(Dedicated to Paisley and Wilder Sypherd)

Copyright - 2025 - Sarah Crowley

MILLY STARBEAM - Fairy Detective

FILE: 239 - SUBJECT: Trapped Recruits

Summary: This is mostly for humans to read. This project likely benefited humans

the most. That said, this will be valuable data for Avalon, too. This is Milly’s case. I’m an observer. An Avalonian…This is her story - not mine - five years after her return. Some of the names have been changed. This is her tale. I was her mentor during reassimilation. A recruit officer.

—- Ivy Finch

—----------------

CHAPTER ONE - Earth: New York, New York - 2027

Her office had no windows. The wood walls were elegant but spare. The marble floor was gray with swirls of white, reminding one of a storm. The fireplace (made of obsidian with silver flecks) reminded one of night. And stars. A Turkish rug lay near, reminding one of a Turkish rug. There were photos, paintings, a fairy sculpture. Fastened to the wall - a computer map disguised as a mirror. In the back, near the bathroom, she had a closet full of weapons. She and Healy tried to be as non-violent as possible, but sometimes they had no choice. In another closet she kept disguises: wigs, face putty…hats. Despite the lack of windows, it wasn’t a sad room. Picture a modern art museum, meditation room, blended with the trappings of a spy? A spiral staircase connected the office to the ground floor. There was a fireman’s pole, adding a zaniness - it came with the house. She had an elevator, which came with the house, which she was the first to admit was impractical - silly. Still, she enjoyed using it. “May as well….” Of course, most who had any reason to sit in Milly’s office, knew she was a detective. So, it is wrong to say the room was top-secret. It wasn’t. The rest of her house had windows and the atmosphere was a conflation of urban edgy, Arthurian, rustic - what one would expect from a fairy. A fairy who had once been human. She sometimes wondered why she’d been given such luxury. The council assured her it was arbitrary. But her life had never seemed so. Still, it amused her – the perks. A townhouse in New York? Milly would have felt at home living in a tent. In truth, the subject of fate aside, her demographic had been - random. Recruits were placed in all sorts of homes. Some, bad: prisons, war, living on the streets…The council said recruits were placed where beauty and love were needed. That is why cities often had more than one recruit. That’s why some recruits were rich.

Healy looked like the caricature of an English butler; but wasn’t English…or a butler. He stood across from Milly, waiting…for the elevator. She was considerably younger; but he wouldn’t condescend. Besides being his boss, she was smart, charming, disarming - his friend.

She sat at her desk, smiling while reading a card. The card spoke of thanks - a job well done. At first glance, the gifted flowers seemed…like lilacs. But the perfume was odd…not of this world.

By human standards, Milly appeared to be in her late twenties. In truth, Milly was one hundred years old…Well, 101. And Healy, was midlife, so, triple that. But despite his age, he was healthy, fit, athletic; Milly knew he was an asset to each case. He had a gentleman’s veneer and was, except when he wasn’t. It was an occupational hazard (and necessity) to sometimes be rough. Also, he was adept at walking through walls, flying, hand to hand combat. He had two daughters who were in college. On the planet Avalon, college is called: Dreamscape. Which tells you a bit about how we view education, learning…and life (in general). Healy had been a boxer in youth and one could tell. He was handsome, had silver hair, and sometimes his eyes “seemed” gold. On Earth, folks presumed his provenance was India. It wasn’t.

The racism on Earth is not unheard of in Avalon, by the way. Though, species-ism might be a more apt word. It seems many star systems, planets, universes, tend to have occupants who like to feel better (than others). Like to put folks in a box. Simply said, one group imagines itself best. Most Avalonians were a mix. Milly wasn’t – she was fairy. Just fairy. And back home, before she was humanized, Milly’s skin was blue. Like the sea.

One never knew what the humanizing machine would do. Never. There was a girl who had been in Milly’s training pod, who had consistently high scores; but when she got to the machine, (she was mostly Sylph - so, had iridescent skin, but Taurean, too – so, had horns); in any case, her horns remained – her skin sparkled brilliantly, and she seemed more otherworldly. More alien. Needless to say, she wasn’t allowed to go…It wasn’t fair, but recruits had to blend in. That was the point.

Healy continued to watch Milly; and she now appeared to be caught in the web of a dream. Her cat (Cleo) had swerved by. The elevator door opened. All Avalonians have some bit of telepathic skill.

“Stop.” She blushed.

“You review that day a lot.” Healy could see - she was brooding. The image he saw: ‘Exit Day.’ “I’ve noticed…” It was as though she wanted different ending. And, ofcourse, she did. “You -”

“You’re good.” Didn’t sound like a compliment. She raised an eyebrow. “Telepathy’s fun. It’s easy for me. I’m learning telekinesis. Trying, at least. You see, I noticed I was moving things. It scared me, at first - then, I saw it was fun! I’ve decided to read up. Janet’s helping…She’s the best.”

“Show off.” He raised an eyebrow. Her bouquet zoomed past like a sports car - clipping his nose.

“Pandora’s box,” she agreed. “It is! But…I’ll be careful. Well…Shimmer told me I might notice skills would come. She said I’d grow a gift - if needed…” She was on her tip-toes, snatched the lilacs - handed Healy a book. “Guess it is?”

Healy’s face dropped. “I knew Mike.”

“Careful…”

“Hmm?” He played dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Divulging secrets again…”

Healy grinned. “Well…”

“You used to be so cool. Mysterious...”

“Ha ha…well…” He leafed through the book. “Scofield. I haven’t thought of him for ages. Milly? You know how we have less crime in Avalon?”

“Avalon? Yes?”

“Right.”

Milly was at her laptop. “Scofield, you mean?”

“You know, he was executed.”

Initially, the council had been wary of Milly switching jobs. It seemed self-indulgent. At least, that’s what one of the council said. And in truth, Milly agreed…Yet, one wants what one wants.

Attempting to acquaint the council with the idea, and butter them up, she invited them down to Earth, to her home…for tea. The council members all liked sweets, and so cake was served. And three days after learning she would be trapped for fifty years, the council came. And none seemed too thrilled about the visit. They didn’t often travel to Earth though; and wise and transcendent as they were, they could be a tad stuck in their ways. That day, they socialized awkwardly, feigning casualness. Some sat on Milly’s couch. One, sat at her window-seat. The kitchen table sat four. One absolutely refused to sit. A female named, Pam, was ensconced in Milly’s wingback - like she owned the place. The council are all born old. Well, old looking. It’s simply part of the deal. Old and wise; but you mustn’t imagine them in robes. Oh, did you? Robes of white? That day, one had been playing not-gravity tennis, when suddenly, he remembered the date. One (female) wore green pjs (who knows?). One wore jeans.

So, Milly said: “I like the word: detective.”

“Well…That’s no reason to switch,” the one in pjs said.

“Detective?” asked, the one in jeans.

“Conscience Hunter….” Milly explained.

A different council member said: “It’s more common. Crime.” He was spitting out crumbs of cake - wiped his mouth.

Milly passed that man more cake as he signaled he wanted some. “That’s true. And that trend is sad. But it’s nothing compared to Earth. There’s lots and lots here - crime I mean, and it’s been that way for years. So, to understand what I mean…Do you know what a detective is? See…they’re not Conscience Hunters exactly but that’s the closest thing. I know some of you like TV…Perry Mason. Charlie Angels. James Bond…Hollywood is a huge form of magic - but…it can be fun - to watch? As long as you take it lightly. But…it is hypnotizing. It controls them. So much. Humans, I mean. The news, too. All you have to do is tell them something is so…on a screen or radio - and they believe you…Sometimes, you get a black sheep but mostly they go along with the crowd…. Tell them to drink the Kool-Aid - assure them it’s fine, and they often will. They don’t question. Well, there are some rebels. Oh, I’m not making fun - it’s just how they are. Part of their charm. And we can help!”

So, dear Reader, as one rises in dimensional clout, crime and “sin” are less common – also, the need to dominate and control is less…yet, duality exists. I don’t mean to be patronizing. And Milly wasn’t slandering you all, by the way; but you must know, many humans don’t realize how controlled they are. Or, how powerful! If you had any idea. Oh my! It’s simply how it is…or, was. It has wonderfully changed some, of course, and much thanks to Milly. Anyhow, back to dimensions, if you know this feel free to skip. But duality exists. It’s just softer in Avalon. Of course, there are other universes and “rules” vary…Now, if you think of frequency as music (I highly recommend this), though, one may prefer high notes. Low notes aren’t bad or evil. And low notes make the high notes even prettier. That said, for the most part - the last few thousand years, “villains” in Avalon aren’t (generally) as bad on Earth. You know, analogous to a drunk feeling less tempted while hiking in the woods? That said, in recent years, there was a steady crime trend. Slight but steady. So, in the last fifty years (or so) this trend was noted. Fifty years prior to Milly’s arrival (I mean). And, fifty to an Avalonian is no time at all; but regarding the recruits, to them, fifty was nothing to sneer at. We have to remember they were interpreting time differently. They’d been living on Earth, you see. True, they lived an awful long time but imagine how the thought of fifty years would seem to you? Right?

To be honest, during the advent of the whole recruits being trapped, the council had no reference for what would be. No one knew. The council watched…

Sometimes, Healy thought he saw a trace of sorrow in Milly’s eyes…Once, during a stake out she said:

“Betrayed…”

“Avalon?” He guessed. He pantomimed a violin, scrunched his face.

“Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

“Well, melodramatic. And…”

“What? I’m sad.”

“Sorry.”

