Colonial times

Sorry darlings, but there were no blogs in the 18th century. See you Tuesday!

...you probably think this song is about you

I have been grappling with decision the last few days. A completely unimportant decision in the grand scheme of things, but a decision all the same, and one that has me going back and forth internally. The you-are-a-child-of-the-universe,-made-up-of-no-less-than-stardust(!) side of me is chiding me for even letting this be an issue, while the you-would-look-a-whole-hell-of-a-lot-better-if-you-went-and-fixed-this side of me is urging me to pick up the phone and take care of it. Yesterday.

I'm vain. I wish I weren't. But I am. I guess I've always been vain because I can still hear my mother ribbing me about my 'invisible audience' when I was a teenager. Or maybe even before, I'm not really sure.

She would often ask me who I was primping for, "my invisible audience?" Obviously trying to clue me into the fact that no one is paying attention. No one is looking at me, or really cares what earrings or shirt I choose, so why do I put so much damn effort into it?

I'm not sure. But I've always cared. And if no one else, my internal critic is looking. She has tamed down substantially as I've aged, and has a much better sense of humor now too. But she's not disappeared all together. She still urges me to buy the more expensive jeans if they make my ass look better and to put on mascara before leaving the house. She does not appreciate cellulite and knows the importance of regular blond highlights.

Which leads me to my dilemma; my visit to the hair stylist on Friday night has left me with mousey brown hair, with just a shimmer of blond. I feel dull and different and muted - spartan, stark, and stripped down.

Of course, it was me who asked her to correct my color, as my blond highlights seemed to be getting a little too bright, too much of a contrast with the rest of my hair. Too obviously tampered with, because, hey, if there's one thing I don't want my invisible audience to know, it's that I actually have to put effort into how I look. I want to look good, but I want it to look God-given.

But now? Well now I just want them back. God-given or no.

Film Fest, Final Installation

Where were we?

Ah yes, we were in the great and glorious Garde Theater, for the final weekend of the fabulous New London Winter Film Festival,
2013 style . . .

Searching for Sugar Man
People have been talking about this movie the last few months, not only because it won the Oscar for Best Documentary, but because of the clip on 60 Minutes in October, which introduced Rodriguez to the world -- well, introduced Rodriguez to those who watch 60 Minutes, who then introduced Rodriguez to the rest of us. The peeps were very excited to see this movie.

And oh, what a lovely movie it was.

Rodriguez is impossible not to love. He's like The Superhero of Kindness. A Detroit musician living in poverty who didn't know that in South Africa he was more popular than the Beatles? Who, 40 years later, finally made some money then promptly gave it away? Rodriguez gives new meaning to the word Humble.

Humble, kind, cool, hip, lyrics about race and struggle in Detroit in the 60s that weirdly and perfectly echoed South Africans' struggle against Apartheid years later. South Africans, who say Rodriguez' music was the soundtrack of their youth, felt the lyrics were written specifically for them. And really, they sort of were.

I loved it. I loved the detective story of finding Rodriguez, I loved his daughters, I loved Stephen 'Sugar' Segerman, but mostly I loved Rodriguez. I love Rodriguez. He's my personal Superhero of Kindness.

The Impossible
We saw this preview so many times during the Film Fest that Mistah felt like he'd seen the movie already, and opted out. Too bad, too, because he missed a pretty good one.

The problem with seeing the preview that many times is not only do you think you know what happens in the movie (and to be fair to Mistah, you sort of do), but you also feel like you already have a firm grip on the characters.

I found Naomi Watts' character Maria surprisingly tough and sarcastic and strong -- she was great, and deserved her Oscar nomination. And boy oh boy did she look like death-warmed-over. Katie and I agreed that there's nothing more annoying than a critically ill character sporting lip gloss.

Ewan McGregor was good (apologies to his incredible performance in Trainspotting, but he will always live in my heart as Christian from Moulin Rouge). The three boys were quite spectacular (hmmmm, three brothers waxed adorable in Moonrise Kingdom, too. A new trend?) And except for the repeated tight close-ups of Naomi Watts' wretched face, and the over-reaching, over-loud violins during a poignant reunion moment -- we get it, we feel it, we do not need violin strings banging on our heads during it, Mr. Music Score Man -- it was a good movie.

And way better than the preview.

Les Misérables
Okay, here's what happened. I had every intention of going to the movie. I mean, I'd seen the preview 74 times -- before every other movie that played at the Film Festival. Okay, ten times. So although I've never read Victor Hugo's novel, I've never seen the show on stage, and I've never heard the soundtrack, I was *ready* to jump into the lives of Jean Valjean and Fantine and Cosette and whichever character that kid Eddie plays (I just love that there's a young actor named Eddie; I wish there were more Eddies in the world). I know that preview by heart and I was so excited to finally join the party and enter into the world that is Les Miz.

