Poem for a Foggy Tuesday

Quizzical looks

Quizzical looks

I'm always receiving

such quizzical looks.

"Why does this gal

 live her life this way?

 What does she do

 with her night and her day?

 When will she grow up

 and settle down?

 Why is she always

 leaving town?

 Guitars are for boys

 with pimples and braces,

 Why won't she settle

 and accept the stasis?

 Boredom and discontent

 are the norm.

 Why, oh why,

 won't she conform?

 She just wants to dream

 and make pretty things...

 She wants to write songs when,

 Lord knows, she can't sing...

 So c'mon Angel

 this is your chance

 to explain why you have

 such ants in your pants.

 Well, I'm waiting for you

 to explain to me

 Why you seem to exist

 just to be?"

 Because I exist

  just to be, 

   says me.

http://www.rtist.com/index.php/public_profile/artist/2581

http://www.bandmix.com/angel-lacanfora/

The web tangles as Etting falls for her dashing piano player, Johnny Alderman, nimbly portrayed by Cameron Mitchell. The feeling is mutual between them, but Etting has her eye on stardom and must continue playing the game with Snyder to reach the top, eventually reluctantly marrying him. Alderman, frustrated and disgusted, moves to Hollywood to pursue a career opportunity while Etting continues to ascend the rungs to stardom, eventually winding up featured in Ziegfield’s Follies on Broadway. Meanwhile, Snyder shows little joy in her mounting success; if anything, he becomes increasingly more possessive and paranoid. 

There are some moments in Cagney’s performance that made me audibly gasp, he’s that vile and abusive. And I’m hard pressed to remember ever seeing a more convincing victim of abuse in the scenes where Day reacts to his violence. Keep the tissues handy, trust me. The increasing tension between Etting and Snyder is masterfully played, with Etting becoming more withdrawn and turning to alcohol, and Snyder’s rages becoming more frequent. 

 A good portion of the film is given over to musical performances by Day, who was at the peak of her career and in great, fine voice. While most numbers were of the “big nightclub with orchestra” variety (think Tropicana), my favorite number comes early on, when it’s just her alone with Johnny accompanying her on piano, for the bluesy-bittersweet song, “It All Depends on You.”

Powerful and gripping, with a couple of scenes that truly shocked me, there’s never a dull moment. I give “Love Me or Leave Me” a big thumb’s up. If I had any gripes it would be that I could have done with fewer musical numbers. They came with relative frequency and took away some of the tension from the storyline. Still, it’s a minor gripe. I encourage anyone who loves classic films to see this. You’ve never seen Doris Day like this before and Jimmy Cagney will blow... you... away!

(Here’s a clip of Day singing my favorite song from the film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dtX0YBmeFY )

*****************************************************************************************************************************

Virginia was my home for a total of six years and in that time, I formed my impressions of the state and its denizens, as one does. To make a sweeping generalization that’s bound to piss off some Virginia natives, I have to say Virginians are a cautious and preoccupied people. Sometime last year I read that Virginia has the highest number of college-educated residents of any state. Economically, Virginia seems to exist largely as an annex to Washington, D.C. Many of D.C.’s operations can be found in Virginia, from Quantico to the C.I.A. headquarters, to the largest military base in the word situated in Norfolk/Virginia Beach.

Charlottesville, that home to UVA, Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, and lately, a constant presence in the news as a result of the tragic deaths of Morgan Harrington and Yeardley Love, was more of a home to me than anywhere I’ve ever lived save Huntington Beach, CA. And I’ve lived all over the place: Seattle, Arlington/DC, Georgia, Ireland & London, England, to name some of the more memorable locales. But Charlottesville, or C’ville, as locals refer to it, had that magical combination of soul, personality, and a bucolic charm, all imbued with a gracious composure common to the South. 

What I loved most about C’ville:

The architecture, especially in the vicinity of Court Square, and on the Downtown Mall. Historical buildings once graced by the likes of Jefferson, Madison and Monroe. An incredible melange of Greek revival, Georgian, Queen Anne, Federal, Gothic revival, Beaux Arts, Victorian, and so forth dot the city, in varying states of preservation. 

The people. While reserved, are a kind and big-hearted breed, yet quirky. Being a university town, many folks I interacted with leaned towards the overly-degreed. Yet even the not-so-degreed had to have wound up in a gentle, collegiate environment for some reason. I met lovable eccentrics, reminiscent of small English towns, and tweed and bow-tie clad UVA professors to tattooed, dope-smoking musicians toting their axes along the Mall. 

