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).

Reviewing "Carrie Fisher: A Life On Edge"

Below is a reprint of a recent review I wrote for Goodreads of the biography "Carrie Fisher: A Life On Edge" by Sheilla Weller. Being as today is the day after the anniversary of her passing, I feel it's somewhat timely, if a day late, to post here. 
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Imagine for a moment, that you've never tasted ice cream (I know, but just go with it). You want to know why every one actually "screams for iced cream". If you live in a world where ice cream no longer exists and you can't taste it, but a well read friend has, well then ask them. Have them explain to you for some hundreds of pages in equivalent conversation what it was like. Let them tell you the year ice cream was created, why it was a hit with kids and adults alike, let them detail the steps in manufacturing it and distributing it. 

If, however, you want to know more about what ice cream's like and the ice cream actually wrote a book about the experience, chain smoking her way through it, jotting down the things most people would brush away, and acerbically commenting on the homogenization process in a way only she, the ice cream could, then read that book. If the ice cream wrote scads of books, then read those. If the ice cream wrote and starred in a one-ice cream-show about what it's like to be tasted by everyone on the planet and later dismissed because ice cream doesn't stay fresh past it's expiration date and has way more fat content than she used to, and then the ice cream lets filmmakers into her carton to see what it's like from the inside, then see those. All of this is the long way to say that reading a book about Carrie Fisher's life and work can be a decent supplement to your experience, but don't be surprised if it leaves you feeling like something is missing. Because if you want to really know what ice cream tastes like and understand why we love it, (sorry, we're back to the metaphor) then there are no short cuts... you just have to taste the fucking ice cream. 

So if you want the true feeling of knowing more about Carrie's life, if your goal as a reader is to feel like you understand Carrie as a person, because she's touched your life, and you relate to her struggles and are bowled over by her dry wit and sympathetic to her ambivalence with the extreme highs and lows she seemed pre-ordained to live out? If you want to feel kinship without sacrificing the truth of the facts as lived? She may have passed on, but her work is here. Carrie Fisher made exploring and sharing her life and her flaws, the focus of three memoirs, several novels, a one-woman show, and a documentary. And while most people, famous or not, seem to be curating their image and distracting from their flaws and imperfections because they want to be admired, Carrie Fisher wanted, above all else, to be understood. She had an innate faith that if you understood her, you might admire her. And that need, which shine through in her humor and candor and kindness, are as much a key to her beauty as those giant brown eyes, the pillowy lips, and the flashes of "fuck you" that we admire. 

If however, I'm preaching to the proverbial choir, and you just want a sympathetic laying out of the facts and some details, or if you are wanting these before doing a deeper dive into Fisher's own words, then read away. This is an even handed, often insightful look at the facts. Likewise, if you want to understand Carrie's side of the relationship with her famous mother Debbie Reynolds? This book helped me to get a much stronger grasp on what it might have been like to live with someone as charming, vivacious, and undeniably winning as Debbie Reynolds, who loves her fiercely, and yet, in spite of outward appearances, keeps a tight hold of her rank in the relationship, and deeply values her image in the public eye, occasionally, if unwittingly sacrificing her daughter's confidence by alternately micromanaging her and then leaving her for much of the time in the care of others. 

Also in the book's favor is that it becomes apparent early on that the intention of this biography is to tell the truth as best as the author is able. She deeply admires Carrie as a person and as an artist. She researched, she probed, she dug deep, and she laid out all that research in this book. What she doesn't do, for good and ill, is interpret as much as she needed, in order to give the reader a true sense of being on the inside. This was probably because she didn't want to play armchair psychologist and also because she didn't get the full access she would have liked. Therefore, the book reads like a second hand story as gleaned through articles and interviews with friends of Carrie's, and through interviews and speeches by Carrie herself, that are accessible online. It can leave one feeling dissatisfied. 

