life, the universe, and everything

My Boyfriend Bill

if he were still alive, would be 95 when this is posted. Now, let's face it. Even if he hadn't died by "misadventure," no way was this guy making it to 95. Odds were against him living past 70. On the other hand, my dad did. Of course, in my dad's family, dying at 77 was actually somewhat early. Okay, back to wherever we were headed.

My love for William Holden developed slowly over about 30 years, and then suddenly, bam! I could not get enough of him. At nearly 45 years old, I was crushing hard like 1977 ripping pages out of Tiger Beat hard. And after about a year of rewatching his films and catching up on so many I'd never seen, he started invading my thoughts. In 2011 I plastered one of my Tumblrs with him, posted about him here several times, and then last year I saw so much of him at other Tumblrs, etc., I was jealous. I mean that in the possessive sense. I've never minded sharing Gene Kelly or Hugh Laurie, etc., but Bill Holden was mine. What did a lot of young persons know about that world I was birthed into, the world which shaped who he became, and informed my sensibilities as I grew up and as it passed away? This world, the one we're in right now, is unrecognizable by comparison. To love this glowing yet damaged creature fully outside of context is to love a different person than do I. Yes, I cropped his wife Brenda Marshall out of this photo. It's a metaphor.

But that's mostly preposterous, of course. I know this. I know what it says about me, too. It's not, though, like I'd get into internet fights about it or whatever. It's just a reflection. 

It's like how I am about James Garner. I can barely speak of it and risk suddenly being surrounded by a spontaneous retroactive adoration that waters down this particular intensity I've held onto for over 40 years. It's weird, but it isn't really weird at all. It's dreadfully, drearily ordinary. I so dislike confronting how ordinary I am sometimes, don't you?

William Holden was like Dean Martin in certain respects. He did what he did because that's what he did. He was both laid-back and very fussy. He appeared to be all surface; handsome, handsomely wearing what he wore, looking effortless, like sprezzatura.

Looking back, it's obvious how smart Dean Martin was, and that he was laughing at everyone else and how seriously they took themselves. I mean, their effort. He was serious when he needed to be, without all that energy-consuming effort. 

I'm not sure Bill Holden was quite so smart, but I do think he possessed the same sharp view of himself, other people, the whole world. Some people, they're tortured by it all, and he was one of those people. And so, Africa, right? But also so much booze and cigarettes and needing to bathe over and over again. Perhaps trying to wash away something he could never take back. Anyway, it wasn't all effortless effort for him at all. Yet he kept at it.

I can love all that only retroactively because I've seen it in others, first hand, and because I'm fascinated by the puzzle of it all. In the every day present here and now, I like my puzzles to be crosswords or mazes on a little screen, and I am way, way over tortured passion. But it is a seriously groovy fantasy, not unlike when you're 15 and you find out a movie star you love prefers other men and you think, because you are 15 and silly, I could change him. He'd want me. 

Nah, it's not really like that. It's just intensity, power, a sort of kinetic chiarascurro, and that's exciting; knowing what you know now, all that experience filters your view and colors your desires. You know how to play with fire, or at least imagine that you do.

Is someone reading this and thinking very earnest thoughts? Let's turn the record over and consider this. It is raining hard as I write this, the iPod across the room is playing a gentle jazz tune, I forgot to wash some of the paint off my legs from when I was working on a new canvas earlier, and in a few minutes, when I turn out the light to sleep, I'll press one of the pillows to my side in this great big bed, and contemplate something only briefly earnestly. 

From here

To here

Bill Holden was a movie star, a box office hero. Did he want to be revered for more than that? Did he want to be revered at all? Probably not. Who can ever live up to it? 

I watch this and grow sad and think, yes, he died too soon. It was a "wrong" death. 

But I cannot be serious for more than 9 minutes at a time. (And as pt 2 appears to be missing, that's just as well.) So then I go back to thinking of him as my boyfriend Bill, just before I drift off to sleep.

Like this,

Or this, 

And especially like this:

More photos collected here.

Titles are so limiting, aren't they?

I was such a grimy child. I could sit outside and play in mud, or dirt, or sand, or a tree, or my little wading pool, for hours on end. I hated baths and was scared of the shower. I mean, I went to school clean, but did as little as possible on my own to make that happen until I was at least ten. 

