Because my best friend (a talent actress who knows skill and richness when she sees it) admires Ricci’s work (as do I) and because I am at this very moment re-penning a short horror story VERY loosely and in the most surrealist manner possible based on the Borden case, I thought I’d share this. It seems like a lot of fun. And Billy Campbell is in it so, I really think I will have an indulgent experience watching this one. I still don’t understand how they can have a bed and breakfast in that house. Wow. Well, at least I got a short story out of the insane notion. http://nypost.com/2013/11/25/christina-ricci-swingin-as-lizzie-borden/
The B&B: www.lizzie-borden.com (If you book a room, your morbid curiosity by far outweighs mine.)
I know it is difficult to keep writing through the pain of defeat or worse yet wade through the soupish gray lakes of mediocrity, but at the bottom of those lakes you’ll find your diamonds, pearls and one-eyed black cats — Just reread that story by Poe. You can do it. Just keep calm and write on — EVERYDAY.
Los Angeles. Celebrity. We see him. We see her. We see them, or they as my roommate likes to jokingly refer to them. They are drinking water. They are at the beach. They have cellulite or a new boyfriend or a new baby named after a piece of fruit – sorry, Gwyneth. I know that joke as gotten tired. Everywhere we go, but do we believe he or she is real? I think my experience has drawn me to contemplate this notion a bit deeper than most for I am a child of Hollywood. Finding that a celebrity is real really allows us to feel and gut and wrench through what we find is our own mortality. To be honest, we all know that every human being is real. What is the big shock to see some flab on a screen star’s thigh or a divorce between the bogusly rendered “A-list” couple. Humans are human. A celebrity is not a robot, but the Hollywood way-back-when machine has time and time again tried to force us to believe that they are -if not a robot an electric-hipped heroine or turbo-bicepped hunk. But we all know this is not true.
I grew up in tinsel town alongside of the normally abnormal because my parents worked hard enough in school and bored themselves with jobs proper enough to afford me an education alongside of some of these elite Hollywood spawn and children who danced and grinned in front of a wide-angled lens. I saw them.
I’ve known the they and the them. And sadly, I am guilty of I wanting that life. A curiosity of experience more than an envy of false reality, but I am fortunate enough to not have been thrust into its wiles at an age too bare and vulnerable. And when I really dig down deeply, I am fortunate enough to know what I really always dreamed of, what I really always yearned for is: story. From knight and elves to princesses and ravens to snowy castles and dewy lanes with poplar trees, it is story that I cherish. It was not-quite-Hollywood. I would be a liar if I said that enchantment did not enrapture me every time I heard Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald or Judy Garland sing a tune and imagine that is was just for me on a celluloid strip refurbished and laid bare on my television screen. But, the thing is, it story, fantasy, the what-if that enraptures me – not the Hollywood tabloid. Which leads me to think of the celebrity in a way that many do not: aren’t these people human beings too? Of course, they are. Aren’t they just a symptom of our love of story and fantasy? There is no doubt about the fact that I could be just like them and so could you for we all are human. I have an old friend who has become a celebrity I cannot touch. I do feel it is very odd that this person exists because to me she cannot fade like the other friends I have not seen in years because I see her constantly on billboards (or even when I google my own name — yes, that happened today. It had nothing to do with me. She is just so widespread she just pops up all over), yet she never sees me. It is quite odd. I do not like this feeling. To me, she is visibly invisible. For her, I am a face melted in the crowd. It must be such an odd thing to be a face plastered on buses and billboard and still be a human. I contemplate and do not harbor sympathy because I know so many of us struggle through everyday and wish for their money and front row seats to everything in the world we could dream of, but still it is a magical wonder that makes me wonder and say hmm.
That is all. Have a lovely evening and see you tomorrow!
The Yule Cat of the Night
With fur as blue as midnight;
With eyes beet-red as blood;
And teeth as sharp as needles;
The Yule Cat pawed on the tops of its claws;
To the empath’s old front gate;
Whipping his pole-thick tail;
And preparing his belly’s plate;
Smaller than a lion but not much so;
The Yule Cat flared his nostrils;
Opened his ears and asked the light;
Have these parents’ done right?
By their young;
On Yuletide’s night?
Or have they forgotten to cloak their children
With new vestments bright?
Oh, how selfish humans become, how ugly,
how frozen; inky their hearts crack,
but I know as the fair folk say,
How to cure them of what they lack;
I’ll make you a promise empaths, so clear;
To gobble up the children whom you no longer hold dear;
If you prefer, to sink your arms;
one by one into a shiny new coat;
And leave your children shivering as you gloat;
Over your diamonds, cyphers of gold;
Silver and black testoons;
arched into a mountain a-vaulted in your trove;
Only for Sally;
Only for Hubert;
Bertie and Jane;
An old rag doll and a trackless train;
Then slap, snap, pinch your eyes shut;
Make rot, make rancid, make poison your gut;
Drink your ale, drink your wine;
Clear your mind;
of the lives you’ve borne bare;
Hand them to me;
I will take your children, into my belly without care,
The Yule Cat sneered,
beet-blood eyes glowing a-glee;
Under the gate, he crawled,
Teeth as sharp as needles, fur deep blue-black as the sea;
To the twenty-fourth house of the Yule of the night;
Where’d he’d free more children from their;
Family’s plight, of burden, alack;
For his belly’s plate, for his hunger snatched
Then a young man climbed the bridge to their door;
Over the moat, with tidings from a store,
Three black scarves and one blond,
In his satchel he also carried four;
Sweaters of knit, with shoes shiny, patent;
The Yule Cat inched close to moat,
Peaked its midnight ears and hissed a flame
Who was this man, a son or a father in name?
Tucked into his tweed and neck wrapped in crimson wool
“Horace! Horace is here!”
“You’re right, Bertie! It is the merchant of Salinas!”
Either Sally or their sister Jane cried.
“Thank you dear family for the
pails and piles of gilded nuggets
added to the spoils I bring your kin!
Beyond these vestments I bring your children,
You have given much more
For the threadbare, for the poor, who have none
and deserve as much if not more
for their labor, for their time to keep the
Yule Cat from their line.”
The Yule Cat snarled and his belly ached
For Sally, Hubert, Bertie, and Jane;
Would not adorn his plate
But alas, his knifish teeth sparkled, sharp and ready
For barrels of children remain, more than plenty
With careless sires, sooted with greed and spite
Who let in the Yule Cat of the Night.