Equally dissatisfying is the fact that Carrie's casual social life is given such uneven attention, to the detriment of her family life with people like her brother or her step sister Tina, or what it might have really been like when mother and daughter were alone. Additionally, there are no tender stories about Carrie and Billie, or really why Bryan Lourd might be considered "the love of her life" that could give one a real sense of how important these parts of her life were, or how the razor wit might have been spared in their presence. This is very likely because Weller got a lot of access to Fisher's outer circle of friends and acquaintances, while her inner circle closed ranks and shut her out. So some of those having less contact with Carrie receive a lot of time and importance placed on the things their eyes saw. My critique isn't intended to undervalue these sights, or the intentions of those who witnessed them, but to say that their placement and weight given in the book by Weller, may not be for the reasons implied, and in some instances, too much kindness is afforded them because they were good enough to grant the author an interview. 

The most glaring example of this is detailed from an interview given by Penelope Spheeris, the director of a low-budget film Carrie shot after she was released from rehab, when no one wanted to insure her for work. Spheeris fought very hard to get Carrie on the film and put her own reputation on the line, giving Carrie a chance to prove herself as reliable. This is how the story is described, and there is truth to this. However, what is vastly understated is how much the film and Spheeris needed Carrie's name, presence, and the publicity of her comeback story, in order for the film to be seen at all when and if the film got made. 

Carrie was given routine drug tests and was under a very heavy watch by all involved in the film, including Spheeris, which must have been infantilizing and humiliating to go through. Then, when the filming is complete and Carrie has relapsed, Spheeris says that the two of them did a lot of drugs together, had many drug fueled adventures. When Carrie later turned on her and created distance, Spheeris was left at a loss because she felt dismissed in spite of offering help when Carrie most needed it. The explanation by the author? Sometimes it's difficult to be seen at such a weak point in one's life and to be helped so much by someone. Carrie was likely overwhelmed by the vulnerability of that exposure, and knowing she would never be able to balance the scales, or say an appropriate thank you, she had to cut the relationship off. 

Ummmmm... say what? It doesn't take a genius to see that once Fisher realized the mistake she had made in her relapse she might not look so fondly on someone who kept her clean when it served her own interests, and then partied equally as hard with her once Carrie was no longer needed to assist her career. That someone could be so careless with her, knowing what this kind of activity would cost her, had cost her, likely left Fisher feeling twice used. I understand that Weller felt loyalty to her source, but a greater loyalty was owed to her subject.

To sum it all up, this book is, in spite of its flaws, a solid addition to your understanding of Carrie Fisher if you are already familiar with the work and want some objectivity and some clarification on things you are still curious about. The translator of Carrie's life and work is kind, clear eyed, knowledgeable and sincere. But she cannot provide the wit, warmth, and slightly crazed brilliance, nor the flashes of insight and self forgiveness that Carrie herself did, because Weller, nor could any one else be, is just not up to that task. 

I Am A Father (of a lil' dumpling baby of a good feeling)

Lots of emotions jostling around in this body and brain today, making any number of metaphysical "clankings". And there are many people who would say that when I feel these emotions-- the uncertainty, the fear, the judgement of the fear and uncertainty, the disappointment-- that I should be grateful. These are signifiers that I want something different in my life. Many of those same thinkers say that to experience something different I, as a person in this world, simply need to feel better about I am right now, because good feelings will inspire more positive actions. There are other thinkers, those who believe the first statement (emotions are signifiers of where I am) that would part ways with the party of the first part  at that juncture, saying that their solution is airy fairy magical realism thinking.

Me? Look. I agree with both. I was obviously able to move from a place of confusion and mini-despair in order to conjure enough hope that writing these words might prove useful to someone, might strike a chord. That, in turn, inspired me to start my first blog post in four months. And look, no one is saying that positive thinking is easy. What's that saying? Something about the solution being an easy process to follow, but that the execution of that easy process can be very difficult because of all the ways we doubt the solution. And following the first step? Thinking good thoughts by focused effort for one day? That will produce a day's worth of results. Two days worth, exponentially more. And so on ad so on. But what happens when we're feeling great after three days? Or four?  For me, it's often the backslide. Like taking the first three days of the antibiotics I was prescribed and then ditching the  prescribed and then the process that got the good results, in spite of the prescription clearly stating that I need to finish the prescription. Soon enough the illness is back, and stronger than ever.