People thought of me as a tomboy. For awhile, I did, too, but looking back, I realize I never was. I didn't play with dollies much, or Barbies much, though I had both. And I had a little toy kitchen and tea sets and all of it. But they were just accessories to a chaotic life. Neither did I play sports as I was tremendously clumsy, at least, according to everyone around me. I don't remember myself that way. I rode my bike for hours, and could jog for several miles at a time. Latterly, the family bowling gene appeared. Whatever.

As a child, I played with clay, paint, craft sets, crayons, glue, rocks and sticks and leaves and paper and paper and more paper. Yet no one thought of me as artistic or creative in the slightest. 

I'm beginning to wonder if they thought anything interesting about me at all, other than that I was always covered with dirt or something colorful and sticky that was probably also stuck to my carpet. 

I played detective and cowboys and indians. But all girls did, because there weren't exciting girl things to be. We sometimes thought we wanted to be the superhero or the cowboy because he was cool, not because he was a man. I mean, by extension, men got to do the exciting powerful stuff, so that was part of it. It's just—it was the merest breath of a hop for me to want to be Bret Maverick to, well, wanting to be with him. I mean, not that way, that came later. Just there, his, breathing in his awesomeness. 

Tonight as I undressed to shower after putting in 70 leeks, and gosh do I hate planting leeks, yet I love growing leeks, I thought about how I was as dirty as when I was seven. Not really at all, though. It wasn't visible except on my hands. But I'm an adult, and so of course, I felt just miserably but also gloriously dirty from digging and raking and planting today. And of course I love a good strong shower, and emerging clean and new. Yet I can't wait to get out there tomorrow and do it again. I mean, not plant more leeks. Something. Something else I can nurture and grow while playing in the dirt. 

Yes, this is a dull photo of 70 baby leeks. Gardening is tactile. 

This wasn't really about that when I first thought of it...um, unlike other women I know, I haven't thought of myself as a "girl" in many years. And never truly a "tomboy," which, really, is fairly misogynistic if you think about it. Sometimes I think I don't relate to other women very well because they're trying so hard either to be one or not to be one; I am never quite sure about it all. But then, too, in certain ways, women can relate only to each other, and it's important to recognize and cherish that. I do. 

I spent many years watching my children enjoy doing the playing and digging and messing, and so I did very little of it myself. But it's who I am naturally. I chop and mix and bake or shake. I throw paint around. I collect stacks of books. Sometimes I spill things. And I dig in the dirt. But I also like a neat clear space, tidy shelves, organized tools, and clean skin. 

This is me preparing to remove garden grime. I decided that if I shared this fairly terrible photo, every other photo of me that follows it will look very good by comparison. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder...

I'm continuing to strive to be the best parts of myself; the original ones and the later ones that come with maturity. 

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

It never hurts to think well of yourself, or at least to think well of your possibilities. I really am pretty much who I have always wished to be, just have to do a bit more with it.

Then, too, I am also thinking of Joseph Cotten's perfect, almost over-chiseled lips. The sky is growing dark and my attention turns from the external to the internal. So to speak. 

Rita, girl, you are a mess. But I understand. 

Experience collection

This month is a little tight because of paying off the car last week. And then running into someone with it this week. There wasn't much damage but there is a comprehensive deductible, which makes things tighter still. 

I never was in an accident before. So that's an experience to have collected. But I have avoided looking at the monetary spreadsheet to see how things will stand and intend to continue avoiding it for a couple more days. In the meantime, a certain degree of discipline is certainly required, so there's no date with myself today. I have plenty of other stuff to do, anyway. It's warm out! I get to...rake and clean out of doors...

But this was just another in a definite series of events which has me concerned about how my life is organized, mainly the things I own in it. There isn't excess lying about, unless you think a lot of books (few of which are not on shelves or in boxes) are excess, in which case I have no words for you, but there are several drawers of things and a closet with some things and a storage room with several boxes of things. If something were to happen to me and people had to sort through it all, I think it would be, well, probably sort of hilarious in a melancholy way, as it's somewhat serendipitous but not disgusting, yet still. Somewhat of a chore. 

I quite like most of what I own, so it isn't a question of throwing out a lot of leftover bits of string and etc. It's just all fairly miscellaneous, and I need to put order to it. And yes, get rid of some of it, which is something I try to do annually, but intend to do with extra fervor this year. 

