New Year’s Eve Day thoughts

May the New Year bring to you-Warmth of love, and a light to guide your path toward a positive direction.

Painting by Nancy Vilhauer- Honolulu, Hawaii

It’s hard writing at the year’s end-especially when one is expected to look backward and forward at the same time. It’s like being on the fence. Is forward looking going to help me feel more hopeful, more positive, more fulfilled or fruitful? Will I place myself on a path where I can feel more accomplished, at ease with myself, at peace? For me the answer is no. The light, for me, is staying on the path I chose many years ago, noticing more and more of the world around me as I travel the color-filled road.

Imagine every year starting on a new path–dizzy making if you ask me. No wonder people get so confused–every year they pick resolutions for change and improvement–sometimes the same one. They wonder what it is they really want and how they really feel about themselves. Maybe just sticking on the same path, following the same bright light, not getting lost,  is the answer.

As for looking back on 2016? I did well! Loved my work, had a few mishaps, and a made a few switcheroonies, plays took over short stories for a large percentage of the writing–wrote a few articles, met a few playwrights and actors that showed me some people are their work. Kept in contact with those I love, sent out gobs of queries … writing another novel.  Hmm … I was so conflicted this year about whether to write short stories, plays, or novels, and get my novel out, yet, I did all four. A decision was made. So this year I will continue to follow the light of my own creativity and my creative projects–and that includes myself. I will slow down the pace this year, I’m happy to say, but the path will remain the same, and the light will come from me.

Hope you have a wonderful new year’s time, and don’t pressure yourself with future resolutions or dwell on any disappointments.




“Dreams are illustrations…from the book your soul is writing about you.” Marsha Norman

10614259_10152686201461823_7648764409462098800_nI had the weirdest dream last night. (How many times have you said or heard that?)  Well, I did. I dreamed I was riding in a box down a river, but the river was moving dirt. So I got stuck.  (Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to get a sense of what’s going on here). But the clouds were changing into awesome colors, teal, oranges, pinks, golds, as if someone was painting them as I was watching them, like on a canvas. I didn’t know if it was sunrise or sunset colors, or a fantasy world. I woke up as the clouds were changing, but could hear the ca-ching of an old-fashioned cash register. Remember them? You actually had to push buttons in order to have the numbers register. Something like this, but newer-it was the one from Path Mark, a grocery store I worked in during high school.antique-cash-register-jpeg

As a therapist, I did a lot of dream analysis. I do believe like Marsha Norman, that the dream is the window of the soul, not the eyes, unfolding you. I usually did Gestalt Therapy. I used this therapy in the dream analysis in Moloch and the Angel , my mystery/thriller. It’s based on a simple philosophy: Fill your emotional voids so that you can then become a unified whole. Perls believed that dreams contained the rejected, disowned parts of the Self. Every character and every object in a dream represented an aspect of that Self. Ask questions of every object in the dream, take on the role of that object, and a person could very well uncover buried emotions and acknowledge what was missing in their lives. Dreams breathe life into consciousness. So I talk to different aspects of my dream. The me in my dreams are the dullest–so covered with defenses. I talked to the cash register, asked why it was there and what did it want. Most importantly, what did they think was I doing there? Same with the clouds, and the dirt and the wooden box–holding me from drowning in crap. This type of analysis is informative, and it’s fun–usually very revealing. It was the changing colors in the clouds that revealed the most. I had to talk to each color. Teal is my color, so the mixing with the other colors became the focus point of the questions. I don’t like the color pink, although I didn’t realize that color would represent all I didn’t want to do, and the people, I didn’t want to be with, and how I thought the interaction with the other colors would yield me nothing. Ca-hing, the draw opens and it’s empty.

The dream illuminated for me the desire to go back into my cave and stop doing so much work with so many people–definitely dragging me through the mud. But then again, I’m sure other interpretations  can be reached through other types of analysis. But it felt good, and it felt right, so my soul keeps writing …


The League of American Pen Women first place winner: me

pen-womenLarry Gill of the Lorin Tarr Gill Foundation (Hawaii) was present to hand out the awards for the winners of the Pen Women Writing Competition. I won first place in the non-fiction category for my memoir “Grandpa Hoeler and the Race Riots.”

certificate Seventy-two people were present at the luncheon for the awards ceremony.

