My hero bares his nerves: hopelessness and hope in the writing life

When I renamed my blog after Harold's professional moniker, I made a vow to myself that I would not write "essays", that in fact I would write whatever-the-fuck I wanted to, always, because at the time it was all I had. So here lies a bunch of thoughts, along with a sinking, fainting hope, a glimpse of a deer; no, not a doe but a buck, magnificently muscled about the neck, which I feverishly pursue even in full knowledge of the spiked collar around his neck which proclaims, pursue me not, nor touch me; I belong to everyone, but not to you.

So. Lately on Facebook, which I have mixed feelings about, I've seen a few posts that speak to me, whether for good or ill. One particularly poignant piece was about a young woman, a university student, who experiences chronic low-grade depression which sometimes becomes disabling under academic pressure. Not one health-related agency in the school would help her, in fact they all looked either puzzled or embarrassed when she asked who she should approach, or just shrugged her off with "I don't know" (perhaps the worst of all, as if she was the only person in the world who had been diagnosed with some mysterious and untreatable disease).

What's that about? Is no one allowed to be damaged, to need surcease? Are we all supposed to be constantly stoking ourselves for the feverish race, the incessant jockeying for position (nowhere more in evidence than in academia)?  Or are people just craven in their inability to risk compassion?

I saw another post which frankly ravaged me, a poem I've quoted here several times:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

I know about that feverish chase, for it has occupied a huge chunk of my life to date. In writing a novel about the incredible life and career of silent screen comedian Harold Lloyd, I became enraptured, even inhabited. I felt I not only knew him, but was with him. (If that sounds totally nuts, I hope you'll at least read the book to find out for yourself.) And yet, there was always some aspect of him that was elusive, even unknowable.

Fainting, I rushed through the bracken, falling and getting up again, sometimes catching just a glimpse of the impossibly fleet deer with the glancing diamonds about its neck. Thomas Wyatt in his insane passion for the doomed Anne Boleyn knew of this, I am sure of it. The drivenness, the hopelessness, the failure that just stokes the fires of pursuit. 

Well, why not do something else, then? I realize with no small measure of horror that I'm really not much good at anything else. I have spent my entire life pursuing something that would appear to be doomed. Thus the Wyatt poem doesn't just speak to me: it screams in my ear, run. . . RUN!

And yet, and yet. I am still filled with a fizzy excitement about this book. I can't help myself. it relit the flame for me when I was sure I would never write a novel again, or at least one that I felt I could send out and sell. Blogging was a consolation, and, for a while, my longstanding gig as a book reviewer, until even that outlet dried up in the wake of nearly-nonexistent books sections filled with "canned" reviews. But surely I would never again allow the heartbreak of full-length fiction to take over my life. 

On Facebook I read of professional magazine writers who can no longer write for magazines, and I see why. I don't buy or read them except in my dentist's waiting room, but when I do, I keep searching for content and find virtually none, just the glossy flab of more, and more, and more ads. The actual magazine starts some 50 pages in, if it starts at all. Someone has deemed that readers want a brief chunked-up Facebook-type read, skip, skip, skip. I know I should not be so contemptuous of this, because the truth is I do it myself.

According to Facebook, and let's face it, Facebook is a different Facebook for everyone who is "on" it, things are pretty bad in literary-land, even in the once-comforting groves of Academe where you are no longer allowed to express your pain (perhaps part of the happy-face syndrome of social media). It's a crap shoot, though (more crap than shoot), and as people incessantly tell me, it has always been that way. A line from Dylan Thomas insanely jumps into my head: "My hero bares his nerves along my wrist". What does it mean? Jesus on the cross? Heroin abuse? Sex? Death? The Colossus that was toppled or washed away in a tide of booze? Thomas had every advantage a poet could have, was lionized and widely published and even (gasp) appreciated, and yet, like too many poets before/after him, the result of his "success" was that he went broke and died.