Last night after reorganizing Important Papers, I entertained myself by pulling out a few things from drawers and snapping bad photos of them to share with you. I hope you are entertained, as well, because I'm going to start doing this from time to time, as a sort of digital Moleskine.

Stamps were 39 cents in 2006 and early 2007. Inside this envelope was a blank note card. Well, it seems like a silly thing to waste, so I've inserted the 2002 Simple Minds/INXS concert ticket to send to my youngest daughter. We attended it for free when she was only 11. Made our way down to the stage, where Jim Kerr touched her hand. She can keep the ticket or not as she chooses, but I'm sure she'll enjoy seeing it. 

My Bi-Weekly Cincinnati Outing: Report #5

Two weeks ago I went to the symphony to hear a somewhat unusual concert. Unusual for me, at least. The one playing this weekend featuring Sarah Chang is more my speed. But I wanted something different. 

Watts Plays Beethoven's Emperor with Mei-Ann Chen, conductor, and André Watts, piano was the title of the program, but it also featured two contemporary pieces of music; "Poem," by Zhou Tian, and Jennifer Higdon's Concerto for Orchestra, which is just a real big experience to watch and hear live. Stunning, actually. If you can listen to the fourth movement, I recommend you do so but it's actually a satisfying piece of music altogether, though possibly a bit outlandish for anyone whose enjoyment of orchestral music is firmly pre-20th century. It's also not all that complex or intellectual, etc., if for some reason that's your thing. 

Here's a review of the whole concert. Afterwards, I went to Coffee Emporium for a late lunch before driving home.

Here's a little phone photo-log of my afternoon. It was very yucky out, and began snowing just as I got back home. 

 

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Today should be outing #6, but it is not to be, that is, it will be delayed a couple weeks, but hopefully not more. A sudden change in plans occurred, which I will talk about in the next post. 

 

My swift descent into [temporary] madness

1127 words. Starting on the 19th, sometime around noon, I fell ill. As I type this I've climbed mostly out of it, though I expect the cough to wane. Friends on Google+ witnessed the madness of this experience and I thought others should share in it as well, since they won't be bothered to use G+ like the cool kids.

It's long, but if you dig me, you'll dig it. I promise. Excerpts and screenshots follow...

Tuesday, woke up in a great mood, virus hit me in the face around lunchtime.

"I have the TV on but muted because I forgot about it. I do that.

There is a soap opera on, and I thought, "Wow, is that Scotty? I don't like what he did to his face." He has that thing where all his face is in the lower half? And Botox.

And a couple minutes later I looked up and there was Luke, and so the woman turns out to be Laura. 30 years is a long time, man.

Apparently Tristan Rogers still turns up now and then as Robert Scorpio. I was way into him. 

Show looks super boring, though. People seem to be having many heartfelt and tearful conversations.

Also, Scott, Laura, and Luke appear to be having the exact same story from 1980. 

Wednesday: fever has taken hold

"Rory Swan posted that triangle diagram with the angles marked good looks, intelligence, emotional stability, and at the midsection it says "pick two."

Now I can't decide if my answer is feverishly profound or just feverish. But I think there's something in it. :-)

:We're just all different types of triangles. Equilateral, scalene, isosceles, and we have different degrees of angles, so some are right, some are acute, etc. In the end, it all adds up to 180º, and we just need to find the correct triangle to match up with and form a happy quadrilateral.:

(Not that I think you can't be a perfectly content polygon all on your own...)

"Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted??!

And more importantly, why has no one brought me cake? I would like lemon, or spice, or just a good white or yellow cake with a fluffy old-fashioned boiled frosting. 

Jon Hamm Pants

"Alec Baldwin once tweeted at someone, "You are a tedious, pedantic bore, but your engagement on the issue is admirable."

"Talk of this new Google app reminded me I had not signed into Evernote on my replacement Kindle Fire, and they didn't recognize the device so I had to type five words from "recent" notes. And out of nearly 3 years of notes, the only thing that came to mind was my 2011 Thanksgiving list. So I named some Thanksgiving dinner stuff and it worked.

"I'm watching Ride the High Country from 1962 with Randolph Scott and Joel McCrea. I was thinking that McCrea looked very groovy to me even as an old man. But it turns out he was just 57 when he made this movie. And that's only 10 years older than me...perhaps not actually an old man...

Thursday: dashed optimism

"Mama I'm so tired but I just don't wanna sleep.

"Um, what's on my mind. 

