Becoming Warm Again

There is cold, and then there is New-York-waiting-for-the-above-ground-N-train-in-deepest-February cold.

 

Ah yes! Welcome back you vicious breeze! You have discovered the one gap in my coat! I hear your raspy whisper threaten: “You will never be warm again...” Y'all? I weathered the Polar Vortex of 2018 in Chicago (where it was -53ºF and colder in Chicago than on the surface of Mars), and I've been to Siberia, and this New York winter kicked my ass. So I would like to formally submit a complaint: 'hear ye hear ye, no human being is meant to stand on an open-air platform while the wind weaponizes itself against your femurs.' 

 

I don’t care how cold it is in the Arctic Circle, Vladivostok or Fargo—are those people waiting for the bus? 

 

Because that’s what this winter felt like.

Not just meteorologically. Spiritually. 

Good ol' 2026. Making itself known. It's not enough that the world is at war, everything is unaffordable and the spine of America has been crushed beneath an orphaned mack truck no one can afford to drive because gas is $5 a gallon. 
No. We also had to have when-will-it-end winter whilst stuck on the 6 train. 

 

This was a winter of sub-zero temperatures, multiple snowstorms, and me, once again trying-and-failing to quit show business like a woman calmly exiting a casino before she sets her own wallet on fire. I called it a “dramatical sabbatical,” which sounds elegant and intentional, like I was sipping oolong and reading Strinberg, but in reality? I was horizontal a lot. I finally did (and remain "doing"), the trauma work. And not the chic, go-to-the-woods-for-a-retreat kind. I mean the kind where you sit inside things you have spent decades outrunning. The kind where your body (which has been quietly holding receipts since childhood) decides it’s time to present the bill. Dad, his parents, disordered eating, ulcerative colitis. All all all. All of it, apparently, has been living in my proverbial basement like emotionally charged raccoons, waiting for me to finally turn on the light. There was a lot of sitting and remembering. A lot of realizing that I had built an entire life around highly functioning.

 

And also—and I want to be clear about this—there were still, like, errands. Getting your shit together does not cancel your CVS obligations. You can be mid-epiphany about your childhood and still have to pick up a prescription and stand behind a man arguing about coupons. 

 

But something began to shift. Very slowly, like thawing. At first, it was physical. I realized one morning that I was not clenching my jaw. Then I noticed I could sit still without immediately reaching for an activity to "accomplish." Then—and this felt revolutionary—I took a full breath without it catching halfway through like a Windows 95 error. 

 

All to say: 

Warmth, I am learning, is not just temperature. 

It might just be your nervous system lowering its weapons, and the body deciding, at last, that it is not under siege.

I did not know, until this winter, how deeply unrested I have been for most of my life. How much of my productivity was powered not by inspiration, but by fear. Fear of stopping. Fear of feeling. Fear of what might catch up to me if I ever stood still long enough to let it.

And now, having stood still—truly still—I can say this:

Nothing caught up to me.

I caught up to myself.

Because when you emerge—and you do emerge—you are not the same person who went in.

You are warmer.

You are rested.

And perhaps most importantly, you are no longer estranged from yourself.

 

This is a kind of abundance that has nothing to do with money or accolades or even opportunity. 

It is the abundance of being present in your own life.

Of feeling your breath fully.
Of trusting your body again.
Of knowing that whatever comes next, you will meet it as yourself — not as a performance of yourself.

 

So here I am.

Standing on the edge of a season that feels, for the first time in a long time, not like something to survive—but something to live. 

If winter was the pulling back of the bow, then this moment is the breath just before release.

 

Not frantic.
Not forced.

Ready.

 

© hula seventy

Bye bye 2024

^ on a kamzoil date with adam kantor. cheers vienna

Good Gd, you were weird. 

 

There were great times

And new friends

and mountains climbed

and lessons learned 

What a ride. 

A year full of jaw-dropping highs and face-palming lows. 

Is it okay to say I am so glad you are over?  

 

 

I never thought I’d spend December 31st clutching a glass of wine like it’s a flotation device, but here we are. 

 

2024, you full-on gave me the business—and also handed me Champagne. Work opportunities rained down like somebody forgot the funnel on the sky. I made some incredible new pals. Created some new traditions. But whoof. This was a year that made me seriously consider things like "when I finally complete my transformation in to an 'Interesting Town Character,' shall I have a more predictable vice like a drinking problem, or shall I go rogue and just get a Shoulder Crow?" 

I’m ridiculously lucky to have Alec. He didn’t flinch when I came home after soul-pestling days at work, and said, “Babe, you crushed it,” even though I felt like I had spent the day doing Shakespeare wearing an inflatable unicorn costume because oh wait I DID. 

But hey, it wasn’t all rainbows and group hugs. I faced health drama that took my breath away. I spent more time in waiting rooms this year than I did in dressing rooms or actual rooms of my house. Doctors ran so many tests I half expected them to stick electrodes on me and say, “Great news—you’re a spaceship.” Turns out I need not one but three twists eliminated from my small intestine and for extra measure: I also had a hernia. Also I’m spiritually burnt out and have the gut health of a shopping cart with a wonky wheel. Go figure.

