“THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT”

Just this week, I mentioned the time I met Cyd Charisse, who died on the seventeenth. Years ago, I was a wardrobe slave at two different summer stock theaters, and Ms. Charisse came and did a show and was marvelous. There was a day we had a funny conversation when she needed help with an errand and her tone was so funny and she was so kind that this regular errand really made an impression on me. Plenty of people came and went on the stage of these theaters, some has-beens, some famous, some silver screen royalty like her. I was awkward and super-young and left with the crummy jobs of laundering dance belts and Lysol-ing tap shoes and scrubbing stage make-up off of collars, so I spent a lot of time in the way, way background where the has-beens, the famous and especially the silver screen royalty had zero reason to notice. But she did. And when she needed this help with this errand, she gave dance-belt washing wardrobe slaves the same interest and respect as she gave the man who signed her paychecks. I always liked that, and have thought of her way of being often over the years.

At the same gig, I also met George Carlin, when he came to perform a one-night stand-up show. For the wardrobe slave, the director’s slave, the prop slave and the box office slaves, these one-night shows were great as they were a break in our routines, and usually meant a job that felt more important. As I wrote, Cyd Charisse treated everyone around her so wonderfully and seemed so kind and interested in the people around her. It was only months later that I met Mr. Carlin and I can say nothing less of him. In fact, when I met him, as we started to walk through the greenroom so I could show him to his dressing room, I introduced myself in that, “Mr. Carlin, hi, I’m Amy Guth. If there is anything I can do for you, please let me know. I’ve put a few local menus in your dressing room, which is just ahead if you’ll follow me.” sort of way and he stopped, shook my hand and introduced himself.

Now, by all accounts, everyone in the building was there to see him that evening. Everyone in the building knew him, or knew of him. But, unassuming and cool, he shook my hand and introduced himself and that’s always stuck out to me about the quality of person he was.

When he was ready for the show, I was to walk with him, in the dark backstage area, pointing a flashlight just ahead of his feet so he wouldn’t fall in the darkness. He made a “Yo! Don’t touch me there!” sort of joke, we laughed. He asked me if I was old enough to know any of his material. “Sure I am. I have a few of your tapes.”, I said. “Cool. Got any favorite bits?” he asked. “I like the one about pro-lifers.” He laughed and as the lights came up and he headed out to the stage area, he gave me a thumbs up, then opened his show with that very joke.

Odd that I met two people only months apart who both died in the past few days. But, as I’m sitting here thinking of them both, I realize the two of them set the bar pretty high for how successful people were to act. Not just “famous” people, mind you, but successful people. Though Cyd Charisse and George Carlin are extremely different, they both made a career out of doing what they each do best, enjoyed their work, were kind, easy-going and gave their full attention to the person with whom they were speaking in a given moment, making that person feel just as important as anyone else.

“TAKE ME OUT TONIGHT”

I went to Giocco last night for AirOne’s reception to promote their new direct flights from Chicago and Boston to Milan. This, of course, is fabulous news to those of us inclined towards wanderlust, as they’ll be the only airline offering direct flights into Milan. As I peered over their connection schedule last night, their offering of connecting flights to Athens caught me eye nicely, too. That would be a fun trip, to play around Italy a bit, dash over the Greece, a little grappa, a little ouzo, yadda yadda yadda.

I ran into Teresa Carter of The Local Tourist and Paul Banks of The Sports Bank, Tiffany Tate and Sawyer Lahr of The Unscene Chicago, met and talked with Kasia Wyser-Pratte about her fabulous foodie blog, Foodsy, and confessed to her I wish I still did more food writing (this morning, I found her design site—look at that typewriter! You know I love the old typewriters), talked with Eric Rochow of the very cool GardenFork TV about getting one’s green on in a simply way, chatted about various points of Italian travel with Marco Rottino from AirOne, a discussion on avoiding tourist-heavy areas with Edelman’s Annie Flowers and talked about the Arabic translator I want to help find (for Pilcrow Lit Fest panelist Mahmoud Saeed) with Edelman’s Carla Dabis. And the tastes and wine at Gioco were wonderful, which made everything all that much more enjoyable.