Without further adieu: I present the winning piece:

“Grandpa Hoeler and the Race Riots”

          Grandpa Hoeler built most of the houses in the neighborhood where he and my grandmother lived. He was as rooted to his land as the pole on which he raised the flag every morning and from which he removed the flag every night, no matter how big a storm raged throughout the day. He shuffled his diabetic eighty-five-year-old feet in tiny steps to the old oak chair planted on the landing. Gray-and-white suspenders held up his gray flannel slacks, which crumpled up his bleached white cotton shirt.

I would barge through the side entrance of the house, barrel up the five steps, and notice the faraway gaze in his intense blue eyes, yelling my hello as I dashed left toward the kitchen.

His straight gray hair, with a few wisps of black, would dip onto his face as he stopped me. “Hey, kid, get me a beer.”

It was our ritual hello. He wanted me to run back down the five steps to the door, and then another five to the basement refrigerator. My grandmother placed the beer there so he would have to shuffle his way down the two flights of steps to the damp, dark coal cellar. I would sometimes find him sitting down there alone in the darkness and wonder what he was thinking.

Sometimes I would say, “No.”

He’d mutter something in German, then yell, “You damn fresh kid, now go down there and get me a beer.”

Most times I would. I loved my grandfather, even though he and my grandmother, true Germans, showed little affection.

I guess I realized he was my hero when I was eleven, in 1964. That was the year before a white policeman shot Lester Long, a twenty-two-year-old unarmed African- American, to death during a drug search. It was two years before National Guard tanks rolled through the Central Ward of Newark, New Jersey, in hopes of quelling what turned out to be a six-day race riot that killed 23 people, injured 725, and incarcerated 1,500.

Often, the African-American Avon Avenue kids would chase me home. I became a very fast runner and even joined the track team, and became the only “cracker” to place in a heat. Grandpa laughed when he heard that. By then, I was sitting with him on the top step while he drank beer and my grandmother cooked dinner. I told him I wished I had been born a black boy instead of a white girl. All our neighbors were black. He would talk about Germany and what many went through, leaving their homes, family, and work when Hitler came into power.

“Eh, in Germany, it was the Jews. Here, it’s the blacks and whites. Just don’t let them catch you.”

“Will you time me running up the driveway? I’m getting faster.”

“Get me a beer.”


My grandfather and I would argue about which show to watch on the little black-and-white TV, while we waited for my parents to come from their New York City jobs, eat dinner, and turn around again to our own home, where I lived late weeknights and weekends, in Union, New Jersey. I wanted to watch Astro Boy, while he wanted to watch The Life of Riley. He mainly won, except when I had a bad day at school or when I didn’t run as fast as the Avon Avenue School kids. During the shows he would ask me about my day.

“Did you get in trouble today?”

“No. But, Virginia beat up Ken during math. Sister Marie DePaul cried the whole time. Ken said he didn’t like the smell of her nigger perfume.”

“Eh, that stupid kid. You gotta keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I liked to believe that I was a carpenter’s assistant. Although he could barely move, my grandfather had me set up two workhorses and told me to get the wooden saws and the 2-by-3-by8 pieces of wood so I could make stilts. He sat there and drank beer and instructed me on how to make them. I brought them to school and awed everyone; all colors and makes of people were impressed as I walked the halls two feet above my fellow students.

Grandpa Hoeler reminded me that he had built the houses on the block.

“People don’t ask what color the builder was. They like the house, they move in.” He spoke, then cleared his throat of the phlegm that settled in the back.

A man of few words, I believed he loved me. He even showed Afro-American Judith Smith, my best friend at the time, how to make stilts. We constructed stilts and go-carts in the first of six connected, brown wooden garages in the backyard behind my grandmother’s garden.

They rented out four of the garages to people who worked in New York City and took the bus from Newark. One garage housed pigeons. A man would catch them in our backyard and place them in the garage. I would often go in to watch them. Grandpa would drink beer with the pigeon man and the three of us would sit and talk about the birds. I named some and had my favorite, and Grandpa and the pigeon man would remember their names. I was always impressed by that. When the pigeons left, the pigeon man would say he had found the bird a good home. What did I know? I was eleven during this time. How did I know they wound up on a dinner plate?