I said goodbye to people I thought I’d keep forever, watched friendships and professional relationships shift like tectonic plates, and at core? I learned that outgrowing your old life can feel a lot like boredom—this deep, yawning ache that happens whether you want it to or not. I cried at the airport. I cried after the election. I cried when not one but three close friends told me they were pregnant. I cried because the houseplants I named after Ragtime characters kept dying. (RIP, Willy Conklin.)

I discovered that “adulting” isn’t a destination; it’s a series of irritating pop quizzes. I decluttered, and decided that if I have nothing to spark joy, at least the pile of Amazon boxes will spark curiosity from the recycling center.

So what did I learn?

• Gratitude is a muscle. Obviously. You have to work it out every day, especially on the days your back hurts and you hate kale.  

• Some people DO NOT WANT YOU WHOLE. They want you manageable, agreeable, and small. Before you internalize their shame, take note. Adjust. 

• Change often brings grief. especially when it means losing people who prefer4ed a stagnant version of you. A new path will always pull you away from the old one.  

• Humor is medicine. If you can laugh at yourself—and at the delicious absurdity of life—you’ll survive just about anything.
  

 

As the clock ticks toward midnight, I’m planting my feet firmly in the chaos, raising a toast to everything. Here’s to 2025. Ring in the new.

The Talkback: An Epilogue

 Epilogue: *

 * "It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue..."
— William Shakespeare

1. This clearly touched a nerve.

I'm vaguely in awe of the enormous response to my post regarding the talk back. The shared outrage and anger surprised and moved me. I'm not certain why— but perhaps it's because in my "Other" roles I so often feel left hanging so I didn't expect such support. 

 

But genuinely? 

None more so than as a woman.
We don't allow women to speak. 

And when we do, we don't listen very well, or at all.

2. Compassion first

 I want to acknowledge that these older men (one declared himself to be Jewish — the other spoke with the authority of someone who identified as Jewish) seemed to be in a lot of pain.
And you know what?
I get it.
I respect their pain.
In some ways I share it.

I share the pain of a human being with a few "Other" status' (like billions of humans) who thought they had not merely the hope but the firm belief that the arm of history was moving in the direction of a more compassionate, loving world. When they look around, I imagine these men see shadows of things they assumed were long gone, and feel despair.

And something I have that they do not? Is more time. They have less time on earth to see the world course correct. And it brings them grief and outrage and fear and hopelessness that everything they've devoted their lives to is evaporating.

I have more time to change the world than they do.
I understand.
If they had given me a chance, I would have validated their pain.

 

3. Demand no "pound of flesh"

 

Their valid pain? Is no excuse for further pain.
 

And the almost breathtaking irony is that this is the precise larger theme of The Merchant of Venice.
 

Oppression can warp us, if we allow it. And hurt people hurt people.

We must rise above our personal and collective agonies and demand no “pound of flesh”— no matter how
"justified." We must heal ourselves and our communities so that we cause no further harm — micro and macro.
 

May the bringing of peace begin within the quietness of our own souls.

 

 

 

The Talkback: Part 2

This piece is a more detailed account of a specific negative talk-back that occurred, and is continuation from more universal theatre talk back experiences. For those thoughts, Part 1: is HERE.

Helpful background

 

Now, as for what happened tonight after The Merchant of Venice. The producers advertised this particular evening as "Pride Night—" and welcomed the audience to stay to discuss the themes of "Othering" in society, the play itself and in our production. 

 

For those who may not be familiar with the piece, a quick background: 

The Merchant of Venice is a play written around 1594 by William Shakespeare and listed as a "comedy." The play centers around three main protagonists who are all "Others" in the hetero-normative, Christian, male society of Venice: Antonio is a queer man, Portia is a woman, and Shylock is a Jew. The play has long been considered extremely controversial for the portrayal and ultimate fate of it's "comic villain" Shylock-- who goes after the Christian Antonio (whom he despises for his blatant bigotry of Jews) in court when he fails to meet their iron-clad money-lending agreement promising that should Antonio fail to meet the terms, Shylock may exact "a pound of flesh" from Antonio, ostensibly killing him (for he has Antonio's heart in mind). 

Yet, despite Shylock's legal "correctness," Portia—dressed as a man and serving as the loophole-finding lawyer for the case—Antonio is spared, and ultimately stripped of his property and life, only to be saved in the end if he agrees to give up all his worldly goods and, of course, be converted to Christianity. 

 

My take: Honestly? It is a play about some rather horrible people doing some truly horrible things. And along the way there are some great laughs, fun subplots, and some of Shakespeare's most iconic and beautiful poetry and prose.  

 

In short: it's complicated.

Our Production

Now MoV has much more than Jewish themes— it also has the othering of women and LGBTQ+ people. Not to mention the total lambasting of countless nationalities and cultures in the smaller parts of the original text. 

Our production—for better or for worse, not my call—eliminated the queer themes utterly, which I felt was a missed opportunity. It also largely diminished my role as Portia and did little to illuminate her lack of agency, her blinding intelligence, her loneliness and really any redeemable part of her humanity. (I hear you asking and yes, sure: it wasn't my favorite take on this play, and not my favorite acting experience, but I'm not in charge. That's the deal we sign as actors! Sometimes an actor has to trust, commit fully to a director's vision as an instrument of and extension of their artistic expression and suppress one's own preconceived notions and ideas. That's the gig. And globally: I applaud anyone for taking a bold "swing" and really trying something). 

