Since the day, the night, thousands gathered and rejoiced with tears in their eyes, we have joy and hope again. I feel it every day, we feel it, you feel it every day. We still get tears in our eyes, amazed that it happened, and proud to have shared it with so many many many people.
I'll not forget it. None of us will. He won. He's the president. His spirit and all that he conveys is inside, all around us, touching us all.
Shh. Whether we believe in prayer or not, we pray that nothing will hurt or harm or destroy that one guy. We don't want to think about the way our other heroes were taken away, don't want to mention their names in the same breath and connect them, so that assassinations belong in the past, and that good man will go on and on being what he is.
(I asked JC to read this. He said, don't publish it ... don't put that awful thought in anyone else's mind.)
The hardest thing is to write about the hardest, worst things that you know, and feel. I think it needs to be said. So, here it is. Should I, shouldn't I keep it on Em's Talkery?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
NO BIZ...LIKE SHOW BIZ...
Had a lovely time at the Music Box Theatre up in JC's 3rd floor dressing room being re introduced to various cast members. Writing keeps me on the outskirts of the business, and I miss being actively involved. While John was getting into his costume, I browsed a movie script for him.
It's an offer to play "Jim." Skimming it, JC couldn't find where Jim appears. I found three pages -- small role, low budget movie. But if there's a challenge, no matter how small or how low the budget, JC will consider it. Yes or no depends on the character. If he's 100 % rotten, no. But if there's a sympathetic element, a touch of something heroic, JC might give "Jim" a try.
Took me a long time, as a writer, to realize how important "sympathetic" is. In a play, or a novel, there needs to be something good in the person. Unmitigated evil gets to be bore.
Since I'm the wife of a star, the stage manager walked me through the audience, discreetly down a side aisle, and I sat in the back. JC's doing a 15 minute scene; no interaction, a rambling sort of soliloquy. It's fun, watching JC making the role his own, getting laughs, audience reaction, where it's needed.
Off through the raindrops and wind we went -- JC's tour de forcing, doing two separate shows each night. It's not a long walk, getting from one theater to the other, but the tourists and oddballs on 42nd street slow you down. At the Clurman, a 99 seat Off Broadway theater, "Heroes" is about three old men, nearing the end of their lives.
I was delighted, tickled, to see how JC's deepened the role. I'd seen the first dress -- he and the other actors made the show almost work, but they were sucking air. (Show biz term, like phumphing, when actors aren't sure of the lines.) At the dress rehearsal, I couldn't help thinking that JC being in two shows at the same time was too taxing.
But now the three men interact. JC is interesting, very real. There's a sweet kind of impact at the end -- small play, small idea, but now it works. I hugged the director, quickly complimented him. (It's not a good idea to rave.) Backstage, I gave a hurrah to the actors. (Carefully -- actors drink in every word. Excessive praise can haunt an actor more than zero praise -- i.e. -- a fan discussing the wonderful stage set.)
There were 56 in the house at the Clurman. (I counted.) At "August: Osage County" there were about 400. Both shows are getting good audiences, despite the economy.
Anyhow, we taxied home instead of going out. JC has three shows on Saturday; he's got to get a good sleep. So we celebrated with bowlfuls of Em's curry flavored, noddles-chicken-veggie soup. My soup's a super meal, perfect for after the theater.
It's an offer to play "Jim." Skimming it, JC couldn't find where Jim appears. I found three pages -- small role, low budget movie. But if there's a challenge, no matter how small or how low the budget, JC will consider it. Yes or no depends on the character. If he's 100 % rotten, no. But if there's a sympathetic element, a touch of something heroic, JC might give "Jim" a try.
Took me a long time, as a writer, to realize how important "sympathetic" is. In a play, or a novel, there needs to be something good in the person. Unmitigated evil gets to be bore.
Since I'm the wife of a star, the stage manager walked me through the audience, discreetly down a side aisle, and I sat in the back. JC's doing a 15 minute scene; no interaction, a rambling sort of soliloquy. It's fun, watching JC making the role his own, getting laughs, audience reaction, where it's needed.
Off through the raindrops and wind we went -- JC's tour de forcing, doing two separate shows each night. It's not a long walk, getting from one theater to the other, but the tourists and oddballs on 42nd street slow you down. At the Clurman, a 99 seat Off Broadway theater, "Heroes" is about three old men, nearing the end of their lives.
