Laurel Massé

Wonder Sunday, courtesy of Science Friday

As Madeleine L'Engle once pointed out, there is a big difference between visible/invisible and seen/unseen. I believe that's why we don't see the kingdom of heaven though it is among us, and why Mrs. Peel is tippy-toe puffy-tail bouncing sideways across the room like a Halloween cat right now toward something I wouldn't know is there.

"We're behind the eight-ball,” says marine biologist Roger Hanlon, “if we think the world looks like how we see it. There's much more information there, and other animals see it very differently."

Here's why he said that:

Thank you, ScienceFriday.

Here endeth the lesson.

Or does it?

Casting Shakespeare's Clarence (Richard III)

It's too darn hot to think and type. But it's never too hot to admire. Here is impressionist Jim Meskimen in what I think is a tour-de-force. His skillful impressions have dazzled me, and his cleverness in deciding who gets which lines is delicious. I wish I could be in Los Angeles to see his whole show. If you are in L.A., do go!

 

Language skills, part 2

A friend directed me to a video clip of a secretly bilingual cat. Well, this covert cat skill comes as no surprise, and is in fact something I have long suspected in a creature that can turn invisible at will...

...and, after you've become frantic with worry, reappear with utter insouciance (I'm talking about you, Mrs. Peel).

Decades ago, Donovan Leitch sang "first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is." His lyric was inspired by the following passage by Quinyuan Weixin:

Before I had studied Chan [zen] for thirty years, I saw mountains as mountains, and rivers as rivers. When I arrived at a more intimate knowledge, I came to the point where I saw that mountains are not mountains, and rivers are not rivers. But now that I have got its very substance I am at rest. For it's just that I see mountains once again as mountains, and rivers once again as rivers.

One has to practice meditation for quite a long while in order to attain the state of seeing what is/is not/is. Change the lyric from mountain to feline, though, and the show is up and running several times a day.

So, to summarize: Woof! Poof! Gone! ... oh, hi. Miss me?

Meow.

  

 

Language skills

What you can't see, in this photo, is that Mrs. Peel and I had just chatted about the meaning of the word sit. Obviously, she was ready for me to move on to the next topic: thank you for sitting.

The red red robin

After endless cold rainy weeks, we have been suddenly catapulted into spring and summerm with sunshine lighting the fuse for an exposion into bloom of every pollen-bearing thing. Last week, while awaiting delivery of a package, I decided to clean the windows in my apartment. In wiping away the layers of soot and golden dust, I made two interesting discoveries. The first: my apartment is not quite as dark as I thought.

The second: there is a robin's nest in the bush just outside my bathroom window, and hunkered down in it, several hatchlings. I had not seen them until I opened the window all the way, as the glass is frosted. They were motionless and quiet until a parent arrived with food - then they stretched their necks like E.T., their gaping mouths outlined in bright yellow, clamoring, "Put food here! Here! HERE!"

Several days of engrossing baby robin watching have ensued, with Mrs. Peel sharing the observation post with me. She is riveted to the scene, and has learned to chatter "ack ack ack" in the ancient cat tradition.

I have been saying my own version of "ack ack ack". And I have been counting. Sometimes it has looked like four babies are occupying the nest, sometimes three. This morning, it is three. But for the first time, I can see clearly that, a day or two ago, it was four. There are three fat chicks in the nest, pushing and nudging each other, stretching tiny feathered wings. There is also one little head hanging over the side of the nest, from a thin limp neck. One of the chicks has died.

So many things can kill babies that it is a wonder any creatures survive. Myriads of survival mechanisms exist. Some species, like horses, bear young that can be up and running away from predators in a matter of a few hours. Others, humans for instance, and wolves, have a longer outside-the-womb helplessness, and mothers, packs, and tribes that assist in the care. Still others have vast numbers of offspring that require virtually no parental care, ensuring that at least some will make it. Years ago, in a time of frustration and despair over a pre-existing flea infestation in a house I had moved into with my animals, I had a dream conversation with the Queen of Fleas. "I need your people to stop biting us, and leave," I told her. "If they don't, I will use strong poisons, and they will die." She turned a cold eye to me, and conveying the attitude of a shrug, said, "What is that to me?"