 

With these two arms of the triumvirate diminished, our production did, however, focus almost exclusively on Shylock: on ancient and contemporary Antisemitic tropes, on the way we treated Jews then, and continue to today.

Tonight

After the show, we sit down, a moderator is present and highly qualified to speak on the subject of the evening, but does not have journalistic credits. They do not set any ground rules, they do not create a "container" for how this is going to go. I am immediately concerned because the subject matter is so intense, and it is obvious that audience members are experiencing high emotions.

 

An older man took up an enormous amount of airtime speaking for over 5 minutes about his background as a Eastern European Jewish immigrant, then proceeded to express his "disappointment and outrage" at our production. He used inflammatory language. He was clearly angry and directing a great deal of his anger in my direction.

 

I interrupted him (as politely as possible) in minute 5, noting that no one else—not the moderator nor the producer—was putting an end to a speech that was clearly going off course. I stated calmly that I "didn't hear a question." He replied, impassioned: 

 

"How can you do this?"  

It went downhill quickly from there. 

 

I won't get in to the minutia of his words, I will ask you to trust that this was not a conversation, and his comments and his tone were inappropriate.  His feelings are of course, valid, but there is an appropriate  audience, time, place and manner in which to express them.  And my feelings were valid: it was perfectly reasonable to become defensive when asked—as an actor—to personally "defend" a production I did not direct or produce.

 

It needed to be shut down long before it was dealt with. And there was no need for it to ever arrive at such a confrontational place to begin with, had infrastructure been in place.

 

I will own my part: I became defensive, in my fear and anger I "puffed:" I rattled off facts, figures and basically barfed the encyclopedia at on onto these men— to prove something. My intelligence, my worthiness of respect; to show that they had underestimated and belittled me? I don't know exactly. I'm still figuring it out in the aftermath. I was also defending myself because I felt unsafe! No one was stepping in and meaningfully coming to our aid! I was terrified that there was no infrastructure in place from our moderator or producers to help the exposed actors navigate this moment. As the conflict escalated, both ushers and audience members left. 

But where the conversation turned ugly for me was when this man, and another older man sitting beside him (also outraged) vociferously attempted to "teach" me—not the men—about Jewish history. They spoke directly to me, looked me in the eyes and used demeaning language to do so. I believe used tone and language that insinuated that I was too young, too goyishe, and too female to possibly understand the nuances of 5000 years of Jew-hatred.

So, allow me to be clear, gentlemen:

1. I am Jewish.

I understand that I may not "look Jewish" you.
Your assumption of my exclusion says more about you than it does about me.

2. Yes, I am a woman. 

I understand that 10 minutes ago, I was dressed in nothing more than a pink bikini (and looking ravishing-by the way) and that possibly leads you to believe that I am an intellectual lightweight whose beauty is her only asset. But my attractive, apparently "youthful," hyper feminine woman-ness makes me NO less capable of academic rigor, dramaturgy, context, nuance, curiosity, or for a deep and secure grasp upon my Peoples' history, Theatrical history and of history itself.
 

Just because I am a beautiful woman does not mean I am a stupid one.

Do not assume that you "must" "TEACH ME" anything. (Yes, sir, I am speaking to you who felt it necessary to teach me about The Rothschilds in front of an audience.)

3. Censorship is a society-killer. 

Also? Yes, this play is officially a "comedy" and yes, it is problematic. But to quote Professor James Shapiro author of "Shakespeare and The Jews"

“I have tried to show that much of the play's vitality can be attributed to the ways in which it scrapes against a bedrock of beliefs about the racial, national, sexual, and religious difference of others. I can think of no other literary work that does so as unrelentingly and as honestly. To avert our gaze from what the play reveals about the relationship between cultural myths and peoples' identities will not make irrational and exclusionary attitudes disappear. Indeed, these darker impulses remain so elusive, so hard to identify in the normal course of things, that only in instances like productions of this play do we get to glimpse these cultural fault lines. This is why censoring the play is always more dangerous than staging it.”

In essence: we must be willing to see.
Censorship in art achieves nothing.

 

4. Producers and Moderators, please protect your actors and creatives. 

This is a professional engagement. We might love our work, but a labor of love is still labor. And our time, safety and dignity should be respected by implementing safeguards before and during audience engagements. It is respectful. To all.

5. Never assume: onstage and off. 

Finally, this talk-back revealed through it's "failure" precisely the reason we were gathered:
The assumptions we make about Others based on a myriad of preconceived beliefs, prejudices and assumptions. I—like millions—exist at the cross-section of many identities. None of them should be questioned, tested, proven, explained or even educated-about against my consent. Particularly in a public forum.

We are, all of us, capable of prejudice, bigotry, rage and hatred.

Equally, we are, all of us, capable of great compassion, empathy, curiosity and courage.
I welcome you to—whenever possible- align yourself with the latter.

Take care of yourselves, your communities and one another.
And to all a good night.

The Talkback: Part 1

Me V. Outraged Guy

Just left a horrendous talk-back held after the show Off Broadway down at Classic Stage working on The Merchant of Venice.  I wanted to take this opportunity to comment on a few of the subjects that came up in this particularly activating evening. 

 

1. Etiquette

There is a proper and improper way to engage with artists, (and I propose that audiences and theatre producers would be wise to hear our experiences.)

