Many thanks to Jezebel.com

Very gratified.  Very happy.  Very extremely happy. 

Jezebel.com posted a wonderful review/article of my new book project, Tales from the Velvet Chamber, written by Katy Kelleher.  What's perhaps most gratifying is that the author really gets it.  Really wrote eloquently and intelligently about the misson of this anthology.  To make this even sweeter, have been a big fan of Jezebel.com for a very long time.  As of today, 4,000 people have read it.  Oh yeah.  Oh yeah, baby.

Thank you Katy!  Thank you Jezebel.com:

Chambers of Blood and Velvet

10 things I know for sure

1. The expression “jumped the shark” has jumped the shark (ironic, isn’t it?)

2. There will never be real health care reform and its got nothing to do with President Obama. Its because big pharmacy is bigger than big government.

3. Children should never be prescribed drugs for behavioral issues. See number 2.

4. We are a bi-polar nation because we’ve allowed ourselves to be defined in this way. Pass the Ambien.

5. God is dead and he has been replaced by the cult of celebrity. We collectively worship at the altar of “Jersey Shore.” Amen, brother.

6. Oprah Winfrey should get up off her fat but and do the one thing that frightens her; run for political office. I’m just saying…

7. Sarah Palin is stupid and bigoted, and I’m not ashamed to say that about another woman. Let Camille Paglia fuck her if she wants, I don’t care--- she ought to be sedated. Pass the Prozac.

8. No mother should ever have to bury her child.

9. Education in the South Bronx sucks. I suspect it sucks in the rest of the four boroughs as well and for the same reason: politics trump children every time.

10. I’m real glad its not dark at 6:00 a.m. anymore.

I Love You, Hiram Monserrate

In the Daily News today, Elizabeth Benjamin writes about embattled Senator Hiram Monserrate. He claims that he’s being targeted “because he is a Latino.” Not because he cut up his girlfriend’s face in a jealous rage, and was convicted of this crime. No, that wouldn’t be the reason. Instead he's compared himself to, according to Benjamin, “murdered civil rights workers” because he’s about to lose his Senate seat. I don’t know anything about that, but by a strange coincidence, an unnamed source emailed me this letter today:  

Dear Hiram:

I want to you to kiss me, beat me, and make me write bad checks. I want you to slap me silly. I want to worship you. I want you to grow tomatoes in my backyard. I want you to grill steaks, shoot deer, shovel snow and take the garbage out at night. I want you in all your manly manliness. All your girth. Your wisdom. Your big head, your devilish smirk.



You’re the Prince Charming I’ve always dreamed about. You’re the Boricua in my cup of tea. You’re my tamale, my chorizo, my empanada. Together we’ll build a home on Long Island or Staten Island. I’ll stay home and make the babies. I’ll pour your coffee in the morning, clip your toenails in the afternoon, and watch you belch after dinner.

And if I ever want to fuck a cop I won’t be a bitch about it. I’ll invite you along to watch. You can take pictures if you want, and email them to all your cronies in Albany. What fun you and the boys will have laughing about my tits and my ass. Then I’ll blow you when you come home, and mix you a martini, shaken not stirred.

Please tell me I have chance.  I love you, Hiram Monserrate

Love,
Tina

Psssst. Tina. I saw him first. Now back off, bitch!

STay tuneD

This just in:

A woman was taken into police custody today after threatening to blow up, Archeology, the well known chain of high end clothing for women. Information on this breaking story is still not verified, but it seems the woman began waving around a stick of dynamite when a sales associate informed her they no longer carried size 14 in blue jeans.  She is described as being in her late 40's, bleached blond hair, wearing a long gray cashmere coat and black cowboy boots.  She is a size 14 at least.

Apparently she walked into the store at around noon today.  Several witnesses reported that after only a few minutes, she became very agitated. At one point, she cornered a sales associate and said, "Where are the size 14 blue jeans?"  The associate replied, "We don't carry them anymore." When the still as yet unidentified woman asked to see the manager, the associate replied: "She's not here, she's taking her SAT's." 

The woman became even more agitated and demanded a pair of jeans.  At this point, three or four other associates as well as several worried customers began combing through the piles of neatly folded blue jeans.  Hoping against hope, playing against time--- perhaps a miracle.  Perhaps a pair of blue jeans that would fit.

But this was not to be.

While there were plenty of size 2, 4, 6, and 8, no one could find size 10 let alone 14.  Again, according to sources, this is when the highly emotional woman pulled out the stick of dynamite and threatened to blow up the store.  As of right now, we don't have any more information on this developing story.  But STay tuneD.  In closing, one might be tempted to draw a parallel between this and the story last week of a woman who held her plastic surgeon hostage for fifteen days.  Her HMO didn't cover her nose job.  Are we seeing a trend here?

STay tuneD. 

I scared the crap out of my shrink today: FICTION

---when my evil twin, Esmerelda appeared, and started mouthing off.  Saying terrible things.  Things like: "What the fuck do you know about Jungian psychoanalysis, the concept of the shadow self, the archetype and the dream? What? Where did you get your degree, Pace University?  Please!  Don't sit here in your rent controlled apartment that doubles as your office and tell me how to live my fucking life.  I know how to live my life!"

Esmerelda is definitely a bitch.  And I did not agree that she should appear at this session, my third.  I was totally against it from the beginning.  For one thing, she scares people.  For another thing, she's unpredictable.  So there you go.  Perfect Storm.  So E. mouths off, and my shrink, Dr. Yates, is like, What the fuck.  I knew that's what she was thinking. Her face turned white, her mouth dropped open. I could see her tongue.

Now I was going to lose another shrink, my fourth in less than a year.  First there was an old guy who smelled like cabbage. He wore cardigans and ties, and assiduously took notes as I spoke--- all the while tapping the toe of his tasseled loafer.  After awhile just the sight of those shoes was enough to give me a headache. Plus he never said much--- until the day Esmerelda made her first appearance.

Fine, move on to the next one.  A stone cold butch shrink in an office building downtown; blond pixie cut, cowboy boots and big silver jewelry.  Looked like she could slice cheese with her nose.  She was another one.  Sat there in silence twirling her Tiffany pen, surrounded by candles, and pictures of Indian goddesses.  Her favorite expression was, "How would you re-frame that?" 

Then wouldn't you know it, Esmerelda jumped out, and said, "Is that the only psychoanalytical tool in your psychological bag of tricks?  For God's sake, woman!   Get a grip on yourself. I know how I would re-frame that because I've been sitting in your office for three months and its the only advice you've given me. Jesus."

And Esmerelda did it again today with my newest shrink.  Just as I was getting to like her.  Part of the problem is that E. is more than the average shrink can handle.  She's a force of nature.  She would have to go up against a real warrior, someone from Stanford or Harvard, a real smarty pants, someone who could put E in her place.

I apologized to Dr. Yates, but she couldn't get me out of the office fast enough.  I bet she called in an exorcist.  That's how scared she was.  Ironically, I don't have a problem with Esmerelda.  Would never want to lose her.  That's not why I see a shrink.  I see a shrink because I have 25 cats in my basement and I've run out of money to feed them.  If anyone is interested in adopting a pet, let me know.  And if anyone knows of a good shrink, call me ASAP.

E. asked me to include this picture:

Marc "colander head" Travanti explains it all for me

Marc "colander head" Travanti on the vicissitudes of including male writers in my upcoming feminist book project:  Specifically he tells me that he's been teaching at a very elite girl's school (celebrities galore) for almost thirty years. 

He understands the zeitgeist of young, smart women; absolutely destined for success. He tells me that amongst this demographic there is no respect for feminism.  It's not considered cool.  Or relevant, or very inclusionary. 

In this picture, he tells me, "Bitch, you better make up your mind and do the right thing!"

photo credit:  lasagnahead

Cher: The greatest drag queen of all time

I watched the Golden Globes last night b/c I love the spectacle of the dress, the hair and the jewelry.  I did not like Drew Barrymore's gown at all, I kept asking myself, "What is that thing on her shoulder?"  And it was a bit disconcerting to watch her drag Jessica Lange up onstage.  Ms. Lange was Miss Thing.  A great dramatic actress and a great beauty. But perhaps since she sliced up her face, she's not feeling it anymore.  I compared her to Helen Mirren.  They're both about the same age.  But Ms. Mirren owns it.  She may have had a little nip or tuck here or there, but its still her face.  She's not trying to look 30, she knows she not.  And she is still gorgeous.  Every time I see her, I pray, Let me still have that grace and that power.