When I am in this turquoise/cobalt state I listen to too much Shostakovich, and as is normal for abnormal me, I fixate on one work and play it to death. Lately it has been the towering Fifth Symphony: not just any version, but the revered Bernstein interpretation from the 1960s. My hero bares his nerves, indeed. Bares his ache. I'm not sure what Shostakovich was like, though I remember reading that a great deal of his music was written for Mother Russia. Perhaps that even explains the triumphant ending of the searing, almost-unbearably dysphoric Fifth. OK, let's go major here, because really, we don't have any choice.

And the rest of the time he wrote movie music, which was probably kick-ass, and there's nothing wrong with that because 95% of movie scores are dreck. But he was keeping body and soul together, was he not? Nothing wrong with that. Or so it seems. We have no record of what he thought about it.

And as for Bernstein, once a magnificent bubble of brilliant ego, he deteriorated with the years, and NOT because after years of hiding he decided to come out of the closet. He deteriorated because, like Dylan Thomas, he drowned in alcohol, falling off the podium and propositioning young men at random.

Harold Lloyd didn't sell out, or at least I don't think he did. But in spite of the fact that he certainly didn't need the money, he made one last grab at a comeback in a strange film called The Sin of Harold Diddlebock.  This was shot in the early 1940s, and if Harold's "boy" of the 1920s was dated with the advent of sound, he was downright archaic in the '40s, when Tracy and Hepburn were working themselves into a comic fever. It's not that he didn't look good - he did - but in a sense, he was a 50-year-old boy, a man trapped in amber and stopped in time whose career and love life had not advanced in more than 20 years.

I didn't like this film, nor did the public, but what ruined it wasn't just Harold's legendary clash with the smart and snappy director Preston Sturges (who is named Sterling Prescott in my novel). It was the opening, in which for the first time we see the Glass Character deeply depressed. I still can't watch it: Lloyd is a subtle, mercurial and often brilliant actor, which is the key to his comic genius, and when he plays depressed, it's depressed. It's painful. We don't want to see the Boy that way. The picture was supposed to be a continuation of The Freshman, but since when was the Freshman supposed to turn out like this?

He chased after a successful comeback, and ran and grabbed, and for all his phenomenal determination, he didn't win, the prize slipped through his fingers. To his credit, he did NOT drown himself in alcohol or otherwise go insane, but turned his formidable energies to other things, positive, life-affirming things,  including philanthropy.

Is there a lesson? I am no good at lessons, or I wouldn't write at all. I simply have to do this, though I still don't know what "this" will mean. It took me three years of pain to find a home for Harold, I was beginning to lose all hope, and now this, another chance! I'd rather feel the pain of success (with all its attendant horrors) than the existential funk of failure, scrambling around to find meaning in it all.

My hero bares his nerves along my wrist

That rules from wrist to shoulder,

Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,

Leans on my mortal ruler,

The proud spine spurning turn and twist.

And these poor nerves so wired to the skull

Ache on the lovelorn paper

I hug to love with my unruly scrawl

That utters all love hunger

And tells the page the empty ill.

My hero bares my side and sees his heart

Tread, like a naked Venus,

The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;

Stripping my loin of promise,

He promises a secret heat.

He holds the wire from the box of nerves

Praising the mortal error

Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,

And the hunger's emperor;

He pulls the chain, the cistern moves.

"You had me at hello"

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The Glass Character: Here comes Harold Lloyd!

At last: my love has come along!  Harold Lloyd, who has obsessed my brain and ruled my heart for SIX years, is ready to show his face on the cover of my forthcoming novel, The Glass Character.

I've been looking at him for so many years, it seems strange that now he's looking back at me in one of his most famous (alarmed porcupine) poses. And though The Glass Character (Thistledown Press) won't be available for a few weeks yet, the cover has been finalized, and my excitement knows no bounds.

It's hard to know where to begin. Why Harold Lloyd? some people have asked me, and I have never completely figured it out. It's not as if I suddenly thought "this subject would make a good next novel", because I wasn't thinking in those terms. After two well-received but not-spectacularly-selling novels, my mind was turning to blogging and other more practical things.