I think next time I return to the flattering light and deep-red watercolor-walled Gioco, I will certainly have to have a bit more than the couple of bites of tapenade and artisan cheese I sampled. I think I’ll try their Insalata Di Spinaci e Barbietole (spinach, gorgonzola, baby beets, red peppers and honey-mustard balsamic), and perhaps the Gnocchi di Bufalo Ricotta alla Parmigiana (just as the name suggests, Ricotta gnocchi glazed in tomato, butter and parmigiano)!

Ah, and a funny-weird realization of the evening— on AirOne’s flights, the food is overseen by Chicago’s Phil Stefani. The same Phil Stefani who has a niece who worked with my mother until about two months ago. Small world, non?

“HOW I LOVE ALL OF THE VERY SIMPLE THINGS OF LIFE”

I’ve read for years now about the subject of gratitude and I usually, I’ll admit, roll my eyes. Because, the implication I’ve gleaned from these essays and books is always the same, and that is: by asking me to cultivate gratitude, the implication is that I am not currently grateful for anything. And that’s just not true.

One issue I find with a a lot of these sort of positivity/gratitude writings is that few seem terribly realistic. You see, I believe that even perhaps less-than-pleasant subjects aren’tinherently negative, as they are part of life. And, some positivity/gratitude writings gloss over anything that isn’t super-turbo-changed-indisputably-thrilling and that’s lame. Details and less-than-thrilling-moments are here whether we want them to be or not. We can be overall happy people, even when less-than-thrilling occurs. When the shit hits the fan, I think it’s a matter of what we do with what lands.

And, I feel like a lot of articles about positivity and gratitude gloss over that point, or worse, over-simplify the act of re-framing things in a positive light as to ignore associated feelings or lessen the importance of underlying issues associated with perceived negativity. Because, let me tell you, sleuthing out the underlying causes of something that is a menace in your life can be about as positive as it gets.

There is a fine balance here, and that is the balance between making lemonade from lemons (thus acknowledging that the lemons exist, taking responsibility for them, and moving the story along) versus pretending the lemons are something they are not in order to make them more acceptable and deal-able, because it feels way, way supremely inauthentic to me tore-frame a situation merely for the sake of not wanting to feel something deeply or fearing what might arise if we were to feel something too deeply.

There is a blog I read often called Zen Habits. They have a guest post up about gratitude that is perhaps one of the better I’ve yet to see on the subject.

“A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT”

We must catch up.

My grandfather is back in the hospital, or he has been in the hospital for a few days and when we know the exact cause of his symptoms, we can decide how to proceed with his healing. Until then, we wait. When he was admitted to the hospital a few weeks ago, my mind turned to a conversation I had with him a year ago. As we sat at the lunch table on the enclosed back sunroom of my grandparents’ house, and he told stories of all the things he’s seen and experienced in his lifetime thus far, he remarked that in recent years, more and more people encourage him to write his life stories. He is not sure if he has the patience to sit and write.

Sometimes, silver threads unfurl right in front of our eyes and we are idiots not to take hold of them.

The Greatest Generation, you see, lived a whole lot more than most of us do, and have a level of mental toughness to which you and I can only aspire. Couple just a generation characteristic with his personal inclination to understand the world around him and so intentionally stop to consider moments and actions and there is quite a life story waiting to be shared.

And, about a year ago, as he told me about this, I suggested to him that audio recording equipment to record conversations just like these becomes transcribed by literary granddaughters and he thought that was a fine idea. That way, he could just sit and talk without typos or rereading and thus censoring himself. So, we decided to take a little time and get some equipment together.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when he was first hospitalized, I worried I would fail his stories, or worse, I’d fail him. He wasn’t strong enough, nor probably in any mood post-surgery for me to show up and shove podcasting equipment in his face and lob questions at him about the 1930s and 40s, so I stuffed my own fear away and waited for a thumbs up.

I don’t yet have that thumbs up, so I decided this weekend, as I walked through the Detroit airport to my connecting flight, that getting his stories was a very big priority. No, correction. I didn’t decide it was a priority, I realized how big a priority it has always been.

So, soon, I’ll head Louisiana way with some audio equipment and my grandfather and I will talk for several days and I’ll hopefully ask all the right questions and a recording of his voice telling his life story as he remembers it will exist and I’ll have, with any luck, not only not failed him but will have honored him in the process.