Cher.  She has sliced up her face--- many times from the look of it, but she's still the greatest drag queen of all time.  I loved her Adams Family goth webbed gown, the big fake lips, her masque-like face, and her defiant smirk upon her iconic face.  As I watched her parade out with Christina Aguilera, I was like, "Damn its Cher. Thank God for Cher."  She still has the courage to be her own grand self.  Older probably than Jessica Lange.  But fierecely fierce.  Jennifer Aniston needs to get a life and a better stylist.   Her body language still screams, "I'm a forsaken woman."  Darling you're too young and fabulous for that kind of crap.

I loved Julia Roberts' mini in a sea of long column gowns.  George Clooney looked slightly embarrassed for his girlfriend.  It's like he presents the women he's dating to the press, to the world, and lets everyone else decide whether or not she's right for him.  Of course she can never be right, b/c in photos with his mother, its clear who's still the number one women in his life.

I liked seeing my friend, from back in the day, David Zayas in the audience. He plays Lt. Bautista on Dexter.  I knew him from the 1994  1993 production of my play Rough/House. I knew him from when he was a cop raising two young children, and acting part-time.  Once on his birthday, we, with his girlfriend and other friends, swam in the fountain at Columbus Circle.  We almost got arrested--- but of course we did not.  He told our potential arresting officer that he was a cop.

I also kept praying that 30 Rock wouldn't win anything.  It gets boring when the same show wins year after year.  Perplexing that Hang Over won best comedy. Funny, yes.  But the whole male-bonding-road-trip-movie is played.  Disappointed of course that Kathyrn Bigelow didn't win best director win for Hurt Locker, but next to her ex-husband's Avatar, that's like Davy fighting Goliath.  Take me to the blue planet.  Take me to Pandora.

I'm a crisis junkie

Recently I've been called a crisis junkie.

And I have to admit its a kind of a sexy accusation.  And I also know that its true.  This is not news to me.  I do like a crisis.  I operate at maximum efficiency in the face of catastrophe.  My aim is sure.  My hands are steady.  During rehearsals for the Super Bowl Half Time Show at Joe Robbie Stadium in Miami, I was a wreck.  I was the PSM (production stage manager), the head honcho.  Under my command I had a Technical Director, 2 Stage Managers, 1 Costume Designer, a crew of about 50 Production Assistants, 200 dancers, and about 1,000 cast members including a team that was in charge of "cold fire." 

Cold fire is the term used for stage explosives.  I was also responsible for 4 tons of soft goods.  I couldn't sleep at night, and when I did, in my dreams, I checked and re-checked all the pre-sets; all the props, costumes etc. that needed to be in place long before the football game started.  On the day of the game,the cast and crew were housed in what looked like a jail beneath the stadium.  But I had been there since seven in the morning.  Checking and re-checking, just like my nightmares.  My palms were sweaty.  Often I'd go into the ladies' room and put my feet up, so that anyone searching for me couldn't locate my tell-tale red high top sneakers.

I wondered if I could  handle the pressure.  I wondered whether or not I would crack.  Billy Joel walked by with Christie Brinkley.  He looked like an Italian leprechaun next to her cool blond goddess.  He was singing the national anthem.  Finally half-time arrived.  The show started, and I took to the seas with the grace of a swan.  Every element of the show went off smoothly, perfectly.  I was in perfect sync with the world around me.  I was high on my ability.  I never wanted it to end.  Yes, it was strange to be in charge of a show that spanned an entire football field, and stranger even that the people in the stands weren't watching.  This was strictly for the folks at home, watching it on TV.