Then Hurricane Harold moved in, a storm-front who knocked over whatever order there was in my life. Broke the whole thing wide open, sometimes quite painfully.

Harold Lloyd - and I've given this blog over to him, pretty much - was a legend in silent film, known variously as "the guy with the glasses" and "the man on the clock".

Like so.

I must have seen one of his movies on Turner Classics - in fact, without Turner Classics this novel never would have existed. I think I tuned in partway through The Freshman, the scene where his suit falls apart. I started laughing and didn't stop.

The thing about Harold Lloyd's comedy is -  it's funny. It makes you laugh. It isn't cerebral, it isn't sociological, it isn't "of its time" - it's of this bloody time, and  funny enough to knock you right out of your chair.

Harold Lloyd rocks.

So how did that initial fascination leap across the gap to an actual story, sustainable for 307 pages? Hard to say. Suffice it to say I fell in love. And a story of romantic/erotic obsession was born.

Now that we're out of the finalized-front-cover starting gate, I'm going to be writing more and more about this, because it would be too bad if this one (like the other two) got splended reviews and hardly any readership. Everything has changed since my last novel - and, more to the point, I have changed in ways that can't really be quantified.

("Quantified" - sorry about that!)

When I tell people I've spent six years on this project, they always say, "Oh, man, that must have been slow to write." They don't understand. It took a year and a half to write, and three and a half years to get to the point where it is actually in the starting gate and will soon (soon, soon. . . ) be in the stores.

On the shelves.

Whew.

I can't possibly get it all in now. I'm still trying to believe it. And though I will do everything I can think of to get the word out, I realize it's a whole different world: not only since I published my last novel Mallory, but since I began writing The Glass Character in 2008.

2008 sounds like a million years ago. So much has changed, I don't know where to begin. But he's coming soon to a book store or Kindle near you, folks: The Glass Character, Thistledown Press.

At last. . .

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Simply hair-raising

It's cool, what Harold does. I like to think so. Probably next-in-line to his famous clock-dangle is his famous "hair-raising" move. This was actually achieved with static electricity, and if you don't believe me, try rubbing a cat on your sweater real hard and see what happens.

This probably wasn't his first hair-raise, as it's from a movie called Hot Water that I think he made in 1923. In this one, he thinks he sees a ghost, and as we all know, thinking you see one is even worse than actually seeing one.

This one's from High and Dizzy, and it may well be the first Harold hair-raise. This time he's terrified to realize he's  teetering along a ledge 20 stories off the ground. It has two parts: he manages two hair-raises in rapid succession. Good for you, Harold!

This is probably my favorite due to the symmetry of the hair (he had a good, thick head of Welsh hair that stood up like porcupine quills) and the open-mouthed, childlike facial expression. There are one or two other examples of this signature Llloydian effect, but I don't have clips of them now so can't gif them. 

This is the emblem we so often associate with Harold Lloyd, the screaming man with his hair standing on end. Neat effect, and I don't think anyone else achieved it. And look into those eyes - real terror, telegraphed directly into the camera lens in a way that was almost disturbing. We always forget what a great actor Harold Lloyd was. Hal Roach famously said he didn't have a funny bone in his body, but studied his craft so meticulously that he was able to act the comedian to perfection.

So what is all this leading to??

I can't tell you yet, but let me tell you this: after much trepidation about approaching him, I got a blurb for the back of The Glass Character from Kevin Brownlow, one of the most distinguished film historians/producers/directors/authors the world has ever seen. He is singlehandedly responsible for rescuing hundreds of silent films from oblivion/destruction, and has spent a lifetime educating the world about the irreplaceable worth of these films. Even better, he's quite approachable and easy to connect with: if you love silent film, then he's happy to talk to you.

