Why The Hurt Locker Hurts

Last night, The Hurt Locker, directed by Kathryn Bigelow and written by Mark Boal, picked up the Academy Award for Best Picture. I have to admit, that hurts.

When I first saw the film, I thought it was an interesting indie production. I turned to my husband and said, "Well, I guess that went straight to video." When he told me, no, it was up for Best Picture, I don't think I could articulate a full sentence for several minutes.

Here's what I saw in The Hurt Locker: A new view of the Iraq war, with exceptional tension and wonderful performances by the actors. Despite the inaccuracies that have since been pointed out by several members of the military (wrong uniforms, too few Explosive Ordnance Disposal unit members, etc.), there were a number of realistic scenes. A notable example is the sniper shootout in the desert that doesn’t end neatly after the last shot, but carries on for a few minutes (probably hours in the world of the film) as the soldiers wait out any forthcoming danger.

This was a movie about one man’s addiction to war. The film opens with former New York Times Iraq expert Christopher Hedges’s quote, “War is a drug.” What doesn’t seem to be pointed out in any film criticisms, articles, or press surrounding the release of the film is the detriment this addiction can have. In fact, journalist for The American Prospect Tara McKelvey calls The Hurt Locker, albeit wryly, “...one of the most effective recruiting vehicles for the U.S. Army that I have seen.”

In the film, Sergeant First Class William James displays no apparent character arc. He is the same war-addicted thrill-seeker from beginning to end. He does not appear to have anything but a bulldog attitude toward his work, barring a brief emotional meltdown in the shower and a visible disdain for civilian life during his stint at home. It is during this pit stop to “normal life” that he confesses to his infant son that even he—his own flesh and blood—is not as important to James as his life in the EOD unit:

...You love everything, don't ya? Yeah. But you know what, buddy? As you get older... some of the things you love might not seem so special anymore.... And by the time you get to my age, maybe it's only one or two things. With me, I think it's one.

Look, I’m an open-minded film viewer. I can watch—and even appreciate—a film where the character does not fundamentally change. And it would be fine in this film, too, if James’s addiction weren’t glorified in the end. As I watched SFC William James welcomed back to Delta company for another year-long tour—swaggering into the kicked-up dust and heat with triumphant music booming in the background—I did not feel exultant that our hero was returning to the task he loves. Nor was I filled with pride that a guy like that is on “our side.” Rather, I felt ill. Why was that?

The founder of Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans of America, Paul Rieckhoff, feels The Hurt Locker is "... not based on a true story, but on a true war...in which I have seen my friends killed....” He further lamented, “For Hollywood to glorify this crap is a huge slap in the face to every soldier who's been on the front line." [from The Washington Post]

While I fundamentally agree with Rieckhoff’s sentiment, I have to ask: Is it war that is being glorified in The Hurt Locker? Or is it the men and women (in this case, the one man) fighting it who are glorified? I believe it’s the latter, which helps explain the intestinal ennui I felt at the end of the film.

When rescue teams rushed to the scene of the World Trade Center attacks on September 11, 2001, I was grateful to all of them for coming to the aid of my fellow New Yorkers. I considered those men and women heroes and heroines—regardless of how or why that tragedy occurred. So, why can I not choke down the feel-goodiness of SFC James’s brave actions in The Hurt Locker—regardless of how I feel about the Iraq war?

It is because The Hurt Locker presents to us the harsh reality of war and its devastating effects on those who fight it, while championing their heroism, not pointing out how mislead that forced heroism is. At the end of the film, I felt manipulated into thinking James is supposed to be some heroic badass, rather than the emotionally damaged person he is, presumably due to the war itself. Indeed, the film’s title refers to military slang for being in “a mental state...that’s full of pain and hurt.” Yet we are supposed to admire his bravery because he’s fighting for our freedom. (Remind me again who’s threatening it?) At least this is what we’re told over and over again by the media, and what is propagated by the multitude of SUVs emblazoned with “Support Our Troops” ribbon-shaped magnets.

Do we need heroes so badly that we’re willing to overlook whether the actions they perform are for a just cause overall? Or, most importantly, to overlook the toll those actions exact on their physical and psychological well-being?

If our hearts are expected to swell with pride as Sergeant First Class William James returns to a fresh tour of duty in Iraq while he stuffs down his pain, continues to act with delusional bravado, and his ability to engage in healthy human relationships withers and dies, perhaps it is this expectation that makes The Hurt Locker hurt most of all.

On Not Drinking Wine

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I still had that GERD that I contracted while in India from being on Doxycycline for three months straight (to combat Malaria)? I was physically unable to enjoy my favorite beverage, red wine. In fact, the very thought of drinking made the bile rise into my throat. That led to a month-long period of alcohol abstinence that was only broken after I went off the antibiotics and allowed my system to get back to normal. (And I still developed a bad reaction to red wine; for two years afterward, I had sneezing fits after two glasses.)

I long for that handicap now. For now, I've decided to stop drinking without the aid of a biochemical adverse reaction. Dumbass.

I’ve had acupuncture, purchased little suck-me candies, promised myself vats of diet soda (but not taken myself up on the offer), tried meditating, doing work, walking, cleaning, and now blogging. And I still want a bleeding glass of wine. Or three.

Yeah, yeah, I’m trying to get pregnant. Yeah, yeah, I’m turning 40 in two months. But here’s one thing I know: Little French and Italian and Spanish writers-trying-to-start-a-family-at-40 types like me are not wasting their time not drinking wine. They’re enjoying life. I feel like a big Yankee Worrying Jerk.

I don’t even care if it’s wine. I’ll be happy with a vodka. Really happy. Like, so happy I’d stop this blathering and maybe go visit my husband downstairs who’s been away at work all day but who opened a well-deserved can of Tecate to drink with the dinner I made him and I had to leave the room before I burst into tears.