Afterwards, I was so tired, I was like the living dead, a zombie.  But dammit I was going to stay awake and go to the party on Ocean Drive.  At about 2:00 a.m., someone offered to drive me home.  But I lived just down the block, right on the ocean.  Along the deep blue sea.  I said no.  I was afraid that if I stopped moving, even to sit in a car, I would pass out.  I walked home as the sun came up.  Slept for fourteen hours. For months I had the same dream over and over, checking and re-checking the soft goods.  Soon this dissipated, along with my intricate knowledge of a football field. 

So yes.  I do like a crisis.  I like the pressure.  My mind is clear.  My hands are strong.  My nerves are steady. I feel most alive.

I am a crisis junkie.

Athena, the original headache

The story goes that she sprang fully grown from her father, Zeus', head.  He'd had a splitting headache all day long, and nothing he did soothed his suffering. But what he didn't understand was that he was having labor pains, that his daughter was endeavouring to be born.  Finally, at midnight, when the North Star was the brightest on the horizon, Athena burst through her father's skull.  Already a full grown woman, with breasts, hips, thighs, and most of all--- a brain.  Beautiful and strong. 

The world had never seen a woman like this. Men and women were in awe of her.  Even her father shrank in her presence.  No one could forget her.  No one could ignore her.  She wouldn't go away.  She wouldn't disappear.  No one could shut her up.  This is why Athena is the first headache.  The first real woman. 

Thanks, but I'd rather not

Ad from American Airlines.  Circa 1960.  From gwen at Sociological Images.

I am Snow White: an excerpt

The Duke of Eastchester is dead, and thank God for that.  I had gotten sick to death of the stink of his sick room.  He farted, he vomited, he shit himself.  The smell permeated into every room of the castle.  I avoided him entirely that final week. I busied myself fucking the carriage boy in the stable.  Harry is a good boy with strong muscles and I shall keep him on.  I shall however get rid of the Duke's laywer, an idiotic man who believed that women have little use for finance.  Well he shall see, won't he?  I will also get rid of "Cook" an old bitch with a warty nose who hated me.  She thought me a commoner who had married above my station, and so I had but that was because I had the finest tits in the land, and now a pox on anyone who crosses me!

I pretended to cry when the physician led me into the sick room as the Duke was breathing his last.  I tenderly stroked his fevered brow when in reality I desired to crack his head open with his chamber pot.  I held his puffy, swollen hand and thought about biting it; each finger, one by one, until they bled.  When I knelt down on the prieu dieu pretending to be overcome with grief, inside I was a giddy as a young lamb in a spring meadow.  When they washed his dissolute body down with soap and water, I wanted to claw out his vacant eyes.  At the graveyard as the parish priest dolefully intoned the 23rd Psalm, I could scarcely keep from laughing and dancing on his grave. 

I am not by nature a wicked woman.  The Duke however was the devil incarnate.  In the beginning, he was the perfect gentleman.  My poor mother was speechless before his pomp and circumstance, his gold carriage, his team of stallions, his brocade jackets.  I was a young girl, barely fifteen, when he took me as his bride.  He savagely deflowered me on our wedding night.  For hours I couldn't move.  I was in such pain.  My white eyelet gown stained in blood.  He slipped out to join a pack of whores he kept waiting in the stables.  I cried  myself to sleep.  And the next morning too shamed to ask for help, washed out the blood from beneath my fingernails, washed out the sheets. 

I tiptoed down the grand staircase into the dining room.  My legs were weak and shaking.  The Duke was enjoying toast and tea.  He completely ignored me.  I spent the years summoned to his bed whenever he requested.  I endured his temper and his violence when he was drunk.  Often he beat me, though never about the face. Why did I not leave?  I believed I was enslaved.  In captivity.  And I wanted my mother to have some peace, and she did.  The Duke bought her a fine house in the countryside, and though I wasn't allowed to visit her, my spies told me she lived a good life.  I was permitted to attend her funeral and wept bitter tears. 

But now he is dead, and his kingdom is mine.  There is but one fly in the ointment.  Four days after his mouldering corpse was laid to rest, I was summoned to the main salon.  And there before me stood his bastard child.  A shivering, tiny slip of a girl, perhaps 13 or 14. And so pale she looked like a ghost.  She looked up at me, and said,

I am Snow White.

