Archive | TV Matters

Message from the Management: Heart Power

We are gliding into a more matter-of-factly fourth-dimensional, energy-is-matter Age of Aquarius. Think I’m being lofty? Consider the new-fangled electronics you count on that even ten years ago would have been inconceivable. Consider how the pull of digital information is now as real as the pull of “real life.” And consider how speculative fiction and animation now deliver more plausible interpretations of modern life than the navel-gazing, self-important balderdash that conventionally passes as serious fiction and live-action. It all comes down to a new plane in which gravity responds to time like any other object. Our feelings fold chronologies and our passions warp each other’s paths.

Which is to say I’ve been fully obsessed with how Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and Russian Doll are showing us that personal and cultural trauma can’t be healed in linear time. I’ve gone on record before about the brilliance that is the Spider-Verse and Russian Doll is the best use of the freedoms and formats afforded by Netflix thus far–so good-looking, so funny, so 4D, and so old-girls-network. Creator and star Natasha Lyonne’s personal and ancestral Holocaust is alive and well in this futuristic past perfect and it’s a brilliant dig into the metaphysical black hole that is narcissism, as well as Lyonne herself. She’s so fabulously interstellar as this character, all her lives coexisting in that voice.

Too, I’m obsessed with how the present incarnations of the divine feminine are splintering ancient patriarchal prisons. Witness all the female politicians declaring their runs for president. All the women running last night’s Grammys show. All the lady artists and scientists shining like entirely new suns. Even this Breakup Bertha is reclaiming her spine and sense of humor.

I’m just so bowled over by how “kairos,” or soul time, is overpowering chronos, or linear time, for the first time since I’ve been alive. But of course I was born right as the 1960s were ending.

For sure this is connected to me finishing up the first draft of my memoir, which after all is a sort of time travel that I am writing and reading simultaneously. It’s a tesseract I’m authoring in bold pastels, a heart I’m mending in five dimensions. And now my dear friend (and talented IT specialist) Nefty is updating Signs and Sirens on a new hosting platform that will reflect all the progress and proactivity that’s taken place since its 2010 inception. So if this site behaves oddly in the next few days, it’s because there’s a blip in my time-space continuum–and thus yours.

The site should be back up and running by the weekend. In the meantime I’m forgoing my normal Valentine’s Day objections to bask in the big glow of divine creative consciousness. Lots of visual art, lots of theater, lots of music, lots of kindred spirits. And all Wednesday —V-Day Eve—I’ll be holding a Ruby Intuition salon with extra dustings of pink and red sparkle.

No worries if you can’t make it because everything happens when it should, especially when we trust that not all unknowns are the abyss. My work as a practical magician has taught me that there’s always more, especially when it comes to opening doors and windows. Scarcity thinking–surviving rather than thriving– has no place in any reality worth sharing.  Love is the only true currency.

To schedule an in-person or video-chat reading on Valentine’s Day Eve or any Wednesday or Saturday, get in touch. I can’t wait to see your sparkly self.

Schlemiel, Schlimazel: Penny Lost

Penny Marshall’s death hits so close to home. Born the same year as my mother, she offered a different model of adult femalehood–screwball funny, radically unpretentious, and trailblazing. A director, a comedian, a Bronx-born broad with gorgeous legs and unfailing creative vision: I still wear an L on my sweater in homage to her Laverne. She was one of my chosen god-mommies though I met her only once, and I’m bereft to learn she’s no longer on our plane. Gen X ladies: We’re really the grownups now.

It’s Always Something

Sunday, on the precipice of a new moon and the Jewish New Year, I woke at 4 am, early even for me. Cool air drifted through the window and rain pitter-pattered against the glass as I lounged in bed, draped in an autumn mumu and reading my second Gilda Radner book in two days. I’ve been pretty open about how hard I’ve been finding life, so the peace of that moment was sweet.

I’m not entirely sure why Gilda’s been giving me so much comfort right now. I’ve been reading and watching everything about her and I think partly it’s her guilelessness coupled with that intense mischief. Her intelligence and sense of the absurd were palpable, but so were her huge vulnerability and empathy–it was all wrapped in an enormous, childlike glow. Not a childish one, mind you for by all reports she was eminently kind, and children rarely are. (People who think children are born kind are fooling themselves; kindness is always a learned trait.) But Gilda was surely childlike: playful, present, boundlessly, bountifully enthusiastic. So much so that her voice was extra-raspy and her limbs extra rubbery, as if excitement was constantly stretching her limits. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy