Cursive

 Last week I returned to doing my morning pages, a practice I was committed to for years, and then abandoned, at least partially in the desire to get to the "meat" of my day just a little bit faster. Beginning them again has reminded me of the undeniable, if also intangible benefit, of doing them daily. A little introspection at the beginning of the day, before resistance has fully set in, can do wonders. In short, it's like "magic for the subconscious". With all that said, one could understandably be a bit skeptical, thinking "if it was so great, why stop in the first place after being committed to them for so long?" And all I can say to that is that sometimes, when you are feeling healthier and more productive and in the flow, it can be deceptively easy to forget the techniques that got you there, and as you are doing a metaphorical victory dance in the end zone of life, forget what techniques got you there, and dispense with them. I also happen to think that is ok! (No true knowledge without exploration, right?)

But the process does bring a lot of things up, and people. Today my pages had me remembering  my third grade Language Arts teacher from Deep Wood Elementary, Mrs. B. I feel weird bringing her up like this in any way publicly, because my feelings around her are largely unresolved and... complicated. So let me say only that these are my experiences, and I'm sure she had many students who benefitted from other sides of her. 

When I was growing up in Rochester, Minnesota our school administrators had an iron clad rule. No cursive in the second grade. Absolutely none. We were discouraged from learning anything about it as it would be covered the following year and if we had somehow already learned it and used it in a paper, we would find that paper returned upgraded. My best friend Dale and I found out just how serious they were about this, when, rebellious little assholes that we were, enhanced each letter with little curlycews on the ends, only to receive that paper back to be printed. Hamilton Elementary had a policy of zero tolerance before it was in vogue for more illicit practices. 

A life change came the summer following second grade when my parents moved the three of us to a little town in Texas. Imagine my confusion on the first day of the third grade in my new home  when we were assigned to write an essay to be written exclusively in cursive, having learned it the year before? Not wanting to admit my ignorance, and seeing a handy chart lining the edges of the walls which gave examples of each letter in cursive, I quietly got down to the business of learning cursive, and even felt pretty proud of myself when I turned the paper in, not realizing I had made a crucial error in judgement. I knew that in cursive each letter was connected, but I also assumed (incorrectly, as I would discover) that every word in a sentence was strung together as well. My paper was returned by Ms. B with an abysmal grade and a note in red ink and driven home by the inclusion of several exclamation points, stating that my handwriting was so cramped that she couldn't even see the spaces between words.

Looking back on it, I understand how that must have looked, but I also can't help but wonder what teacher wouldn't see this as a red flag, or think to look into the background of the student at all? I know my parents turned in some records from my former school, but it doesn't appear that anyone communicated those to my current teachers or even told them that I had transferred from a different state. The lesson that I should have taken from the experience was of course,  "say something kid! Explain your situation!" And yet I never did. I spent the third grade attempting to win that teachers approval, even defending her to my parents at times when they expressed a dislike for her after some of their own brief interactions. But no matter my efforts, I never broke through the pinched expression on her face whenever she spoke to me. 

Of course there could be more to the story, as I knew nothing of what she was going through in her life, her feelings about being a teacher, or her opinion of boys who were beginning to develop a reputation as a"comedian" in their homeroom. So maybe the only thing to do is have some empathy for her. Certainly she has taught me to be a little more open minded and to  remember when I am reacting against a person on instinct, certain of myself and my judgements, that there is more to them than what I can see on the surface, and to hope, when recalling moments I ignored that fact, that others might be able to do the same for me. 

Expectations And Realities In The New Year

 Whenever I'm asked what I think about New Year's as a holiday, my immediate reaction is to criticize it. I remember countless New Year's Eves in which I was without plans that lived up to the expectations I put upon the evening, as well as those in which I had exciting plans, but those plans devolved into chasing the next party, the next event, the next bash occurring in order to do justice to the year behind us, to prove ourselves the heroes of our own lives, and to have made a promising start on the year ahead simply by putting a fitting cap to the one passing. There's so much pressure on ourselves to "party", to "revel" to be "party people" like the people in movies, and I've never thought it worth the money, and effort. 

But there's another aspect to the holiday that I do genuinely love, take comfort in and look forward to. I love the quiet celebrations of New Year's, the one in which I am the only attendee. I love to think about the changes I'd like to make in the year ahead, how it will be different. Does it matter that by the end of the year I am looking at a year that seems, on the surface, very similar to the one before? No. Because truth is not on the surface. It's deeper. New Year's eve also happens to be my father's birthday, so it's usually a time to celebrate him and think fleetingly about what it means to have the two major times in a year that we "reset" our intentions (our birthdays and New Years) consolidated and doubly potent. 

