Jutta's Kitchen Blooms

She has six pieces in a show. She paints every day. She wakes up to music in her head, sometimes songs from her childhood, sometimes Broadway tunes and often Mozart because "he's my man."

She lets nothing stop her, not a recent fall, not the mercurial nature of acoustics and one functioning ear, not the worries of fixed incomes and stringent budgets and certainly not eight decades plus of facing whatever life has thrown at her.

What have you done today?

Faces and Places
March 4-28, 2009

West Side Arts Coalition
Tompkin Square Library
331 East 10th street (Between Ave. A & B)
New York, NY 10009

Sunday Memories - ... And Don't Call Me Shirley*

It was 1979 and me and Dany saw it in a theater - probably the nice one on 8th Street and University before NYU bought it and made it a fancy screening center for their students.



And then Sony invented a VCRs that was affordable and VHSs could be rented down the street at the new video store which had replaced the neighborhood hardware store. So me and Joni watched it at home.



And then I watched it late night on TV in between the commercials that made it look like a classic drama.



And then years and years in between normal conversations peppered with "Joey, do you like movies with gladiators?" and "Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up sniffing glue.", an occasional DVD rentals from the library when times were blue.



And then 30 years after that first time in that movie theater, a gathering in a living room because two friends had never seen it and we all wanted to be there to watch them laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh...




*AIRPLANE! (1979)

If Victor / Victoria Was A Diner...

It's a diner pretending to be a restaurant pretending to be a diner. But everyone goes there. The cops with their cute tushies wiggle-waggling their guns and night sticks, the sober table of sober men murmuring and eating and sipping many coffee cups and then like Catholic boys at their first mixed dance, checking out any woman going to the bathroom, the two gay guys with great plates of fried foods (I thought the middle age one was cruising me until he reached over and tongue kissed his boyfriend for about five minutes), several fathers with enthusiastic little daughters ("I have NEVER in my ENTIRE life been here at night, Daddy.") and our table's favorite, especially after a long discussion of how Sophie Loren could have done that to her face, a woman probably as old as Sophie Loren, but with a face that still sings every moment of her life, framed by bright red, teased hair that still claims pride and delight in her girlish sense of style.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: WHATCHA GONNA READ????

MARRYING GEORGE CLOONEY - Confessions From a Mid (dle of the night) Life-Crisis

By the one, the only, the absolutely incomparable AMY FERRIS!!!!

Available September 2009 on www.amazon.com

And from the delicious Ms. Ferris:

It is so funny (okay, hysterical) and charming, and so poignant (and very funny, did I say funny) -- as someone recently said, its just like david sedaris but for menopausal women. really. menopause - mine; dementia - my mom's. it was only supposed to be about my menopausal journey, my whacky, off the wall, weird 3 am musings, my middle of the night journey -- but of course, my mom had to join in, and we have met here: right smack in the middle: an amazing, wonderful, take no prisoners memoir.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: WHO YA GONNA CALL???

Some people, if there's something weird, and it don't look good, call Ghostbusters.

But for me, if there's something weird and it don't look good, I call Cousin Ruth. Because she is just about the smartest, most insightful person I know.

And now Cousin Ruth, with colleague Hannah Wiltshire, is starting a business helping parents parent.

www.everydayparentingnyc.com

She'll be presenting a workshop so check out the info below and her new cool website!


Limit Setting Workshop

Do you ever find yourself wondering how to set appropriate limits? Or even what limits are appropriate to begin with?

In this workshop we will focus on ways to incorporate discipline into your household without locking horns with your child. Learn how to convey what behavior you expect, what is unacceptable and how to follow through with realistic consequences. Led by Hannah Wiltshire and Ruth Wyatt, co-directors of Everyday Parenting.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Time: 7:00pm

Location: 39 West 14th St. Suite 307 (between 5th and 6th Avenues)

Individual - $15.00 in advance; $20.00 at the door

Couple - $25.00 in advance; $30.00 at the door

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Everyday Parenting is an exciting new, comprehensive parenting resource, serving families throughout Manhattan and Brooklyn. It offers a wide range of services targeting the needs of both new and experienced parents, with children from birth to teen.

Hannah Wiltshire and Ruth Wyatt, Directors, are both NYC parents, educators and clinicians. Between them they have over 25 years of experience working with parents and teachers and developing and leading workshops.

For questions about these events or to reserve a space, please contact us at info@everydayparentingnyc.com or 212-560-2340.

To register online or for more information about Everyday Parenting go to www.everydayparentingnyc.com.

