fromthemouthofmoi

There was a moment in time when I witnessed my father vulnerable. He had rented a car and parked it outside my apartment in Brooklyn. He was not feeling well and had asked to stay with me and my then boyfriend, Eric. He slept for days on end and I really don't have any recollection of talking to him while he was with us. This is important to this narrative because I have always lamented the fact that I seem to have spent relatively little time with my father. I have snapshot memories of being with him - here and there, here and there. I am a teenager and he drives me into San Francisco, hands me money while he waits in the car, and I go in and buy some shoes. There are the times we drove the few blocks necessary to get to Baskin Robbins for ice cream over on University Avenue a few blocks up from his home in Palo Alto. There were lots of family reunions but I don't have any memories of being alone with my father, having a conversation or discussing anything. He did however ca

That bully, that foul language spewing misogynist. That person can be a woman. A woman with such a powerful hurt and hate that she lashes out at the very thing that she can not be. She is a child. A child desecrated before Moira was born. That woman seems to be out of control. She is filled with rage so big and consuming that everything she touches gets a lashing. From the inanimate to the breathing. She would never see it this way but sometimes she is a racist. Racism is not always directed at the person claiming racism. That woman prefers the small, and the voiceless; the lame and the lost. How else does one feed a dragon? Surely not with those capable of flight. That woman has a hurt so deep that there is not enough life left in her to figure out the source of her  fire breath. That woman is to be pitied. That woman, if she is lucky will one day be utterly alone, left with nothing but herself. With nothing but the dead silence that can never be heard when you're yelling. T

For Cliff W. (because your favourite word is in here) Going into my kitchen is impossible without bringing  Simon Gerard  with me. Simon was a master chef, exquisite painter, teacher, raconteur, musician, carpenter and someone I consider as having been a dear friend. I met him through another childhood friend, Maud McKenna-Sugg when I was in my early 20's. At the time Simon was living in 'The Pink House" which was on his grandfather  Cushman Haagensen 's property. That little house was the cutest thing you ever saw. It had four rooms and each room was a step or two down from the next room. Cushman and his wife Alice lived in 'The Big House" only feet away. What struck me about Simon's family then, as it does now, is how absolutely talented they all were. A high value was not simply placed on education, but something about their rearing allowed for each of his family members to be fully respected whatever their chosen pursuits were. This was especially

Yesterday I read a profile article in New York Magazine about Cornel West. In it he is quoted as saying, "21st-century confessional narcissism isn't his thing". When I read that I was reminded of an Actor's Studio interview with an actor, whom I've forgotten now, describing that it was an uniquely American trait to say and express everything in a film that one had on one's mind. That American actor's bulldoze their way through a film leaving nothing to the imagination. The actor then gave examples of American films versus say, French film. When I thought about it I felt I had to agree. Anyone who has seem an Isabelle Huppert film will surely agree that what she expresses without words says volumes more than what Robert DeNiro or a Woody Allen film attempts to do. We as Americans can't seem to shut up. Another side of this is an insistence that what you say be polished and presented to satisfy everyone within earshot. This last component is interesting

I was picked up in a limo after work and taken to The Old Homestead Steakhouse over in the Meat Packing District/Chelsea. Herbert Khaury was performing. He had sent the limo. I was going to be 'Queen For A Day'. The limo looked something like this: The driver was an old friend of Khaury's from way back who had once been a NYPO, now retired, and who at the time had trouble walking. His name was Colonel Something or Another. I can't remember. He's dead now. He was married to a Filipino woman and had lots of kids. When I arrived at that shiny, beefy steakhouse, I was taken to a private room, away from patrons, where an array of randomness sat.  I was seated at a table and instructed to order what I wanted. This was a pricey joint and me not knowing what the plans were, I chose the least expensive.  Darlings, Tiny never struck me as rolling in the dough; and I'm a lady who likes to keep friends. I ate, I drank, I schmoozed. I sat through music set

Over the last few years when I have had occasion to watch some tidbit with Robin Williams in it, I was always struck by something I couldn't quite put my finger on. In his early days, when he 'turned on' that manic, free flowing word association of comedy, he was young and it all seemed like a grand ride he was taking us on. He was like watching an adorable Tasmanian Devil, the kind from cartoons. Then like many great comedians, he was able to tap into something else and gave us heartbreaking and sometimes painful characters that seemed to ache inside for things intangible. While not considered his best films I think his performance in One Hour Photo and Final Cut showed us perhaps some of the demons Mr. Williams may have been dealing with. These two characters are extremely troubled, isolated, and down right depressed. Characters which I thought more interesting to watch than those purporting genuine happiness or which used his trademark mania. Williams' characters

It's just something that has been on my mind for way too long and I've decided to just tell the story and be done with it. Back when Bellevue Hospital opened its first virology clinic I got hired as the receptionist. My job was to register patients and call them once their name came up on the AZT eligibility list. Once AZT became FDA approved, real nurses and employees got hired and replaced the volunteers who worked on the placebo trials. I had been a volunteer and I was hired. They eventually hired a Dutch nurse LV who on the surface seemed gregarious and nice. She was tall, pretty had a weird accent and seemed perfect for the job. In short time, I began to notice that patients left her office in one of two ways: eyes rolling or an actual demand to change nurses. I have no clue to this day what annoyed so many patients but annoy them she did. And they all complained to me. They complained to me because I was the first person they saw upon arrival and the first voice they

Cats are very different than dogs. They accept you and stay, or they leave. Bijoux stayed for as long as he could and then he left last week. It was not until death that I could pick him up and hold him close; he detested leaving the ground. But that short moment when I was able to hold his huge body close to mine I felt sad that I hadn't been able to hold him close sooner. He was as soft as a rabbit. A rabbit that weighed a light tonne. Holding him limp he contoured to my body and he still generated warmth. I was eager to catch his spirit, bid him goodbye, thank him for his time before he left the room for a higher place. There really is a 'light in our eyes' and when death comes that light goes out. Nothing can revive it. When you look into it, it says: I am gone. I am gone as you knew me. I am finished. It is a look that the living can do nothing to stop. We are forced, with each death, to accept it and continue living, just like the dead did before death. Only minutes