 

2. Be Responsible for Yourself

We must take responsibility for the energy we bring into any room, conversation and/or encounter. 

3. Sometimes Things Get Tough

The Merchant of Venice is a complicated play that brings up a tsunami of unprocessed emotions for many, (particularly when the political landscape exacerbates them.)

 

 

So before I dig in, here are a few PSAs to say off the bat: 

This has been an already difficult week/month/year at work, and this blog has never been a place where I drag, name and shame, or gossip, so I won't start now. Suffice it to say: it was. I'm learning a lot. I'm grateful for the lessons.

 

The Merchant of Venice is a very confrontational piece of theatre that brings up a lot of feelings for people, regardless of the production. 

The theatre-going audience must know that there is a proper and improper way to engage with artists, and producers and even managers need to know that those rules must be communicated clearly by them when they allow audiences to engage with artists. 

We do not allow audiences to enter the orchestra and start playing the priceless instruments.
We don’t allow them to walk around or climb on the sets.
Audiences do not try on costumes, or mess with the sound or lighting boards. 

And yet, over and over again they are permitted and even encouraged to assume authority over the actors and their art. The more we allow these mores to persist, the more respect and courtesy will break down on both sides of the footlights.

 

These observations are ones I have collected over nearly 20 years in show business; they are not exclusive to MoV, though this was a particularly repugnant example of a talk-back gone awry for reasons I am happy to articulate, many of which are entirely universal:

 

1. This talk-back—for the creatives—is voluntary and unpaid. 

If you ever attend a talk back post show, no matter your opinion of the work or the piece, keep in mind that actors and creatives giving of their time after work is "extra," and you are not "owed" anything beyond the show you just witnessed. 

 

2. Respect the labor. 

Actors (in particular) have just done something incredibly vulnerable — we've bared our souls to the public in the name of art and social reflection, and one would be wise to take care with how you address and comment upon every aspect of the work. Creatives are human beings with intelligence, life experience and feelings. 

3. Focus on questions. 

That means phrases between 1-3 sentences that ALWAYS end with a question mark. A talk-back is not the time to give the actors or creatives a review, unburden your personal history, pain, or outrage. A talk-back, is, at its core, a Question and Answer session. It is not an opportunity for you to unload or unleash your unprocessed thoughts and emotions. In the age of social media where everyone's opinion (however unqualified or biased) is given similar credence, sometimes we can falsely assume that our sharing our opinions and reviews are legitimate and welcome. Questions, always welcome. Within reason, bring me to...

 

4. Actors and Creatives may decline to answer. 

Actors and creatives always have a right to decline to answer questions or comments that make them uncomfortable or are inappropriate. That includes questions or comments about their personal lives, as well as questions regarding defense of their roles or the production. Actors are only a PART of a production.  Further, actors and creatives take jobs for many reasons, and can't always "speak to" let alone "defend" every aspect of a production — not that that is owed to you anyway. 

 

If you ask a question in a respectful way, it is acceptable to ask a director to offer their ideas/visions for the production, but please decline to review it or offer your opinion unless expressly engaged to do so. 

 

5. Be mindful of the space you occupy and share "airtime" with everyone. 

If you MUST offer a comment, keep it extremely brief, and be mindful that the people on stage owe you no explanations and are human beings with intelligence, life experience and feelings. 

 

6. There should always be an experienced moderator  

An experienced moderator should always be present to set ground rules and keep the conversation respectful, safe, and engaging for all. In an ideal scenario this should be a trained interviewer with journalistic training, preferably with expertise in the arts or the subject the piece of theatre addresses. A producer serving as moderator, or a person with experience in the topic, but not experienced managing Q&As, is not an acceptable or safe situation to put your Actors or Creatives in. Without a professional managing this process, it can be dangerous. The role of a professional moderator is akin to an intimacy coordinator’s. There must be professional representation when intimate contact is required.

*

Self Portrait APR.25.15

Thirty-One

Thirty-one is...

• a popular a card game
• the atomic number of Gallium
• the third Mersenne prime ( 2⁵ - 1 )
• and a centered triangular number, a centered pentagonal number and centered decagonal number

and,

• the code for international direct-dial phone calls to the Netherlands. 

Also...

• In Buddhism, there are believed to be 31 planes of existence
• There are 31 days in the months of January, March, May, July, August, October and December.
• In ice hockey 'goalies' often wear the number 31. 
• Messier object M31, is a magnitude 4.5 galaxy in the constellation Andromeda. It is also known as the Andromeda Galaxy, and is readily visible to the naked eye in a modestly dark sky.
  In music, 31-tone equal temperament is a historically significant tuning system (31 equal temperament)
  
• 31 is a London bus route running through Camden Town

And of course,

• The number of Baskin-Robbins ice cream flavo(u)rs! 

*

Having spent my 30th in San Francisco onstage at Davies Symphony Hall singing the role of a lifetime, then quickly following it up with a weekend with my amazing family, last year sure does seem hard to out-do...

Oh: but out-do-it I shall.
Why, do you ask?
Because this thirty-one-derful year I am spending my birthday returning to London (a place I have not spent it in five years since birthday number 26). I can't officially tell you why I am here yet (sigh), but rest assured it is for a fabulous, exciting, bucket-list-esque singing-related reason that thrills me to my core.

