Laurel Massé

Mark you this...

Writer Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) had read more than enough of the critical adulation accorded to James Fenimore Cooper, one of America's most revered early novelists (including The Deerslayer and The Last of the Mohicans). Accordingly, in 1895, he published his review of Cooper's works. Listening to the national news this morning, hearing about politicians' maneuvers and the confusions some are having about the mysterious connection between cause and effect, and about the difference between a law and a bill and such, I was reminded of that review. I found it and reread it, and here is the passage that had come to mind.

If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty would have worked better; not more interestingly, but more rationally, more plausibly. Cooper's proudest creations in the way of "situations" suffer noticeably from the absence of the observer's protecting gift. Cooper's eye was splendidly inaccurate. Cooper seldom saw anything correctly. He saw nearly all things as through a glass eye, darkly. Of course a man who cannot see the commonest little every-day matters accurately is working at a disadvantage when he is constructing a "situation."

(Anyone in Washington, DC remember this passage? Apparently not.)

Twain then goes on to give an example of such a disadvantage:

...The ark [a houseboat that is about to be attacked] is one hundred and forty-feet long; the dwelling is ninety feet long. The idea of the Indians is to drop softly and secretly from the arched sapling to the dwelling as the ark creeps along under it at the rate of a mile an hour, and butcher the family. It will take the ark a minute and a half to pass under. It will take the ninety-foot dwelling a minute to pass under. Now, then, what did the six Indians do? It would take you thirty years to guess, and even then you would have to give it up, I believe. Therefore, I will tell you what the Indians did. Their chief, a person of quite extraordinary intellect for a Cooper Indian, warily watched the canal-boat as it squeezed along under him and when he had got his calculations fined down to exactly the right shade, as he judge, he let go and dropped. And missed the boat! That is actually what he did. He missed the house, and landed in he stern of the scow. It was not much of a fall, yet it knocked him silly. He lay there unconscious. If the house had been ninety-seven feet long he would have made the trip. The error lay in the construction of the house. Cooper was no architect.

There still remained in the roost five Indians. The boat has passed under and is now out of their reach. Let me explain what the five did -- you would not be able to reason it out for yourself. No. 1 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water astern of it. Then No. 2 jumped for the boat, but fell in the water still further astern of it. Then No. 3 jumped for the boat, and fell a good way astern of it. Then No. 4 jumped for the boat, and fell in the water away astern. Then even No. 5 made a jump for the boat -- for he was Cooper Indian. In that matter of intellect, the difference between a Cooper Indian and the Indian that stands in front of the cigar-shop is not spacious. The scow episode is really a sublime burst of invention; but it does not thrill, because the inaccuracy of details throw a sort of air of fictitiousness and general improbability over it. This comes of Cooper's inadequacy as observer.

Do treat yourself to the whole essay. It's been making me laugh - loudly! - since I was in high school.

 

One united theory

If any, if even one, of my science teachers in elementary school had been able to communicate their delight in science, to show there is joy and beauty in science, and that gravity is not grave...

Well, then. Who knows?

Thank you, Tim Blais, for giving us this A Capella Science video. Viewers, watch past the end to see links to Tim's other projects. And thanks, Canada!

 

                          

 

Darkness, darkness

Old Man Grieving by Vincent Van Gogh 

 As we grieve with the families of those killed a few days ago in Washington, DC, I've learned that a man I knew in childhood ended his own life on Tuesday. It was not an accident: he left a note.

His wife had been uncomfortable about having a gun in the house - they had several children, one quite young. But it was still there, and he used it.

Would he have changed his mind, or waited a little longer, if the methods available for self-destruction had been slower-acting - drugs, for instance - or more difficult to arrange or contemplate? Could he have been found before he died? We will never know.

I weep to think that he was in such pain. I mourn for his family and friends, for I know he did love them, and they loved him. But depression overcomes, and then devours; at some point, for some people, the hands that reach out to help are not seen,  the voices crying "I love you" are not heard, and there is no light anywhere.

There is pain all around us. Some we see. Some we mismeasure. Some we don't notice at all. May God give us vision. May we help to ease one another's pain, even if only a little, and may that little somehow be enough.

 

 

 

 

Last night I dreamed of Elvis

I am on a film set, working; there is a catering tent (like Harrod's Food Hall, but smaller) where the tea is plentiful and good. There is also a Cathedral set, and an airstrip. A small turbo-prop lands, a little stairway is wheeled to the door, and out comes Elvis, who sees me, and turns to English actor Bernard Hill. "Look! There's Laurel!", he says, and they smile big bright sunrise smiles, and come down the stairs.

Elvis looks great. He is older, of course, as he should be, and a little stout, but healthy and happy, and full of life and laughter. We've been friends ever since Bernard first introduced us.

Now, my babysitters were Elvis fans. I was a little too young, and then my family moved across the Atlantic to Solihull, England, and it wasn't until the Beatles were on the telly there in 1962 that pop music came into my life. I've dreamed of Paul McCartney many times over the decades since then, but this is Elvis' first appearance. What a great guy he turns out to be!

 

On set with director Cornelia Moore (wearing headset)

And how interesting it is that we are neither in a recording studio, nor on a concert stage, but on a movie set. A concert takes an evening, a recording, a few weeks or maybe months (for most artists), but movies are long projects. They take time, and require a vast number of people to work at a vast number of specialized tasks, some seen, some only felt. But everyone focuses on a common goal, everyone serves a vision.

 

While with the Transfer, I did a lot of TV, but I've only been on one film set as a performer (rather than a visitor), and only for a day. Cornelia Moore, director of Camilla Dickinson (a screen adaptation of Madeleine L'Engle's novel, Camilla), called me to be a nightclub singer in a scene, and so off I flew to Spokane, WA, for a day of location shooting. As soon as I arrived on set, I felt that "thing", that magic, in cast and crew. Shared purpose, connection, speaking a common language - it was in the air. And at the end of that one day, when I heard "that's a wrap for Laurel Massé", I was knocked over by a wave of sadness. Time to go? Already? Oh. I wanted to stay, to be part of the story, because of that "thing".

I am a sucker for that thing. It is what I loved about doing King Lear with Project Rushmore Theatre Company. It's what I love about Ashokan, and why I would often rather see a band in rehearsal than in performance. It's the shared purpose, the collaboration; it's a participation in the Beloved Community, and it's the story we tell. 

Here's an image that gives the sense of what I am talking about. It's The Quilting Bee, by Grandma Moses. In this painting, every stitch is a story. Elvis has not yet arrived...

 

And here is a link to an article about Cornelia, in which she talks about her film, her writing, and her godmother.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Swordswoman

                       Rey Alabastro Photography

This is Samantha Catto-Mott, aka Samantha Swords, Champion of Longsword, Harcourt Park International Jousting Tournament, 2013.

If, like me, you looked at this picture and your heart leaped, hail sister! If you are thinking, "oh, playacting", or just wondering what this is all about, let me recommend the documentary Reclaiming the Blade, which is about retrieving the lost traditions of Western martial arts.

I offer my congratulations to Samantha, and a tip of the hat to fight choreographer Normand Beauregard, whose Swashbucking 101 class was a brightness in the gloomy sky of my time in New York city in the 80s. And a deep, deep reverence to legendary sword master Ralph Faulkner, with whom I had a few lessons in the late 1970s in Hollywood, without quite realizing how very lucky I was to do so. "Ah. Left-handed," he said. "That can be an advantage. Take this sword."

So simple even a child

By the time I was standing up in school to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, the straight-arm salute had been dropped, the hand-over-the-heart had been substituted, and the Pledge already included the words "under God" that were added in 1954. As a child, I did not give it much thought. I thought more about horses, and why the teacher was always so mean, and how much time was left before I could go home and read my book.

But I was also thinking about politics - in a little kid sort of way, of course -  and I had ideas. A platform of sorts, or a manifesto, that was something like this:

1. Sometimes it's the grownup who is wrong, and so the child shouldn't always be the one who has to apologize.
2.No hitting. No making fun. No being mean, and no leaving other people out. Some people can catch a ball, some people can spell big words (I got my first concussion in second grade, courtesy of a baseball. Guess which group I was in). But everybody belongs, even when they are different.
3. Share, and be fair. The person who gets to cut the cake into slices chooses last.
4. Stop worrying so much about the Communists. All we have to do is really be what we say we are, the land of the free, the home of the brave, one nation under God, the best country on earth, and then everyone will want to be like us and to be our friends. Even the Communists.