New Year's has also been a time, traditionally during which I've participated in church ceremonies full of like minded people and  emptied myself onto a page, filling that page with all the fears and habits and petty evils I want to eradicate from my life. Then I burn that paper and witness others watching their worries and shames go up in literal flames before we get down the business of filling another piece of paper with our hopes and plans for the year ahead.  It's an incredibly potent and healing ritual, and I love it. 

So, when thought of in that context, I really love New Years. It's a fresh start, a second chance, a clean slate, a recharge. Is this "new year" an illusion? A construct? Yes. But it's an illusions millions of us invest in and give power to, and there is an undeniable power in that. And there's comfort in knowing that as we strive to be closer to our ideals in the next year, we are in the company of others we admire, who's lives seem perfectly wonderful from our perspective, but who, like us, want to be more fulfilled. 

I also find a lot of inspiration in New Years resolutions. I try to make them positive, so rather than "quit chewing my nails" I might resolve to take better care of my nails, which could involve getting more frequent manicures, moisturizing, etc. I also try to make them quantifiable so that I can stay accountable to myself, and I find I am more able to keep up with them if they are process oriented rather than product oriented. By the end of the year, even if I haven't "succeeded" by every metric, even if I wavered in execution, it's had to argue that the four, five or six months I took action toward positive change (excersising more, eating healthier, being organized, or writing every day) were poorly spent. 

Finding the right resolution though, and finding a way to make that quantifiable, can be a challenge. Last years goal was to finish the first draft of my novel. While I finished 2021 with the draft still in progress, I devoted countless hours to it over the past year and have written well over 100,000 words of it. I believe I am over half way through with the actual writing and have the second half of the story explored, outlined, and thought out. Am I a bit disappointed that this mountain has turned out to be larger than it first seemed? Yes. Am I defeated? No. Because I've determined that I will not be defeated by the imperfection of this novel as I have been in the past. The fact that it took me 100,000 words of writing (much of which will end up being discarded) in order to get to the heat and heart of the story? It's all part of my process. 

That said, I do feel secure in the belief that by 2023 this first draft will be complete. This dream is well underway, it's gained momentum. So rather than simply repeat last years resolution, I want a new one. I want to continue growing in a new way. Which way is that? It involves the desire to share more of my work and to put myself out there more often. It's another facet of "overcoming the belief that resultant perfection is the only way I can prove my worth to myself and the unknown world around me. 

So the meat of my resolution is to "build sharing into my routine". It's taken from one of my favorite authors on creativity, Austin Kleon. If I can achieve this, then it means I will, by year's end, expanded my idea of what my creative output is, will have begun building a portfolio of creative work, will have made countless ripples in the lake of life, and will have proved to myself that I can create more work and not sweat every endeavor. In short, I will be much braver, as the only way to gain courage around creativity is to start creating courageously. 

How will I do this? I will need to find a system that I can implement. I will need to make the daily steps of creating and sharing art my number one daily priority so they don't fall prey to procrastination. I will also need to realize that the feeling of having achieved these goals may not feel like I want it to in the end, as the reality of the achievement will always be different than the perfection of that achievement as I first birthed it in my mind's eye. Whichever way I end up feeling will be nine times better than the idea I'd had of that feeling, because "the idea of perfection" was destined to shatter, and the achievement of the imperfect is the best possible result, especially when I consider that the result is only imperfect in my own opinion, and only in relation to the fantasy version I dreamt up which helped fuel the eventual creation I made, and which may end up being the exact version that I needed to create and which needed to be read, seen, heard, witnessed, devoured. 

(More to come...)

Nanofinmo: Goal Achieved!

 Nanowrimo began in 1999 as a challenge to spur creativity. The task set was simply to write a 50,000 word novel in the period of 30 days. Simple? Yes. Easy? Not quite. But since that first year, the challenge is reissued beginning November 1st. It's become more formalized, garnered big name companies to sponsor it, grown its brand , and added supplemental challenges throughout the year in order to keep people creating and taking the next steps to nurture their novel into creation. 

I love the idea of writing a novel in a month (which breaks down to 1,667 words a day) and have begun several Novembers with my hopes high as I officially declared my intentions at my project at Nanowrimo.org. No, I was never quite as prepared as I'd hoped I'd be, and yet, I had a dream each year that this would be the year when things came together and the words flowed out of me. Just like they had with Jack Kerouac. Genius in three weeks? Fucking doable! And I had an entire extra week to write my novel. It felt practically luxurious. And yet, inevitably, the world got in the way, I started off great, many times writing more than my quota, but eventually I missed a day, which often became two, and in the meantime the 1,667 words kept stacking up like a terrifying avalanche of words I would never be able to climb out of. 