I was delighted, tickled, to see how JC's deepened the role. I'd seen the first dress -- he and the other actors made the show almost work, but they were sucking air. (Show biz term, like phumphing, when actors aren't sure of the lines.) At the dress rehearsal, I couldn't help thinking that JC being in two shows at the same time was too taxing.
But now the three men interact. JC is interesting, very real. There's a sweet kind of impact at the end -- small play, small idea, but now it works. I hugged the director, quickly complimented him. (It's not a good idea to rave.) Backstage, I gave a hurrah to the actors. (Carefully -- actors drink in every word. Excessive praise can haunt an actor more than zero praise -- i.e. -- a fan discussing the wonderful stage set.)
There were 56 in the house at the Clurman. (I counted.) At "August: Osage County" there were about 400. Both shows are getting good audiences, despite the economy.
Anyhow, we taxied home instead of going out. JC has three shows on Saturday; he's got to get a good sleep. So we celebrated with bowlfuls of Em's curry flavored, noddles-chicken-veggie soup. My soup's a super meal, perfect for after the theater.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
CREDENTIALS
Age 11, on Saturdays I sold blouses; at 12, I cashiered at a men's store. In NYC, claiming to be an experienced assistant, I was Typist-File Clerk at Hearst Publications, mostly alphabetizing card files -- my typing was hunt and peck. Later, became advertising director for Dance Magazine till I quit, because, after six weeks they asked for a copy of my college degree so I could get a raise. (I was fifteen, claiming to be a twenty-one-year -old graduate.)
It happened again a year later. I worked for Forest Neighborhood Settlement House teaching dance for two dollars an hour. With my invented credentials, that job paid for my own dance lessons. I resigned when they gave me a paper to fill out for their NY Board of Education files.
So I helped out a potter making pots for her kiln, ran a summer program at a playground in the Bronx, filed cards, ran errands, addressed envelopes, mopped floors, scrubbed toilets, painted the walls at the Humphrey-Weidman Studio Theater. Till one day, after folding and stuffing brochures about their summer course, with ridiculous bravado, I borrowed their card file. It was a list of colleges where they'd performed.
I put together a brochure, and booked a tour for myself and a possible dance partner. Handsome, tall, ultra masculine, (you might say "macho") Mark Ryder, leading man for Martha Graham, had a lot of theories of what a man's role in dance ought to be. (More about all that later.)
We got a first "booking." Then, we choreographed a program. What came first, the chicken or the egg? The booking got us going.
After that, I never had to have a paying job. We were earning a living that supported us in the un-fancy style to which I have never become un-accustomed.
Creating credentials for Karen's lawyers in Troy, for Ivy's mid-western club lady friends, Rose’s customers in Harrisburg, and all those inhabitants of Heart City, Oklahoma – there was no danger of being found out, forced to resign, or fired.
It's fun -- each project is filled with people I knew, know, have met, wanted to meet, almost met, bumped into, wondered about ... if you were one of them, I'll bet you wouldn't guess that a bit of you is there on the page.
It happened again a year later. I worked for Forest Neighborhood Settlement House teaching dance for two dollars an hour. With my invented credentials, that job paid for my own dance lessons. I resigned when they gave me a paper to fill out for their NY Board of Education files.
So I helped out a potter making pots for her kiln, ran a summer program at a playground in the Bronx, filed cards, ran errands, addressed envelopes, mopped floors, scrubbed toilets, painted the walls at the Humphrey-Weidman Studio Theater. Till one day, after folding and stuffing brochures about their summer course, with ridiculous bravado, I borrowed their card file. It was a list of colleges where they'd performed.
I put together a brochure, and booked a tour for myself and a possible dance partner. Handsome, tall, ultra masculine, (you might say "macho") Mark Ryder, leading man for Martha Graham, had a lot of theories of what a man's role in dance ought to be. (More about all that later.)
We got a first "booking." Then, we choreographed a program. What came first, the chicken or the egg? The booking got us going.
After that, I never had to have a paying job. We were earning a living that supported us in the un-fancy style to which I have never become un-accustomed.
Creating credentials for Karen's lawyers in Troy, for Ivy's mid-western club lady friends, Rose’s customers in Harrisburg, and all those inhabitants of Heart City, Oklahoma – there was no danger of being found out, forced to resign, or fired.
It's fun -- each project is filled with people I knew, know, have met, wanted to meet, almost met, bumped into, wondered about ... if you were one of them, I'll bet you wouldn't guess that a bit of you is there on the page.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
SAVING RUBBER BANDS & BOBBIES
I put used bobbies back in their container.
