Ortega. He had only 22 RBI last year and .200 average.”
“You know they’re going to keep him because Jackson doesn’t know what he’s doing.” And me: “Yeah, I woulda kept my aces instead of traded on two pair.” Does anyone play poker here?

It’s hard not to get caught up in the all fun though and I’m happy to say I’m back in the sports swing of things. Well, at least in baseball. By the end of the week, I was conversing with the rest like an old pro. And using last names. I said things like, “That Leland, he's got a good ERA. Almost a no hitter.” “Inge doesn’t have a great batting average but he has a stellar RBI.”

I’m sorry, what? Did I say that? Did that come outta me? Yes, it did and hey, I know Willie Mays is long gone but I can’t wait until they play the Yankees because I love that guy, Mantle. He’s great.

Soggy Travel

I cry on airplanes. No, it’s not because I’m scared out of my wits of it falling out of the sky. No, it’s not because I’m squeezed in a window seat with two other big slobs next to me who keep falling all over me as they snooze. No, it’s not because I just ordered a snack box for $50 and got a bunch of Oreos. And no, it’s not because I’m usually going to visit family. It’s because airplanes epitomize leaving. Since I don’t take real vacations hardly at all, there is a feeling of life being interrupted for the moment to leave what’s behind and go forward to another place. Another place that’s living and breathing in the moment the way I am right now with all its routines and details and things to do.

As much as I’d like to think I’m adventurous, I’m very much a homebody. I like to know I have an oasis of comfort and safety to come home to with my favorite things surrounding me. So it's hard to leave and feel discombobulated and without security blankets. It's also an ego trip wondering if people will miss you; if your absence will leave a momentary void in their lives or they won’t even notice you’re gone or worse, they breathe a sigh of relief after you go. It’s not so much that I think I’m so important that people can’t live without me. It’s more of a longing to be loved and missed, to know you’re cared about. When I was in a relationship, it would be more like, “Will he stop loving me if I’m not around?” Somehow the old phrase about absence and the heart growing fonder didn’t play well with me. Of course, if someone can’t be without you for a week or two without taking up with someone else, that pretty much is a favor they’re doing you. That never happened though. Unfortunately, I found I couldn’t get rid of them even if I wanted to and keeping distance has nothing to do with miles.

When I’m returning home from the visit or trip, I’m crying because I’m leaving the peace and non-responsibility of the visit to enter the rat race again. It just makes me re-evaluate my whole life and the choices I’ve made and whether I want to continue to go down the same path or even worse if I shouldn’t have made other choices in my life. But like my therapist said once, life isn’t a do-over and so to even ponder what might have been is a fruitless waste of time.

It makes me cry nonetheless. So as I settle in my window seat, chucking my bags underneath the seat in front of me, I pull out my journal and write only to find the ink is getting smudged and running down the page and large teardrops are spilling onto the margins making it difficult to continue writing. So I stop and stare out the window and finally the plane takes off and I stop weeping momentarily to order that snack box because what the hell, a few Oreos, smoked beef and gouda cheese with crackers will certainly make me feel better and these twenty books I’ve bought with me to keep me occupied until I fall sleep. But I keep my hanky out just in case.