Four eggs, three living chicks: 75% survival rate so far.  Not bad, I guess. I am reading Ron Powers' splendid book, Mark Twain, a Life, and have learned that Twain saw three of his four children die in his lifetime, which in his era was not uncommon. The losses never left him.

The robins' parents' behaviors don't seem to have changed. They race to and fro, bringing food and removing wastes. The surviving chicks are still quiet till the parents arrive, although this morning I heard the largest chick start to make a tentative version of the adult robin's bossy "cheep!" That one, at least, will probably do well.

I've lived long enough to know that living things die, even sweet, innocent, beloved beings. So I am not devastated as I would have been as a child, and not broken and wailing in pain on the floor, as I was when my dogs Shekinah and Shadow, and my BobbyCat died. But there is a sadness on me nevertheless, and, rising on a breath, a prayer for the little wings that, in life, never got to fly.

The city that never sleeps

In my dreams, I often live on a gentlewoman's farm, or in a thatched cottage, with animals all around, a thriving flower garden, and the perfect desk for writing. In my waking reality, I've lived in or near cities most of my life (except for the eighteen years stretching between 1988 and 2006). With my family as a child, or on my own as an adult, I have made homes in Birmingham (UK), Paris, Brussels, Los Angeles, Chicago, and (three times!) in New York City. From 1988 to 2000, I lived in the Adirondack Mountains of far upstate NY, in the least populated county east of the Mississippi. There, I learned that I am not a very good gardener, that twenty-two horses is twenty too many, and that everything that happens in the city - good and bad - happens in the country too, though perhaps more quietly, and in locations that are farther apart.

My return to urban living took several years, and I like to think that it was the river that drew me back. Where the Hudson originates, deep in the Adirondacks, it's a small stream you can step across. It grows in size and strength as it travels south toward the ocean. When I left the mountains, I followed its path, living in the Catskills for a year, and then moving further south to the New Paltz area. I finally surrendered in 2006 to the irresistible pull of the river, and let it sweep me into the magnetic forcefield of this great city.

I think it was James Joyce who described the Catholic Church as "here comes everybody"; I think of NYC as "here is everybody". Every language, every ethnicity, every economic and social level, every philosophy, every faith, every occupation, every challenge, every grace, every magic: all here. The Queen told Alice to believe three impossible things before breakfast; in NYC, we do that before we even brush our teeth.

For the past two years, I have belonged to a community called the Order of Urban Missioners (OUM) that is based at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. At the moment, there are 36 of us, some clergy, some not, some working in the church, most not. You will not see us standing on the corner with pamphlets. We are not missionaries. Rather, we are Christians who believe that we are called by God to live and work in the city at our various trades and to love with Christ's compassionate love. We meet regularly to share our stories and concerns, to look at scripture, and to join our hands to support each other with prayer.

Recently, one of our members, Marsha Ra, offered a meditation that closed with a beautiful prayer which I've asked for permission to share with you. She has graciously said yes. If you decide to pass it along, please give credit to the author.

 

Dear God we give you thanks for life in the City, for the millions of souls with whom we share this urban life,
We thank you for their variety,
For their thousands of houses of worship,
For the 170 languages they speak
For the interesting food they cook
For the street fairs
For the parks and trees;
For the birds and other wildlife that share this space with us, often unnoticed; for the companion animals of every kind

