The Beginning Of A Scene

Yelverton and I were talking about starting an online literary magazine connected to The Writerly Pause.
It would encompass not only the written word, but videopodcasts as well.
I can't find any reason not to do it.
Can you?

A Good Thing

In this time of turmoil, please make a donation to the International Red Cross
or to the American Red Cross
Blessings, and thank you.
and I've got a movie review for the movie Smart People over on Blog Critics

Fashion: The Paper Catwalk, and A Visit From SweetP

There's nothing more that I like than being with creative people. Whether it's writers, fashion designers, or my Sunday dinners with an architect and his family, I know I'll have a good time.


At the 17th Santa Monica Festival, the emphasis was on a "greener, healthier, more sustainable lifestyle" by showcasing eco-friendly technologies, goods, and activies. The goal of the festival was zero waste --everything was to be recycled. Children and adults alike took to the catwalk dressed in fashions made on-the-spot from newspaper, blueprints and colored papers. Helped by Tawny Featherston, and Ann Closs-Farley, the event was emceed by the creative Howard Seth Cohen. A visit from SweetP Vaughn of Project Runway closed the day. Petite and every bit as nice as her name, Sweet P is enjoying many opportunities made possible by appearing on the reality TV show. SweetP is designing costumes for a play. She also continues to design clothes, and has a financial backer for a future line. Everyone who met her was genuinely pleased to hear good things have come her way. (Watch the remix for a photo of Sweet P).
P.S. To Howie & Tawny, Sorry your digs are being turned from residential to comercial. Hope you two find a new place soon. But check this out: I think if the dude is going to do this he has to pay you money in your pocket to leave. Not sure, but that's the rumor. Have the legal beagles look into it.

For the weekend: Gentlemen's Agreement

A few weeks ago, this city experienced a showdown between a white council member and the Chicano community. The council member wanted some murals taken down that had been a community project in the 1970's. The mural in question was one of a Chevrolet Malibu. The council member drew a direct line from this to the present gang problem. He took it a step further and derided it as trash and demanded they be taken down. Anyway, it galvanized the Chicano community. Since then, the council member has apologized, and a community meeting is taking place at the end of the month. Sancho, The Latin Blogger, has set up a myspace page to save The Lemon Street Murals. In addition, Ask A Mexican! Columnist Gustavo Arellano gave a tour to some "out-of-town gabachos" --mural historians who flew in and proclaimed them "wonderful."

The neighborhood is one that is predominantly second generation Mexican-Americans, as well as first generation and recent immigrants. Adjacent, or encroaching upon it --depending on your perspective, are new $400,000 townhomes, sparking gentrification. Sancho wrote in on my blog, "As a Chicano citizen in Fullerton, its not all the time looked up to." He felt (as I have observed) there are not so subtle divisions that have long been acknowledged, but are never mentioned. In the worst sense, it's a gentlemen's agreement: assumptions are held, judgments are made, and inevitably ...stupid things are said.

Tonight, I stumbled upon the movie, "Gentleman's Agreement," with Gregory Peck. Made in 1947, it addresses the issue of anti-semitism. Gregory Peck plays a journalist who stands in someone else's shoes to get the experience of being them.

"I lived in their camps, ate what they ate. I found the answers in my own guts... not somebody else's. I didn't say, ''What does it feel like to be an Okie?'' I was an Okie. On the coal mine series... I didn't sit in my bedroom and do research. I didn't tap some poor guy on the shoulder and make him talk. I got myself a job. I went in the dark. I slept in a shack. I didn't try to dig into a miner's heart. I was a miner."

Now, I don't expect Council Member Shawn Nelson to try to pass himself off as a Mexican, but it does echo what Sancho wrote:

"Nelson should MAYBE one day, WITH AN OPEN MIND, go to a community in Fullerton that they don't live in, and sit down and break bread with them. Go and eat at a park you have never been to. Go eat a home cooked meal, and if you have any question about the area, ask."

Cool thing about Sancho? He's only 22. He has a rip roaring site. This is a person the city council bloats should want to appoint to committees because he looks around, and people listen to him. Someday you want a guy like this on council. Sancho for Mayor!
And... remember The Norton Simon.