Is it penny pinching, a form of cheapskatery? How did I get this habit? From saving the best for last on my plate? No. Sometimes, not often, but occasionally I eat dessert first, not last.
Is it because when I got back from life in Malibu (lived there when John was in TV's "Northern Exposure"), I couldn't find anything to wear in my NYC closet? Clothes fit, but they weren't my taste anymore. I threw out a ton of lovely things, including my "Russian Czarina's" black coat with a high collar, flared skirt. I still miss it, wish I had it back.
Is it because you don't throw out love letters, earrings, or gorgeous boots that hurt your feet? Is it because prices of everything are going up up up, and bobbie pins used to cost ...I don't remember, but certainly not what they cost now?
I'm thinking of the early versions of projects that I don't throw out, and tape recordings I labored over. I spliced out clicks from Mahler's Tenth -- it was background for my dance drama "Zinnia." I can't put the master tape or copies of it into a trash bag.
When necessity demands, I give myself a gold star for being a ruthless thrower-outer. But bobbie pins, rubber bands ... ?
I guess I don't throw them out because I'm a useful thing, and I don't want to get thrown out.
Is it penny pinching, a form of cheapskatery? How did I get this habit? From saving the best for last on my plate? No. Sometimes, not often, but occasionally I eat dessert first, not last.
Is it because when I got back from life in Malibu (lived there when John was in TV's "Northern Exposure"), I couldn't find anything to wear in my NYC closet? Clothes fit, but they weren't my taste anymore. I threw out a ton of lovely things, including my "Russian Czarina's" black coat with a high collar, flared skirt. I still miss it, wish I had it back.
Is it because you don't throw out love letters, earrings, or gorgeous boots that hurt your feet? Is it because prices of everything are going up up up, and bobbie pins used to cost ...I don't remember, but certainly not what they cost now?
I'm thinking of the early versions of projects that I don't throw out, and tape recordings I labored over. I spliced out clicks from Mahler's Tenth -- it was background for my dance drama "Zinnia." I can't put the master tape or copies of it into a trash bag.
When necessity demands, I give myself a gold star for being a ruthless thrower-outer. But bobbie pins, rubber bands ... ?
I guess I don't throw them out because I'm a useful thing, and I don't want to get thrown out.
Friday, April 3, 2009
THE MAKING OF "EM"
A website, a blog are not things I ever thought about till nine weeks ago.
Today Fran and Sue got the first "stats." Fran the designer was proud, Sue, who's handling the PR, was proud. "Em" was back in Edinburgh, in the great grand theater where my dressing room was where the greatest Shakespearean actors of Great Britain once upon a time powdered, prepared.
Huge old theater, at least three balconies. No heat. Winter. A morning performance. The members of my dance company were peeved, cold, sleepy, outraged that we were on stage, warming up on ancient floor boards, with vapor from our breathing visible as we said "Good morning."
Grim performance. There were only 30 people in the audience. But I was in Edinburgh, and in my mind, it was a precious memory, cold as I was, an achievement to be there.
There were four people in the audience when I performed in Sidney Australia.. The program was me alone, dancing Opus 10, all of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." I wanted to pay them for their tickets, pay them extra if only they'd be willing to leave.
Once, just one time, I danced for 10,000 in an outdoor stadium.
Most of the time, practically all of the time on my 1000 one-night-stands which became more than a 1000 before I finally decided I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE, the audiences were small...90, 50, 125, maybe 250. A modern dancer and her troupe on a college campus concert series is not a big draw.
In New York, on Broadway, when John Cullum and Emily Frankel did "Kings" at the Alvin Theatre on four Saturday nights, the house had to be papered. ("Paper" means tickets were given away.) When I did "Zinnia" at the Colonnades for 55 performances, it was the most performances I'd ever done in one theater, whereas, when John unpacks his makeup kit in a Broadway house, the kit stays there -- the same dressing room has often been his for a year or longer.
No, I don't think about this very often. When I was little and dreamed of being a dancer "till death do me part," I would have been thrilled to know that I would do in Dance what I've done. But today, when Fran and Sue showed me the stats, how many hits on our Website, how many files, pages, chapters downloaded, how many visitors ...... My eyes fill with tears. A website barely one week old, and more eyes have been on "Em" then ever before.
Today Fran and Sue got the first "stats." Fran the designer was proud, Sue, who's handling the PR, was proud. "Em" was back in Edinburgh, in the great grand theater where my dressing room was where the greatest Shakespearean actors of Great Britain once upon a time powdered, prepared.
