“There are no two words more precious to a writer than, ‘You’re free.’”   (Philip Roth)

My desk is a mess. It’s impossible to see its wooden top save for a few fuzzy patches, hair on a balding man. Ideas are scattered everywhere. I had it in my head that I would write about the book I just read; Walter Yetnikoff’s memoir (with David Ritz): ‘Howling at the Moon: The Odyssey of a Monstrous Music Mogul in an Age of Excess’, and now the time has come.

Bottoms up! I started this post with a 110 proof of Philip Roth and a jigger of Yetnikoff… I feel a theme coming on. Here it is: two intensely ambitious Jewish titans of a certain vintage (born; same year, four months apart); one from New Jersey, one from New York. Both are proud-nosed cowboys blazing their singular trails to wealth and notoriety. Both have felt the unbearable lightness of the world at their feet. One has won a Pulitzer (where in hell is his Nobel?), and one has shtupped more women and bumped more coke than a rock star on a life-long bender. 

Aside from being a feverish fan of the Roth oeuvre, and having swallowed Yetnikoff whole in one long night (no pun intended, horn dogs), I can’t help but ask myself, what’s the fascination here? Why do I relate? Raising funds for my film JACK & ELLA, I canvassed wealthy Jews of a similar vintage- old and new-money alike. It was the nouveau-riche who jumped on board my risky passion play- with whom I sincerely bonded; the alpha-male entrepreneurs who crashed and bashed their way to the top of the heap. I can’t say that their lives (let alone- stock portfolios) mirror my own, but I feel a kinship with these mouthy aging warriors; who always, and I mean always, say what they mean and mean what they do.

I ponder the lingering dream of a good (in Roth’s case- great) book. Despite the fact that I am a Jewish woman (hear me roar), is there a part of me that is secretly a battering ram of a self-made Jewish man (fearless and full of fear)? If I wrote the story of my life, who would I make myself out to be? 

Barely smiling: Philip Roth                                                                      Walter Yetnikoff

Suggested books by Philip Roth: American Pastoral, The Human Stain, Everyman, Zuckerman Bound (A Trilogy), Sabbath’s Theatre, Paternity, et al.

The other day, I walked over to see the dentist (what shiny, white teeth he has) to discuss prioritizing the dental and periodontal issues I have to deal with (read: suffer through and pay for). Given that my problems are largely hereditary, there was no better place to go afterwards- than to see my parents, not to wrack them with guilt about their painful and costly legacy (knock wood, your teeth are the worst problem you will ever have), but to discuss my options over chopped egg, lox and cream cheese (no bagels, they’re dieting). My mother, whose mouth is worth more than a two-bedroom condo, gave me excellent advice, an article from the Canadian Jewish News (Dreams of Peace in the Middle East), and offered me a lift home after lunch. My snowbird parents just returned to Montreal after spending the winter in Miami and I’m feeling particularly enamored, so in the spirit of precious time together, I did something I haven’t done since I was a little girl: I barged into the bathroom as my Mom was putting on her face (ok, I knocked first but allow me to embellish my own blog).

After a few minutes of priceless make-up tips (read: a plea for me to wear more and let my true beauty shine), gazing at the woman whose arms will always feel like home, it hit me that my beautiful, ageless 73 year-old Mom is getting older (gracefully, mind you, but still). I also struck me that I have never heard her worry about it or complain. Never. I know people up to 50 years younger who are consumed with the wear and tear of life on their faces. Not my Mom, who has earned every wrinkle, and whose silky, perfumed cheeks (Obsession by Calvin Klein) I never tire of kissing. In this day and age, the insight reads like a miracle, so I asked her: what’s your secret? Puzzled by my intensity, she put down her (no-name) lip-liner, turned to me, and said: I don’t know, maybe it’s because your father loves me.

When I woke up this morning I called my (80 year-old) Dad. I asked him what he sees when he looks at my Mom. He said, I see my wife. I said, yeah, but she’s getting older, she’s aging, or haven’t you noticed? He said, when I look at your mother, I see the woman I’ve loved for fifty years. The end. 

Ah, but that is not the end of the story, Mom, Dad. Love, once planted, grows. My husband is more beautiful to me every day. And, I’ll wager, bad teeth or not, that he feels the same way about me.  

Everlasting love: Micki & Norm Keesal 

Vomitus Emeritus is what my friend Bruce and I call breakfast. A bowl of grainy up-chuck (wheat, seeds, nuts, bananas, yogurt) that gets us off to a good start everyday. It may look like crap but I don’t care, it’s good for me. I had some this morning and I feel great.

Last night I watched American Idol. This corn-porn celebration of mediocrity fascinates me. I’m not entirely sure why, nor do I really want to deconstruct the experience and ditch the fun. That being said; the eight copycat contestants left largely bore me (O Chikezie, Amanda, where art thou?) and my fave- Josiah Leming- was booted out during Hollywood week- he never got to bring his writhing heart and scorching singer-songwriting to mainstream America (so afraid of the fire). So, why are my eyes still glued to the screen? (I mute the sound when it’s particularly bland). Am I waiting for someone to stop pretending they are someone else, and bust it out with their own original voice?!! Liberation for all, or at least for a moment in time. Dare I dream?

Still, I can’t shake the knowledge that I’m wasting a window of opportunity, a.k.a.- precious hours on this earth. As the Idol theme blares in the background, I tell my annoyed husband that in a world so full of crap, a little shmoutz (read: dirt) is good for you. Helps us to adapt. 

MY IDOL

Doodle by me 2007

My husband Ned and I took our first dance class this weekend. He spun me like a top and I did my best to let him lead. Blissful in our kitchen on the first real day of Spring (Sunday, April 6), our friend Samar tells us that we are the only couple she knows that are really living an honest and true love, and I think, we move well together, even if we don’t know all the steps.

What makes a love true? Can we be honest with each other if we lie to ourselves?

Spring is in the air. The dog-shitty smell is the giveaway. Melting snow erases the dead of winter. The clothes peel off, skin sucks the sun like a baby at the boob. The human heart, that muscular organ bulging in our chests pumps hot blood through our bodies craving, no, demanding sex, contact, love. Why deny ourselves any longer? What are here for, anyways?

Here’s a little poem for you Rumi lovers:

My First Love Story

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They are in each other all along.

Fearless: Lydia Lukidis and Chris Godziuk; dear friends, inspired artists and mad puppeteers, about to go even deeper and get married. Mazel tov!

Whenever I open my eyes, or close them, a goddess appears to excite me. No presence burns brighter in my imagination than the inimitable Ms. Naomi Levine. That she happens to be both my oldest friend (I fell for her round eyes, brainy glasses and ski jump nose on the first day of Grade 6 at Jewish People School), and a fearless comedienne, is a dream come true. Every movie I make has her in it.

In my first film WANKER, Naomi plays Moira Madjinski; an exhibitionist, Jewish maid, the ethnic foil to a Waspy family’s snotty reserve, whose sexual addiction helps bring their prodigal son’s story to an explosive climax. Originally Naomi tried out for the part of the Hooker with the heart of gold, but a Jewish Princess is no call girl so I wrote her in an even more preposterous role- as a buttoned-down house-cleaner. Jews (my people) came running, busting with the incongruity. HA!!

In my second film JACK & ELLA, Naomi plays Susie Schmeiss; Jack and Ella’s controlling interior decorator, and resident expert at other people’s affairs. She alternates her wigs daily because “nothing is forever.” A Jewish child of concentration camp survivors. Naomi infused the role with her life’s blood. Love her (yes!) or hate her (how could you?!), Susie is unforgettable.

In my third film, the soon to-be-produced BE HAPPY, Naomi will incarnate Shoshana “Shashy” Shtull; a blunt, traumatized ex-Israeli soldier now red-hot fashion designer who uses sex and pot to dull her aching heart. Naomi is working on her Israeli accent (an hommage to our Hebrew teachers of the past), and I can’t wait for the oversize mole Shashy will sport on her arm; a coarse, black hair in the middle.