This trying-to-get-knocked-up-when-you’re-old stuff sucks. Sure, drinking is no good for anyone trying to get pregnant, regardless of age. Thanks, Dr. WebMD. But apparently the few eggs you have left in your basket when you’re pushing 40 are more easily pickled if you, say, continue to live the life you’ve enjoyed for the past 20 years (minus one month).

What am I doing? Shouldn’t I take up an age-appropriate interest like needlework or napping? Or crashing an AA meeting? Oh. I can’t: I gave up caffeine and smoking so I could get pregnant. That pretty much rules out fitting in at AA…

How about a punch in the face. Can I have one of those?

Photo: RAP and oldest friends, Patience Smith and wine [Credit: Patrick Smith, 1990]

The Mania of Owning Things

So much going on since Obama's Big Day.

1) Still unsettled about where we will be living since the Great Housing Bubble of 2008-20??. Put a bid on a condo in Brooklyn almost a year ago...still not closed. Not sure we will (or can or want to) now.

2) Trying to start a family at my "advanced maternal age" of 39.

The main question is what do we want in this life? We're almost 40 and we've been sold a bill of goods about what it means to be successful in this society. Much of it is crap. Why? Because much of it simply requires us to buy things, participate in the economy. Even marriage is an economic construct. (Ask Paul how much of a deduction he gets this year on taxes because we got hitched.)

The housing market is crashing...yet we're still entertaining buying. There's the balance between the mania of owning things (thank you, Walt Whitman) and the very human desire to have land that we can walk out on in bare feet. The desire not to live in a large box several dozen feet above the earth with views of concrete, steel, and glass.

I love New York. Anyone who knows me knows that my blood is part East River. I breathe the refrigerated air of the insides of delis. Don't get me wrong. But is this how humans are meant to live? So far removed from nature? I say, sure! The wild energy of the city has certainly propped me up when I was feeling lost. Still does.

But... But...

I have no idea. I just spent the morning looking up attorney jobs for Paul in Santa Fe. I've made the move out there once before. I wasn't ready to stay then. New York kept calling me back home. Am I ready now?

Or do I just need a holiday from real estate and fertility centers?

Let the Healing Begin

Thank the gods and goddesses.

Thank you, America.

Thank you to everyone who stood in line for hours to cast his or her vote.

Thank you, everyone who said they "don’t vote" but "had to" this time.

Thank you to Barack Obama for rallying this nation to remember our unity and power as citizens. But mostly, I thank President Elect Obama for going out of his way to bring those who did not “earn” his vote, that he respects their opinion and will be their president, too.

It’s easy to gloat. But it’s much more helpful to live by example. There are no losers this time. Not unless we alienate those very people who most need our support: The Republicans and other parties who may not fully understand Obama’s Blueprint for Change. (You can download it here. Or by visiting http://www.barackobama.com and downloading it from his site.)

The point is, my fellow Yankee Doodles, by electing Barack Obama as President, we've taken a very large step toward redeeming ourselves in the eyes of the nations whose respect we have lost over the years. We have said yes to self-respect as a nation, yes to the idea that we are responsible for each other's well-being, and yes to an end of the overpowering glare of corporate greed and corruption.

Look, I was a proud Libertarian for many years*. My thought was that government should stay out of my personal and professional life. Why? Because a corrupt government (and aren't they all?) would take away my right to express myself; earn the money I wanted; marry (or at least legally recognize) the person of whatever gender I fell in love with; eat, drink, smoke what I chose to; create art I believed in...

And all that is true.

Libertarianism requires a lot of faith in the people's good will. The idea is that we should be free to choose any lifestyle we wish without government holding us back. However, if you do harm to others, harm will come to you in the form of punishment. But what we've seen with this recent economy fiasco is that unchecked capitalism can and most likely will screw over the people as greed takes over the human spirit. Perhaps a Libertarian government would have handled this problem differently. However, it may still have happened.

It occurred to me that the Democratic ideal is similar to the Libertarian ideal in that the government should protect and serve without corruption. Right now, there's a possibility that there is a future where we can believe in our government, and trust that it has our best interests, civil liberties, and individual freedoms in mind. Not just for people in a certain tax bracket or people of a certain religious belief, but for everyone.

Incredible.

As for the cries of "Socialism" that we heard so much from Republicans over the last few weeks? To those who are afraid, I ask this: What is so wrong with compassion for your fellow man? If it's your hard-earned money you're worried about, what do you think this government bail-out is? It's welfare for the wealthy. It's our money that got lost...and now it's ultimately our money that will be used for (or at the very least affected by) the bail-out. Personally, I'd rather contribute to national health care than some investment banker's yacht payments.

Here's my idea: Spend the next 74 days before Obama's Presidential inauguration** listening to "the other side." Read Republican blogs and post to them positive messages of unification. Remind Reps that we are in this together. Listen to all sides of the argument and remember the big picture: We are all human beings and we all love this country.

Let the healing begin. Goodness knows we have a lot of it to do.


* Find out where you stand by taking this test. No longer quite Libertarian, I currently rank in the same place as His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Figures.

** Click the link to see my silly countdown clicker.

Debate Speech at Hofstra University

As promised, I’m posting the speech I gave before the final 2008 Presidential Debate on October 15 at Hofstra University in Long Island.

Paul and I arrived early, sharing a cab from the train station with two suited lads of no fixed political leanings (at least none that they cared to relay). The cabbie, however, was decidedly “Pro-bama,” and repeated a few impromptu mantras as we drove like, “Less money for war, more money for programs.”

When Paul and I reached the Public Area where the speakers were gathered, we found that it wasn’t nearly as crowded as we thought it would be. There was a cheerfully rowdy group of Pro-choicers at the front. Lingering in a pace-y cluster behind them were about four priests and a handful of Pro-lifers.