My last attempt was in 2020, and in spite of pre-ordering the winner's t-shirt, I did not finish. The shirt arrived and I couldn't ever wear it because I'd know it was a lie, and if someone asked me about it it would remind me of all my broken promises. And yet, I remain hopeful! I've started at least three novels, two of which I got pretty deep into before falling in love with another cute lil' idea for a novel went traipsing by, luring me to follow it with its promises of a joyous romp at the computer, writing away. After all, it wasn't me that was the problem! It wasn't my work habits, or  my outsized expectations, nor was it my over attachment to results over process. It was just that the story hadn't been great enough when it came right down to it. It wasn't perfect, and I could not execute it perfectly. 

Rational me knows that no rough draft is perfect, but the wistful, yearning version of me still worries and thinks that if the story were truly meant to be born, it would make it easy on me. This rarely happens. And some of the greatest novels were born out of a desperate struggle and loads of hand wringing, brow beating and self flagellation. Again, the rational side of me knows that too. And lately, all sides of me have been hearing the message that it doesn't matter how brilliant your book is if it remains in your head. In fact, the worst novel is better than the best "in my head" book, because that supposedly terrible, but finished novel can still be picked up and handed to a reader, who may end up making more of the novel in their imagination than it would have been on its own, unread. 

So this year my New Year's Resolution was simple. Finish the book I've been working on for the past five years. No more going back to the beginning to clarify my choices before I continue (this is how I have ended up with four different versions of the the first 20,000 words of a novel, none of which was necessarily better than the other, they were just parallel words with slightly different paths trod). This was my year to finish a novel. Finally. 

Of course, I decided to start the project by going back to the beginning one last time, It was a trap, yes, but trodding back to the beginning did get me back into the groove of the story I was writing. And re-reading those first pages helped me realize that, actually, a lot of it was pretty damn readable. No good on its own, only possibly good as a part of the whole, but it was encouraging. It was also a reminder of just how little my tortured writer's mind could be trusted while I was in the trenches working away and cursing each click of the keyboard. I struggled away, day after day, joined a writer's meetup, tracked my slow but steadily growing word count, and when April came along and I saw that the same people who had brought Nanowrinmo had branded April as Nanofinno (AKA National Novel FINISHING Month) I took the plunge. I committed to 50,000 words by April 30th, and I wrote every day. 

                             

Did I struggle? Yes. Exactly two weeks in I had a revelation. I needed to change my "1st Plot Point". That was the key to all of my struggles! Of course, if I changed that then it meant that all of the prior pages were setting up a plot point that was now completely different. So I was just going to have to go back to the beginning, right? Or no. I mean, up to that point I had been keeping tracks of all the possible alternate paths I had in mind, things I might want to change in edits, and then sailing resolutely onward. For example, if Linda became Jillian? No problem! Make a note and sail ONWARD! But this revelation seemed like a game changer. I couldn't even begin to see how I couldn't continue. In a way it was lucky that I'd been in this situation before because I was able to convince myself to stay in a holding pattern just long enough for the so-called revelation (also known as an illusion, a distraction, a mirage) clarity would return. And it did. It helped that I'd confided in some fellow writers who knew the struggle, and coached me through my doubts and second guessing. 

At some point I realized that I was more than 40,000 words into my novel, and yet, had barely gotten through a quarter of my planned story's outline. Disheartening? Yes. Had I overwritten? Yes. Did it mean I might write my 50,000 words and only be halfway through the book? Yes. But also no. Because there was really no way of knowing until I'd reached the end. 

And by April 30th, I had written 50,323 words more than I had at the beginning of the month. The novel is currently 79,000 words and theres' still a ways to go until my ending, but that is ok. Once it's complete so much will come into focus. I have faith. And just as important as the fact is that I've gotten closer to my novel's completion, is the fact that I set a creative goal and I kept it in spite of everything. I built up a little more trust in myself, aI found out which times of day and where I write best, and I've built up a practice which has made me more and more empowered, and makes it easier and easier to say to myself "Just sit at the desk and see what happens."And those lessons (plus the fact that I now feel justified in occasionally slipping on that t-shirt I'd purchased last November) were worth it.

Understanding Glinda

 I think the feeling of "loss" is one of the worst kinds of pain. It certainly has been for me. And as far as loss goes, my experience of it has been pretty average. Many have experienced more, and many have had less. Which just goes to show that the experience of loss is so potent that getting hit with it in any form or degree can be enough to make someone say to themselves "I won't allow myself to feel this way again".  But in truth, loss is, for better and worse, here to stay. But if that's so, it's because the delights of life are here to stay, too (that means both the "smile to yourself as you're walking to the drug store" moments and the "so this is what everyone's been talking about for so long" moments of falling in love for the first time). 