And then Sunday dawned a gorgeous day.

We've had a cold snowy winter around these parts, as you may or may not have heard, and both Saturday and Sunday afternoons were deck days . . . and I just couldn't do it. I could not leave my deck and go inside a dark -- albeit glorious and grand -- theater. I texted Jennie to that effect and she replied, "Even if there's vino waiting for you there?"* I replied, "Um, there's vino here too."

*(Yes, the Garde sells beer and wine. Of course it does. Do you think the good people of New London would go to the movies if beer and wine weren't available?)

So, instead of going into a dark -- albeit grand and glorious -- theater, Mistah and basked on our deck. In the sunshine.
With vino . . .

. . . of the sparking kind.

And that's it. The fabulous New London Winter Film Festival is over, except for one last movie, in a few weeks, on April 4:

We'll be there.

Unless it's a nice day on the deck.

Let's be careful out there

Hill Street Blues

Not to be confused with NYPD Blue.

Hill Street Blues is an American serial police drama that was first aired on NBC in 1981 and ran for 146 episodes on primetime into 1987. Chronicling the lives of the staff of a single police precinct in an unnamed American city, the show received critical acclaim and its production innovations influenced many subsequent dramatic television series produced in North America.

When I was in High School, Dad and I got into watching Hill Street Blues. I can’t remember if other sisters came and went as they traversed the years before and after college, all I know for sure is that it was me and dad and Frank Furillo, and Coffey and Buntz and Lucy Bates with her tightly wound perm.  We had a standing group date on Thursdays at 10.

It was our thing, a thing that became legendary in its inauspicious rituality. Thursday nights, Dad and Jacquie watched Hill Street. We were even known to air pop some corn from time to time, livin’ the dream.

One night at the appointed time, Dad called up the stairs that it was time for Hill Street. I was hanging out in my room, reveling in the glory of the 12” black and white tv that I’d been so thrilled to receive for my last birthday. Morose, withdrawn, misunderstood, underwhelmed. I was a teenager. I told Dad that I’d just be watching up here tonight.

A few minutes later, mom popped in. She was cool, she was calm, she was wise. She just said something to the affect that if her Dad had wanted to watch a show with her, she would have been psyched. Then she left. And about 4 seconds later, I went down to air pop some corn and watch Hill Street with Dad.  

I think I must have been old enough to be emerging from the searing sense of self importance that is currently gripping my kids. But there’s something about that story, that moment when mom came and said what she said after dad had called for me up the stairs. I don’t know if it’s about my telling or if the powerful emotions of that memory come through. I just know that it’s a story I retell from time to time. And I think that’s why I never end up watching the Amazing Race alone.       

Happy IWD

Today is International Women's Day, which, believe it or not, has been observed since the early 1900s (although it was called Working Women's Day back then).

I like the first moniker, but I guess you can easily drop the "working" because, really, what woman isn't? What about stay-at-home moms you might ask. Cough. They have it pretty damn hard, if you ask me. Escaping to my office each workday is a blessing. Staying home with young children full time is honestly one of the most challenging things a person can do. At least this person.

What about your local crack addict? Well, you've kind-of got me there, but she is probably working the streets, making money the old fashion way. Not so sure about her shifty boyfriend though.

One of the local radio stations highlighted International Women's Day as their theme this morning. I only caught the tail end of it on my drive into work, and really didn't love the 2 songs they played, but what I did groove on was the DJs reminder of what you should remember to thank a woman for. Was it her beauty and grace? Her deep and fierce maternal instinct? The fact that they she is biologically stronger at birth than her brother?

No, no it wasn't. He reminded/educated his listeners that you should thank a woman when you step into an elevator and it doesn't plummet to the ground. You should thank her when you use the latest cell phone technology, and for the Kevlar that keeps our police and  troops, both men and women, safer. You should thank her for some of the most recent advances in stem cell technology, in drug development, and the list goes on and on.

Women are creating some of the most important advances of our time.

There are women presidents and/or prime minsters in all continents except Antarctica and North America (ahem). (Although Canada has had some women Governor-Generals.)

So why has the ERA has not yet passed, and why are girls in Afghanistan and myriad other countries denied the education of their brothers? Why the fear of letting a woman control her own body? Of her earning the same money as her husband? It's baffling. (But, hey at least we've got the Violence Against Women Act reauthorized.)

I'm a woman. I have 3 daughters. This shit matters to me.

I agree with Hillary:

And Bill:

I hope you do too.

So, happy International Women's Day to you from me, with deep-felt gratitude to all the incredible women (and men) who have sacrificed to move us forward, inch by inch, day by day, milestone by milestone.

