“Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.”
— Dorothy Parker

• I’m never going to be famous. I don’t do anything, not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that any more.

• I don’t care what is written about me so long as it isn’t true.

• Wit has truth in it; wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words.

• I know that there are things that never have been funny, and never will be. And I know that ridicule may be a shield, but it is not a weapon.

• You can’t teach an old dogma new tricks.

• Women and elephants never forget.

• I might repeat to myself slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound — if I can remember any of the damn things.

• Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.

• Four be the things I’d have been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.

• A girl’s best friend is her mutter.

• I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.

• Take care of luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.

• Salary is no object; I want only enough to keep body and soul apart.

• Money cannot buy health, but I’d settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair.

• The two most beautiful words in the English language are ‘cheque enclosed.’

• If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.

• The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.

• The best way to keep children home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant — and let the air out of the tires.

• Now, look, baby, ‘Union’ is spelled with 5 letters. It is not a four-letter word.

• It serves me right for keeping all my eggs in one bastard.

• All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.

• Heterosexuality is not normal, it’s just common.

• Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

• Men don’t like nobility in woman. Not any men. I suppose it is because the men like to have the copyrights on nobility — if there is going to be anything like that in a relationship.

• That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can’t say No in any of them.

• People are more fun than anybody.

• I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I’m under the table,
after four I’m under my host.

• I’d rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.

• You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.

• Ducking for apples — change one letter and it’s the story of my life.

• The Monte Carlo casino refused to admit me until I was properly dressed so I went and found my stockings, and then came back and lost my shirt.

• Brevity is the soul of lingerie.

• This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

• She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.

• The only ism Hollywood believes in is plagiarism.

Portable Parker: An anthology published for service folk stationed overseas

Not sure why I look forward each week to seeing which “Notable Quotable” appears on the cover of the Outreach Connection newspaper … but I do. I mean, I could get myself a Bartlett’s book full of them … but I don’t.

Instead, I make a stop at the downtown corner where Mr. Singh flogs his stack of issues each Wednesday. (As you may recall, the paper helps the homeless and the unemployed by giving them a “job” selling each week’s issue for $1 to $2 (while they pay about 25 cents per issue).)

The articles are provided by volunteers and range from movie reviews to inspirational themes to current trends, and are definitely written for the urban commuters who buy the paper, not the homeless and unemployed folk who sell it. In fact, this week’s cover story is called “Texting Obsession” and its author admits “the newest Facebook application is installed on my Blackberry Curve.” I don’t know about Mr. Singh, but it’s def. out of my league!

Notable quotable

When I spotted the inspired choice of quotation today, I let out a squeal of glee : The notably quotable Ms. Dorothy Parker herself!

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”
– Dorothy Parker (1893 – 1967)

Parker is most famous for writing for The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Hollywood movies (A Star is Born, The Little Foxes), as one of the legendary Algonquin Round Table quipsters, and for such witticisms as:

• “Women and elephants never forget.”
• “Take care of luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”
• “The two most beautiful words in the English language are ‘cheque enclosed.’”
• “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”
• “Brevity is the soul of lingerie.”

So I was pleasantly surprised to find out she was also a civil rights good-deeder from way back.

In fact, 21 years after her death, the NAACP designed a memorial garden for her remains outside their Baltimore headquarters. The plaque there reads:

Here lie the ashes of Dorothy Parker (1893–1967) humorist, writer, critic. Defender of human and civil rights. For her epitaph she suggested, ‘Excuse my dust‘. This memorial garden is dedicated to her noble spirit which celebrated the oneness of humankind and to the bonds of everlasting friendship between black and Jewish people. Dedicated by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. October 28, 1988.

P.S. I bet Dorothy would have grooved to this French carol (filmed at the recent Kaleidoscope event to raise awareness of key issues surrounding women and cancer). Enjoy!

“The best way to keep children at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires.”

Dorothy Parker

WORD

foment [foh-ment] v. 1. to instigate or foster (discord, rebellion, etc.); promote the growth or development of: to foment trouble; to foment discontent 2. to apply warm water or medicated liquid, ointments, etc., to (the surface of the body)

BIRTHDAY

Tiberius (42 BC), Eddie Condon (1905), Burgess Meredith (1908), Griff Rhys Jones (1953), Dwight Gooden (1964), Diana Krall (1964), Lisa Bonet (1967), Martha Plimpton (1970), Oksana Baiul (1977), Maggie Gyllenhaal (1977)

STANDPOINT

OK, so I had a whole big thing written about how modern society is making the free-thinking individual an endangered species, but, for once, I want to recollect my thoughts on it, and rewrite it. So it’ll be here tomorrow. Count on it.