The foolish are not always adventurous, but the adventurous are always a bit foolish. Or…Is there a fine line between adventure and foolishness? I think so. If you’re familiar (or unfamiliar) with tarot cards - there’s a Major Arcana card: the Fool; and it looks very much like the figure is about to walk off a cliff. Or maybe he is about to jump…which is also known as suicide (or base jumping sans parachute) but he doesn’t look melancholic….He seems more oblivious and trusting than…. forceful/intentional. He doesn’t seem angsty or tortured. If you are unfamiliar with tarot cards (I’m no expert but have had some interest since my teens), the card might not seem like a good sign but it mostly implies innocence and is more joyful than not. More daring than reckless….Though, daring may not be the word….The Fool’s bravery is derived from trust, not boldness. But trust…to trust someone or thing…takes courage. And, isn’t that brave? Very much?

The Fool is not an idiot. He just looks like one….

There is a fine line between the spirit of adventure and recklessness. Risk of the bad sort is just a hair’s breadth removed from risk of the good. Many humans look at “extreme sport” enthusiasts as more foolish than heroic. “Adrenaline junkie,” is seldom meant as a compliment. It brings to mind a fiend - angsty, brooding, a thrill seeking type - not a skilled athlete. But….adrenaline junkie…there’s possibly the hint of admiration there, just a hint? With the popularity of “extreme” sports increasing thanks to social media and YouTube- the general public perception regarding “nutty” sports seems to be more forgiving. Long gone is the era of brash on-line criticism on certain forums (usually doled out from armchair know-it-alls) - when we were only occasionally aware of these folk through books, tv, magazines, the rare documentary. For a long time, such athletes were pretty fringe; but not anymore - now we’ve largely replaced judgment/condemnation with light-hearted curiosity.

To look at me swiftly, I don’t fulfill the stereotype of daredevil. That I became a loyal and devoted rock-climber for a time surprised me more than anyone. When I began to favor skydiving - again, I was surprised - it was not a hobby I had been eyeing since childhood. The draw for me was slow and then….fast and strong…after my first solo jump (at the ancient age of 40), I was enchanted; it seemed to make my emotions more balanced. Well, both sports shewed depression away. Both sports bestow a rarified view. Both, quiet the mind. Banishing the “real” world for a time. Did I fall into climbing and skydiving (pun intended)? Did I actively seek these hobbies? Maybe a bit of both. Regardless, I’m not really a daredevil type - I’m a scaredy-cat who happens to like some activities that are risky.

I have never particularly liked the term: adrenaline junkie. I mean, right? Who does? The word: junkie, isn’t particularly nice…except maybe to a teen who has just discovered William Burroughs…. Junkie: conjures images of being out of control, desperate, jittery, loud, selfish….So selfish. And wasteful. So wasteful. That said, no adrenaline junkie can deny there’s chemical reward to these sports. Supposedly the equivalent of certain hard drugs? There are many ex-drug addicts and drinkers who find reprieve in “extreme” sports - the persistently depressed who may have even considered suicide often - albeit, ironically, suddenly want to live! This is a common tale. So, there is chemical fulfillment that seems to heal - satisfy - even if a cynic might say these ex-addicts are still addicts and have merely found a new source. It may seem “healthier” because it involves athletics.

But back to the Fool - the foolish…If you look at that tarot card; and look real close, you might sense the Fool is more readily participating (in life)…than not. He’s not paralyzed by cynicism. Facing the abyss, he may die but at least he was brave. He has enthusiasm - wonder. To truly have an adventure one must be willing for it to go South - to go poorly- real bad. Really bad. It likely won’t but it might. You pay for adventure with your uncertainty. That’s part of the recipe. An adventure must have the possibility of catastrophe…It will surely work out, well, likely…but maybe not. It’s a mystery. You submit to the void - you trust. You jump. How thrilling is that?

—-——————--

Second photo: Screenshot by: Nick Debonis

—-————————-

CINDERELLA—-(Or…Intro To Death) —--

—---------Ashes to ashes.….My dad presided over her funeral; and it was so sad. She had been decapitated by my older sister (who shall remain nameless but it rhymes with: fate), and try as we might, her head would simply not reattach. It wouldn’t stay. I was maybe 4 or 5 years old but the death of this doll hit me pretty hard - with deep pain….and my dad knew it - he could see. It was my first realization of the permanence of death: you can’t replace your loved ones. And later….even when my dad would buy me a doll that looked identical, somehow this “new” version was second rate - dressed the same but not….FYI this was the “before” version of Cinderella. Before her makeover? She was in her peasant garb, you know? Not yet rescued by the prince. Not sure that’s a relevant detail (by the way) but my point is, I wasn’t dazzled by her costume - I mean, this version was cute and all but she was in her cleaning clothes, so I must have really liked her….for who she was? I don’t remember being ungrateful for the new doll, and I missed the dead one terribly, so I was willing to play along, but….it wasn’t the same. My dad conducted the funeral, did I mention that? He was earnest and grave (pun intended). So grave. My sister Kate recently reminded me how we (she and I) would later bury some of our “alive” dolls - exhuming them after. I guess we enjoyed the drama and morbidity of the first doll funeral…And yet….strangely, when we would try to find the original Cinderella, the beheaded one - we just couldn’t. Weird, right? Ah, life….Another lesson learned: what’s gone is gone. Death transforms…The dead are hidden but not.

——————————-

I kept my Dad’s ashes for about seven or eight years - then scattered them. In Central Park. In New York. Which isn’t illegal (by the way). Not that I was sweating that fact (too much). I chose a zone called: Shakespeare’s Garden. An area as lovely as it sounds. Poised on a hill. There are tiers to that hill; and as the name implies, presiding over the flowers, Shakepeare quotes abound. It was raining - slightly. There were daffodils - slightly.Years ago, my family scattered much of my mother’s ashes off the coast of Oregon. After my brother’s cremation, his ashes had no hope of staying put for long….An elegant urn wasn’t part of the plan. In life, Ian was nomadic, and restless. He needed to be scattered here, there, everywhere. He needed to vanish - to be air.

—-————

We likely know when we’re near a threshold, a doorway, a no going back. We can feel its approach. We sense that a transformation is near. And it scares us. It smells a lot ike death. Resembles our last breath. Though, often when we pass through, we scarcely notice - until later. And we say: Ah, I’ve passed through.

—-———

In spiritual and philosophical parlance there’s a common idea that life is a dream….a play, movie, a game. A maze, a maze. Computer simulation. Hologram. Maya. Dependent on one’s mood, the idea that life is merely a mirage, will delight or enrage you. When we are in the throes of pain, such a notion seems false - belittling. When we’re in a coffee shop or sitting at a bar amongst friends, such thoughts are fine. We leisurely pull at life’s petals. Life loves me….loves me not.

—-————

-

But you’re dreaming now. You likely knew? And when you die you’ll be dreaming, too. But do you lucid dream? Or just eat the offered meal? Never asking the waiter for something sweeter to consume or feel? Do you passively dream, so entranced by the maze? Or knowingly dream...seeing starkly through the haze? Do you fly in your dreams? Teaching mermaids to talk? Have you played with lightning? Kissed the soul of a hawk? Do you whisper to your dream friends: I’m immortal....so are you? Do you stare at dream symbols, never having a clue? When we know we are dreaming, we’re entirely free. When we forget, we’re at the mercy of enemies we cannot see.

—-—————-

“But I JUST saw him (or her)!?” Sure, in so far as shock’s purpose goes - it softens the blow. But also…our disbelief is likely a clue….Proof we are forever lasting. Proof we go on and on. We don’t believe the dead are dead because they aren’t. Not really. They’ve just changed worlds. ——————————————————————————

The burden of divinity…The child in you is a wise old woman (or man). As wise and holy as God. You know everything, truly. Ask a question and you will know. You may act like you don’t. You may pretend you don’t see. You may act like a ditz but you know, truly. Truly. To say you are as wise and beautiful as God is only blasphemy if you don’t know who you are. Pretending at frailty, feigning humility, pretending at dumbness. Pretending you’re not everything…beauty and love.

—-———-

We are Ms. Pac-Man (in the maze of life)…eating everything - just in case. Mystery terrifies - excites us. Mystery is exactly why when we are kissing the stones of nadir, we choose to live another day. The beautiful blackness. The not knowing - that’s why. Tomorrow brings hope. Not knowing brings hope.….And, alternately, when life is so obviously bright, the mystery of life is just scrumptious…It teases us….…Will life stay cheery (we wonder)? Mystery is a gift wrapped in darkness. Mystery is everything. And so life intrigues us, excites, annoys us…We are like Theseus walking through the maze of life - timid, yet bold - will the Minotaur appear? And when? We can hear him…breathing. How thrilling.…frightening.…Will we slay him…or fall in love? ——————————————————

————— If we’re lucky enough to live a few decades (at least) we are often granted the gift of hindsight. Reviewing a life, is much like going to a museum with chronologically marked stuff - artifacts. Starting at the start….it seems typical of children to have a surety - a brightness. You can see it in their eyes. The very old have this, too. The child hasn’t yet cultivated a fake self and the very old are too weary to bother. But in between….as the decades pass, that brightness can fade. Like an old lamp whose wiring is off, we shyly flicker. It is easy to be kind to a cute child. It is far more difficult to love a flawed and fumbling adult. If you have a photo of yourself as a kid, where your eyes are shining….maybe tell her you love her - and always will. Tell her you’ll play with her - and always will. Promise to protect her - and mean it, and always do. Swear to her you won’t abandon or betray. Not again…And her lamp will stay on.

By Sarah Crowley

—----

Wyrd means fate.

—--------

She thought the FBI was following her. From the beginning, weird was the way. In Old English, wyrd, means fate. I have never thought the supernatural was strange. I can likely thank my mom for that. She practiced yoga in big mannish trousers in the ‘70s, long before yoga pants and yoga retreats were a thing. Seeing her stand on her head was as normal as seeing her sit in a chair. She spoke of magic. She spoke of scary things. She spoke of God (she spoke of scary things). Mostly she wanted her kids to be brave - and pure. Her words not mine. She wanted us to leave her alone so she could write poems or meditate. In her world, there was no escaping the eye of truth….Her truth.