Besides the cops that were dotting the periphery of the area, the few staff members that were manning the platform and microphone, and a tall African-American man (with his three kids) who was taping all the speeches for his own records, it was just Paul and me.

By the time I got up to speak (I offered to go early since they were ahead of schedule), I had lost the Pro-choicers and was now preaching to a very different sort of the converted. But that’s what I wanted, anyway. Although it would have been nice to get a few cheers of encouragement. As it was, the only cheer I got was from an immediately bashful woman who whooped when I mentioned the name “Sarah Palin.”

I’m not sure I made a difference. Doubtful. But maybe one of those Christian Right folks remembered a little something of what I said when they took their morning shower the next day…and then immediately forgot it. But we do what we can do…

So, here’s the speech as it was read on Wednesday night:

RECLAIMING AMERICA FROM THE CABINET OF OZ

Thank you to Hofstra University for offering the public this space and opportunity to gather and speak during the final Presidential debate. My name is Rachel Astarte Piccione. I am a writer, peace worker, and president of gentlefish productions, a company that provides writing services for globally conscientious businesses and individuals.

I am not necessarily pro-Democrat or Pro-Republican. I am, however, honored to have been born in America. Our nation’s diversity and tolerance has always made me proud. But things are changing. I’m here today because I am afraid. Not of the threat of further terrorism or even the state of our suffering economy. I am afraid that the intelligence of the American people is being insulted, and what’s worse, we’re letting it happen.

There seems to be a powerful group at work behind the scenes of the President and his cabinet. I call this mysterious body of national decision-makers “The Cabinet of Oz.” (Others might call it the Council for National Policy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the CNP only comprises one part.)

What kind of power does The Cabinet of Oz wield? The Cabinet of Oz was responsible for manipulating the last two elections, placing -- and then securing -- George W. Bush into the position of (figurehead) President. The Cabinet of Oz started the war in Iraq instead of smoking out Osama bin Laden and bringing him to justice after the terror attacks seven years ago.

Most recently, The Cabinet of Oz strongly urged John McCain to name Sarah Palin as the Republican Vice Presidential candidate, although she was not McCain’s first choice. And I don’t think they’re done with her yet.

The Cabinet of Oz had Bush feed us eight years of crude one-liners and cowboy politics. What respectable President would actually incite enemies of U.S. troops to attack by announcing publicly, “Bring them on,” as Bush did in 2003? Thankfully, Bush’s time is up, but the Cabinet of Oz is panicking. Someone has to take his place.

As we’ve all witnessed, the media has treated Sarah Palin as though she, and not John McCain, may be the next President of the United States. Because there is concern about McCain’s health, of course the next logical step is to question Palin’s validity as President. “Heartbeat away from the presidency” has become a talking point because of the Palin-as-President scenario.

Made delirious by our incredulity with the fact that someone so impossibly far-fetched could have been tapped as VP –- and possibly President -- we’ve been lured into some kind of 24-hour reality TV freakshow, glued to the television and the Internet, obsessively sucking up every morsel of information we can about Sarah Palin.

There’s a kind of prophetic energy about the press she’s receiving. It’s almost implied that McCain couldn’t possibly make it through a term, so when you see Palin, think President. And that would be fine, if she were an appropriate choice for a running mate. But we’ve seen clearly that she isn’t.

During the Vice Presidential debate, Palin announced she was now going to address “just every day American people.” She gave her shout-out to “Joe Six-pack” and the “Hockey Moms.” She didn’t seem to realize -– nor did she think we’d catch -- that “Joe” and “Mom” are not the only “every day” people of this nation. Is she implying that those of us who are educated, intelligent, and articulate are not “every day” Americans?

When did it become admirable to celebrate mediocrity? At what point did we as a nation decide that it would be perfectly acceptable for the commander-in-chief of the United States military to be just a Regular Joe, and actually proud of it?

The Cabinet of Oz has a clear plan: Talk down to Americans. Create fear in their hearts, then position a sanctioned government as the saviors of the people. Spout patriotic slogans and give Americans a pretty face to look at on the nightly news. Lock in loyalty. That’s the formula for total domination. And it’s insulting.

With our collective intelligence being offended on a daily basis, the current political situation has shifted from unfortunate to downright frightening. And if the offenders do take power -- legitimately or otherwise -- what will we do about it?

At what point will we stop sighing about the state of things, turn off the television, step away from the computers, and make a change? What will it take to motivate us to stop shaking our heads and start shaking the earth with our feet and our voices?

This is a critical time in American history, when it is no longer a matter of being a good sport should the opposing team win. Americans are suffering from a collective national Stockholm Syndrome, numbed over the years to a level of resigned complacency.

Demand better. Demand a president who is articulate, intelligent, and compassionate. One who does not condone verbal or physical violence from his or her supporters. Demand a president who can pronounce the word “nuclear.” Demand a leader who does not lie, and whose ethics are unchallenged. Demand a president who will catch us up with the rest of the developed world in the areas of health care, the environment, and the economy, and who will represent our nation honorably among foreign leaders.

This is a new millennium. Greed is out. We’re seeing other nations join together to heal the planet and its inhabitants. At the very least we Americans need to begin by turning our attention to reclaiming the integrity of our fellow countrymen and women.

When you vote on November 4th, make it a vote that shows the intelligence of the American People. Let your vote say that we will no longer be insulted by incompetence and puppetry, no matter how reassuringly provincial the package it comes in. These deceiving personas are not worth our attention, are not acceptable, and they do not belong in our White House. Thank you.

Sarah Palin and The Cabinet of Oz

It may seem as though this entry is a digression from my usual theme of single-woman-writer-transitioning-to-married-life, but I can assure you, politics is playing a big part in my writing as well as my home life, so here it is:

I have a strong feeling I'm not the only one whose attitude about Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin is moving from disdain to downright fearful. Whatever did John McCain have in mind when he selected this woefully inept individual as his running mate? I have a feeling it wasn’t just John McCain. He must have been influenced (if not overtly coerced) by the Cabinet of Oz.