 AND HE HAS DONE A BLURB FOR ME! I can't keep this to myself, but the other part of it - the cover - well, yes, we're almost there with it, we have a mockup that - well - made my hair stand on end! So it isn't quite official yet, but if all goes according to plan we'll have a cover which is quite surprising, even shocking. Both comic and a little disturbing.

I hope Harold would be pleased.

Eli Wallach, Francis Ford Coppolla, and Kevin Brownlow all received  Lifetime Achievement Oscars in 2010.

SPECIAL BONUS HAIR-RAISE! Just found another one, in two parts, from which movie I don't know because it was taken from a YouTube compilation. But it's cool. It's the only one I've found where he smiles that sweet adorable smile of his. 

 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

    It took me years to write, will you take a look

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Sure, I'm obsessed, but can you blame me?

This is one of those things that came out of nowhere. No, not quite: I googled "Harold Lloyd caricatures", because I had yet to see one I liked. Most of them were ugly, bizarre and didn't look anything like him.

Oh how I wish I knew anything about this, as it appeared in a mishmosh of internet images. It's signed by "Harold", who usually uses his full signature, so it's something for a close friend. I can't make out the name. Kent, Kert, Hart? Impossible to say.

And the artist's signature: Vitch? Equally incipherable/untraceable. But the caricature itself IS Harold Lloyd in a very few deft strokes, with the right side of his face not even drawn in. At first I thought this was a mistake, or the artist losing interest before he was quite done. But like the best caricatures, the likeness is implied, not spelled out. With a very few lines, you "know". It's poignant that the right side of his face is a mere shadow: this was the side of his body that was most damaged by the bomb that went off in his hand in 1919, just as his career was in liftoff.

I don't know how an artist gets such a compelling likeness, so much with so little: 1/4 of a nose, a tiny fraction of a lip, a jaw-line, brows. He even got the expressive arched left eyebrow that drove women crazy. The thick black hair is implied with one bold stroke. It's all perfect, as are the eyes that softened and grew kinder with the years. This could be Harold at practically any age.

The longer I look at this, the stranger it gets! Even the hat is only half-drawn. But anyone would know who it was. This out-Hirschfelds Hirschfeld by a mile.

Rich Correll Days

Hello, and welcome to Rich Correll Day(s). I say "days" because I might be phoning him soon and don' t know what will happen.

I've written about this before, that it took me forever to contact him. I just tried everywhere, the most outlandish things, and more than a year went by - maybe two.

Having written The Glass Character, which revolves around the life and career of Harold Lloyd, I so so so so SO wanted to connect with him, as someone who might understand what the hell I was trying to do.

Never mind that I had been seeing Rich Correll (though unwittingly) probably since I was six years old. He had a guest shot on Dobie Gillis, for God's sake, and Maynard G. Krebbs was my first crush ever.

Richard Correll isn't just a child star and Hollywood polymath with Disney and IMBD and everything else. He spent time with Harold, a lot of time, and even touched his films, moved them around. and put them in place. It must have been like touching pure magic.

Some people have been kissed by God; most haven't. At some point, Rich Correll was. This was special, like a seal of destiny or something. I don't have one of those and never will, but I went ahead and wrote the novel anyway. I find it's what I have to do.

This Max Headroom one is my favorite, a clip-ette from a 1970s  appearance on Hollywood Squares with many other cast members from Leave it to Beaver. The surrealism appeals to me: the bouncing frame, the horizontal lines, the royal blue/magenta/aquamarine stripes flashing neon like something from a psychedelic cartoon.

I can't find the one YouTube episode of LITB that he's in, where he wore some sort of sweatshirt with a monster on it. Must have been taken down. It would have made some cool gifs.

This must have been a beautiful time. I remember owning a horse as a girl for a couple of years, then - incredibly - losing interest. But the two years was a blessed time, and I didn't know it then. It would have to do for the rest of my life.

When I had given up on Rich Correll, I mean completely given up and forgotten all about it, and finally gotten a deal with a publisher and signed a contract, I came home from babysitting one night and there was a message on my answering machine; "Hi Margaret, this is Rich Correll calling from Los Angeles."