“If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor.”  – Albert Einstein

QUOTATION

Now I know the things I know, and I do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you! → Dorothy Parker

TUNE

Recently, I’ve been giving a closer listen to Time To Die by The Dodos. I think “Two Medicines” is the best track on the album. I’ll probably change my mind by tomorrow. But right now, that’s my official stance.

GALLIMAUFRY

→ Man, does everyone have a sex tape nowadays? Carrie Prejean, the moron who used to be Miss Calfornia, apparently let an old boyfriend tape her masturbating. And now some porn company has a hold of it. Just a matter of time before it gets leaked, if it hasn’t all ready. People get rich over this kind of shit. Even in this economy.

→ I don’t care what you think. I’ll admit it. I have always loved Allen Iverson. His current debacle with the Memphis Grizzlies might, sadly, be his swan song in the NBA.

→ I used to do a segment on this blog named Annoying Sayings & Misused Words. Check out how Cracked.com ripped me off. Also, they probably did it better than I ever did.

I saw this quote by Joe Louis and just thought it really describes how I feel about money in a funny way. Money seriously irritates me because I need it so much but it’s just stupid paper. But without it, I’m a nervous wreck.

This quote by Dorothy Parker is perfect for describing how I feel now that I finally do have some money:

“I don’t know much about being a millionaire, but I’ll bet I’d be a darling at it.”

I haven’t even received my first paycheck yet and I’ve already spent my next three months worth of money — at least in my mind.

There are just so many things I have wanted to buy or do in the past few months that I’ve been deprived of!

For instance, my computer and my camera are old and quickly dying so I want to buy new ones.

Then, there are places in New Orleans that I’ve wanted to visit, like Audubon Zoo and the graveyard tours.

There’s also the UF Alumni Association, which I did go ahead and buy membership to, and joining the Krewe of Muses, which was a big goal of mine before I had even left Gainesville.

And then there’s those luxuries in life, you know, health insurance. My job offers some, but it’s not very good and would not allow me to keep my Florida doctors so I’m opting to get health insurance on my own. I found a pretty cheap plan through BCBS that’s less than $200/month.

Just imagine what I could do with $1 million…

By Dorothy Parker:

WAIL

Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I could do without the thing,
And not be the first.

Joy has gone the way it came.
That is nothing new;
I could get along the same, –
Many people do.

Dig for me the narrow bed,
Now I am bereft.
All my pretty hates are dead,
And what have I left?

MEN

They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They’ll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They’d make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They’d alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.

ON BEING A WOMAN

Why is it, when I am in Rome,
I’d give an eye to be at home,
But when on native earth I be,
My soul is sick for Italy?

And why with you, my love, my lord,
Am I spectacularly bored,
Yet do you up and leave me- then
I scream to have you back again?

Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) was an American writer and poet, best known for her wit, wisecracks, and sharp eye for 20th century urban foibles. From a conflicted and unhappy childhood, Parker rose to acclaim, both for her literary output in such venues as The New Yorker and as a founding member of the Algonquin Round Table, a group she later disdained. Following the breakup of that circle, Parker traveled to Hollywood to pursue screenwriting. Her successes there, including two Academy Award nominations, were curtailed as her involvement in left-wing politics led to a place on the infamous Hollywood blacklist. Parker went through three marriages (two to the same man) and survived several suicide attempts, but grew increasingly dependent on alcohol. Dismissive of her own talents, she deplored her reputation as a “wisecracker”. Nevertheless, her literary output and her sparkling wit have endured. (Annotated biography of Dorothy Parker courtesy of Wikipedia.org)

Editor’s Note: Were there a picture next to the word “wit” in the dictionary that picture would be of Dorothy Parker. Striking intelligence and cruel hilarity are implicit in her work. I chose a sampling of Parker’s poems because her work spanned a considerable number of subject matters, chief among them being her strong opinions on what it meant to be a man, what it meant to be a woman, and what it meant to be human, in her time. Parker was a progressive thinker when it came to sexuality and woman’s rights. Parker’s work was an avenue for expressing her strong opinions, and because of her mastery as a writer, those opinions were successfully broadcast to the world.

Want to read more by and about Dorothy Parker?
Poets.org
Famous Poets and Poems.com
American Poems.com

1) Doesn’t this music just look beautiful itself? Every morning at school drop off, I read Emma a book in the hallway. This morning, she chose a book about the life of Johann Sebastian Bach. He had TWENTY children! Only 10 lived into adulthood and 4 were given a variation of his name. 3 boys named Johann and a girl named Johanna. Kind of like George Foreman and all his Georges. I find that really funny.

When I got to work (since I have nothing better to do. No, really, I have nothing better to do since this job was totally mischaracterized to me before accepting and is totally mundane and not challenging at all), I looked up Bach on Wiki. Look how perfect this sheet music is.