Newark had become a bed of coals waiting to ignite, and ignite they did after Lester Long was murdered. The fire of fear jumped from family to family, street to street. Black gangs would throw stones at the whites. Many of the whites moved, leaving few left. My parents wanted my grandparents to move to Union, New Jersey, near us, but they refused. My grandfather continued to sit in his chair, shuffling in and out of the house for the flag, and to drink beer. This was his home and this is where he would stay.

At the end of a cool April day (two months before Lester Long was murdered), I exited the school building in single file with my classmates. A Puerto Rican girl named Ann Marie had promised to pulverize me at the corner of 10th Street and Avon Avenue. She had spread word of my fate around the school and a crowd formed to watch. I was filled with such rage that I pounded her—to my complete shock.

I had stopped running.

The school called my grandmother, never my best fan, and I was made to sit in the dining room, past darkness, to wait for my parents, who were due in three hours.

Saddened by the whole day, I tried to lose myself in fantasy. The door behind me was a swinging door into the TV room. My grandfather rarely sat in the chair behind the door because it was too close to the TV and too hard to get up from. He had to grab the arms of the chair and push. I heard him clear the phlegm from the back of his throat and knew he was about to speak.

“You got in trouble today, kid,” he whispered.

“She said she was gonna beat me up and she hit me in the face; she hit me first. So I punched her in the mouth. Now grandma thinks I’m bad,” I whispered back.

“What does she know? Eh, you’re not bad.”

“Grandma says the school called. I broke Ann Marie’s tooth, and her nose bled.”

“Kids shouldn’t be fighting. I’ll put on the TV.”

The Life of Riley?”

“No, your show, kid.”

“Grandma won’t let me leave here.”

“You can listen. I’ll turn it up. I’m going to get a beer.”

I heard him turn up the sound, then shuffle toward the basement. When he returned he yelled at my grandmother: “Let the kid watch her show.”

“No, Jules. Turn off the TV.”

“No, I’m watching it.”

He sat down in the chair behind the door and stayed there the three hours before my parents came home, except for two more visits to the basement (taking a few minutes with grunts to get out of the chair)

That summer my parents decided to take me out of the school. Newark had become too dangerous. It was the same summer that my grandfather slipped on some wet bricks, in a thunderstorm, while taking in the flag. My mom swore it was rocks from the black gang.

Either way, I lost the most important person in my life.

There were never heroic words or heroic actions from Grandpa Hoeler. Yet, I always felt that he had saved me from hatred and loneliness

Grandpa died and his old office on Springfield Avenue was burned to the ground in the racial unrest. My grandmother finally moved—after the tanks rolled into Newark.


Creativity is Feminine II-guest blogger, Gail Taras


deerThere is no question that creative inspiration is feminine – which is not to say that only women can be creative. Men and women alike have both masculine and feminine energies within, and the harmonious integration or of these is the goal of both Jungian psychology and most Eastern spiritual practices. So much of the Masculine is about pushing out into action, about competing; but sometimes what we have to do requires moving inwards, embracing uncertainty and allowing more time to really open up to what is possible. Inspiration is something which must be received. It can’t be manufactured or called up on demand. And receptivity is the essence of the Feminine.

The Feminine is very much in touch with feelings. She is connected to the body. Intuition and “knowing” are received through subtle feelings in the body. The Feminine archetype is fluid, supple, flexibile, flowing. If that sounds like a description of a dance, it is. There has to be a dance between the Feminine and Masculine archetypes and the traits inherent in those. To plan, to execute, to do, to act, to accomplish – these are the gifts of the Masculine. But the Feminine is the abundant capacity to open, energize and shine light, beauty, and replenishment upon all within her field.

The Feminine Archtype

The Feminine Archetype is cloaked in mystery and so is often misunderstood. Emotions are volatile by nature. She brings not only inspiration, but also transformation and initiation. Creativity has a light side, and also a dark side. A full range of expression includes both. Initiation is sometimes painful. When we limit what we believe is “acceptable expression” a lot of what needs to get expressed it comes out destructively. In both business and our personal lives, creativity happens in context. Boundaries are set — but when it’s so judged, then it gets bottled up. So this might mean that we believe that we need to keep creativity and the free distribution of ideas cloaked, which eventually leads to the false idea of scarcity.