Was that my Kissed by God moment, over so fast I could barely tell what it was? It was a good conversation, just what I hoped it would be, and then I sent him way, way, way too much stuff.

It only occurred to me later that I should've really waited until the book was actually out.

Then it occurred to me that, if he has time to read any of it at all, which he probably doesn't, he may not even like it.

This is NOT the cover of The Glass Character. I have no idea what the cover will look like, though they asked me for a few suggestions (no clock-dangling, please!). I needed something to hold on to or keep my eye on while I wait.

Next will be galleys, I hope. . . I don't know. I can't say any of this was easy.

I'm not sure when I'll call, except I will, I have to! I think I blew it with a couple of others just by showing too much enthusiasm. You're not allowed to want anything, I guess, even as others all around you seem to get everything they want.

I am beginning to believe in Fate. I am beginning to believe in Predestination. I am beginning to believe (once again) in Spiritualism, though it's not what people think, not as easily shaped to their expectations. 

If all goes according to fate, nothing much will happen with this novel, and it will be agony. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm doing this for Harold. I want to help him come back (as he says in my messages from him) IN A BIG WAY.

As usual, it's all teetering on some sort of verge. It was ever thus, was it not? Say goodnight, Harold.

(CODA: I still have that message on my answering machine. It has been there for months. Bill said, "When are you going to erase that?" I said, "After I talk to him again." Will it be there forever?

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Who wore it better? You decide

I have this habit of blogging first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. The rest of the time I am in purgatory.

No, sorry, I mean. . .

I mean that the editing process, the next step in preparing The Glass Character for publication in the spring, makes me feel kind of like I have glue in my veins. Or sludge. The process is oh, so long, so hard, extremely tiring and frustrating, and an all-around pain in the ass.

But soft! What's this? What light through yonder window breaks?

And why?

Why on earth is Harold Lloyd, our Harold Lloyd, our dishy silent comic-of-a-lifetime, our inspiration for the most aggravating and perhaps hopeless novel in human history, why is OUR Harold Lloyd dressed like a girl?

Oh, he looks beautiful, mind. That's not the issue. The turban, feathers, etc. are, well, rather becoming on him. He smiles softly, beguilingly. He looks not only comfortable, but content.

No, this isn't a Before/After shot, it's Carmen Miranda, famous for her banana-headed tropical outfits and shimmying around the stage. I can't imagine Harold shimmying - well, actually, he DID do a "shimmie" in one of his earliest pictures. I just find the resemblance striking, is all, though it could be that Harold is a touch more feminine.

FEMININE?!

I don't see him that way, never have, though a person I used to call my friend said (having watched her first and last Harold Lloyd movie): "Why do you like him? I thought he was gay." As if that's all that matters about any human being, a quick way to dismiss, to write off.

I have a bit of an insight here: this bizarre magazine cover (which I am convinced is real: it appears in too many places not to be, including in its original form on auction sites) could possibly have something to do with his lifelong involvement in Masonic orders and the Shriners. I've always been convinced these fellows are just a sort of Dull Men's Club, but lately, what with all this Illuminati stuff coming out, and all these TV shows that claim the image on the American $1 bill is some Satanic thing-or-other, you never know. Then there was all this CIA stuff during the Cold War, the mind games and experiments. Surely Harold wouldn't be mixed up in all that, would he? He looks too innocent. Or was this just a get-up for one of his pictures? I can't remember one where he looked quite so fetching.

And orange is definitely his colour.

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35 words for magic

I have no time, I'm tired, need to go to bed. . . This process I'm in. This editing, re-editing, is far deeper and more challenging than anything I've experienced, I mean ever. Writing novels isn't for sissies (even if I feel like one), and editing definitely isn't. I'm currently in my third round just of my OWN revisions, never mind the editorial ones I'll be working on all next week. And I'm not through yet.