Here it is for your ears as well: Sonata

2) “Truly human, fully ourselves, beautiful.” This is from the novel On Beauty, by Zadie Smith. I am hesitant to dissect books because I think it destroys their beauty. So much of what makes a story a great story is how it makes the reader feel. I can’t do that for you or you or you. And one reason why I have always hated English classes and why I just couldn’t be an English major in undergrad (other than the fact that I thought there would be no jobs, other than teaching. Too bad I should have known then I would love to be a teacher now. Youthful ambition. sigh.) But, the book questions – what is art? what is music? is beauty physical – can you touch it? is it spiritual? is it academic? She does this through a philandering academic, a hip hop listening teen and a pie-baking older woman.

3) Emma. Ok, I cannot post about beauty without posting about Emma, who is the most beautiful person I have ever witnessed. But, deeper is the sheer terror I feel when I think that she will ever question her beauty, which she will, since she’s a human girl and all. I am totally unaware of ANY woman on this planet who has truly loved herself all her days. Maybe this just isn’t realistic of humans at all, but I’d like to think that maybe it’s possible and maybe it will start with my daughter. When I think of the loathing aimed toward myself growing up, I feel so sad. It’s not something rational, I don’t quite know why I thought those things, but I’ve been trying to get to the root so that maybe I can help Emma navigate through the preteen and teen years. For the first time a few weeks ago, she referenced “being pretty” (by wearing patent leather shoes). I’ve purposely restrained myself from talking about myself in those terms (those monthly pants battles are waged in the privacy of my own room, with no little eyes to witness). I don’t say “I look so fat” or “I’m so ugly” and I don’t talk about other people in terms of physical beauty. I do tell her that she is beautiful, that she is the most wonderful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, and that Daddy is, in fact, a very handsome man. But I do wear make up, buy clothes to show off my figure, and spend money on hair products and scented things. I shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows. What is this saying to her? That I need to cover myself in order to be “presentable” for work? That I need to push up and suck in, as I look in the mirror at all angles. That I complain about my achy feet and sore blisters while limping in 3 inch heeled shoes (even I have largely abandoned heels. I remember when I refused to wear flat shoes.).

I can’t imagine her ever thinking she’s anything other than beautiful by just being herself. Why don’t I feel the same about me?

Why do I feel so down today?!

A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe ~

So, I ‘ve given you music, given you a picture (of music at least). Now I must give you a poem – and a laugh.

]]> http://jeunessedoiree.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/bohemia/ Wed, 04 Nov 2009 22:50:03 +0000 jeunessedoiree http://jeunessedoiree.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/bohemia/

Bohemia by Dorothy Parker

Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses’ necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!

Not Much Fun: The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker

By Stuart Y. Silverstein

Published October 20, 2009  (Paperback) Scribner

Unwittingly, I fell in love with Dorothy Parker’s quips long before I knew they were hers.  Read every footnote in Not Much Fun — some of them take up half the page — and you will understand.  One of the famed writers at the Algonquin Table in the twenties, Dottie, as she was called, was known to brandish her sharp wit in word games.  Use  horticulture in a sentence. Dottie said, “You can take a horticulture, but you can’t make her think.”

Something about her life compelled me to want to be her, although I banished myself from writing poetry in my early twenties.  I felt the practice reinforced the evil I had survived till that point.  I slammed the door on the early rapes, my mother’s suicide attempts, my stepfather’s violence, and my real father’s disappearance.  Much like Dottie, I turned to drink, instead.  I loved being brilliant on the air the next morning – or so I thought.  Having drunk the guys under the table the night before, I was still drunk, and therefore lacked my acute self-criticism. I quit drinking about twenty years ago, finally pushed to sobriety when a disc jockey gave me a big hug, whispering  that he remembered the time I’d been naked in the houseboat.  Naked? Houseboat? I still don’t remember.  Dottie, at a bar, was asked by the bartender “What are you having?”  She replied “Not much fun.”

Dottie fell for married men, wrong men, bad men.  She got pregnant by one and had an abortion, quipping, “It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.”

I feel her pain.  These days, I do EMDR in therapy, trying to rewire my brain so that maybe someday I will find healthy men erotic.

My pain tolerance is exquisitely high.  I once had an ectopic pregnancy, and the tube burst, filling my body with blood.  I didn’t know anything was wrong, but I’d suspected I was pregnant, and happened to have had an imaging scheduled for that day.  Saved my life.  Don’t ask why my pain tolerance is high.  You will not want to hear that story.  I will say that I learned from trying to save my mother’s life – after her numerous suicide attempts – that that was a cowardly way to go, and when I was a kid, I cut, hiding the marks as best I could.

No one noticed.  Just like no one noticed when I read Dorothy Parker’s famous poem Resume in front of my sixth grade class.  Hello, teacher, why in hell would an eleven-year old read a poem like this?:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

I made it. The book is funny.  And, morose, too, truth be told.