For owners of skyscrapers who voluntarily change the skins of their buildings or just turn off the lights at night so that the more than 300 types of migrating birds that pass our way may do so safely;
For the volunteers who plant flowers in parks, on street medians, around trees and those who put up window boxes
For   political clubs, block associations,  building associations,  business improvement districts and all organizations set up to improve city life;
For those who grow orchids, and those who play music, for those who paint and sculpt and act and dance, For lighting designers and make-up artists,
For the creative writers and composers
For the teachers medical workers, police and fire fighters
For the strangers who reach out to strangers when they trip, get sick, get lost, need help
For the doormen and handymen for postal workers and Fed Ex guys, for Fresh Direct and CSA’s
For over 300 colleges, universities and research institutions
For great hospitals
For dog walkers and housekeepers
For the bus drivers and taxicab drivers
For social workers
For the garment district, the flower district, the sports stadiums
For restaurant workers and those guys in trucks selling coffee and hotdogs
For those who have been here all their lives, for those who are just arriving from all over the world,
For everyone who lives in the City:
Help us to do better Lord in this great City.
Help us to improve our school system
Help us to find the way to affordable housing for everyone, help us to solve the problem of homelessness and poverty so that everyone who chooses to live here can find a safe place among us.
Encourage those who are discouraged
Watch over the children and be easy on the old.
Help us to improve accessibility to the disabled.
Help those who work in finance and real estate to avoid greed and to remember You and the poor even as they strive for success;
Support the diplomats
Help those in the judicial system to judge fairly;
Let us see the good human intention in the noise of traffic and of construction so that these city sounds can become a song to our ears.
Above all, give us patience and help us to always see you in the faces of the millions who cross our path.
Be with us, God, in the City. This we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

The editor's touch

I have heard writers say that there is no such thing as writing, that there is only rewriting. And a lighting man I know says, "For every vision, there is an equal and opposite revision".

For example:

 

 

 

 

 

The [word]smithy of my soul

Years ago, I fell under the spell of a man who spoke beautifully. It's not the only time I've done so. This may indicate a certain susceptibility men with language skills, and perhaps there is a clinical term for it. These gentlemen don't have to be living now, or ever; in fact, they can be fictional characters. One of my favorites, Lord Peter Wimsey, graces a series of detective novels written by Dorothy Sayers. These are the books I reread when I am sick in bed for a few days, as I never tire of Lord Peter's company. In this clip from one of the brilliant the BBC adaptations, with Edward Petherbridge as Lord Peter, and Harriet Walter as writer Harriet Vane, we learn that "one wordsmith [is] worth three cyber-experts." Yea, verily.

 

But my current affair of the heart may be the biggest one ever. I know the news will devastate Sir Paul McCartney, but really, darling Paul, you must admit you've had your chances. I shall always feel great affection for you - in fact, I am doing a concert on your birthday, dedicated to you and your tunes. But you've been supplanted in my affection by a kinsman of yours, an rather older man, William Shakespeare. You must have felt it coming, yes? ever since you released that tune with the mandolin.

Here's Edward Petherbridge again, this time giving us Shakespeare's Sonnet 57 ("Being your slave, what should I do...").

 

'Nuff said.

 

 

Fools on every hill

I'm currently enjoying actor Harriet Walter's book, Other People's Shoes: Thoughts on Acting, in which she writes about her acting life. It is a very conversational book, and, as I read, I feel as though I am taking tea and chatting with a wise friend. In fact, sharing a cuppa with Ms. Walter is now one of my genie-lamp wishes.

In several passages, she mentions "sod's law", the British term for what we in America call "Murphy's Law", which states that anything that can go wrong will. I love words, so because I hope to keep increasing my working vocabulary until eons after the day I die, I did some research into origins.

"Sod" is a slang term that can be defined as a pitiable, awkward, or objectionable person. No one ventures an opinion about who the original "sod" might have been. But I'm voting for Adam, in the Bible, because his very name means dirt, or earth, which is also the non-slang meaning of sod. And, it could be said that he did act like a sod, too.

In any case, I found this passage, from British stage magician Nevile Maskelyne, writing in 1908. He doesn't name it, but he does describe sod's law:

It is an experience common to all men to find that, on any special occasion, such as the production of a magical effect for the first time in public, everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Whether we must attribute this to the malignity of matter or to the total depravity of inanimate things, whether the exciting cause is hurry, worry, or what not, the fact remains.

Personally, I am not convinced that depravity lurks in inanimate things. Nor am I certain that there is any such thing as an inanimate anything. Rather, I suspect these entities are animate, but move so slowly that we can't pay attention long enough to be aware of their progress. In fact, we don't even live long enough to do so. It's all relative, isn't it? To a fly, we are ponderously slow; to a slug, we are a blur and a breeze.