The "feeling better" cure is just like that. It's relatively easy for me to change my attitude for a few days. Before I know it I'm feeling in control. I'm large and in charge! Ready to get 'er done!! Yes, I'll need to get back to feeling focused positive thoughts really soon, but for now, shouldn't I act on the power I've gained? Time to "get 'er done"! I'll put in the effort that got me to this good place later. Promise! But then when enough of those days of ignoring the process have piled up, I'm back where I started. Start over this process enough times and it's enough to make a person feel like a real failure. Is it strange that a person who has, on seven separate occasions successfully created good thoughts three days in a row isn't able to see twenty-one days of good thoughts that went out into the world, but almost always sees the seven examples of failure instead?

These feelings of failure can also get me blaming the process itself. As if the good feelings I generated should have been all I needed to propel me onward, and of course they aren't, because it wasn't those feelings alone that caused me to make a change in the first place. It was the addition of my conscious mind to those initials feelings. My observation of those feelings brought me to the conclusion that a change needed to be made. It was the conscious mind that then initiated the practical steps. It would be a mistake, when I'm three days into the process of "thinking happy thoughts" and all those zingy results, to forget that the discipline was a key ingredient.  Instead it is at this time that I should remember and be grateful for the conscious steps I took which helped me arrive here. In short, the feelings were the WHAT, the result. And the conscious changing of the original feelings/the old WHAT/results from my past, was the HOW I got these new results. .

It's tricky, Because you could reason that the positive feelings generated from the decision to refocus should generate more good feelings and therefore it should get easier and easier. The fact that it isn't that easy...doesn't that make this whole theory bullshit? I've thought this. Its all bullshit. Con men handing out easy answers. Chuck it all and live in misery, because at least misery is guaranteed. And yet, just because the solution is more complicated than I originally foresaw doesn't make it any less of a solution.  I mean yes, we do generate good feelings from good thoughts, and yet. The first results generated from the beginning steps... these good feelings- they're BABIES! They're tiny little dumplings fresh to the world, pure and excited and equally fragile. And here I am, the uncertain parent of these lil' dumplings, wanting them to be amazing, thinking they just might be. Risking hope because what I can see of them, and how I feel about them? I see dynamic creatures. I see promise!  I'm ecstatic! I love these lil' dumpling emotion babies!!! And yet, how quickly this bliss is turned upside down.

Something happens in my world that is less than thrilling? A negative thought? A stumble? It's so tempting to think "of course. I was deluding myself". Those lil' dumplings? "What disappointments". I shouldn't have expected that much of them. I mean, after all, I was their parent, so just how perfect could they be?" I'm forgetting that they are BABIES. Did I say they are BABIES??? They aren't done forming yet, they haven't reached full strength. And here I am betraying my babies, blaming them, when in truth I am the one who is betraying the contract. My job as a parent of these thoughts is not finished. Far from it. The more diligent I can be about strengthening them daily, the stronger they become, and the more I trust that their creation was not a momentary fluke, or a con played on myself in the desperation of jangling thoughts, which allows me to make more, equally strong thoughts.

Ok. Agreed. My job wasn't done. And then I turned on my thoughts. I doubted. I poisoned those good emotions. I agree. My bad. I fucked up. Shouldn't have done that. But now what? Well, I've put poison out into the thoughts, and all that can come now is the inevitable destruction of those thoughts due to the poison I put out there. I mean, what good can these less than completely healthy good feelings do me? Best to abandon them and start over later, when I can use the lessons learned from this experience to do it right next time. Easy to think this. Easy to rationalize this. And yet, no one has ever done this process perfectly. Everyone has doubted on this journey. No one has gone through this process without a stumble, and the only way to fail is to stop the journey too soon. For example, i this very moment as I type these words I am already thinking back over this rambling heap of an essay and gathering evidence which will help me formulate arguments in my brain to kill this blog post before the hideous pulpy mess that it is can be seen by anyone. That? That would be too soon. Equally true that to not continue this process and create more in the upcoming weeks? To abandon this blog again after just one tentative return, that would be too soon.  In fact you could argue that to stop the journey ever, is to stop too soon. It's funny how quickly the perfectionist creeps in, right? Without even noticing, and disguised as an ally, the perfectionist has snuck up and planted the realization that "no one can keep this up forever". It continues. "You are contemplating beginning an enterprise which is destined to fail." But fail by who's definition? Mine. I have to, or get to define what success is to me. Even if I only do it a day at a time.

Right now? Success is this. It's pushing the "publish" button. It's putting this imperfect rumination out in to the world and letting it make ripples. Any ripple. No judgement. And no rumination on all the better entries that could have been if I'd just continued the next day and the next? . If this is all I do, it will have be enough. It will do it's job.  Convincing myself that what I just wrote is really true?   That's my job. The irony is that is that only by successfully and truly believing that this one entry is enough, in and of itself, can I justify the risks of entering this struggle again tomorrow, or the next day.

Taking A Leap

Over the weekend I registered to join an audition class. Though I've lived in New York for nearly four years, this will be my first in town. I'd been seeking one for a while, but had procrastinated signing up for all the reasons one can name. I liked, but didn't necessarily have complete trust in those who made the recommendations, money was tight, I wasn't ready, I'd already spent gobs of money on classes... Basically? I was afraid. Afraid that I would choose the wrong glass, or choose the right one, but not be good enough for it to be worth my time and efforts.

And yet, my auditions are not as plentiful as I'd like, and while I get good visual feedback (smiles that look ever so sincere, and the occasional "really great job") none of this so far has led to a single call back. Yes, I need to up the number of auditions I attend, but I also need to be confident in what I do once I'm in the room. And so... I took the leap. One of my good friends recommended a class, and it was reasonable, and so even though I don't have tons of money to spend on classes, I am trusting the funds will come, and that this action will raise my confidence level and lead to a better me, and hopefully, more work. Or just... work.

It means being strong enough to allow myself to look and feel like a novice at something I flatter myself to be pretty good at, and diving in and trusting the coaching and opinions of someone I barely know. And it all begins tonight.

Following the Stars

I was raised by a mother who was very open and explorative of all the world's mysteries, which has made me a pretty open minded person as well. Mostly?  I know enough to know that I don't know that much. I have my thoughts, my theories, the ways that work for me, and the beliefs that, when I am able to key into them, help my life flow and allow me to be more productive and feel closer to my authentic and best self. But, I do not judge those who have other beliefs and ways of exploring "the mystery", nor do I attach to much importance to the little t "truth" of these things. Long story short? If they work for me, and the message of these things resonates on a deep level, feeling T "true"?  I go with it. 

The basic premise of the article, entitled Tarotscopes That Slay by Brandon Alter, is that he drew a  Tarot card for each sun sign, and then applied the meaning of that particular card in context with what will be happening astrologically for that particular sign. Now, even  though the tone of the article is geared toward the lgbt community, I'm going to hazard a guess that, anyone, gay or straight can find meaning and guidance in these cards. 

In light of the intense questioning I've been going through the past couple of months, the many nights of tossing and turning, and the doubts that any of this work I'm struggling to produce will be worth it, the card for Aquarius for September 9th - October 8th, The Hangman (reversed), seemed very apropos and brought some gentle comfort.  The gist of it? Surrender. Surrender deeply. 

The following is excerpted from Alter's article...