A.A. Milne, author of more than Pooh

“The only excuse which I have yet discovered for writing anything is that I want to write it; and I should be as proud to be delivered of a Telephone Directory con amore as I should be ashamed to create a Blank Verse Tragedy at the bidding of others.”

There’s a lot tucked away in this one sentence of Alan Alexander Milne’s.  The quote comes from his introduction to his  whodunit, The Red House Mystery, published in 1922. Milne was about 40 then, with a wife and young son Christopher Robin, who would soon inspire the Pooh stories for which Milne is now so well known.  You can see a glimmer of them here, in the way the words Telephone Directory and Blank Verse Tragedy are capitalized. (“I have been Foolish and Deluded. I am a Bear of No Brain at All.”)

Interesting, too, this musing on what he should and should not write. What he’d feel proud or ashamed of. He worked many years for Punch magazine, as did Ernest Howard Shepard, who illustrated Milne’s children’s stories. Milne also wrote a number of plays, an autobiography, short stories, novels, political non-fiction, and a kind of adult fairytale called Once on a Time. But the world of the Hundred Acre Wood — containing his son, and a bear, pig, donkey, tiger and kangaroo bought at Harod’s — quickly came to define him.

Milne himself lamented:

If a writer, why not write
On whatever comes in sight?
So — the Children’s Books; a short
Intermezzo of a sort:
When I wrote them, little thinking
All my years of pen-and-inking
Would be almost lost among
Those four trifles for the young.

I wonder what he would think of the new book by David Benedictus, Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, complete with Shepardesque “decorations” by Mark Burgess. The story picks up where Milne left off, and brings Christopher Robin back from school on a new blue bicycle that all his animal friends admire. Christopher is more grown up than he was in the early stories — he knows what a thesaurus can do,  and notices things like the number of countries on his map that are coloured pink. But in some ways he remains the same: Pooh, staying with him that night, sits on a chair in the bathroom. “What he really wanted to see was whether he still wore his blue braces, and, yes, he did (but not in the bath).”

Return to the Hundred Acre Wood is lovingly and carefully created. Benedictus mimics Milne’s style effortlessly and with obvious admiration, and Burgess’s illustrations are as subtle and charming as Shepard’s were. There’s a new character, Lottie the somewhat feisty Otter, whose teeth are “sharp enough, I can promise you, when they need to be.” These are all things to admire (the but is still to come) and my daughter is enjoying the book as much as she enjoyed the original stories, maybe more, because she’s older now and getting more out of the readings. Piglet is still her favourite character (I think she sees herself in him), and she is intrigued by Owl’s spelling mistakes, something that would have been lost on her when we last read the original stories.

Poor her: the Tonstant Weader

She is delighted by the very things that so famously irritated Dorothy Parker — the “frequent droppings into more cadenced whimsy,” as she put it in her scathing New Yorker review of The House at Pooh Corner back in 1928. Parker was known as the Constant Reader, but had read enough when it came to Pooh’s silly little hums and a plot that consisted of practicing one for Eeyore.

“Pom,” said Pooh. “I put that in to make it more hummy.”

And in response, Parker wrote, “it is that word ‘hummy,’ my darlings, that marks the first place in The House at Pooh Corner at which Tonstant Weader Fwowed Up.”

In the words of a wise, good friend of mine: “Poor her, unable to enjoy a simple hum.”

But even Milne may have reached that stage eventually. His Pooh stories — though an “intermezzo” — became so successful that they eclipsed his other work. During WW2, demand for the Pooh stories soared, and only continued in the postwar era. Now, of course, we have tubby Disney Pooh in his too-tight red t-shirt, and any number of Pooh products are available for purchase. At one point, Milne wrote that any reference to the silly old bear was “infuriating.”

The real Christopher Robin

And Christopher Robin — a real person, after all — was indelibly inked into childhood by a kind but distant father who “got to where he was by climbing upon my infant shoulders … [and] left me with the empty fame of being his son…. One day I will write verses about him and see how he likes it.” (Actually Christopher Robin Milne did write three books about sharing his life with Pooh.)

It seems E.H. Shepard was similarly undone. Pooh — whose image was based on Shepard’s son’s bear, Growler — dominated, while Shepard’s other accomplishments were thrown into shadow. He drew for Punch for years, illustrated many other children’s books, including a couple of his own. He also authored two memoirs, Drawn from Memory and Drawn from Life. It seems his talents — or perhap his passion — ran in the family. His son, Graham, was an illustrator, but was killed in WW2, and his daughter, Mary, illustrated the Mary Poppins books.