I Know It's Against The Law To Take Photos In The Post Office ...

...but I wanted to capture it before it became condos.

Sunday Memories - Matthew 26:52

When I had a crush on the boy, I kicked him or at least tried to, once chasing Costas down the aisle of a rare empty auditorium at PS 110.

But when it came to punching, that was a horse of a different challenge, usually issued by Michael or Uriah or Antonio or whoever else felt it necessary to call me to a fight and I held dear to my record of never losing which was much different than always winning. I just punched back long enough for a teacher to rush out onto Cannon Street and drag me back into the school and wash off the bloody nose.

And then Junior High School 56 loomed on the horizon and we were all sat down and told of one kid being stabbed, another thrown off the roof (maybe it was the same kid) and what was a right and skill - to punch back - suddenly had much different consequences.

At 6th Grade graduation, an autograph book filled with well wishes from classmates and teachers alike, a note to myself:

"When I get into junior high school, I must act more mature, try to advoid fights and don't talk back and be quiet...""

...because "all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword," and I was told there was fun waiting for me in high school.

Of Men and Mice... "* - Part Two

The Part Two of : Just like if you look only one way on University Street or both ways before crossing against the light, what you do separates the men from the mice.

Where do you keep your keys? Hint: If you come from here, your keys are in your hands by the time you hit the shadow of the old tree right before you turn the corner to the lobby door. They are NOT in your bag, your knapsack, your purse and you do not go digging for them in front of the door like you live in a gated community. Or a safe city.

*and now for the joke
MAN ONE: Are you a man or a mouse?
MAN TWO: Put a piece of cheese down and find out!

The Last Of The Native New Yorkers

"People who come to New York think of it so differently. They talk about the tall buildings and how big and new everything is. But to me New York is haimish. Many, many small things very used. What do you think New York is?"

I think of it as the place I am intimately me in. But I feel eroded now...

"By the changes? Yes. Every once in a while I look up and say 'oh shit. Don't do this to my city.'"


Carola Dibbell writes like Kerouac and all those other motherfuckers wished they wrote. She's the real deal. She'll be reading on March 9th at Housing Works on Crosby Street as part of the Fence Magazine night.

Carola Dibbell
March 9, 2009
7pm
Fence Magazine at Housing Works
126 Crosby Street (between Houston and Prince)
New York, New York

Sunday Memories - Lost In the Dangling Conversation* - Florence as a Memory

When I asked Florence what she wanted to do, if not go out.

"Listen to myself."

What do you hear when you listen to yourself?

"Not much... weak and commonplace."

I tell her I will come visit her.

"First come by yourself so there's nothing in my way when I tell you how awful you are.... That's a joke."

I know.

"I have to work on it."


*Simon and Garfunkel

And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

I Had A Psychotic Break And Picked Them Up

The burger joint was crowded and I hated standing while eating really good food. I asked if we could share the booth with them.

I thought they were co-workers and that the curly-haired one, chatting a mile a minute, was driving the mustached-quiet one crazy. I glared at them because obviously they weren't from New York.

Where did the voice "be nice be nice be nice JUST TRY TO BE NICE" come from, but in seconds we knew their names and they knew ours and before I knew it business cards were exchanged because one of them did exactly what I was looking for. And then we found out they weren't co-workers. They were, in fact, planning their wedding.

Years later I get to have dinner and adventures, arguments, and art, wine and whine. I am, however, still not willing to admit to being nice. Even if it gets me great friends.

It's a Small Small Small World After All

This is Fay.

We were assigned the same computer at a temp job. We could tell the other was the kind that grew up on IND and BMT and IRT, and knew the difference between PA and MA (no, they're not states). So we asked each other the two questions that matter when you come from New York.

"Where'd ya grow up?"

"What high school you go to?"

She and my sister went to high school together.

She took her first piano lessons with Florence.

And last, but not least... Florence was in a trio for years with a clarinetist. The clarinetist is the sister of a good friend of Fay's.

Sunday Memories - The Disciples of Soul

I really hated playing the violin and even more than playing, I really hated practicing the violin.

Regardless, everyday after school the music stand would be set-up, the etude books opened, the bow rosined, the violin tuned.

Florence would take her place in the big armchair and the torture would begin.

But at some point the room would grow dim with winter evening, and she'd begin to doze. Perhaps she was tired from her own six hours of daily piano practicing or perhaps it was from the daily cup of sherry she allowed herself, but only after those six hours had been completed. I didn't care. Her snores heralded my freedom.