"The Hanged Man doesn’t struggle, he accepts and allows. And that’s the mantra for this next cycle, to accept and allow everything that presents itself to you. Most importantly yourself. The Hanged Man relinquishes control to the tides, to the rhythms of nature and especially to his own unique design.

You are who you are and that is glorious. Stop fighting yourself. Stop judging yourself. Every piece of you, from your kinks to your curiosities is of cosmic design. Instead of trying to fit yourself into a box that’s too small or pretending to be normal like everyone else, this moonth should find you being your most extra."

See what I mean? It feels spot on. And... so did the message for Pisces, which, before you say anything, is not my rising sign. Although, I was born on February 14th, which some consider the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces, so... basically, you can think to yourself that Astrology and Tarot are just another one of those "applies to everybody and works on your psychology and your willingness to believe" and is thereby bogus, or you can think "this has been around for centuries, and there is something to this". 

Or you can think that this is an imperfect system that may have value for you, regardless of any quirks and imperfections. Essentially, claim it if it suits you.

And, if you'd like to pursue more in this vein, Brandon is based in San Diego where he gives classes on understanding the Tarot, and does individual readings. He and his husband also host a podcast., The Spiritual Gayz, so venture out and explore all you lil' seekers and dreamers!

I'm Gonna Buy A Paper Dolly

Willa Paskin's Decoder Ring is a podcast that examines the workings of different pop culture artifacts. How they came to be, how they might be different than how we have come to understand them, and how they continue to work in the world. It's not one that I listen to regularly, but if the topic is one to which I feel drawn, I've found it pretty inspiring. The latest episode on paper dolls is one of those. It features a paper doll artist by the name of David Wolfe, who's work I've long admired, those featuring movie stars like Judy Garland and Rosemary Clooney. His work is whimsical, and incredibly evocative, but unlike some other contemporary paper dolls I have seen, these don't simply reproduce the details of past costumes, but they evoke a feeling of nostalgia and glamour from a contemporary perspective. There's a lot of yearning in the David Wolfe's illustrations.

The paper doll art of David Wolfe, available at paper dollywood.com

Myself? From the ages of five to seven, I had an accordion file, maybe three inches thick max, in which I kept my paper dolls. I'm not sure how I was first introduced to paper dolls, but I can only imagine that one day when my mom and I were at the drug store looking at coloring books, I'd seen the Walt Disney "Snow White" paper dolls and pleaded for them until she relented. My aunt, who often watched e during the day while my mom was at work, would help me with cutting them out, and showed me how to put them on the stand. The funny thing is, I don't really remember playing with them much, as I remember cutting out each outfit as delicately as I could, because any bit of white at the edges spoiled the illusion of the clothes. I also remember poring over the pictures, and imagining what they would look like on Snow White. The actual product of them on the stand was never as satisfying as the pictures of what the result might be. Those imaginings were perfect in a way that the reality of snipped up and folded paper could never be. My next paper dolls were Wizard Of Oz paper dolls. I was only interested in paper dolls based on characters that I already knew, and in the ways that those different outfits would change the way I thought of them, open them up to different possibilities and futures in which they might need a Halloween costume, or a fancy gown.

Now that I've gotten older, paper dolls inhabit a strange in-between place for me. They are not quite dolls in the way that we think of them. They're a craft project, easily dispensable, and they cost little more than a coloring book.  All of these qualities are what made it acceptable for my mother to buy them for me. And, the art of some paper dolls, especially those of David Wolfe,  you'll have to forgive the pun, "stands up on its own" and is worthy of framing, but the dolls, by their very nature, were meant to be cut up and played with, even though the execution of that "play" takes something away from them, because the reality of them in action is never quite as beautiful as the promise of their pristine state. And that, for me, is one of the very things that makes them fascinating. They exist as a great big beautiful tease, like a "mint in box" collectible toy just beckoning you to take it out of its box and play with it.