Grahame's Dream Days, illustrated by E.H. Shepard

I was surprised to discover my own personal link to Shepard, however tangential. Along with the lovely example at right, he illustrated a version of Tom Brown’s School-Days, the Victorian-era story about a boy at Rugby School, by Thomas Hughes. Hughes was the father of Lillian Hughes, who died on the Titanic, but years earlier had befriended my great-grandmother. My grandmother’s middle name was Lillian, in honour of her.

But back to the story at hand. As I read Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, much as I enjoy Lottie, and Rabbit undertaking a census, and the Bear with no Brain outsmarting a swarm of bees, I can’t help but think back to the way the old tale ended — with Christopher Robin’s poignant declaration that he wouldn’t be “doing Nothing” any more, and that he hoped Pooh would understand. It was mysterious, but you got the sense that he was growing up, moving on — and that it was time to do so — but that some part of him would always remain in that enchanted place with his Bear. Really it seems like a perfect ending.

Joy stayed with me a night –
Young and free and fair –
And in the morning light
He left me there.

Then Sorrow came to stay,
And lay upon my breast
He walked with me in the day.
And knew me best.

I’ll never be a bride,
Nor yet celibate,
So I’m living now with Pride –
A cold bedmate.

He must not hear nor see,
Nor could he forgive
That Sorrow still visits me
Each day I live.

Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses. — Dorothy Parker

Men do make passes at girls who wear glasses, but it all depends on their frames. — Optician

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”  – Dorothy Parker

Mariela

1. William Shakespeare – Let’s see: responsible for the most impressive canon of work in history; wrote in Old English but created phrases that so many of us use today (“mind’s eye,” “the world is my oyster,” “brevity is the soul of wit”); originated the characters of Hamlet, Juliet and Iago and dramatized fascinating historical figures like Richard III, Henry V and Cleopatra; and, finally, so little is actually known about him.  But he writes some damn good bar scenes so you know he’ll be a hoot!

2. Pat Kingsley – This is my guilty pleasure invite.  She will have the scoop on man behind THE TOM CRUISE.  And, because of her years on top of the celeb kingdom, she will likely know the answers to all of my pressing gossip questions.

3. JK Rowling – Her story is made for the movies – welfare to way wealthy in a handful of years – and she created a mesmerizing alter-universe of wizardy that I wish I knew first-hand.  She’s stayed classy and discerning in the midst of becoming the most famous author in the world.  Mega respect for her.

4. Jose Marti – What would this Father of Cuban independence say now?

5. Queen Elizabeth I – She ruled England for almost half a century, supported the arts, never married and used that to her political advantage.  I imagine she’d have loads to say about the guys in power who can’t seem to keep their dick in their pants.  Shakespeare and Elizabeth have some catching up to do, too.

Jenni

1. It may be cheesy, but I would invite my BFF (K.H.) to dinner.  Who better to share this amazing experience with than your very closest girl friend?  We would be talking about this for years to come!  Plus she could assure me that this wasn’t just a dream.

2. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remember that when a lot of people are posed this question they want Jesus to attend the dinner.  Well, in my case I would rather have Mary Magdalene attend than Jesus.  As a mysterious and powerful historical figure, she would be a real asset to the group.  I would get all the dirt on Jesus and the Apostles and I have always wanted to know the untold (edited out) stories of biblical women figures.

3. I don’t know if she would currently be pegged as my favorite author, but I have always really liked S.E. Hinton and in high school she was my number one.  She wrote “The Outsiders” when she was only 16 years old, I love how her books capture teenage angst and confusion.  She is such a colorful storyteller – maybe she could make the toast.

4. While talking about philosophy, history and art would make interesting dinner conversation, we would need someone there who could liven up the party.  I would invite my absolute favorite comedian of all time, Lucille Ball.  I love her – the physical comedy, accents, imitations – I think she is a quintessential comedian.  I can just envision what it would be like to have Lucille and Mary M. sitting side by side.

5. I decided to go big and select a music icon, someone who could round out the talent repertoire – Mr. Johnny Cash.  I think his folk stories and family tales would keep us all captivated and maybe he could play a little ditty while we sipped cappuccinos and had dessert.  Of course, a male presence might be nice too.

Jen Mae

1. Oscar Wilde- I’d love to hear his critique on the state of today’s politics. His wit is timeless and his social commentary is brilliant. I imagine Wilde will be the emcee for the evening.

2. Emily Dickinson- One of my favorite poets. My grandmother introduced me to her work when I was young, but it took me a while to really appreciate it. Dickinson’s brevity can easily be mistaken for simplicity, but I always gain insight with each new read.  There is so much mystery surrounding her life.  I’d like to learn more about her, firsthand. I’d also ask her to bring me a loaf of her famous gingerbread.