Good luck Tippy

My niece Angelina has finished school, and won't be here four nights a week.  She's been staying with me since last May.  I know I've helped her a great deal.  I made it my business to provide her with a quiet, stable home.  Every young person starting out in life deserves this.  Especially women.  The first freedom is economic after all.  Bring home your own bacon. But she has certainly brought life and light into my life as well.  I liked the fact that in the summer when I got home from teaching and she got home from school, we'd take Molly, and get an iced coffee at TAZZA on the corner.  Angie always got the iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup.  Being 30 years older, I got the plain iced coffee with skim milk.  Once she brought home a miniature lemon tart that was so bitter she threw up in the bathroom.  I honestly couldn't stop laughing.

Then of course there was the time she wrangled fifteen sponges from behind my kitchen counter.  I wrote about this in an earlier post. She was Felix and I was Oscar.  That's the Odd Couple for those of you who don't know your Neil Simon.  I hadn't cleaned out my fridge in a very, very long time.  When she asked my why, I said, "I can't deal with washing out every semi-empty jar of olive tapenade, peanut butter, jelly, spaghetti sauce, apple sauce, horseradish, salad dressing and marinated olives that's been sitting there for about a year."    So one night, with steaming hot water running into the sink and bleach, she systemically and efficiently did the job.  Of course, I joined in, but I was merely the lieutenant to her general.  This was her mission.  Almost impossible if you ask me, but she did it.

Lately we had been taking turns making dinner.  One night two weeks ago, I trudged home in the dark, from the Bronx, completely exhausted.  I walked into a bright clean kitchen and  fresh Fratelli ravioli for dinner.  Last Tuesday I made lemon chicken cutlets and mashed potatoes.  She always had Cheez-Its, Lucky Charms, milk, yogurt, and raspberries in the house.  One morning I woke up, walked into the kitchen and found her at the kitchen table eating cereal and bagging up her lunch at the same time.  She had two plastic baggies in her lap.  She was filling one with salad greens and another with tomatoes. 

I loved hearing about her bitch clients who didn't tip even though she transformed them.  The woman who came in with orange hair.  The woman with 100 foils in her hair.  She had all the gossip; the petty jealousies and the competition, the teachers she liked, and the teachers she hated. But most of all I loved watching how much she loved what she was doing.  Sometimes it was hard.  Her youth. Her vitality. Her belief in love, in marriage and happily ever after.  I truly hope I was able to mask my cynicism and even hope that some of her optimism rubbed off on me. 

The last night she was here, we ordered in Thai and split a bottle of wine and watched Untamed Hearts with Christian Slater and Marisa Tomei.   Saturday morning, I decided to get up and have breakfast with her.  When I walked in the kitchen, she said, "I'm sad Tippy."   I know how she felt.  I was sad, too.  Tippy BTW is our mutual nickname for each other.  Don't ask why.  It's one of those you-had-to-be-there things.

I know I will certainly miss her.  I ask myself; are you going to clean the house on Monday even though Angie won't be here on Tuesday?  Are you going to continue to keep the fridge clean?  The floors washed?  I think so.

Good luck, Tippy.  You will always have a home in Brooklyn.

One of many obsessive self-portraits

I call this:  Insomniac's Delight.

A question

My friend Marc Travanti ,whose artwork is featured regularly on this blog, told me that unless feminism becomes more inclusive it will die out as a movement.  I asked him to review the website I am creating for my book project, Tales from the Velvet Chamber.  He said, You should invite male writers as well.   Part of me agrees with him.  I've never wanted to participate in a movement that shuns or belittles or sets itself off in an ivory tower.  I've never wanted to be a member of a group that is portrayed as strident, bitter or angry.  That's not the feminism I practice.  Or at least this is what I tell myself. 

But to be honest, the books I read are primarily by female authors.  There are exceptions; recently I've read books by Jose Saramago and Jonathan Lethem.  I tell myself that I am just tired of the male voice.  In my 20's and 30's, including my years as an undergraduate, the canon was strictly male: Blake, Shelley, T.S. Eliot, W.H. Auden, Tennyson, Dylan Thomas, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Aristotle--- well you know the drill.  Every once in awhile a female voice would explode like a rocket--- Woolf!  Plath!  Austen!  But these exceptions were few and far between.