I'd stop mid-note and if she didn't stir with her usual order of "Commence!" I'd jump into action.

Quickly scattering the music books to make it look like I had finished not only all the scales and exercises but even the piece I was studying, I'd prop the violin rakishly in its case as if it had run a long race and was catching its breath and dangle the bow from the music stand as if, too hot from ferocious playing, it needed cooling.

More often than not, this would be as far as I could get, the lack of my scratching out unloved music jarring her into awake. But every once in a while, I'd actually get to sneak out of the living room and happily do anything but practice.

Still, no matter what happened, the next day the music stand would be set up, the etude books open, the bow rosined, the violin tuned.

Years later, Florence asked me what I really wanted to do. At this point, burnt-out, drained and exhausted from decades of juggling early morning attempts and late night sessions writing stories, I was either in the middle of yet another mind-numbing job or one of my three forays into higher education.

"I just want to stay home and write full-time."

She paused, like she was listening to the sentence over and over and over again.

Then she said, "You have to train for that."

***
Six days a week, coffee is made, pill is popped, banana eaten, email glanced at, the table cleared, pens lined up, doors closed, documents opened, the writing book readied, phones put aside, tiredness banished, the world shut out, the soul called forth, the heart welcomed, the hands warmed... the writing commences.

Of Men and Mice... "*

Just like if you look only one way on University Street or both ways before crossing against the light, what you call this separates the men from the mice.

Because it may be called a slide other places in the world, but here, at the center of the Universe, we call it a sliding pond.

*and now for the joke
MAN ONE: Are you a man or a mouse?
MAN TWO: Put a piece of cheese down and find out!

Jutta's Kitchen Revisited

The elevator I rode since I was 13. Sometimes to her son...

...sometimes to dinner...

...sometimes to be painted....

...sometimes just to sit and talk...

...and sometimes to look and wonder and peer at light and shapes and paintings and sketches and wonder about the narrative that might interweave throughout our work.

Sunday Memories - One of the Happiest Days of My Life

What day will you think of as you lay dying? Many many happy moments, much to be grateful for, but a whole happy day? I only have a few. And meeting Baby Boy was definitely one of them.
He was delicious.

Then he got bigger.

I made sure he held my hand when we crossed the street and I called him my Baby Boy. In public.

And then he got even bigger. I could no longer insist on him holding my hand as we crossed the street and I was not allowed to call him anything except his name.

Now he's 18.

I call him B.B. and even if I can't hold his hand, I still make sure my hand is on his shoulder as we jay-walk our way back from a movie.

***
Related Posts:

Sunday Memories - Baby Boy Tadpole and Other Snapshots from Deep Waters

Chinese New Years in Flushing, Queens

In between dishes we had never had before, me and the Other Jew called for pork and for the first time in years someone else was told to use their "inside voice".

Styles of the Times

Joan Rivers used to call it "doing the long shave."

Wasn't it like brushing your teeth before going to the dentist? But running late I realized I had forgotten to do so.

So, gritting my teeth through my own errant hairs and the miserableness of a medical instrument that could never be warmed up enough, I asked.

Have you notice a change in pubic hair styles?

And Dr. G., tough and straight forward and no nonsense who spoke faster than any one I know, including my sister, rolled her eyes and said, "Since when did hair become unnatural? I got patients apologizing for not getting waxed before their appointment. I don't understand. You're supposed to have hair there."

Sunday Memories - Florence's Moon (Florence As A Memory)

Keeping my head above water meant attending a much-hated yoga class.  At the beginning of every class, Teacher always played something woo-woo to lull us into thinking we would be enjoying ourselves for the next hour.  Mostly it was a lot of acoustic guitars and young women’s lilting voices singing love problems that happen when you are 24.

But today, instead of young angst, a solo piano rendition of Clair de Lune by Debussy slammed me against the wall.

I was suddenly back in a minefield packed with the millions of years I spent as a child wandering around the house listening to Florence break the heart of her piano.  Until I fled at 15 to another home, I listened to her play this piece repeatedly.

I hated this piece more than I hated yoga.  It was the essence of reminiscing about the time you had hope that love might work out.  Those kinds of memories are like drowning in the worst of sorrow and disappointment at your life.

Teacher began the usual bla bla bla-guidance about spiritual this and intention that.  But, in this class of 40 or 50 people where I was the only student over the age of 24, all I could see, hear and feel was Florence the young girl and Florence the young mother and Florence the old woman playing all this hope for love she never got to have.

For Us It Wasn't a Wardrobe That Led To A New World

It was stairs in a better building.