3. Dorothy Parker- Now this lady can have a good time! She is another one of my favorite poets and also a talented essayist. I expect Dot to put Oscar in his place, when necessary.  I’m positive she will be the last one to leave.  She and I will stay up all night and drink entirely too much whiskey, unless she goes home with my next guest…

4. Bill Murray – I just watched a rerun of an interview that Murray did with Elvis Mitchell on TCM’s Under the Influence. In the interview, he confessed that he has a major thing for funny, smart women, but that those women are few and far between.  Guess what Mr. Murray? I have several friends who would fit the bill, pun intended! I’ve decided to adhere to my vows during this little dinner party, but I can imagine he may find Dorothy’s wit and intellect irresistible.

5. Jesus Christ- Just wanna see if he’ll show up.

Autumn

1. Agnes Varda: a french filmmaker whose films have kept me asking questions about my own life for years. i feel she would bring aplomb and an intense feminine insight to the night. a matron of media and an original director of the french new wave, i’d only ask her once how much she misses jacques demy. then we’d carry on about fantasy and her cheeky filmmaking.

2. Gabriel Garcia Marquez: carrying all the history of latin america with him, the old man would bring sass, sex and full-on flavor to the night. i’d ask him about salman rushdie, jack kerouac, mark twain, lao tzu, raymond carver and octavio paz. he’d probably bring fantastic wine and weed and grab the server’s ass.

3. Henry Kissinger: i’ve had a bone to pick with him since he extended the vietnam war for 4 additional years–the time my father was forced to serve–and he’s invited solely for the shit he’d spin. a brilliant strategist and a bad man, i’d need a chaperone around this war champion and would rail him over his corporate–invested past. i hope he chokes on his entree.

4. Bill Murray: an unassuming man who has wooed the finest of women with his school boy charm and wit, he could pull my ponytails any day. i’m gonna need him to shed comical light on all the ol’ stuffies and perhaps play a delicate round of footsy with me under the dinner table. he’d sit to my right.

5. Billie Holiday: a woman of frank emotion and joy, she would sauce things up with her experience and immense talent. if she broke out in song, i would concur and cajole; the table would be set with white gardenias. i hope she’d fulfill a dream of mine: singing solo, basked in spotlight and kicking out ‘a fine romance.’

Her mind lives in a quiet room
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.

There all  the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out waiting in the rain.

The young man in the new blue suit finished arranging the glistening luggage in tight corners of the Pullman compartment. The train had leaped at curves and bounced along straightaways, rendering balance a praiseworthy achievement and a sporadic one; and the young man had pushed and hoisted and tucked and shifted the bags with concentrated care.

Nevertheless, eight minutes for the settling of two suitcases and a hat-box is a long time.

He sat down, leaning back against bristled green plush, in the seat opposite the girl in beige. She looked as new as a peeled egg. Her hat, her fur, her frock, her gloves were glossy and stiff with novelty. On the arc of the thin, slippery sole of one beige shoe was gummed a tiny oblong of white paper, printed with the price set and paid for that slipper and its fellow, and the name of the shop that had dispensed them.

She had been staring raptly out of the windows, drinking in the big weathered signboards that extolled the phenomena of codfish without bones and screens no rust could corrupt. As the young man sat down, she turned politely from the pane, met his eyes, started a smile and got it about half done, and rested her gaze, just above his right shoulder.

“Well!” the young man said.

“Well!” she said.

“Well, here we are,” he said.

“Here we are,” she said. “Aren’t we?”

“I should say we were,” he said. “Eeyop. Here are are”

“Well!” she said.

“Well!” he said.

- Dorothy Parker, “Here we are”

Tom Waits- Long Way Home

Since my last post, my vertical leap has increased to where it is now significantly higher than the height of an average American male.

So, here we are it seems. Aileen (aka Allen, Lee Lee, Onion, Leen Green, Amber, etc.) has been in Oia for almost two weeks and leaves in two days. Having her here is similar to playing the ukulele for the first time in months (something I have done in the last few days)- it’s seamless, fills a need you weren’t completely sure you had until its been filled, and compiles everything you love about everything else into one small package. Within a few days of Aileen arriving, our long-time friend and Aileen’s current roommate Liz Newton (aka Lizn, Lynx, Liza, Lips, Leonard, etc.) arrived in Santorini. Just yesterday, I overhead Liz say to Aileen, “It’s hard to remember what my life was like before we were here.” From the moment Aileen arrived, and then later with Liz, it has felt this way. Just matter of fact-ly they arrived and it seems like they have always been here. I currently can’t imagine the shop without them.

Aileen takes things very literally, and upon hearing Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind," she stood in this position for two days hoping for "the answer."

This is not to say that their time here has been ordinary. In fact, it has been anything but. We have gone from one tip of the island to the other- south to see the lighthouse and stand in awe of the geologists wet dream that is this island, and north to swim and stand in awe of the sunset that the tourists actually CLAP for everyday.