And yet, it's tempting to try to lock our doors to loss. It's so tempting a thought that for some it can become a way of life, a daily practice of staving off loss by attempting to have nothing to lose (that's the great big form of it) or in unacknowledged refusal to look at old pictures of loved ones past for fear that recalling them will bring the ache of their absence.  But I think I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that this is a lost cause. Because the only way to prevent the pangs of loss is to steel ourselves to feel nothing when we encounter life's joyful surprises. It's a life of saying "no". "No" to experiences that may bring future happiness (submitting resumes, going on job interviews) and "no" to cooing like an idiot over ridiculous big eyed puppies. 

It also means (if we are acclimating ourselves to living in a world without future joy and therefore the pain when that joy seems no longer present) that whatever comforts and pleasure we currently have in our lives become that much more precious and we will have many dreadful days ahead as those remaining joys break, or chip, or lose their meaning because they've been dredged up too often and exploited for their potency until their color is eaten away like old photos bleached by the sun through an unshaded window. And we won't have the comfort of knowing there is a treasure trove of happy surprises awaiting us, because we have told ourselves they just lead to more pain, so even when they do happen they can feel tarnished with the the guilt of indiscretion (the way I feel after eating a bag of "Tate's Bakeshop" Walnut Chocolate Chip Cookies. 

I've wrestling with these thoughts about loss particularly lately because eighteen old cassette tapes arrived in the mail from my mother, and while I've been really looking forward to listening to them, and to transferring them to digital form so they can escape the ravages that time takes on ribbons of forty year old tape, I admit that I've also been worried about the loss I will inevitably feel. I've been worried that the level of loss awakened will be like Pandora's box in rectangular form with two little movable gears at its center. This is not the first time I've wrestled with this particular instance of weighing the potential joy against the feelings loss, but it is the first time I was able to overcome those fears long enough to purchase a tape converter and coax my mother out to her garage where a very small number of my things still remain, so that I can have these tapes with me again. 

And it's the first time in thirty years I've heard these particular sounds, bringing back the past. My childhood. Is it painful? Yes. Hearing these tapes makes we want to peel back the curtain and step back into that sparsely furnished apartment in Cedar Rapids where I lived with my mom, as she recorded me telling her stories, and interviewed me about movies I'd just seen and was still bubbling over with enthusiasm for. It makes me want to shower that twenty five year old, newly single mother with mountains of love and encouragement which might lighten up the journey ahead. And it also makes me laugh, to hear the untrained sound of my four year old voice, and fills me with admiration for my mom, and gives me glimpses of the truth that she had a life completely separate of me, and pangs and hopes that had nothing to do with me. That we were both living lives in which the other had a crucial supporting role. It's an experience that has awakened feelings of guilt for things I did as a child later, ways in which I strayed from the purity and untouched hope I had for the days ahead, but it's also brought supreme comfort because I hear in myself at four all the things that I still am. My vocal patterns, my tendency to dive into things head first, my love of anything connected to story... it's all still here. The essence of that kid is still in me, inevitably changed, but not lost. And while other people appearing or mentioned in the tapes, like my Grandma Foye and my Aunt Mary, have passed on-- others, like my mother are still here, also changed, and yet the same.  And this experience reminds me that I can and should shower appreciation on her today, and acknowledge what she's given me, and be proud of us for getting through what was to come, relatively uncompromised. And I'm blessed with the satisfaction of being able to gift this experience back to her in a less fragile form than it was, so she can listen without fear of breaking the tape. 

So, loss. Thinking about it this way I'm reminded of the ancient Japanese philosophy about finding beauty in things repaired, quietly bringing attention to the unnameable fluttery pangs and regal strength in those cracks and to the vase as a whole, with those cracks. And I'm also aware of the fact that I cannot give shortcuts to this lesson in anyone else's life, because not only is it an experience they have to have from theirselves, but their experience will more than likely be completely different from mine, and to think that other people's experiences are limited to and/or equal to my own, is to entertain a dangerous naivety. 

But it does make me think about a certain pink chiffon gowned witch with voice like a strawberry milkshake, sloshy and sweet. And her words at the end of the 1939 film no longer seem as much like a cop out as they used to. Not only couldn't she have convinced Dorothy to avoid the yellow brick road and just click her hells at the get go, but she shouldn't have. Because to do so would deny her all the experiences of the journey. She did exactly what she was meant to. She encouraged one of our most plucky and hopeful heroes to take another step, come what may.