My crush goes into new mediums. I’ve written the part of Aunty Fanny Blatter - special for La Levina, in my very first television/web series, A FINE FAMILY (it’s under wraps so don’t tell anyone). Naomi will play the meddling, gum-cracking, fave aunt to the family in question. She’s loud, cool, bi-sexual, and she pisses everyone off. Much to her sister’s constant chagrin, Fanny refuses to fix her big Blatter nose.

O, fair Naomi, don’t fix anything!

For all of you who I haven’t already hit over the head with the 75-second video, My son is gay? by John Roberts (a mom comes to terms with the fruit of her loins), the time has come. It’s a classic, and so remarkably simple and hilarious and hard-hitting, it brings me to my knees.

Oddly, as I am a writer/filmmaker whose work elicits passionate response, I find it hard to believe that not everyone cherishes this little gem as much as me. Curious minds want to know. How do you feel? Check it out and get used to it!!

I feel a little precious with this blog.. I keep going back to the first few entries, polishing the sentences. As long as it doesn’t stop me from blurting whatever is on my mind, blood on the page. So here’s what I’m thinking today:

Blank

Blank

Last night-

No, not last night, today, right here, right now. Normally, my mind is chockablock, a circus of performers vying for the spotlight under the big top. I tap my head, roll around my brain

Wait! I hear something.. Here it comes:

“You can only lose what you cling to”

Ok, I know it’s not my thought, it’s the Buddha’s. The Buddha who sat under a tree and time passed and he was enlightened. What I would give to be so undistracted. What do I give? To take the ‘one seat’, and sit in it (shit in it), right here, right now, in the flow. This thought relaxes me, but not enough to sit down.

Ok, I am sitting down, but on an exercise ball (the desk chair in my office) with my fingers twitching on the keys. My back is straight as a trunk and the top of my head is winking up at the sky (ok, the ceiling, but you get the picture). There’s a river painted on the wall behind my computer, waves tantalizing. Here’s my wishful thought:

Peace is in the air

Just fell in love with Bjork’s video and song Wanderlust off the ‘Volta’ album. It’s a dream come true; a modern fairy-tale rooted in the natural world. Bravo to its creators Sean Hellfritsch and Isaiah Saxon, and the uncanny Ms. Guðmundsdóttir. Create without fear!

It’s winter in spring. The sun pours into my office, daring my shivering body to believe it can melt the mountain of snow in my backyard. Perched on my exercise ball in front of my computer, I wonder what it is I have to say, if anything at all. I do some yoga. Something usually pops out after a good heave ho. Nothing this time but a burp from lunch. I notice bits of colored paper all over my desk, reminding me not to forget anything. The sun burns my arm. I put my lips on it, my tongue. I want to taste the heat, swallow it. The sun hits my leg. I roll back to the summer of 16… a flowery cotton skirt, cigarette smoking on the Montreal expressway, arm swinging out the window of my mother’s gold Duster as I speed, guitars screaming the soundtrack of my youth. I flick the c out the window, and turn off the exit. Pain. My leg burns. My butt boomeranged back in the car, carved a perfect circle through my favorite skirt. The soft flesh of my upper thigh. I scream. The radio screams. I can’t remember the song.

Last night I had a dream. I was high in the sky hovering over the turquoise sea and while I had no idea what was holding me up, I knew I had to let go. I had a pen in one hand and an aluminum ladder in the other. I plummeted, calculating whether I should use the ladder to try and break my sure fall to oblivion. Before I knew it, I was bobbing in the water. The ladder stretched out before me and I used it as a raft. My only concern was that I would attract sharks, but my fears were unfounded, my life was intact.

Last night, I went to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and saw the exhibit Cuba! Art and History. There was a photograph that struck me- of a man tripping on the edge of a stone wall, falling into the sea. The artist said something about how he hates living in a place surrounded by water, it is a cancer that envelops you. I scratched my head. I feel so differently. Water is life itself. Indeed, we are full of it.

At home in the Caribbean Sea, Oracabessa, Jamaica
chez les Keesan