Despite Aileen reading my blog for the last three months, she was still surprised to find the sea here. Also, if you don't find my captions informative enough, this is the south side of the island by the lighthouse.

Let’s take a second to break and reflect on the fact that HUGE groups of people clap for the sunset everyday. Now, I love beautiful things. Quite a bit. The sunset in Santorini is extraordinary. One of the highlights of everyday. I also believe strongly in being able to express yourself. But clapping at the sunset has never ceased to amaze me. Why? Some people get upset when others clap at the end of a movie. They say, “The actors aren’t here. They can’t hear you. Why are you clapping?” If you are one of those people, you should never, under any circumstances, watch the sunset within ear shot of the castle in Oia. You will implode. I, on the other hand, have given in and now clap whenever anything that is absolutely supposed to happen goes ahead, does its job, and happens. I started with the sunset (“Bravo”), moved onto to clapping every time my alarm goes off (“Great performance!”), and have ended with clapping when the water heater finally heats the shower water up (“Beautiful!”) . Its the little things, really.

In other news, Maxi got into the World Wrestling Federation (now known as WWE for some reason) with this exact move.

Meanwhile, we ate pitas, we counted, priced, alphabetized, and put away 2500 newly received books (!), swam in the sea, and took senior pictures on a cliff overlooking the water. We took a car to Kolombos beach, which was as calm and serene as I have ever seen it. We had competitions to see who could find the best passage in five minutes, the rules changing only when Vlad decided we would play the same game except the passage had to be in Italian. Thanks to Ali’s strange ability to get attractive, young, interesting, English-speaking women to hang out in the shop, we have met many new wonderful people. Accompanied by one such girl named Tash, we found our way to a beach I had never even heard of on the south side of the island which was quiet, beautiful, and calm. It was there that we found caves that, despite every Baywatch episode I have ever seen that climaxed with a tourist getting stuck in a cave with the tide rising, were begging to be explored. One particular cave, though small, was quite extraordinary and led to the other side of the rock formation, so we turned around and did it again. Aileen bravely leaped off the towering reaches of the Ammoudi church ledge- on numerous occasions.

This is the start of my photographic essay entitled, "Things that happen at the bookshop." Picture one is called, "Reading."

"Organizing books"

"Hanging out"

"Laughing heartily"

"Being a wooden doll"

Later, thanks to a successful busking performance by John, Tash, myself, and Zalina, our band manager, which resulted in 6.99 euros, and following a successful breaking into the local hostel by me and John in order to get Tash to come back out, we bought some whiskey and then sang songs that involved two chords and reading straight out of the books on the shelves. We listened to musicians play in front of the shop. We even had one of the now famous nights in the bookshop where we pretend it is the dead of winter because it is slightly chillier that usual, which this time involved drinking wine, eating glorious stew, listening to Joanna Newsom, and playing cards.

John is a secret ninja. I am pretending to not have a head. Both of these things will help us break into the local hostel.

Speaking of Joanna Newsom,

It should be noted that jumping off of the Ammoudi church ledge is no small feat. Not in my book, anyway. You walk to the swimming area from the port and you see an island immediately in front of you. If you swim out from this point of entry you can look up and see all of Oia dusting the top of the cliffs like Parmesan cheese on top of spaghetti. Delicious. It is from here that you can first see the ledge. There is a church on this island. Having a church in such a place, an island or at the bottom of a gigantic gorge, is not uncommon in Greece, a religious characteristic that, unless I have misconstrued it, is very beautiful to me. Next to the entrance of the church, which faces directly towards the middle of the caldera at the volcano, is a bell and if you walk a bit further on sideways-turned rocks, which are perilous when barefoot, you find yourself at the large semi-circle that is the ledge famous for being the jumping point into the crystal blue water below.

The first time I made this jump, I was with Mike Hurley (mention number 8). I am not afraid to admit that I remember feeling an immense fear, one that starts with “Oh no, you must be kidding me,” and ends with, “Yeah, fucking right.” It is probably 20 to 25 feet to the water, but when you stand at the ledge it seems at least 3 times that. I also remember, when feeling this fear, that I had to jump just then, because if I didn’t, surely this would not bode well for the rest of my journey. Really, it was the fear that pushed me over the edge. I had to jump because I was scared. If you have ever felt such a thing before, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I knew I would be safe, and I had nothing to prove to anyone else, but I had to jump because, quite simply, I was afraid of doing just that.

So, I jumped. Just like I had to, and since then I have jumped over and over and over. At least twenty times. Each time, it got a little easier, and each time it felt as if I was able to go deeper than the time before, though always managing to miss the treacherous rocks that line the sea floor, and soon I’m confident I will go so deep that I will be able to actually walk on the bottom.

Liz is a senior in high school. This is her senior picture.