Simple. Now let's have cookies and milk!

It still seems simple, and I don't see much reason to change it. For grownup, read powerful, any kind of powerful. For child, read deprived of power. For Communists, read the name of the current ideological foe, the perceived, or invented, threat, i.e. [your fear inserted here]. The rest is pretty straightforward, I think. But then, I also think Jesus' words are pretty straightforward. Love. Share. Take care of each other. Rejoice when the lost are found.

And, well, hey, kids! Let's try that. Because I don't think we really have, not as a nation, not lately.

There is one more plank in my platform. Parents who promise a pony for good grades should, when excellent report cards are forthcoming, deliver the pony as promised.

I am Laurel Massé, and I approve this message.

Linda Ronstadt

By now you may already know about Linda Ronstadt's recent interview with AARP, in which she revealed that she has been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Perhaps your reaction was like mine. I gasped, and then sat for a good long time, with tears falling down my cheeks.

With the combination of her talent, luck, and hard work she's made a big career; with her keen intelligence she made it a fascinating one for us to follow. She has walked right through the fences that separate Different Drum from Pirates of Penzance, You're No Good from Mean to Me, and has embraced hard rock, country, opera, operetta, standards...

And always that voice. That glorious, rich, supple, once in a generation, once in a million moons voice.

The clip below is from her mariachi album, Canciones de Mi Padre. The first time I saw and heard her sing this music, I was moved to tears, and now here I am again, crying like a rainstorm for Linda, for her voice, for her illness, her passion, and for the difficult road ahead. She said in the AARP interview, "No one can sing with Parkinson's disease. No matter how hard you try."  It is so hard to imagine how that must feel, hard to imagine her not singing.

I hope she will surprise us all.

 

Attention, shoppers!

My whole family lived in Europe for a while when I was a child. One of my most potent memories of coming back to this side of the sea is of going to a supermarket with my mom. Wandering away from her, I got stuck in an aisle of canned goods. There were endless rows of red and white Campbell's Soup cans. Hundreds of them. Thousands. I was dazed, and overwhelmed. There was so much of everything.

I've never fully recovered from that shock, and I still don't like big stores. The barrage of noise and the fluorescent lighting, and the so-muchness make me feel a little frantic. I use stores like Walmart very very sparingly, and only when there is no alternative. In a big city, that was easy. Now that I live in a small town that used to have a vibrant shopping district, but no longer does, it's harder.

So, I was in a Walmart store a few days ago. I had found the impossible-to-find-anywhere thing I was looking for, and was dashing through aisles to get through the checkout to the holy grail of The Exit. But in one of those aisles, I noticed a group of about ten people all wearing orange tee shirts, who seemed to be doing inventory and stocking shelves. Curiosity engaged, I turned and walked toward them. As I drew closer, I could read the shirts: Altruistic Staffing.

One of the people, wearing a supervisor's badge, smiled when I approached, so I asked, "What is Altruistic Staffing?"

"We get hired by the store to do some tasks so that they don't have to pull their own employees away from their usual work."

Curiouser and curiouser. Walmart is known for its low prices and low wages and a certain low standard of consideration for employees, so it was difficult to imagine what they would want to save their employees from doing. But a penny was slowly making its way down in my head.

"Please don't answer if you feel uncomfortable doing so, but can you tell me if you're paid what the employees here make?"

The response came with intense eye contact. "No."

"Are you paid more?"

"No. Less. Between a dollar and two dollars less." Again, the deep gaze.

I said "Thank you," and left the store, disturbed. At home, I went online. Altruistic Staffing is a real company, headquartered in Florida, and they do supply workers for various jobs. Store remodeling is the job that came up the most often on the site. I guess that they're contracted a lot for the big box, for there is a page on their site for employees, listing rules and procedures, and even the wage, $7.67/hour. That's 42¢/hour above minimum wage. And that's not much.