So what has happened to my passionate, stormy, sometimes-troubled but always compelling relationship to Harold Lloyd?

I'm discovering something shocking. I should have realized this before. The book isn't even about Harold Lloyd. It's about Muriel Ashford, the woman who pursues him obsessively over several decades. Harold is just her projection, her idee fixe, and exists only in her eyes. So how did I get on to this idea that I'd written a Harold Lloyd novel?

I couldn't approach him any other way. I too was "enmagicked" by Harold, got swept up. It's easy to be: the man gave off excitement and fizzing, popping sparks of charm. There was a rude obnoxious edge to him when he was a young knockabout, and I am not sure it ever entirely went away.

In the novel, I have to keep surgically removing certain things that crop up with alarming frequency. One is the word "magic", which, my editor tells me, I used 35 times. Nearly every time I see it now, I chop it off like a stalk of celery, and either come up with a decent synonym or just chuck the sentence out.

Did writing about Harold render me cliche-ridden?  I wonder. I don't remember falling into those things before. But never before did I take the risk of stepping over the boundary into that smudgy midnight phosphorescence, a reality in which everything subtly jerks up and down and runs at the wrong speed.

The things I've been going through just lately have been extremely emotionally draining. I'm shedding yet another skin, but only because I have to. The urgency is coming from within. She not busy being born is busy drowning in her own bile. But there's nothing I can do about that. It's my destiny to peel back my own skin, to persevere.

So the covenant remains, the initial passion now shading into stamina, the need to continue.

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Jumpin' Jesus: I think I've figured it out!

Just when I think I've seen it all. 

I. 

Find.

Another.

One.

ANOTHER photo of Harold Lloyd that unsettles me, both thrills and makes me a little bit uneasy, because in that gaze, that gaze I've tried so hard to capture in my novel The Glass Character, there is that slightly unmoored quality, the compelling, disconcerting eyebeam/high-beam of a genius.

And other things. Lloyd telegraphed superbly with his eyes. Hurt. Seduction. Goddamn ferocious intelligence. And in this one, it, yes, I confirmed something I've denied for a very long time, something I've seen and seen in his lovely gorgeous movies, something I cannot deny now and which undoubtedly added to his cockeyed charm:

He's cross-eyed.

Well, only a little. Half a bubble off plumb, he might call it, with his wonderful earthy Midwestern way of expressing himself. Just a tinch, but enough to give him that quality. Can't even describe it. That, and the hair, are what make him so devastating. The hair, well, I don't mean when the hair stood up, magnetized by some sort of electric charge (imagine electrocuting your lead actor just for a gag!) -  it's the uncontrollable bushyness of it, the forest. In many of the early ones he's slicked it back with half a pound of pomade, as men did then, but when there's a chase scene or a rough scene or even a love scene of any note, his hair springs out into wild black waves, and we then see the other side of him.

The side I wrote about the other day, that fierce erotic clinch with Jobyna Ralston, that - who knows what to call it! When lions make love, which they do for days on end, the male lion grasps the female by the back of the neck and holds her there. Not that she tries to get away, but if she tried, she probably couldn't. It's no doubt like the grasp a mother lion would use on her cubs to carry them around - not meant to draw blood, but still, firm enough that they can't escape.

So what's the point of all this? God if I know, but I do know I am captured, perhaps for good.

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Crying. . . crying. . . crying. . .

This is one of those oh-my-god-i-never-thought-i'd-get-to-hear-this-again moments. This re-finding, rediscovery of buried treasure. The video goes back to 1989, and I had it on an old VHS tape, which of course eventually became unplayable.

k. d. lang kind of goes around in my life in one of those huge orbits, like hair styles, types of Purdy's chocolates, weight fluctuations, breeds of dogs, belief in God. Keeps changing and evolving and rounding the dark side of the moon, but somehow never quite goes away, because it can't. Try to throw it away, and it will boomerang and hit you in the face.