The Cabinet of Oz is the name I give this mysterious body of national decision-makers. (Others might call it the Council for National Policy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re only one part.) There seems to be a great and powerful group at work that comprises more than just the President and his cabinet. Maybe we know some of their names (like Dick Cheney), but there are others who we will never know due to their ÜberUltraTopSecret status.

What kind of power do I believe The Cabinet of Oz wields? The Cabinet of Oz was responsible for throwing the last two elections, placing—and then securing—George W. Bush into the position of (figurehead) President. The Cabinet of Oz started the war in Iraq instead of smoking out Osama bin Laden and bringing him to justice after “The Tragic Events.”

Most recently, The Cabinet of Oz chose Sarah Palin as the Republican Vice Presidential candidate…and I don’t think they’re done with her yet.

Have you noticed how the media has been treating Sarah Palin as though she, and not John McCain, may be the next President of the United States? There is concern about McCain’s health; of course the logical next step is to question Palin’s validity as President. But how much focus does this really need? “Heartbeat away from the presidency” has become a talking point because of the Palin-as-President scenario. There’s a kind of prophetic energy about the press she’s receiving. It’s almost implied that McCain couldn’t possibly make it through a term, so when you see Palin, think President.

And that would be fine, if she were a decent choice for a running mate. But she isn’t. What we have here is a good old American reality TV freakshow. Sarah Palin has reached a celebrity status of the same caliber as Americans’ sick fascination with Anna Nicole Smith. Made delirious by our incredulity with the fact that someone so impossibly far-fetched could have been tapped as possible VP, we’ve been glued to the television and the Internet—Dems and Reps alike—obsessively sucking up every morsel of information we can about her.

Now that we know, what are we going to do about it?

Palin—while easy on the eyes—is vacuous, inarticulate, inexperienced, untraveled, and closed-minded. And of course she’s power-hungry, but not smart enough to hatch her own plan for world dominance. Just what the Cabinet of Oz would want in the figurehead seat. And they’ll probably make sure she gets in. If not this year, then four years from now, after they’ve let the Dems attempt to pull us out of this colossal economic disaster and fail. Then they’ll train the spotlight right back onto Palin.

Besides the probability that some mysterious group of soulless criminals are the true leaders of our country, there are a few other reasons I believe our current political situation has shifted from unfortunate to frightening now that Palin is center stage.

During the Vice Presidential debate, Palin announced she was now going to address "just every day American people." She gave her shout-out to "Joe Six-pack" and the "Hockey Moms.” What astounded me was that she didn’t seem to realize that “Joe” and “Mom” are not the only "every day" people of this nation. Is she implying that those of us who are educated, intelligent, and articulate are not Americans? Sure, she was appealing to the demographic of the “average” American. But if she were voted into office, she wouldn’t be governing that one demographic. Where are the rest of us in all this? Are we looked over for being “elite,” as Barack Obama has been accused of being? And if we are considered elite because we went to college (and learned something there), what's the point of Republicans rallying to improve the education system? Why not simply lobby for alcoholism training for men and driving lessons for women?

The irony is that Obama's proposed tax plan would actually help the very yokels Palin is talking (down) to. But distracted by the folksy, down home puppet show, Joe and Mom will be voting for a world that doesn't care a whit about them—unless they’re millionaires, in which case they get the metaphorical key to the Executive Washroom. But that’ll never happen.

Here’s the kicker: At the end of the Vice Presidential debate, Palin grinds home the message that she and John McCain will fight for our nation’s freedom. In her words: “We have to fight for our freedoms, also, economic and our national security freedoms….We will fight for it, and there is only one man in this race who has really ever fought for you, and that's Senator John McCain.” Who are we fighting? Who is threatening our national security, exactly? No one started a war with us. Sorry, one terrorist attack (probably sanctioned by The Cabinet of Oz so they’d have an excuse to invade Iraq for oil) does not an invasion make. In fact, if anyone is threatening the freedom of the American people, it’s our current government with their wire-tapping, the Information Awareness Office, and the entire Patriot Act.

I see the plan. Get your people fearful. Make them look to you as their only hope. Spout patriotic slogans and give them a pretty face to look at on the nightly news. Lock in their loyalty. That’s the formula for total domination. And for The Cabinet of Oz, Sarah Palin fits the bill.

From The Boston Globe to The Guardian to The Huffington Post (not to mention a smattering of political blogs and message boards across our fair Interweb), the media has prepped us. So, should the Republicans take this election, don’t be surprised if McCain quite suddenly becomes ill and is locked away in some hospital (à la Arafat/Sharon/Castro), forcing Sarah Palin to carry on for him. If that happens, say good-bye to your freedom, folks. Bye-bye choice. See you, hard-earned cash. So long, civil rights. It’s all over.

And the day Palin gets sworn into office as President of the United States of America is the day I start posting these blogs from Canada.

Pasta Salad and The Muse

I just finished making a pasta salad. If that were my only accomplishment today, that would be fine with Paul. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I stare into the diamond chips on my wedding band as if gleaning insight from a crystal ball, I cannot wrap my head around that fact.

My job is to run a household. All I have to do is get out of bed, make sure things don’t explode (which does happen sometimes—slippery bottles of Low-sodium V8 juice and falling glass mixing bowls, for example—and then my job is to clean up the explosion), buy groceries at the farmer’s market, make food, deal with laundry/dry cleaning, keep dustbunnies out of the crevices of the apartment and mold from growing in the toilet. There are other “responsibilities,” of course, but I don’t need to go into those here. And besides, I don’t consider them responsibilities so much as sublime gifts from God. (Yeah, I’m talking about sex.)