The "Ten Minute" Exercise

 They say that the hardest part about writing, or painting, or doing any kind of creative work (and I'd say it's true about most things) is getting to the desk, or easel, or to whichever space it is that the work needs to be done. I've found this to be true in my life, and one of the ways I've been able to get over myself enough to be productive, is through the use of this exercise. I did not create it, but I've adapted it for my own personal use, and it's been life changing. It's especially useful if you happen to be one of those creative people who's goals seem a bit spread out. You want to write a novel, you want to paint, you want to improve your dancing skills. Some people tell you you need to cut away all but one of those dreams. I say, "why limit yourself like that?" All you need to have is an hour of time set aside, and a timer. When you've got that...

1. List four or five projects that you really want to get done. 

Maybe you want to organize the space where you live and create. Maybe you want to create something. Or maybe you want to share something you've created. These can be big projects. Big dreams. In fact, if its a big dream that's been needling away at you to do it and that you've responded to by avoiding it, then it's perfect for this exercise. 

2. Look at each project and list a couple of steps that will move it forward. The tasks you choose will depend on where you are in the project and what you need in that moment. Don't overthink this part, just jot them down. 

To continue with the novel writing example, you may want to begin writing the first draft, or keep writing it, or explore and come up with ideas for a particular character or plot point that you want to understand a little better. 

3. Next, get a wind-up kitchen timer, or get ahold of your phone and open up the timer app. Whichever option you like best is perfect. 

4. Set the timer for ten minutes. 

5. For ten uninterrupted minutes do the task that most needs to be done in that first project. If you are able to finish that task within the allotted time, move on to the next one.

6. Once the timer goes off, stop what you are doing immediately, then reset the timer and move on to project 2. 

7. Keep doing this until you've worked for ten minutes on the final project you listed. 

8. Celebrate!

What I love about this exercise is how little time it takes, proving that you don't need hours of time to work on something. You can do more in ten minutes than you ever thought possible. And it will give you experience in the doing, which is the only way to get better at the doing. Want to be more brave? You can read all you want about bravery, but the only way to be better at being courageous is to do what courageous people do. Take a risk. 

Now, having done this once, you can do it again and again. Anytime you are having a difficult time prioritizing one project or task over another, or you just want to be reminded how good it feels to achieve something. Big tasks happen, more often than not, through the achievement of many small tasks done in multiple steps. 

If you've tried this exercise, I'd love to hear about how the process went for you, as I'm sure it will inspire and encourage others to join in. 

Happy creating!

What if it's easier than I think?

Lately, I've been in a solid mental space, creatively speaking. I work every day on a novel that I expect to have a completed draft of by September, I've just shared part two in a series of short films starring Cathy Dresden, I recently completed the animation voice-over demo I've been promising myself to complete for the past six year, and I meet regularly on Zoom to check in with and support other gay writers. In addition to that I meet with a friend weekly "write together" (which in this moment means writing at the same time at our respective desks) and I've been motivating myself with weekly podcasts with tips for writing and making things, as well as reading other works aimed at people wanting to improve their creative productivity and time management. In short, I feel pretty good. And yet, I know that what I've done and am doing now is completely manageable, doesn't take that much work to maintain, and that there is more I can and should be doing. 

For one? I want to return to this blog. I plan to secure representation. I'm excited to make more Cathy videos with less turn around time (there was three months between the first and second episodes), and I want to explore a new creative project a friend of mine recently proposed, regarding a subject very close to my heart, and see if it has promise. In short, I want to keep finding ways to say "yes". Now please understand, much of what I've written so far has had me cringing internally. It feels corny, hokey, "self-helpy", and it feels like bragging. Trust me that any negative thing you might have thought so far (other people are doing a lot more than him, yes he's making things but who is looking at them...) I say those things to myself too. And they don't help me. 

Producing creative work has often felt like a struggle for me. It can feel like giving a pint of blood through your fingertip, and I fret and worry over every detail until what I've done is complete. And even once it's complete, I have to research the best way to share it, and find ways to "build an audience" and it all feels so frightening. But doing it badly helps me get a little better the next time I try it, giving me more confidence to squash the fear long enough to do the things I need to get to the next step. And more and more I find myself asking "What if I'm better than the things I say to myself in my most fearful moments?" Well then all that worry is a waste. And the process of sharing will get easier the more I practice it, and the more I make. And in that way, little sep by little step, I can change my belief and my reality. 

Because there was a time when we had much more confidence. And we wrote stories, made puppet shows, choreographed dances because we hadn't yet bought the illusion that we have to earn the right to do this. The truth is we already have the right. We just have to do it. And it may mean doing it badly for a seemingly interminable amount of time, but we will get better if we continue to work at it. Does that mean that the result of my project or work of art will be the specific future I desperately want it to have? It doesn't not. But I truly believe these artistic impulses we have are born in us because they are supposed to be followed. And when they are followed they will lead to new experiences and discoveries, and they will make you feel better simply by keeping promises you made to yourself. The promise to finish something you dreamed of doing. And here are two more things I believe: 1. The art you make, if you share it, will find the eyes and ears and mouths and fingers it is supposed to. And you may never know how many people that is. You may never see it happen. But it will happen.  2. The finishing of a project does not equal the end of the line for that project. Sometimes we write the first thing so that we can get to the next thing, growing and learning so that we can create the seventh thing. 