Fashion: Sisterhood Of The Scary Underwear

Ages ago, I'd watch my mother climb into a girdle. It was a feat that involved contortions --two steps in, then a wriggle, followed by a squat, all whilst pulling the mighty sheath on. Sadly, there was no Olympic competition for putting on girdles, had there been, she'd of gotten a gold medal. Oddly, my mother wasn't big at all, but such was the fashion in her day. Women of all sizes wore them to attain that hourglass figure. The bras weren't padded, but the cups were shaped like bullets.

Mercifully, a more natural look came into fashion. Girdles and stockings gave way to pantyhose, slips gave way to nothing, and often it wasn't uncommon to find women with longer skirts wearing knee-hi's in place of hose. Bras lost their rigidness and became soft. Clothing became softer, fuller, less form fitting. Fabrics and cuts were more forgiving and jiggly flesh could easily be hidden with a pretty loose-fitting blouse. We enjoyed broomstick skirts, and drawstring pants.

Model Sarah DeAnna wearing Samora. The clean, crisp silhouette of the 1960's makes a comeback for Fall 2008. Photo courtesy of Mercedes Benz Fashion Week

But then as in all things fashion, concepts come back. Clothes are form-fitting once again. Made of jersey, knits, these are dresses meant to be worn to show some curves. Even jeans have changed --they're skinnier and the fabric has spandex woven into it. Dresses are made of jersey, and every lump, bump, even the panty and bra lines can be seen. A new industry has risen and now instead of girdles we have "shapewear," though the models wearing the shapewear really don't need it.

Anyway, I bought a few new dresses and couldn't help noticing... those lumps. And so it was with great middle-aged humility that I went out into the woods of foundation land and went looking at my first pair of scary underwear, when I turned to a woman and asked her for advice. Soon, I had a bevy of women pulling down Spanx from the rack. And each person had their opinion.
"These are too hot."
"This one will creep up and stay around your middle."
"This half-slip often hikes up to my hips."
"Good lord girlfriend! If you have a date, and it gets hot and heavy, you make sure you take that thing off in the bathroom beforehand!"
"When you get out of the car, you'll have to do the wriggle!"

Nicholai by Nikky Hilton. Photo courtesy of MBFW

It was as if I'd joined the Sisterhood Of The Scary Underwear. I chose a full length slip noticing that it seemed awfully small. I paid for it, dreading that I might get stuck in it, suffocate, like a sausage in a tight casing. Thoughts of calling 911 for the jaws of life went through my mind. As I was driving, I thought if I were ever in a situation where I needed a slingshot, this might do. I'm sure I could even hook it between two cars (or to an Airbus) and tow the later if needed. I could also use it to defend myself, could probably take someone eye out with one shot. My multi-use scary underwear might come in handy for things other than holding my wobbly bits in place.

*Postscript --I have mastered the wriggle. I can't imagine not having it. Today, whilst trying on a dress and going out to the 3-way mirror, a woman came out and asked what I thought. She needed Spanx, and gently, I told her so.

And, you can click on any of these.....

Plain Talk

Many years ago, I knew two sisters. The Salandra sisters were a duo --short, blonde --whether or not it was from a bottle was long forgotten, and above all else they were do'ers. DeAnne and LuAnne had never married, nor had they ever lived apart. It never dawned on us to think of them as them spinsters, but I suppose it's exactly what they were. DeAnne had been a school teacher and then went on to become a school principal. Her younger sisters LuAnne worked as a nurse for fifty years. When they retired, their lives revolved around charitable organizations, having rooms in the house they'd purchased in 1962 repainted, and going on vacations at their time share in Hawaii.
One day, after a meeting, I was talking to them. Over the years they'd gotten hard of hearing and often I had to repeat myself.
"Last night I went and ate Chinese food," I said.
"What?" asked DeAnne.
"I ate Chinese food," I said, just a bit slower.
"Why would you want to do that?" asked LuAnne.
"I grew up on it I like it!"
"What do you mean!?Who would do such a thing?" asked DeAnne.
I was dumbfounded, unsure as what to say, but needn't worried as Luanne finished DeAnne's thoughts. "Yes! Who would want to eat tiny shoes!"