But wait! Is that all? Really? All I have to do is keep things running smoothly on the homefront? Can someone please point to the day on the calendar when my husband will wake up and look at me and become terminally bored with this automaton of a creature he seems to have found himself married to? Seriously. I want to buy a pretty new frock for the occasion. And book a therapist.

What I’m getting at is this: I am a vital, creative woman with a brain that works pretty well. I’m no logician (ask my first husband), and my eyes do tend to glaze over when the rules of some professional sports are explained to me. I’m sorry about that. I do wish I were smarter about a lot of things. I’m working on it. Meanwhile, I do have a writer’s soul that needs nurturing and exercising. I like to chew on things, wrassle with them in my journals and notebooks, grapple with life dilemmas and find keys to unlock the bliss in others. It’s what I do.

If I cease to do that, a light goes out in me. I feel it. I sleepwalk through my day or quite literally “nap” until 2pm, funked out in some low-grade depression I cannot shake. What to do? Make a casserole. (At least I’m creating something.)

Now, it should be noted that Paul does not expect me to abandon my work as a writer. In fact, he’s been more than supportive in all ways. I gave him the test: “What if you come home and there’s no dinner made because I’m caught up in writing TGAN*?” His response? “I know how to cook, too, you know.”

So, there is no outside pressure for me to stop being who I am. Then what’s the conflict? I’ll tell you: It’s me. The thing of it is, I like running a household. I’m good at it. Besides, it’s so easy to get caught up in the traditional role of wife (even though it is a role I’ve eschewed for decades, and one that even landed me in Jungian therapy to squeeze the dankness out of that aspect of my Shadow).

The problem is now that I get to play house, I can ignore my duties as a creator. The really hard work is not mopping floors or bleaching bath grouting. It’s facing the psychic abyss, diving into it, and retrieving nuggets of wisdom that I’ll melt down and craft into books and articles and poems and scripts that will help bring us all a little closer to ourselves and each other.

I’m vowing now to take my work and myself more seriously. Or, what I mean is, give it more respect. Sure, I’ll pick up Paul’s work shirts from the cleaners. But I’ll probably be making mental rewrites of my latest whatever-it-is while I do it. Such is life.


*The Great American Novel

Age & Life, Vol. 2: The Baby-makin' Issue

On this, the first wedding anniversary of my dear friends, Tom and Lisa, I think it’s appropriate to continue my thoughts about maturity, relationships, and families. I was honored to be part of their wedding celebration last year, especially since I’d watched their relationship develop from friendship to committed relationship. I was further honored when, five months later, Tom (a shaman-in-training) agreed to be the officiant at my own wedding.

We—Tom, Lisa, Paul, and I—are around the same age. That is, hovering around or already into our 40s. Some of us, such as Tom and me, are in new phases of our careers. Tom is devoting his life to assisting others toward spiritual growth, and I am honing my craft to honor the healing portion of my calling as a writer. For himself, Paul is beginning to write more than he ever has before, and we're planning to build a Music Room into our new home so that he can keep creating music. In fact, all four of us are going through massive changes; as I write this, Lisa is approximately eight weeks away from giving birth to hers and Tom's first child.

How did we get to this point? If you look at it as a timeline, we simply lived our lives as they unfolded for us. Following our drive, making mistakes, fixing them. But now, we find ourselves at the point (albeit relatively late by societal standards) of beginning to grow our families.

Some of my peers are sending their kids to college next year. I’m trying to plan next year’s trip to India based on what trimester of pregnancy I might be in if I get pregnant before 2008 disappears. Very different feeling. And not one I’m altogether comfortable with.

The downside to starting a family so late is that I have become accustomed to my life as it is. The freedom, the spontaneity, the quiet. (Of course, within that life of freedom and quiet, I spend a fair amount of time watching childbirth programs on Discovery Channel, but you get the point.) I've lived with this body for my whole life; am I really ready to watch it radically and permanently alter? Will I get used to living in that new shell? I finally found the love of my life and I want to be selfish with him for a while. But it feels like there’s no time. We’re both 40 next year, and both concerned about waiting too long to become parents, not to mention the health risks to both mother and baby.

Then again, there are many wonderful aspects to beginning a family life so late: The most obvious is that life has taught me to be secure about what I want as well as what is unacceptable to me. Little things no longer bother me. I’m happy to be alive, and that feeling alone sustains me through most of my days. I’m humbly thankful for getting to be here. And that very idea is what makes me want to share the joy of this life with a child. My child. Our child.

My transition from single woman to wife to (possible) mother has had to come hard and fast for me. In a way, it’s what I’ve been practicing for my whole life—even when I said I would never remarry or have children. All of what I experienced before now has led me here. I have to remember that. In turn, all my contemplation now will feed into the woman I become later on.

I finally realize that there was no other time before now for me to start a family. I couldn’t have done it fifteen years ago, or ten years ago. Even five. No time before this one was the right time for me. I have no idea if Paul and I will have children one day. But I have to assume that if it happens, that will be the right time, too.

Age & Life, Vol. 1

On August 25, I celebrated my 39th birthday. I’ve heard that 39 is an awful year—particularly as one nears the end of it. I have been determined to embrace my age every year and grow old as gracefully as possible. I suppose my thought is that there’s nothing I can do about getting old, so I might as well make peace with it.

Well, that’s all very nice. The truth is that I’m afraid if I really looked long and hard at what it means to, as Paul puts it, “suck up the last year of being in your 30s,” I might have an existential meltdown from which I’d never recover.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was whining in one journal or another about having nothing to show for my life: no screenplays made into feature films, no Great American Novels, no home or land that I own, no children, no love-of-my-life… It was then that I really felt my age! What milestones, what badges of honor had I accumulated since turning 21—besides crow’s feet and a few new sprouts of gray hair?