With technological advances, information is shared left and right, whereas before it was much more difficult. Creativity is the same way — when it’s allowed to flow, it can only stimulate more ideas, more creativity, more business, more abundance, than is the case when you “keep it close to you.” When we allow the flow of creative ideas, it’s more of a generative expression. If we let it out in one way or place, it supports creativity in other areas.

The predominant business mindset is that we have to produce right away. We have to measure, analyze, and quantify outcomes. The values of our contemporary Western culture are steeped in these Masculine concepts. The trajectory towards data and quantification is ever increasing in this “age of acceleration” and digital disruption, and it’s throwing us all out of balance.

The Wave

Everything is a wave, but in most organizations and the economy in general, progress is seen as a straight line, and it’s always supposed to go up — profits are supposed to go up, production is supposed to go up, earnings are supposed to go up. But that’s not the way that Nature or creativity works. In Nature and in creativity there is ebb and flow, up and down, give and take.

Individually and organizationally, suppressing one’s creativity, intuition, vision, and the other traits associated with the Feminine archetype has high costs. Burn-out, less-than-optimal decision-making, putting “blood, sweat and tears” into something that ultimately has no meaning for us personally. Relationships suffer. Collaboration suffers. Judgment is placed on people and their expression — what the “appropriate” expression is, or should be – which leads to fear of expression.

Creative inspiration comes to us unbidden. Often when we’re most relaxed, and exerting the least effort. But also sometimes when we’re confronted with life-changing events. When we’re suddenly shocked into realizing that we have no choice but to let go of trying to control outcomes and just trust the Universe, everything stops for a moment. Unexpectedly an opening appears in the fabric of ordinary experience allowing something new to flow through. I think here of a musician friend who wrote one of his best songs while laying in a hospital bed waiting for his first chemotherapy treatment. In what was possibly the most frightening moment of his life, Mark Karan picked up his guitar and in 15 minutes he’d written Walk Through the Fire. He says he really never knew where that song came from, or how it was channelled through him. He just knew it was a “gift”.

“Hercules, as intellect, must learn to listen. The year he spends following the hind is a training in receptivity. We too must train our minds to follow the inner emotional life, to track the varied movements of our heart without interference, going wherever it takes us.

As psychologist John Welwood writes: “When we first open to our pain, it often feels as though we are bleeding. Yet this kind of emotional bleeding helps awaken the heart, allowing vital energies in us that have become coagulated to circulate again. To let our pain move in this healing way requires awareness, courage, and gentleness – being present with the pain instead of believing scare stories in our mind about where it might take us.”

Hercules carrying the wounded doe on his shoulders is an image of the Masculine warrior uniting his spirit with the vulnerable Feminine. When he runs into Artemis something divine happens. He stammers an explanation. He tells the angry goddess about his pain, his madness, his wife and children, the labors of King Eurytheus. Artemis is moved. Her heart breaks open with sympathy and compassion. She heals the doe and lets the hero complete his labor. She models empathy – which is the divine potency we unleash when we awaken to our feelings. Empathy is the real treasure. During the difficult and transformative years ahead, I suspect we will need a lot of it.”

Image from Lisa Schrader, Awakening Shakti.-

Gail Taras




Creativity is Feminine by Gail Taras Part 1

Psychology plays an important part in most of my short stories –thus the diversity, and comment: “It feels like each story is a different author.” With the completion of my psychological thriller, “Moloch and the Angel,” Dr. Anna Smith, an eclectic, but mainly Jungian shrink , a psychic shrink, encounters a psychic sociopath. The story unfolds through their sessions and her dreams, intuitions, and torments (not to mention some unfinished business of her own). What I like best about this novel is that the reader experiences what Dr. Anna is thinking during the sessions, as well as learns the different facets of being psychic, and how one can detect and protect themselves from psychic drains.

I have studied psych, social work, and people for a long time. I have decided to share what I believe, and some aspects of those psych session, and underlining mythology, psychology, and philosophy.

I’m gong to start with an article my friend, Gail Taras, wrote about the feminine, creativity, and the inner sense of creativity unfolding.


