On The Siren

"Good Heavens, NO!"

That was my first response when film maker Mark List asked if I'd write a short indie film for our Fort Myers Beach Film Festival. A woman aiming at clearing her decks and bringing to light the book she's been working on for years has no business taking on a new project.

Or does she? Mark wanted a short lasting no more than ten minutes. That's barely four pages. How hard can it be?

"Good heavens...noooo..."

And then came the idea...which is generally followed by the knowing that all arguments henceforth will be ignored as hollow and unworthy of attention. The idea rules.

Perhaps you recall the 2002 horror movie, The Ring?

 

Creepy, eh? Yet, imagine a spoof where this disturbing character is confronted by a beautiful woman believing her fiance's heart now belongs to the other. What if the beautiful woman is oblivious to the other's desperate need of hot soapy water, moisturizer, and a soul? 

Because I saw such potential for farce, I immediately began writing. I also began practicing both the walk and crawl you just observed. My husband quickly asked me to cease with such walking and crawling so I must assume I had that down pat.

I always wanted to play a creepy part. Although, I've long imagined this creepy part would be a Victorian ghost story sort of character - all stern and dressed in black while exuding mysterious undercurrents of evil.

Yet ideas that rule also morph. Mark and I decided our creepy character should be less reminiscent of The Ring and more like that of a siren...from Estero Bay. 

We had to keep it local!

Out went the perfected Ring walk/crawl and in washed a more fluid sort of move. Fluid and creepy is hard, btw. They don't naturally marry well.

The second major shift occurred once the beautiful woman, Lori Zinkl, entered the picture. Her take on her character and the magnificence with which she can play a b_ _ _ _  suddenly made for less farce and more horror.

So I think we've a short horror flick rimmed with slight, wicked humor. But, as I'm a complete newbie on this front, I won't know for sure until I see the dailies and what Mark plans to do with them.

Yep...dailies. Love learning new words and then tossing them about town.

Lobster Thoughts

Lobster thoughts continue to plague me during daylight hours.

I'm a huge fan of this yummy crustacean but prefer it be flirting with my melted butter rather than walking past me on a leash as mentioned in my I Resemble That Remark post of October 3rd.

 Although in that post I mention Oscar Wilde as engaging in this curious activity, he wasn't the first. Gérard de Nerval (1808 – 1855), a French poet and essayist, had a pet lobster named Thibault which he walked at the end of a blue silk ribbon in Paris' Palais Royal Garden.  Mr. Nerval is known to have said:

"Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? ...or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do." 


While he does make several excellent points, I've news for this gentleman. Any animal whose brain is in its throat, whose teeth are in its stomach, who hears with his legs and tastes with his feet leans upon the ridiculous. And if truth be told, lobsters are peaceful only when they've lots of elbow room. Crowd them even the slightest and they exhibit less peaceful and more cannibalistic qualities.

I'm just not seeing them as pet worthy. Those who do perhaps don't realize lobsters are giant sea insects related to woodlice, barnacles and water fleas. With this information in hand, strolling about with one could be termed macabre. It makes you wonder why we never saw Wednesday Adams walking a lobster.

Created by Salvidor Dali in 1936, now in the Tate Gallery

Leave it to Salvidor Dali to toss his art into this lobster pot. Lobsters are featured in a number of his works as he found them - and the telephone - to have strong sexual connotations. And the two together? I imagine the day he thought of a lobster phone was especially...memorable. For myself? I'm not on board with a lobster phone either.

And unlike Wallace Simpson, the American divorcee who married the Duke of Windsor amid wild scandal in 1937, you won't see me donning a dress plastered with a huge lobster and scatterings of parsley sprigs.

Dress created by Elsa Schiaparelli, 1937

Wallace Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor (1895-1986),
Photo by Cecil Beaton (1904-80). UK, early 20th century.

Part of me cringes at devoting so much mental energy to them, but lobsters do seem to capture the imagination. At least I'm not dreaming of them so, according to most dream dictionaries, I'm free of unresolved problems. 

Are you thinking my fun quota is low? If that were true, would I ask these questions:

How long does it take a lobster to run a marathon?
A shell of a long time!

Where does a lobster keep his clothes?
In the clawset!

But why is he afraid to go in there to get them?
Because he’s clawstrophobic!