Now that I’ve gotten married, I can rest on the accomplishment of finding a man who can put up with me. Well done. Babies? If any of them are forthcoming, they will certainly be something I can happily leave behind when I die (assuming they’re decent human beings).

As for my writing, I can’t say what will happen. Perhaps it is this constant work at being a writer that makes me feel younger than I really am; that work is the same work I’ve been doing for over 20 years. I’m still sitting at this desk, still creating, still networking… I could be 22. Or 28. Or 35.

There’s much more to say on this age topic, particularly as it pertains to how late in life I’ve gotten married and chosen to start a family. It deserves its own entry, however, so stay tuned…

Why Single Women Make Great Wives

After a long blogging absence, I've decided to get back on the job, as it were. For those who have kept up with my blogging, you'll know that I simply don't write unless (as the title of my blog implies) there's some thing I can really share (besides what I ate for breakfast or where I last got drunk and made an ass of myself).

I think I found that thing to share.

Again, many of you know that over the last nearly six years, I have been completely, solidly, almost devoutly single. It's not that I haven't wanted to find a life partner, but I have not had much luck taking exhausting laps in the public pool of Internet dating. I tried it, found out that most of the men were using online dating to get laid, got disgusted, yanked myself off, got lonely, hesitatingly plugged my nose and dove in again (naked and willing), leapt out and ran…

I finally came to the conclusion that I was going about online dating the wrong way. Sure, there were men that used the services to find bed partners. But it couldn’t possibly be all of them. And, hell, even the lotharios were fun to hang out with. So, I decided to treat online dating like more of a social club. Since I work at home, I don’t meet a lot of people. (That, and I’m a magnificent introvert.) I’d had my share of Fun Sex and wanted to share something deeper. I made a pact with myself that the next man I had sex with with would have to understand that if he was going to sleep with me, there could be no one else.

Sound extreme? Think of it this way: if you want to find out if a man is really into you, ask him to honor your sexuality and yours alone. It’s not cruel; no one says you have to sleep together right away (meanwhile, he can screw anything or anyone he wants), and if you do get together and things don’t work out, you both can move on. But until then, stay focused. See what happens. It may sound old-fashioned, but I’m not apologizing for asking for at least that base level of respect. (Especially after what I’d experienced in my days of debauchery. Women and men know what I'm talking about.)

My plan was to go on dates with interesting men, listen to their stories…and not sleep with them. Interesting indeed! Of course, I often did not get more than one date with these men, in part I’m sure because they got the vibe that I wasn’t inviting them up to see my etchings any time soon. But that was fine.

See, I had also come to the realization that—as a writer and peace worker—I have much to offer the world. I wasn’t going to hang around, doing the dance to get a mate, while sacrificing time doing the work I can do right now. Any man who was going to fit into my life would have to catch up with me. I also realized what this really meant: I may spend the rest of my life alone.

And that was when Paul’s profile hit my inbox on Chemistry.com.

Besides being ridiculously handsome in that boyish way that makes my stomach feel all weird, his profile struck me as something I would have written if I were a man. It was at least worth a look.

We went through the necessary site-related butt-sniffing questionnaires, passed whatever tests we’d thrown at each other, moved our correspondence away from the mother ship, and began emailing privately at the end of November 2007. Our first date was the first night of Hanukkah (5 December).

Three days shy of eight months later, we got married.

It was the end of an era for me. A lot for my psyche to chew on, to say the least. But now I have a lifetime to do it.

So, that brings me to that thing I think is worth sharing. What does it really mean to be married—to make the transition from single, independent, creative woman to wife? I’ll be blogging on this subject as topics arise. I certainly hope to get comments and questions from you as we move along…

With peace,
Mrs. Paul J. Curley
(The Artist Previously Known as Rachel Astarte Piccione)

What is Work?

I've been back home from India for about five months now. Although I have been asked by many caring friends and family how the trip was, what happened, was it all I hoped...I have been unable to say anything but that it was lovely...secretly knowing that it was also hard, depressing, enraging and also completely enlightening.

The hard parts weren't just the field visits to rural villages where I experienced real poverty first-hand. Mainly, it was the sexual repression of women that I was well-prepared to encounter, but not numb enough to remain psychologically untouched by for 90 days straight. Still, that's life in Rajasthan. No big deal. It's obviously worked for them for thousands of years, so who am I to complain?

As the weeks went on after arriving home, I began to see that this trip really did have some significant effects.

For example, I no longer drink on a regular basis. I can't drink; my insides seem to have been irreparably altered by being on Doxycycline for three months straight. Even the occasional evenings of a few glasses of red wine with friends requires me to take the next day off and remain relatively close to the bathroom.

My desire to have a child increased dramatically. I had been randomly taken to two separate Shiva temples and couldn't help but make that one...last...prayer...

I've lost all the Hindi I learned, although for some reason I still know how to say, "I'm going to take a shower."

I've come to some peace about being a global nomad, but I battle with my obligations to home and family. This last trip to India nearly killed them; how can I keep leaping off to some foreign country without worrying that I'm letting them down?

What life-work, then, is the right path for me? Am I supposed to concentrate on finding a life partner, settle down, and procreate (finally)? Or am I supposed to follow the other bliss and travel, write, learn from and share with others in the world?

In the Pink

There really was no purpose to seeing my hair stylist before leaving for India; I’ve had a very nice color job done here, for free, during the festival of colors called Holi. I probably wouldn’t have preferred my hair to be pink, but that was the color most thrown on me by the locals in Vrindavan. No matter how much I wash my hair, there’s still a chunk of fuchsia just at the back. I’ve begun telling people I did it on purpose.

I’ll back up a bit.