If you're curious to find out more about paper dolls and their beginnings, including the art form's hidden queer history, the Slate podcast episode can be listened to here or anywhere you get your podcasts. To admire and purchase the work of David Wolfe, visit https://paperdollywood.com.

Struggling.

I've been going through it this past few months. By "it", I mean doubt, fear, depression, the value of trying, and questioning my own self worth. All of these feelings combine, multiply, expound, and collude until they make up one big ball of resistance that seems to have packed itself all around me. It's had me questioning my life here in New York, my viability as a partner in a relationship, and my ability to function in the world.

Why? It's a mixture of factors. I'm currently without full-time permanent work. I'm not in a relationship, nor are there any fun flirtations on the horizon. My friend network is still relatively small for someone who has lived here three years. And I have an impending performance, and I'm fearing that no one will show, and if not, what does that mean for the quality of the show, a show that I have spent the last year pouring myself into? These things were tapping away at me, persistently and almost imperceptibly, until a month ago, when my family suffered a deep loss, with the death of someone who was far too young, and who's life seemed like it was just beginning.

It's difficult to comprehend the full impact of events like this, or just how they work on us and our lives. The important thing, I'm realizing now, is not to judge them. For me? This event sent me into a withdrawal period. It had me spending hours in my bedroom, mired in escapism in the form of video games, netflix, dating apps... none of these things were working toward a future, they were just there for the purpose of making the present seem more livable, through the avoidance of all the fears and doubts in the way that seemed the easiest to reach. When I deleted some of these things to make room in my life for things of value? Other things crept in, or I wavered and downloaded them again. The hole that they left was too vast, and the prospect of filling that hole by making art or submitting for day jobs, or going out into the world brought with it individual armies of uncertainty. The prospect of a lot more suffering when those things would surely turn out to be self created delusions. Of course there were days when I thought I had beaten it. I went to a writer's support group, and thought I was well on my way. Ditto for any job submission or excursion to see theatre. But inevitably I found myself back where I'd started. And yet, each of those things began to add up. Individually they were not enough, but the more I was able to do, the better I felt, and the more opportunities for doing seemed available and just as important, doable.

Something that helped me? One of many things, was a book called The War Of Art. It made resistance a force of sabotage. The inevitable force pushing against all of us anytime we have hopes for our future. And unlike most books, describing the situation I was in ad-nauseum without any practical solutions until the last chapters, this book, which I've had on my shelf for years, put hope in the first few pages. And slowly, I've been putting its principles into action. The principles? There's really only one. Do it anyway. Do it, whatever it is, as if your happiness depended on it. Resistance is there to stop you. Don't let it. It isn't "right" about you. It's an illusion. A very powerful one. And the fight against it is never ending. But you have to fight, and fight hard, with every ounce of effort.

And sometimes its stronger. I'm not out of this hole quite yet. Or at least, I don't think I am. But, I am better now than I was. And not having a permanent office job? It's a plus! As long as I can continue to get money in through whatever means possible, the freedom it allows me gives me the opportunity to audition. It allows me more time to write. To plan more cabaret performances, to increase the visibility for my work. But if I'm wasting all that time on immediate gratification? It feels like a waste. And of course, looking back on the past months, I realize they haven't been a waste, as that time allowed me to process, but I'm much happier "here" than I was "there".

Resistance even played a part in the posting of this topic, because this kind of honesty is often discouraged, especially in a world when every message feels geared, to toward honest communication, but toward marketing. Marketing of our "best selves". This kind of posting? It's false, it's the worst aspect of the internet, and it doesn't break down walls. It builds them. Better to communicate with the intent of being honest. And this sometimes means stating things which make us feel vulnerable. Of course, if you are deciding to put that out into the world, the importance of just how you do it can seem inflated, so that's another way resistance wheedled it's way in. You have to find the right amount of time to ruminate about it, edit it, you have to have to be in the perfect part of resistance to be able to write about it, because if you are completely out of it, you feel like you are preaching, and if you are too steeped in it, you worry you are whining. The point is? It's everywhere. And as exhausting as it seems to be consciously fighting it daily, it will do its work whether you fight it or not. And to not "try" is to not play.