I am a model. A model who just found a pot of gold.

Aileen is also a model. A model waiting to be struck by lightening.

This is where I’m at right now. I am at the top of this beautiful ledge next to a beautiful church looking up at the beautiful village that holds my beautiful bookshop. And I have to jump. I have long been pondering what to do after I leave the bookshop, thinking that I would be leaving in mid-November. I’ve let it stress me out and bring me down in ways that are in no way healthy and in no way abide to my goal of being present in a moment. Every idea I’ve had, I found a reason not to go through with it, and I, on some level, attribute this to fear. It could be noted that before I left for London, I was worn down and tired. But that is no longer an excuse because now I feel much better, aided by the presence of my sister, a trip to London, and constant reminders of the wonderfulness of this place.

And here I am. Here we are. Part of me feels new, like an egg or like I’m dressed in all new beige clothing, some of them still with the price tag on. Another part feels like I’m settling in, maybe taking a bit too long, but I’m settling in for something. Either way, here I am, and the tension is very real. It is time for me to jump.

So, here it is (or in more detail here). This is where I’m going for at least two weeks when I leave the shop in mid-November. I have received confirmation from the family who runs it and they are expecting me. Splash.

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend –
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall –
I’m a fool to rise at all!

– Dorothy Parker

This is what I vow;
He shall have my heart to keep;
Sweetly will we stir and sleep,
All the years, as now.
Swift the measured sands may run;
Love like this is never done;
He and I are welded one:
This is what I vow.

This is what I pray:
Keep him by me tenderly;
Keep him sweet in pride of me,
Ever and a day;
Keep me from the old distress;
Let me, for our happiness,
Be the one to love the less:
This is what I pray.

This is what I know :
Lovers’ oaths are thin as rain;
Love’s a harbinger of pain –
Would it were not so!
Ever is my heart a-thirst,
Ever is my love accurst;
He is neither last nor first:
This is what I know.

– Dorothy Parker

Needle, needle, dip and dart,
Thrusting up and down,
Where’s the man could ease a heart
Like a satin gown?

See the stitches curve and crawl
Round the cunning seams-
Patterns thin and sweet and small
As a lady’s dreams.

Wantons go in bright brocade;
Brides in organdie;
Gingham’s for the plighted maid;
Satin’s for the free!

Wool’s to line a miser’s chest;
Crepe’s to calm the old;
Velvet hides an empty breast
Satin’s for the bold!

Lawn is for a bishop’s yoke;
Linen’s for a nun;
Satin is for wiser folk-
Would the dress were done!

Satin glows in candlelight-
Satin’s for the proud!
They will say who watch at night,
“What a fine shroud!”

Saffron yellow satin, black lace, layered pleated tiers.  $39.00 @ forever21.com

Vou fazer um festival escritores no bloguinho…

“Qualquer mulher que aspire a comportar-se como um homem, é certo que carece de ambição.” [ Dorothy Parker ]

Plagiarism: An NPR broadcast (and transcript) regarding a relatively recent accusation of plagiarism in Hollywood

Singin’ in the Rain: A brief overview of the musical, with a mention of its plagiarism

It is true that Hollywood has a history of cases of accused plagiarism, in fact it has been said that you haven’t really ‘arrived’ in Hollywood until you’ve been accused of plagiarism, but I had never really thought about it beyond: “Oh, this movie was really similar to that other one about World War II.” One quick Google search later and I had thousands of articles regarding the subject of plagiarism in movies. But the results I had only raised more questions for me. ‘What is plagiarism, really?’ was the foremost of them, as it seemed to me that what many of the articles referred to seemed less plagiarizing and more—for lack of a better term—’recycling’. Plagiarism, according to Merriam-Webster Online, is the act of stealing and passing off another’s ideas or words as your own. This really clarified some things for me as it included the word ‘idea’, whereas I had had the impression that plagiarism was word-for-word copying without crediting the source. This understanding of the true definition cleared up my misinterpretation of many of those articles, but a question still remained: ‘Then what do you call situations like that of the Singin’ in the Rain song, Make ‘em Laugh?’ Make ‘em Laugh was largely plagiarized off of a song called Be a Clown in the musical The Pirate. Be a Clown was written by Cole Porter in 1948, but when Singin’ in the Rain was released in 1952, Porter made no complaint. So what was that? Plagiarism or the recycling of an idea that fell flat the first time round, but with a few tweaks looked like a good idea? Strict definitions won’t tell me that.

Proposition: A word’s definition is not always applicable in every situation.

Dorothy Parker

Here is one of my favorite poems by Dorothy Parker…
 

 “Love Song”

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled –
Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world, –
And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams, –
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart, –
And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

Wonderful stuff!

“A little bad taste is like a nice dash of paprika.” – Dorothy Parker

xoxo,
M.

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