Most of the jobs, seem to be temp work, and part-time. The employee's page says workers are not to be allocated more than 40 hours a week. Benefits? Probably not.

I wish I had asked more questions, but I was dazed. Days later, here is my real question: is Walmart, already infamous for its low wages, outsourcing some jobs to workers who are paid even less?

Why ever would they do that?

                                Photo from Macomb Daily

 

 

One cool cat

Feline star and human stand-in. Because when a cat hits its mark, the lighting should already be perfect.

This diptych from http://deshommesetdeschatons.tumblr.com

Dopey Dildock and the puddle, and also much cattle

My cat Mrs. Peel has a lot of nicknames, things I call her when I am besotted with her, and bubbling over with affection. She tolerates them all, and rather enjoys the ones that refer to her royal and extraterrestrial origins. When I was little, my parents had many affectionate nicknames for me. My dad, when we were giggling with of extreme silliness, sometimes called me "Dopey Dildock". I thought he made it up, and never much wondered where it came from.

Year later, though, I discovered a word in the journals of Henry David Thoreau: opodeldoc. "Dopey Dildock" is opodeldoc, and opodeldoc is a kind of liniment invented (or at least named) by Paracelcus, a physician of the early 1500s. In Thoreau's time, there was a popular patent medicine called Speer's Opodeldoc. Later, there was a Dopey Dildock in a 1930s comic strip, and that's probably where my dad picked it up.

I discovered something else in that passage from Thoreau's journals. When I first read his published writings, I was an earnest teenager with a serious eye. Years later, while I was living in the Adirondacks, I found his journals, the things he wrote for himself, and I laughed out loud, often. Take, for example, his entry on March 19, 1856:

On the morning of the 17th, Mrs. Brooks's Irish girl Joan fell down the cellar stairs, and was found by her mistress lying at the bottom, apparently lifeless. Mrs. Brooks ran to the street-door for aid to get her up, and asked a Miss Farmer, who was passing, to call the blacksmith near by. The latter lady turned instantly, and, making haste across the road on this errand, fell flat in a puddle of melted snow, and came back to Mrs. Brooks's, bruised and dripping and asking for opodeldoc. Mrs. Brooks again ran to the door and called to George Bigelow to complete the unfinished errand. He ran nimbly about it and fell flat in another puddle near the former, but, his joints being limber, got along without opodeldoc and raised the blacksmith. He also notified James Burke, who was passing, and he, rushing in to render aid, fell off one side of the cellar stairs in the dark. They no sooner got the girl upstairs than she came to and went raving, then had a fit.

Haste makes waste. It never rains but it pours. I have this from those who have heard Mrs. Brooks's story, seen the girl, the stairs, and the puddles.

(Heart of Thoreau's Journals, O. Shepard, ed., New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1961)

Thoreau! When I went back and reread Walden, it suddenly had funny bits I didn't recognize before, because this time I was ready to see them (the chairs! the chairs!). When someone or something is thought to be serious, we sometimes fail to see humor anywhere. This problem besets many a pulpit on many a Sunday. The Word is far too often a grim word, and the Gospel presented as not such good news. Yet only one little letter separates holy writ from holy wit. "Joy," wrote Madeleine L'Engle, "is the infallible sign of the presence of God", and that joy is the deep source of holy humor. In the Bible, the book of Jonah is hilarious (especially the last sentence: And should not I pity Ninevah, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?). Sarah, in Genesis, thought God was a riot (A baby? To an old woman with a so-old-as-to-be half-dead husband?!). I think that Jesus laughed so often that it was not even remarked upon, and heartily. How could he not, with Peter around? And I'm pretty sure that even St. Paul sometimes cracked jokes.

G.K. Chesterton remarked that angels fly because they take themselves lightly; I think we who are on any sort of spiritual path could let ourselves laugh more. No matter which one it is, the path is often hard, but nobody's making us walk it, and perhaps we shouldn't be so mopey about it all the time, and so quick to equate sacred with serious.

In fact, it's too serious not to be taken lightly. Let's lighten up. And let's pray, "Your will be done in mirth, as it is in heaven." For we have seen the puddles.