Anyway, all of this to say that what was labeled as schizophrenia in 1970 - might not be thought of as such today. As much as I would enjoy vilifying my mom (and I will here and there), she was born at a time when mental health was thought of (at best) as a private affair and at worst - one was locked up - lobotomized, electrically shocked. The mentally unwell were shunned, hushed, and hidden. As far as the health of one’s spirit goes - one’s soul….at the time, it was a rare thought to correlate the mental landscape with the health of the soul. Though, the prefix for the psychoanalytic realm is derived from the Greek word : soul. Today, it’s near mainstream - common knowledge that there’s overlap (blending, indeed) between: mind, body, spirit. Possibly, the mentally unwell are in more need of a shaman or priest than pharmaceutical help.

—------

When I was a kid, my mom spoke of auras, yogis, chakras, ghosts, and chi. And without a doubt, her interests were an outgrowth of the 60s. The 60s were taboo smashing, freeing, and wild. When I was born, the countercultural after-taste lingered - society was forever more open-minded but we knew we’d gone too far….The Pandora’s Box of hedonism had been opened wide - and it was time to shut the lid. A bit. The horrific Manson murders truly and symbolically left an echo, marking an end to the “Summer of Love.” At the advent of the 70s, we did what we always do when we lose balance - we add counterweight - the seesaw of life. Materialism and convention became alluring again. The 70s was a bridge - a time of awkwardly playing with esoteric ideas, dressing funky - but now longing for “normalcy.” We were sent to our collective room to think about what we’d done. The bellbottoms, beards, and meditation books could stay but we knew we’d best not wave our freak flag too much. Fringe stuff was half returned to the closet - not wholly embraced - not called witchcraft, either.

—-

So, I was born on June 5, 1972, at home. At the advent of the 1970s. I was delivered by my dad. That he would catch me, that he would be my first contact in this world. was beyond metaphor.

I am told, due to it being a home birth, and due to the fact that my Dad was likely a bit frazzled, new to midwifery: to sever the umbilical-chord, the top of a can was used. A tuna-fish can. I am presuming the sharp top of a can was the only thing handy? So, life would start on a comedic note. Which is just as well, absurdity would stalk me through most of my life. As I was delivered, my sister was at the foot of the bed - age 2, casually flipping cards - deadpan (I’m sure). I can just imagine her inner monologue, assessing me. Protesting...A sister? What a pipsqueak. BORING..I’m kidding (sort of). The constant interchange between sisters, just two years apart, in terms of ambivalence, is strong. A braiding of love and hate - forever plucking the petals.….Sibling rivalry is a true thing; and likely exaggerated when close in age. That said, in the moments I settle on love and trust, the bond I feel towards Kate is - breathtaking. Only siblings understand.

—-—-

If lives are myths and fairytales, riddled with archetypes, then my mom might be the wicked witch or cruel step-mom (even though, she was the mom-mom).

Though confessional writing does seem to be the formula for most memoirs, and I could provide some fascinating stuff (I swear), the ephemeral satisfaction of vengeful words - however true is a sordid feeling. It’s like the icky aftertaste of far too many cigarettes or drinking a regretful amount. Also, when the subject is so comfy on the other side of the veil, it seems cowardly to say words I didn’t dare breathe while she was alive. I think her diagnosis might be more complex - these days. Well, we are all seeking the holy grail whether we know it or not. She was, too. And she knew it. I have a far better relationship with her now that she’s dead.…and, I’m not trying to be funny. But truly, I feel we understand each other. Better. And she’s silent now (which helps) - she’s forced to listen…which is nice. There’s something like peace. In the air.

—

—--------

My dad never thought the supernatural was strange, either…Well, one would guess. But I think he was an easy convert. Most artists are mystics at heart; and it just takes an out of body experience or two - and a real estate colleague who moonlights as an exorcist to seal the deal. Also, an enduring illness - sickness, especially of the most painful sort, will open us so wide - as to erase all prejudice and bias; it softens cynicism - or it can, it might - urging us to transcend the petty. Highly intelligent - he was smart enough to know: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.” Both of my parents were artists. And delving into artistic pursuit is akin to the initiations of shamans and seers. My mom favored poetry but was also a trained pianist. My dad favored music composition but also wrote poems. He could draw, too!

—-——-

But back to the woo… Oh, wait….we never left.

Miriam (my mom) took me to an energy healer (once) in Oregon. This was during the niche of time my dad likely privately called the “kidnapping” (which lasted about three weeks. My mother intended to move to Portland, Oregon - or there about. The healer was a gentle old man. He had a beard - which would have made me instantly like him. My dad had a beard, too - only relinquishing it during chemotherapy. I tended to trust paternal men with beards; but this healer was also warm - grandfatherly. In fact, he was a grandad! His granddaughter excitedly showed us around their house. I remember it was Autumn. Orange and red leaves scattered on the ground. I remember a stained-glass window. The healer placed his hands beneath my jaw - I had the mumps. I remember a stained glass window.

—---------

When Kate and I returned to Missouri, our father was granted custody and it’s a gross understatement to say how unusual that was - for a dad to have guardianship over two small girls in 1976. So, we were instantly marked as weird. So Wyrd! Well, a curiosity. As I recall, due to my dad’s handsomeness and his coolness - we were also marked as likable….by our friends’ parents (especially the ladies). Whenever my dad would pick us up from a play-date - you could practically hear the awestruck hearts beating. “Hi, Maurice!”

Back then, my dad drove a Volkswagen Beetle named: Rose.

—--

GLASTONBURY —

On my bus ride (the day before, I had been given a visual treat). A preview of awe. I was on my way to Wells (a medieval town) and could see Glastonbury Tor in the distance. It does not disappoint. The Tor is sort of soul shocking and the sun was hitting it just so…The Tor is a tower atop a prominent hill ….St. Michael’s Tor - poised on a hill. The pyramids of Giza, Half Dome, the Eiffel Tower….Seeing a famous landmark for the first time is sort of like viewing a celebrity you admire. There’s a double take - disbelief….and then, slowly, the rarity seems normal.

When I traveled to England, I had a vague and (for eleven days) too ambitious plan - one that originally involved North England and Scotland. Had I forgotten how many hours were in a day? Did I not have a grasp of geography? Yes, the country looks small (on a map) - most countries do; but one could spend a lifetime exploring “small” England. In any case, after arriving from France via train and immediately submitting to another train ride to Cornwall, fatigue set in - and, I suppose, realism…I would stay south.

—-------

“Glastonbury?” he asked. “Why would you want to go there?” A bus driver was on his break - outside the station. He had a twinkle in his eye. He seemed to know what I would say, he had heard it all before. He seemed to want to hear it again? He was quiet….and smirking. I spoke of the Tor - I spoke of Arthurian lore. Agreeably, he nodded. I spoke of how confusing the internet was. He nodded. It seemed an expensive cab ride would be involved. He didn’t disagree….He said a few predictable things about hippies, crystals …He smiled…

“What?” I asked.

“You know….?”

“What?”

“You know…?”

“What?” The suspense was building; and I wondered if like a game of ping pong we’d keep volleying….

“You know what you should do? You should go to Wells.” He grinned. “Wells is a medieval town. Take the bus from Bath. Spend the night….go to Glastonbury - spend the day. A day’s plenty. Wells is great.”

—---

Wells - is a Medieval town….And, it isn’t much on the tourism radar. Not the American one. Which is strange, as it’s everything you want when you’re a child (from America) fantasizing about England (not that I’d know). Wells provides all the props needed. I mean, there’s a castle…and a moat! A moat! And swans! A magical garden (pretty sure). And…a dragon! Ok, just wanted to see if you were still reading - but I wouldn’t have been surprised. Also, the astounding cathedral….And…if it weren’t for the cathedral, this town would be a town. Huh? That’s right. Wells is technically a city.

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Glastonbury…. Once you enter the town - at first glance, as you leave the bus, it’s easy to dismiss it and wonder if maybe the Bath bus driver was right. Oh, it’s visually charming - and you know you will soon be gob smacked by the Tor, Abbey, Chalice Wells….But immediately, you’re met with wannabe wizards, witchcraft shops, New Age bookstores, a million venues selling spiritual paraphernalia: wind chimes, crystals, harem pants….Incense trickles out of stores as doors open. And if I sound like a jaded mystic it’s because I am - I was once a bit too enchanted with that genre. Living in Sedona (which I’ll write about later), mostly cured me. On High Street, the trinkets are many…..

She had red hair. And I wouldn’t call her ethereal - though, she was surely acquainted with visiting that zone. In her forties (I bet) and likely, her name was Polly or Daphne…though, she seemed to have her feet firm on the ground - like she knew her way around a shed - a garden. This was the type of shop-keeper who liked tarot cards, yes, but could handle her own bookkeeping.

In her shop, a pendant caught my eye. It was bi-colored - smoky quartz/citrine. It cost 45 pounds…….alluring (to say the least). I left the shop to visit the sacred sights, and completely forgot about the pendant until I headed back to the bus. I passed the shop.

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So, not to leave you in suspense. I bought the pendant. Polly or Daphne didn’t seem a bit surprised. And like a knowing seer, she raised my pendant to the light (as though scrying): “When you visit Glastonbury you’ll find out where you’re off to next….So they say….” She pointed to the stone. “And what do you see?” There was a triangle. A pyramid. She smiled, daring me to pretend I didn’t see it, too. “Egypt? Have you wanted to go?”