“PLEASED WITH THE THINGS I’VE FOUND”

The Quickies! Reading was super fun. I am super-excited to read next month and hope some a-youse can come show me your smiling faces when I do. The delightful Ben Tanzer covered most of the major points of Tuesday evening in his post, so, I’ll only add that Mary and Linsday both read pieces I loved very much, both a monologue of sorts to or about a boyfriend, Mary’s to Theo Huxtable and his pudding cup and Lindsay’s to us and a hilarious re-telling of adventures with a near-traumatomaniac (surely, fictional) lover. I talked to Zach Dodson of Featherproof for a while about a very special upcoming editing of the Fixx Reading Series with all-Featherproof mini-book authors, which you should all make a point to attend because Featherproof will be very generously giving away copies of their mini-books. Also, I had a very cool conversation with Ben Tanzer about tattoos and he told me a little about a story I suspect is a very big story and one I hope he writes about one day.

Then, yesterday, Momma’s Boy and I went in search of Bubs & family at a wild tiki bar. I mean wild in the sense of a lot of plants and hula and a band and flowers and it looked like being in a wild little tropical outpost. The place was packed, so we didn’t meet up, but have e-schemed this morning to try the tiki night another time. Tiki, people! Tiki!

Now, if you turn your eyeballs to the lower right sidebar, you’ll see a badge like this:

…that I found via Leah. I encourage all of you out in The Republic of Blogsylvania to consider grabbing one for yourself and participating in the 350 Challenge. It’s really easy, it’s free to use and for a great cause. So there.”

“HOW CAN YOU SAY I GO ABOUT THINGS THE WRONG WAY?”

In this project for Parasitic Lit, I wrote this part: “when fires erupt in wires safe for years, when fire explodes and shoots into the night air, when a cigarette butt refuses to die and pulls down a forest; the fire simply ached for too long to be free and broke out of its nothingness”… but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is the whole.

You see, we, those of us listed there, were all asked for a first line that never grew into much more. And that is a line that hasn’t quite found its home in my work, so I passed it along. I passed it along a while ago, so I’d nearly forgotten bout the mash-up project entirely until I saw it this morning in my inbox. And, it’s timed well, as yesterday I was discussing the idea of group-written endings, and how such an activity would challenge our attachment to the words we write, though probably in the best way.

There is a mindset when in the editing phase or when discussing writing that makes it go well, that is when the writer is ready to let go of the work some, usually when it’s written from some level of self-awareness, I suppose, though that seems too grand of language, really. It’s written from a healthy place, as opposed to being written to solicit assurance, or approval or validation or even written as a personal lifeline, really. This writing is a delight to edit or discuss because a red pen mark isn’t perceived as a personal affront and the writing is able to stand independently without the writer propping it up and looming over it.

I should probably say here that through the course of every piece of writing, it probably enters both phases at various points. In my case it starts tender and close then as I get it all down and fortify it a bit, it grows towards the light of day some. (Oh dear, I just likened writing to gardening.

I used to totally be over-attached to my words. And then, I had a revelation to trust myself on some level that there were more words where these came from. Easier said than done, I realize, and it certainly wasn’t anything that occurred overnight. There was a phase of having to put work away and let it sit for a while before returning to it. Then, that evolved into only putting it away if I felt a little defensive about the writing, assuring myself that defensiveness was a sure clue that it wasn’t going to stand up to much of any critical scrutiny on it’s own very well if I still felt the need to react. Finally I toughened a bit. Mainly, I did this inadvertantly, as a result, really, of asking myself “Why are you telling this story?” which gave way to the more philosophical “If I am really writing only to write, then I wouldn’t be motivated to submit this work. Right? Wouldn’t writing be just as valid if I wrote my entire life and stowed it away in a trunk?” which led me to ask myself often “Why are you submitting this?”

I think that line of questioning became especially important with essay. Because with essay, especially, the answer to “Guth, why are you submitting this piece?” was, from time to time, more about submitting the topic for editorial scrutiny (assurance-seeking on some level, surely) than the writing. My goal in questioning myself wasn’t to discourage myself from submitting any of my work, but only to make sure I had some distance, and thus perspective, from it before sending it and that I wasn’t telling a story as any sort of personal lifeline, even if it started as a catharsis of any kind.

