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Masshole Mermaids Coffee Talk

She might balk at my posting our unadorned early-morning splendor, but I love the two images at left because they perfectly capture my friendship with dear Rachel. At least once a week, usually at such early hours that most muggles are fast asleep, we coffee-talk on facetime—she in her Greater Boston Corgi Village, me lolling at Gracie Mansion. Say what you will about the hazards of hyperconnectivity, but all this fancy technology permits lovely visits without my braving Boston cold or her suffering New York hustle.

Why ‘The Exorcist’ Haunts Us Still

I first saw “The Exorcist” when I was 13 and home alone. This, of course, was a mistake. By the time Mike Oldfield’s iconic “Tubular Bells” ran over the credits, I knew I’d never sleep that night, or possibly ever again. But it was not just the circumstances in which I viewed this film that made it so terrifying. Forty-five years after its release, the adaptation of William Peter Blatty’s 1971 eponymous novel is still the most horrific of all horror movies, complete with a tween whose head spins backward.

It’s a dark miracle that it was even made. At the time of publication, the book seemed unlikely to ever achieve a mass audience, let alone be adapted into the ninth highest grossing film of all time (when adjusted for inflation). Until then, Blatty, who also authored the screenplay, was best known as the comedy screenwriter who’d given us the Inspector Clouseau mystery “A Shot in the Dark.” A devout Catholic, he’d fictionalized a Jesuit priest’s account of a 1949 exorcism, but even his fancy Hollywood credentials couldn’t save it from being sent back to the publisher in droves. Only when a mysterious set of flukes landed him on the Dick Cavett Show for a full 45 minutes did the “The Exorcist” catapult to the New York Times best-seller list. It remained there for 57 weeks. Continue Reading →

The Church of Love and Night

Two years ago I wept through Christmas Eve services at my beloved Middle Church not because of the love pouring through the story, but because a man I adored chose not to accompany me. Through the holidays that year, he disappeared as was his wont from time to time, and I grew so sick from heartbreak that I rattled whenever I breathed. When I finally healed I promised myself I’d never let a callow lover hold me hostage again–that the serenity of solitude would forever be my ideal way to commune with the universe.

Last year I attended these services by myself and wept only because of the light they shed in the dark–for the brilliance living at the core of every faith’s winter solstice story. It was good. But last night a cabal of esteemed witches came along to share borscht and candles and the big tears borne of hope, not despair. And it reminded me: No matter what we are told, we do not need others to be whole. But we must hold them as sacred as we do ourselves, today and every day. Love and light to you all.

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