On the official weekend of Holi, 3-5 March, FSD Program Coordinator Anna and I took an overnight train to Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna. This, we were told, was the place to experience the holiday. For those who don’t know, this annual festival is celebrated by “playing Holi,” which is something like a country-wide paintball game. Fistfuls of brightly-colored powder are tossed at, thrown on, rubbed into, anyone you encounter in the street. Other methods of dispersing color are in watered form, using cups, buckets, jugs, these huge bazooka-type propelling guns made of plastic, and good old water balloons (usually dropped from rooftops on unsuspecting targets).

Anna and I stayed in the neighboring town of Vrindavan, and had a two excellent tour guides/traveling companions, Ram and Vishwajit. The former is a friend of FSD Host Family Coordinator, Namrata, and the latter is his best buddy from school. We were lucky to have them; I cannot imagine how much worse we would have gotten hit if we’d been alone. (Although I can’t really imagine it being much worse. Did I mention I have pink hair?) The plan was to visit as many temples as we could cram into an afternoon. Within seconds of getting into our respective autorickshaws (Ram and Anna in one, Vishwajit and me in another), Anna and I looked like a couple of Jackson Pollock paintings. White women are a delicious target.

My first assault was, as I mentioned, a burst of hot pink that went directly into my face. Of course, I was laughing at the time, which meant all the way to the first temple I was spitting in Technicolor. So, there we all were: Ducking in and out of places of Hindu worship only to be besieged by gangs of men and women screaming “Radhe, Radhe!” and “Holi hai!” as they gleefully and mercilessly splattered us.

And don’t think that being inside the temples offered any refuge. In one of them, Ram wanted so much for me to get up close to the Krishna idol that was, as most idols are, on an elevated stage-type thing. Crowds gather behind a rope or partition to pray and receive blessings from the priests. So, I stepped up, placed my palms together in reverence...and got a faceful of fuchsia from the priest. Apparently, this is a huge blessing. I felt more like I was in a W.C. Fields film, but there you go. I got a lovely freshflower garland for my troubles, so all was well. Plus, I could use the damp flowers to wipe of some of the colors and clear a small airway...

Oh, but it gets better.

Ram took us to a grove where apparently at night the trees turn into Gopis (holy consorts of Krishna) and dance with their lord. We were warned not of this supernatural transmogrification, but rather of the monkeys that will attack you. (I immediately started humming the Wicked Witch theme from “The Wizard of Oz,” but no one got it. Sigh.) Undaunted, we went into the temple amid the Gopi/trees, where we all knelt and lowered our heads. Of course, we had to lower our heads, since the priest at this temple decided to hose us down with a warm yellow liquid that had a vaguely familiar smell.

“Is that what I think it is?” I whispered to Anna.

“What do you think it is?”

“What does it smell like to you?” I asked.

Pause.

“Oh, my god,” Anna said.

Now, I know that cow’s urine is considered holy here. I’m even open-minded enough to accept a small anointing of it. But please understand: The crowd was being soaked with this stuff like we were on the floom ride at Magic Kingdom.

As soon as we left, Anna blurted, “Ram! Was that cow’s urine?”

“Yeah,” Ram said casually. “Why?”

Anna stopped in her tracks.

“Keep moving!” I yelled. “The monkeys! And don’t make eye contact!”

Of course, Ram was joking. The liquid was a concoction of yellow flowers steeped in warm water. Just after he and Vishwajit finished laughing at us—me trailing behind unconvinced but still using my wet sleeve to wipe my eyes—everyone stopped short and backed up. “What now?” I asked, plowing ahead.

That’s when the monkey got me.

It was a polite attack. She just leaped up and grabbed at my neck, tearing the flower garland in half. She even looked sheepish as she ate the only marigold she scored. I removed the rest of the garland and tossed it to the pack, “with my blessings.”

After that encounter, I got the nickname, “Saint Rachel.” Not bad. I hope it sticks—maybe even as long as this pink hair does.

Love Letters From the Universe

Greetings from Udaipur.

I seem to have made it through FSD (Foundation for Sustainable Development) Orientation. We four interns shared two rooms at Rang Niwas Palace Hotel, had daily three-hour Hindi classes, informational meetings, and tours of the local culture, shopping spots, and restaurants. Our three Program Coordinators took wonderful care of us, and will continue to do so for the duration of our term with FSD.

On Saturday, we all got picked up by our respective host families – like a litter of puppies being adopted. My ride did not arrive, since my host mother had an appointment. So, the other PCs drove me to my new home: Shahnaz Hussain Beauty Clinic (Exclusively For Ladies). I’m living in a Muslim household, in a Muslim neighborhood, just off Fateh Pura Circle, one of the three or so shopping clusters in Udaipur. When I arrived in the stunningly beautiful Hussain house, we soon figured out that Shahnaz is not so much a host mother as a host “didi” (sister), as she’s only a year older than I. She has a very kind husband, and two children: a son of 14 and a daughter of 8. My room is on the first floor of the house, where the salon and receiving room are. The family lives upstairs. There is a painfully sweet young servant, Laloo, who is apparently at my disposal 24 hours a day.

This will take some getting used to.

After living in NYC alone – carrying my own 35-pound bags of laundry and hauling bags of groceries home to cook alone – it’s hard to deal with a knock at my door offering a tray of chai or dinner or the bag of the clothing I, excuse me very much, was urged to have him send out for ironing. (This service costs roughly 60 cents. I’m just saying.)

And when I feel myself wanting to protest, I remember that the world is different here. Having someone else iron my clothing means that someone else’s business is getting work. If I’m here to help in some way, then patronizing businesses is one way to do that. (Although I admit I still clear my own dishes. Poor Laloo has to get a little help!)

Of course the real reason I’m here is to work. Which brings me to the next point: I know I told everyone that I was coming to work with Mahan Seva Sansthan to help develop community theater projects toward education. Apparently, my supervisor, Rajendra-ji, had a better idea: He wants me to write a film script.

You read that right.