Creativity is Feminine

“You can go around me,”
said the Goddess,
twirling on her heels like a bird
darting away,
but just a little away,
“or you can come after me.
This is my forest too,
you can’t pretend I’m not here.”

– Rick Fields The Very Short Sutra on the Meeting of the Buddha and the Goddess

In the Greek myth of Hercules, King Eurystheus directs him to capture (without harming) the Ceryneian hind, a red doe sacred to Artemis, Goddess of the Moon. The bronze-footed doe is faster than an arrow. She’s as elusive as any certainty we might seek and as agile and unpredictable as our emotions.

As author Dana Gerhardt tells the story, “the Ceryneian hind is feminine, but has a stag’s antlers, golden ones, symbolizing divine power and receptivity. The antlers are like cosmic antennae into which the Moon Goddess pours her gifts of intuition and inspiration. The doe is a formidable quarry – but also sensitive and vulnerable. One critic has suggested the hind is reminiscent of Sibyls and ancient priestesses who were incapable of issuing prophecies in anything less than a harmonious environment. Their delicate sensibilities required seclusion, being protected from anything unpleasant, harsh or upsetting.

To unfold the sensitive powers of creative inspiration – the Feminine – is what Hercules’ mission is all about. The focused masculine is disadvantaged in the feminine realm. Hercules sees the hind’s antlers sparkling in the sun and starts his chase in high spirits. A year later he is still in pursuit, traveling across Greece, Thrace, Istria and the land of the Hyperboreans. The doe keeps eluding him. She darts away at the first intimation of danger. When finally he sights her at a nearby stream, he is both elated and exasperated. Hercules draws his bow and shoots. “Just a little wound,” he tells himself. He throws the injured doe over his shoulder, relieved at his victory. His joy is short-lived. Just beyond the next grove of trees, he meets the Goddess. Artemis is furious. The hero wilts under her gaze.”

“You can’t pretend I’m not here.”

To ignore the Goddess – the Feminine Archetype – is to cut ourselves off from our own creativity. Creativity is an energy. If it’s not moving it gets stuck in the body. When our creativity is under-realized or under-expressed we experience depression and disconnectedness — in both our personal and professional lives. There’s no joy.

Creativity is Self-expression, in which “self” has a capital Jungian S. It’s the most profound expression of Identity. The ultimate goal of being alive is to create and extend our own unique authenticity into the world. In the same way a flower buds and blooms, or a planet forms from the dust of a dying star, it’s the continuous unfolding of the Universe – the expression of, in the words of Kahlil Gibran, “life’s longing for itself.” Aristotle had a word for it – entelechy – the potential for full expression inherent in the seed. Entelechy means having both a personal vision and the ability to actualize that vision from within. But where does the “vision” come from? It’s not a process governed by the intellect. It is the result of desire, dreams, intuition, and emotion – all those slippery things that usually defy analysis.

To be continued …


Article in Mill Valley Lit Summer 2016 issue YAY! an article that traveled

Do Publishers Dream of Robo-writers?

report by Patricia Morin

The pressure is on for authors to sell books. With book stores closing because of Amazon and other internet outlets, publishers demanding authors to do their own marketing, publishers delivering contracts with less incentive, and selling books cheaper, it’s a wonder authors don’t just pack up their pens, and close down their imaginations.

But now, we may be replaced by robots!

Robo-journalism was used to report an earthquake in Los Angeles, CA, in March, 2015. The article, however, was based mainly on data from the US Geological survey. Here’s the article: “A shallow magnitude 4.7 earthquake was reported Monday morning five miles from Westwood, California, according to the U.S. Geological Survey. The temblor occurred at 6:25 a.m. Pacific time at a depth of 5.0 miles. According to the USGS, the epicenter was six miles from Beverly Hills, California, seven miles from Universal City, California, seven miles from Santa Monica, California and 348 miles from Sacramento, California. In the past ten days, there have been no earthquakes magnitude 3.0 and greater centered nearby. This information comes from the USGS Earthquake Notification Service and this post was created by an algorithm written by the author.”

Sounds like it was written by a real journalist.

“However, As well as the earthquake report, it also uses another algorithm to generate stories about crime in the city – with human editors deciding which ones need greater attention”, the article continues (LATimes March 17th, 2015).