The culture. What initially drew me to C’ville was the legendary music scene. C’ville, it’s widely known, was put on the map by the presence of Dave Matthews & his band, who came to prominence while Dave was working in a humble old bar on the Mall, Miller’s. And the art scene is nothing to sneeze at either. Numerous galleries litter the city, a few of which I had the privilege of exhibiting my own mosaic art in. There was the always interesting Free Speech wall, essentially a gigantic blackboard on which the community is encouraged to share their thoughts, located on the Downtown Mall. The Wall quietly epitomizes the ethos of C’ville, which is live and let live, albeit healthily and harmoniously, while still respecting your neighbor. 

The pace. Those who had lived in C’ville longer than a decade still remembered it as a sleepier burg, one that exploded with development and an influx of people once it was  declared in 2004 that C’ville was the best place to live in the U.S. Locals would scoff when I would exclaim about the lack of traffic. Still, I found that you could breeze from one end of town to the other within a 1/2 hour on a bad day, in 10 minutes on a quiet Sunday morning. 

The coffeehouse scene. It’s no secret, I love coffeehouses! Everything about them, they feel like home to me. They are all at once funky & eclectic, yet with an oftentimes hushed, scholarly air, like a musty library. Few things instantly cheer me up like the friendly, earthy aroma of coffee. The almost universal understanding that there WILL be live acoustic music in the evenings at most coffeehouses. But enough of my waxing rhapsodic over coffeehouse culture. In C’ville, Mom & Pop coffeehouse operations abound. Some of my favorites: the Mudhouse (voted number one in the city by the populace year after year), Cafe Cubano (where they not only make a mean cappuccino but had the gall to exhibit my art!), C’ville Coffee (owner Toan is simply such a nice guy, say hi if you can), La Taza in Belmont, now known as Roast, and the ubiquitous Shenandoah Joe’s. 

So why did I leave, when I have so many good things to say about the ‘ville? Primarily, the weather, which was a killer on my health but also general homesickness, which I’d carried every day like a little cloud over my being since the day I first arrived in Virginia. This past winter brought us over four feet of snow in total. The thunderstorms, while exciting, would often knock out the power. While C’ville is theoretically a four season environment, in reality, it seemed more like two: winter/summer. Winter would set in around the end of November and last through April. Next, summer would come crashing in, with no subtlety whatsoever. Then out would come the mosquitoes, the poison ivy, the perfumey humidity that made me gag the instant I walked outside. No doubt about it: life in the South is for the hardy. 

That which doesn’t kill you makes you blah blah. So what have I learned from my six year Virginia odyssey? For one, I’ve learned how to drive in crap weather. How to turn into my skid when I hit the ice patch. That driving in a hailstorm is not a good idea.I also had the opportunity to indulge the latent anthropologist in me, to try my hand at assimilating into what is a vastly different culture from southern California. Let no one tell you otherwise; the South is definitely its own unique and distinct culture. And after inhabiting the land for 6 years, I can honestly say I understand why Southerners are so proud and stubborn, why they tried to secede to keep their way of life (the slavery part notwithstanding). 

As I took a walk one morning recently near Monticello, I rolled over in my mind the following questions: “How is it that the region that is the South came to be so distinct? And, why is it, when borders on a map are largely arbitrary, that Southern culture begins and ends where it does?” Big questions, these, though I’m sure they’ve been asked before and most likely cogently answered. But this is my gig, so here goes. Anthropologists typically cite language as the origin of a culture. But Southerner’s speak English (though folks in some parts of the country might find that statement debatable!) I blame Southern culture on three elements: the weather, the geography and its slave-trading history. On the first point, the humid sub-tropical climate creates an environment for the growth of flora, the likes of which can only be found in the South. Point two: the South is encompassed by the Appalachians to the west. On the northern end,  once you’ve gone past the Mason-Dixon line, you leave behind the humid sub-tropical climate and the slave-trading past, hence your exit from Southern culture. Point three: Nowhere else in the country did slavery proliferate and exist on the scale it did in the South. According to Tony Horwitz, in his fine book, “A Voyage Long & Strange,” at one point, there were more African-born slaves in the young U.S. than white Europeans! And the Africans brought with them their heritage, their food and music, to which the South was infused and injected. 

I admit it, Virginia was an acquired taste for me. But acquire it, I did, though I never felt completely at home. The “where” I am is something that’s always been important to me. I’m someone who is keenly aware at all times of my environment, my surroundings. It’s almost more important to me than anything else. If I’m not comfortable with my “where,” I’m one miserable gal. C’ville came close to being a great fit. Plop it down beside the Pacific Ocean, and it would’ve been my dream town. Alas, it was not to be. Sniff. But I’ve moved on and resettled in my actual hometown, which to my surprise, seems to be that fit I’ve always been looking for. Who knew!