I have been employed to write a script for a documentary film covering MSS’s major projects over the last 10 years.

Now, let me explain how the title of this blog factors into the story. I call serendipities – or life’s coincidences – “Love letters from the universe.” When they happen, I see them as guideposts. Something like, “You’re in synch; the universe has your back.”

Most of you know that the way I have been able to afford this volunteer excursion is by taking a decent portion left to me from my father’s estate. My sisters have families, so their portions allowed them to provide for them by putting money down on new homes. I have no family of my own, so I wanted to do something that would make a lasting impact.

The first “love letter” came when I received the news that I would be working with children. In other words, since I don’t have my own children, the universe said, here: Have India’s... (My friends say I don’t have a family yet because I’m married to my work. I’d contest that, but I’m too busy...) But no, now I receive the rest of the love letter that says I get to be in India to apply the work I love most in the world for people in need. It’s almost too incredible to believe.

Of course, now I have to learn all about rural education systems, tribal politics, watersheds, vermicomposting... I’m doing a lot of research, asking a lot of questions (in English as well as broken – shattered, actually – Hindi), and reading stacks of project reports. Hopefully, it will sink in.

If not, I’ve cleared it with Rajendra-ji that I can add musical numbers and turn the whole film into a Bollywood extravaganza (a la “Swades”). At least I think I cleared it with him; my Hindi is so bad...

Evermocha

One of my favorite sayings is, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” When applying this to my morning rituals, I’m like Bluto in Animal House. I’ll just hang out where it’s comfy as teachers come and go and someone has to threaten me with expulsion.

In Bombay, my morning ritual has always been to have my coffee at Café Mocha, a short walk from my hotel down Veer Nariman Drive. I know the walk by heart: where the sidewalk dips, where to step over broken cement blocks into patches of dirt, the paan vendors, the massive shading trees. On the first day I was back, city workers were cutting down one of these trees.

I think it was a sign.

Mocha is no longer the café I once knew. Instead of being able to find a quiet outdoor table among the few travelers and students, the place is packed almost exclusively with young students – four and five to a tiny table – alternately puffing on hookahs and talking into their mobile phones.

The word “evergreen” is typically used to describe something that is timeless. It’s a word many Indians use to describe film acting legend Amitabh Bachchan. Interestingly, he’s been in the news lately – not just for buying his son Abishek a Bentley for his 31^st birthday this Monday. The Big B has been in a largely media-fueled feud with Bollywood mega star Shah Rukh Khan over statements that SRK was trying to fill AB’s shoes.

SRK fired back this week saying, “I’m not saying he’s old, but I am young... I’m hip and sexy.” Mr. Bachchan responded that everything SRK said was “absolutely right.” He added, “I’m old. He is young. I’m not sexy. I just play sexy...” He said it wasn’t fair to compare the two men; he’s twenty years older than SRK. The media should wait until Shah Rukh is 65 and see how he fares against the current Bollywood box office hero.

Well played.

So, yesterday, as I sat in my ever-favorite Mocha, squeezed in between a pack of giggling students as I tried to form complete sentences to write in my journal, I finally came to the realization that I may have outgrown Mocha.

I think I’ll call The Big B my teacher on this one.

P.S. My iPod is on shuffle and just broadcast Joni Mitchell’s “Chinese Café/Unchained Melody”: Nothing lasts for long, nothing lasts for long...

You can’t plan that.

In My Solitude

Before I begin my nine-week stint of volunteer work at Mehan Seva Sansthan in Udaipur, I thought it would be wise to spend a week unwinding in Mumbai. It’s a city I am beginning to know, having been here twice.

Because I’m a creature of habit – which explains why I’m uprooting myself from my comfy New York life, right? – I’m staying at the same Churchgate hotel where I stayed the previous two visits in 2003 and 2004. I’m remembered (positively!) by the staff here, which is enough of a blessing that I shouldn’t need anything else...except, if I may say it, a bathroom in my room.

I mean, when I first checked in, I had one. But I was asked to move to another room since the one I was originally put in was designed for families. I was happy to move. In fact, this was the exact same thing that happened to me in 2003 – same room, even. So, I moved. The room is gorgeous; the view is excellent. But, as it happens, my new room is the only one on the floor that does not have a bathroom in it. I have to use the one in the hall.

Hey, fine. I’m used to that. When I first moved back to NYC in 1998, I lived in a cheap hotel on Third Ave. that was occupied by a revolving mass of partying Europeans. I lived through bed bug infestation and got used to tip-toeing over splattered puke to use the toilet.

By comparison, this place is heaven. But this morning I was locked out of the hall bath at, shall we say, an urgent moment by some other guest who decided to use the convenience (!) of taking care of business outside his own room. (Probably out of respect to his wife. That’s admirable, right?)

Now, despite the flexibility and open-mindedness that my Buddhist practice tries to get through my thick skull, I cringed. For obvious reasons, yes, but also the fact that the maintenance guy was at the end of the hall watching -- with great interest -- this woman in her little robe holding a plastic baggie of toiletries as she tried to slip inconspicuously into the bathroom, only to go slipping back to her own room.

In a silent frustration that shamed me even as I raged through it, I packed up. For the second time. I went to the front desk and respectfully asked for a new room. I was shown one or two, and then decided to stay where I am. I mean, really. This was silly. What did I expect?

Look: My original idea was to come to Bombay so that I could make a gradual transition back into India from the complete solitude I’m used to in my apartment in New York City. It’s not that I’m some freakish recluse, it’s just that after one lives alone for so long, one tends to forget things...like how to live among other people. I figured I’d need gentle re-immersion: apartment to hotel to host family... Instead, the universe gave me a crash course in assimilation. Not to mention tolerance.

Ah, well. Maybe my slow human brain will finally get it one day – whatever happens is meant to happen, when it happens. Bodily functions included. I just hope for better timing tomorrow...