Huge old theater, at least three balconies. No heat. Winter. A morning performance. The members of my dance company were peeved, cold, sleepy, outraged that we were on stage, warming up on ancient floor boards, with vapor from our breathing visible as we said "Good morning."
Grim performance. There were only 30 people in the audience. But I was in Edinburgh, and in my mind, it was a precious memory, cold as I was, an achievement to be there.
There were four people in the audience when I performed in Sidney Australia.. The program was me alone, dancing Opus 10, all of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons." I wanted to pay them for their tickets, pay them extra if only they'd be willing to leave.
Once, just one time, I danced for 10,000 in an outdoor stadium.
Most of the time, practically all of the time on my 1000 one-night-stands which became more than a 1000 before I finally decided I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE, the audiences were small...90, 50, 125, maybe 250. A modern dancer and her troupe on a college campus concert series is not a big draw.
In New York, on Broadway, when John Cullum and Emily Frankel did "Kings" at the Alvin Theatre on four Saturday nights, the house had to be papered. ("Paper" means tickets were given away.) When I did "Zinnia" at the Colonnades for 55 performances, it was the most performances I'd ever done in one theater, whereas, when John unpacks his makeup kit in a Broadway house, the kit stays there -- the same dressing room has often been his for a year or longer.
No, I don't think about this very often. When I was little and dreamed of being a dancer "till death do me part," I would have been thrilled to know that I would do in Dance what I've done. But today, when Fran and Sue showed me the stats, how many hits on our Website, how many files, pages, chapters downloaded, how many visitors ...... My eyes fill with tears. A website barely one week old, and more eyes have been on "Em" then ever before.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
WORK IS GOD IS WORK
Some people have religion, I have work. It doesn't have to be actual writing. It's busy fingers, absorbed mind, concentration on something outside of me, like DOMESTICITIES -- that scratch on black linoleum I'm going to try and wax away -- and MENDING -- the collar on JC's grey NYC Opera sweater-shirt. It needs to be re-sewed on the sewing machine.
It's is a 9610 Industrial Singer my father gave me -- once upon a time it was a machine in his children's dress factory. (There's a bit about that machine In "Heart City," page 188. ) I learned to sew when I was in grade school. Bought a pattern, suffered with the instructions and laying out the rebellious tissue paper pieces, but made an old-fashioned dress with a bustle to wear for a Thanksgiving assembly program.
First costume I ever made ... no inkling did I have, that my sewing would turn into making costumes for a dance company of six. In the beginning I had to. We didn't have enough money.
I made a green shirt for JC in our early courtship days, a birthday present, which he wore to an audition and got the job -- $22.50 week doing a play in a very tiny theater (before there was an Off Broadway.) My work on that shirt won me love.
But here's the real reason work is what I'm preaching as my fingers fly today over the keys. When you get an idea, enough of an idea to put into a sentence that you can immortalize by typing it out -- that's a Wow! You're excited, amused, full of trepidation. A vision, a hope, a dream is born. It's something to reach for that's better than reaching for a star because you can get there, touch it, grab it. Use it.
Layering that first sentence; expanding it and shrinking it, explaining it to someone -- you've started down the road on a walk that will probably become an adventurous long trip.
You work not for money, not for winning, just work for the work of it. It's like crocheting. With a Queen Ann Tablecloth pattern that I got from a HOW TO CROCHET book, I used crocheting to keep me busy on the bus trip I made every day to a hospital in the Bronx when Mom was there for a month. It turned into a sixty-four doily tablecloth for the dining room table.
Intricate stitching, six chains, loop and go back, pearl three, loop four, double-stitch, triple-stitch -- it's not much different from making a plot, thinking up, crocheting, creating characters, (175 for Cordelia's story in "Somebody"), or in my plays, other books -- creating a triple-stitched background for every character.
I love that! I love the infinity that's in the work of my work.
It's is a 9610 Industrial Singer my father gave me -- once upon a time it was a machine in his children's dress factory. (There's a bit about that machine In "Heart City," page 188. ) I learned to sew when I was in grade school. Bought a pattern, suffered with the instructions and laying out the rebellious tissue paper pieces, but made an old-fashioned dress with a bustle to wear for a Thanksgiving assembly program.
First costume I ever made ... no inkling did I have, that my sewing would turn into making costumes for a dance company of six. In the beginning I had to. We didn't have enough money.
I made a green shirt for JC in our early courtship days, a birthday present, which he wore to an audition and got the job -- $22.50 week doing a play in a very tiny theater (before there was an Off Broadway.) My work on that shirt won me love.