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So, it seems a pursuit of the holy grail is something we are all doing whether we like it or not. Whether we realize it or not. The mythologist, Joseph Campbell spoke of the hero’s quest. Same idea. In seeking the holy grail, you have to be ok with the idea of not finding it. There will be adventure, no doubt. No one can claim to be heroic if they have not battled dragons, endured moral tests - cheated death. Sure, there do seem to be folk who appear to have zero interest in pursuing a hero’s quest - one could convincingly argue that deep spiritual pursuit is only the domain of the quite rich or poor. Both demographics - the most angsty; proving that money doesn’t cure everything. And despite one’s race, creed, IQ level, economic slot, suffering offers its gifts to us all - eventually. And how lucky is that? The fact that rock bottom can lead to spiritual enlightenment is a recipe as old as time. In life, we may not achieve grand epiphanies but are given invites to try.

Tornado warnings are as common in the Spring as the hypnotic cicada sound is in late Summer. I experienced a small tornado once - we lived in Grandview, Missouri (at the time). I was (about) age 3. I remember we took shelter in the cellar (just like you see in the movies). I have a memory of a pan spinning round and round (in the kitchen) - I’m presuming that was the same day. I’m presuming that’s a real memory though it seems (now) supernatural but the storms in the Midwest are otherworldly. My mom said that property was prone to whirling pockets of air - dust devils. In the basement during this small tornado incident, I remember two snakes coiled up (not small) …My mom or her boyfriend (Jerry) assured me the snakes were dead. “Oh, honey. Don’t worry….they’re dead!” Recently, my older sister told me (sounding shocked by my naïveté): “Those snakes weren’t dead!” LOL?

The Midwest is beautiful - don’t let its “humble” face fool ya; but often the sky and air take center stage. And the storms. The Midwest….Such a rangy sprawling term. There’s geographical vagueness to the title, too; and many of its inhabitants aren’t sure they’ve made the cut. So many states claim the slot. Honestly, Michigan and Minnesota seem debatable to me, and Ohio…should be Mideast, but it does produce folk who are stereotypically wholesome - down to earth (according to GOOGLE, Ohio is Mideast and Midwest). I once overheard an Idahoan claim to be living in the Midwest! I didn’t correct him. So, there’s vagueness to the title, and in the case of the Idahoan, geographical confusion?

Born in Lindsborg, Kansas - raised (mostly) in Kansas City, Missouri - did I mention I love KC? And isn’t that the swift apologetic appetizer dealt before insults? I won’t, though. I can’t. I have no reason….I have too much affection for it all…The moments of iconic dullness were grand blessings….the moments of joy and even the trauma. An artist’s treasure trove. My imagination flourished in the land of non-dramatic landscape. It isn’t Yosemite nor the Himalayas….But the sky (and hills in Missouri)….And the storms….Midwesterners love the storms. Our terrifying storms.

And likely much thanks to Hollywood, the Midwest is thought of as the “perfect” place to live - be raised. Safe and wholesome enough to keep you intact (morally) - yet, just dull enough you wouldn’t want to stay. In truth, Kansas City is a culturally rich place. It isn’t the backwards cow-town folks imagine. But from a young age, I knew I would leave. I longed for different lands….Oh, well, what can I say? To quote the famous philosopher, Popeye: I am what I am….And as a child, I would gaze at our household globe - and spin it. A lot. It was a pretty standard globe…and had a nifty light bulb! Did I mention I would spin it? Obsessively. We kept it in the living room by the TV….And deferring to its prophecy - like an oracle - a Sybil - and maybe it was? I would ask questions….and it would answer. Where will I live - and travel? And it would say. If I didn’t like the answer, I could spin again. Sometimes, the globe would foresee such excitement: Tunisia, Nepal, Morocco? Sometimes it didn’t seem omniscient at all….Nebraska?! Greenland?! Sometimes, it would be sassy - dropped me into the sea. Unmoored - no land in sight. Amelia Earhart? And you shall live…here! I was smart enough not to poise my oracular finger near the North/South Poles. Sometimes, the globe would be such a bore, seemingly devoid of prescience or wit - sending me to the US again…and again. Each country depicted in pretty hues. Mountains and rivers. And deserts. Greece was orange, England - pink. France - green? Oh, I don’t remember the colors…who would? I remember the capitals were shown in a friendly sort of font….Paris, Rome….Tokyo…And I didn’t take its forecasting seriously. Well, not too much. I learned I could change my mind - anytime…I could go against “fate”….Or try. And, how did that feel? In truth, the game was no more than child’s play - and like most games - both serious and not. If I didn’t like the answer I could ask again. Wherever my finger landed, that was it - fate sealed - not really. I’d spin again…Like a tornado.

In August 2007, I won the lottery. Well, a lottery of sorts….one that seemed curated expressly for me. No, I didn’t win a sum of money but I did win a job in Yosemite. When I got the job I supposed I would stay a while - a season or two…This naive presumption is common with new hires - we often stay far longer than we guess. I would live in Yosemite for almost 12 years. Yosemite has such a profusion of beauty - it seems impossible. Scenery that shakes you to the core - makes you believe in miracles. It’s a special place to visit once - and beyond extraordinary to live and work there each day. The strange privilege of it wasn’t lost on me - even on my worst days. Even while interfacing grumpy customers - dodging loony supervisors - it was easy to snap out of a sour mood. The remedy was simple and pure….and obvious - go outside. When I lived there I don’t think I took the park for granted but one can grow accustomed to anything - absolute horror - or utter bliss. We adapt. To have a casual coexistence with wonder….grow used to a steady stream of awe…One gets used to it. For years, from my dorm room, I had a perfect view of Sentinel Rock. If you’ve not been to Yosemite, Sentinel is one of the many “rocks.” A monolith. Yes, I also had a great view of the parking lot but that’s life in “the valley.” Amidst the manmade stuff, wildness is just a hair’s breadth away - urging you to it. But no matter your risk appetite, there is something for everyone, and “adventure” is relative. You can climb the face of Half Dome - saunter along the valley floor. Sip drinks at the Ahwahnee pool - hang glide off Glacier Point…..

Though originally from Kansas City, I went to school in NYC and stayed a while. Overstayed? Almost 15 years. Yosemite was not on my radar. I mean, I knew it was a national park but it wasn’t a place I longed to see. Even when I fell in love with climbing. Even when I read climber Lynn Hill’s memoir (she mentions Yosemite a lot). Manhattan may not be the worst place to learn to climb but it’s not the best. And so, my first climbs were in a gym. In the city.

It’s fun to review a life (especially one’s own) - and decode a life (one’s own) - and retrospectively spot the seeds planted. Often we’re oblivious. A new friend, a conversation had, a hobby, book, a podcast or film may wildly transform us. Eventually. Seeds in the ground must occasionally feel hopeless - and bored. It’s dark - so dark. Sure, there are clues light is near but breakthroughs take time. Little does the seed know it will one day pierce the ground - shocked by the Sun…My climbing hobby which would lead to a skydiving hobby (a seed within a seed) started off with a book. I was 27 and living in New York. I wasn’t quite facing age 30 but it loomed near; and I had the New York blues. I was growing disenchanted with the notion of being an actor. I wasn’t sure why I lived in New York City at all. This was 1999, and a friend had just finished reading: Into Thin Air - a popular book back then. She urged me to read it; and I did - in three days. I suppose it’s bizarre (and macabre) that a book about one of the most shameful mountaineering tragedies ever would set me on a path of adventure seeking but that’s how seeds work. They may not (on the surface) make sense. We sometimes unwittingly plant them. Books may unleash wishes - we didn’t know we had. Visions of worlds far away. Though, I was ripe for change….At this point, I was an ambivalent New Yorker; the honeymoon was over. So over. Like all New Yorkers, I was nature starved. I longed for nature in a way that wasn’t natural. Dramatically sighing at the lack of trees (as I walked to the subway). Admiring pigeons (such freedom). Drooling at the flowers at the local bodega…I wanted fresh air - and beauty. I wanted open skies - to not feel trapped by a maze of buildings. With something like ardor, I would go to Barnes and Noble - flip through travel books - magazines - photos of pretty scenery assumed forbidden - near pornographic tones. Lakes! Mountains! Trees! Heck, I was thrilled to just visit Long Island and see a nice green lawn. It was time to leave.

When I got the call from the Mountain Room I was yurt-sitting (yep, that’s a thing). My sister let me stay in the yurt she was renting. She was going to be out of town…I would watch her dog. I was about ten months into a rocky time after leaving New York and essentially homeless - not of the living under a bridge brand but dispiriting enough. So, Malibu is an interesting place, and just partly what you expect (if you’ve not been). Well, before I saw it, I pictured mansions, surfers, celebrities - and there is that…But it’s wild in parts.…the terrain (I mean) - steep hills, rocks, spiky plants, snakes, coyotes, mountain lions. My sister’s yurt was in a beautiful setting, but it kinda resembled the premise of a film (B movie - horror) - for some reason the WiFi wasn’t working, a hiking path formed a perfect loop (the heroine tries to flee - thinks she has, only to realize she circled back). Oh, and a creepy neighbor! Oh, and the protagonist is from New York. No driver’s license…or car. Little did I know, this was a perfect preview for my soon to be home in Yosemite - a tent.