~I went ahead and made an Aviation on ice, to calm my chest. I'll have to drink a lot of water afterwards, but I have been anyway.

~I bet 99% of you won't share this=I am a horrible person you never want to meet.

~On Sunday, before the Andre Watts concert, there is a Pride champagne buffet. How interesting would that be? But it's raising money for something and is way pricey. Also, no matter how bold you are, milling about alone is still generally a little awkward. 

~I signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo to make sure I finish my new story idea in good time. Here's the thing. I intend for it to be about 70 pages. http://campnanowrimo.org/campers/bibliosylph/novels/i-want-to-believe

~The other day I was having a discussion with someone that led me down a weird Google Image rabbit hole I have not climbed out of, and this is a recent result of that. 

Friday: shocking turn away from...or toward...something.

"I called one sick boy in here to kill the bug which wasn't bothering me for days when it lived in the window frame behind the heavy blinds but scared and upset me when it flew out to the top of the French doors. It's the kind that will fly at you. Also, it's not native. Or wasn't. And those upset me most. And anyway, he left the hallway door open as he went at the bug with a washcloth and Shadow of Night by Deborah Harkness because they are so hard to kill, and that let the cat in, and she went behind the bed where she will stay forever, breathing loudly and having fur, so then the other sick kid had to come and chase her out with a broom. 

Now I have a headache and I ate cheese and caramel popcorn which is no way to get better or keep fitting into your clothes. And I am really very tired of Karl Malden today because my bedroom is kind of hot but when I leave it, I cough because of walking around and using my respiratory system.

Saturday: I don't know, at this point, what else to say.

"It's just about that time of the month. 

No, not during which I wish to join Mr Darcy in the bath so he can wash my back with a Regency-era bathbrush, and eat chocolate and cry.

I think that probably ended, if it ever did exist for me, in a previous -decade- century before I had the tubal ligation. (except the Darcy part. That probably actually increased.)

For me, it's just about that time when sycophants bother me more than usual. When people who speak as though they are composing greeting card verse designed to neuter someone's honest thoughts kind of piss me off. When, and this is especially cruel and horrible of me, men who are not logically-minded but are inclined to approach a subject with emotional delicacy and the tenderness of baby bunny feelings nauseate me even more than usual to the point where I want to substitute the blades in their razor with sarcastically dulled ones so that they will cut their precious sensitive skin on my words. 

I don't want to see out-of-context photos of a single rose with a dewdrop aching to fall from one glistening petal, or cheap cliched sentiment pasted in the Bradley Hand font over a rosy sunrise, or anyone metaphorically fellating a celebrity for some special sentiment they once repeated on a morning TV show interview. 

I mean, I don't feel that way at this exact moment. I'm just stating these things prophylactically because I know it's coming. 

 

 

My Bi-Weekly Cincinnati Outing: Report #4

I hope you enjoyed my little audio post. I'm going to do a better one, hopefully this evening, but for now, here is a long "dates with myself" entry, with a few links and photos for you to enjoy. There would be more photos, but my internet connection seems to feel about as well as I do just now. 

Two weeks ago I spent my afternoon at the Cincinnati Art Museum. I'd been there once or twice before, but not in nearly a year.

I have visited major art museums in Kansas City, Chicago, Detroit, New York, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia. They each have something special about them. In New York, in that massive old building, you see art you've heard about all your life. In Philadelphia you see what seems like a true richness of creativity. Lots of good examples of 20th century style; Post-Impressionism, Cubism, Abstract Expressionism, Color Field, etc. Detroit has some great sculpture . I remember least about Chicago but what I do remember is being completely immersed in culture. Pittsburgh is a city that is practically made of art and beauty amidst a certain amount of decay. I'd want to talk more about the contemporary art there and could write pages.

The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City is one of my favorite places to be out of everywhere I've been. It's beautiful, inside and out. There is a wealth of treasure there, literally, particularly the Imperial Chinese collection. And it's free, so you can wander in and out as you please, as you enjoy the complete outdoor setting, most especially in late Spring and early Autumn.

So for me, the Cincinnati Art Museum has a lot to measure up to. It does, you know, in one particular area of focus I'd never seen at another museum. That is local art, and in particular, the local art movement here in the 19th century. There was a thriving art culture here, you see, and the museum has great examples of it, but especially very good education on it. You really *learn* when you are at this museum, if you wish to.