But beyond a working identity, London is about the origins of my adulthood, and above all, about the friends I made and continue to love here.

It shall be a day of big reunions
Of revisitations with people
and places
     and a chance to truly look at how far I have come...

To quote my younger self,

MAN: I hate birthdays.
Well, no. That's not true.
I don't hate birthdays.
I love birthdays.
There is nothing that gives me greater pleasure than reminding people how glad I am that they were born.
     I hate my birthday.
We know this. (Remember the Nietzsche-an spiral of 24? The way I tried to get a grip at 27? The way I kiiiiinda got that grip at 29?) 
It's a passage-of-time thing. (I think it is also why I don't like New Year's Eve, and cut flowers for opening night...I dunno...)
I'm working on it. 

Poor little younger Al. (I wish I could give her a squeeze and tell her it all gets so much better, and life gets so much richer and calmer and deeper once she turns 30...) That said, looking at the list of "31s" above, I have to say, this number is on point: this birthday year I feel truly in my prime, as well as centered and thirty-one-derful.

I own who I am.
Fully. Deeply. Truly

Alexandra Silber.
Al.
Woman.
Friend.
Traveler.
Adventurer.
Believer.
Artist.
Actor.
Singer (a hard-won self acceptance title!).
Teacher (the most thoroughly fulfilling aspect of my life thus far).
Writer.
American. 
Story-teller.
Listener.
Forever-learner.
Homebody. 
Taker of photographs.
Maker of kick-ass salads.
Handbag-rummager.
Lover of road trips.
     and crime drama.
     and books.
     and radio. 
     and baseball.
     and carnivals.
     and meteorology.
     and one-on-one talks.
     and vegetables.
     and hand-written correspondence.
     and the ocean.
     and Angela Lansbury.
Aunt.
Daughter.
Human being.

Here's to another year. 

A Letter Never Sent

B

Somewhere in

New York

United States of America

Continent of North America

The Earth

The Solar System

THE MIND OF GOD.

A balcony in

Knob Hill

San Francisco, California

June 25, 2013 

B

So I am officially off my writing game. The words must’ve caught the first bus for the bay. Or the hills. Or...somewhere I am not. None of this is helpful for my finalfinalfinal deadline for the books, let alone a handwritten letter to you (which I promised myself I would write at least one of, here on the balcony of this really quite magnificent hotel in Knob Hill). 

To be fair: all my energies are focused on music. 

Specifically: not screwing up the first-and-only symphonic recording of “West Side Story” EVER. 

I don’t quite know how that piece of information escaped me, but it did, and here we are: there’s no backing out now. 

It's funny, I am no stranger to the ebb and the flow (I am possibly the doyenne of both The Ebb as well as The Flow) but something about these last few weeks feels very different. I can't put my finger on it exactly but it has everything to do with seismic change, a true turning over of cells. What that means precisely, I don't know. But change is in the air. Nothing to do but breathe in, open my arms and leap. I might be wrong, but I might also be Wright. […See what I did there…?]

Also to be fair: it is summer. And I have many a festive intention. In fact, I wrote a little Manifesto on the red-eye. Then? Well then I dug my heels in, John Proctor, I dug my heels in deep. I shall be the very last of the Mohicans holding onto summer--gaze set. 

Here are some highlights: 

- I will make room for small adventures

- I will say yes to camp fires

    and road trips

- I will always say yes to the park

- I will always have Popsicles in the freezer

     ...and watermelon in the fridge 

- I will stop worrying about things I can't control

    …because I will turn 30…

- I will chase and tickle my nieces

     and sing them to sleep 

     and escort them to the county fair.

- There will be many a photo-booth

- And the eating of raspberries off the tips of my fingers, out of the carton 

    …And not sharing the watermelon

- I shall sit on rooftops and balconies and fire escapes

- I shall swim in rivers and lakes and both American oceans.

- I shall bring magic and romance and spontaneity into my own life. 

*

Well. My my my. Guess who has finally mastered the use of the espresso machine (!!) in my hotel room? Why me. The best part of this development, however, is not the double espresso that I can now enjoy each morning while sitting on the patio overlooking the bay with my score (and 10,000 markings and mental reminders to use less vibrato), or listening to the bells from the church across the road, or trying (and failing) to write. 

No. OH NO. The best part is that while I make said double espresso, I get to recite aloud (for myself and sure, sometimes the housekeeping staff) in my somewhat laughable Italian accent, the molto-lame-o slogan embedded on the side of the machine:

For Music ~ Puccini

For Art ~ Bernini 

For Espresso ~ Pasquini

Yet, isn’t that the most ridiculously charming thing you have ever heard? …Perhaps in the whole of your life? 

In other news, do you know what goes nicely with espresso? Bernstein. 

*

I hope you are well. You’ve gone awfully quiet these last few weeks, which of course I understand. You should. You deserve a moment (or five) to look inward and make adjustments. I would never have wanted to have been robbed of my silent contemplative treks through Siberia all those years ago. Figuring out who the heck I was going to be next. Not on paper, mind you, but within. As well as without. 

Yet, Gogol said 

“Everywhere across whatever sorrows of which our life is woven, some radiant joy will gaily flash past.” 