The WIFI didn’t work but my phone signal was pretty good. My soon to be manager (Stacy) called. She had the warmth and wit common to East Coast folk - the toughness, too. She was from Boston. After trading hellos - answering a few questions, she paused not a bit: “Congratulations! You’re hired.” Incredulous, and wary at the ease of it all, I asked if she wanted to meet me first. Then…she likely did pause: “To be honest, we’re desperate. When can you come?” Stacy has a great sense of humor but she was quite serious. After working at the bar for a couple of months, she would later tell me she hired me because I was from New York - she knew I could handle the stress. Bars and restaurants can assume the ambience of an Emergency Room. Especially, if understaffed. The Mountain Room Bar was not the most well oiled machine. During a chaotic shift, It was easy to get swept into the delusion that you’re saving lives - when you’re very much not. Back then, a shift at the Mountain Room Bar sometimes meant you were waiting on half the room (yeah, no kidding). But I was happy. My first years in the park I verged on euphoria. No hyperbole - I’d never felt so happy. I was climbing often, escaping debt. I had a zillion dollar view of Sentinel Rock….and the parking lot.

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CHAPTER ONE -

MEMORY —-

Most decent memoirs are braided with guesses - fictitious decorating. All the details the memoirist claims to perfectly recall would test even the keenest memory. Well, I don’t know…maybe if you have photographic recall. I don’t. It is the memoirist’s duty to tell a colorful tale. Sure, based on facts but memory is often a subpar diarist…. Surely, you know, memoirs are never altogether; true, but then…that’s the nature of memory. Perversely, the opposite is so, too. Most folks who like to read, know that great works of fiction often are laden with far more truth than non-fiction. There’s liberty in lying…breadth. Memory is a wild thing. Only mere moments after something occurs will we softly distort facts to our liking. Curating the tale. Even George Washington might not entirely recall how the sky looked or if a bird sang or what underwear he wore as he severed the famous tree. How many family get-togethers have you debated the accuracy of a sibling or cousin’s tale? The heightened trueness of a memoir…I have always accepted this as so. When I read, I am hoping to be transported - and to another world, the author’s world. I accept their premise for as long as I’m attuned to the tale. As long as it’s interesting. As long as it mostly seems true. It would be naive bordering on moronic to imagine the memoirist recalls each detail - down to the color of their underwear.

This preamble is simply to warn, I take the label of “memoir” lightly, though, I do take the label of truth seriously. Do you believe me? I am an artist first and foremost, so, I’m not to be trusted. Art is synonymous to deceit. Artists show you a representation of life that isn’t real. Ideally, better than real. Oh…and, what’s the point? Well, of course, nothing practical. But that doesn’t matter. That doesn’t mean it isn’t important. Studies show…I’m kidding, Art is forever immune to “Scientific” study…and, at its heart, the human need is mysterious and obvious. Regular doses of Art (in whatever form you like) sooth and invigorate (us) beyond measure. Art evokes feelings - at its highest tier, a rapport is formed (between viewer and artist). Even if the artist is dead….well, maybe especially. In its most exalted shape, Art is spiritual. Assuring us: we aren’t alone - we never were.

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Which inevitably brings me to the Louvre and my search for the holy grail. It was September, 2024, I went to England and…. Paris…..I hesitate to say France, because though Paris is decidedly in France, indeed, it boasts being the capital, indeed, it’s what most of us think of when we think of France; but….so many French like to warn that Paris is just so not France - which is so French!

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Regardless, the Louvre is in France. Paris, France. And the Louvre is not to be missed…..and don’t be scared, Or? Is the word: intimidated? Are you afraid of being bored?….Those who insist they would be bored - those who may shrug and say…”Ah, skip it. You know, museums are just ….not my thing.” So, in response to that I might then say (trying not to sound too unbearable): Oh? Is that right? Is being awestruck not your thing? Is seeing the face of God not your thing? Is wonderment not your thing?

And don’t be intimidated. Many use that word in reference to the Louvre. I swear it’s enjoyable through and through; and I can’t imagine anyone who loves art debating this. I can’t imagine anyone who is indifferent to art not suddenly having an epiphany…..after a visit..One may insist the museum is too big - complain the Mona Lisa is too small but mostly, the vibe is good. It feels good. Is it intimidating? Ok, sure. It’s large and wide - and the general advice to choose but a few zones - is wise. It would be like eating gobs of godiva icecream…then, speed walking through each room whilst gulping that aforementioned substance down…..You might get a head-ache. You’d feel dizzy. The deliciousness palls - you’d get sick…and cold. So, choose but a handful of rooms - and remember the museum isn’t going anywhere - you might be, but it isn’t - you may return. Anytime. Return….the same day (if you like - as I did). The “main” attractions are politely laid out with helpful signs….urging you to pace yourself….go this way - that…almost whispering (it seems) in a sweet way. Like you have your own personal docent/nanny. Yes, you will be tempted to keep wandering, to keep peeking…..and you will succumb, I mean….it’s the Louvre! But mostly, try to keep it to a handful of rooms, you will fail…but try. The Louvre “touristy” signs somehow don’t feel condescending; but rather…polite. Yes, I said “polite.” Not begrudgingly, which does seem more French.

I think I would have been disappointed and wanted my money back if I hadn’t encountered one stereotypically rude Parisian. You know? Over the top? I mean, broadly, almost unforgivably rude. All the French I’ve ever encountered (even before visiting France), seem to wear an aura of disdain which inexplicably makes them all so attractive. Like a quirky chic scarf you wouldn’t think would “go” but it somehow does. It is usually a mild case of contempt but it’s there. A faint sneer. So…it was at the end of my visit to the Louvre, I made the rounds and had lunch and made the rounds again….But, I had a question. Since France was the provenance of so many Impressionist painters, I wondered where that was? At this point, I grasped that throwing out a: bonjour and asking the unsuspecting victim of my French if they (possibly) spoke English (in French) was sufficient anti-freeze. So, armed with this weapon, I approached the INFORMATION desk. I approached a man and said: “Dude! Where’s the modern stuff?!!!….” No, no….Here’s what I truly said (in French): “Hello! Do you speak English?” And behold, he did and so….emboldened - feeling the over-confidence of the recently understood, I asked where the museum’s more modern work was? Such silence. And disdain. He looked at me like I was a criminal. An imbecile…..Maybe a criminal imbecile. Then, slightly more tolerant, in the way one affords a more generous vocal tone to a clearly delusional gal. Madam Moron! He unleashed a speech. He spoke. And spoke. And then…he spoke again. Accusing me of not listening. To be fair, I wasn’t…listening. Not at that point anyway. He likely explained that chronologically all things ceased at the Louvre….before…..the Nineteenth Century. Ceased, not in the world (though, that may have been his opinion) but artistically. Yeah, I wasn’t listening, I tend to tune out when the arrogance is high. Did he feel the same way? Perhaps, the feeling was mutual. He looked down on me (or maybe that’s my memoirist impulse to fib), it seemed he looked down? When I say, “looked down” I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean truly. Totally. It seemed he was taller - his desk? It was a wide podium - not a desk (more memoirist hyperbole) - he stood like a professor at a lectern - stood.

Now, the prospect of the legendary “rudeness” of the French didn’t frighten me. I may have even looked forward to it. I now live in a “friendly” small California town….but I’m an ex-New Yorker through and through. I lived in Manhattan for almost fourteen years and a year in Queens. My tough urban armor and (at times) wry lens are hard earned - a hair’s breadth away. I can summon my East Coast crankiness fast. That said, overall, I’m softer; and part of the reason I left is I don’t love being a tough cookie 24/7. Who does? It’s exhausting to the soul. Positivity, good will, offering kindness to all feels much better….Also, sassiness is meant for the young…it takes too much effort to be combative and all the time. But in Paris, just as in NYC, the alleged “meanness” is exaggerated - and often misunderstood. Largely, I found the French to be warm and helpful. And of course, the stereotypes are the pervasive temperature, there’s micro-climates - nuance to the mix. The French aren’t apologetic for having innate taste and confidence. Sure, they’re sometimes real snobby but that’s part of their charm. In fact, my first impression of the French was a joyful cab driver (from Haiti and tres handsome) who, as we drove through the rural landscape (the drive from the Charles de Gaulle Airport) absurdly complimented me on my French - which somehow came across as sincere - and not sleazy - even though, his observation verged on the surreal. I knew about ten words - which I kept pasting together with a sleepy shrug. That kind cabdriver was a nice counterpoint bookend to my second over the top rude Parisian encounter - a cab driver. My final taxi ride. I was on my way to the train station. He softened when I paid…and practically beamed when I left.

But back to when I arrived in Paris. I was beyond jetlagged but I knew it was wise to stay up and do something touristy rather than take a nap. Naps are an exceedingly ineffective succor to jet lag (for me). It is best (upon arrival) to just float around as though in a drug induced haze. Go to sleep when the natives do.

Even with small excursions, travel gives us insight - about everyday “ordinary” life. What to change….what to keep. And if life were a film, then our moments of travel must surely be master shots? Mundane life, would be the claustrophobic close-up. The camera recedes - rolls back. We are suddenly small - and unknown! The frame is wide now. We shrink in stature and somehow expand. We feel so giddy. When we travel to foreign lands we have fewer reference points to bind us to habit - so are ripe for “magic.” Serendipity reigns. We rely on our instincts - because we must. We remember humility, wit, and warmth are all the protection we need. Vulnerability wrapped in trust is the best amulet…warding off all violence, hexes, and thieves. It’s a confident softness that saves us. Friendly strangers become guides. Clues and maps are revealed - riddles solved. Oh, the occasional villain might appear to keep us on our toes - make you laugh. Anonymity is lonely only when it’s forever, but brief visits are lovely. The camera recedes - we see there are OTHERS. Ha ha! What relief. We knew it! We knew it wasn’t just us. We almost forget ordinary life. We are free from the claustrophobic “close-up” - the tightness. We change.