So, in the interest of following through on these thoughts and feelings I'm having, I'm going to be more thoughtful about how I spend my time, I'm going to work on being kind to myself, I'm going to experiment with ways to be more productive, and to understand myself. And I'll share how it is going, talk about some of my processes and things that have worked for me, and if you'd like to join me, I'd love to have you along for the journey, and to hear how things are going for you. 

Looking Back

 I've decided to do a little metaphorical time traveling, within my own life. I've dabbled in that kind of rumination and remembering before. Last year I started a project intending to transcribe all of my childhood journals beginning with the 7th grade. The idea was I'd get them on my hard drive and they might actually be of service, in case I wanted them for posterity or inspiration for creative projects, and to try and get a sense of myself and my adolescence as story, rather than a series of rote wakings and sleeping and repeating. And I did find glimpses of that, but after the initial surge wore off, the messiness of my childhood delusions and fantasies began to feel like self inflicted torture, and my dedication to it wavered until it was forgotten. 

But, in spite of not yet completing that project, I don't feel like the urge was a wrong one, or the practice a failure. And so, I've started a couple new projects, which I'm much more likely to reach the end of.

1. I have a disposable camera that I'd only partially used, and that I've been holding onto since 2006. I've refused to let go of it even though I hadn't taken a photo with it since that year. I figured at some point I there might be something worth developing, and so in spite of three moves since then, I still have the camera. Of course, it expired in 2008 so whatever photos were in there might not be salvageable, but I finally decided, inspired my roommate, who mentioned she was planing to do the same, I dropped it off at Duane Reade, and in three to four weeks I should know, if the technology has held, what I was thinking worthwhile to record fifteen years ago. 

2. When I was two, my mom began interviewing me, recording my voice for posterity. It was just the two of us at that time, and she was my world, so we had lots of recorded conversations. She also recorded bath time, my third Christmas, and we would record spoken letters for friends and family, some of which were never sent. In time, her interest in the spoken word became my interest, and I now have boxes of tapes, sporadically recorded, and which have taken up space in my parents garage since then. I'd always figured I would some day transfer them, if possible to digital, and see if there was anything worth keeping. In particular there are talks my mother and grandmother had during some of her visits, and I would like to hear those again. 

A friend of mine recently lost his grandmother, and he shared a fifteen minute interview he had done with his grandmother over the phone. It was so comforting, and her affection for him so obvious that it finally inspired me to order a $30 machine to catch what might be on them before the tapes can corrode any further. Of course, I may not find the particular conversations I'm hoping for, and after sifting through hours of footage I might not discover anything worth keeping, but I've decided it's better to know. 

In the meantime, I'm feeling pretty hopeful, and glad that the tomorrow I've kept promising myself is on it's way to becoming "today". I'll make sure to update you with anything I find. 

Happy Halloween From Hollywood's Past

 In honor of Halloween, here is a look back at some publicity photos from Holllywood's past, that remind us that riding the wave of a trend (even an annual one) to capture some attention is an idea that has been around long before social media. 

 

A couple of things you're likely to notice? 1.Nary a man in sight. While men were often called on to pose for publicity photos, they were more often called in for photos that could be used for multiple occasions, to point up their masculinity, edge and dashing heroics. Typical holiday shots, whether for Thanksgiving, Halloween, and even Christmas, were reserved almost exclusively for women.

Of course, some of this was related to their use as pin-ups, and many of them were obvious opportunities for a "cheesecake" shot. And yet, children were the occasional subjects of Halloween portraits as well, so it's just as likely that the hesitancy to associate a male star with anything that could be conceived of as frivolous or undignified.

While it was perfectly acceptable for B- Movie and serial stars to be "caught" in the act of showering, or for even most highly ranked male stars to be seen lounging at their pool, to go in for a sitting and pose amongst props? Nope. 

This is not to say that the women of Hollywood were treated carelessly. Their images were catered to as much as that of the matinee idols, and each photo conveyed the image they were carefully constructing.  tone of the photo was chosen to convey  The more revealing photos were usually reserved for contract players who had yet to make a real impact, and models/aspiring actresses being shot by independent photographers. In the case of Yvonne DeCarlo, the shot above, available in 1946, was distributed just after DeCarlo had just appeared in Salome, Where She Danced, as the seductive title character, but prior to that she had mostly performed in uncredited roles. 