Outward Podcast, At Last!

I'm lucky to have some wonderful friends who are not only generous, witty, and soulful, but also have their fingers on the current pop culture and literary pulse. This is how I was introduced to Slate's The Culture Gabfest, and through that I discovered The Waves. Both of them are podcasts that are savvy, thoughtful, with the added benefit of being comforting and providing lovely company as you make your way through the day.

Recently, my other podcast loving friend alerted me that, as we had just been hoping, Slate has brought forth an LGBTQ podcast with one of our favorite critics and writers, J. Bryan Lowder, at the helm. I frankly adore his work and his insights, and while I naturally don't agree with everything her says (I see his point but have some disagreements regarding his assessment of the new Queer Eye) he always keeps me thinking. This along with the fact that he is looking at issues and stories that few others seem to, and that resonate with me. If you are not familiar with his work, check out his essay on embracing "What's Gay", or check out his appearance in the feature doc examining drag that you can see on Filmstruck. He and fellow critics Christina Cauterucci and Brandon Tensley will be doing a monthly podcast discuss trending lgbt issues, and to broaden our horizons, if such horizons need broadening. I could not be more excited to have this out in the podcast world, because while there are many lgbt podcasts, it is doubtful that there are any that are as well produced and thoughtful as this one will be. I highly recommend it, and if it doesn't thrill you right away, I encourage you to stick with it for two reasons.

1. It sometimes takes our ears and minds awhile to adjust to new formats and new personalities. Allow yourself sometime to adjust to the slight pretensions and the unfamiliarity of the panelists and their quirks. When I first listen to any podcast it takes awhile to get past the feeling of being in a foreign land, and to make my own decisions about the panelists, seeing past the self established personas to who they are. Once I do it always worth it as they become like second world friends that both get me laughing, remind me of the gentle reason in the world, and teach me.

2. This podcast is just beginning, and may take a little time to find its footing, but it surely will, and if you listen and subscribe now you can boast to your friends that you were there from the beginning.

Angels Revisited

Last Sunday I caught Part 2 of Angels In America before it closes on Broadway in the next few days. The guy I'd been seeing had not been able to get tickets to the second half, and I was able to score some very reasonably priced tickets that would allow him to see the second part, and for me to hold this production close to my metaphorical bosom before it leaves forever.

God, I love this show. God, I love this production. For how sprawling and far reaching and important and inclusive it is. For Andrew Garfield and how empathetic he is, and the fact that both David and I can adore him and not feel unmoored by the awareness that the person we are seeing finds other men attractive, that's how undeniably lovely he is in this play. I love it for it's humor. For its cold neon glamor, and its earnestness. And for its many many allusions to The Wizard Of Oz. I want to live inside it, it's so beautiful. But only because I know that its a journey that I know how it ends. Knowing that ending allows me to relish in the way we get to that ending, and to find joy in each twist and rest along the way. It's kind of the same way people want to live in the forties. Our whole fucking way of life was at stake, and people were being slaughtered. Our loved ones were going off to shoot people and may never come back, but Oh, the clothing! And fashion!

I hope this play comes back in my lifetime, and that I can go back and hear those words spoken, see those tender fuck-ups struggle just like I do through my own jiggles and bounces. It will be heart wrenching, and bittersweet, and I will laugh and cry with another group of people as we acknowledge our commonalities together through "mutual emotion", but it will never be the same. This is what theatre has that is special, and that Hollywood can never own. That intimacy, that momentous thrill, and that magic of vanishing.

My date caught a bit of the final bows on his phone, and I was equal parts annoyed and grateful that he did it. It's nice to have even the smallest piece to keep and remember.