A few weeks ago, Robert fell in love with a new, old book, from which he insisted upon reading long passages aloud. It was an autobiography written by this very New York, pop-artsy guy whose gimmick it was to begin every sentence (for hundreds and hundreds of interminable pages) with exactly the same phrase. So the whole thing read like a laundry list, and was just complete torture to listen to. But anyway, for some godforsaken reason, Robert loved it.

“Listen to this,” he kept saying, and then he’d read one sentence after another that all sounded exactly the same to me, each one just as lousy and formulaic as the next. “Isn’t that beautiful?” Robert asked.

“No,” I answered. Then I stared at him with my best have-you-lost-your-freakin’-mind look, and then rethought the look, remembering that my birthday was nearing and if I puckered too often, I might soon have those tiny mouth wrinkles that Botox can never help. “That’s just stupid,” I said, now trying to keep my face free of expression. “I can’t believe that was even published. It’s a load of crap.”

Needless to say, Robert took enormous pleasure in informing me that the book in question was the first in a rather old and hugely successful series. “People just adore these books,” he said, before setting into another clunky, miserable passage of this dull writer’s boring memories, one after the other after the other.

“Hmph,” I groaned, realizing I’d become much too much like Bea Arthur ever to remain expressionless.

However. Despite the fact that I found myself incapable of understanding this book’s artistic merit, it did make me remember a few things. Or, more accurately, a few people.
There have been a number of amazing, generous women in my life. Women who have touched and protected and guided me, and (forgive me for this) helped me to find a way to tap into the universal river of creativity. To my heroes--Roberta, Jennifer, Tina, Joanna, and Rosemary, all saints in their own right, I send my love and the greatest of thanks for the following lessons:

1)You haven’t lived until you’ve gotten your crotch wet.

2)Art is about making something out of nothing.

3)God is in your conscience.

4)In art, preparation is helpful, but not essential, because you’re not really creating “it” anyway. “It” already existed before you ever showed up.

5)My Father was a smart, smart man.

6)We are all called to do something.

7)Your potential is intended to be fulfilled. And when it isn’t, bad things happen.

8)Listen, and you will hear.

9)The most contemporary, modern, avant garde choreography—was probably done over a hundred years ago

10)Everything has been done before. So if you like it, steal it, make it your own, and put it on stage.

11)Like it or not, people always respond to a high note, a kick line, and a realistic painting. Always have, always will.

12)Art is in the intention.

13)Art is in the transitions.

14)Life consists of movement, rhythm, pattern, contrast, line, shape, form, texture, space, negative space, and tone. In other words, life is art and art is life.

15)It isn’t too late until it’s too late.


Thank you, ladies. I love you all.

All Good Things...

In spite of commonly being considered impatient people, New Yorkers, as a rule, are willing to wait in a line--for something good. I remember being astonished, when that little, tiny, cream puff place (and I mean the food--not a gay slur) first opened on the Upper West Side a few years ago--for months on end, summer, winter, spring, didn't matter when, skinny people lined up for a tasty treat.

And then, when Sex in the City let the rest of the world in on the sensation of the Magnolia Bakery (which, though I'm a fan, I must say isn't what it used to be) even tourists got on line for a little happy sugar. I've never, in the last two years, seen the Magnolia Bakery's steamed windows, without at least 20 hungry people staring in, lamenting that there is a 12 cupcake per person limit.

And today, Robert persuaded me to wait in another of the chic New York eatery lines--for something he lacked the ability to describe.

"Is it ice cream?" I asked, assuming that, because of the ninety degree heat, people would only wait in line for something cool.

"Kind of." Robert refused to engage me and looked away, making it clear that I was being impatient (yes, I hate surprises).

"Oh," I said, as if I understood. "It's frozen yogurt."

"Kind of."

I won't bore you with the rest of the conversation, but suffice it to say that Robert was right. We were waiting, in a mid-day blaze, concrete gleaming up at us, in a line of roughly twenty-five people, for something that wasn't frozen yogurt and wasn't ice cream--though it looked like both. And, even after eating my "Pinkberry" with fresh strawberry, kiwi and banana slices on top of it, and appreciating the fact that it was cold and wet, I still didn't know what it was. And, didn't know if I liked it. Which, of course, means that I didn't.

So, being too egotistical to think that I have bad taste, I can only assume that the throng of Pinkberryians clamoring for the cool "treat" (as Robert claimed that they do, assuring me that stars like Lindsey Lohan {oy} are big fans) are really clamoring to be part of the cool set (please pardon the pun). Which brings me to question my own taste and my recollection of all GOOD things past. Were the Beard Papa and Magnolia Bakery moments of yesterday just lapses in my judgement because I'm a much more shallow person than I assumed? Or, was it worth the wait?

10pm and all is well?

I know people who go to sleep by 9pm each night. Really, I do. Unless they're lying. But why would anybody lie about that? It's certainly not glamorous. And if they are lying, I care not to check. Because God knows what I might see. Bouffant hair wrapped with toilet paper?

I also know MANY people who claim to go to sleep by 10pm. They're real goody-goodies. Black and white people. Dogmatic--"no such thing as a white lie" people. You know who I'm talking about. Funzie people...

And then, there's the rest of my sphere--people who climb under the sweet sheets each night by 12pm. They're my kind of people. They cope. Though really, I don't fit into any group. Which brings me to the point of today's blog. How much sleep do I really need? Does anyone need? And does age matter? Is it true that the older a person is, the less sleep they need? And, if so, why do some older people sleep for hours on end? And, does anyone REALLY know the answers to these questions? Or are they pretending to know because they think the after midnight crowd will be too sleepy to care?

PACE

One of the things they don't tell you about New York--is that the pace is exhausting. Or, that it can be exhausting, if you're a person with a dream. Or, in my case, if you're a person with many dreams (yes, like my closet, I should throw a number of those stragglers to the curb) it can be so exhausting that you're too tired to be tired--fatigue takes energy too, you know.

As of late, I've become painfully aware of an obsessive part of my personality that I denied until now. And I figure that this blog is as good a place as any to start to deal with it. So, here it is...

I'm a desperate, compulsive, fix it before I'm forty, build it and they will come, leap and the net will appear--NESTER. Yes, it's true. And, living in the land of opportunity (aka New York & CT) where possibility lies around ever corner, only feeds that obsession. Because there's always something you CAN do. It doesn't matter when it is or where you are. You CAN make a call, scribble a note, type an email or even do a few pilates exercises on the subway to get in-touch with your deepest abdominal muscles. Breathe, two, three, four. Yes, you can do something to move your tired ass a few inches closer to the promised land. And because you can, you do. And fighting for your dreams in that single focused way, so that every minute counts and your even tempted to scribble notes on the TP while you're using the john, is...Well, I'm too tired to even type it.