Leo and Sophia liked to air their differences in front of the help. Ah, the privilege of wealth and fame. When couples of modest or no means fight they can only shout louder and longer to try to upstage one another. This grows tiring and results in neither comfort nor empathy. Pain hurled mightily into dead hearts creating a silent thud. No satisfaction. No winners.
But for those in positions of high art or authority the world watches and eagerly takes sides. We love a celebrity brawl. The players take their passionatle pleas to their rival-loves through the ravenous press. Fodder for the rags numbs private pain and the next round begins. The people's favor trumps reason. Fame intensifies and everybody wins. Common decency the only casualty.
Whoa. Where did that come from? Saw The Last Station, a film documenting/dramatizing the late days of Tolstoy and the battle over the rights to his copyrights, and came away pondering the added dimension, the extra tools available to couples who enjoy a seat of power or fascination. I worked for a couple that enjoyed this special privilege. When it suited them they communicated their wants, their desires, their demands to those of us in their employ by putting on an intense argument. I wanted to slink away to the shadows but knew I was the intended audience and walking out in the middle of the show would be rude. So I stayed, watching for cues, discerning my evolving job description.
These scenes from passionate marriages seeking fame and fortune strengthen my resolve to live a peaceful, unnotable life and enhance my gratitude for a partner with like desires. I embrace a life of humility and invisibility coupled with drama-free co-existence. No public displays of disaffection. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Fifi and Me
Several times a year I pack up my travelpro carry-on and take the bus across town to 62nd and 3rd Avenue where I spend a week or two shacking up with Fifi. Fifi looks just like Trouble, Leona Helmsley's multi-million dollar heir, and I imagine she acts like Trouble, too. Some similarities are specific to breeding and others I'll chalk up to nurture. These 5lb milky white yappers are the cream of the elite upper eastside doggie daycares and are subject to all the spoiling that money can buy. And I absolutely adore her!
Fifi is hyper excitable when visitors or delivermen arrive so most people are shocked to be told she's as quiet as a lamb when it's just the two of us. All day she follows me from room to room and curls up at my side sleepily awaiting her next walk or meal. No demands, no barking. She just wants to be close to a breathing person. In this space she's completely content and I follow her lead. But when the doorbell rings Fifi jumps to attention and takes over the show. Her piercing yaps are impossible to ignore ... much worse than a baby's wail ... and the first order of business is to get her a treat to shut her up.
And therein lies the problem. Treats for barking. Like candy for tantrums. When you're the fill-in parental figure for a child you might have the power of reason but with a dog, forget it. You're a hostage to the treating for barking cycle. Maybe it's her way of pleading, "I want you all to myself." And it's working! I so appreciate the silence she gives me when we're home alone that I'm reluctant to order in food or a friend.
Walking Fifi offers none of the cardio benefits inherent in walking. She's a sniffer and she's stubborn. When she wants three more seconds to suss out all the scents in the trash can and I try to coax her onward she digs in her toes and forces me to either stretch my patience or to drag her on to the next lightpost where the sniffing continues. I don't think the fifteen-minute-block meets the standard for any exercise regime. Our twice-daily walks also take me into imposter mode. I don't belong in this socio-economic dog-o-sphere and I'm certain I'm going to be found out. Nonetheless, I put on my best just-rolled-out-of-bed face and stroll past the doorman and onto the townhouse lined street prepared to pick up Fifi's dainty poop. Now that's love!
Fifi is hyper excitable when visitors or delivermen arrive so most people are shocked to be told she's as quiet as a lamb when it's just the two of us. All day she follows me from room to room and curls up at my side sleepily awaiting her next walk or meal. No demands, no barking. She just wants to be close to a breathing person. In this space she's completely content and I follow her lead. But when the doorbell rings Fifi jumps to attention and takes over the show. Her piercing yaps are impossible to ignore ... much worse than a baby's wail ... and the first order of business is to get her a treat to shut her up.
And therein lies the problem. Treats for barking. Like candy for tantrums. When you're the fill-in parental figure for a child you might have the power of reason but with a dog, forget it. You're a hostage to the treating for barking cycle. Maybe it's her way of pleading, "I want you all to myself." And it's working! I so appreciate the silence she gives me when we're home alone that I'm reluctant to order in food or a friend.
Walking Fifi offers none of the cardio benefits inherent in walking. She's a sniffer and she's stubborn. When she wants three more seconds to suss out all the scents in the trash can and I try to coax her onward she digs in her toes and forces me to either stretch my patience or to drag her on to the next lightpost where the sniffing continues. I don't think the fifteen-minute-block meets the standard for any exercise regime. Our twice-daily walks also take me into imposter mode. I don't belong in this socio-economic dog-o-sphere and I'm certain I'm going to be found out. Nonetheless, I put on my best just-rolled-out-of-bed face and stroll past the doorman and onto the townhouse lined street prepared to pick up Fifi's dainty poop. Now that's love!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Rats!