He is right of course. That white-hot, phantasmagoric mind was so very correct. Nickolai Gogol is my kind of genius. 

So, Dear B, wherever you are, I hope you are everything you need to be right at this moment; and that those 'flashes of radiant joy' are not kept from you. 

Always,

A

30

Here it is.
The big Three-O.
Dirty 30.
The milestone of crazy women everywhere.
Let's review.

Thirty is:

- The sum of the first four squares, which makes it a square pyramidal number.
- The code for international direct dial phone calls to Greece
- The total number of major and minor keys in Western tonal music, including enharmonic equivalents!
- A semiperfect number (adding up some subsets of its divisors --e.g., 5, 10 and 15-- gives 30)
- The atomic number of zinc. 
- –30– is used to indicate the end of a newspaper (or broadcast) story, a copy editor's typographical notation.
- The number of days in the months April, June, September and November (and in very strange and unusual circumstances February—see February 30)
- The number of cars in the F-Zero franchise.
- The minimum age for United States senators
- The pearl wedding anniversary!
- The number of tracks on The Beatles' eponymous album, usually known as The White Album

But I think one thing is certain. When I look back, I will always know that I spent my 20s "figuring it out"-- and hadn't truly figured anything out, until now.
Not really.
... aaaaaand I am also pretty certain I will be saying THAT sentence again... many times over. For the rest of my life.

29 was a year of great overturn-- over the last year I have made some new resolutions, taken a conscious new course of action in my life, my career and my relationships...

Crucially this: this may come a surprise to those of you who know me as a "person who sings," but for whatever reason, singing has been a source of extraordinary emotional potency for me, and not always in a positive way.


I am going to let you in on a very personal experience, and I think you shall relate on some level. 

There is hardly a time I can remember when did not sing, with purity, and coming from a place of utter spiritual exuberance. I would sing around the house, in the shower and in the car almost unconsciously, I poured and poured over role models, I Singing was, in truth, my primary source of joy.

When my father died in 2001, my mother made an observation: I had stopped singing entirely.
No more did I sing blithely about the house.
No more recordings.
No more music, it would seem, at all.
For you see, there was nothing to be joyful about. 

It was entirely subconscious, but as I look back and unfold the deep layers of so complicated a time, I recognize that I stored the enormity of those feelings--all my confusion and anger and sorrow and grief-- in my voice. It was lodged there, a ball of delicate string growing more tangled and entrenched in itself every day... and I didn't even know. 

So what did I do?
I denied I was a singer.
I denied more lessons, any formal higher training.
I sewed up my throat and (with no regret whatsoever) got my degree in classical acting (and even subconsciously suggested I choreograph the Christmas pantomime so I could avoid singing one of the leads!)
My true nature caught up with me when Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Woman in White would not allow me to hide anymore... and I suppose the rest is sort of history. Whoever would have thought? Not me.

But here is the crucial revelation:

If I continued to say "I am not a singer" over and over again, that statement accomplished a few things:

1. It sent that exact message to The Universe, (and The Universe raged against my mind, and responded with a palpable vengeance...putting me into more and more confrontational situations with this GIANT LIE!)
2. It declared that everything I DID achieve as a singer was a "miracle" and...
3. ...everything I did NOT achieve was "not my fault" because I was "not a singer..."

But basically: it was not mature. 
It was a shallow attempt to "get off the hook" to absolve me of any form of personal responsibility. 
It was not the behavior of a woman.
It was not in line with my true nature, my deepest desires, or the essence of my morals.
It was the behavior of a scared little girl.

So, with the help of a few dedicated (and very compassionate) people, I decided, quite consciously (and with gut-wrenching, sometimes literally paralyzing terror), to become the singer I knew I was.
To throw myself in head first, and know that if I truly failed, at least I would always know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I failed honestly.

To accept responsibility.
To accept myself.
...isn't that what this whole business of life is all about?

We all do this-- with our careers, our relationships, our everyday interactions with our inner-consciousness. There's a wonderful quote from Nora Ephron's You've Got Mail where Meg Ryan's character Kathleen says

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave..."

After a few months of soul-crushing work:
Carnegie Hall called...
Then Caramoor Music Festival...
...and then what for me was the job of a lifetime singing Maria in West Side Story with the San Francisco Symphony on the history making, first-ever symphonic recording of the iconic piece.

I dunno.
Somehow?
Somehow I think The Universe might have been saying

"...Well...? FINALLY..."

...Not that anyone probably believed my bulls*** in the first place...

And so, I, like so many before me, have spent my 20s truly becoming myself.
I stand before you today truly owning it all.
Owning my strengths.
My power.
My Achilles-heels.
My insecurites.
My needs.
My deepest and more profoundly wished-for hopes and dreams.

As I spent the very last day of my 20s singing "Tonight" and "One Hand, One Heart" and "I Feel Pretty" out across the San Francisco Symphony, I felt my cells actually turn over. At the stroke of midnight, when some of the greatest musicians in the world sang "Happy Birthday" I felt it: life would not, could not, ever be the same. For when you not only take responsibility for you life, but for who you truly are, the world unfolds itself before you like a flower.

It is my belief that it is our primary objective, our most crucial human vocation, to continue this process throughout the course of our lives.
I vow to do so.

That is what a true birth-day, is all about.