But here's the real reason work is what I'm preaching as my fingers fly today over the keys. When you get an idea, enough of an idea to put into a sentence that you can immortalize by typing it out -- that's a Wow! You're excited, amused, full of trepidation. A vision, a hope, a dream is born. It's something to reach for that's better than reaching for a star because you can get there, touch it, grab it. Use it.
Layering that first sentence; expanding it and shrinking it, explaining it to someone -- you've started down the road on a walk that will probably become an adventurous long trip.
You work not for money, not for winning, just work for the work of it. It's like crocheting. With a Queen Ann Tablecloth pattern that I got from a HOW TO CROCHET book, I used crocheting to keep me busy on the bus trip I made every day to a hospital in the Bronx when Mom was there for a month. It turned into a sixty-four doily tablecloth for the dining room table.
Intricate stitching, six chains, loop and go back, pearl three, loop four, double-stitch, triple-stitch -- it's not much different from making a plot, thinking up, crocheting, creating characters, (175 for Cordelia's story in "Somebody"), or in my plays, other books -- creating a triple-stitched background for every character.
I love that! I love the infinity that's in the work of my work.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
THE # ONE PRETTIEST GIRL
It wasn't Emily F. Her name was Carlie, and she did toe tap, back flips, no handed cartwheels and wore a tutu with sparkles on it for the 4th grader's talent show.
I wanted to be in the show but my talent was getting the highest marks.
After the show, Carlie and I were walking home – I was wearing a royal blue dress with thin white stripes. At my father's factory, they made KATE GREENAWAY dresses. Once a month I'd go to the factory with him. He'd take me to racks with my size and let me pick out a sample.
Carlie was bubbling over about acrobatics and the splits and tap classes, and her next performance at the local dance school's annual show for the parents. Looking down at my dress, which was princess style (Daddy said) because it curved and fitted my almost curvy, not really curvy little girl shape, I was getting ready to compliment Carlie politely --I didn't want her to know I was jealous.
I opened my mouth and said, "I want to be a dancer more than anything in the world."
Carlie said, "Your legs are nice. You have a nice shape. Your neck is long. You do sort of look like a ballerina."
I took it! I grabbed it. It was my Tell Nobody dream that had been getting larger and larger -- like a weather balloon, radius 4 feet, 6 feet, 8 feet Pi - R - squared -- it was already big. Carlie's words enabled me to blow air into the balloon and it's never stopped growing.
As an ex-dancer, I dance every day. Not exercise. Nope. I go into my studio. Its a 45 x 25 foot space. It transforms into a rentable theater, which I don't rent out. It's only for me, JC and JD. In it, I warm up, very simply, unstrenuously, without boring endless repetitions and the hope of losing weight or firming up sloppy saggy anything (though there are places where it might be good but I don't look at them). The Warm-up's about 26 minutes of a basic ballet barre that I've evolved, that fits what I can do without too much discomfort. Then I switch on the music. (Vaughan Williams, "Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis.")I wanted to be in the show but my talent was getting the highest marks.
After the show, Carlie and I were walking home – I was wearing a royal blue dress with thin white stripes. At my father's factory, they made KATE GREENAWAY dresses. Once a month I'd go to the factory with him. He'd take me to racks with my size and let me pick out a sample.
Carlie was bubbling over about acrobatics and the splits and tap classes, and her next performance at the local dance school's annual show for the parents. Looking down at my dress, which was princess style (Daddy said) because it curved and fitted my almost curvy, not really curvy little girl shape, I was getting ready to compliment Carlie politely --I didn't want her to know I was jealous.
I opened my mouth and said, "I want to be a dancer more than anything in the world."
Carlie said, "Your legs are nice. You have a nice shape. Your neck is long. You do sort of look like a ballerina."
I took it! I grabbed it. It was my Tell Nobody dream that had been getting larger and larger -- like a weather balloon, radius 4 feet, 6 feet, 8 feet Pi - R - squared -- it was already big. Carlie's words enabled me to blow air into the balloon and it's never stopped growing.
Seventeen minutes. It's choreographed. A visit into the room: I've placed 3 chairs, a small box to step up on, a barre made of pipes, that JC made so I could have a portable bar in the studio. The choreograhy is divided into 4 sections. I dance a section for two days, then the next section for two days; the next, and then the next. After eight days of sections, I dance the whole 17 minutes for two days. Then I'm back to the beginning again.
Thank you Carlie, I don't do toe tap, but I become the # one prettiest girl in the world just about every ten days.
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