It was shocking. Don’t forget how shocking…..Sure, with trivial matters, I can be a bit out to lunch….but, overall, where it counts, I have a good memory. These days, I’m no longer too fond of vengeance or grudges. If I’m honest, at one time, I may have enjoyed a grudge or two. I went to Theater school and I admit I have an appetite for some life drama (here/there) - regular doses of excitement. I like to jump out of planes (as a hobby) for gosh sake. Yeah, I can’t recall where I put my dang car keys….but, since childhood, I’ve adored people-watching. When I was a kid, my father often praised me for my memory - my hyper-cataloguing. It seemed to both impress and unnerve him. I don’t think I’m special, I think most incipient artists (often, writers) have this. My sister (Kate) once described me as a watchful child. Many assume I don’t see - or recall. I am often dismissed as quiet. Maybe sometimes a doormat. Most folks, tend to equate quiet with unaware. Those who know me well would find the quiet label untrue - laughable. I am garrulous, with friends.

But in general, these days, I’m observing and remembering not to exact revenge but to understand. It’s one thing if we genuinely do not see. It’s quite another, if we see….but then….look away. What was most frightening to me at the advent of all that went down in 2020 and subsequently lingered for a couple more years, was the revelation of who was who. I’m not talking about Daddy government, I’m talking about you. The royal: you. All who submitted to fear. Those who were nearly ecstatic to tell on their neighbor, shun - throw folks under the bus. Those who celebrated censorship and mob mentality. Those who demonstrated a near psychopathic zeal to obey. Those who were pleased their coworkers were going to get fired for refusing an experimental shot that scarcely resembled a true vaccine. Those who didn’t bat an eye when the CDC changed the definition of vaccine. Doctors WERE incentivized to label non-Covid ailments or deaths as: Covid. And, the “vaccinated” who immediately had issues or died were labeled: “unvaccinated.” There seemed to be scant interest in addressing the actual health of humanity and more interest in intimidating - controlling. And now, an agenda to lull us into sleepy forgetfulness. The revelation that friends, family, and coworkers were all too ready to submit to rules in the name of “safety….” The irony…the pretense of caring for humanity’s health…. ‘Twas really about cowardice - control. That’s what was shocking. I’m entirely willing to forgive but not forget. Now we know who is who.

The thing about rejection of any sort is that it often feels so grandly shitty, we get a bit mesmerized by the drama and fail to notice we have been let loose - liberated, and dodged a bullet (indeed). And if you happen to have been born at all, aside from the common as dirt relationship theme, there’s a long list of other types of rejection….So many flavors. And if you’re of the artistic persuasion that list gets mighty long. Theaters, agents, publishers, critics, schools…. Mostly, you grow amused and indifferent, and move along….You must stay busy. It should matter…not. So, you continue to work….and grow. It’s seldom personal. Though, I once had a bizarre encounter with a theater director in the Bay Area (she was a caricature - straight out of Portlandia); she sent me a looooong rejection letter. Such a long letter. Weirdly personal. And it got nasty. I definitely let my ego growl. And she….growled…back; and then we wrote each other growling (volleying, badminton style). You know? Like totally tubular mature women! Well, let me explain….she subsequently wrote about me in her blog - well, twice….and not sweetly. And how could I take the high road? I mean….It all began to seem stalker-ish. Maybe on both sides? That rejection is life’s protection is an adage that sometimes seems too tidy to be true. But mostly, it’s true. Even if the “protection” is from our own immature state - our incipient not ready to hatch self; and we simply need time to grow. Pull weeds and grow. But….sometimes we ARE ready and “they” aren’t. We’re ripe but they don’t like our fruit. They never will.———————————————————

////::::::::://///////(Photo is clickbait. My dad raised my sister (Kate) and me - gifted us with total acceptance, tremendous protection, and soaring encouragement). He always smartly poked fun at me when I’d get sulky. Which was often. I would tragically push my lower lip out - he’d make me laugh). ❤️ #reject #art #protection #flavors #play #critics #games

Facades…There’s a difference between cynicism and viewing things squarely as they are; though, perhaps, a very fine line. In high school, in Missouri, with myopic zeal, I plotted to move to New York. I knew what I was getting into (mostly) - but I would soon learn sleek brochures are never quite true. The American Academy of Dramatic Arts always felt like a mouthful, but that was the name of my school. Relatives and friends often seemed unduly impressed. “Where are you going? Oh!?” Maybe there’s something about the word: academy linked to the word: American, that elicits strange respect…Mind you, it was a good school, but its heyday had run decades before, and it was sometimes resting on its laurels. Well, it was an old school - it likely needed a rest. It resided in a building on Madison Avenue not far from a famed skyscraper. A defunct indoor swimming pool housed our costumes/props. There were three theater spaces - one, kind of avant-garde. There was a lounge area (smoking was allowed).The library was my favorite zone - there was a spiral staircase that looked like a giant corkscrew - conveying us up…and down. The urban soundtrack played in the background. Even in the library, you could hear city sounds. You grew used to it. You learned to like it. Car horns, feisty natives, car alarms. And lest you accuse me of jadedness, I would say I loved 90 percent of my stay; and I’m not being sassy. I’m still friends with a number of classmates. In many ways, AADA was innocent of any wrong doing - simply the location of my initiation into realness. Adulthood. Which could have happened anywhere. Happened at a theater school. At nineteen.

And contrary to the dippy stereotype, many actors are quite bright - even practical. That said, they sure are superstitious. But maybe they worship luck so much, because they’re inundated with such sad data. It’s not just your well meaning aunt who urges you to get a viable degree. Even the schools that train are bleakly honest - that the odds aren’t really ever in your favor. You’re more likely to get hit by a bus, give birth to an eagle, travel to Pluto.…And so, actors knock on wood, avoid whistling in theaters, carry lucky charms, never say the Scottish play (ever), chronically chant: “Break a leg” - a talisman (they hope) will scare off all bad luck. Like bad luck is stalking us? It’s kind of nuts, but superstitions aren’t rational. To ward off a curse - they curse each other. Hoping to create a barrier. Maybe so bad luck won’t see them? Trick fate into viewing them as already doomed, so don’t bother…As most everyone knows, very few actors “make it.” Granted, “making it” is a moronic concept anyway, but when you’re young it sounds so alluring. You don’t yet know the journey’s the joy. You don’t yet know life is a play.

Years ago, I helped produce a “revival” of NO EXIT. I played the part of the postal worker, Inez, reimagined as a lipstick lesbian who had a fine tailor. That show taught me life CAN be easy, if you let it. That show made me believe forever in omens - the power of cheerful thinking. We had little money but obstacles soon dissolved. We performed in an art gallery in Soho. A friend lived in the gallery - it belonged to her cousin. The cast - we were in our twenties, cultivating the strange warrior energy needed for life in NY (or so we thought). We knew each other from working in a dank sometimes charming bar. We were foolish and (probably) cocky. Maybe even brave. Incorporating the art work of the gallery into the play (was the director’s idea). Using what we had.  

Also, in regard to NYC artists, I have to mention the street performers. It wasn’t everyday you’d be gobsmacked but it sure did happen. Sometimes in a subway. Sometimes on a street corner.  Sometimes, on a subway platform. I mean, you couldn’t believe these people even existed. Couldn’t believe they didn’t have record deals. Dancers, violinists, drummers, singers. Were they hoping to catch the ear of a producer? Maybe. Were they banking on it? Most certainly not. But there they were anyway, gifting us. Wanting nothing in return. Sure, maybe they would leave a tip jar - and good for them. But they were like Van Gogh or Picasso paintings…just walking around. Without alarm or security systems. Just there - entirely free. But were there some bad ones? Oh yeah, yeah, there were…but you admired them, too. Maybe even more. And critics are often cowards. But bad artists are just as brave as good ones. Maybe more.

The Katharine House opened its doors in 1910. The lounge was a big room and it was likely haunted. It was a clean room, with just a hint of filth.

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Oh, picture this: A wild looking girl with fake red hair chats with a young professional in a gray suit. They speak in sacred hushed tones. They’re in their twenties. And near them, a ballerina stretches – an art student draws. We had cliques, but mostly not. The lines of exclusion were weak. The cafeteria was predictably where you would see a hint of groups, but honestly, I remember everyone being friendly – mostly. No one would scoff if you randomly decided to sit at another table. Also, you could smoke in the cafeteria. Smoke! Well, this was the nineties….Maybe the inclusive warm vibe was due to so many non-New Yorkers feeling out of their element - not wanting to inflict alienation on anyone else – even slightly, as we were all (mostly) fish out of water. That said, there were some native New Yorkers. Girls who wanted to strike out of their family home, and did. Girls who were often friendly. They also had the added clout of city wisdom which they would generously dole out. Which, maybe brings me to the next tandem topic: the “mean” New Yorker. The stereotype? Well, here’s the deal…..it does and doesn’t exist. Sometimes bluntness is misinterpreted as aggression or “not being nice.” Especially, if you come from an overly repressed culture or family – worshiping how things seem – not how they are. New Yorkers tell it like it is. And they tend to not be passive-aggressive, which I quite like. And since passive aggression is the motif of cowards, it makes them all seem brave. That bluntness….Sure, it stings for a sec, but then you drop the issue; and wonderfully, that is that. That’s not to say New Yorkers aren’t kind. They are. And often – very. And of course, that’s not to say, there aren’t some jerks. There are some - very. But by and large, they will encourage and compliment you with the best, but would never ever let you get on your high horse….That’s the distinction.

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When I moved to Manhattan in the 90s, the Katharine House was a dying breed. My school didn’t offer housing. The term: “boarding house” brings to mind pre-twentieth century books, no?…A plucky hero (likely orphaned) moves to the big city…

Anthropomorphically speaking (and, why not?), the Katharine House seemed like an old lady. Well, really. An aunt, maybe. Eccentric, likely, but not too annoying. Wealthy, well traveled, she reads, she’s not a stick in the mud, OR a prude. She’s good-natured – wants you to chase your dreams. She’s from another time, though. The tall windows in the lounge spoke of this – the high ceilings, grand piano, the books. Small rooms in the lobby called: beau parlors, spoke of this. Men weren’t allowed past the first floor. There was no curfew (surely, there once was). But some of us worked late, in clubs or divey bars. And being young, some of us visited clubs and divey bars. Yes, you could leave for the night – return the next day without receiving arch looks. There was a sign-in sheet. A system that may have started with nosiness, felt nice. Like Katharine cared.