Lastly, now that I think on it, lobsters are rather serious looking. Or maybe scholarly? What DO they know?

Mark my words. The next time you chance upon a lobster, you're going to look into his eyes. You simply won't be able to help yourself.

Oh...and mark your calendars! June 15th is National Lobster Day. Whichever way you fly...butter or leash, don't let this day slip by you.

Wabi-Sabi

  The last several months have found me pondering the Japanese philosophy of Teaism, particularly the concept of Wabi-Sabi. I confess my understanding of this is currently...wobbly at best.

  While I believe Wabi-Sabi has more to do with the simplicity and rustic beauty of imperfect and/or incomplete "things", I was struck by the notion of the "artful mending of damage". I was taken with the idea that an object broken can be transformed into a thing of greater beauty and elegance due to having been mended.

  Then came the moment where my mind veered.

  Enter artist and friend extraordinaire, Babs Synderman. Upon discussing this with her, we decided upon a collaboration. 

  Technically, this side road began as her sterling and opal birthday present to me - a precious gift I'll long treasure. The poem I penned came later. Neither is simple or rustic. Yet, I think Wabi-Sabi elements are playing out here. Anyway... 

I was once a pretty thing,
Flitting among my stars,
Coolhanded of time.

Til the storm broke.
I remember thinking,
There should be noise.
A horrific roar.
The crush of glass.
Bellows of anguished wails.

But a heart can break without sound,
A shattering, tumbling free fall
Of silent, exquisite pain.

How long had I laid here?
Broken. Eyes shut tight.
Perfectly still.
And barely breathing.
I remember thinking,
I'll never be the same.

At last my soul cried, "Enough!
Stand. Open your eyes.
Be your own savior." 

Light gathered to soften sorrow,
Til I could sail above the sunrise,
To make my peace with time.
And I remember thinking,
I'm a gorgeous thing,
How glorious to not be the same.

  To learn more about Babs and her work, I invite you to visit, www.babsbags.com. Tell her I sent you and that I love her madly!

When the Universe Speaks

Mona Burroughs

  

  An unfinished project is like a dangling participle or an unwanted shadow. It's a small stone trapped in your shoe. 

  Rarely do I leave one unfinished.

  But as I felt compelled to step away from speaking at our historic Burroughs Home, there seemed little reason to finish a 1-woman show where I play a true Burrough's maid from the twenties, Mary Epsey.

  Which, btw, I began before becoming aware of The Help.

  Yet, I've finished most of the research.

  But it wouldn't make sense to an audience if you weren't actually at the Burrough's.

  Yet it's 3/4 written!

  But, I'm not a woman of color!

  Technically I poetically licensed this last point, but you see my dilemma. 

  In a twist of fate, the last few days have found me considering a return to the Burroughs Home. This could also mean a return to Mary Epsey. Fate loves it's curve balls.

  Oh what to do, what to do! If only the universe would send an omen as I bike down Estero Boulevard.

  I'll pause while you read a portion of the script in order to understand where I'm heading here....

...Miss Mona and Miss Faye are good friends, but I wouldn’t be calling em two peas in a pod. Miss Mona’s always the life of the party. While Miss Faye? Well, she’s more quiet like. But between you and me? Those are some still waters runnin deep in Miss Faye, you mark my words.
            (sees an easel sitting with a partially finished canvas sitting on it)
   What is Miss Mona workin on now?
            (puts down the tea pot and holds out her thumb to eyeball the painting, studying it for a moment before turning back to the house)
   I don’t know what that does but I see Miss Mona doin it all the time. She’s a good a painter, don’tcha think?  I especially like this one.
            (sees the table near the easel with an artist palette, open paint tubes, etc.)
   Don’t know what all this is doin here. She usually sets herself up down by the river. She likes paintin by her daddy while he’s fishin. Will ya look at this?
            (begins closing paint tubes)
   Good Lord, I never seen a young woman so messy. You should see her room – it is not a calm before the storm, I don’t mind telling ya. It is a full blown hurricane a barrelin on through...

  So. Here I am riding my bike down the beach, a angstin and a wishin for an omen, when I see an artist's palette, complete with wet paint, lying on the grass. 

  If I'm lyin, I'm dyin!

  My mouth falls open. But as it's my fate to resist fate, I prop the palette on a sign in case it's owner returns for it. 