I grew up--- my consciousness and my culture--- framed primarily from a male point of view.  For many women this is not earth shattering news.  But bear with me.  When I became aware of this, I was already in my 40's.  For a long time, I've considered it my duty and my responsibility and my pleasure to shape my world-view and my politics and my dreams through another lens, one that is feminine, different.  My work as a writer has been shaped by this as well; what is the other version of this story?  Where is the female voice? I remember working on a series for National Public Radio--- Lost Voices.  I wrote and produced a piece called, The Trial of Agnes Gaudry. 

I reconstructed her voice from actual trial transcripts from the height of the witch craze in the 17th century. I collaborated with Anne Barstow Ph.D, a prominent and well known scholar in this field.  I can't begin to you tell you how how exciting and dangerous and forbidden this felt.  These ordinary women; some old, some young, some rich, some poor spoke to me from the grave.  These ordinary women were all convicted of sleeping with the devil and conspiring against the Catholic Church.  They all died horrible, brutal deaths.  I found their voices eloquent, passionate, articulate.  I found them beautiful. 

But now, I am considering including male voices for Tales from the Velvet Chamber because I think Marc might've been right when he said, "That would be totally post modern feminsism. That would be the next wave."  This also feels dangerous and exciting.  How would male voices respond to the platform for the anthology? However, I am not 100% convinced.  Part of me still feels like I have to make up for lost time--- all those years deep inside the male canon.  What do you think?

Finally, it was never simple.

"She is allowed to love herself only if a man finds her worthy of love."

--- Annis Pratt, Archetypal Patterns in Women's Fiction.

Ads from the 1960's: saltycotton, flickr

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits of my mother to honor her upcoming birthday

1967.

A bitterly cold winter morning.  My mother has managed to feed and dress all four of us for school.  The kitchen table is littered with empty cereal bowls, a frying pan with bits of egg glued to the edges, a spoon in a half empty grape jelly jar.  Over her rayon nightgown, she throws on a coat two sizes too big for her.  It belongs to my stepfather.  It is dark gray and the sleeves hang over her hands, but she is still agile enough to slap my brother when he mouths off at her.

Then she pulls on black rubber boots with buckles, also too big for her, a splash of dark red lipstick, and runs out into the frozen morning and gets the car started.  I watch her from the kitchen window.  The exhaust rises up into the frigid air like a ghost.  She runs back in, panting from the cold, her nose red, and throws on our scarves, our hats and our gloves.  One sibling is always missing one glove.  But she has no sympathy for stragglers or miscreants.

On this particular morning, with the wind chill somewhere around fifty below, with the snow drifting up to the eaves of the roofs of the houses, and the world a wild, icy universe--- you must drive slowly and she does. Slowly. But she swears the whole time, "Sonofabitch.  Sonofabitch."  We don't say a word as she cautiously navigates through the still quiet streets.  All we hear is the crunch of snow on the tires.  Nothing else.  Except our breathing.

Suddenly the horn starts honking.  On its own.  As if it had suddenly gone insane.  As if it woke up and decided to bitch and complain.  My mother screams and hits the steering wheel, "Oh you bitch!  You stinking bitch."  There we are, the five of us, slowly moving down the streets, the horn honking, blaring--- incessantly.  It is so loud we can't hear ourselves think.  The world telescopes down to the frozen car, my mother in her nightgown, and the car horn.   We start to laugh. Cautiously at first, then full out when my mother joins. We laugh so hard it hurts. 

She pulls into the long circular drive of the parish, and drops us off.  Her lipstick is smeared from laughing so hard, a bit of it is on her teeth, and the horn is still honking.  She screams to be heard: "Get out. Get out.  Have a good day.  Come straight home."  She drives off.  I walk up the steps of the church, enter, bless myself, "nameofthefathersonholyghost," but in the distance I can still hear the horn.  And in my mind, my mother's laughter. 

ad from the 1960's: saltycotton on flickr.com

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits in honor of my mother's upcoming birthday

1964.