For one hundred ten dollars a week we had rooms of our own (AND a sink). There was a gal named Mary who worked at the front desk. She was spirited, blunt, and loving. She seemed like a blend between Judge Judy and Whoopi Goldberg. When you’d leave or return, you’d catch some of her warmth whether you wanted it or not.. She’d crack jokes, say: “Hi, baby.”

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“Hello?” The Katharine House had an amusing communication system. This was before cell phones, of course. There were one (or two?) phones per floor. In any case, there were seven floors – the boarding house was shaped like a square. An incomplete big square. There was an atrium down below, which come to think of it, no one used. The concept seemed appealing (I’m sure) but atriums in New York tend to feel stifling – not refreshing. I don’t remember any grass. I remember some potted plants. Tables. Beckoning us (one would guess)? No one liked sitting there. Probably, because you felt like you were on display. An animal in a zoo? I guess if a girl wished to sun herself or breathe in some of that clean Manhattan air (being satirical) she would go up to the roof. It was marvelous there (not being satirical). The view was great (truly). And, I may have this wrong, but as I recall you could see both the Twin Towers AND the Empire State Building. And if you were an angsty twenty something – it was a scenic way to end it all (being satirical) I know I’m going off on a tangent; in any case, now you have an idea of the shape…of things. And, I may have this wrong, but I think there were (about) 25 of us –  per floor. And so, if you happened to live far from the phone (I did), you had a bit of a jog. The whole experience was frantically enacted; and to an outsider – comical to watch. I remember when I moved in, being coached about the phone rules…had I asked? The first time I got a phone call….well, .the first few times, I didn’t – I mistook my neighbor’s buzzer as my own (if you gather my meaning). You see, it was THAT loud. You see, my social life was THAT rare. We had buzzers in our rooms (oh, did I not say?) – and once buzzed, you buzzed back. So, that was the deal. That cued the front desk. And so, the phone would ring….and ring ….and so, you found yourself running. Running. Sprinting down the hall. In any case, the buzz summoned a bizarre adrenaline spike. It was loud – that sound, eliciting hilarity and not. Capable of injuring you (it seemed) – Godzilla snoring…..Then, the pre-cell phone queasiness – oh, the mystery. “Hello?” The void answers.

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The second floor of the Katharine House was haunted. I was in the throes of one of those sententious conversations only a twenty something can have – and I admit I just have the unimpressive story of having felt a “presence”….once. I have a more vivid ghost story (back when I lived in LA, which is maybe not as interesting as me trying to navigate that town without a car…or driver’s license). But back to the ghost – which, (as I recall), my friend also felt. It was enough to get us to leave the room for the night – continue our conversation elsewhere. True, true, nothing theatrical happened, no ectoplasmic horror, no ethereal scream, no levitating chair was launched, no phantom face, the lights weren’t flashing. It was a presence. You could feel it was there. It was there.

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Photos here: Matt Cairns

ESSAYS –

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Living in New York City may seem to be about many splendid things, but it is mostly about reconciling with tight spaces. That a consummate claustrophobe such as I would choose to live there (and for such a long time) is something I can’t explain; and I won’t try…I love irony? Also, I went to school there…and upon graduating, I may have stayed a while. Overstayed? In any case, since I was a teen, I was hitched firmly to the idea of moving there – and so I did – at nineteen. In New York, breathing room is a delicacy – it feels precious – maybe even forbidden. Rivaling the finest wine. Or chocolate.

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In New York, there’s always a sense of rushing, and often, you have no idea why. The city is so fast – it isn’t slow. I noticed the speed discrepancy most when I would leave. A trip upstate or farther was good for the soul but the first few hours I always felt stunned, as though I’d just fallen off a racehorse. After a year or so, you grow savvy about space – and how to get it. You learn to disassociate while walking down the street, riding the subway. The subway, oh my…well, you try to avoid rush hour, but sometimes you can’t. You daydream. You pretend to read a book. No one makes eye contact. If the train is packed you may have your face near a stranger’s face – or armpit. The extreme intimacy demanded by NYC subways and busses would be humorous if it weren’t kinda sad. Finding breathing room during the day was tricky; but parks were an obvious choice – museums, libraries, and bookstores. Parks were free of charge, of course. Cathedrals, too: And for such a hedonistic city, there are tons of churches. Sneak in – find a pew; and not because you wanted to pray – and not because you thought the architecture was so great, though it often was; mostly you simply wanted to feel some slowness – to be still. In New York, lack of breathing room is the true rent you pay, and in return, you get the city. You get to live there. A gritty jewel.

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Though after a year (or so) of New York living, “large” becomes a relative term. What passes as a one bedroom apartment is miniaturized compared to the rest of the country. In truth, a Manhattan one bedroom is spatially rarely different from a studio. The sacrifice of square feet is forever justified by the fact that we called New York home. As long as that has clout in your mind, the compromise seems fair. And in the hierarchy of the five boroughs, if you had a Manhattan zip code you had made it. You really had. I lived there at a time when the non-rich could. At a time when Brooklyn seemed like a second rate (sometimes more dangerous) option – that has since changed. But to most who wished to live in the city – the aspiration came from what inhabited that town. We had seen it in movies - read about it in books. And in your twenties, you presume the feeling is mutual – or, will be. That when you arrive and the city meets you it will absolutely love you. It will tell you it’s been waiting. There you are.

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My mom once told me how she watched with dismay as my father burned some of his music. I have the impression it was a notable amount, but I can’t really verify. My dad had a passion for composing. I remember hearing this story and a swirl of emotion ensued: shock, sadness, and something that surprised me…admiration. But mostly, it struck me as sad. The admiration, I can’t explain. Well, I would attribute that to the immaturity of my teen mind. It must have seemed powerful (to reject something with fire). Very punk rock! Most artists walk a fine line between self-adoration and self-deletion. When we hear tales of fellow artists submitting to destruction (whether mild or strong) we understand. My mom was a poet (a fellow artist), so she told me this tale with empathy and understanding, but I think her point was to warn. With fire, you can’t take it back.

Emily Dickinson asked that (after her death) all her letters (received) be destroyed. Burned. After she died, her sister-in-law dutifully complied. Interestingly, Emily left no instructions about her poems…Did Emily not care what happened to them? Did she somehow not know her own worth? Fire…Fire is such a merciless editor. It’s the antique (still useful) version of the modern day “delete” button. Though, if we have second thoughts, no computer geek in the world can retrieve anything. But that Emily felt she needed to kill these letters off (so to speak)…Well, firstly, it makes one wonder what was in them (though, it was something of a polite convention back then to destroy letters); secondly, it makes one wonder: Did Emily have a thing for fire? Novels we weren’t allowed to read? Short stories, plays? She loved Shakespeare – it’s conceivable she wrote a play…Back then, with the ubiquity of fire, it was so easy to burn things. The temptation (one imagines) especially in cold months was everywhere. With hearths in many rooms, a wood burning stove, lanterns, and candles. Yes, she may have burned things.

But in truth, though speculating about Emily’s full body of work is fun, more than likely, she was mostly “just” a poet. And more than likely, nothing too precious was ever lost. Still, after her death, leaving no instructions…What if her poems had been destroyed? What if a clueless relative inadvertently packed her poems away? All artists have the experience of fumbling in the dark. On the one hand, it seems egotistical to think anyone would want to gaze at their stuff. On the other hand, artists are sometimes seized by a boldness – and it feels unnatural not to share. If artists and performers seem like an approval seeking lot, we are; but it’s simply – that we require a mirror to exist; and you, the audience, the reader, are the mirror. Artists hate that they need this mirror, by the way. So, to reject something with fire….

Though, in truth, she didn’t seem to struggle with the clichéd angst that twists up so many artists. Though, one doesn’t have to be full-blown angsty to burn things, right? Emily was surely passionate, but angsty? Not generally. She certainly had a dark side, a macabre wit, a depth that only comes from knowing strong grief; she didn’t shy from the topic of death (at all), but she doesn’t seem to have been a chronically tormented type. Sure, she was strange, and as every biographer says – reclusive, but she appears to have mostly enjoyed life.

Emily and I are on a first name basis, by the way. It’s the least she could do…I once dressed up as her. I know, I know, In my defense, it was Halloween, I was fourteen; and If you’re secretly thinking that costume couldn’t have possibly gone over well….you’re right. It wasn’t controversial or anything, it’s just no one (except for one sole teacher) seemed to know who I was. Which, I’m sure, would have pleased Emily very much. It’s always anti-climactic when you have to over-explain a costume. Also, that particular year, I had a reputation for being melancholic, (back then, I was angsty), so, dressing in all black, hair parted severely in the middle…wasn’t news.

Many years ago, I visited Emily’s home. I had a friend who lived near Amherst, MA (he was going to school up there). Ultimately, I’d visit her home twice. At the time, I was a New Yorker, and the honeymoon was decidedly over. I was starting to cultivate the gruffness stereotypical of most New Yorkers. Originally a Midwesterner, I longed for more quiet soundscapes, trees, a yard. Worrisomely, I was starting to hone an unnatural obsession for nature. Growing rhapsodic at the sight of a flower – a cloud. It was kind of sad. I was living in Manhattan (when the non-rich could), which isn’t to brag – just to emphasize the lack of nature. So, invitations to greener lands were mostly accepted.  