Furthermore, I don't accept that such objects are necessarily depraved. In fact, I think they might be terrifically funny, and cracking jokes all the time, hoping we'll laugh. How else to explain the car keys that vanish and reappear? Or the cell phone one searches for frantically, while it is hiding in one's hand? Or my laptop, which changes the character palette for no reason - as it is doing this morning, insisting on returning to italics even after countless corrections, and arbitrarily switching to the Polish kezboard so that I find I am uging some verz odd spellings of words?

In truth, my computer's shenanigans do seem to be inching toward the doorway to Depravity, as Ms. Mac answers my "Why must you?" with "Because I can". 

In any case (aauurrrgh!), I feel lukewarm about the expression "Murphy's Law". Why does Murphy get the credit? Actually, there is an answer to that question, and it's here.

But the older usage "sod's law" seems more democratic somehow, and more polite. No matter how our lives unfold, we all get an equal chance to take our turn being the sod.

 

 

Ready, steady, go

Last week, Christopher Cartmill, actor, teacher, and friend, sent out an invitation on Facebook for someone to play Polonius at The Hamlet Rave!, an event wrapped around an uncut reading of the play at NYU's Gallatin Center.

Two years ago I would noticed and said nothing, because two years ago I never would have imagined I could do such a thing. No, that's not it, exactly. I could have imagined it, but I couldn't have believed it. Even a year ago, I didn't know Shakespeare's sweet-tasting words would ever be in my mouth, had no idea that I would ever accept the invitation to read Polonius after I'd already done Cordelia.

Last week, however, I said "I will". Actually, I said, "Ooh ooh, choose me pleeeeease", or something equally mature. Being involved in the Rave was an unlooked-for, rich, exciting experience. This dive into what some call the most influential play ever written lit up areas of my brain that were waiting for just such a thing, and I am still a-buzz. For the last few days, I have been thinking about what happens, and what has happened, when I've said yes. So, when I came across this passage in the last pages of Rob Bell's Love Wins, it caught my attention as if it was highlighted in flourescent yellow:

Time does not repeat itself. Neither does life. While we continually find grace waiting to pick us up off the ground after we have fallen, there are realities to our choices. While we may get other opportunities, we won't get the one right in front of us again. That specific moment will pass and we will not see it again. It comes, it's here, it goes, and then it's gone. [It's] vitally important we take our choices here and now as seriously as we possibly can because they matter more than we can begin to imagine.

"Seriously" does not always include "thoughtfully and carefully", however. While I recognize the value of deliberation, the big experiences that have most changed my life for the better resulted from impulsively saying yes first, and panicking later. Sometimes the panic was ppropriate - I don't thave a flawless record of "said yes, was right". But every good yes has led to another, like pawprints in snow. Saying yes to teaching at Ashokan comes most easily to mind as an example. So much joy has entered my life because of it! That joy teaches me in an ongoing seminar on living, so that I knew enough to say yes to teaching at The International Cabaret Conference at Yale, which is where I met fellow-teacher George Hall, who used to run the Central School of Drama in London, and who introduced me to his former student, actor/director Bram Lewis, who asked me to read the part of the Street Singer in The Madwoman of Chaillot. I thought, well, it's a singer. How hard can it be?, and said yes. Which is how I got involved with the Project Rushmore Theatre Company, and played Cordelia in King Lear, which is what gave me the cheek to think "why not Polonius?" and say "choose me!" to Christopher...

...whom I'd met because I'd said yes to organist Harry Huff when he asked me to improvise from the choir loft at a Good Friday service (ten years ago? more?) at Calvary Episcopal Church. Guess who was the reader that day: Christopher Cartmill. How I met Harry is another series of tracks, involving a religious order, a meeting in Albany, and Union Seminary.

Reading Polonius at The Hamlet Rave became a possibility over a decade ago? Perhaps. Did I know that? Nope. Not till I started thinking about it a few days ago.

Perhaps all our lives are etched with a map we can only see in retrospect, if ever. I owe the form my career has taken - and if not the form, certainly the initial routing -  to a February blizzard in 1972. All I did was hail a cab. Tim Hauser was the driver. Who could have imagined, on that snowy evening, what would come of a single, simple conversation?

As Hamlet said:  The readiness is all.