Headless Dance Party

When My Girl Nancy, her man Jonny, my man Mistah Schleckah and I get together, oh we have ourselves a Time.

We always do.

At Nancy's urging, Mistah gets out the tripod for the obligatory photo shoot, but Mistah has been know, especially over recent years, to become bored with representational photography. For example, why take photos of entire bodies dancing to Stuff Like That, track 12 of Q's Jook Joint when you can photograph just their headless bodies?

At first, I found the photos weird and sort of annoying and, well, headless.

But then I scanned through them fast, and I love the effect -- it's like a movie, except taken with stills.

Go ahead; try it.

Jonny, get up.

Wait! Stop! This is the best photo of all:

That is not Jonny's arm lifting up the glass. Well, unless he grew a third arm.....

Okay, continue.....

 And like most photo shoots, the last photo is always the best . . .

Our next album cover.

staring off into space

Sometimes at work, when I'm thinking, I stare off into space. If I look to my left, I get to look out the window at pretty trees and sunshine and big blue sky.

I told you about it once

 Other times I look straight ahead, at this:
 

  

Just look at this vision of madness. The gorgeous desktop photo crowded with unused icons. The unruly stack of godknowswhat in the letter organizer behind the monitor. The file pile on the out-of-order printer, the mini piles of nonsense shoved under the little printer shelf. And holy moly, what you CAN'T see? Be afraid.

Sigh. I need to look back to the left.

But wait, there is also some really good stuff in that messy full frontal shot. 

I spy a tiny buddha in the foreground, and two tissue paper modge podge pencil cups, and my mom and my girl in the middle of that gorgeous beach scene.

How about that bulletin board in the background?  It's a freaking treasure trove.

Look:

famous inspirational blog fodder!

and there is also the matter of this

and this

slay me.

Did you notice the trio of awesome taped to the side of my dysfunctional printer? Have a closer look:

The frontal view doesn't have much in the way of scenery or nature, but it's got my heart for sure.

Everywhere I look, I get to fill my eyes up with good things. If my gaze wanders right:

No, your the best (grammar cop! grammar cop!)

Now let's get back to work!

My mat, my rock

I love my mat.

Yes. I love my mat. Not I love my Matt.

Not Damon, nor Dillon, nor McConaughey, although, truth be told, I could perhaps learn to love any one of those Matts too. (Remember Matt Dillon in The Outsiders? Man, I thought he was really something in 1983.)

 But my mat wears no hat.

No hat, and no cat. (No dog either.)

It does sport a colorful little towel sometimes, which is really a shame because my mat is so pretty.

Mine is actually old and wearing thin in places, and I  have plans to replace it when I get my next freelance check, but no matter because that's not the point. Regardless of color, texture, pattern or lack thereof, I'll love my next mat just as much as my current mat.

You see, my mat is my rock, my life preserver, my tiny island of calm in the stormy big world. When I unroll it in the studio, any studio, it becomes my neutral ground, my rubber towel of joy, my rectangle of sanity.

I sweat on my mat, I jump and fly and fall on my mat; I lie, soaked to the bone, tired and spent. I lay quietly, I witness my thoughts. I cry for joy on my mat, I cry with regret, I cry for release. I let go of so much shit on that mat - so many useless thoughts and hang ups, all the coulda-shouldas and why didn't-yas, the self recriminations and raging resentments. I laugh on my mat. I smile on my mat. I'm so fucking grateful on my mat.

My mat has heard every single intention that I have offered up at the urging of so many different instructors, or on my own, for a decade. My mat has seen me exist on almost nothing, weighing in at just 114 lbs after my first marriage fell apart. It has seen me struggle to get my groove back, heavy with milk and baby fat, after childbirth. It has seen me through bad days, really bad days, and all the amazing ones in between.  It has seen my body grow stronger and my mind grow lighter. It has seen my spirit soar.

It has been my refuge and my place of reflection, my therapy office and dance floor. I have learned to breath on that mat. I have grown up on that mat.

Yep, my mat, my rock.

Film Fest, Part II......

Where were we? Ah yes, the New London Winter Film Festival.

Let's jump right in, shall we?

Argo
In the interest of full disclosure, I was summoned to dinner with the Brits that Friday night, and therefore was unable to make the Film Fest. So I downloaded the movie from iTunes for $4, and watched it on my laptop. It wasn't quite the same as watching it in grand style on the big screen at the Garde Theater, but at least I didn't miss anything. Except for seeing the movie with 1100 of my best friends. 1100!

What a great movie. I had heard it was good, I had heard it was tense, but I didn't expect it to be quite so funny. Great story, great acting, great pace. So well-balanced and compelling. I kept saying, out loud, to myself, "This is a good movie."