Fearless. Sane. Relaxed. Unflappable. Wise. These are a few of the adjectives friends tack in front of my name. And fine, I'll take the credit. I've earned it. But every now and then my inner-psychosis breaks through my outer shell of niceness to vie for a little glory. Typically, only those who love me the most have the pleasure of experiencing her fury.
Monday night around midnight after returning from Stiffelio, I logged on to facebook and saw an ambiguous posting by my daughter suggesting an impending procurement of pet rats. This is not a new desire of hers so I took it as fact and freaked out. I don't like rodents of any kind. Their nervous twitching sets off an unsettling anxiety in me and their random scampering offends my control issues. What Shelaine finds cute, I find repulsive.
I embrace my phobia. As a grandmother, I'm content accepting every fear I've yet to conquer. I've stretched and grown in every decade and after the fifth I'm holding steady. Like me or leave me!
Okay, that attitude comes with a price. The leave me premium. Shelaine's facebook post sent me into action. I had to attempt to avert this travesty. For me, a rat in the house was a dealbreaker. I wasn't sleeping under the same roof. I fired off an email threatening to call off all visits if the deed was done. And then I tumbled into despondent despair. What if she did it anyway? Was I really willing to give up seeing Elliott? How could I accomplish seeing him if I'd deemed the house off-limits. My mind raced and my spirits plummeted.
At 5:15pm on Tuesday Shelaine called: "You are so intense. I was just toying with the idea. I didn't know how strongly you felt. I'm not getting rats." Whew. Status Quo restored. Momentary lapse of sanity retreating. Equilibrium on the rise.
After recovering from the accusation of being intense, I dutifully packed up my fear and tucked it behind my outer layers of calm, cool control where it will hover on the fringes until the next unexpected outburst. I'd work on exorcising it but it's a decade too late. Rats!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Invictus
One of the exciting things about travel is sitting in a movie-house and recognizing places I've visited. As a New Yorker it's fairly commonplace but it doesn't dampen the thrill of recognition. Oh, that's the boathouse, I love that restaurant. Or, they're on the Staten Island ferry, that's a fun trip. It gives a palatable sense of reality to the ultimate fantasy-land of film.
Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela, was a great story of triumph and reconciliation. And for me, it had the added buzz of remembering my visit to Mandela's cell on Robben Island, and the view from his long-walk to freedom when finally released from Victor Verster Prison. Seeing his office at Parliament in Pretoria was not just a fairy-tale building, I frolicked on the steps in the garden. I know it's a real place because my feet touched its grass.
The inspiration from Invictus was for me, two-fold. Yes, there was the human example, the impulse to rise above persecution, to subdue personal comforts and wants in order to better a little corner of the world. But there was also the impetus to embark on new journeys. To become the "master of my fate" ... and "captain of my soul." To build a life that allows me to look back and say, "I have followed my dreams. I have been there." To every place that there may be.
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
Friday, January 8, 2010
Hibernation
I've always thought the bears had the right response to cold weather. Hunker down, go underground and sleep. That's what I want to do when the thermostat refuses to push 30. Most of the years duty called and against my best judgment I bundled up and defiantly forged ahead.
But not the winter of 2010! I've retreated to my 7th floor den to wait it out. Forcing myself to layer up only when responsibility dictates, like Sunday School teaching and an occasional report-for-duty at the theater. I'm living my dream.
Okay, so I'm not huddled in a snow-covered yurt miles from a dirt-track, but I do have isolation. I can see people below and imagine they're wandering deer or scurrying rabbits. And I can turn on the shower and pretend I've hauled and heated the water. Let's call it urban-hibernation. All the benefits with none of the hardship.
Food, for instance. Usually I walk the two blocks to Whole Foods and forage. But this week I embraced urban-hibernation by logging on to Fresh Direct. Or books. I could hike up to Barnes and Noble and peruse the shelves but instead I logon to Paperbackswap and voila ... books on the way. And exercise. While I love the liberation of jogging along the Hudson, a tromp on the trampoline that lives under my bed offers adequate stimulation.
So keep the cold weather coming. 'Cause I've no need to come out and play!
But not the winter of 2010! I've retreated to my 7th floor den to wait it out. Forcing myself to layer up only when responsibility dictates, like Sunday School teaching and an occasional report-for-duty at the theater. I'm living my dream.