You may also have noticed that the setups are often quite simple. Many times similar props were distributed to celebrities and in some cases the very same set-up was employed by different stars, as these photos were not intended to have a particularly long lifespan. Even when the set-design is more elaborate, the costumes used were often pieced together using recycled pieces from prior films (just in case the witch's hat in the photo below, featuring Judy Garland in 1941, seems familiar)

Happy Halloween/LGBT History Month!

 October, with the packed, double punch of being the month leading up to Halloween and all of its many flavors of creepy and being LGBT History month, has got to be my favorite of the year. Yes, there's December and February, both truly lovely in my estimation, but October is when the leaves turn russet and when the weather turns crisp and cool, and when you are practically obligated to indulge in ghost stories, monster movies, and the darker mysteries of the human experience. But, when you add in LGBT History month, it adds a very different flavor to the recipe, and as a result, I am finding myself torn. I vascilate from daily readings of Vito Russo's masterpiece "The Celluloid Closet" to nightly viewings of the latest ghostly televised series by "The Haunting Of Bly Manor". I want to sing out the praises of some of our lesser known queer entertainers, and pour forth with all the recommendations I have for past sitcom Halloween episodes that deserve special attention. All of this simply acts as a pre-amble to say, get ready for some split personality posts, that likely won't seem contradictory to many of you, seeing as Halloween has always had an indefinable appeal to the gays, possibly because it's a day when everyone steps into someone else's shoes for an evening. Gay people have often had that experience forced upon them, to always wear the bland brown leather shoe when one's heart longs for the violet suede. Halloween was always an opportunity to slip on a more decadent persona that we wouldn't have dared to allow ourselves otherwise, and if someone questioned it, we could always escape to the refuge of joining in the spirit of the holiday. And now that it's easier to publicly admit the side of ourselves that don't conform to the arbitrary whims of the greater society, Halloween allows us to push those boundaries further. 

At its best, Halloween is festive, decadent, and daring. It's a celebration of bravery, and of laughing at the unknown and therefore frightening things that haunt the corners of our imagination. And since LGBT history month celebrates those who came before us and braved the very real dangers and oppressions to make life better for themselves and those like them, maybe it's not the worst fit after all. 

"Stay-In-Aissance"

Whether you are someone who believes our current world situation is over-hyped and inflated, or one who thinks it may be one of the great crises of our time, because of COVID-19, we are definitely having a shared "moment". For myself, I am still very hopeful that this will be a temporary change to all of our lives, and that relatively soon we will be able to fully understand it, grieve for those many people impacted by it, and respectfully bring some normalcy back into our lives. Yes, we will come out of this changed, with a stronger awareness of how germs spread and how our actions affect others. And yes, when we do finally emerge like mole people, blinking and bewildered in the light of day (with, as my friend Leslie likes to say, hands that look and feel like crusty bread loafs from all the scrubbing and chemicals) it will take some readjusting. But we will emerge! And when we do, I like to imagine the pendulum swinging the other way for a while, making it a time where we throw down our phones (onto a soft pillowy resting place, of course) and take in the actual environments we live in. Concrete! Sun! Cement lion sculptures lining the streets! People!!! People we can hug again!!! Incidentally, I also see that near future as a time when we all rush to the museums and theaters, and restaurants that are just a vital part of why so many of us choose to live here (#supportmuseums, #newyorktransitmuseum, #momi, #broadway... you get the drift).

In the meantime, however, we are all staying in.  It's a moment that I'm trying to frame as cozy and rejuvenating by joining with culture critic and author Linda Holmes in calling it The Stay-In-Aissance. (Please know that Linda doesn't know I've joined her in this. We haven't chatted about it over scones or anything, as I've never met her. But nonetheless, we are joined in the using of this phrase). And If, like me, you are just a little burned out on contemporary episodic bingeing and want to watch some of the time-tested classic films that are pretty hard to find streaming, then you might want to treat yourself to the Criterion Channel".  It's the only place I am aware of that has a strong and constantly refreshed selection of classic Hollywood cinema, as well as acclaimed foreign and independent films. And that's all they do!

In the past few week I've watched quite a few films, and am making a strong effort to choose artfully made movies along with comfort films, and other "fluff and fancy" delights. So far I've seen 
Hans Christian Anderson and Support Your Local Sherrif, and rewatched Sorry, Wrong Number, Strike Up The Band and Darby O'Gill And The Little People, two of the films on that list are currently featured on Criterion. And in the next couple I plan to add some greats I've never seen, like Gilda, Asphalt Jungle, and The Sweet Smell of Success, all on The Criterion Channel. 