Emily’s house was bigger than I imagined. Her house had a garden, too, which wasn’t surprising, I could just picture her loafing around, talking to the birds, plucking weeds; but then the docent took me upstairs……and for some reason I was surprised by the size of her desk. It was the size of a side table. And yet, when I thought about it, a small desk matched her perfectly. “Humble” Emily, floating about, looking like a barn owl, and eluding her neighbors. But I wondered if the museum really knew. Knew for sure…that desk….it seemed almost theatrical. Though, truly, at a practical level, what more did she need? Writers write in all sorts of places: coffee shops, beds, moving trains, sitting on the floor.…It’s tricky speculating on the details of those who lived so long ago…Letters and diaries are rightly used to make guesses less feeble, but we, the living, the alive, are left with so many questions….the dead are mysterious.    

But then, this was the writer who wrote the poem: “I am Nobody,” after all. Maybe her desire for invisibility can’t be emphasized enough. Of course, if you’re a smart-aleck like me, you tend to hunt hard for the smart-aleck in others. And Emily’s a total mart-ass.  “I am Nobody” feigns a daintiness. And it isn’t false humility exactly, but she is sort of winking. Squinting at the world as though it’s all a bit too much: “Tee hee. Who me?” Disingenuously pretending she’s not a genius. But artists are both quite full themselves and insecure. Often wanting to be seen and not – all at once. And in her real breathing life, Emily was published (anonymously) no more than a dozen times and (though, with one possible exception) all without her consent. According to most critics and biographers, her sole attempt at ambitiously getting published (or what resembled ambition for her), was directed toward one man and one man only. And as far as allies go, Thomas Wentworth Higginson seemed a good match.

For the time period, he was forward thinking, he was an abolitionist, a proponent of health and fitness, he thought women should vote. He was a known writer himself and had recently written an article that Emily happened to read. This article, printed in THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, vigorously encouraged young writers to publish their work. So, at age thirty-one, it seems Emily started to wonder if she had talent. It seems she had the audacity to see if someone else maybe thought she had talent, too.  Apparently, her artistic fumbling in the dark was encouraging to her – she was suspecting at her own brilliance. So, she asked this Mr. Higginson what he thought. And over the course of many years they wrote letters back and forth – Higginson and Emily. Emily and Higginson. Well, he admired her, that was clear. Though idolatry from afar is always easier than close by; and their first meeting (they met twice) was riddled with awkwardness. She was beyond chatty…she now had a mirror.

With a correspondence so enduring….one wonders if the bond didn’t breed any romantic feelings. But for what it’s worth, Higginson was married when they began correspondence (and throughout). But then…there are so many theories about Emily and her love life. That she was a lesbian – that she wasn’t. That she had (at least) two male love interests. That she was bisexual. That she simply embraced the asexual mask most spinsters wore back then. That in her last ten years she was a shut-in. In any case, with Higginson, there was a loyalty. He didn’t appear to have any romantic aim, and neither did she; but who knows? Higginson was married (did I mention that?). Though no one knows the secrets of our hearts – and sometimes, not even us. Higginson felt something like loyalty. Emily cared what he thought….So, what did he think?

Well, when she first introduced herself, sending him merely four poems, he wrote simply: “The world’s not ready, Emily ….DON’T Publish.” Well, not verbatim by the way; but something like that. It was a classic backhanded compliment. And so that was that. That Emily would instantly submit to his “advice” may add fortification to the theory she suffered from a crush. Though, one wonders what his motives exactly were? Fascinatingly, after Emily died, at the urging of Emily’s sister and a woman named Mabel Loomis Todd, Higginson aided in editing and publishing her work. So, one wonders….Couldn’t he have helped her out while she was still alive? Did Higginson truly need her genius verified by others? Maybe. Though, through their years of corresponding, that he recognized her talent can’t be denied. She sent him many poems. If he, for whatever reason, played the part of reticent helper, Emily did seem to have more vivid support. One advocate, a woman named Helen Hunt Jackson, was a writer herself and was connected to the publishing world! And that she urged Emily to publish only adds to the persistent mystery of Emily. There were other cheerleaders in her life (Emily wasn’t as “friendless” as the common myth prefers).

But she seems to have cared mostly what Higginson thought – and well, perhaps she simply liked him and was satisfied with his private admiration. His stating that the world wasn’t quite ready, is certainly high praise (and of the startling sort) but then, he kept her hanging. It is well documented that he was critical of her style, overuse of dashes, odd syntax, her half-hearted rhymes – “quirks” he deemed as ignorance and not innovation. The thought that we nearly missed out on her poems seems appalling; but perhaps she wasn’t worried. Maybe Emily wasn’t fumbling in the dark at all. Maybe she knew her worth…

Out of all the typical artist types, poets can sometimes seem more like seers than writers. More like mystics than wordsmiths. So, did Emily have the gift of prognostication? Emily worshipped the eternal, and to her, material life was often a total farce. Perhaps, she “knew” her work would be known; but at the same time, maybe had some doubts…Genius or not, she was ultimately human. The fact that she requested her received letters be burned, charmingly shows a vanity and distrust of “fate.” Convention or not, likely whatever was in those letters was far more scandalous in her mind than what was true…Artists aren’t always the best critics of their work. Sometimes they burn things that should be kept….and keep things that should be burned.

There’s an adored thought that humans enjoy the escapism of fantasy literature and movies because we run on the hamster wheel of sameness. That we, lacking kookiness and adventure in real life, seek a virtual world through art and entertainment. But in regard to magic, the messages of art are a bit mixed. Sure, often enough the message is a hot disdain for the ordinary. But sometimes, as we close a book or politely watch the film credits roll, we may feel we’ve been tricked into cheering for the dull. Often these tales conclude with marriage or a doubtful epiphany: “There’s no place like home.”

Bell, Book, and Candle is a fun, ostensibly lighthearted film. Originally a play (by Jon Van Druten) – the film takes place in 1950s New York – the city. Of course, it’s good to remind ourselves, an artist’s work is always a Rorschach test. Our assessment reveals hugely who we are – and not (so much) the artist. Often art’s symbolism is unconscious. Academics have known this forever: best not to ask artists what their work “means” – they rarely know. 

At first glance, Bell, Book, and Candle is a bit fluffy: a comedy with moments of spiky truth. But…after a close look: Feminism, McCarthyism, and the closeted gay scene, are clearly some of its themes. Part of its shallow veneer, is the look. Here, 1950s film color is used fully. The reds are rich. Novak’s hair inexplicably has a tint of violet. The omnipresent raven hued clothes have a nice sheen. At the end of the film, all this changes to pastel. During the ‘50s, technicolor film had an otherworldly glow. 

Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart star in thIs film. Novak, who once admitted to not being the most natural actress, is likely one of the most alluring. She plays Gillian, a Manhattan witch. And if you’re unfamiliar with Novak – have somehow gone through life and not seen Vertigo or Picnic, picture the mystery of Garbo mixed with the big blondeness of Jayne Mansfield. 

She enjoys a full life (Gillian). Has friends, interests, but just happens to be a witch. Gillian has a degree in Anthropology (from Wellesley). Lives and works in a building in Greenwich Village. Owns a shop (selling African and Oceanic art). Financially, shes’s autonomous (an exotic state for women back then). Romantically, she seems to favor warlocks…but recently, a mortal has caught her eye.

Shep, played by Jimmy Stewart, is the mortal in question. It’s a May/December romance which may or may not serve to echo what their characters symbolize. And if Gillian represents the odd beautiful duck not readily embraced by society, Shep evokes the ease of normalcy. Somewhat inevitably, they fall in love.

Gillian is a conflicted woman. Worshipping the unusual, she thrives on the strange, but she’d like to stop hiding. She casts spells because that’s who she is. She’s not amoral, mind you. In fact, compared to her less conscientious aunt and brother, she’s karmically aware – magically discreet; but one wouldn’t call her “good.” Not quite. She and her witch friends loathe the humdrum. She’s selfish – sometimes vindictive, throws a hex now and then.

Yet, she’s realizing when this aforementioned mortal catches her eye, getting what one wants all the time can be dull as day. Or so the movie warns. In this comedy about witches – the witches seem more human than the classic stereotype but represent any group that’s different but knows it has to (for safety sake)  – blend in. The witch image of yore doesn’t exist here – not the Morgan La Fay glamour type, nor wart covered crone. These witches are in disguise – as humans. They aren’t flamboyant about their identity; they know they can’t be in a society so obsessed with “normal.”

In the 1950s, Beat culture represented rebellion, so for these witches, it’s their disguise of choice. Their hangout: The Zodiac, is in this genre. It’s the city’s witch headquarters – open to the public. And it’s beatnik heaven here: berets, astrological décor, bongo drums; a place where “outcasts” can be themselves.

But even if one’s routine is rooted in the strange, routines get old….Even the most exciting types of people get bored with what’s familiar. Gillian, like most of us, can suffer from grass is greener; and one fateful day, she spies the aforementioned mortal. Shep just moved to her building and so far, hasn’t noticed her, which, given Novak’s charisma is a tad far fetched – but it’s a film. So thwarted but intrigued, she acquires him the magical way – fiddling with his freewill (or…?) She casts a spell. This ritualistic act is over the top in the film (you’d think he’d notice the lights got weird, her incessant humming); but if a tad melodramatic, it highlights how love plucks us from the mundane. Love is equated with magic – and who would argue that?

So, for a total of 90-ish minutes, comedy ensues. There’s a dose of dramatic conflict, of course; but by the end of the film, marriage is certain. Gillian becomes mortal – fulfilling an old wive’s tale: if a witch falls in love she’ll lose her powers. What she gains seems obvious, but will she regret it all? We seasoned mortals may want to warn – normalcy is dull.

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