Okay, so I'm not huddled in a snow-covered yurt miles from a dirt-track, but I do have isolation. I can see people below and imagine they're wandering deer or scurrying rabbits. And I can turn on the shower and pretend I've hauled and heated the water. Let's call it urban-hibernation. All the benefits with none of the hardship.
Food, for instance. Usually I walk the two blocks to Whole Foods and forage. But this week I embraced urban-hibernation by logging on to Fresh Direct. Or books. I could hike up to Barnes and Noble and peruse the shelves but instead I logon to Paperbackswap and voila ... books on the way. And exercise. While I love the liberation of jogging along the Hudson, a tromp on the trampoline that lives under my bed offers adequate stimulation.
So keep the cold weather coming. 'Cause I've no need to come out and play!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Am I back?
2010. Will this be the year of consistent blogging? Letting the travel blog rest while I ponder a stationary life filled with my favorite things: reading, cooking, eating, sleeping and WRITING. Got the journaling back on track. Whew! Was opposed to any kind of blogging. Thinking it might clog up the wheels of actual writing. But as I scour novels brimming with intimate description - the meat of all good prose - I succumb to the acknowledgment that I have not the attention, drive nor stamina to be anything more than a one page wonder. Alas, the attention span of a blog entry!
So we'll give this a whirl. Attempting regular installments. Just to test my consistency, my drive, my dedication, my discipline. Fearing that each of these are lacking I won't stake my breakfast, much less my reputation, on any measure of success. Even with the bar set at about two feet below sea level.
Okay, enough of a pep talk. Will I cobble together any sentences of note today on this Day One of my first blog attempt of 2010? Topics topple by, landing weightily at my feet. Will they be left to shrivel without so much as a notation? Or will they gather one more day of dust on the desk of my muse?
Maybe I'll move to Maine where there will surely be constant fodder. But I live in New York City, the city of tales and books. Just walk out the door, pick a direction and there will be a story. Like any number of celebrity encounters in the streets where I walk:
Sam Waterston smiling winkingly at me as he took one of my handouts at Playwrites;
John Glover to the rescue at the stage door and guiding me on my way at the Friedman;
Sean Penn attempting to reason with a teenaged daughter on 9th Ave;
Uma Thurman at MoMA shop keeping a low-profile with her boyfriend's hand down the butt of her pants;
Robert DeNiro handing me his driver's license at 6am so I'd recognize his name at the Tribeca polls;
Jean Stapleton under her real name discussing details at the registration table;
And of course the brief exchanges with Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama at their book signings.
There are more. These are just the ones at the tip of my fingertips today. But other than the fact that they're famous, there's nothing to tell. But celebrity sells. So thank goodness I'm not in it for the money. More interesting encounters are the ordinary people getting through the day. Like:
Old woman with a walker who yelled at me because I didn't hold the door for her.
Funny, that's all I can think of now. Interesting but fleeting. And that's why they must be written down. Or then they're forgotten. And eventually prove to have never existed. And that's why I write. For my very existence. To prove I live. For what other proof is there?
So we'll give this a whirl. Attempting regular installments. Just to test my consistency, my drive, my dedication, my discipline. Fearing that each of these are lacking I won't stake my breakfast, much less my reputation, on any measure of success. Even with the bar set at about two feet below sea level.
Okay, enough of a pep talk. Will I cobble together any sentences of note today on this Day One of my first blog attempt of 2010? Topics topple by, landing weightily at my feet. Will they be left to shrivel without so much as a notation? Or will they gather one more day of dust on the desk of my muse?
Maybe I'll move to Maine where there will surely be constant fodder. But I live in New York City, the city of tales and books. Just walk out the door, pick a direction and there will be a story. Like any number of celebrity encounters in the streets where I walk:
Sam Waterston smiling winkingly at me as he took one of my handouts at Playwrites;
John Glover to the rescue at the stage door and guiding me on my way at the Friedman;
Sean Penn attempting to reason with a teenaged daughter on 9th Ave;
Uma Thurman at MoMA shop keeping a low-profile with her boyfriend's hand down the butt of her pants;
Robert DeNiro handing me his driver's license at 6am so I'd recognize his name at the Tribeca polls;
Jean Stapleton under her real name discussing details at the registration table;
And of course the brief exchanges with Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama at their book signings.
There are more. These are just the ones at the tip of my fingertips today. But other than the fact that they're famous, there's nothing to tell. But celebrity sells. So thank goodness I'm not in it for the money. More interesting encounters are the ordinary people getting through the day. Like:
Old woman with a walker who yelled at me because I didn't hold the door for her.
Funny, that's all I can think of now. Interesting but fleeting. And that's why they must be written down. Or then they're forgotten. And eventually prove to have never existed. And that's why I write. For my very existence. To prove I live. For what other proof is there?
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