It is June First--Welcome to My de rigueur Marilyn Post

It can seem as if writing about Marilyn Monroe on 1 June is some kind of odd by-law of the classic film world.While I rarely do anything for the flimsy reason that is is expected of me--I am,frankly,wont to do the exact opposite in such situations--it is too difficult to pass up such an obvious excuse to muse on this most-famous of muses.I will not delve into the great and murky depths of criticism here (that is for another time, forum,state of mind).One of the truly appealing aspects of Marilyn--and she is one of the few stars to inspire first-name informality in fans and commentators alike--is the very personal nature of her attractions.To love Marilyn is to love her passionately,in an almost familial way.(To hate her or,worse yet, to be impervious to her charms, is to simply be baffled.)I will approach her in the words of this wee monograph not as a critic or a fanatic but as a regular woman touched,to a temperate degree,by her imperfect yet dazzling charisma.

As a young teen, I had a Marilyn poster on my wall:one of the stunning Milton Greene shots, all glamorous smoke and mirrors.At about the time I thumb-tacked that poster to my wall, I received my first Monroe calendar.The 12 images inside were something of a wake-up call to my nascent,un-trained senses:Marilyn was not always blonde,larger-than-life,unobtainable.All I had ever seen of her,to that point, was the Divine-MM-in-full-blown-Goddess mode, armored with platinum coif and lame and red-red lips.It had not occurred to me that there was so much more hidden behind that mask.

The photos that gripped me the most were those of the young Norma Jeane, taken when she was a few years older than I was then.The contrast to shellacked, movie-star Marilyn is,at first, a bit shocking but it is a shock that is easy to get over.The exuberance and hopefulness is sweet, especially given the pitted path she was about to set off on.A few years later, she was frolicking on a New York beach.Her kinky-curled brown hair had given way to long,straightened blonde tresses.Clad in a picture-perfect late '40's bathing suit,she was white-on-white for the first time.On the cusp of big things,she looked happy and determined,almost plucky.And still there was a hope so palpable that it jumped off the page.

From there it was on into her glory years:all curves and bedroom eyes for nearly a decade,with the notable exceptions of Milton Greene's subtler work and every photo ever snapped by the incomparable Sam Shaw.His lens caught her,often in private moments,during her New York period,when she was married to Arthur Miller.They capture a healthy,numinous,natural Marilyn.She is pensive,quiet,joyous,serious and,in that most elusive of moods for celebrities,relaxed.She trusted Shaw,who was a personal friend:his work has the feeling of private family snap-shots.Then,there was Marilyn at the end:riveting in her glorious,complex maturity.She was as lovely as ever but in new,richly textured ways,fully human at last.

Those images, taken by a variety of photographers over the entire span of her career,showed not just sides to Marilyn that I did not know existed :they held more incarnations than I thought it possible for any one woman to contain.The possibilities opened to me by mere publicity and glamour shots of a long-gone star were limitless,unfathomable, and lasting.

"For the rain it raineth every day"

The above quote is from Shakespeare's "The Taming of the Shrew".We know scarcely anything of the playwright's life, down to and including actual authorship of his plays. I will never bring myself to believe that the violent,beautiful-tongued Christopher Marlowe or any other Elizabethan but great William penned and coined the most interesting,riveting and varied works and words in all of the English language. Perhaps I am romantic that way but it is a system of belief I will never give a thought of such falsity to,ever.
Shakespeare was believed to have been born and died on the same day, 52 years apart: the 23rd of April.Even that barest of facts is not entirely reliable or verifiable but we'll stick with it for these purposes:celebrating Will Shakespeare on the tiniest of stages,through a handful of his witty,wry and insightful quotes. Enjoy!!

"The common curse of mankind,-folly and ignorance."-Act II, Scene III (Troilus and Cressida)

"Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges."-Act V, Scene I (Taming of the Shrew)

"My love's more richer than my tongue."-Act I,Scene I (King Lear)

"Cry "Havoc", and let slip the dogs of war."-Act III,Scene I (Julius Caesar)

"Wisely and slow;they stumble that run fast."-Act II,Scene III (Romeo and Juliet)

A Few Humble Expressions with Which He Garnished the English Language.....

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be" (Hamlet)

"To thine own self be true" (Hamlet)

"Though this be madness,yet there is method in 't" (Hamlet)

"In my mind's eye" (Hamlet)

"The play's the thing" (Hamlet)

"Brevity is the soul of wit" (Hamlet)

"All the world's a stage" (As You Like It)

"Can one desire too much of a good thing?" (As You Like It)

"Out of the jaws of death" (Taming of the Shrew)

"The course of true love never did run smooth" (A Midsummer Night's Dream)

"I have not slept one wink" (Cymbeline)

"My salad days" (Antony and Cleopatra)

"T'is neither here nor there" (Othello)

"what's done is done" (Macbeth)

"I'll not budge an inch" (Taming of the Shrew)

Modern Day Doris (Happy 85th, Ms. Day)

Modern Day Doris by amisslis on Polyvore.com

Dueling Poets, A Playwright and a Novelist

The 26th day of March, in various years, has given and taken from America some of her most unique literary voices.Walt Whitman, the singer of poetry's songs, died on this day in 1892--exactly eighteen years after Robert Frost, uniquely American, was born. Although often opposite of each other in sensibility and approach, they both penned words wise and soaring, intimate and simple.