My mother is in her early 30's, and her youngest child is nine months old.  We are going for a walk.  She wears a tight skirt; burnt orange with kick pleats, and a snug turtleneck sweater, black high heels.  My brother is secured inside his stroller that has wooden beads strung across the front. He's gnawed and chewed on them like a small rat.  Drool leaks from the side of his mouth, and we set out in the early afternoon.  We walk along the wide avenue.  Cars pass by and men honk their horns in appreciation of my mother's derriere swinging to and fro as she pushes the stroller.  We pass houses which are variations of ours; one story ranch with contrasting trim.  Five or six or seven children with runny noses and smart mouths.  Too high tuition at the local Catholic school where the nuns are an instrument of torture.  Husbands who work at the factory.

My mother walks fast; as if escaping.  She smokes cigarettes, she chews gum. She doesn't speak.  My brother is quiet. I hold onto the stroller, helping my mother push it up a hill as we pass by the local park.  This is who we are as walk on the avenue.  It's not about where we are going, it's about how we are getting there. We don't have a car.  It is strange to be the only people out on the streets in the middle of the day, the middle of the week.  My mother walks with the knowledge that she is still a good looking woman.  Her fourth child, and she can still fill out that skirt.  Curl her blond hair, walk out in the world with two of her children, and still get noticed. 

advertising from the 1960's: saltycotton, flickr.

Simplicity: It was never simple. A series of portraits of my mother in honor of her upcoming birthday

1978.

I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen. She’s at the window, her hands clasped behind her back, the floral apron. Her hair the color of steel wool softly curls around her face. Seconds later, a car pulls up the driveway. Its my mother. I look out the window and watch her. She’s wearing blue jeans, an oatmeal colored sweater, flats, white hoop earrings and pink lipstick. She’s blond, eternally blond and by the way she walks, you can tell she loves to dance.

She enters through the side door that leads into the kitchen. She kisses me, and lights up a cigarette while her mother fixes her a cup of coffee from the tin pot on the white stove. The light pours into the window. Grandmother gets out the black cast iron skillet, and pancake batter hits the hot greased surface. I set the table, while my mother retrieves the syrup, butter and sour cream. Finally we all sit. The dishes are green and white. The napkins are white. 

This is not one moment, but many, many moments strung together until they form a much larger picture. Until it stretches beyond moments and becomes days, then weeks, then months. And now years. Always the conversation about the other Polish ladies. Always the gossip about the other family members. No one ever speaks about the village that was burned, the forced labor. But it is there. My grandmother worries about my mother, and the anxiety is palpable.

My mother passes this anxiety along to me--- the message: the world is a dangerous place. But if the pancakes are hot, then the coffee is good. And so is life. If you stay for lunch there’s ham and potato salad. And if you stay for dinner there’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes and whiskey.

Fierce Feministas: 2

The original fierce woman, my grandmother.   She literally walked across Germany during World War II with her husband, Walter, and two young children.  Part of the forced labor that worked in factories producing munitions. When one factory was bombed they were marched to another.  If you broke rank, you were shot.  When the Americans flew overheard, you were shot. They were, as one historian noted,"caught in the vise of history."  I researched this when I was producing a series on National Public Radio; Lost Voices (2002).  She wasn't a saint, but she was tough.  She kept rubber bands in a glass jar, saved buttons, plastic bags and would never throw out food.  Downstairs in her basement, she had a dozen boxes of detergent.  You never know.  The Nazis might come back.   

Tales from the Velvet Chamber

I'm working on the website for my new book project, Tales from the Velvet Chamber.  An anthology of stories by women who subvert and invert classical myths, fairy-tales and the Bible: I'm thinking Lilith, Mary Magdalene, Eve, Medea, Medusa.  A fresh take on old archetypes; the whore, the bitch, the crone, the muses, the fates, she-devils, gorgons.  The idea: make these powerful women strong, dark, evil and beautiful.  Admired, not reviled.   A gallery of women who are erotic, transgressive, outrageous, comic and charming.  Stay tuned for more details.