Bye Charlottesville! I’ll never forget you~

Here at the amusement park, it had been a radiant day, with kids at play and a cloudless sky. But by late afternoon, the sky had taken on a split pea soup hue simultaneously as the siren began sounding. Now, seized by confusion, everyone scattered for cover. I ran into the Tilt-A-Whirl, this ride enclosed in a small hangar-like structure. Instinctively I knew that the odds of this building continuing to stand after the storm struck were low, but I was in a panic and there were not many options. I stepped into one of the ride’s oversized, swiveling chairs, lowered the safety bar and waited. 

At the sound of the first faint freight train rumbles from the distant superstorm, a sudden paralysis gripped us all. An eerie calm penetrated the room, everyone holding their collective breaths, muscles taut.

SLAM! It was on us: chaos and confusion; screams and flying things; the clang of metal on metal; wind tearing the air; lungs sucked dry from the pressure; water spraying; a hundred knocks to the flesh. 

The roar was gone. The metal settled. Moans and groans and cries and wails echoed through what was left of the structure. I was damaged, bleeding but alive. Around me were mangled bodies; some writhing, others still. I slinked up out over the now stuck safety bar, grateful that it had stopped me from catapulting through the air. I clambered down from the tower of debris that was once a ride. 

I limped across the concrete floor, carefully picking my way over beams, scraps of metal, shards of glass. I was suddenly confronted by a man or a woman, I couldn’t tell. Its head was grossly disfigured; huge, misshapen. Knots where a round, smooth skull should be. Sallow, fuzzy skin. Swollen, puffy eyes. No clothing. This being looked me in the eyes menacingly.

My heart sunk with the realization that the being was here to harvest what remained of us.  My pulse racing, I quickly scanned my surroundings. There were more of these hermaphroditic creatures, with the same oversize, lumpy heads. It was feeding time. 

(Thanks a lot, Stephen Hawking...)

Well, I had a terrible nightmare right before I woke up this morning, for starters. Mobsters told me that I had an hour to come up with $3000 or they would slowly torture me. Next thing I know, I’m in a backyard next to a pool, and I know that there’s a problem with the plumbing and that if I can’t fix it, I won’t be able to get ahold of that money. Suddenly a pipe must have burst, for chocolate syrup started filling the pool, spewing from a jet out of an interior wall. I knew my chance was blown. It was over.

“Three dollars.”

Can I just collapse into your arms, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant? It’s been a terrible day. I just want someone to hold me, tell me it’s going to be ok.

Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, I broke down in the park today. I laid on a bench in a grove of pine trees and sobbed. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it. I’m tired, really, really tired of slamming my head against life’s wall every day.

Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, this town can be so dull sometimes. I went to the Mall thinking it’s a beautiful spring evening and there’ll be lots going on instead it was Deadsville. A handful of people. Many businesses closed for the day. Closed! At 5:30pm! What’s wrong with this picture, when downtown retailers close at 5:30pm during the height of tourist season??

(73 over 31. It’s no wonder I’m so mellow, or that some people think I’m stoned all the time.)

(73 over 31. Much lower and I’d have been in a coma. I’m like the walking dead. No wonder I keep passing out all over the place.)

(73 over 31. I found the medical report from several years ago sorting through papers in a box. The doctors at George Washington University had shaken their heads. “Yep, she’s got it,” they said, with an air of defeat.)

I’ll give you my bills, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, if you can promise me that I’ll sleep tonight? That no one will chase me in my dreams. That dogs won’t attack me anymore. That sirens won’t sound. That I won’t wake up yet again with my heart racing. 

(73 over 31. I don’t know why it never sank in before just how low that is. Oh my God, that’s mere points away from death. And this is how I live?)

That’s Wilco playing, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” which I’ve listened to a thousand times, but I need it right now. It’s reassuring if not new.

I’m not going to give up, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, on anything or anyone. I’ve got hope. I don’t know why, but it’s there and it’s strong in me, in my core. The nuclear reactor of my soul is the hope that’s constantly churning.

The Free Speech wall on the Mall had been wiped clean, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, the first time I’ve ever seen that. And the elaborate, vintage carousel was gone. It was just the usual buskers and homeless characters peddling for change.

The community festival at the Pavilion was a bust, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. A sea of men in suits, schmoozing. Shi-shi hors d’oeuvres from Hot Cakes. No live music. But the weather’s so glorious. So where is everyone?

“Have a good day.”

Oh, I’d love to, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. I’d really, really love to. Maybe tomorrow.