FullSizeRenderShelley Podolny  “If an Algorithm Wrote This, How Would You Ever Know?” (NYTimes 3.7.15)

“These robo-writers don’t just regurgitate data, either; they create human-sounding stories in whatever voice — from staid to sassy — befits the intended audience. Or different audiences. They’re that smart. And when you read the output, you’d never guess the writer doesn’t have a heartbeat.


Consider the opening sentences of these two sports pieces:

“Things looked bleak for the Angels when they trailed by two runs in the ninth inning, but Los Angeles recovered thanks to a key single from Vladimir Guerrero to pull out a 7-6 victory over the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park on Sunday.”

“The University of Michigan baseball team used a four-run fifth inning to salvage the final game in its three-game weekend series with Iowa, winning 7-5 on Saturday afternoon (April 24) at the Wilpon Baseball Complex, home of historic Ray Fisher Stadium.”

First one by a machine, second by a human.

Next, we’ll be reading novels written by computers, a conglomerate of the best-selling authors with a simple plot, realistic (ha) characters, and a creative twist at the end that you would have never imagined.

And the “The End” on the last page will mean exactly that.

Patricia Morin is author of Deadly Illusions, Confetti: A Collection of Cozy Crime, Crime Montage, and Mystery Montage.

Don’t know why they stuck in the comic about bookstore and their lowly customers, but thrilled an article of mine made a lit magazine.

Strawberry Moon Horoscope



Every month I read my Horoscope. So many people do. I, like many others, schedule events, doctor’s appointment, dates, travels and even when to send out queries for agents and publishers based on the lineup of the planets, stars, and how angry the Sun is at Mars.

This month was the month of the strawberry moon. An old name for the month of June,


photo by janice graham

it really did signal the harvest of strawberries. Last time the strawberry moon landed with the Solstice was June, 1967.

Back to the horoscope. I give you that it wasn’t supposed to start off too well with harsh news on the 2nd–give or take three days (or ten in my case) when the news was supposed to be good.  June 13 was to be the stellar day bringing surprise cash out of the blue–like flowing manna from the skies. Naa, that didn’t happen. I got a rejection letter, along with the news my plans may be blown away by another person’s breakup. It is true that Mars is the planet that teaches patience–I sure as hell needed it. But it was a supreme month to enlist the help of a doctor, or a therapist. Hmm … with all those conclusions and changes, and none of them to the positive, a therapist might not be a bad idea, I thought. But the money didn’t come to me that after closing the non-existent deals earlier in the month. But whatever, after the full moon on the 20th, a chapter was to close on some part of my life. Could that have been when a successful business deal would have lead to the money I would have used for my shrink?

But good news! Mars is going direct on the 29th–today. Bye-Bye Mars– Tomorrow is a good day to sign for loans–for the business that didn’t work out, for the money that didn’t come, for the ripe strawberries I can’t afford to buy. The month was to start with thick dark clouds that were to clear up toward the middle and be all sunshine by the end of the month, with beautiful horizons.

Good, no rain while I go to the bank to sign my loan for all those luscious strawberries.


photo by Janice graham.


What are we tethered to?



I heard someone say they were tethered to their job today, and that got me thinking of the word tether and tethered, and tethering. I researched the most modern definition. Tethering is connecting one device to another. In the context of mobile phones and tablet computers, tethering allows sharing the Internet connection of the phone or tablet with other devices such as laptops. Connection of the phone or tablet with other devices can be done over wireless LAN (Wi-Fi), over Bluetooth or by physical connection using a cable, for example through USB.

Surprised to see this definition to the old word that usually implied tying an animal to a post?  Me, too. I thought about what we’re tethered to… like,

red string of fate fate? Or being tied to friendship, love, remembering?

Or are we bound to objects (like the smart phones and computers), people, ideas, or an action, an obsessive action? A Country? My one friend is tied to the news, every station, every event, and says, “I need to know what is going on in the world. There so much going on: Syria, drones, North Korea, the election. I’m afraid I’ll miss something I should know.” She’s tied to world events, the experiences of others. My mother was obsessed about the Kennedy’s, and had so many articles about them, she kept a scrap book. Talked about them incessantly. She also kept a scrap about manners–the appropriate way to behave at different social events, and also at the work place. She was fixated about being attractive, and acting appropriately, by the cultural standards of her time.