Because, let’s not kid ourselves, there is a lot of self-serving material out there. There is far more earnestly-written material, sure. Even plenty of earnestly-written material written without attachment or emotional insecurity involved. But, there is some degree of material written that serves only as catharsis for ourselves. And, while tons of great material starts that way, in its initial draft it often lies too close to the writer, and that pink underbelly reads all wrong all too often, it somehow always reads self-involved or entitled, worse, alienating.

So, what I’m saying here, in my tangential way, is that writerly attachment versus a more write it and let it go approach, or, me-me-me-writing versus connectivity to some universal recognizable truths and issues is on my mind today. And, in keeping with that theme, I’m going to Quickies! Reading Series tonight, a reading which allows each writer only five minutes to read before a buzzer is sounded and they’re off the stage. Talk about getting down to business. I’m reading at next month’s edition (tonight, Ben Tanzer and Nick Ostdick are reading!), so I’m glad that I’ll hopefully have this get out of one’s own way and make it understandable sort of thing in mind for a while.

“MY ONLY WEAKNESS IS A LIST…”

With my love of books, writing, reading, finding the celebratory nature of things, and warm weather, is it any surprise I do so enjoy a nice literary festival (or founded one)? I think not. In many an interview, I’ve referred to literary festivals as “gold” and a couple of weeks ago, this article in The Independent caught my eye about the rise in and purpose of literary festivals. Yesterday, at Printers’ Row Book Fair, as I wandered around, I was giving some thought as to what, specifically, I most enjoy about lit fests.

1. Upon entering, Printers’ Row, the first thing noticeable to me each year is the variety of bookstores and publishers, many of which publish in genres, unfortunately, far off my radar. Though exposure to these specialty bookstores and publishers doesn’t necessarily inspire me to write a novel in, say, the sci-fi genre, I think it’s appropriate to at least be marginally aware of what is happening in other genres.
2. Just as, nay, more important than keeping up with our friends in other genres is keeping up with friends in our own and similar genres. Not for competitive reasons, but for community-building ones. Cross-promotional opportunities are all over the place, as are friends, cohorts, new things to read and enjoy, and so on. And it’s hopefully of interest what else is coming out, in the works, etc.
3. These events usually have focused swag. Some of it is free for participants, some for sale, but either way, stuff/things that vendors think writers would like will be around. Writey-things I’ve purchased/received/seen at festivals (and passed around at Pilcrow) include: Moleskine notebook, Dextek pens (I love this pen so much that they use a testimonial from me on their site), totebags, lapel pins, bookmarks, and some very chic t-shirts including “Suck My Dickinson”, “Reading Is Sexy” and “The Pen Is Mightier”.
4. Chatting up people you know; meeting new people. I know I underplayed the importance of this for a long time. I could handle being in front of a large group fine and I was equally comfortable speaking to one or two people that I already knew. But a few people at a time, much less people I barely knew? It scared me to death. Maybe this sounds silly, but I recognized that I needed to be able to navigate comfortably in schmooze terrain and so I decided I would get over this.I sought the help of my uncle, who deconstructed the various fears that usually contribute to mingle-fear, gave me some excellent advice my grandmother gave to him years ago, and offered wonderfully logical advice to negate these fears. I sought the help of my Dad who can talk to anyone about anything under any circumstances, period, who took the get on with getting on with it approach. I dragged asked Leah Jones along to events for a time as a wingwoman (She can also talk to anyone about anything, so having her around eliminated my fear that the conversation would tank). I read several books on the subject including The Art of Mingling by Jeanne Martinet.It wasn’t just one of these that got me over it, but all of these things. And one day, maybe it took about a year, it was doable. Now, when I walk into a room of people I don’t necessarily know, I’m still somewhat relieved once I either bump into someone I know or strike up a conversation successfully, but at least I have some thought behind it and can sort of get over myself and go have a conversation.Anyway, sort of a side story to illustrate a point, but it’s an important one. At readings, we might meet one or two other authors, and when we’re writing we have to hide out and get our work done on our own, so lit fests are excellent for meeting/talking with a lot of cohorts at once, having the people you know introduce you to others and so on.
5. Sometimes, lit fests call for travel. And arriving in a destination with a sense of built-in community is a fine bonus. There’s something to be said for taking off on a solo trip to an unfamiliar place, but there is also something nice about stepping into an existing community of people who do what you do.
6. We’re bound to learn something, even a small something, with every festival or conference we attend. Panel discussions are the obvious way to explore different takes on a given subject, but I try to be careful to not overlook learning things or sparking new ideas just from casual, even passing, conversation, either. Perfect example is Pilcrow, to tell you the truth. After a day of panels about all sorts of writerly things that I completely enjoyed and learned from and that sparked new ideas, it was at a casual brunch the following day that I first started to really talk about putting Pilcrow together.