Baby Steps

(1-3 weeks on…give or take…)

“Dr. Marvin…You can help me…for the first time in my life, I feel like there’s hope…”
—What About Bob?

*


What About Bob was on.
Of course.
It had been on, solidly, for a week.


[On screen:  We are in Dr. Leo Marvin’s fancy Midtown-Manhattan office. There are awards on the wall, sleek metallic lamps, a large window overlooking the city behind the small, and a bronze bust of Dr. Sigmund Freud that surrounds an arrogant psychiatrist wearing a navy jacket and red tie. After listening to Bob Wiley—his newest patient for only a matter of minutes—Dr. Marvin recommends the following…]

    Dr. Marvin: Bob, there is a groundbreaking new book that has just come out— ah!

[Dr. Marvin selects one from dozens of copies of the same, completely visible, book…]

    Now not everything in this book, of course applies to you, but I’m sure that you can see, when you see the title, exactly how it could… help.

    Bob:  [reading the title] “Baby Steps?”
    Dr. Marvin: —It means setting small, reasonable goals for yourself, one day at a time. One tiny step at a time.
    Bob: [wonderstruck] …B a b y  S t e p s…
    Dr. Marvin: For instance, when you leave this office, don’t think about everything you have to do in order to get out of the building, just think of what you must do to get out of this room, and when you get to the hall, deal with that hall, and so forth. You see?
    Bob: Baby Steps!
    Dr. Marvin: Baby Steps.
    Bob: Oh boy…


Baby steps…
    deep, right?
Hilariously deep.
And agonizingly accurate.


*


Grey had moved the television from the master bedroom into the upstairs office across the landing. The master bedroom having a kind of force field around it at this juncture—invisible and undiscussed. I think all of us were aware that we did not want to be those people, whoever they were. Those people—the ones that got all histrionic about the loss of a loved one. As if that were somehow not okay.

Mom and I spent a lot of time wondering if we were reacting “normally.” Grey, Lilly and Kent spent a lot of time wondering the same thing. What do you do when you are eighteen and nothing this devastating has really ever happened to you yet? You can’t say things are “okay” or “allowed” or “understandable” because you have no idea if they are or aren’t— you are eighteen. You are a fetus.  The closest you have ever gotten to death is the class guinea pig dying in kindergarten.  You do not yet realize what you do not yet know.

So, in that vein, we did not actively close off The Room of Death. No. We just operated under a silent agreement that all would be quiet. We’d keep it light. We could and would pretend that all comings-and-goings to and from The Room of Death were nobigthing. Look at me Death, our silent attitude would manically screech, check me! Check me as I casually use the Master Bathroom as a legitimate alternative to other household bathrooms! I am using it because there is a shower/bath, and because it is a valid option and therefore should be utilized as such. The ‘someone died here like 5 minutes ago’ thing? Yeah. It is nobigthing.
It was.
It was a big thing.
So despite the odd gesture to waltz in and out of the room like dingbats, it pretty much remained untouched.

Hey-You-Guy-Brenda and Kent had gotten to work on the master bathroom (or, The Bathroom of Death, if you will--and I hope you will)— sorting through every pill, tube, catheter, plug, prescription bottle, and machine and, without a great deal of ceremony, threw all of it away.
    “We disposed of the disease” Kent said after returning from wherever these trinkets had been discarded, “and left the man.” Indeed—the gold watch, the spare loose coins he always counted as he thought and calmed himself, the scraps of paper covered in his signature all-caps scrawl, the distinctive cologne that smelled so much of him it pierced directly into my heart.

Those days were full of harrowing little tasks like that.

The death-sheets were cleaned and folded, the bed made anew, the room scrubbed down, the machines carted away—as if none of it had ever happened at all. Mom’s friends, along with mine, took on the duties that would eventually create The House of Death we came to know after the act itself was long past. All that could remind us of the horrors of terminal disease remained burned in our memories alone.

But the absence of objects is, too, a kind of silence.

No one could have prepared us for the pulsing soundlessness that perpetrated every waking moment, that the lack of Michael, along with the lack of his artifacts (both of the life and the lack-of-life variety) would in fact leave us with no touchstones to our anguish, no weapons with which to dig out emotions trapped so deep within our chest cavities only crude surgery could release them.


*


Dad’s office across the hall already had a small twin bed in the corner, and was now doubling as, what could only be described as “Mom’s Temporary Place of Sleeping.”

At the time we had one of those late-90s TVs with a built-in VHS player. It would swallow the already war-worn copy of Bob, and every time it reached the end of the tape it would automatically rewind, eject, and the VHS tape would sit in the open mouth of the TV, awaiting instruction—a blank face with its tongue sticking out.

Before a second of silence could go by I would panic, rushing to the machine to push the cassette back in. There are no words to describe how much I loved the way it swallowed the tape with such efficient, satisfying obedience, and adored the sound of the pre-digital cogs churning within, of each electronic stage it took to bring Bob’s infinite wisdom back to me again.

    Dr. Marvin: Are you married?
    Bob: I'm divorced.
    Dr. Marvin: Would you like to talk about that?
    Bob: There are two types of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don't. My ex-wife loves him.

And again.
Bob— with his judicious ability to ask for exactly what he needs.

    Bob: [to man on bus] Hi, I'm Bob. Would you knock me out, please? Just hit me in the face…

And again.
Bob— knowing there is soundness even in folly.

