The moon was full a few days ago, and I caught glimpses between buildings as it rose in the sky. It was beautiful, and my heart sang a little song.
But once upon a time, I lived where a winter night's full moon looks like this...
Moonlight in the Adirondacks, by Rockwell Kent
... and shines so loudly that you can hear the light whispering to the snow, and the moon singing her own song.
It is a hard place to live, especially in winter, but you can see why one would try.
The gig is over. You've sung your one or two (or three!) shows on closing night, taken your curtain call, done your meet-and-greet, and you are ready to eat dinner with your fellow artists and talk about how it all went. Or you might even be ready to go home, or to your hotel room, and go to sleep.
But the rest of the world has other plans. Someone important is throwing a party for you, and they entreat you to come "for just a little while", and your agent insists you go "just to put in an appearance", and your manager urges you to "swing by" and promises you won't have to stay long. Off you go, tired and hungry, hoping there will be food, hoping there won't be too much of a crowd, hoping you can be in bed before 2 AM.
Can you guess what happens when you walk through the door?
If you are a performer, you don't have to guess, because you already know. If you aren't, here are Noel Coward and Judy Garland explaining it all much better than I can.
I received a comment on one of my blog posts yesterday, which is not in and of itself unusual - and thank you all for that! But the post was one I wrote in September 2007, on the occasion of Madeleine L'Engle's death.
I was surprised.
Somehow, it had never occurred to me that something I wrote two and a half years ago would still be part of the conversation, even though I am never surprised when people tell me they love "Scotch and Soda", or "Je Voulais", which were recorded in the 1970s, for heaven's sake. I'm deeply grateful when that happens, but not surprised. So, apparently I've had a little trouble generalizing. I'd seen that writing is like singing in one way - both are conversations - but missed another. - the conversation is not bound by time. As one who relishes reading old books, I am feeling a little silly about that, and also very jazzed.
It thrills me that you read what I write, and that you care about the things I care about, whether it is the song of a bird or the way someone sings the national anthem, a passage of scripture or a cool blog, the chill of a winter night or the warmth in Elizabeth Taylor's eyes.
So, thank-you, D H-T, for your comment about Madeleine yesterday. Thank you all for your time and thoughtful attention. You might not know how much you mean to me, but I sure do.
In the previous century, I lived in Los Angeles for several years (1975 - 1980). While I was there, I met a lot of what are now called celebrities. I was one myself, along with my colleagues in Manhattan Transfer. But, just as there is a difference between acquaintance and friend, there is a difference between celebrity and star, at least in my personal lexicon.
We did meet stars, real stars. We were guests on a talk show on the same day that Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were there to promote one of the That's Entertainment films. I still have their autographs on pages torn from the journal I was carrying that day. Loretta Young came to one of our performances at The Roxy. Tony Curtis goosed me at an event at the Palladium. These encounters all happened where one might expect - TV studios, parties, performances. I also had second-hand "encounters", as our manager rented homes belonging to various actors who were away on location. I saw Ann-Margret's sunny living room, and admired the artwork Elizabeth Taylor had on her walls, some of which was done by her children.
But one encounter was so unexpected, and yet so ordinary, that I have never forgotten it, and the memory has a special clarity. A beloved hairdresser moving away to San Francisco recommended someone in old Hollywood, and I was able to get a booking. I had asked for the last slot of the afternoon; it having already been claimed, I took the second-to-last, and showed up at the appointed hour. I had to wait a little, so we started late. While my hair was trimmed and fussed with, I noticed the atmosphere of the shop shifting from the usual hair salon buzz to a muted but intense anticipation. Something was up.
As I was paying, I heard the shop door open. A woman with short dark hair walked into the shop, and when she got to the register, she smiled warmly at me.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Elizabeth."
She held her hand out. I took it, and as we shook hands, I noticed two things.
She felt like a mom, with a real smile that lit her eyes.
And her eyes were truly violet.
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