  But an hour later, it's still there as I ride back by.

  FINE! I don't need to be bopped on the head!

  For your reading pleasure, here's a bit more of the script...


   ...What! Now hold on Miss Mona!
             (hands teapot to a guest)
   Take this for me now would ya, Ma’am? Go on and pour yourself a cup if ya like.
             (to Miss Mona with her hands on her hips)
   You want me to tell your Mama you’re not at her garden club meetin cause you’re dancin at the Royal Palm? Again?
              (pauses)
   Why thank you, Miss Mona. The good Lord did give me good ears, but I’m not convinced bearing unhappy news to your mama is gonna enhance her afternoon.
               (to the house)
   Or mine... 

  I've missed ya Mary. Thanks for your patience.
  

The Doors Open

It's time to open the doors of my Vintage Emporium. This temporary shop will likely see more treasures as I've just now remembered there's another box of reproduction patterns stashed in the garage. 

Oh...and there's vintage magazines resting quietly under my couch. I forgot all about them!

I've been relishing the new spaciousness of certain shelves and cupboards. It was necessary, however, to walk away from my dining room cabinet - the one where items were inclined to jump out at you only last week. It's now sparsely filled and the eccentricity of arranging what remains, turning items slightly this way or that, was not lost on me.

You might be wondering if I'm compelled to now begin a new era of hunting and gathering. I can't say I am.

Not yet anyway. But for the sake of argument, if I were to begin collecting anew, what would strike my fancy? Hmmm...

Lordy! Don't let me go there!

If you're interested in perusing my treasures and possibly making them your own, click here. This link takes you to a private page at LaurieNienhaus.com. 

You can email me at editor@glily.com or call or text me at 239-463-1079 to order. This information and more is on the page featuring all items.

I was asked my plans for monies made from Vintage Emporium sales. Next year, Kenny and I will have been married 30 years. I want to go somewhere romantic and marry him again! So that we don't end up in Oklahoma at a western art museum, I'm taking charge and planning ahead.

Not that there's anything wrong with a western art museum in Oklahoma, mind you. It just doesn't cry out romance when said aloud.

Lastly, for those wanting my stuff to become theirs - thank you. Enjoy!

I Resemble That Remark

"That so few now dare to be eccentric, marks the chief danger of the time." From On Liberty by John Stuart Mill

 The universe has its ways. What are the odds two different people would mention I was eccentric in the same week I chance upon the above quote?

 "What!?" I interrupted both times. Not that I've ever given it much thought, but I've never considered myself eccentric. I always thought one must possess barrels of money or cats in the double digits to lay such a claim. 

 Unlike Oscar Wilde, I've never had the least urge to sally forth with a lobster on a leash. And, unlike Prince, on the few occasions I've been interviewed, it never occurred to me to put a paper bag over my head.

 It was so shocking to hear such a thing that, of course, it fueled thoughts for No Cobwebs Here. Quick research seemed a worthy use of time. Self examination will come later.

 There's much to be found on the subject of eccentricity, although apparently there's been "astonishingly little clinical research into the subject". It's been suggested this is because eccentrics tend to be cheerful souls rarely seeking treatment. You need treatment for it!?

  British psychologist, David Weeks, did reveal a few discoveries in his book, Eccentrics: A Study of Sanity and Strangeness (1995). Let me mention from the get go...I'm not fond of the title.

  According to Dr. Weeks, eccentric people are:

1. Creative...I'll give you that one standing tall.

2. Idealistic...Personally, I wonder if history lovers are all that idealistic. With even a modicum of perspective of the past, it's hard to hang onto idealism. Hence, my huge issues with Obama and socialism. But I digress...

3. Obsessed with hobbies...It only seems like obsessive hobbies because I'm not the most brilliant of business women.

4. Curious...If I might quote the Wicked Witch of the West here: What a world, what a world. How could one NOT be curious?

5. Non-conforming in attitude...There's a conforming attitude?

  Those are only the top five indicators. To learn more, you can read Jordan Elgrably's well done piece about the book, called Wilder at Heart, by clicking here.

  Thankfully, there are benefits to being eccentric. Such folks are happy and optimistic, have strong immune systems, visit doctors less and live longer.

  In On Liberty, John Stuart Mill, also suggests it is the eccentrics who are the visionaries. They provide the untried ideas allowing societies to progress.