Audio blog trial: Bill and Me

I keep meaning to do these more regularly. This is three minutes long. The first minute is just me dithering because I spoke before thinking. :-) The two remaining minutes are an excerpt from a short essay posted here in 2011. 

March 20, 2013

My Bi-Weekly Cincinnati Outing: Report #3

Two weeks ago I went to Clifton to see what that's all about, and to see Amour. I'm really looking forward to going back there. The movie theater is pretty cool, there are many interesting restaurants around, and little shops to poke through. 

I'd been looking forward to seeing Amour for months, but then I kept putting it off because it looked so sad. But I decided I wanted to see it before the Academy Awards, so I went ahead, and I'm so glad I did. It's the best movie I've seen in quite a long time. 

Before the movie, it was hard to decide what to eat, but I ended up going pretty ordinary, to a place called Olives for their breakfast buffet. I had a Bloody Mary, and was entertained by people behind me having a very joyous birthday party. These were real friends enjoying each others' company. It was nice. And the food wasn't bad. I'll go back and try something from the bar, something from the regular menu. 

There's a nice park overlooking it all, and I drove up to it for a couple minutes. It will be very pretty in a few weeks. I'm going to add some links later, for now, a few pictures.  And I'll probably share about today's art museum outing tonight or tomorrow, instead of waiting two weeks. 

 

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Parsifal: Live from the Met

On Saturday we went to see Parsifal at the movie theater. The Met has been streaming a dozen operas live this season (for the sixth year,) so that they can be seen all over the world. The tickets are $22 each, really well worth it to see great performers and great music. But you do have to be in a theater with good sound. 

Of course, PBS has been airing a number of them each year, and you can see the general schedule here, if you scroll down a bit. Rigoletto, the one we saw two weeks ago, will air in May, and I'd recommend it for something unusual to enjoy. 

Parsifal is not one for the masses, and I don't mean that in any sort of snobbish sense. It's nearly 5 hours long in addition to the intermissions between acts, so that we were at the movie theater for 6 hours total. It's deep and at times very dark, okay, most times, and filled with symbolism and pain. 

So you have to love the music and the hugeness of the thing in order to really enjoy the experience. Wagner created enormous sounds that are quite overpowering at times, and they envelope your insides. 

Instead of just driving down to Newport, the man faithfully followed his GPS instructions, which took us some odd way around and we missed the opening by the host and in fact entered the theater just after the overture began. As there were only about 50 people in the theater, it wasn't difficult to just slip into some good seats without making commotion. The visual presentation of the overture was so gripping, I began thinking about how great it would be to see quite a lot of symphonic work represented visually. 

It's kind of how I like a lot of prog rock until someone starts "singing." I love the voices in this piece but if I could watch a whole symphony unfold on stage as the music played, I'd happily pay for the privilege. The works of Mahler in particular would lend themselves just beautifully to the idea. 

I like to paint jazz. I'd love to see someone act and move to orchestral music; not with dance, but with pantomime and imagery. 

At the first intermission, we got a snack from the concession stand and some beer from the bar. I had a local vanilla porter which was fine with a hot dog, but then kind of thin, finished on its own. And we moved to lesser seats because someone behind us had a knee-jiggling problem, I think, which made our seats vibrate all through the two hours of the first act.

The second act was intimate and absorbing. The third began too slowly for us but we enjoyed the culmination of the story very much. I felt sort of wrung out by the experience, yet very glad to have had it. 

One nice feature of these streaming events is that the host or hostess is an opera star, who introduces the acts, and conducts interviews with singers, the director, people who make it happen, etc., at the end of the first and second act and before the official 20 minute intermission. Also, because we are witnessing the production onscreen, we see varying (but conservative!) camera angles and closeups. Finally, the English words to the songs appear onscreen for those of us less than talented at interpreting German, Italian, and French as it is being sung. 

That is the "appeal to the masses" which some might find takes away from the purity of the event. But they have the wrong end of the stick. These productions were never meant by their composers to be elitist, and the more people they can reach, the better. It's just that you need a rather steely attention span to appreciate this particular offering. Read about it here.

False Reflection

Because I looked up a couple things recently for reference purposes, the internet advertising demons now think I am interested in unattractive "natural" footwear, and hippyesque clothing somewhat specifically in very large sizes, and follow me around the web, flinging them at me wherever I go.

I'd rather they go back to trying to sell me a car I already own.