I figured something out as I watched and listened to this incredible performance just now:  it's Muriel, the protagonist of my novel The Glass Character, and her hopeless longing for the silent screen superstar Harold Lloyd.  "I thought that I was over you" is the heart-cry, the howl of the unrequited. Just when she is sure the rend in her heart has healed, well, he just shows up again, not unfriendly - as a matter of fact, he always seems glad to see her again - but he can't, won't love her. Never has loved her, and even if he did, couldn't possibly love her as much as she loves him.

This song is about the unattainable. I've always had a feeling lang's artistry springs from early abandonment: her father left the family when she was a young girl. Compare this to Streisand, whose father died when she was only a toddler. It leaves some trace on a voice, if the instrument is already exceptional. A something extra, ruby-dust and blood, and it makes for that subtle escalating, the reaching, each time she sings "crying. . . crying. . . crying. . ." , the hopeless anguish mounting and mounting until her voice soars and fills the hall and makes the audience burst into applause when she isn't even halfway through the song.

I wrote about this in The Glass Character, the same feeling, and I just realized it now. Goddamn it, I must tell you the process: I am only partway through the editing, and I don't know who wrote this! I don't even like parts of it, hate other parts, and put check marks beside others. I don't know why this is, and I don't even remember writing it, but Muriel cries too much. I'm having to ruthlessly reduce her tears, because I for one am sick of hearing her sniffle and bawl.

Have I ever lived through anything like this? I won't talk about it now, for it did not happen the way you might think. Well, actually it did. When you read the novel (and you WILL read it, won't you?), you might discover the dynamics of how it happened for me. It lasted five years, and for most of that time it felt like someone was steadily grinding out cigarettes on my heart.

No sex took place. Sex does take place in my novel, but not with Harold. So it's disconcerting to Muriel, who really doesn't get a lot of satisfaction that way. Just pining, endless pining. 

I used to say, about the greatest singers, if *I* could sing like that, I'd never have to see a psychiatrist again. Maybe a simplistic view, because God knows most of the popular singers of the day are melting down at a frightening rate. k. d. still sings, but I don't like her voice as much. She has always had certain mannerisms, and I call them "swoop, yodel and groan". She bends notes too much, or far more than she used to, and begins nearly every phrase with a groany little sound. Her "attack" is off and should be cleaner, saving the groans as an accent. The yodel, more of a  half-yodel or deliberate use of the break in her voice, sometimes shows up a bit too often or is too pronounced. I think she'd do just fine standing on an Alpine mountain with a goat. But never mind. We still have her recordings of when she was in her fiery prime. My favorites are still this song and Pullin' Back the Reins, a hairstanding wail of controlled grief and - yes, again - loss.  

I did see/hear lang in concert, quite a few years ago now when she was still singing exceptionally well. She is overwhelming. It reminded me, strangely, of going to a Renee Fleming concert and hearing the most extraordinary operatic soprano voice I can even imagine. When the audience was filing out, most of us still surreptitiously blowing our noses, I overheard a woman say, "If it had been any more, it would have been too much." That's how I felt about k. d. lang.

I know everyone talks about her sexual orientation and her look and her butchness (and this video is probably the only time you will ever see her in a dress). I'm not keen on her look, to be honest, but I don't care about it. She has gained weight and become stolid and, according to my husband who saw her sing at the closing ceremonies of the 2010 Olympics, "she looks like Wayne Newton." Yes, the baggy suits and Elvislike stance are beginning to seem alarmingly Vegas, and one hopes she doesn't pull a Celine Dion and glitz herself into oblivion.

Never mind. The song, the song! Artists express, not just what we all feel and can't say, but what is not supposed to be happening to us. That's an awful lot. The culture is a narrow box. Sex is everywhere, seemingly, but how embarrassing is it when you come right down to it? How awkward? How often does "the act" (always, always referring to penis-in-vagina sexual intercourse and nothing else) match up to the dream? How about never?

Which leaves me crying.

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