Proper Etiquett3 In The 1930′s (9)Get the “Men deserve, desire your entire attention part?”

What about me? I’ve been obsessed lately about finding the right path. Will my life feel complete if I am acknowledged by the road-attachment.aspxothers for my writing, listening, psychological, or teaching abilities? My plays, short stories, or helping when I can? A friend of mine at Hunter College School of Social Work, a priest getting his MSW with me, once said: “The happiest day of my life has already occurred, the day I became a priest.” He tied himself to God. I felt sad for him … almost like no other life experience would ever surpass that day.

Most often, we’re tethered to people, co-dependents–kinda like my mom. Kinda like loads of people. A friend of mine says she’s tethered to karmic energy, traces that follow us from life to life. I wouldn’t know about that, but tethering to an invisible force, like many do to religions, like my priest friend, is a form of co-dependency. Imagine being tethered to God? I couldn’t.

Oh well …

See how far my mind wandered, free and un-tethered contemplating tethered-ness? This is just a writer’s trip. No answers. One I take often when a word pops into my head.

lifetime tether

A Clean Well-Lighted Park Bench

every dreamSeeing my play on video brought me to a deeper level of my work. A friend of mine said that he had to remember that even though the actor, Brian Levi, made my play shine, that it was me that wrote that very first word. Like bringing anything to life, the seeds get planted, grows and then blooms. But in the playwright world, there are so many hardships the flower must endure before it can be appreciated. First the playwright may have to change some of the words, or a sentence, and the flower has less leaves, maybe even less color. Then their is a gardener, a director, that takes hold of  the flower and plucks it into a vase that reflects the the beauty of the work, or not, the final manuscript. The actors accent the design, the curves and the special nuances. The stage is the room that the flower is placed. Is it given enough light? When the sun rises like a curtain to a new day, will its essence shine, or will it wither?

All these aspects have to blend together to achieve the perfect blossom. Yet, in the end, the audience decides whether or not they like your vision, your theme, your flower. But you have the last silent word, not the audience. My silent words? It was awesome, and I loved it. What else is there? Until it does eventually wither in memory and is replaced by another seed to be nurtured.



Silence Interrupted

I know I said that I would have the third installment of mystery authors that have witnessed murder, outside of police, investigator, and military, but I’m still waiting for some people to respond to my survey. It seems not many people have witnessed an actual murder, then added it to their mysteries, or even began to write mysteries.

But … instead, I’m sharing with you my short play, SILENCE INTERRUPTED, last show, of four, tonight, March 29th, in San Fran’s SF Theatre Pub (144 Taylor St, San Fran). Logo below.


Cast of my play, with producer and director:

Silence interruptedFrom left to right: Sara Judge, producer; Ellen Dunphy playing Cara, Danielle Gray playing MIME, and Carole Snow, the director.

P1080832 A mime, played by Danielle Gray, meets a distraught CEO of an internet company, Ever Lasting Love Dating service, played by Ellen Dunphy. It reminds me of a quote from my fellow International Centre for Women Playwrights comrade, Barbara Blatner, “Silence is as fascinating as language, methinks.”


Does anyone see theatre or movies with/about mimes anymore? There silence is rich for the telling. In the world of noise, working a mime into my play was enlightening and

Livius Andronicus Latin adaptations of Greek plays in 230 BC (Rome),  were more lyrical in their metrical form, and more impassioned in their tone than the ordinary dialogue parts. In the musical recitation of these Livius seems to have been very successful, however,the exertion being too much for his voice, he introduced the practice in these monodies, or cantica, of placing a slave beside the flute player to recite or chant the words, while he himself went through the appropriate gesticulation. Hence, a mime was born. There is much more to the history. I just wanted to point out how  far back in time this form of acting existed.

The emotions of the mime to the gesticulations of what the mime sees is what attracted me to write this play … not to mention that Danielle was a mime–a performance artist.  What would bring the mime out of her/his silence? What attracts the mime to stay in such a world? Even when abused, the mime stays silent. Yet, it is in that silence, and the ability to act out a story, we find their superiority. Maybe that is the reason some people dislike them. However, I love them, and intend to build my short play into an one act, one hour play about the nature of silence verses the nature of the (3)