"A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom."

"I exist as I am, that is enough."

"A poem never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."

"I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best."

"Education doesn't change life much. It just lifts trouble to a higher regard."

"Freedom to walk free and own no superior."

"Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice."

"Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune."

CAN YOU GUESS WHO WROTE WHAT??

Walt Whitman: 5/31/1819 - 3/26/1892

Robert Frost: 3/26/1874 - 1/29/1963

Also on this day:

Tennessee Williams: 3/26/1911 - 2/25/1983

Raymond Chandler: 7/23/1888 - 3/26/1959

PHOTOS, T to B: Walt Whitman ( at approximately 35 years old); Robert Frost ( at approximately 36 years old).

For Starters: A Little Tale of (Near) Happenstance or:Jump First, Ask Questions Later

When I look out my windows I see bricks and, above the bricks, clouds. There are bricks and clouds in the foreground of my view, bricks and clouds in the distance;in fact, the only sights my eyes encompass,from the vantage of my little aerie, day in and day out, are bricks and clouds. No, I am not in prison, nor am I imprisoned.

I live in the industrial sector of the city. Our block of flats is amidst warehouses and factories,having once been home to a dress company.At the back of the building,which affords me my only external view, there is not a tree, a bush or the scraggliest patch of grass in residence. This is no hardship,as it is almost exactly how I envisioned my future adult surroundings when, as a child, I used to dream of becoming a writer.

I dreamt that dream long, hard and seriously ,past the point where I could think it feasible.Only in my dreams, which are plentiful and intense to only and cousin-less children, as I matured into young adulthood I was propelled back in time. No, I wasn't drafting a future with an impossible Benjamin Button-esque twist. I simply wanted to be the best kind of writer I could ever envision, the kind that I just didn't see represented around me.In other words, dead.

All of the writers I so admired, from such a young age, were dead or so old that they should--or at any moment could--be.I didn't want to be them in old age, naturally;I wanted to be them in their youth. Anita Loos, Katherine Mansfield, Zelda Fitzgerald ( the next best thing to being a writer was inspiring one to greatness, or so I believed then) and countless others but none more-so than Edna St. Vincent Millay.She was divine, delicious and so admired.By everyone. Even those who disliked her still admired her. Having that effect on people must be heady. And, to give me a bit of real hope, she looked a lot like me: little, redheaded, pale, and beautiful without being pretty. She was also a bohemian. Actually, her mother, sisters and seemingly everyone she knew were intellectuals or bohemians or, when fate really converged in just the right way, both.

Being black-sheep born and raised ( thanks, momma, in the best way!!), I knew the lifestyle I wanted to have when I read about it, even at that young age. Greenwich Village in the 1920's, with the occasional foray to that genuine, across-the-water Bohemia, Paris, was my ideal. I should have been a be-stockinged, be-flasked, bee-stung flapper, one with the added attraction of be-jewling those around her with words. I was robbed.I was cheated. How could fate be so stupid when a kid could figure it out? To this day, I maintain that I was born three-quarters of a century too late to have any fun.

What I wasn't born too late for was success, in art and lifestyle. I have, perhaps a bit belatedly, come to recognize, accept and embrace this fish-out-of water and place-out-of-time-ness to my talent and perspective. It has made me recognizably me and not like anyone else, then or now.

I haven't given up on all of my childish aspirations. I live in an old building that pre-dates the flapper-era, with brick walls and banged up wood floors, with its uncongenial but homey view. I live among well-off professionals instead of starving, snarky geniuses but that's only a small piece of the puzzle missing. As for those poetesses and novelists and girl rogues?

They still inspire me but as one working female artist to another. My admiration is perhaps a bit more prosaic these days--starving for food and publication isn't a whit more fun today than it was then, surely--but it is even more awed because, having long had the privilege of living a sort of modern version of their lives, I now know what fortitude it takes.They made it look whimsical, joyous and easy. It is never easy.

As a quick aside: Yesterday marked the 107th anniversary of the birth of Edna St. Vincent Millay, a fact of which I was only reminded yesterday evening. The title 1000 Follies was, as you may know if you have already read the 'About This Blog' section on the right, inspired by a phrase from one of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poems. If it were not for the Oscar telecast, this would have been written and posted last night;but then it would have been entirely different. I could have pre-written this post but that would have broken the only self-promise I have made about this blog:while ideas and inspiration may be gathered ahead of time, all writing will be done 'live',which is a rare opportunity artistically. Jump first, Ask Questions Later.