Archive | Age Matters

On Fosse and Other F Words

Every year as soon as daylight saving hits, I fall back into my Bob Fosse obsession. This month, in addition to mainlining the dancer/choreographer/director’s films, interviews, clips, I’m rereading Sam Wasson’s excellent Fosse biography and feeling new empathy for his struggles. The truth is many, many people are boozers, pill poppers, cheaters, nihilists. What distinguished Fosse was the depth and charge of his creative solution to those shadows.* It’s a solution I crave.

In Fosse’s works flowed the brass tacks of vaudeville, the flourishes of the MGM musical, the liquid grace of jazz filtered through his uniquely from-the-hip economy. All of it—from the depressive cheer of “We Got the Pain” depressive cheer to the death drag of “All That Jazz”— paved the way for the 21st century’s “irony-is-the-new-black” ethos, eros, aesthetic. Every major icon of the last 50 years owes Fosse – from Michael Jackson to Liza to Madonna to Britney to Lady Gaga and even Beyoncé. Fashion would not be fashion without his exposed garter belts and fishnet stockings. The world is still catching up with his matter-of-fact-jack on sexuality and race.

Just look at this Little Prince (1974) scene, possibly Fosse’s last dance on film. The gloves, glasses, black ruffles, hip and neck swivels, pelvis thrusts, flexed fingers, shoulder shimmies, heel-to-toework is all so modern—so timeless, really. It’s Michael Jackson a decade later. Bojangles 50 years before. And something delightedly, self-consciously Fosse that will always charm us.

But while Bobby may have been a snake, an ouroboros he was not because through space and time, he continues to feed us. All autumn I’ve been seeking grace everywhere–film, faces, fashion, footwork (sadly, not fucking). Only Fosse–that ultimate F word–saves me from myself.

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*The downfall of most biopics is an overemphasis on the demons of seminal talents rather than their unique achievements.

Thanksgiving Falls on Every Day of My Calendar

I got up early, watched the sunrise with coffee and permakitten, drove over to Queens in Minerva, my trusty blue hatchback, and took a long hike through Forest Park, listening to the birds and squirrels and wind and leaves, meditating by the pond as the whippoorwills and a potbellied homo sapien practiced their scales. On the way home I stopped off at Trader Joe’s to fetch things I’ll want to eat on the Thursday formerly known to me as Thanksgiving, and joked with cashiers whom I’ve come to know and adore. It was a simple morning, but so meaningful and joyful because it was entirely on my terms.

Only very very recently could a woman could live by herself, drive a car she bought herself with money kept in a bank account with only her name on it. Even more miraculous: I finance my existence with work I feel called to do that once upon a time would’ve got me burned at the stake.

Given our country’s history of genocide and colonization–and given my complicated personal relationship to the Thanksgiving holiday–I’ve come to treat the last Thursday of November as a quiet and solitary day of reflection. I go for a long city walk, I say hi to the river, I slow-roast local vegetables, I pay my respects to this land that has seen so much harm since Europeans’ arrival. And then I watch really raggedy, emotionally complicated films like Lumet’s The Morning After, in which Jane Fonda plays a drunken former actress framed for murder on Thanksgiving Weekend.

It’s been a year since I injured my back so badly I was immobilized; two years since I was so broke I was afraid I would lose my home. Now, through the support of friends, healers, and my own adjustments, I can stand on my two feet again. I’m profoundly grateful I can freely move through this world’s extraordinary-ordinariness on my own terms. There is always so much beauty and love to be honored

Every day of the week, I’m so grateful to be grateful.

Halloween Tarot Marathon (10/30)

This weekend marks the 12th anniversary of my Ruby Intuition practice. As the descendent of a long line of Jewish, Scottish, and Salem, Mass, witches, I’ve been clairvoyant since I was a kid. But it wasn’t until Halloween 2009 that the genius chefs of Brooklyn’s Saltie (RIP) hosted my first-ever tarot salon. Nervously nipping Powers whiskey—Becks relabelled the bottle “Psychic Powers” in her beautiful block letters—I dressed in gauze and gold and pulled tarot cards on their little bench, reading for many, many wonderful souls for whom I still consult today.

Since then I’ve learned a lot (including not to drink while giving readings) and have been honored to serve as conduit, mirror, and medium for your extraordinary transformation. My clients’ activation of joy, growth, and integrity gives me heart amid the great upheaval of our world. To celebrate, from 9am-6pm EST tomorrow (10/30) I’ll be giving the exact sort of tarot readings I gave that day. This is a one-time-only event.

Here’s how it works: Pick one category—1. Spirituality/Wellness 2. Love/Romance 3. Work/Money—and I’ll draw tarot cards to see what’s showing up in that part of your life. These 30-minute $55 sessions are Zoom or audio (your choice), and activate your intuition and optimal path, as well as supportive guides, ancestors, and highest selves. I’ve designed separate spreads for each category, and you are welcome to book more than one reading if you seek insight in more than one. ()

This is one of the most powerful times of the year. I am always awed by what—and who!— comes through, so I hope to read for as many people as possible. For old time’s sake, let’s lift the veil together.

Book a Halloween tarot reading. For deeper digging and longer timelines (including astrological perspectives), book an intuitive reading.

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