  All in all, I'm happy to resemble these remarks.

  To read a list of the ten most fruit-loopery of historical eccentrics, click here.

My First Guest Author

(AP Photo/Ben Curtis)

  I fully realize I've crossed a line and broken my own rule. Always wanting No Cobwebs Here to bring a smile, a chuckle, or in some small way be a bright spot in your day, I've steered clear of current events, politics and most things controversial. 

  But, to say I've lately been terribly troubled by the Islamic extremism surfacing on U.S. soil is a wild understatement. I also hadn't expected the death of Ambassador Chris Stevens to affect me so deeply. So, when I read this piece below by Paul E. Marek, I felt compelled to re-print it here. 

   I promise this to be a rarity. Although some may have seen this coming. After all, how long can you expect me to study the strategies of women such as the radical suffragist Alice Paul without at some point wanting to step into the fray? History has much to teach us.

    And, on the chance I get to meet Alice Paul when I cross the pearly gates, I wouldn't want her first words to me to be, "Really! All that writing and talking and you never tried to make a real difference?"

  Yes, Alice. I tried.

Why the Peaceful Majority
is Irrelevant

  History lessons are often incredibly simple.

  I used to know a man whose family were German aristocracy prior to World War II. They owned a number of large industries and estates. I asked him how many German people were true Nazis, and the answer he gave has stuck with me and guided my attitude toward fanaticism ever since.

  “Very few people were true Nazis,” he said, “but many enjoyed the return of German pride, and many more were too busy to care. I was one of those who just thought the Nazis were a bunch of fools. So, the majority just sat back and let it all happen. Then, before we knew it, they owned us, and we had lost control, and the end of the world had come. My family lost everything. I ended up in a concentration camp and the Allies destroyed my factories.”

  We are told again and again by experts and talking heads that Islam is the religion of peace, and that the vast majority of Muslims just want to live in peace. Although this unquantified assertion may be true, it is entirely irrelevant. It is meaningless fluff, meant to make us feel better, and meant to somehow diminish the specter of fanatics rampaging across the globe in the name of Islam.

  The fact is that the fanatics rule Islam at this moment in history. It is the fanatics who march. It is the fanatics who wage any one of 50 shooting wars world wide. It is the fanatics who systematically slaughter Christian or tribal groups throughout Africa and are gradually taking over the entire continent in an Islamic wave. It is the fanatics who bomb, behead, murder, or execute honor killings. It is the fanatics who take over mosque after mosque. It is the fanatics who zealously spread the stoning and hanging of rape victims and homosexuals. The hard, quantifiable fact is that the “peaceful majority” is the “silent majority,” and it is cowed and extraneous.

  Communist Russia was comprised of Russians who just wanted to live in peace, yet the Russian Communists were responsible for the murder of about 20 million people. The peaceful majority were irrelevant. China’s huge population was peaceful as well, but Chinese Communists managed to kill a staggering 70 million people. The average Japanese individual prior to World War II was not a war-mongering sadist. Yet, Japan murdered and slaughtered its way across Southeast Asia in an orgy of killing that included the systematic murder of 12 million Chinese civilians - most killed by sword, shovel and bayonet. And who can forget Rwanda, which collapsed into butchery? Could it not be said that the majority of Rwandans were “peace loving”?

  History lessons are often incredibly simple and blunt; yet, for all our powers of reason, we often miss the most basic and uncomplicated of points. Peace-loving Muslims have been made irrelevant by the fanatics. Peace-loving Muslims have been made irrelevant by their silence. Peace-loving Muslims will become our enemy if they don’t speak up, because, like my friend from Germany, they will awaken one day and find that the fanatics own them, and the end of their world will have begun.

  Peace-loving Germans, Japanese, Chinese, Russians, Rwandans, Bosnians, Afghanis, Iraqis, Palestinians, Somalis, Nigerians, Algerians and many others, have died because the peaceful majority did not speak up until it was too late. As for us, watching it all unfold, we must pay attention to the only group that counts: the fanatics who threaten our way of life.

This article first appearred in http://www.israelnationalnews.com 

Paul E. Marek is a second-generation Canadian, whose grandparents fled Czechoslovakia just prior to the Nazi takeover. He is an educational consultant specializing in programs that protect children from predatory adults.

Letting Go of the Stuff

  
  My house is in shambles. Items long safely tucked away, tightly stacked, quietly hidden and sometimes forgotten have seen the light of day and been made to plead their case. It's been a roller coaster week for one with only a dim recollection of the joys a basement brings and who prides herself on keeping newly useless items rolling out the door. I've alternately been dismayed, delighted, teary eyed, dewie and lost in reminiscences.

  I've also engaged in fierce debates with myself. I quickly realized some of my arguments wouldn't last a heartbeat in a true debate.

  For instance: When you collect antiques you cannot decide to be rid of one simply because it's old. It was old when you bought it. It's partly why you bought it.

  You can see my dilemma, can't you? It was necessary to develop a new set of parameters to help me make the cutthroat decisions needing to be made. I came up with several categories and items on the stand had to fall into one of them in order to remain in my household. I share some with you in the hopes you, too, may  find them helpful...

1. The Punch Bowl Category: You rarely need a punch bowl, but when you do - and sooner or later you will - nothing else will do. This rule does completely negate the long established "If you haven't used it or worn it in a year, it must go" rule. And yes, egg plates are a gray area here. Thankfully, I've only one egg plate anyway.

2. The Yes, I've At Least Got the Fabric or Upcoming Event Category: While long ago I learned to never buy a partial outfit when shopping, I clearly never applied that knowledge to my hat purchases. I've far too many hats for which I was going to make a vintage reproduction gown. If the fabric isn't already in my stash or the event on my calender, said hat was asked to take a seat on the other side of the room. This was an especially brutal morning.

3. It's Really a Sub-Category of Items I'm Fond Of Category: Decorator teapots, 1-person teapots, chocolate pots are among the items falling into this lot. This was especially helpful and not nearly as painful as I had first imagined.
 
 You get the idea. I momentarily considered a Would You Grab It If You Had to Flee Category, but that's just silly. I'd be getting rid of all but 32 of my teapots!

  I'm hoping to have this sale up and going early next week. I'll keep you posted!

Stuff

  Things. Treasures. Junk. Possessions. Trappings. Synonyms abound for what we choose to wrap our lives with.
  Whatever we call it, our stuff says much about us. But our stuff can also teach us...stuff.
  My Grandmother's stuff gave me my first lesson. When it became necessary for me to go through her home and deal with her stuff, I tried giving some of the best of it to her friends.
  "Honey," they told me, "We're trying to get rid of our own stuff. We don't want any more things."
  My Grandmother - like myself - had been a collector. She treasured her stuff. For no one to want it? That would have been hard for her to take. And if she knew certain of her offspring would eventually be smashing her collectible Japanese plates for mosaics? Well, some of us are fortunate we're not haunted by Mrs. L. Stinson.
  The possibility that my own children might not want my treasures had never before occurred to me.
  Pause while I see my trappings in a different light.
  Moving from Portland, Oregon to Fort Myers Beach provided opportunities for my own stuff to throw a lesson my way. While never one for the arranged clutter one sees in magazines such as Country Living and Shabby Chic, there did come a more minimalist sense of decor as things were put in boxes over the course of several months. I liked it.
  This surprised me mightily because I had long been leery of minimalists. What does a minimalist DO in their home? It's as if they're prepared to bolt at a moment's notice. I'm guessing a good many are in the witness protection program.
  Although my 60 plus teapots tend to belie it, I've since made certain bare surfaces are welcome in my home.
  My love of collecting antique stuff had me leaning towards haughty. I've never been one to fling myself into a furniture store or a Target for my stuff. I SEARCH for it in places specializing in yesteryear. My stuff has PROVENANCE. It has MEANING. It CALLS to me.
  This, of course, is all a crock.
  And, pause as I realize my stuff had hoodwinked me.
  In an effort to brush up on letting go, I give away a favorite vintage hat.
  I still wish I hadn't done that. The hat really did suit me and it had once belonged to...well, never mind.
  Letting go is a worthy end. And to that end, more stuff must go. It's time to lighten my load.
  But, I can't make myself host a garage sale - mostly because when people want to dicker with me on a .25 item, my first impulse is to throw the item at them while crying out, "Are you kidding me! Just take the ^%&#@ thing!"
  I think, though, that a Facebook sale may be on the horizon. 
  I do have some awesome stuff by the way. Some of it came from an old...again, never mind.