   And… what reasons can you think of?

“DISPLAYING YOUR NAME”

I’m on the CCLaP site again, this time in full-silly mode.

"SING YOUR LIFE"

“Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials.”

— Lin Yutang

"HONEYPIE, WE’RE NOT SAFE HERE"

In celebration of our individual portions of Pilcrow turning out to our liking, Leah, Momma’s Boy and I treated ourselves to dinner at Tallulah yesterday evening. I recommend. More in-depth restaurant review in a day or two.

Right now, I have to tell you about the hours after dinner.

The three of us lingered over the very delicious meal, and a nice lady walked past with her boyfriend and stopped to chat with us. Her boyfriend left her with us (I don’t understand that part) and she proceeded to explain to us that she teaches second grade on the south side, just filed a police report on Friday against a parent and that her nickname is “Roadhouse”. This was a very small freckled, sweet-faced woman– Roadhouse?? Really? Truly. A friend came to retrieve her eventually and referred to her as “ninety pounds of barfight“.

So that was weird.

Anyway, then we headed to catch Jazz Ken playing at the new Julius Meinl, where Dondi and Ted were last spotted. But, we missed Ted, Dondi and the jazz. We chatted with Ken for a bit, then headed to a former-dive nearby.

The bar was a welcome hideout last night, as much of the neighborhood was overtaken with drunken revelry from the German Mayfest hoe-down. I made the mistake of saying this to the bartender– ah, it’s so nice to enjoy the quiet in here!– and right on cue, the drunken revelry found us fast.

Remember the Party Boy guy from Jackass? Yes, well, his disciples are the folks I’m talking about here. Not just people dancing around. Nay. I’m talking about a group of guys dancing in identical pelvis-first jumping as Party Boy, and doing so on the backs of our bar chairs. We tried to ignore. We tried to dissuade. We tried to really kvetch out. But no. There’s only so assertive we could be when we’re all howling with laughter. I had tears streaming more than once, especially when Momma’s Boy leaned towards me and said “His butt’s on me! He’s rubbing his butt on me!” and later when he brushed a different dancer aside saying “Guy, your wiener is way too close to me!” This wasn’t just a second, either! No. At one point, we remarked at how drunk these guys were “and it’s not even midnight”, and we were laughing and laughing and all of a sudden we realized it was almost three in the morning and these guys still were bouncing around the bar, uncha-uncha club-goer style.

You know, maybe this would be best with photos.

Here we see Momma’s Boy shoulder (lower right corner) and Leah’s elbow (lower left corner) shortly after the initial approach.

Here are said butts, that seconds later were pointed at Momma’s Boy (as a result of pelvis thrusting at Leah)…

More:

And my personal favorite moment, when Party Boys all piled upon Leah, each jumping and hooting.

We certainly had a nice laugh, and these guys seemed to enjoy the audience. But, something a little on the remarkable side happened– their dancing was contagious. Everyone in the bar, save for us and one old guy at the end of the bar, was eventually dancing. So, in that sense, I suppose I have to hand it to the party boys for being able to so successfully tapping into their joy and stirring people to dance with them. But, still, we’re talking about bad-male-stripper-to-bad-80’s-hairband, grinding all over the bar, our chairs, Momma’s Boy’s elbow, Leah’s, uh, entire self. So, you know. Good times.

We did decide, in the end, that if this truly was a bachelor party in progress, that we should try to find this wedding, as it’s sure to be a hilarious and crash-worthy one.