Congrats to all the Argo-nauts, for winning Best Picture.

And while we're at it, "Argo f*ck yourself."

Life of Pi
"Richard Parker!"
That's what I kept yelling at the tv on Oscar night any time anybody from Life of Pi was nominated, was shown on camera, or was mentioned. I think I had the accent down by about the 34th time. And nobody threw anything at me, not once.

I loved this movie. I loved its dreaminess, I loved its effects, I loved its allegorical plot, and I especially loved Pi Patel, as a kid and as a man.

I read -- and loved -- the book when it came out, and thought it would be unfilmable.  But Ang Lee is the man. This is a guy who work with actorly actors like Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet and Hugh Grant in Sense and Sensibility, and Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal and Michelle Williams in Brokeback Mountain (swoon). And now here he is filming a special effects Bengal Tiger. In 3-D. I'm in thrall. And so happy for his Best Director win.

Anna Karenina
No idea; I didn't go, but I believe things did not end well for ol' Ms. Karenina.

Rust and Bone
This movie kicked my ass. I still don't know if I loved it or hated it.

To paraphrase both Katie and Chris, movies are supposed to have an effect on you. And this one did.

I have always carried the philosophy that movies are a personal, specific moment in time. If you're comfortable and calm and happy, you can bring the movies in, and love them. If you're distracted and agitated and uncomfortable, you won't find them as forgiving. I was hot and my jeans were uncomfortable and I drank too much before the movie started and it was not a great movie-going experience for me.

But Marion Cotillard was amazing. I had only ever seen her in La Vie En Rose in 2007, six years ago, when she was, stunningly, 32, but played a much, much older Edith Piaf. She was brilliant in this movie, too, but the movie was so difficult for me; the characters were so difficult for me.

But hey, movies are supposed to have an effect on you.

And as for the special effects? Not to give anything away but the knocked-off-legs? I haven't read about how director Jacques Audiard pulled that off and I'm not going to; I prefer to believe it was the magic of movies.

The Artist
Oh, what a lovely movie. I love Bérénice Bejo; she's my new girl crush. I love those long arms, swinging around while she was tap-dancing. I really wish I knew how to tap dance so we could do a tap-dancing duet together.

We were laughing afterward, that The Artist won Best Picture for 2011 and Argo won for 2012 -- Hollywood certainly loves itself. And good for them -- who doesn't wish for such an exalted sense of self confidence?

2011 Best Actor Oscar Winner Jean Dujardin was charming and nailed the self-aware mugging of the silent film star. John Goodman -- who is all over the place in this Film Festival -- was pitch-perfect. But for me, the movie belonged to Peppy Miller.

Oh yes, and to Uggie the Doggie.

Moonrise Kingdom
We had a special celebrity guest star visitor for this movie yesterday
. . . Mom! We brought her right up into the balcony and right into the fold and she loved it.

And oh how I loved it too.

I loved Bill Murray and Frances McDormand -- I love everything Frances McDormand does, always. I loved Ed Norton as Scout Master Ward and Tilda Swinton as Social Services, and the three little boys as the pseudo Greek Chorus. but this movie belonged to Suzy and Sam. Those two kids were magical and adorable and delightful. And had good wilderness skills.

What a talent Wes Anderson is. I need to have myself a Wes Anderson Film Fest.

This Film Festival rocks. And New London is loving it.

See you at Sugar Man.

If you want to sing out, sing out!

I sang in the choir. Of course I did! What else was I going to do, NOT sing in the choir?

It started at STAS, as did most good things. I can’t remember if it was always chorus or used to be just your basic singing angels under garland halo kind of proposition. I have several vivid childhood memories of moments on the stage in that auditorium. Scared of Sr. Rose, fake-laughing at Mrs. Pacifico when she flapped her bent elbows with her back to audience, directing the lyrics “angel’s wings,” crouching over my stuffed doggie to croak about what lay beyond the rainbow… I can still smell that place.

Then in High School, there was a bona fide choir with Mr. Cisco (right, Jane?) ,  whom I recall as a sweatily passionate musician who awakened a beast inside me with the introduction of The Creation. I mean sure, we’d always sung and sung loudly at home and music was a central character in the story of our family. But there’s a moment after months of learning The Creation when you’re up there in your robe and the seats are full and your favorite part is coming and everyone is on key and booooom.  It’s on.

I had forgotten what a lovely thing it is to sing in a choir.

Until tonight    

I don't even know what the heck they were singing. I was too busy trying not to ugly cry.

They were good! It was no Creation, but I was transported.

not impressed. remind you of anyface?

Who wants to join my choir?