Writer Impossible: The Scent Of A Good Scene

One of the most underused sensations in writing is scent. When I smell lavender, I think of an old piano teacher of my sisters --Mrs. Ida E. Grass, whose tiny apartment smelled of sachets of lavender and cloves. The scent was both sweet and pungent. I remember her apartment, and could probably still find it were I to go back: two story building, first floor, white clapboard building, concrete steps and landing. Four doors --hers was the furthest door on the left. Inside, dark walnut furnishings and antimacassars on the tables and backs of the chairs. Grey hair, pinned in a bun. Wire glasses, a matronly but kind disposition. She loved my sisters as they loved her. She had a box of See's Candy and I chose only one. I think the furnishings were green. Today, the area would not be in what's considered a good part of town. But back then, it was safe and near the bus lines, which I imagine she probably used (as we all did).

Tonight, as I was cooking crab, the smell filled the kitchen. I opened the window and a cool breeze came in. The two combined reminded me of following my parents through Fisherman's Wharf. Men in rubber aprons were cooking Dungeness crabs. Steam from the large cauldrons swirled in the cold air, and the smell would envelop us as we shuffled along the crowded walkway. The uncooked crabs would snap their claws in the air. They were red and still once they were cooked and the men would take them out and wrap them customers. Those who would buy them, would taken them over to the wharf and sit, tear open the paper wrapper and eat it all there. What I remember feeling is the desire to buy some. But my parents never did. Perhaps this is why cooking crab is such a big deal at my house. I'm an adult. I can buy crab when I want.

Scent and smell are such strong elements and can set a scene. If you think about it, in our lives, there's always a smell. Maybe it's the smell of a sofa the dog has sat on, the the scent of clean sheets fresh from the line (or in my case, the dryer). It can expose a whole story, strengthen an emotion, bring you to conclusions you never had before, and provide a sensual rhythm.

"The virile redolence of cigars, the pungent nip of pipe smoke, the tortoiseshell richness they evoked, constantly lured me out of the parlor on the porch, though it was the parlor I preferred, due to the presence of the Conklin sisters, who played our untuned piano with a gifted, rollicking lack of airs." -Truman Capote, The Thanksgiving Visitor

“I wasn't sure why but it seemed to have something to do with this place. Saigon. These streets are always full of that kind of mix of smells, some sweet something, fruit or flowers or incense, but something else too in the same air, dry rot or old fish or the exhaust from the motorbikes." -Robert Olen Butler, The Deep Green Sea

Recently, someone asked me about writer's block. Here's an idea: if you're stuck, start writing about something you smell. Describe it. Where were you when you first smelled it? What does it remind you of? Who were you with?

Bone up on your vocabulary. Try to find new ways to describe a smell. Combine smells that don't go together (Butler uses "flowers or incense," then follows it with "dry rot or old fish”). This not only gives you a range of smells, it also gives you a hint of chaos. Play with the words until you're describing something in a new way.

The caveat is to use restraint and take care not to over do it for your style and the piece you're writing. After all, too much scent is like being besieged by a perfume models in a department store, determined to spritz you at every step. For instance, in the very first workshop I ever took, a woman walked in with an ego the size of a mac truck. She claimed to have a 700 page novel, of which was to be the best thing since Spam. Anyway, she began to read a scene in which everything stank. The shoes, the feet, the armpits, the carpet --you get the point. Just the way she read it, I didn't want to know anymore. As far as I could tell, she stank and I wanted to run as far as my stiletto-clad feet could take me through Westwood. Fortunately, she never came back. If she had, we would've had to call the health department.

But, as you can see, smell can kick off a flurry of writing.

This'll Do

Okay, I have to steamroll it now. Many disruptions, enough upheavals to make tectonic plates shift. Here's a follow up on my original Itty Bitty Kitty post. Click the link to compare the then and now pics.

So until I finish my work... you'll have to make do with the gratuitous kitten post. Remember, she was born prematurely, under birthweight and abandoned by her probably sick mama cat.
Tinkerbell just passed the 2 week mark and weighs 7.6 oz. She's roughly the size of a hand. When Kaity Marie found her, she was a wisp at 2.7 ounces.

She screams like a baby, is attached to her mama Kaity Marie. Because Tinkerbell doesn't qualify under the Family Medical Leave Act, and until we pass a Pet Medical Leave Act, the little kitty goes to work with her mama each day where her Grandma Eileen, assorted aunts and uncles fawn over her. To say she is lucky to have a job to go to is an understatement. The hardest part is making sure the clients don't overhear!