    Dr. Marvin: I want some peace and quiet!
    Bob: Yeah, I'll be quiet.
    Siggy: I'll be peace!
    [Bob and Siggy burst into giggles]

And again.
Bob— reaching through the screen and speaking the truth directly to me…

    Dr. Marvin: Why are you always wearing black? What is it with you and this death fixation?
    Siggy: Maybe I'm in mourning for my lost childhood…

It was in this period that I came to know Bob beyond reason or sanity. In that week I exceeded being comforted by the light, harmless comedy. Not surprisingly, in fact, I did not laugh at all. I watched because it comforted me. I watched it because the “this moment,” and every moment that clicked along, really sucked, and it reminded me of life, of everything, before it.


Bob— on endless loop.
Bob— more comforting than any therapy (be it “Baby Steps,” “Isolation,” or “Death” therapies) or friend or food or love.

*

I would jolt— Dad and Bill Murray always shared a kind of “cadence,” particularly when Bill Murray went into his “child-like comedy” mode. “HA!” Bob would burst out, and I would jolt upward, certain Dad was back before I remembered, and sank back into myself, and the bed, once more. If I kept it on, somehow Dad would come around the corner any second and join me.

After a few days a family friend came over and into the room. She stood over me and glanced over my particular state of wretchedness and attempted to conceal how much the sight of my despair turned her stomach. She caught herself mid-shudder and plastered a frighteningly cheerful smile on her face,
     “I see we are doing a little too much sitting in this bed and not enough getting on with things?” My eyes moved toward her but my body remained motionless too dazed to be embarrassed, and, with the concern and temperament of a toad, my eyes peeled away form her and back toward the screen, not even daring to respond. She sighed and left the room slowly, unable to stir me.

She was trying to help.

Was she trying to tell me that my love of Bob was wrong? Because if Bob was wrong, then I didn’t want to know what right was.

*

I had been in the bed for a week. Pajamas filthy, hair matted, and Bob on a bender of inexhaustible re-runs. I did not know what time it was. I did not know the day. All I knew was that it was dark. In every sense. And that I was alone.

But Bob was there, and the blue flame from the small television flickered, more comforting than a fire.

I opened my eyes to discover Bob helping little Siggy to dive...

My beloved Bob approaches the dock to discover Siggy, dressed fully in black and all alone, sitting on an upright wooden post, red bicycle discarded beside him, despondently playing a hand-held video game. Siggy’s father Dr. Marvin has insisted Siggy learn to dive despite Siggy’s paralyzing fear, and earlier on, dropped Siggy in the water without warning. Bob is elated, having just returned from his first experience of sailing, and is still draped in his orange life-vest which he has left casually untied atop his bright blue shirt that reads “Don’t Hassle Me, I’m Local.”

Bob gazes upon Siggy and approaches slowly.

Bob: Notice anything different about me? 
Siggy: [he contemplates Bob for a moment] No. 
Bob: Do you sail? 
Siggy: No. 
Bob: Well I just picked it up. Heh! [He chuckles] Wonder what I’m gonna pick up next? 
Siggy: Try diving. [He retorts sarcastically, returning to his video game] 
Bob: Alright, diiiiiving… 
Siggy: I know a great teacher. [He sighs. Considers for a moment, before venting a confession to Bob] I mean, my dad just dropped me in the water. Without warning me first. I mean, I nearly drowned! My whole life passed before my eyes. 
Bob: You're lucky you're only twelve. 
Siggy: It was still grim.

I knew exactly what he meant. 

Siggy [cont]: I mean what is it with him and diving? What’s the big deal? 
Bob: Well…[Bob walks out further onto the dock and, seeing the depth of the water declares] WHOA… [tying his life-vest on tightly before continuing] ...He probably just wants to beat it, that’s all. You know, he probably just wants you to dive, because you’re afraid of diving. 

Siggy rolls his eyes as only a twelve-year-old can, but knows Bob is right.

Bob [cont]: Did I tell you? I sailed on my first try! [Bob extends his arms like a proud child] …I just let the boat do the work that was my secret. But with diving, what’s the thing? What’s the trick? Siggy: I dunno… it’s supposed to be easy… Bob moves his feet around, revving them into the ground like a nervous foul. 
Bob: well… can you give me a handle on it? 

Siggy puts down his video game and comes over to Bob at the end of the dock.


...I don’t want to go into more detail.
I don’t want to get into the hows and the whats of the next few moments, because I want you to see the scene for yourself.

All I will say is this: Siggy dives.
And he dives because Bob helps him.

Does Bob realize he is helping? I don’t know. Every time I see this scene I change my mind again—no, I think, Bob is innocent, he doesn’t know he is the most profound man alive, an all-knowing guru of almost spiritual depth. The next time round I think yes, Bob knows what he is doing, he may not be able to help himself, but he can help this little boy…
I don’t know.
I like that I don’t know.

What I do know is this: Siggy faces his greatest fear. And he does because Bob helps him.

I burst into tears. Which was odd, because I had not yet cried. Not once. And there I was weeping into the strange un-used cushions of an unfamiliar bed in my father’s old office, across the hall from the room in which he had died what felt like both moments and ages ago, and all I wanted was for Bob to reach through the screen and help me.