Now, if your eyebrows are currently raised and you are metaphorically casting a suspicious gaze my way, please know I'm not getting kickbacks from Criterion. I do, however, want to support them and spread word of them to others who might be into what they have to offer for the handy dandy price of just $10.99 a month!

Regardless of how you are spending this time, I hope that amongst all the working-from-home, and the referee-ing amongst fighting children, and donating, and frugal spending, that you get a chance to give yourself some love and appreciation, whichever form that takes. And when we are all finally back together hanging out and being just a little less conscious of bumping up against each other, I plan to be able to tell everyone what a profound and mighty impact Strawberry Fields has made on my life... should it ever come up, purely by coincidence, in the most casual of conversations. 

A Different Strength

Recently, I've been more purposeful about the messages I'm putting into my head, as a way to encourage positive thoughts about myself and the world around me. Because I know that when I fill my ears and eyes with art, and stories and songs of positivity and truth, my life seems to go so much better. Not only do I find myself more motivated and able to find worth in risking putting energy out into the world, but the things that might have unsettled me or given my day a metaphorical shaking up, are much easier to reframe when I'm living and doing and receiving with purpose.

Things that have been boosting the happiness factor are a couple of creativity podcasts that help to keep me focused, the words of Maya Angelou (especially through her "resonating down to the bottom of her soul" voice) the inspiring writings of Eric Butter-worth, and the music of Mister Rogers.

Now, I am not in anyway trying to infer that I've discovered Mister Rogers and like Prometheus to the suffering mortals I bring this spark. "Mister Rogers! Pretty good guy!!!" He is, after all, extremely beloved, and in this moment, having a bit of a resurgence. There's the recent documentary, the film directed by Marielle Heller, and a new biography on the shelves. It's more cool than ever to love and appreciate Mister Rogers. And, I'm not trying to say I want to BE Mister Rogers and speak of hope and joy to everyone in the way he did. That role has been taken. I do want to speak of hope and joy and love, but in a way that feels in line with who I am, and is unique to me.

What I am saying is that I'm finding a lot of comfort in being a student of Mister Rogers. And lately I find myself asking "What would Mister Rogers tell me in this moment?" I hesitate to say that I'm loving him and actually ingesting his message in a way that I don't remember doing as a kid, because not only does it feel like a bit of a betrayal to his work, it shares a secret thrill of mine that has felt like a very personal and private relationship with Mister Rogers, and I worry that if I share it, it isn't mine any more. But it is. Always will be. And your relationship with his work is yours, and private and personal, too. And you're never too old to hear that you are worthy in this very moment, exactly as you are.

Besides that, as an adult, we can appreciate the work on a different level. That slow and evenly paced patter of his no longer triggers suspicion because we have some understanding of how intrinsic it was to him. We can read about his sensitivity as a child, his experiences being bullied, and that he took experiences and turned them into opportunities to empower other children who may feel alone in the world at times. He refused to listen to the negativity around him, and said, to a very wide audience, that it is ok to care. In fact, it is wonderful, because caring is the essence that fuels our individual strength so that we can go out into the world and be strong and courageous examples of good.

My grandmother loved Mister Rogers. Fervently. And it makes me a bit sad to think that when I leaned this as a child I thought it was weird. And then as I got older I thought it was sweetly naive. My grandmother was very gentle, very positive, and like Mister Rogers, was sometimes accused of being in denial of the world's realities. But now I am coming to a realization that she and Mister Rogers knew very well about the world's darkness (I mean, here was a man who was directly confronting assassination and bigotry on television and very gently and purposefully taking some of its fearful power away, and as woman my grandmother had been through her own days and nights of pain and fear, and in spite of these she emanated warmth and acceptance and emotional nourishment) and came through their lives with the understanding that there are ways to be strong that we underestimate, and they are the way to overcome our greatest challenges. We may have brushed them aside as insubstantial during times of great crisis, but they aren't going anywhere. We can always pick them up again.

Yes, Mister Rogers spoke to children. He knew that they needed his messages. Children often don't feel empowered or in control of their own lives, and may have been told that they weren't good enough. Mister Rogers fervently teaches them that they are wonderful just as they are, and the world is a beautiful place, even if it seems scary at times.

Mister Rogers also speaks to children who are now grown ups, like me and you. He knows we need his messages, because we have been told many ways that we are not good enough, and we can often feel like we are just reacting to the wounds that life deals us. For us, he teaches that we are wonderful just as we are, and we have so many lovely and unique qualities, some of which we may have dismissed as weaknesses. He teaches us with the faith to step out into the world and not just to enjoy its beauty, but to cultivate it. It can and should be our purpose in life to cultivate the good, to see its power, and to share it with others; adults and children (especially children).